Faramir Fiction Archive

The Flame That Burns Within (R)

23 December 2012 | 12161 words

Title: The Flame That Burns Within
Rating: R (to be safe)
Pairing: Faramir/Beregond
Warnings: Slash, sexual scenes, angst.
Disclaimer: None of these characters and locations belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: And so begins the worry that my recipient may not like this; I sincerely hope that you do enjoy it, and if you do not, then I apologise most deeply. The request did not specify whether I should choose an existing guard character or come up with my own, and since I do not quite trust my creation skills I chose Beregond, but if he is not to your taste, I have been purposefully vague as to his looks to that you may more easily substitute another in his place, and imagine that two men of the same name exist :P I really do hope this story is okay, and that you enjoy it! Thank you for this lovely request, for some reason my Swap fics have tended to overshoot the ‘one-shot’ length a little but I also tend to get happily lost in the universe I create and I hope that experience is contagious :)

I have used a bit of artistic licence in dealing with the canon, so please don’t be too critical of all the alterations (and inaccuracies, especially in regards to the geography of Minas Tirith) I’ve made to the events and timeline surrounding the siege of the White City! The Houses of the Dead in Minas Tirith are referred to as the Stewards’ Houses below.

Written for the 2012 Midwinter Swap.

Request by Eldalie: I would love to see a nicely written Faramir and a member of the Minas Tirith guard. You know, the seeing each other only when he goes back to the city, all the awkwardness of soldiers who know they will not be allowed to live this freely. Obviously within oneshot limits. :)

Prologue.

It all started in the healing houses, when the lord Faramir was lying on the precipice of death, a single footfall from going over the edge and being lost forever, leaving the pale, prone shell of a man whose spirit and good, kind soul had left its lodgings and gone on to lands unseen by living eyes. Well, Beregond, thought, if he was being honest with himself he would have to say it began a long time before that, but now, right now, with war ongoing, with darkness and terror and grief and fear palpable in the air and in the earth, with the city walls themselves shaking and crumbling and the stone beneath their feet vibrating as the great battle-machinery of the enemy rumbled ever closer, now at least he could show his love for his lord and captain in something other than an unspoken capacity. His hand found Faramir’s upon the blanket, and curled around it.

If not love, then loyalty. Duty too, he supposed. No-one questioned it, no-one seemed willing to bring him quite yet to justice in the wake of everything. He was left to watch over his fallen captain on the promise that he would not leave the ward himself and then he was left, there to guard for one last time the well-being of Faramir of Gondor.

He had saved his life. Sort of. But to do that, to do what he had to do out of loyalty and duty and out of desperate love he had spilled the blood of a good man who was not his enemy. Perhaps in the end it will have been for naught. Perhaps Faramir would die. Perhaps he would live and Beregond would discover that the love he felt did not burn back in the same manner. Perhaps Faramir would thank him, and then sit on the jury of the court that would, at some point, no doubt decide his fate.

Murderers were executed, even those who killed in wartime, even those who killed men set to halt them in the prevention of a madman murdering his last remaining son. Men who were only following orders. Beregond put his head in his hands.

Part of him wished they might both die, so to find one another in the next world, away from rules and propriety. But it was not something he could put faith into. In eleven months he had never been sure of Faramir’s love. Not for a moment.

The king had been here, had held his palm against Faramir’s brow and clasped his hand, and spoken words to him that none else in the room could hear. Beregond fancied the look the king swung him as he hovered by the door was not one of ire, or anger or disgust, but maybe of pity, a brief reprieve of understanding before the day arrived where this selfsame monarch would raise a sword above his neck and end it all. Death for love.

But it was not love. Love is not a stolen glance. Love is not a wine-stained tongue and an opportunity, nor is it a disused citadel sitting room with a lockable door. Love is not a quick shuffle of clothing, the buckle of a belt falling open and striking repeatedly against a thigh. Love is not the nameless sating of an urge. Beregond had surmised Faramir’s indiscretions were to be kept subtle. Their kisses were mostly lustful, and though Faramir was never rough with him, Beregond had known without needing to be told that this was not going to blossom into some wondrous romantic partnership. Faramir’s fingertip on Beregond’s lips. The flash of his eyes. The way candlelight glinted in the reddish hairs on his belly when Beregond‘s hands clawed his shirt up over his head. None of these things were love. Love did not last this long without being acknowledged. But Beregond fell for him anyway and now he sat by a bed in a healing ward and knew not what would become of him.

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