Faramir Fiction Archive

The Moon Has Waned (PG-13)

Written by Erfan Starled

22 August 2010 | 17300 words

Title: The Moon Has Waned
Author: Erfan Starled
Fandom: Film-verse Tolkien
Characters: Faramir/OMC
Genre: FCS
Rating: PG-13
Beta: Ignoblebard
Comments (and much else): Malinornë
Summary: Gondor’s watch on Mordor is not always uneventful. An encounter with the enemy surprises Faramir, in more ways than one.
Disclaimer: All characters and settings from the books belong to Prof. Tolkien. The story is written for entertainment and shared without profit.

A.N. My thanks to Ignoblebard and Malinornë for divers and much appreciated help, and to Enide for all her faithful reading, crit, endless patience and assorted noises. And for making me laugh.

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Prologue

The Moon Has Waned

The moon has waned
and the Pleiades have reached the middle of their night;
youth fades,
and I in my bed remain alone.

Eros shakes my heart
like wind on the mountain
which bursts among the oak trees;
and he melts my limbs and stirs his fire into them,
sweet bitter untameable serpent.

But for me neither bee nor honey;
I suffer and I desire.

~ Sappho ~

Gondor

The tavern was loud. Faramir grinned crookedly at the man looming at his elbow and gestured, sliding along to make room. “Esgarin! Have a seat.”

“You started drinking early?” Faramir’s friend and lieutenant seated himself with a wave across the room for service.

Faramir glanced at the emptied jug in front of him and ruefully smiled his lopsided smile. “We leave before dawn and the trail will furnish no such mead as this.” He raised his cup but his eyes were resting on the approaching tavern lad.

“And no such servitors either,” Esgarin rejoined under his breath. “But you are still going to have a hangover. Don’t expect me to prop you up.”

“That’s insubordination to a commanding officer, and my legs never failed me yet, I would have you know,” Faramir reproached him, self-mocking and with mock-dignity. His eyes were still elsewhere. He counted out four coppers in payment for the fresh jug and added a silver sixpence.

“For you,” he offered the servant. “For luck.”

The lad swept up the coins along with the old crock of mead, and tossed off the dregs with a smile.

“Well, he’s not unwilling,” commented Esgarin, with a sidelong look at Faramir. They watched the youth flirt his way through a forest of sprawling legs. Too burdened to prevent someone pinching him, all innocence he stepped back hard on an instep with a quick apology and a wide grin. The flash of dark eyes gave him a touch-me-if-you-dare expression and then he was gone, into the kitchens.

Faramir frowned a little. “Such fare is none of ours to sample.”

“Who takes notice when we are discreet? It’s not illegal among civilians. Everyone knows the soldiery are not immune, no matter the proscription.”

Faramir grimaced and let the old argument lapse. Esgarin’s father might turn a blind eye. His own father’s restraint he doubted rather more, should any such liaison come to his ears.

As the tavern emptied of those who sought their beds at a civil hour, it refilled in turn with tall men in green cloaks. The innkeep smiled and served. In the morning, his barrels would be empty, his coffers full, and the city the poorer by six score rangers.

Well-satisfied that fully a third of their number currently thronged his rooms, he refrained from cuffing Eswin back to work when he found him idling on a stool. Instead he bade him get himself a hunk of bread and cheese and a cup of milk. “The night’s not over yet. You’ll need your strength.”

Eswin grinned. “If only!”

“None of that from you!”

“Well, but look at them!”

“They’re not here for you, no matter how pretty you think you are.” The innkeeper shook his head disapprovingly.

“There’s nothing to stop me looking.” His eyes were on the Steward’s son.

Knowing the risk Eswin took, if once he bedded the Captain Faramir, the inn-keeper lowered his voice in part-rebuke, part-warning. “No encouraging them, do you hear me? This is no brothel I’m running.”

He knew the stubborn look Eswin flashed at him, and sighed. “You’re young. You don’t realize. Mark me, it’s a dangerous game lying with a soldier, especially the high-born, and not just for the soldier. All it takes for folk to express their disapproval is two men, a little coin, and a back alley.” Few would care if some light-of-love lad came to grief over a noble family’s hurt pride, or fell apparent victim to prejudiced thugs.

Eswin nodded dutifully but danced out of the door undaunted, a young man who knew the value of his looks. His master shook his head, but indulgently. He knew full well why Faramir returned here. He also knew that the captain came to look, never to touch.

Only when he was deep in drink did the Steward’s son betray his predilection, and never, even then, by more than his eyes. The inn was a favourite of the rangers, a safe place to congregate where tale-tellers and gossip-mongers would meet with short shrift, for the rangers took care of their own. Faramir betrayed nothing to the city at large by his visits.

The innkeep watched from his doorway for another moment as Faramir laughed with his fellows and let his eyes wander after Eswin around the room. That much the law permitted, even to a soldier, without reprisal.

End of Prologue

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