Authorís Notes: A short vignette inspired by a lovely screencap that Rhysenn was kind enough to put on her livejournal. 535 words total. Blatantly and openly inspired and influenced by both ĎBruisedí by Resonant and ĎA Gash of Colorí by Kick Flaw Ė theyíre Harry Potter fics, though. Feedback would be divine, even if it is just to say that my writing style bugs you, and why would be nice. ^^ I hope thatís not the case!
By Darkangel Rose
His eyes are grey when he says he regrets nothing.
I trace the curve of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw. His hand is warm on my thigh. His eyes are swirling like sea-clouds before a storm and I cannot look away. He says he regrets nothing as I shove into him, and he arches beneath me, writhing, but his face is nothing. It is blank, yielding, submitting, but there is a kind of love in that nothingness. A still, reverent love. I do not understand it. I do not understand him.
"Faramir?" I say, but he does not respond, other than letting his pouting mouth fall open. "Faramir, why are you doing this?" I ask, but I donít know why. *I* am the one doing this. I am. And all of a sudden I donít know why. Itís too late to stop now, though, I know it when he shudders and hooks his hand behind my neck.
"But I want to, my King. I said I would do anything for you" he whispers and kisses the shell of my ear. His eyes are loyal, innocent, hurt, lustful, ashamed; I cannot look away.
His face is twisted and looks like a sea shell: flush-pink and glossed and empty, and he is so quiet. Even when he comes he is quiet, he doesnít say a single thing as I empty myself inside him and pull away. On his face is a broken smile. My neck droops like the stem of a wilted flower. I donít know why I am doing this.
Too late, Aragorn, too late.
He laces his fingers into mine and pulls me down, down, down until he is whispering into my ear once again. "I regret nothing," he says and I notice the ribs beneath his skin, the sharp angle of his hipbone jutting out.
Heís so thin, too thin, too sickly, and I am afraid. Even though I have healed him and the only fever in his flesh is now one of sin and not sickness I am afraid. I feel dirty, as though I have taken advantage of him in his moment of weakness. And then it hits me.
Oh, gods, I have.
There is a tear in his eye but he does not shed it. There is a regret in my heart that cannot be burned away by the sick passion in his dormant grey gaze. A few bruises begin to blossom blue and purple in horrifying flowers on his skin. Bruises in the places where I have touched him. And there is blood, there is blood on the sheets twisted beneath us.
"I am sorry, Faramir," I whimper "I am sorry."
"I know," he says and touches his forehead to mine and repeats, "I regret nothing, my King."
And then he is crying. He is crying into my naked shoulder and I do not know what to do. I do not know why I am still here. My bare feet carry me away before I tell them to. My hands are fastening my breeched unbidden, and when I choke out the words the voice is not quite my own.
"I am sorry, Faramir, I regret everything."
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