Faramir Fiction Archive

Without Air, Fire Does Not Burn... (NC-17)

Written by Hurinhouse

29 November 2009 | 5694 words

Chapter 2

He remembered the little lord. Mayhap in the stables, though his blood looked too blue to trudge down this far for tack. Perhaps the alley pub on the second circle?

Yes. He’d watched Bálin work one night a week past, stripling bit of a bulge growing in his thick-lined trousers. The shine of his buckle had caught Bálin’s eye. It wasn’t often he saw the like, and he’d rarely serviced one wearing something so fine.

The lad wandered through the marketplace now, but he’d passed up too many delicacies to have been interested in something sold in a stall. Bálin ran his fingers through his crusty hair as he stepped forward. If he was slick, he may get enough copper for one of the butcher’s meat pies.

“Wrong circle, Yer Highness.”

The fop whipped round, younger then Bálin had remembered. No matter, his coin was still good. The streets were fairly bare for Market Day, with the older troops gone scouting.

“I’m no royalty.”

“May as well be, with them fineries.” The young lord pulled his cloak tight, so Bálin changed the subject, “It’s not a private league, ye know.”

“What isn’t?”

“Me mouth. I’m willing to share…” Bálin looked pointedly at the lad’s purse, “… if you are.”

The lad sneaked a glance at Bálin’s tongue running across his lips and Bálin was sure he had him. Until the arrogant fool looked away, “I don’t deal in bothers.”

“Aye. I can see yer can’t afford it.” Weren’t them leather boots?

“Rather, I don’t pay to do it.”

“Looks to me like ye’ve never done it a’tall.” Bálin saw the little lord’s cheeks pink up before he turned and walked toward the nearest inn, leaving Bálin to catch up with him.

“Wait. Valar, yer touchy. If it’s the price, Tuesdays is ‘alf off.”

The fop picked up the pace. “You think nothing of selling your body for a silver?”

“Silver? Aye. Wot’s the trouble? I know it ain’t the goods. Don’t get much better.”

“How about lunch?”

“Wot?” The lord gestured around them and Bálin realized they’d stepped inside an inn. The vexing prat had distracted him.

“I’m going to eat. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

That meat pie crawled right up into the back of Bálin’s brain and wriggled there. “Aye, I’m not particular. Anything that tightens yer bow-string.”

The princling held out his arm, “Faramir.”

Bálin stared at it, waiting for it to perform. When the show didn’t come, he pulled a chair out for Faramir, then sat across from him. He smiled, pleased with himself.

“Bálin.”

The barmaid had looked at Faramir as though he was having her on. “And a bath please,” he’d requested. His cleanliness was difficult to ignore. He’d pushed back from his plate and looked at Bálin, “Coming?”

Two hours later they stood before a rapidly cooling wooden tub. He’d had to coerce Bálin into the bath the first time with a pint of brandy, then insisted on the second for his hair. The girl carrying the boiling buckets looked younger than Faramir. He slipped her an extra coin.

Bálin’s skin shone golden, with the firm muscle Faramir hadn’t just imagined underneath. He longed to touch it, run his fingers through soft locks of summer wheat washed twice that very evening. He was harder than he’d ever been, including the day he spilt in front of the cook’s daughter.

“So how many men ‘ave bought yer papa’s tapestries or pottery or whatever trappings ‘e trades in?”

“How many men have bought you?”

Bálin’s smirk loosened. “Just business.”

“You enjoy being used? Choking on men’s—…”

“Pricks?” Bálin shrugged. “Better that end than th’other.”

“Gods, you’re crude.”

“Sorry, ‘ighness.” Faramir ran his cloth down Bálin’s back out of spite, not registering his own action until he heard the quickly stifled intake of breath. Bálin’s arch was that of a cat when he swirled to face Faramir, his own cloth coming up on Fara’s collarbone.

Faramir’s cock surged. Bálin burned like fire, drowning Faramir in flames. Dizzy, he grabbed Bálin’s head and kissed him. Bálin’s lips were hot and soft and the urchin shoved, shocked and suffocating, flame beginning to flicker.

So Faramir backed away, and saw Bálin suck in a gulp of air right before his usual smirk replaced the panic. Just before his eyes squeezed shut, Fara caught a glimpse of an old scar on Balin’s palm. A horse, much like those of his old Calvary set at home. Then Bálin touched the tip of the cloth to Faramir’s length and he shot, streams of come splattering white streaks on Bálin’s skin.

Bálin offered a sly smile as Faramir collapsed into the nearest chair. “Well now, that’ll cost ye extra.”

He’s pompous for a beggar. Filthy vagabond. “I told you I’m not paying.”

Bálin frowned and tossed the cloth into the water, reached for his trousers.

“There are so many more appealing opportunities waiting out there for a whore?” Faramir caught him off guard. Good. The brief moment of confusion was a welcome change to the smug confidence. Faramir was young, yes. But he was also the son of Gondor’s leader and had been taught the arts of banter, barter and debate. And as of last Tuesday, knew women would not be his first choice.

“There’s an upscale establishment in the fifth circle. Use it.”

“Father?” The clink of the fork on Faramir’s plate ceased so that the swish of Endahil’s robes became the only sounds in the room. Endahil poured Denethor a second glass of sherry.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten the urges of youth, Faramir. You’ve been seen frequenting an unsavory location in the second circle—”

“Bit and Spittle.”

“—Thank you Endahil— and I’ll not hear of it one more time. Rose and Crown is discreet and clean. If you must satisfy a craving, do it there.”

The pink rising up Faramir’s cheeks was enough of an admission for Denethor. It’d been quite some years since he’d done more than pass through the second circle, but he didn’t have to reach too far back in his memory to picture the women who plied their wares there.

“Father—”

“Your speed at fifty meters has improved greatly.”

“You were watching today?”

“I watch every day.” Faramir seemed surprised. Why?

“I’m near the top of my troop in close combat, as well.”

“So I’ve seen.”

“Scores that would earn most in the troop deployment this spring.” And we come round to this again. Does it take so little to forget?

“And what of your essay on Beren? Has your love of lore and music declined?”

“Not at all, Father. But—”

“Long have you wished for an end to violence. Is your mind so fickle?”

“Do we not all wish for peace, Father? No matter my feelings, I must fulfill my duty to Gondor.”

Denethor crushed a smirk with a healthy sip of sherry. No reason for the boy to see a father’s pride, lest he become arrogant and careless.

“Father, most of the men in my troop have gone out for a scouting mission at the least.”

“Most of the men are not the heir of the Steward.”

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