Faramir's Lament
by Suzie

Standing upon the highest rampart of Gondor Faramir stared out at Pelennor Fields, and let the wind that blew his blush-blond hair from his face blow memories upon the surface of his mind. He often came here to be alone. It was one of his favorite spots. The view was amazing, and if he turned his gaze towards the northeast he could—with the far-seeing reach of memory—see Rohan, and particularly Edoras.

Rohan. The land of the golden fields, and golden warriors who resided in a Golden Hall. Strong horse-lords who had come to the rescue of Gondor and all of Middle Earth. He had loved and wed the sister of the new King, Éomer. Newly crowned after his uncle, Théoden King had fallen here in Pelennor Fields.

Faramir shivered, and knew it was not simply from the briskness of the autumn wind. As clear as though Éomer stood before him now he could picture the man. Long of limb, gold and wheat in his hair, piercing eyes that cut through to a man's soul and knew its measure, and lips full and near pouting that begged for a lover's kiss. And Faramir had tasted those lips.

Even now he felt no remorse for the impulsive act of months ago. It haunted him, yes, but there were no regrets. Not even as he lay beside his lady-wife at night, and knew her intimate touch. In those moments he would shut his eyes and see again the rugged beauty of her brother bending over him as he lay on the field dying. That was when Faramir had first felt the man's touch upon him. A tender stroke that searched for a visible wound upon a prone body and made it tremble and surge with heat. It had startled Faramir to react thus to another man's touch, and shame had suppressed it that first time. But the second time there had been no shame.

He had lain in the healer's house, gathering his strength, and by the skill and grace of his king, Elessar, would live. When strong enough he would walk the rampart and gaze out upon the battle that ravaged Pelennor Fields, wishing he could be in the thick of it, defending his homeland and people. But he was as yet weak. And perhaps that had been the reason for the madness that had taken him when Éomer had neared grieving for a sister he had not known had lived.

This spot, where Faramir stood now, was where he had stumbled weakly and fallen into Éomer's arms. "Easy," the soft rumble of the blond rider's voice had fanned across his face. His arms had been solid yet gentle, and a tremor had shaken Faramir. "Do not overtax yourself, Faramir, son of Denethor."

"If you would show kindness, my lord, speak not my father's name in my presence." The long lashes that fluttered and softened the intense gaze of the other man had captivated Faramir's gaze. A pale bronze was his face, and dark were the whiskers that did not hide but accentuated that full mouth. Éomer's warm breath caressed across his face, and the bottom lip fell from its mate so a pink tongue could sweep across them and cast a fine sheen of moisture there. The sudden temptation to follow that path with his own tongue and taste the sweet dampness rocked Faramir.

Éomer slowly guided the healing man to a stone seat built into the wall of the rampart. "You are yet weakened, and must not push yourself beyond your limit. We will sit, and when your strength returns I will escort you back to the healer's house."

Faramir had shaken his head. "I cannot ask you to delay returning to the battle. I know were I stronger I would fight alongside you to defend my people and my home."

"What defense can you give if you are not yet strong enough to raise your sword? Do not go hastily into the shadow, Faramir. There are many who yet need you."

Where Éowyn's cold loveliness had enchanted Faramir Éomer's rugged handsomeness entranced him. He was fire to his sister's ice, and Faramir felt heat raging through him at sight of the tall rider. His nostrils flared, and his eyes dilated when Éomer folded those long and muscular limbs to sit beside him. Sinew and muscle bunched and rippled across hard thighs and a strong back, and drew Faramir's admiring gaze. Would Éomer tremble beneath his touch? Would his skin be smooth like warm velvet over steel?

His palms itched and grew damp, and his breathing became labored. How could he think such thoughts of another man? How could he think such thoughts of the brother to the woman he had asked to be his wife? Did some of his father's dementia reside in him? Had his illness weakened his mind?

"Are you ill, my friend?" Concern drew Éomer's brows together into a knot, and softened his gaze. Faramir felt the absurd urge to reach out and smooth his frown with a tender caress, and then let his fingers trail downward over a sculpted cheek and to those edible lips that continuously caught his eye and made his mouth go dry. Éomer's hand fell on his shoulder, a few fingertips grazing the skin of his throat, and Faramir could not halt the mewling little moan that trembled off his lips.

Éomer leapt up, leaning over to lift the ill man and carry him to the healer. Faramir caught at the other man's shoulders to stay him. "I am well," he choked, the nearness of the beautiful warrior making his blood roar through his veins like liquid fire that set every nerve-ending ablaze and hardened his groin. He could no longer deny what Éowyn's brother did to him. His breath came in small gasps, and his eyes cast deeply into the intense pools of the other.

Gazes locked, and Éomer did not move. Tentatively and trembling with fearful anticipation one of Faramir's hands glided upward over the strong column of Éomer's neck and into the tangle of gold and wheat hair that still burned with the heat of the sun. His other hand shook as it slid upwards to the hard jaw. Pinpricks of electrical currents raced up his arm from the crisp prickling of beard, and finally a fingertip skimmed that full bottom lip. Soft and hot, still with a hint of dew from his tongue. Faramir's eyes lifted, and for a moment he feared the golden rider would slay him his gaze was so dark and hard. But Éomer did not raise a weapon to him. Catching at Faramir's hand he held him thus a moment, his lips pulling back in a sneer across his teeth.

"Forgive me," choked Faramir, disbelieving of the boldness he had shown in daring to touch another man in such a way.

Éomer's nostrils flared, and he trembled. Pushing Faramir's hand away he caught the other man's hair in one fist, tilted his head back, and pressed him into the hard stone of the rampart as his mouth slashed across Faramir's. A choked groan grunted from Faramir. Éomer's mouth was molten fire and steel, thrilling in its hardness. The cold stone bit into his shoulders, but he did not care. Éomer's long body was meshed into his, pinning him back, and those silk soft lips parted so the tip of a wet tongue could trace the crack between his own lips and past them to glide over his teeth. Faramir's teeth parted, and his own tongue darted out to meet the questing invasion of Éomer's. They dueled, they danced, and they mated, the honeyed dampness of the Rohan rider's taste filling his senses and commandeering him to lose all sense of self in the roughness of the kiss.

Faramir now stood alone, remembering how Éomer's thighs had mashed into his own, pressing one heated length of manhood against another like two swords clashing. This clash had not caused pain, except in the pit of Faramir's belly where an empty ache had begun and swelled to near unbearable proportions. His groin had throbbed; seeking freedom from his breeches to ease the burning need it suffered. Suddenly Éomer's lips had softened and plumped against his own in a final parting caress that shook Faramir to his toes and left him weightless and dizzy.

Éomer's harsh breathing was as a cool balm to Faramir's kiss-swollen and overheated lips. And then, without a word, he removed the heavenly weight of his body and the sharp yet not unpleasant scent of his battle heated skin from him and left him there alone. Faramir had sat for long hours, reliving the moment, loath to depart and lose the tang of it. No kiss had ever rocked him to the core as that one had. Even today, months later, he could taste the rough sweetness of Éomer's mouth, and feel the thrill of that hard body pinning him to the stone. He often came here, remembered, and yearned. He would try to envision those long limbs relaxed in nakedness upon a soft mound of grass, the heat of the sun warming the skin and tingeing it a light bronze. Faramir reached down and pressed a hand to his straining shaft, pretending it was not his own he felt through his breeches, but Éomer's. It would be long, as the rest of him was. It would be rigid and dark, nestled in a tangle of softly crisp gold and wheat bush, blue veins marbling the length of it. A work of art, worthy of any master who wanted the perfection of a man. If he could paint or carve he would render homage to the golden rider. Not armored and atop a steed, but laying upon sweet smelling grass beneath the rays of the sun, with one leg bent at the knee and parted from the other so all could see the might of him rising proudly.

That empty ache deepened in his belly, and Faramir moaned softly. Not even lying upon his wife eased the pain of yearning he carried within him for Éomer. He had tasted a forbidden fruit, and the craving for more gnawed at him. It was more than simply to touch him; it was to be near him, and to let his senses fill with his scent, sound and presence. To gaze upon him to his heart's content and memorize every feature and every graceful move he made. To listen to the rough timber of his voice that weaved like silken rope about Faramir and enthralled him more and more.

His hands clutched at the stone wall of the rampart, and he leaned weakly against it. How could he continue with life when he was deprived of all beauty? He saw lovely things about him, and knew his wife to be lovely, but all beauty was gone now that he was parted from Éomer.

"Captain Faramir, riders approach from Rohan."

All at once the sun shone in his world again, and Faramir straightened to his full height. Casting his gaze across the fields of Pelennor he saw dark shapes thundering across the land towards the White City. His heart leapt, and his breathing grew labored. "Éomer," he breathed, the sound carried down from the rampart by the wind. And far below, as though he had heard the caress of his name, a rider slowed and a helmed head lifted up.

Sequel

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