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rugbytackleRemember, that I promised a series called "No tomorrow"? Coming up soon... Finally.
Title: Hope and Despair Part 9
Author: Sadness1986
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir, Aragorn/ Arwen, Faramir/ Eowyn
Rating: NC-17
Warning: angst, AU, Het
Summary: There's no hope in despair.
Notes: You insisted, so I'm writing a series, I didn't plan at all. And I'll take revenge, you know me well. I just say cliff-hangers, angst and angst...
Worried, Aragorn stands at the window, looking down on Minas Tirith. The beautiful shining white is swallowed by rainy dullness, grey, dirty.
The sun rose hours ago, but was unable to break through the thick crust of dark clouds covering the sky. His bare feet become numb on the cold stone floor, but he doesn't care. He longs for the freedom he had, when he was a ranger, longs to sleep under the stars, to just bear responsibility for himself and nobody else.
He feels like a wild beast in a cage, circling and circling, useless power building in his muscular body and his eyes search longingly the world behind those walls, search green, real living green, he listens for the voice of Anduin, but the stones, the wind and the rain swallow the powerful chorus of water.
"Boromir", he whispers, "How does this cold grave feel? Does the river's lullaby comfort you? Can you forgive me? Will you wait for me?"
So many questions, but he almost chokes on the most important one: "Do you still love me?"
"Aragorn! Aragorn!"
Must be really serious, if somebody screams his given name, screams for the man he is, not for the titles he owns. It's his steward Faramir, who bursts into his chambers, barefoot and soaked, just clad in his night-gown with a heavy fur-lined cloak over it, just like the one, Boromir used to wear.
He had bedded Aragorn on it and he can remember, how it felt against his bare skin, how the fur tickled him...
Catching his breath, Faramir says: "My king... It's Eowyn... The child... She's sick... Something is wrong... So much blood..."
Aragorn frowns at him: "It's too early, the child should be born in two months. But why do you seek my console in this manner? I'm no nursemaid."
"You have healed us before, please, I think it's the same illness", Faramir pleads, reaching out for him with bloody hands.
Determined he steps into his boots and grabs his cloak: "You think, it's still the black death, you both suffered from?"
The young man just nods. In the candle-light cutting shadows into his features he looks almost like his brother: his blue eyes almost emerald, deep lines of sorrow embedded in his golden skin.
Aragorn follows him to the chamber of his wife.
The stench of blood and sickness hits him immediately, as he opens the door. Eowyn, looking even paler the weak winter-sun lies on her blood-soaked bedclothes, an unmoving, silent little being in her arms.
As he sits down beside her, he sees, that she is even to week to weep.
Carefully Aragorn takes the child in his arms. The little boy looks as pale as his mother and feels so cold despite Eowyn's fever-risen temperature, he doesn't move and doesn't make a sound, but he can see his ribcage lifting and falling with even breathing.
Relieved, Aragorn dares to pet him, stroking the golden fine hair covering his head, his cheeks and the little boy opens his eyes. The aren't dazed and unfocused as they should be, when they see the world for the first time. They are emerald green and carry the wisdom of many years and they fix on him, as if they recognise him.
Aragorn shivers under the penetrating gaze and hands him to Faramir: "He will be alright." Then he reaches out for Eowyn, who still looks worried. Her instincts as a mother tell her, that something is wrong with her firstborn son.
Title: Hope and Despair Part 9
Author: Sadness1986
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir, Aragorn/ Arwen, Faramir/ Eowyn
Rating: NC-17
Warning: angst, AU, Het
Summary: There's no hope in despair.
Notes: You insisted, so I'm writing a series, I didn't plan at all. And I'll take revenge, you know me well. I just say cliff-hangers, angst and angst...
Worried, Aragorn stands at the window, looking down on Minas Tirith. The beautiful shining white is swallowed by rainy dullness, grey, dirty.
The sun rose hours ago, but was unable to break through the thick crust of dark clouds covering the sky. His bare feet become numb on the cold stone floor, but he doesn't care. He longs for the freedom he had, when he was a ranger, longs to sleep under the stars, to just bear responsibility for himself and nobody else.
He feels like a wild beast in a cage, circling and circling, useless power building in his muscular body and his eyes search longingly the world behind those walls, search green, real living green, he listens for the voice of Anduin, but the stones, the wind and the rain swallow the powerful chorus of water.
"Boromir", he whispers, "How does this cold grave feel? Does the river's lullaby comfort you? Can you forgive me? Will you wait for me?"
So many questions, but he almost chokes on the most important one: "Do you still love me?"
"Aragorn! Aragorn!"
Must be really serious, if somebody screams his given name, screams for the man he is, not for the titles he owns. It's his steward Faramir, who bursts into his chambers, barefoot and soaked, just clad in his night-gown with a heavy fur-lined cloak over it, just like the one, Boromir used to wear.
He had bedded Aragorn on it and he can remember, how it felt against his bare skin, how the fur tickled him...
Catching his breath, Faramir says: "My king... It's Eowyn... The child... She's sick... Something is wrong... So much blood..."
Aragorn frowns at him: "It's too early, the child should be born in two months. But why do you seek my console in this manner? I'm no nursemaid."
"You have healed us before, please, I think it's the same illness", Faramir pleads, reaching out for him with bloody hands.
Determined he steps into his boots and grabs his cloak: "You think, it's still the black death, you both suffered from?"
The young man just nods. In the candle-light cutting shadows into his features he looks almost like his brother: his blue eyes almost emerald, deep lines of sorrow embedded in his golden skin.
Aragorn follows him to the chamber of his wife.
The stench of blood and sickness hits him immediately, as he opens the door. Eowyn, looking even paler the weak winter-sun lies on her blood-soaked bedclothes, an unmoving, silent little being in her arms.
As he sits down beside her, he sees, that she is even to week to weep.
Carefully Aragorn takes the child in his arms. The little boy looks as pale as his mother and feels so cold despite Eowyn's fever-risen temperature, he doesn't move and doesn't make a sound, but he can see his ribcage lifting and falling with even breathing.
Relieved, Aragorn dares to pet him, stroking the golden fine hair covering his head, his cheeks and the little boy opens his eyes. The aren't dazed and unfocused as they should be, when they see the world for the first time. They are emerald green and carry the wisdom of many years and they fix on him, as if they recognise him.
Aragorn shivers under the penetrating gaze and hands him to Faramir: "He will be alright." Then he reaches out for Eowyn, who still looks worried. Her instincts as a mother tell her, that something is wrong with her firstborn son.
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Date: 2004-09-06 06:05 am (UTC)*bounces in circles*
Date: 2004-09-06 09:05 am (UTC)Re: *bounces in circles*
Date: 2004-09-06 09:16 am (UTC)Re: *bounces in circles*
Date: 2004-09-07 05:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-09-09 07:58 pm (UTC)