Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by Hurinhouse

29 November 2009 | 5694 words

Chapter 3

“So, ye really are a prince,” Bálin grumbled, an edge to his voice. He tugged at the hood of the robe. Did they have less air up here?

“Stewards are not kings.”

“Close enough.”

Bálin ran his finger over the coin Faramir had gifted him. A likeness of his lover’s father was etched into the silver. Bálin wasn’t sure he could see a resemblance.

“Here we are.”

Bálin stopped at the gate. The first thing he noticed was the scent. Flowers had as much appeal to him as the plague so could not label it, but he knew that fragrance. He lingered at the gate for so long that Faramir came back and drew him in, “Is something amiss?”

“An odd smell.”

“T’was my mother’s garden. We came here often before she died.”

“Fancy.”

“Not really, just cared for.”

“Fancy.” Bálin had never been higher than the fifth circle, and then only when he’d stole through the gate, his eye on a coxcomb’s golden belt. He’d gotten close to nabbing it, until one of the guards caught sight of him.

Another whiff provoked the fleeting image of long soft hair, only to die away the next breath. He shivered and wrapped his arm round Faramir’s waist to stamp out the feeling. He pulled him flush, chewing at his lover’s neck, “Let us go be’ind yonder shed whilst I make ye beg again.”

Faramir leaned into the touch, then pushed Bálin away. “I wish I could take you to my rooms, to my bed. But the maids would see us.” Faramir started into the garden, pointing out this plant and that. But Bálin’s mind lingered on the idea of Faramir’s bed, then wandered to the night they’d first buggered, weeks ago…

This Faramir was unsullied, Bálin could tell easily now that he’d been in the business a while. If he wanted to have Bálin break it for him, all the better. He wasn’t certain if he’d ever taken a virgin, but it couldn’t be much different than normal. He’d have to steal something while the lad was sleeping to make all this cleanliness worth his while. The old Tinker always told him to find luck where you could.

This second evening the lad had tried to tame him with playing cards spread across the mattress, his hips and torso covered with a towel. But Bálin could smell the want on him and he’d never taken to games anyway.

Bálin sat down on the bed, with his own towel positioned so that his cock hung out, and swirled his finger beneath his foreskin all the way round the head, his eyes half closed. He brought his finger to his lips, sucked in the moisture with a pop at the end. Faramir’s gasp crumbled his resolve. He lunged, tore the lad’s towel to the floor, and ground their hips together. Faramir’s feeble protests were ignored and he flipped the lad over, pulling his cheeks apart.

“No!” But when Bálin’s tongue slid around the edges of his entrance, Faramir melted into the pillow, muted whimpers drifting up through the pounding of Bálin’s pulse.

He dipped his fingers into the oil lamp, and brought them to Faramir’s arse, rubbing in circles while Faramir moaned like a whore. Bálin’s own cock engorged and leaking, he spared a fleeting thought at the newness of that lust before he sank a finger into the boy below him. He kneaded Faramir’s walls and found that spot that the older soldiers sometimes directed him to. His fingers were suddenly seized within Faramir’s heat whilst the boy’s hips plunged into the mattress, undulating against it in an erratic pattern.

When his hand was released, Bálin pulled Faramir’s boneless sated body up and pushed steadily into his still pulsing sheath, trapping the younger boy’s body tight against his own. It was rare that Bálin actually fucked a customer. Most did not want to pay his heavy charge. Yet he here was doing it for free and wasn’t that just pathetic?

He stabbed in over and over, stroking Faramir’s skin everywhere he could reach it. Faramir now pushed back against him, holding up Bálin’s weight so that he could grasp Bálin’s hand tight against his own chest. This thrust Bálin higher, driving in harder, hips snapping, striving to preserve the unfamiliar closeness.

His left hand fumbled for Faramir’s cock, stirring again. He pumped again and again, trying to hold back with the unwitting challenge to take Faramir over the edge a second time. As he felt the constriction around his cock and he squeezed forward, all the unknown passion built up since the last time he’d seen the lad rushed into that clenching grip.

As his shudders subsided, he collapsed atop Faramir, heartbeat slowing as the lad caressed his arm. The bedeviled knight was poking his last nerve, his rounded fanciful lilt lulling Bálin into a feeling he couldn’t name.

He waited till Faramir’s breathing became even and heavy, then stole out back into the night – he had a business to run after all. He’d been in such a hurry he forgot to search the lad’s pockets.

Chirps of bluebirds and grasshoppers brought Bálin back to the present. He nearly ran into Faramir as the lad stopped at the garden gate.

“When did she die?”

Faramir had the faraway look Bálin had seen in some of the older soldiers. “I was five, I think. She’d been sick for a long while, especially since my brother died.”

“Women get that way.”

“Your mother is gone also?”

Bálin looked at him quizzically. “Don’t think I ever ‘ad one.”

“Who took care of you when you were small?”

“The Tinker let me sleep on ‘is floor by the fire.”

“Is that how you got this?” Faramir held Bálin’s hand, ran the pad of his finger over the horse that’d been there as long as Bálin could recall. He remembered little but pain, a kiss to burning skin, and a frantic man carrying him through a crowd.

“Dunno. Tinker said I must’ve been branded. Got to keep track of us buggers, ye know.”

“Branded?”

“Aye. Already ‘ad it when the Tinker found me down river. Figured I were a slave when the soldiers came, so ‘e ‘id me till they left.”

“We have no slaves in Minas Tirith.”

“There! Wot’s that smell?”

“There are so many here. Which one?” And then it was gone.

“No matter. I needs get back down circle. Where did you ‘ide me clothes?”

“Keep these.” The robe was soft. And warm. Bálin couldn’t remember owning something that wasn’t torn or filthy.

He took it off. “Won’t be able to keep it where I live.”

“You don’t have to do this any longer. I have my own money. I can buy you inventory. You could be a merchant, or a trader.” Faramir had grown tired of sneaking through the alleyways like a thief. Each week he came down here he had to fight for Bálin’s time.

“I am a trader. Wot? Ye aren’t pleased with me stock?” Faramir stopped, stared at Bálin. Anger bubbled up inside him and though he could read the self-deprecating humor, he was disgusted with Bálin’s lack of respect.

“Good night, Bálin.” He pivoted on his heel and marched back from whence he came, hearing Bálin’s defensive quips behind him. “Wot? They shatter ye in toy practice today?” Faramir could imagine Bálin’s arm gesturing a sword in action.

He didn’t know why he bothered. Why hadn’t he listened to Lostir? “They’ll always burn you in the end. It’s their nature.” Faramir had hoped…

As he approached the third corner of the alley, he spied Hilros and Durn coming his way, no officers in sight. They seeing him as well left no place for Faramir to make an escape, though he knew they were smart enough not to cause trouble with the Steward’s son.

“Hilros, is that a blue blood I see?”

“Blue mixing with dirt from what I hear.”

“Aye, that street rat who attacked me.”

Hilros laughed, “Envy does not suit you, Durn.”

“So, how is your rat, Steward’s son? He had quite a mouth on him, but how is his arse?”

I should have run. “Let me pass.” Faramir pushed through the older men but Durn grabbed his belt, “How about your arse?”

Faramir whirled on them both, drew his sword, prompting Durn and Hilros to follow suit. Hilros circled to Faramir’s right, Durn to his left. Faramir thought that Hilros was biding time, unsure whether he should proceed. Durn had no such worries. Faramir lunged, smacking Hilros’ arm with the flat of his blade. Durn jabbed Faramir’s chin with his pommel, the bone stinging, setting Faramir off balance, into the dirt.

“Wot’s this? Can’t get yer own tail so ye poof yerself up fer a boy?” Bálin! Faramir turned, saw Bálin squaring off against Durn with a dagger. He had a half a second to notice a familiar etching on the shank before a fist slammed into his eye and he went back down. Hilros pinned him and Faramir struggled beneath him. He could hear the scuffling footwork of Bálin and Durn behind them.

“Filthy whore. You’re diluting the Steward’s line, you know.”

“‘e ain’t royal. Only thing blue ‘bout ‘im is ‘is balls.” Faramir smiled fondly and shoved, forcing Hilros off. He jumped up, swung his blade against Hilros, who seemed less confident with the fairer odds.

Behind Hilros, Faramir could see Bálin spar with Durn. Block, parry, swing, he lunged with the dagger like a bull and kept Durn backed up, losing ground only when Durn’s sword hooked the dagger out of Bálin’s hand. Durn aptly delivered a slash across Bálin’s left cheek in the process.

Faramir sped up his pace, attempting to get help to Bálin. But Bálin was a street rat. Circling his way around, he got near enough to Hilros to knee him in the back, sending him hurling toward Faramir while Bálin pilfered his sword. Faramir scrambled atop Hilros, the tip of his sword at the man’s chest.

Bálin turned and attacked Durn. What Bálin lacked in grace he made up for in determination, driving forward over and over, ignoring Durn’s traditional rhythm for head on brute power. Bálin backed Durn into the wall, Hilros’ sword across the man’s throat.

He threw a cocky brow at Faramir over his shoulder, “Well, ‘ighness? Shall ‘e be spared or shall I gut ‘im?”

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