Faramir Fiction Archive

Recognition of Worth (NC-17)

Written by Macalaure

20 December 2008 | 2619 words

Title: Recognition of Worth
Author: Macalaure
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: R/NC-17
Disclaimer: These characters aren’t mine. They belong to the genus that is J.R.R. Tolkien. I mean no offense by borrowing them, nor do I make any profit by doing so.
Warning: Sex between two consenting adult men.
Beta: None. All Elvish and English mistakes are entirely mine.
Notes: The scene from the end is altered book-verse from ROTK’s “Houses of Healing.” I also borrowed a bit of movie-verse (ROTK also).

Written for the 2008 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Minx: I’d like an Aragorn/Faramir, with any of these ideas – a PWP version of the Houses of Healing scene, where Aragorn has to indulge in some nice hot lovin’ with lost in the darkness!Faramir to get him to wake up. Or a post-war A/F with an established relationship, where Aragorn is jealous when Faramir gets a lot attention from other men (Éomer, random visiting Haradric noble, etc) and then hot A/F sex ensues. Or an A/F where they have to well ‘perform’ for the eyes of a voyeuristic Haradric noble (male or female) so that he / she agrees to some earthshatteringly important condition.)

---

I do not know if I am awake or merely dreaming. There is only darkness, not the heavy leaden night that falls over Gondor, but a sort that seems to cling slightly to me, almost as a blanket. I embrace it, perceiving a sort of relief that comes from not fighting the onset of the feeling of blankness.

Feeling… Memories come back to me, jumbled and fragmented. I remember bits of the attack on Osgiliath, the ensuing slaughter, falling… falling… I had opened my eyes only once after I was knocked from my horse. There had been flames surrounding me and such excruciating pain, burning me alive. I had allowed myself the weakness of unconsciousness, the coldness that sank into my bones was a balm. Strange that the emptiness was soothing, a way of separating my soul from the agony of living.

Am I even alive? What is this place? I know well enough the land that I had fought long years for. If I lay yet upon the field, I would be able to hear the river and smell the aftermath of the battle. Is this death?

Perhaps death is a fitting punishment. I am a traitor for letting the Halflings leave, breaking the laws of my people. I am a coward for abandoning the outpost across the river. I am a failure for living, for breathing still, when my brother is dead.

“Boromir!” If I am living, they will only think me mad or fevered, a little one crying out for his champion, who spent many years soothing away tears from nightmares of fire or water. If I am dead, I know he will find me if he can, useless though I am.

Suddenly the darkness begins to lift, dissipating like a morning fog. I find myself in a sort of cavern, not unlike Henneth Annûn. I see the waterfall, but I hear nothing, no roar of the mighty stream thundering down to the pool below. The lighting, even, is perceptibly off—dim, as if it was the last breath of sunset, but a cool blue, like the color of my mother’s cloak that remains in her chambers, untouched save for the hands of a small boy who wrapped it around him as he told and retold her favorite stories to an empty chair. When she had been alive, my mother had often pulled a chair near to the fireplace and wrapped herself in that cloak—even in the summer’s heat—to give me time that Boromir, as the Steward’s firstborn, never had the luxury of knowing. I learned the languages of the Elves and of Númenor from her lilting voice. Some nights, she would let me take out her harp from where it sat in the corner and she would play. I was only five when she fell to the sickness, still weak from bearing me, and afterwards, though my arms grew long enough to reach the strings, they were soon drawing bowstrings instead.

“Mother! Boromir!” My voice does not echo. It catches in my throat for I realize suddenly that I could stay here, where my wounds do not ache, where the loneliness of this strange land is nothing compared to being in the White City, ever the second best in the eyes of a man whom I am doomed to love—even unto my own end. I could be content in this blue-gray twilight world, feeling naught save the memories, and even they are easily pushed aside.

I sit, my hands against the stone floor though it is not cool as it should be, merely there. I sigh in relief. Yes, I am growing accustomed to this emptiness, as a broken vessel knowing that it can never again be full and beginning to accept it willingly. I will remain. Of what use am I elsewhere?

“Faramir!”

I think I hear someone far-off calling my name. Perhaps I am indeed mad. Minutes pass.

“Faramir! Where are you?”

It belongs to a man, a voice deeper than Boromir’s, earthier than my father’s. Part of me longs to trust him—a certain nobility lends his shout credence, urges me to obey and give myself up. The rest of me cries out a warning. I have not yet forgotten my training as a ranger and a scholar. Who can say that this is not a trap? Sauron himself slipped past the Eregion smiths’ watch—something evil can so easily seem fair. Still…

“Fara_mir_!”

The stress was placed firmly on the last syllable, desperation becoming clear in the man’s voice. I cannot tell if he has moved closer.

Eyes closed, I will him away. If he is evil, I have had enough of it. If he is good, he has no reason to save me. I have no desire to be saved.

I am unaware of him again until he is kneeling before me. His breath is ragged and brushes briefly against my cheek, forcing my eyes to open. He is clothed in weathered ranger garb, but his gray eyes betray him as something more than that. My heritage allows me a somewhat more insightful glimpse at character—perhaps the Vala’s attempt to compensate for my otherwise naïve nature—and I almost instantly know that this man is wisdom, honor, and quiet, rugged power. His brow seems to hold a sort of circlet, possibly an effect of this strange land, but unquestionably not accidental in placement.

Before I can consider him further, he speaks. “You were truly hard to find, mellonamin.”

The use of the endearment is almost as surprising as the language it is spoken in. My friend? I have never been called thus. Brother, lord, captain, yes. Friend? No. Despite my earlier feelings and his obvious concern, I am instantly on alert. “Who are you?” I sound foreign even to myself. When did my mouth go dry?

“I am called Estel.”

Estel. Hope. The obvious irony does not escape me. The Vala have a cruel sense of humor.

His hand touches mine and I am driven to feeling again. I want to scream at him, to rip my hand away from his and run, but I do not. My body stiffens, but, to my credit, I do not act on my weak thoughts of flight. I attempt to focus. “What do you want?”

Estel’s eyes meet mine, and I can find no lie in them when he replies, “You were badly wounded. Though you were healed in body, your soul still festers here. I came here to help mend you and restore you.”

“I am yet alive?” He nods. “Then, I fear you have wasted your time, my lord, for I shall not be cured.” The formality is cold, calculated. My father might have been proud. My hand pulls back.

His eyes grow dark and unreadable. “You have little faith in your own strength.” It is a statement, not a question, and this irks me to no end. It is not the truth, but near enough to sting.

“How dare you!” I leap to my feet. “You do not know me; do not presume that you do!”

“I know you far better than you think, Captain.”

Estel rises and moves toward me. I am rooted in place, still as stone, unable to run or recoil. His hand wraps around my forearm—a warrior’s embrace—but the rest of his body presses against mine in a way that implies something other than simple comradery. He is all angles and hardness, smelling of rich earth and a light herbal aroma and I nearly drown in his heady scent. Intoxicated, I do not fight as he softly brushes his lips against mine, my body responding against my will. Estel pulls back, a smile dancing on his lips. “Yes?”

I have never lain with a male, though I am not inexperienced. Yet with this man, I feel a strange attraction, not merely lust, but the potential to happily remain in his arms.

“Yes.” It comes out as little more than a whisper, but I become quickly lost with it.

A single finger traces my jaw line. “Are you certain?”

I meet his eyes and understand—to get what I want I must act. My hands reach behind his head, tangling in his hair, as I kiss him furiously. His mouth opens slightly and my tongue takes full advantage. When I release him, we are both gasping for air. Estel grins—he must be realizing I have caught on.

I make quick work of his gear and cloak—old habit allowing me to continue kissing him as I do so. His tunic is nearly ripped off, my hands trembling as they caress his torso. Before I can do anything more, my hands are pinned. “What are you doing?” I cry, writhing in his grasp.

“Trust me, Faramir. I will not hurt you.”

I nod slightly. Somehow I know this already. My shirt comes off slowly, gently. Estel inhales loudly, and I look down to see my chest covered in scars. I manage a panicked “How—” before his lips return to mine.

“Hush, mellonamin”

I still half-expect him to draw away from me in disgust. When he does not, I work up the courage to ask, “What happened to me?”

“I told you earlier, Faramir, that your spirit is yet wounded. These scars are old injuries that never healed properly, brought to light in this land.” He brings a hand up to cup my face. “ Let me show you your worth. You are beautiful and strong. I will not leave you to fall into this darkness again. “

Estel pulls away from me to spread his cloak on the cavern floor. I walk towards him like one in a dream and lie down with him, reveling in the feel of the soft fabric and his warm skin. Estel hovers over me, kissing each white line with a gentle tenderness that I am unused to. I relax into his touch, closing my eyes slightly. He finishes with my chest and shifts his weight back. I nearly cry out at his absence, but then his tongue darts out over the head of my cock.

“Estel!” The voice is mine, though I do not recognize it.

He lifts his head, concerned. “Are you alright?”

I cannot find the words, but I moan and buck my hips. Estel laughs and I find warmth in the sound, “Patience!”

I grow frustrated and roll him off me in a single swift movement, swinging up to straddle him. “Vala! You are strong!”

“Have I succeeded in proving my earlier point?” I smile.

He nods in agreement and I begin to unlace his leggings, but my fingers linger on the bulge and I grow distracted. I drink in the sight of him. Estel is a warrior born, his body ripples with pure masculine power. I notice that there is a bitter scar across his heart, still red and not yet healing, but he gives no sign that it pains him, so I say nothing. My fingers finish their task and I ease the restraining clothing down his legs, letting his hard shaft loose. I take him in my mouth, reveling in the taste that is uniquely Estel.

Estel groans and tangles his fingers in my hair. It seems like only a moment before he pushes me away. “You shall undo me.”

I am confused for a moment, but then I grow bold, “I want you.”

He sits up, capturing my lips with his. I am not inexperienced, but never have I felt such passion or desire. Estel’s words whisper across my skin, “I know. Have me, Faramir.”

I hesitate, but he lays down and pulls me back with him. “Take me.”

“But—” I fear hurting him.

Estel’s hand is on my face,“You will not hurt me, beautiful one. I am ready for you. Please ‘Mir.”

My breath catches in my throat, and suddenly I am within him. I lose myself in the tight heat of him, the feeling that comes from being needed by such a strong man as Estel, from being utterly trusted. We move together, a blur of pleasure. My teeth find his shoulder as I spill within him, and he follows seconds later.

We lay still for a moment. I kiss his chest, tears falling softly on a fading scar. Estel opens his eyes, “Come back with me, Faramir.”

I touch his forehead, the shining circlet there, but emblazoned on his skin. Frodo’s words came back to me, “… and two men: Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Boromir of Gondor…” I had not paid heed to the first name then, wanting news of my brother far more than any other. Now I hear the name again, and I guess at the lineage and I wonder.

“I will return—for you.” The unfeeling blue of this land is nothing compared to the life Estel kindles. I long to breathe, to dream, to hope.

His arms wrap around me and suddenly I pass under a shadow and am drawn back.

I awake, my eyes opening to see Estel bending over me. His face is more careworn now, but no less handsome. His crown is gone, but the light remains in his eyes.

I try to speak, but my voice comes out a whisper. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

There is a flicker of surprise across his features. I have guessed correctly. Estel. Aragorn. My lord. My king. My hope. My love.

“Walk no more in the shadows, but be awake! You are weary. Rest awhile, and take food,” his voice drops to a whisper, “and be ready when I return.”

“I will, lord.” I grin, though my shoulder aches, “For who would lie idle when the king has returned?”

His face grows solemn and thoughtful, “I need you, Faramir, for more than just that.”

I bend him to me, strength and healing, lord and love and light and so much more. Kissing him, I whisper, “I know you far better than you think.”

Aragorn does not answer, but he does not need to. I know he will not speak words of love for some time to come—the scar on his heart a bittersweet reminder of love lost, plans made and broken—but he does not need to. I can see he cares—squeezing my hand gently as he leaves. If nothing else, being his friend is more than enough to live for.

The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.

I wonder if archer’s hands can play harps…

fin

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