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Mist (R) 
Written by Geale30 September 2010 | 88324 words
Author: Geale
Title: Mist
Rating: R
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: Seven years after the War, all was well in Ithilien, but all was also the same. And so change was called for and Faramir sees his world changing. But when dreams and desire mingle, what is left of reality?
Warning: Slash & Angst
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: Though dealing with Men, I have used the Elvish calendar, the Reckoning of Rivendell, to date the events of this tale. This seemed to me the only option since the Stewards’ Reckoning only survived until the end of the Third Age which ends with the departure of the Ring-bearers in III 3021, and this tale begins some five years later. Hence the Quenya names for the months/seasons.
You know by now that when it comes to Faramir’s appearance, I prefer the movie version of him with copper hair and blue eyes. The same goes for Boromir. I’m stating this clearly here so I won’t confuse you in a while!
All text in italics is supposed to be in italics. All photos are my own so please respect that and do not copy without permission!
After the War of the Ring Faramir was given the title Prince of Ithilien and went to dwell in the hills of Emyn Arnen, west of Minas Tirith. No individual settlements are ever described or named there so I have taken some liberties when creating his house and household. I have also made Faramir slightly younger than he is in canon. Around thirty years old – which means he was around twenty-three at the time of the War.
Now, I recommend the reader to, whilst reading this story, keep in mind that it is said that Faramir – much like his father – is longsighted and perhaps has the ability to see what is not always seen, and perceive that which is not always perceived by others. The interpretation of this fact is, however, entirely my own.
Welcome.
Prologue
The Kingdom of Gondor,
Tuilë 6, IV 5
A mist lay over Ithilien. A strange mist it was, weaving around the trees, sifting over the surfaces of small lakes and ponds, and reclining upon the grass. Yet it was continuously moving. It let go of sticks and stones, flowing forth, but was always replaced by more. It crawled across the fields and through the groves; it slid down slopes and treaded every hidden path through the undergrowth, unseen or unknown to man and beast. Purposefully it embedded the world in a milky fog, tenderly but persistently. Calmly.
Yes, it was strange mist. Unusual and unexpected. No one who saw that mist – or passed through it on a hazardous journey – could explain it. Indeed, not many of those who laid eyes on it wished to speak of it, and so a compact silence blended with it and strengthened it further. To Ithilien it had come, and there it had decided to stay.
Night fell and the pale crescent of the newborn Moon rose high above Ephel Dúath, for many long years hiding the Plateau of Gorgoroth and the black Sea of Núrnen. Seven years had passed, but still a tingle of fear chased down the spines of those who turned their eyes to the haunted lands behind the Mountains. Even the mist would stay away from these dark places but, of course, it had no business there. So it was only natural that it stayed in Ithilien, beneath the Moon – in the land which carried his name.
He rolled onto his back in the hazy moonlight. White sheets, white glow, white release coating warm skin.
‘So?’
‘Fine. You?’
‘Yea.’
Whatever. The last time – it must be. He had to make it so.
No curtains covered the windows and it was as much night in here as it was outside. Mist rolled into the gardens and settled down with a long sigh. Somehow he knew it came from the North, but its intention he could not determine. He welcomed it, though, as it served to emphasise the change he hoped he willed to take place. A new world was building before his eyes. He told himself he was ready.
His companion shifted behind him. Legs swung over the edge, feet meeting the floor, hands ignoring tunics and robes. He dragged his eyes away from the garden and threw a glance over his shoulder.
“So?”
He shrugged, sort of. “Yea.”
A grin and a mocking wink.
He watched as his lover leisurely sauntered towards the doors, his naked backside fleeing the moonlight that fell in through the window-glass. Long legs, muscles playing underneath smooth skin, wild hair. He knew he looked good.
Without hesitation his lover opened the doors and steeped into the hallway. Unabashed. Never shielding himself.
He turned his gaze back to the gardens when the door clicked and he was left alone.
The last time.
A single candle was burning. The flame did not even flicker. He did not know for how long he had been staring into it.
As if it could solve his problems.
Even this light would die sometime this night – when he had given up once more.
The night was dark despite the season. It was as if someone had draped a heavy cloak over them, toying with the limits of time. He wondered if the night was the same in every place in Middle-earth.
As he sat and stared, the flame again transformed. It split in two, reshaping and transforming, becoming a pair of shining grey orbs. Eyes looked back at him, silently pleading – for the hundredth time begging to be told some unknown truth.
He was meant to explain.
And for the thousandth time he saw the sorrow and the pain that he was causing.
‘Forgive me.’
If there was something he knew, it was that those words never helped if they did not follow an honest confession.
He pinched the candle flame and thus killed it.
The room lay in darkness.
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