For Gondor and the White City (R, Aragorn/Éowyn/Faramir) for savageseraph
For Gondor and the White City
For: savageseraph as part of lotr_sesa 2013
Pairing: Aragorn/Éowyn/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: Aragorn feels the weight of his new role and someone decides to do something about it.
Notes: In lieu of warnings - [Spoiler (click to open)]this story was bordering on schmoopy which I do not do, so I added a pinch of shadow. It contains allusions to drugging and non-consensual sexual activity which would be BDSM-y and power exchange-y if they were considered consensual, which is up to you, dear Reader. Barb, I know you wanted passionate and sensual, and these things are here, somewhere. I hope you like it.
Aragorn barely had time to rest nowadays. He was used to ignoring the ache and tension in his back after days of walking on scant hours of sleep, used to sleeping on the ground with only his cloak for warmth and only what he could find for food. That, however, was a different kind of exhaustion; it was one that settled in his body and was assuaged after rest in a bed and a decent helping of good hearty food.
He was tired, indeed from lack of sleep and too much to do, but he ate well and kept his skills sharp only by an hour's practice and not anything potentially dangerous at that. He was stretched between healing those still wounded from the war, organising some kind of government from the rabble left behind, seeing everyone who needed him to be seen, and coordinating the rebuilding of the city and the towns and farms outside its walls. Osgiliath, thankfully, alone among the cities of Gondor and Arnor, looked after itself, but he still had to find resources and men to send into its ever greedy mouth; he had to establish himself and make his authority known over the Haradrim and the Easterlings and anyone else who strayed and still bore the darkness in their hearts, and that was just the enemy.
It settled into his mind like a fog and then a shadow; it dulled his thoughts and sometimes he felt as if moving was an impossibility for the weight he carried on his shoulders, let alone thinking clearly enough to decide for a people he had not yet come to know or feel at one with. The people around him did not understand the concept of delegation, for he was King and to the people, that meant he did and knew all.
It was a summer-like day, almost over and yet the air was still warm and the breeze still bore the scent of burning sand and wildflowers, though the sun had long set. He felt as if even his friends, few though he had, conspired to keep him away from his rooms and the bed that he never wanted to leave, but he could not bring himself to think ill of them just yet. Peace was hard on them all, unfamiliar to all but the longest-lived, and even then just a memory indistinguishable from childhood ignorance. He could not blame them for looking to him, so he hid his weariness as best he could and did his duty, though each day weighed on him more than the last.
"Relax," he heard, as a whisper on the wind and a breeze on his shoulder, a soft touch that guided him away from the bed and to the bath laid out and poured for him.
"I cannot," he said, though it was as if his voice went unheard. Hands tugged at his armour and then at his robes and he let them, like this was a dream he longer controlled.
And, as if this truly was a dream, Éowyn appeared before him, seemingly from nowhere as if she had been hiding behind a curtain or a pillar. She held a drinking bowl to him, as she had done countless times before. This time, though, the air around him seemed charged with some kind of energy, like something just waiting to be unleashed, and the scent of wildflowers grew stronger as he brought the bowl to his lips.
"Let it go, Aragorn," she said, as she took the bowl away. He couldn't understand quite what she meant; his mind was still too slow for him to put the pieces together and create a response. Hands landed on his shoulders; slightly more forceful than necessary, the touch was firm and he found that he wasn't strong enough to shake it off.
"Let it go," he heard, from behind him, and as the hands slid down his chest and into view he saw that they were callused and dirty.
"Faramir," he said, but one of the hands covered his mouth before he could say more.
"This is our gift to you," he heard, as he felt his leggings being pulled down. He reached for them, but Éowyn clasped his hands in her own. He did not feel strong enough to resist the cloth being wound around his wrists; the ache in his shoulders had not gone away and indeed, it seemed worse for the way his arms were pulled in front of him while he was being held still and lifted to his feet.
He could feel Faramir pressed against his back as he was made to walk; the stone floor was cold and rough on his feet, and he stumbled, or was pushed, and he landed on the bed. Éowyn's hands, he thought, were the ones in his hair; she dragged her nails over his scalp and then pulled on his hair until his head followed.
"We'll take care of everything," she said, as somehow the moon lit her from behind, a halo of blue that shone as she leaned forward, her lips turning up into a smile and her eyes wide and no longer sad. "Just rest," she said, and she covered his eyes.
Faramir's hands were the ones touching him now, wider and rougher; they dug into his shoulders and pressed at the sore spots then slid down, over his ribs and spine and to his thighs. The aches eased under his touch as if Faramir was reaching into him and pulling out the little thorns that had worked their way under his skin and never let him stay still. The plans he had yet to make also seemed to seep from him, their urgency quelled, they seemed unimportant until they no longer occurred to him. He could feel the breeze and Eowyn's hair on his shoulders as Faramir turned him over, so easily, as if he weighed as light as his thoughts. Eowyn's fingers were gentle now; with his head in her lap, she rubbed oil into his temples. It was cool and seemed to sit on the surface, a pleasant tingling that gradually seeped into his mind and dull the last of his thoughts until all was dark. He heard Eowyn laugh, a light sound like chimes in the wind, and Faramir speak in a tone just louder than a whisper, but the words meant nothing, if that was what they were.
He dreamed, then, in a haphazard manner to which he was unaccustomed; he dreamed that Eowyn held him as Faramir continued to touch him, that it was she who kneaded the last of the tension out of his shoulders while Faramir slid down his body and kissed him in a manner forbidden and unknown. He responded with movement, limited though he was, as heat surrounded him and then seemed to rush through him until he felt empty and light. He reached for Faramir but was denied; his hands were still bound, and he could not reach as it seemed the world fell away.
"Sleep," he heard, and then there was nothing at all.
For: savageseraph as part of lotr_sesa 2013
Pairing: Aragorn/Éowyn/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: Aragorn feels the weight of his new role and someone decides to do something about it.
Notes: In lieu of warnings - [Spoiler (click to open)]this story was bordering on schmoopy which I do not do, so I added a pinch of shadow. It contains allusions to drugging and non-consensual sexual activity which would be BDSM-y and power exchange-y if they were considered consensual, which is up to you, dear Reader. Barb, I know you wanted passionate and sensual, and these things are here, somewhere. I hope you like it.
Aragorn barely had time to rest nowadays. He was used to ignoring the ache and tension in his back after days of walking on scant hours of sleep, used to sleeping on the ground with only his cloak for warmth and only what he could find for food. That, however, was a different kind of exhaustion; it was one that settled in his body and was assuaged after rest in a bed and a decent helping of good hearty food.
He was tired, indeed from lack of sleep and too much to do, but he ate well and kept his skills sharp only by an hour's practice and not anything potentially dangerous at that. He was stretched between healing those still wounded from the war, organising some kind of government from the rabble left behind, seeing everyone who needed him to be seen, and coordinating the rebuilding of the city and the towns and farms outside its walls. Osgiliath, thankfully, alone among the cities of Gondor and Arnor, looked after itself, but he still had to find resources and men to send into its ever greedy mouth; he had to establish himself and make his authority known over the Haradrim and the Easterlings and anyone else who strayed and still bore the darkness in their hearts, and that was just the enemy.
It settled into his mind like a fog and then a shadow; it dulled his thoughts and sometimes he felt as if moving was an impossibility for the weight he carried on his shoulders, let alone thinking clearly enough to decide for a people he had not yet come to know or feel at one with. The people around him did not understand the concept of delegation, for he was King and to the people, that meant he did and knew all.
It was a summer-like day, almost over and yet the air was still warm and the breeze still bore the scent of burning sand and wildflowers, though the sun had long set. He felt as if even his friends, few though he had, conspired to keep him away from his rooms and the bed that he never wanted to leave, but he could not bring himself to think ill of them just yet. Peace was hard on them all, unfamiliar to all but the longest-lived, and even then just a memory indistinguishable from childhood ignorance. He could not blame them for looking to him, so he hid his weariness as best he could and did his duty, though each day weighed on him more than the last.
"Relax," he heard, as a whisper on the wind and a breeze on his shoulder, a soft touch that guided him away from the bed and to the bath laid out and poured for him.
"I cannot," he said, though it was as if his voice went unheard. Hands tugged at his armour and then at his robes and he let them, like this was a dream he longer controlled.
And, as if this truly was a dream, Éowyn appeared before him, seemingly from nowhere as if she had been hiding behind a curtain or a pillar. She held a drinking bowl to him, as she had done countless times before. This time, though, the air around him seemed charged with some kind of energy, like something just waiting to be unleashed, and the scent of wildflowers grew stronger as he brought the bowl to his lips.
"Let it go, Aragorn," she said, as she took the bowl away. He couldn't understand quite what she meant; his mind was still too slow for him to put the pieces together and create a response. Hands landed on his shoulders; slightly more forceful than necessary, the touch was firm and he found that he wasn't strong enough to shake it off.
"Let it go," he heard, from behind him, and as the hands slid down his chest and into view he saw that they were callused and dirty.
"Faramir," he said, but one of the hands covered his mouth before he could say more.
"This is our gift to you," he heard, as he felt his leggings being pulled down. He reached for them, but Éowyn clasped his hands in her own. He did not feel strong enough to resist the cloth being wound around his wrists; the ache in his shoulders had not gone away and indeed, it seemed worse for the way his arms were pulled in front of him while he was being held still and lifted to his feet.
He could feel Faramir pressed against his back as he was made to walk; the stone floor was cold and rough on his feet, and he stumbled, or was pushed, and he landed on the bed. Éowyn's hands, he thought, were the ones in his hair; she dragged her nails over his scalp and then pulled on his hair until his head followed.
"We'll take care of everything," she said, as somehow the moon lit her from behind, a halo of blue that shone as she leaned forward, her lips turning up into a smile and her eyes wide and no longer sad. "Just rest," she said, and she covered his eyes.
Faramir's hands were the ones touching him now, wider and rougher; they dug into his shoulders and pressed at the sore spots then slid down, over his ribs and spine and to his thighs. The aches eased under his touch as if Faramir was reaching into him and pulling out the little thorns that had worked their way under his skin and never let him stay still. The plans he had yet to make also seemed to seep from him, their urgency quelled, they seemed unimportant until they no longer occurred to him. He could feel the breeze and Eowyn's hair on his shoulders as Faramir turned him over, so easily, as if he weighed as light as his thoughts. Eowyn's fingers were gentle now; with his head in her lap, she rubbed oil into his temples. It was cool and seemed to sit on the surface, a pleasant tingling that gradually seeped into his mind and dull the last of his thoughts until all was dark. He heard Eowyn laugh, a light sound like chimes in the wind, and Faramir speak in a tone just louder than a whisper, but the words meant nothing, if that was what they were.
He dreamed, then, in a haphazard manner to which he was unaccustomed; he dreamed that Eowyn held him as Faramir continued to touch him, that it was she who kneaded the last of the tension out of his shoulders while Faramir slid down his body and kissed him in a manner forbidden and unknown. He responded with movement, limited though he was, as heat surrounded him and then seemed to rush through him until he felt empty and light. He reached for Faramir but was denied; his hands were still bound, and he could not reach as it seemed the world fell away.
"Sleep," he heard, and then there was nothing at all.