Faramir Fiction Archive

The Light of the North (drabble series)

Written by Lady E

30 March 2004 | 678 words

Title: The Light of the North (drabble series)
Author: Lady E (el_miriel@yahoo.co.uk)
Pairing: Éomer/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: A portrayal of Faramir's relationship with his wife's brother.
Warning: Mild BDSM in drabble #2.
Disclaimer: J.R.R. Tolkien (or his estate) owns Middle-earth and everything on it, New Line owns their interpretation of Tolkien’s work. I own nothing but my imagination. No offence, no profit, just participation in a collective fantasy.

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I ITHILIEN

1

He is not so much a horse-lord of the North as a tangible echo of the woman you have chosen to share your life with. Yet they are unlike, as the first hours of an afternoon differ from a radiant morning.

Their language rolls rich and flowing in part, else hard and stern as the stones of the mountains, as they exchange their greetings of reunion.

His hand rests on your shoulder steadily. Under his touch you are not so much a steward and prince as a haunting thought.

You quiver. Then you are still.
“Brother.”
But he is not.

---

2

The first time is unexpected, and you drop your defences out of sheer surprise.

He tastes of wind and long rides across Northern plains, his beauty is that of untamed movement and his strong scent binds you like his skilled hands. The wooden door is warm against your back as small splinters dig into your flesh.

The pattern of lust he paints on your skin in the dark of the blindfold bends you until you are no more than a crushed stalk of grass on a meadow burnt by the sun.

You scream. Then you whisper.
“Stay.”
And he does.

---

3

The gardens of Ithilien offer many a shelter to those who seek.

The moistness of his skin against yours smells of ripening fruits in the trees, the pain you feel when he takes you to your limits is the colour of the shadows of leaves, the stone under your bare stomach is paler than his hair that sweeps you cheek.

You brush the dark soil off your knees as you get to your feet. You lean back against him. The hold of his arms around your waist tightens.

You breath hard. Then you breath softer.
“Go not.”
But he will.

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II ROHAN

4

The light of the North colours him different all over.

The sun shines lower there, and cold rarely deserts his chamber of stone. You throw the heavy bedding aside and your hand follows the form the shadows in the room give him. His breath feels hot against your fingertips and his shivers chase your touch in the dark gold of his figure.

In these walls his pleas echo alien and unknown.

But the scent is the same. The taste is the same. And the tremor.

The heavy darkness of the North covers many things the South does not know of.

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5

Until you rode, you never knew: horse, rider, wind and earth responding to each other’s movement create a new animal. Likewise, it has been unknown to you that the fluid rhythm of firm flesh inside the wrap of a lover’s body gives life to a new creature of fire.

This creature is bare and susceptible, it knows no cautions.

The trampled ground of the plain is yellow-green and draws a lattice on his skin pressed against it, leaving behind an aroma your tongue cherishes.

The pale day of the North cuts open many things the South closes behind opaque curtains.

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6

You loathe the winter that is coming. White as death it opens the distance between your house and his, building unbreakable walls, spreading like the thought of him with someone else.

He recognises your ghosts. They so resemble his own. To exorcise them away he leaves marks under your skin: stabs of pleasure, wounds of desire, red scars that write his name deep and carve his image sharp.

His sister’s love is home you would not leave, but his is a path you do not know how to turn back from.

The North will ever walk parallel to the South.

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