“You are mad.”
“No, I’m not. No one will see, no one will hear, and no one will know if you simply do as I say. Now.”
“We’re in the middle of six companies of Gondorian soldiers, and you expect me to….”
“I cannot. And you cannot.”
“For ten minutes, no one will miss us. Come, brother.” And slender fingers slip through mine for an instant, tugging me away from the rude shelter we share with our men. With only his eyes he has told me the rest of his plan.
Shaking my head, I follow. I would go with him anywhere he asked me. Especially on so necessary an errand as this. One so desperate. And so dangerous.
We round one corner, then another, through the doorway of a long-deserted shop—trust my brother to find a path through debris that would confuse a much smarter man—under an archway, and then into a narrow alleyway. A single door leads off of it, probably to a building missing three walls, as much of Osgiliath is these days. He pushes back the door and....
I see a roofed shelter, with four walls (two threatening to buckle at any time) and a table standing in the corner of the room. Tiny, but secure. No prying eyes may see what we do here.
Shutting the door behind us, I ask, “When did you find it?”
“Two days ago. But the attacks were steady all of yesterday, there was no time for us then. With the orcs beaten back and our perimeter secure today, however…the men can survive without us. For a time.”
“Ten minutes, you said. I will hold you to that.”
Weapons propped near the door, unsheathed, at the ready, old lessons never forgotten. There is no time to take off greaves or cuisses, mail and surcoat. Mouths and hands must do what whole bodies long for.
The door frame creaks as our combined weight leans against it, my brother’s lips tangled in mine. Wrapping him in my arms, I roll him along the wall, pinning him to it with my chest as we go. The rasp of metal against leather speaks of how I would hold him down, given leisure, given circumstance. For now I take only what I can, but I take with abandon, my beard grinding into his mouth as the kiss goes on.
“Mbrrmmrhh.” The muttered sound distracts me from my objective, finding the depths of his sweet mouth with my tongue. Pulling back, I whisper against his lips, “What?”
Gasping, he says, “Free my hands, or expect to go unsatisfied when our time ends.” And I realize I hold his wrists against the stone, hard, heedless of hurting him as I did so. I enjoy taking you when you cannot move. But there is wisdom in this. We must return, soon.
Mouths rejoin, darkness descends when eyes shut to all but him, my fingers threaded through his hair in violent urgency.
Freed, his hands move to my waist, then lower still. The least protected part of a soldier, and his most valuable terrain, my weaponsmaster once quipped. Unbuckling restraints, cloth moved aside, one lightly calloused hand slides in, touching a well-known landscape of skin.
Three strokes are all I require. A low groan breaks from me..."nnnhhhh"...while my brother commands. “Kiss me again.” So long as you hold me thus, I would do nothing else for the world.
His hand, dry, bloodied on the back, will not stop, pushing and rubbing, an unrelenting torment to my stiffened flesh.
I need…I need the oblivion of us
in this forsaken place. He knows this: that is why he brought me here, brought us here. If only for this instant, we escape death together.
His hand knows me well, what will drive me to the brink with blinding speed. That...yes, there.
My mind stalls while lips loot, stealing time from a fast-ending moment.
I am arrived at my objective too quickly, and try to tell him so. “Not yet.” Too soon.
“Stop.” Make it last.
“No, it must be now.”
That damned hand of yours.
“No time left.”
Hurtling forward, painfully, into his chest, his arms. Slowly, I open my eyes and take in the sight of him, waiting. Needing me. And waiting for me to take charge once more.
You take my very breath, brother.
“If you ever do something like that again….”
What answer can I give him? I will never deny him, and what other threat can I make that he would heed? He bewilders me, sometimes. There is only one logical reply I can make, in this place, now. “Your turn.”
“Our time is done, you know that. We must go back.”
“You would go back, now?”
“We must.” I know the word he thinks but will not voice. Duty.
A pause as he gathers our weapons, hands me my sword, then he speaks again. “Tomorrow.”
You would have us do this tomorrow? Again?
Then his eyes tell me. Tomorrow he will spend his passion, and I will be the one unsatisfied. As he is now. Because there is not enough time.
He's right, and I tell him so. “Yes, Faramir.”
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.