Faramir Fiction Archive

The Quality of Mercy (NC-17)

Written by Aprilkat

25 January 2010 | 1634 words

Title: The Quality of Mercy
Author: aprilkat
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Rating: NC-17

Disclaimers: These characters and story belong to Tolkien, New Line Cinema and Peter Jackson. No money being made here, just borrowing.

Notes: Written for ithiliana for the 2009 lotr_sesa. This is a combination of book and movie stories, and can be considered either AU or an insert in the rearranged narrative.

Summary: Captain Faramir captures two hobbits in Ithilien and takes them to Henneth Annûn. He has agreed to allow them to resume their quest.

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Frodo stirred under his heavy blanket, blinking weary eyes against the flickering of torchlight upon grey walls. He could hear the drip of water upon rock nearby and thought that Gandalf would be rousing them soon to continue their endless hike through the Mines.

The wave of sorrow that swept over him rendered him helpless as he remembered – Gandalf dead, Boromir dead, probably his cousins and other friends as well. The Ring on his chest hummed briefly as if pleased, then stilled.

Lifting himself to a sitting position, Frodo looked at the pallet near his. Sam was up and about, probably searching out the supplies Faramir had promised for the coming trek to Mordor. Frodo smiled ruefully; Faramir’s little “joke” about taking the Ring had nearly finished Frodo, and Faramir’s regret was palpable. Sam would do his best to use that to their advantage.

Bracing his back against the rough wall, Frodo shivered as the cold brought back that overwhelming moment: Faramir’s tall figure looming, forcing Frodo back against the wall, eyes glinting, tip of his sword lifting the Ring…

The rush of dread and excitement that had flooded Frodo had dropped him swooning into Faramir’s arms. Choking out his plan to destroy the Ring, Frodo had been aware only of strong arms gently lifting and supporting him. Later he had awakened to hear Faramir fervently swearing that he would never take the Ring, “Not if I found it on the highway would I take it.”¹

Suddenly Frodo felt he had to find Faramir, to discuss how best for Sam and himself to find a way into Mordor without their guide. Pushing himself to his feet and brushing his tunic, he made his way into the main cavern. Faramir sat at a rugged wooden table reading a map by candlelight, brow resting on his hand.

Frodo paused, unobserved, taking in the long gold-red hair (so much silkier than hobbit hair), the firm nose and lips (so much like Boromir), the broad shoulders (even stronger than Sam’s). His mouth watering, Frodo swallowed and cleared his throat.

Faramir glanced up and smiled warmly – the first time Frodo had seen that serious young face relaxed and welcoming.

“Oh, what is this?” thought Frodo, heat flooding his cheeks as he advanced to the table. He stifled an impulse to take Faramir’s hand.

Faramir reached out and tapped the map with his index finger. “I have been trying to find alternate ways for you and Sam to breach the borders of Mordor. I’m afraid I have found none.”

Frodo hesitated. “I was told there was a stair near Minas Ithil…”

“Minas Morgul, now,” Faramir corrected.

“And it goes over the mountains in a high pass north of that city into Mordor.”

“Cirith Ungol? Frodo, you cannot. There is some dark terror there that no living creature can abide!”

Frodo asked, “What terror? What do you know about the place? Can you tell me more?”

“I cannot. I have never been in the Mountains of Shadow. But I know it is an evil place. And I would not have you risk yourself in such a way.”

Leaning forward, Faramir gripped Frodo’s shoulders and stared into Frodo’s eyes. Frodo, riveted by the intensity of his gaze, slowly raised his hands to clasp Faramir’s arms. They were motionless, the connection between them as vibrant as flame, all thought suspended. The voices of approaching soldiers broke their trance. Faramir pulled back his hands and rose.

“Come to my chamber, Frodo. We need to talk.”

Speechless, Frodo could only nod and follow.

“Please seat yourself, Frodo.” Faramir indicated one of the low stools next to the small table. Lifting a bottle, he poured wine into two tankards.

As Frodo lifted his drink, his eyes caught the tree and stars embossed on the mug. The White Tree of Gondor, which he had seen so many times on Boromir’s bracers. Boromir, son of the Steward, now lost. Brother to the Man sitting across from him, so alike in feature and coloring and nobility.

The Ring seemed to shudder for a moment against his chest. Was it calling to Faramir the way it had called to Boromir? Easy enough to say one would not pick it up even if were lying on the highway, but Men seemed so corruptible…

He looked again into Faramir’s eyes. They were serious, pondering, but with a warmth that Frodo could feel across the table. Faramir laid one hand on the table, palm up.

“Don’t trust him!” Frodo heard.

Well, if the Ring didn’t want him to trust Faramir, that was probably a good sign that he could. Or was It playing a subtle game with him?

Frodo laid his fingers in Faramir’s hand.

The candle on the table was burning low, casting everything into shadow. Frodo and Faramir had drunk their fill, letting silence fill the dark. Frodo could not take his eyes off Faramir’s hands, which were rubbing the backs of his own. He felt almost hypnotized, as though he could just sit there all night being soothed. Except –

He was suddenly far from feeling soothed. Frodo tugged on Faramir, pulling him over onto his own stool. That was better.

“Faramir?” he whispered, startled at the raspiness of his voice.

“Hmmmm?” murmured Faramir, dipping his head down to hear, just as Frodo lifted his mouth to speak.

The touch of their lips was shocking, yet shockingly familiar.

Frodo couldn’t decide what he liked the best – tugging on that long golden hair, bringing the Man’s lightly bearded chin against his face to feel the lovely chafing, kissing his way down the lean muscled chest after tugging off the tunic and the linen undershirt, teasing the crisp hair of that chest with his tongue into little spit curls, rubbing his face against that impressively large shaft, drinking in the dank salty aroma of Man, sucking…

“Frodo, wait!” gasped Faramir. “You go too fast. Let me-”

Then Frodo found a new level of delight. He had never been covered by a body so huge, nor been nuzzled so thoroughly. Those extravagant lips licked at his tongue, then worked their way down his neck. Large hands stroked down his face, his sides, his arms, his thighs. Frodo arched helplessly as he felt his balls palmed, then squeezed. A firm grip on his cock almost sent him over the edge, then stopped his surge.

Frodo writhed, begging under his breath. He felt a puff of hot air on his thighs as Faramir laughed softly and pulled back once more.

Frodo’s newly kind thoughts about Men took a steep turn for the worse. He could see that he was going to have to take control or go insane under the lips and hands of this tease.

Twisting his body, Frodo pushed Faramir onto his back. Face toward Faramir’s feet, Frodo lay lengthways down Faramir’s torso and took Faramir’s cock into his mouth. So lovely, so smooth, so firm, so – large. While he was trying not to choke, he was pleased to hear that now it was Faramir pleading in low, desperate tones.

He was even more pleased when Faramir lifted Frodo’s hips slightly, placing Frodo’s cock over his face. Faramir’s tongue sought out the tip, then lapped up its length. Frodo moaned as he was engulfed, then resumed taking in all of Faramir that he could manage.

Faramir groaned, then thrust as he climaxed. Frodo was able to exult in the flood of scent and taste, until his own pleasure drowned him and left him almost senseless in a pool of mindless bliss.

Frodo lay nestled up against Faramir’s chest, head resting on his shoulder. Even for an eccentric hobbit who lived alone in his hobbit hole, the idea of being with a Man should seem shocking, distasteful. But all he knew was that for the first time, maybe in his life, he felt at home. And safe.

Faramir caressed his hair, then kissed the top of his head. “I believe we should return you to your bed before Sam comes back and raises the alarm that you are missing. I would not want to be on Sam’s bad side again, my love.”

The endearment sent a thrill through Frodo. He knew, they both knew, that this was just a moment’s respite. Once they parted to play their parts in this war, they might never meet again. But he knew without having to state it that should both of them survive, they would make it their business to seek each other out and see what life they could shape in their new world.

Frodo smiled. He realized that in the haste to get out of their clothes, he had thrown aside the Ring and not felt its presence once. That, if nothing else, proved that Faramir might have some power against the Ring. Maybe he was the perfect Man after all – if only he didn’t have that misplaced sense of humour.

Frodo returned to his bed, only to be wakened later that night with the news that Gollum was seen in the Forbidden Pool. And so the Quest continued.

¹ designates quote from J.R.R. Tolkien, Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers, “The Window on the West.”

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