For caras_galadhon: Denethor/Thorongil, PG-13
Title: If Ever
Author: Annmarwalk
A Gift for caras_galadhon. Happy holidays, Galadriel!
Characters: Denethor/ Thorongil
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, merely borrowed.
If ever a man were to tempt me down that dark path, it would be he.
“The Eagle of the Star” he is called, this sell-sword lately come from Rohan, yet he does not carry himself as the wandering vagabond he purports to be. His well-worn weaponry and gear is exquisitely crafted. His clothing, tattered and travel-stained, bears the mark of some loving hand. His voice is tinged with a hint of the rough vowels of the North, interspersed with a softer, more gracious speech, the origin of which escapes me, yet echoes through my mind like a barely-remembered dream.
I watch as he takes his turn in the sparring pit, moving with unconscious grace, lithe as a cat. I pretend to study him; in truth, I cannot tear my eyes away. When it is my turn I stumble, cursing my previous distraction, for it was his form with a sword I should have studied, and not the movement of his hips and shoulders. His blade dances, seeming to carve music in the air; mine as I recover cuts a discordant challenge in the liquid twilight. When I finally best him, we are both winded, gasping; yet he bows his head as gracefully as if he were handing me a boon, robbing me of any meager satisfaction I might find in the victory.
I come upon him alone one evening, restitching a glove in the last of the evening light, and wonder that he has not yet taken up a light o’love, a follower to tend to this and other, less mundane tasks. His hands are beautiful, the fingers long and well formed, though the nails are broken and filthy. Those hands…no, I dare not think such thoughts, and flush as he discovers me staring. To mask my discomfort I speak coldly, voicing some small criticism hardly worth notice; he nods, respectfully as befitting a subordinate. There is no gleam of disguised anger, as I would expect, there is only acquiescence, obedience, surrender to my mood.
He disturbs me, this Eagle of the Star, yet I know not why. It is not a matter of rivalry for the affection and attention and affirmation of men or women. I am the Steward’s Heir; no one less than the King Returned could deny me that title. I am the Captain-General of the White Tower, the rank mine not only by rite of passage but also by right of skill. I am Denethor, husband of Finduilas, father of Boromir, most blessed of all men. There is nothing I possess that he can take from me.
Yet, if ever a man were to tempt me down that dark path, it would be he.
He has robbed me of my peace of mind. Never have I been as lesser men, base and corrupt, subject to dark desires, never have I been so stirred. Yet he haunts my dreams: elegant fingers caressing me intimately, eyes dark with desire, skillful mouth draining me, robbing me of all honour. In my horror I awake, my lady wife warm and pliant by my side. Swiftly I enter her, burning with shame and need, burying myself within her as I silently cry out his name.
Author: Annmarwalk
A Gift for caras_galadhon. Happy holidays, Galadriel!
Characters: Denethor/ Thorongil
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Disclaimer: Not mine, merely borrowed.
If ever a man were to tempt me down that dark path, it would be he.
“The Eagle of the Star” he is called, this sell-sword lately come from Rohan, yet he does not carry himself as the wandering vagabond he purports to be. His well-worn weaponry and gear is exquisitely crafted. His clothing, tattered and travel-stained, bears the mark of some loving hand. His voice is tinged with a hint of the rough vowels of the North, interspersed with a softer, more gracious speech, the origin of which escapes me, yet echoes through my mind like a barely-remembered dream.
I watch as he takes his turn in the sparring pit, moving with unconscious grace, lithe as a cat. I pretend to study him; in truth, I cannot tear my eyes away. When it is my turn I stumble, cursing my previous distraction, for it was his form with a sword I should have studied, and not the movement of his hips and shoulders. His blade dances, seeming to carve music in the air; mine as I recover cuts a discordant challenge in the liquid twilight. When I finally best him, we are both winded, gasping; yet he bows his head as gracefully as if he were handing me a boon, robbing me of any meager satisfaction I might find in the victory.
I come upon him alone one evening, restitching a glove in the last of the evening light, and wonder that he has not yet taken up a light o’love, a follower to tend to this and other, less mundane tasks. His hands are beautiful, the fingers long and well formed, though the nails are broken and filthy. Those hands…no, I dare not think such thoughts, and flush as he discovers me staring. To mask my discomfort I speak coldly, voicing some small criticism hardly worth notice; he nods, respectfully as befitting a subordinate. There is no gleam of disguised anger, as I would expect, there is only acquiescence, obedience, surrender to my mood.
He disturbs me, this Eagle of the Star, yet I know not why. It is not a matter of rivalry for the affection and attention and affirmation of men or women. I am the Steward’s Heir; no one less than the King Returned could deny me that title. I am the Captain-General of the White Tower, the rank mine not only by rite of passage but also by right of skill. I am Denethor, husband of Finduilas, father of Boromir, most blessed of all men. There is nothing I possess that he can take from me.
Yet, if ever a man were to tempt me down that dark path, it would be he.
He has robbed me of my peace of mind. Never have I been as lesser men, base and corrupt, subject to dark desires, never have I been so stirred. Yet he haunts my dreams: elegant fingers caressing me intimately, eyes dark with desire, skillful mouth draining me, robbing me of all honour. In my horror I awake, my lady wife warm and pliant by my side. Swiftly I enter her, burning with shame and need, burying myself within her as I silently cry out his name.