A/N: A short one. Quick update from my last chapter though! Please tell me
if you think I should raise the rating. It doesn't get fluffier than this,
so please tell me what you think! Hope you like it. Reviews! Tolkien owns
everyone but Isilmë, who is a poor victim of my twisted mind. Faramir, to
my great angst and sorrow, does not belong to me. His lovely character
belongs to Tolkien and his fair countenance-David Wenham, who MOST
unfortunately, does not belong to me. Thanks reviewers! Keep at it!
Chapter 12: Passion
"Since when did you become such a man of war? I thought that was Boromir," Isilmë complained as Faramir dragged her out of the Citadel, "You're barely healed! Valaina said to be careful and watch the wound, and you're already dragging me down to the archery course."
"Oh, stop moaning."
"What happened to the other Faramir? I mean, this is scary; what did that Southron dart do to you? Usually, we head for the library, not the archery course. Are you sure it didn't mess with your head?"
"Are you sure that you didn't learn to keep your mouth shut while I was gone?" Faramir teased good-naturedly. Isilmë stuck out her tongue at him, which he returned.
"Be careful. Father used to say that when you do that, someone will come and cut your tongue off," Faramir taunted.
"Faramir, Father may be wise, but that piece of advice is folly. Besides, you stick your tongue out far more at me, and whoever cuts your tongue off would be doing me a grand favor. Faramir!! It's too hot out to practice archery!"
"Do you ever stop whining?"
"No! I haven't had anyone to listen to my whining for months! I deserve a turn to whine," she whined.
"Oh I see why you like having me around now. I listen to your whining," Faramir pretended to be hurt. They both received a satchel of arrows and a bow. Faramir shot a few, and they all ended up somewhere near the bull's eye, with a few actually hitting it. Isilmë was having more difficulty, as archery was a skill she never really mastered, as Boromir didn't like it, as he saw it as the "cowardly way of battle." Faramir argued that it was "efficient and it worked". She could see his point, but she handled the sword much better, though she wasn't bad with the bow, owing her Elvish descent.
"I have not done this in so long, that I have forgotten how to hold the bow," she grumbled.
"You're not very good at archery, are you?" Faramir asked a bit surprised.
"I never saw the need, as Father says, I will never venture far from these walls," she muttered bitterly. He continued to fire away, hitting the target every time. After a few tries, she finally fired the arrow and got it to travel a pitiful distance through the air.
"You're holding it wrong," Faramir pointed out.
"Yes I realized that. Now come here and help me, or clamp your mouth shut before I shoot at you."
"It wouldn't matter. You'd miss." At this, she pointed her arrow straight at him.
"You want to test that?" she challenged, her eyes sparkling.
"You wouldn't," he said.
"I would." He held her fiery gaze.
"Come here," he motioned, striding over to her. He stood behind her, his arms over hers. She could feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he took.
"Now, this is how you hold it," Faramir instructed, clearly enjoying his chance at having the upper hand, "And you're an Elf."
"Part, not completely," she corrected, clearly indignant.
"Now fire," he instructed. She pulled the string and the arrow whizzed through the air, hitting the inner rims of the target.
"See? Not too bad," Faramir said, "You know. I am in the prime position to tickle you right now. I still remember those times when you and Boromir cornered me together and made me roll on the Citadel floor because you were tickling me."
"Well," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, "You'll have to catch me first." She slid out of his arms, picked up her dress, and ran. He chased after her into the busy marketplace of the White City. She wove her way through the stands, knowing that Faramir wouldn't risk knocking over a display or breaking anything. She saw the Citadel ahead, and ran for it. She entered before Faramir and slammed the door behind her. Seeing the room of statues, commemorating the great Kings of old, and their faithful servants, the Stewards, she slid behind a gigantic of King Earnur, right in time, for Faramir yanked open the door.
"You know, Isilmë, one day, we're going to decide we're too old for these games," he called out, straining his ears to hear a response. Hearing none, he wove his way in and out of the statues, checking each one for signs of her. He was two away from Isilmë when she decided to run for it. She threw one of her shoes over his head to distract him, and made for the great wooden door. However, this childhood tactic did not work this time, as Ithilien had honed his reflexes. Faramir caught the slipper in mid-air and darted through the door after her. She was hobbling down the stairs, her missing slipper clearly hindering her. He took advantage of the moment as she reached down to remove the other, flipping over the banister to corner her at the bottom.
"Oh no," she looked desperately around for an escape or rescue.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. He pressed her against the wall, both panting from their excursion.
"You're lucky Boromir's not here. He would have sided with me this time," Faramir said, poking her stomach and tickling her sides. She shook with involuntary laughter and sank to the floor, but Faramir would not relent.
"Surrender. Say it. Say 'Faramir, I surrender'," he ordered, laughing along with her.
"Faramir, I," the rest of the words would not leave her mouth, as she was writhing with laughter on the marble floor.
"Faramir, you what? You forgot the last and most important word. Surrender. Say it. Come on say it. Say it and I'll stop it. Unless you really want me to tickle you; I know your most ticklish spot. This is nothing." He was met by nothing but giggles.
"If you insist," Faramir said, "Don't say I didn't give you a chance." His hand moved up the nape of her neck.
"No. No!!" She rolled on the floor, "Alright! I," she couldn't stop laughing long enough to say it, "I surrender!!!"
"Now that's more like it." He immediately stopped tickling her, but his hand lingered upon her waist. "So far this is a good day. I taught you a lesson in archery and I got you to admit defeat." He helped her up, but her back was still to the wall.
"You'd better be careful. I'm going to get you back," she threatened through clenched teeth.
"What was that?" he asked playfully poking her side again, causing her to flinch again, "Don't make me do that again."
"You won't get away with this," she murmured. A comfortable silence filled the hall for a moment, until Isilmë reached up and planted a tender kiss on Faramir's cheek. Moments after her lips left his skin, his mouth met hers. Her arms encircled his neck and she was pushed against the wall, his hands moving through her damp hair, as they drew breath from each other, kissing ardently and passionately. He wanted her, needed her, and as their mouths parted, longed for more. Her eyes lingered locked in his, the fire of passion smoldering fervently.
After several moments of just gazing into each other's eyes, trying to deny themselves, Elentari stammered, "I should probably go. Father is probably looking for me right now." She slid from his arms and glided to the main Hall. Faramir watched her go; still feeling her touch, the way his fingers felt as they moved through her hair, and the way her lips caressed his skin and sent tingles up his spine.
Chapter 12: Passion
"Since when did you become such a man of war? I thought that was Boromir," Isilmë complained as Faramir dragged her out of the Citadel, "You're barely healed! Valaina said to be careful and watch the wound, and you're already dragging me down to the archery course."
"Oh, stop moaning."
"What happened to the other Faramir? I mean, this is scary; what did that Southron dart do to you? Usually, we head for the library, not the archery course. Are you sure it didn't mess with your head?"
"Are you sure that you didn't learn to keep your mouth shut while I was gone?" Faramir teased good-naturedly. Isilmë stuck out her tongue at him, which he returned.
"Be careful. Father used to say that when you do that, someone will come and cut your tongue off," Faramir taunted.
"Faramir, Father may be wise, but that piece of advice is folly. Besides, you stick your tongue out far more at me, and whoever cuts your tongue off would be doing me a grand favor. Faramir!! It's too hot out to practice archery!"
"Do you ever stop whining?"
"No! I haven't had anyone to listen to my whining for months! I deserve a turn to whine," she whined.
"Oh I see why you like having me around now. I listen to your whining," Faramir pretended to be hurt. They both received a satchel of arrows and a bow. Faramir shot a few, and they all ended up somewhere near the bull's eye, with a few actually hitting it. Isilmë was having more difficulty, as archery was a skill she never really mastered, as Boromir didn't like it, as he saw it as the "cowardly way of battle." Faramir argued that it was "efficient and it worked". She could see his point, but she handled the sword much better, though she wasn't bad with the bow, owing her Elvish descent.
"I have not done this in so long, that I have forgotten how to hold the bow," she grumbled.
"You're not very good at archery, are you?" Faramir asked a bit surprised.
"I never saw the need, as Father says, I will never venture far from these walls," she muttered bitterly. He continued to fire away, hitting the target every time. After a few tries, she finally fired the arrow and got it to travel a pitiful distance through the air.
"You're holding it wrong," Faramir pointed out.
"Yes I realized that. Now come here and help me, or clamp your mouth shut before I shoot at you."
"It wouldn't matter. You'd miss." At this, she pointed her arrow straight at him.
"You want to test that?" she challenged, her eyes sparkling.
"You wouldn't," he said.
"I would." He held her fiery gaze.
"Come here," he motioned, striding over to her. He stood behind her, his arms over hers. She could feel his chest rise and fall with every breath he took.
"Now, this is how you hold it," Faramir instructed, clearly enjoying his chance at having the upper hand, "And you're an Elf."
"Part, not completely," she corrected, clearly indignant.
"Now fire," he instructed. She pulled the string and the arrow whizzed through the air, hitting the inner rims of the target.
"See? Not too bad," Faramir said, "You know. I am in the prime position to tickle you right now. I still remember those times when you and Boromir cornered me together and made me roll on the Citadel floor because you were tickling me."
"Well," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, "You'll have to catch me first." She slid out of his arms, picked up her dress, and ran. He chased after her into the busy marketplace of the White City. She wove her way through the stands, knowing that Faramir wouldn't risk knocking over a display or breaking anything. She saw the Citadel ahead, and ran for it. She entered before Faramir and slammed the door behind her. Seeing the room of statues, commemorating the great Kings of old, and their faithful servants, the Stewards, she slid behind a gigantic of King Earnur, right in time, for Faramir yanked open the door.
"You know, Isilmë, one day, we're going to decide we're too old for these games," he called out, straining his ears to hear a response. Hearing none, he wove his way in and out of the statues, checking each one for signs of her. He was two away from Isilmë when she decided to run for it. She threw one of her shoes over his head to distract him, and made for the great wooden door. However, this childhood tactic did not work this time, as Ithilien had honed his reflexes. Faramir caught the slipper in mid-air and darted through the door after her. She was hobbling down the stairs, her missing slipper clearly hindering her. He took advantage of the moment as she reached down to remove the other, flipping over the banister to corner her at the bottom.
"Oh no," she looked desperately around for an escape or rescue.
"You're not going anywhere," he said, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. He pressed her against the wall, both panting from their excursion.
"You're lucky Boromir's not here. He would have sided with me this time," Faramir said, poking her stomach and tickling her sides. She shook with involuntary laughter and sank to the floor, but Faramir would not relent.
"Surrender. Say it. Say 'Faramir, I surrender'," he ordered, laughing along with her.
"Faramir, I," the rest of the words would not leave her mouth, as she was writhing with laughter on the marble floor.
"Faramir, you what? You forgot the last and most important word. Surrender. Say it. Come on say it. Say it and I'll stop it. Unless you really want me to tickle you; I know your most ticklish spot. This is nothing." He was met by nothing but giggles.
"If you insist," Faramir said, "Don't say I didn't give you a chance." His hand moved up the nape of her neck.
"No. No!!" She rolled on the floor, "Alright! I," she couldn't stop laughing long enough to say it, "I surrender!!!"
"Now that's more like it." He immediately stopped tickling her, but his hand lingered upon her waist. "So far this is a good day. I taught you a lesson in archery and I got you to admit defeat." He helped her up, but her back was still to the wall.
"You'd better be careful. I'm going to get you back," she threatened through clenched teeth.
"What was that?" he asked playfully poking her side again, causing her to flinch again, "Don't make me do that again."
"You won't get away with this," she murmured. A comfortable silence filled the hall for a moment, until Isilmë reached up and planted a tender kiss on Faramir's cheek. Moments after her lips left his skin, his mouth met hers. Her arms encircled his neck and she was pushed against the wall, his hands moving through her damp hair, as they drew breath from each other, kissing ardently and passionately. He wanted her, needed her, and as their mouths parted, longed for more. Her eyes lingered locked in his, the fire of passion smoldering fervently.
After several moments of just gazing into each other's eyes, trying to deny themselves, Elentari stammered, "I should probably go. Father is probably looking for me right now." She slid from his arms and glided to the main Hall. Faramir watched her go; still feeling her touch, the way his fingers felt as they moved through her hair, and the way her lips caressed his skin and sent tingles up his spine.