(no subject)
Someone sitting near me smells very icky. Like... unwashed body. *gags*
Wrote this a while ago, forgot to archive it. My first foray into LOTR slash. It's short and contains ROTK spoilers.
* * *
Faramir shrugged off the chill of his deathless limbo and felt the warmth and discomfort of life return to him.
Seemingly, he'd been accompanied back to the waking world by that thick black in-between; memories of the past days lay beyond Faramir, just out of reach, and no amount of strain of thought could bring them near.
He, of course, did not expect his brother at his bedside, for the inner void left at Boromir's death was still painfully evident even in this hollow state. Nor did he expect his father -- though, much later, that pain would be lessened upon learning the Steward had been dead, and not that he'd abandoned his son to the nurses and to fate.
Then, like a fatal blow, Osgiliath returned to Faramir. There'd been a final feeling of utter panic before the darkness took him -- this was the very end of his memory, stabbed by this sharp panic, warm, wet, sticky. Now, there remained torn scraps of dread, broken by dull regret.
Atrophied muscles protested as he rolled to his side, and the cloth bandages bunched and pulled at his fevered skin.
"Faramir?"
The voice and the room swam together as Faramir's senses struggled back to life. From the curtained windows, bright sunlight turned the room the color of buttermilk, and he squinted against the brilliance at the dark figure beside his bed.
"Aragorn," he said, and his voice tasted like smoke.
"You have at last returned to us." A warm smile broke the king's tired face.
The sudden dumbness that struck Faramir could be excused by whatever treatments had been administered while he slept. The lump in his throat, the swelling in his chest -- that could not. "Yes," he exhaled. "Your voice," and he remembered, "Your voice beckoned me home."
His hand rose, tentatively, and his arm cursed the effort. Numb fingers brushed the face of his king, his savior, stilled for a moment against the stubbled jaw, and faltered under the strain of the gesture.
Before it could drop, Aragorn's own palm pressed against the weakened hand and held it static against his skin. Faramir's eyelids flickered and fell, and the bright world outside bled through.
* * *
Wrote this a while ago, forgot to archive it. My first foray into LOTR slash. It's short and contains ROTK spoilers.
* * *
Faramir shrugged off the chill of his deathless limbo and felt the warmth and discomfort of life return to him.
Seemingly, he'd been accompanied back to the waking world by that thick black in-between; memories of the past days lay beyond Faramir, just out of reach, and no amount of strain of thought could bring them near.
He, of course, did not expect his brother at his bedside, for the inner void left at Boromir's death was still painfully evident even in this hollow state. Nor did he expect his father -- though, much later, that pain would be lessened upon learning the Steward had been dead, and not that he'd abandoned his son to the nurses and to fate.
Then, like a fatal blow, Osgiliath returned to Faramir. There'd been a final feeling of utter panic before the darkness took him -- this was the very end of his memory, stabbed by this sharp panic, warm, wet, sticky. Now, there remained torn scraps of dread, broken by dull regret.
Atrophied muscles protested as he rolled to his side, and the cloth bandages bunched and pulled at his fevered skin.
"Faramir?"
The voice and the room swam together as Faramir's senses struggled back to life. From the curtained windows, bright sunlight turned the room the color of buttermilk, and he squinted against the brilliance at the dark figure beside his bed.
"Aragorn," he said, and his voice tasted like smoke.
"You have at last returned to us." A warm smile broke the king's tired face.
The sudden dumbness that struck Faramir could be excused by whatever treatments had been administered while he slept. The lump in his throat, the swelling in his chest -- that could not. "Yes," he exhaled. "Your voice," and he remembered, "Your voice beckoned me home."
His hand rose, tentatively, and his arm cursed the effort. Numb fingers brushed the face of his king, his savior, stilled for a moment against the stubbled jaw, and faltered under the strain of the gesture.
Before it could drop, Aragorn's own palm pressed against the weakened hand and held it static against his skin. Faramir's eyelids flickered and fell, and the bright world outside bled through.
* * *