"Shadow." LOTR-FPS. PG. Aragorn/Faramir, Aragorn/Boromir.
Even though I blew the time limit on this one (came in just over 40 minutes), I'm going to post it, since I may not have time to try anything else by tomorrow. Feel free to flog me for not watching the clock.
Title: "Shadow"
Author: Barbara
Rating: PG
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir, Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Prequel to "Unspoken."
Disclaimer: People and places belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema, not me. I just amuse myself with them for fun, not profit.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Comments: An improv fic with the following guidelines: A story which has an underlying feel, or rather, a strong atmosphere of longing; however, forbidden words are 'need', 'want', 'desire', 'long', 'crave' and any and all synonyms. Show; don't tell. The time limit is 30 minutes.
"Shadow"
Aragorn followed Pippin through the White City to the Houses of Healing. During the quest, when he thought about entering Minas Tirith, it was not a hobbit he imagined at his side. But that dream was gone, swallowed by golden Rauros, never to come again.
The halfling lead him into a room that faced, as so many rooms in the city did, East. He looked away from the dark mountains and fiery sky to the man on the narrow bed. The strength left Aragorn's arms and he doubted he could lift a feather let alone a sword as pressure rose in his chest.
Breathe, he told himself, feeling the bands that gripped him lessen with each inhalation. Breathe.
Pippin tugged at him. "He's not going to die, is he? Gandalf said to fetch you. He said that you could help."
Aragorn closed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to shake the hobbit. Why didn't you tell me? Why?
"Can you...can you save him?"
My skills were of little help to his brother, Aragorn thought, as he sat on the edge of the bed, focusing on the wound so that he didn't have to look at the man's face. "The wound is healing. Where is the dart that caused it?"
The hobbit fidgeted. "They didn't bring it with them. The healers think it was from one of the...the...."
"It did not come from one of the Nazgul, or he would already be dead. The shaft was tainted, and that taint is now in his blood."
Pippin sighed, then his breath caught in a soft sob.
Aragorn touched his shoulder. "You remember when Frodo was injured at Weathertop?" Pippin nodded. "Go to the herb-masters and apothecaries. Tell them I need athelas. Kingsfoil. I need it if I'm to save him. Go"
"And Pippin," Aragorn waited until the hobbit turned, "be swift, for he is nearly spent."
Only after Aragorn was safely alone with his patient, did he allow himself to really study the man's face. His fingers trembled as they traced the line of Faramir's jaw. Leaning over, he brushed his lips across Faramir's before turning his head and rubbing his cheek against the other man's.
"You look so much like him," he whispered into sweat-dark golden hair. "I hadn't expected that. Hadn't thought seeing you would feel like this."
After one last kiss, Aragorn straightened. He placed a hand on Faramir's brow. "I won't fail you, as I did him." Aragorn closed his eyes, followed Faramir into the mists that had snared him. In a particularly dense and dim section of fog, he collided with Faramir, who was nearly invisible in his plain ranger's garb.
Aragorn held out his hand. "Come back with me, son of Gondor."
Faramir shook his head. "I can't. My brother...he's waiting."
"Boromir?" Aragorn gripped the other man's shoulders. Shook him. "Where?"
"Just ahead." Faramir pointed into the mist. "There."
Aragorn peered into the fog. There seemed to be a shadowy form there, just at the edge of sight. Though the mist leeched the color from everything, Aragorn swore he could see a burgundy and flickers of gold.
"Come on." Faramir tugged him deeper into the mist, and Aragorn followed.
The form faded, then reappeared. Sometimes it seemed so close that Aragorn should be able to reach out and touch it. Other times, it was farther ahead. Only an occasional gleam of gold letting him know it was there at all. Aragorn realized the mist was thicker, colder. The light was fading from grey to black.
He gripped Faramir's shoulder. "We must turn back."
"No. My brother...."
Though it took all his will, Aragorn turned from the mist to face Faramir. "Your brother is dead." The words were like steel piercing him. "But we are not. We must go back."
"No." Faramir struggled, tried to break free.
"Yes." Aragorn pulled the other man against him, held him tight as he felt hot tears against his neck. When Faramir quieted, Aragorn tipped his head up and brushed lingering tears from his cheeks. He only had a moment to realize Faramir was doing the same to him before fingers tightened in his hair and Faramir's lips sought his. So sweet. The mist brightened around them. Like coming home. The air lost it chill. Almost. The mists retreated.
"Aragorn...?"
Aragorn sat up. Pippin and several of healers stood near him. Though their looks questioned, he did not try to explain why he was lying with his head on Faramir's chest. Instead, he filled a bowl with water hot from the fire, crushed the athelas leaves they brought, and let them fall into the steaming water. As the scent filled the room, the air seemed brighter, and it smelled clean.
Not long after he placed the bowl by Faramir's bed, the sleeping man sighed, then blinked as he opened sleepy green eyes. Faramir raised a trembling hand, which Aragorn caught before it could fall back against the covers. When Aragorn threaded his fingers through Faramir's, the blonde smiled.
"I heard you calling me, lord," he said, "and I answered. What does my king demand?"
Aragorn touched Faramir's cheek. He couldn't help himself. Faramir's eyes widened, and he turned his head pressing more firmly against Aragorn's hand. As his lips brushed the inside of Aragorn's wrist, Aragorn shivered.
"Rest and take some food. Walk no more in shadow, son of Gondor."
Faramir nodded, sighed. "The first two I shall do for you, lord. The third is...harder. But I will try."
Harder. Yes. Aragorn squeezed Faramir's hand. So much harder. But perhaps if Elbereth smiled upon them, they would find the strength for it. Together.
Title: "Shadow"
Author: Barbara
Rating: PG
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir, Aragorn/Boromir
Summary: Prequel to "Unspoken."
Disclaimer: People and places belong to the Tolkien estate and New Line Cinema, not me. I just amuse myself with them for fun, not profit.
Feedback: Always appreciated.
Comments: An improv fic with the following guidelines: A story which has an underlying feel, or rather, a strong atmosphere of longing; however, forbidden words are 'need', 'want', 'desire', 'long', 'crave' and any and all synonyms. Show; don't tell. The time limit is 30 minutes.
"Shadow"
Aragorn followed Pippin through the White City to the Houses of Healing. During the quest, when he thought about entering Minas Tirith, it was not a hobbit he imagined at his side. But that dream was gone, swallowed by golden Rauros, never to come again.
The halfling lead him into a room that faced, as so many rooms in the city did, East. He looked away from the dark mountains and fiery sky to the man on the narrow bed. The strength left Aragorn's arms and he doubted he could lift a feather let alone a sword as pressure rose in his chest.
Breathe, he told himself, feeling the bands that gripped him lessen with each inhalation. Breathe.
Pippin tugged at him. "He's not going to die, is he? Gandalf said to fetch you. He said that you could help."
Aragorn closed his eyes, clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to shake the hobbit. Why didn't you tell me? Why?
"Can you...can you save him?"
My skills were of little help to his brother, Aragorn thought, as he sat on the edge of the bed, focusing on the wound so that he didn't have to look at the man's face. "The wound is healing. Where is the dart that caused it?"
The hobbit fidgeted. "They didn't bring it with them. The healers think it was from one of the...the...."
"It did not come from one of the Nazgul, or he would already be dead. The shaft was tainted, and that taint is now in his blood."
Pippin sighed, then his breath caught in a soft sob.
Aragorn touched his shoulder. "You remember when Frodo was injured at Weathertop?" Pippin nodded. "Go to the herb-masters and apothecaries. Tell them I need athelas. Kingsfoil. I need it if I'm to save him. Go"
"And Pippin," Aragorn waited until the hobbit turned, "be swift, for he is nearly spent."
Only after Aragorn was safely alone with his patient, did he allow himself to really study the man's face. His fingers trembled as they traced the line of Faramir's jaw. Leaning over, he brushed his lips across Faramir's before turning his head and rubbing his cheek against the other man's.
"You look so much like him," he whispered into sweat-dark golden hair. "I hadn't expected that. Hadn't thought seeing you would feel like this."
After one last kiss, Aragorn straightened. He placed a hand on Faramir's brow. "I won't fail you, as I did him." Aragorn closed his eyes, followed Faramir into the mists that had snared him. In a particularly dense and dim section of fog, he collided with Faramir, who was nearly invisible in his plain ranger's garb.
Aragorn held out his hand. "Come back with me, son of Gondor."
Faramir shook his head. "I can't. My brother...he's waiting."
"Boromir?" Aragorn gripped the other man's shoulders. Shook him. "Where?"
"Just ahead." Faramir pointed into the mist. "There."
Aragorn peered into the fog. There seemed to be a shadowy form there, just at the edge of sight. Though the mist leeched the color from everything, Aragorn swore he could see a burgundy and flickers of gold.
"Come on." Faramir tugged him deeper into the mist, and Aragorn followed.
The form faded, then reappeared. Sometimes it seemed so close that Aragorn should be able to reach out and touch it. Other times, it was farther ahead. Only an occasional gleam of gold letting him know it was there at all. Aragorn realized the mist was thicker, colder. The light was fading from grey to black.
He gripped Faramir's shoulder. "We must turn back."
"No. My brother...."
Though it took all his will, Aragorn turned from the mist to face Faramir. "Your brother is dead." The words were like steel piercing him. "But we are not. We must go back."
"No." Faramir struggled, tried to break free.
"Yes." Aragorn pulled the other man against him, held him tight as he felt hot tears against his neck. When Faramir quieted, Aragorn tipped his head up and brushed lingering tears from his cheeks. He only had a moment to realize Faramir was doing the same to him before fingers tightened in his hair and Faramir's lips sought his. So sweet. The mist brightened around them. Like coming home. The air lost it chill. Almost. The mists retreated.
"Aragorn...?"
Aragorn sat up. Pippin and several of healers stood near him. Though their looks questioned, he did not try to explain why he was lying with his head on Faramir's chest. Instead, he filled a bowl with water hot from the fire, crushed the athelas leaves they brought, and let them fall into the steaming water. As the scent filled the room, the air seemed brighter, and it smelled clean.
Not long after he placed the bowl by Faramir's bed, the sleeping man sighed, then blinked as he opened sleepy green eyes. Faramir raised a trembling hand, which Aragorn caught before it could fall back against the covers. When Aragorn threaded his fingers through Faramir's, the blonde smiled.
"I heard you calling me, lord," he said, "and I answered. What does my king demand?"
Aragorn touched Faramir's cheek. He couldn't help himself. Faramir's eyes widened, and he turned his head pressing more firmly against Aragorn's hand. As his lips brushed the inside of Aragorn's wrist, Aragorn shivered.
"Rest and take some food. Walk no more in shadow, son of Gondor."
Faramir nodded, sighed. "The first two I shall do for you, lord. The third is...harder. But I will try."
Harder. Yes. Aragorn squeezed Faramir's hand. So much harder. But perhaps if Elbereth smiled upon them, they would find the strength for it. Together.