Faramir Fiction Archive

A Clever Man (R)

Written by Mira Took

19 December 2009 | 5014 words

Chapter 2

Faramir clapped loudly as the saga came to an exuberant end. The story – half-spoken, half-sung – had immediately followed supper and had been accompanied by several rounds of ale. Faramir had had his cup filled far more often than usual, due to the attentiveness of the man to his right. Gríma, whom Faramir now knew to be chief counselor to Théoden King, had regularly motioned to the pot boy to serve his master’s guest, though the counselor himself drank only mead poured from a small silver flask sitting by his elbow.

In the wake of the applause, the young Captain turned to his companion. “I have not heard such a tale before. In Gondor there are ballads for minstrels and songs for common folk, but not such a mixing of both. Here it seems that every man can add his voice to the warriors’ chant whenever the story tells of it.”

“I do not know that more voices improve the tune. That particular chant has always reminded me of a cold, driving rain: bold and unsettling. But come, let us drink to the continued exchange of ideas between your land and ours. And to the exchange of horses, hmm?” The counselor quirked his lips in a smile.

“To horses indeed!” Faramir laughed in response, though he had little felt like smiling at the negotiations this morning. The rest of the delegation had ignored his questions, as always, not even following up on the answers the horsemasters gave. Boromir would be livid if he knew Faramir was being treated so; he had petitioned their father strenuously to be sure that Faramir got this chance to be an emissary for Gondor. Faramir himself would have dealt swiftly with any of his own rangers who overlooked their commander’s words, but with his father’s men it was different. They did not see him as a captain of Gondor, but as a bookish boy still. Faramir thought perhaps he understood why Gríma, a learned man, disliked the warrior’s resounding chorus. Obviously the counselor’s intelligence was as little respected by the Riders as Faramir’s was by his fellows.

The saga was succeeded by a legend of the mearas, attributing their origin to the Huntsman, Bema, whom Faramir recognized as Orome of the Valar. According to the storyteller, the great horses had been brought from the West when the world was young, and the sun had not yet shone, and the lands looked so different that no man alive now would recognize a map of them.

“I doubt any man was alive then to map those lands,” the young captain remarked idly to his companion.

“Perhaps not then, but map-making is an ancient art. I have seen a chart of Middle Earth showing its mountains and plains in the Elder Days. That map was made by men, and it is certain it was drawn long before Rohan or Gondor existed.”

“A map from before the ending of the First Age? Wherever did you find such a thing?” Faramir asked eagerly.

The king’s counselor turned to face him fully, looking slightly surprised at his interest.

“Why, it was – it must have been in tower of Saruman, Rohan’s wise ally to the north. He has many such things in his keeping.”

“I would give much to see such a map! The libraries of Gondor hold countless treasures, but so many things are lost or decay over the centuries. A map from that time would show lands truly different from our own, with mountains where islands now stand,” the young man said wistfully. “I wonder how it would compare to our own ranges and coastlines.”

“Perhaps I may find it again, when next the king’s business takes me that way,” suggested the counselor. “I would be happy to ask the lord wizard if he would allow me to make a copy for you.”

“You are kind, but I wouldn’t like to trouble you.” It was Faramir’s turn to be somewhat surprised. He hadn’t meant his words to hint at such a favor.

“Not at all. Such a lively interest deserves to be pursued,” replied Gríma with an approbation Faramir seldom heard for his intellectual pursuits. “I shall send a copy to you in Minas Tirith.”

“That is most kind of you,” Faramir said again. He doubted whether the counselor would even remember his offer, much less fulfill it, but Faramir appreciated it nonetheless. Enjoying the company of another scholarly man, he turned the talk to other things.

After a time, Faramir realized that most of the Rohirrim had left the Hall and those who remained were obviously planning to drink till the dawn. Here and there a few had even slipped quietly into sleep, lying on the wooden benches or with their heads resting against the tables.

“The hour is late, and I fear I must sleep before the meeting tomorrow. If you will excuse me, counselor.” Faramir rose and then put out a hand to steady himself. Gríma caught it.

“Allow me to see you to your room, captain.”

When they got to there, it was Gríma who pushed open the door to the large chamber where a servant had lit a welcoming fire. Faramir walked in behind him, trying to call to his mind an appropriate farewell through the low hum of the ale. But Gríma had moved back around him and was closing the door and bolting it. From Faramir’s side of the door.

“Faramir,” the counselor said in a low tone like honey mead, which drowned any thought of speech. “Let me help you with your belt and mantle.”

Gríma came up behind Faramir and put his arms around his waist to reach the belt where it was knotted around its buckle. Faramir’s breathing became labored as his belt slowly came undone. His own hands still hung uselessly at his sides, but Gríma’s hands were at his shoulders, pulling his mantle off in a movement that contrived to rub against the whole length of his back. Faramir could hear the other’s breathing above his own as Gríma moved his face close to breathe in the scent of Faramir’s hair.

And then the older man’s mouth was against his neck as Faramir stumbled forward a few paces, propelled by the force of the hands on his shoulders. Faramir’s forehead gently met the stone of the wall in front of him, so that he was leaning on it with Gríma pressed close against him. The other man was shorter, but what did that matter so long as his hands could reach around to stroke Faramir’s chest above his heart and – ah, just there – the jutting bone of his right hip. The younger man sucked in a sharp breath as the two hands moved together to a place dangerously low on his belly.

“Tell me something, lovely one,” said that low, smooth voice. “Would you recommend traveling at speed across unknown terrain or taking time to study it, to map it, first?”

“I- to map – ah.” Curved fingers had begun to rake Faramir’s thighs.

“I thought you would.”

Later, they lay on their backs across Faramir’s bed, with the fur-lined cover dragged across their naked bodies. They had, ironically enough, undressed fully only after the fact, tossing two sets of soiled leggings onto the stone floor. Their tunics had long since been discarded; Gríma had seemed to delight in using his hands and mouth all across Faramir’s chest. Faramir had done his best to return the favor, paying particular attention to his lover’s throat. Although, now that the effects of the ale and of his body’s euphoria were wearing off, Faramir began to wonder how well he had truly pleased his partner. He had been so overcome with blissful sensation that his own hesitant caresses might have failed to inspire the same pleasure.

“Still awake I see.” Gríma had propped himself up on one elbow and was looking down at him with a conspiratorial half-smile that made Faramir feel that he may have done something right after all.

Gríma moved now to partially cover him, with his chest bearing down on Faramir’s. The older man’s hand held the back of his neck in a grip that was almost too tight, but all the more exciting for that. The kiss they shared was not deep, but fierce, and caused ripples of heat to slither up Faramir’s legs and spine.

“Shall we try something else?”

Faramir looked up eagerly, even as his body tensed. Certainly, his lover deserved to have whatever he wished. Perhaps Gríma would want them to do something Faramir had read of in that book from Harad; perhaps he simply wanted to possess Faramir completely in the way soldiers snickered about – and engaged in – in the camps. The young man prepared to show his willingness, even as he worried that he would not live up to expectations. He had no experience of this sort of thing and if, after the amazing way in which the older man had coaxed him to bed, he failed to give satisfaction…

Gríma’s voice interrupted his anxieties. “I’ll show you how I want you, then.”

Faramir’s heart began to beat very fast.

“Close your eyes.”

And still faster.

With his eyes shut, Faramir felt Gríma’s weight shift on the bed as the older man knelt up beside him. Then hands descended upon his shoulders, pressing him down firmly. Such a simple touch and yet the young man felt something shifting inside him. The hands pushed harder, pinning Faramir to the linen beneath his back. Faramir began to pant slightly once more. As Gríma brought his full weight to bear, Faramir drew a sharp breath and then let it out at once, all his muscles loosening.

“Good. Very good. Now lie still, my lovely one, and just breathe.” The voice was soft, almost absent-minded, and Faramir did as it bade him.

The first touch was to his throat, in a place he had kissed the other man earlier: lips, then the tip of a tongue, then a light scrape of teeth. A warm puff of air and then the mouth moved away. The next touch was just a finger, tracing Faramir’s lips until he parted them. Two fingers, bending his lower lip as if in a pout. That touch was followed by a quick, teasing tweak of his right nipple that left it throbbing and the other feeling oddly cold.

The touches continued – lips on the center of his forehead, fingers along the sides of his chest, a hand molding his inner thigh, a foot twining round his own – there was no pattern to them. Just when Faramir thought the touches were leading somewhere, they would wander away. He tensed a little in between each one, waiting to discover whether the next movement would bring a soothing warmth or a delicious wave of heat. Or even a flare of pain, as nails and teeth marked his nipples, his stomach, and the insides of his knees. The anticipation itself was setting him on fire. Faramir lay and trembled and knew only the contact between his flesh and Gríma’s mouth, Gríma’s hands, Gríma’s chest as it moved along his own.

And then a warm, wet mouth engulfed him and Faramir was no longer panting but crying out with an abandon he had rarely known. For a few precious moments, nothing mattered but what that mouth and the hand that had joined it were making him feel. He opened his eyes at last, as relaxation washed through him and threatened to ease them shut again.

“That – I…”

“Mmm.” Gríma was smiling at him and stretching out once more.

“Do you, I mean, don’t you want me to…” Faramir tried to rouse his sated body to move toward his lover.

“Mmm,” Gríma murmured again and rolled them both to face the dying fire. “I took my pleasure in seeing yours, my lovely one.”

Faramir lay on his side with his lover warm behind him and a possessive arm heavy against his waist. The young captain drifted into sleep confident he was in the embrace of one who understood him and put Faramir’s needs above his own.

Contents of a scroll delivered, without a messenger, to Gríma’s locked chambers:

You have exceeded your orders, little worm, dallying with Denethor’s whelp. Cut him loose.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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