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Mist (R) 
Written by Geale30 September 2010 | 88324 words
Chapter Eleven – Reality
Tuilë 32
Sleep was heavy, deep and intoxicating. Faramir drifted through it greedily, craving and needing more. Every time his body moved on its own accord, shifting an arm, turning his head, he fought the sensation of waking up. He would surrender himself to the oblivion that held him loyally – for the time being. When daylight finally beat strongly enough against his skin and sifted through his eyelashes, he resurfaced with such a sharp sting of sorrow that he was sure more was at stake here than just his dreams that were already but blurred visions.
He lay with his eyes closed still as his dreams gave way to other images that mockingly drifted to and fro, supplying him with hints and whispers:
The King, desperate and desirous, silently begging him to relive some of the unnamed pain that hid deep within. His hands on Faramir’s shoulders, his tears wetting Faramir’s tunic… his gaze on Faramir when his own lust defeated him. Aragorn and Faramir.
Suddenly both frightened and ashamed, the young man repelled these images and feebly flung out an arm as if to ward them off. He did not look to see where his hand landed, but as it descended, it brushed against warm skin.
While fear laced its icy fingers around his heart and ruthlessly dragged it down through his body, Faramir tasted the salty tang of Aragorn’s release on his tongue.
It took another moment before he opened his eyes, but when he did, he saw Aragorn beside him in the bed, a foot or two away, still sleeping.
He lay on his side, his upper arm bent inwards at the elbow with the hand placed near his heart. His face was almost hidden by the dark strands of hair that fell across it. It did not look like the confident pose of a strong man – if Kings were known to sleep in a special manner – and it did not look restful. The hand was lying too close to his chest and there was no peace in the way Aragorn’s chin was angled inward, as if he were protecting himself from onslaught. He barely breathed, or at least he made no sound doing so.
Faramir’s hand had brushed Aragorn’s upper arm before it fell to the sheets and he now quickly withdrew it. As carefully as possible, he pushed away the covers from himself and sat up with a feeling that he never before had been so completely naked. Throwing a frantic glance at Aragorn, he prayed the older man would not wake up, and then he slipped out of the bed.
His discarded clothes he found in a heap on the floor and with an urgent need to cover himself, he immediately reached for his leggings. He was about to lace them up when Aragorn stirred in the bed, causing some of his hair to fall away from his face.
Any prayers were now come too late and Faramir watched, frozen on the spot, as the King opened his eyes and how a look of confusion and disbelief washed over his features.
Faramir could live with both confusion and disbelief, but as that expression turned into one of shock and then panic, he felt fear once more. It seemed like ages before Aragorn’s gaze finally fell upon him.
“Faramir?” his voice was throaty, as if his crying had continued all through the night.
He received no response for Faramir was capable of none. New images taunted him: Aragorn’s erection arching out before him – the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes and took it in his mouth. The tall, dark shape of his King turning, turning, turning around in the moonlight. The way his robe fell – away. Skin that glistened of sweat and tears, that accepted all that salty liquid and absorbed it, just like Faramir drank down Aragorn’s essence as it hit the back of his throat.
“Faramir?” Aragorn was sitting up. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was reaching out with a hand. “I cannot…”
As his voice failed him, Faramir grabbed his tunic from the floor and burst through the door.
Dark clouds hung low in the sky as Faramir spitefully dropped an armful of damp leaves on the already smoking fire. The embers sighed heavily under the new load and some of the flames died down. With anger riding him, he reached for the long branch and gave the fire a savage shove. Far above him, some bird gave a shrill cry and leaped from its nest into the sky. He knew not what time it was or for how long he had worked. He tasted Aragorn in his mouth, and his hands, now covered in dirt, still felt the quivers in the body they had held, and in his ears were low moans and sobs.
Faramir swore under his breath and attacked the smoking pile anew. They were hiding from him now, having retreated into the woods when they perceived his ire. No one had dared to greet him but they remained watchful and vigilant.
He knew his anger would only take him so far, and that if he projected it onto the land instead of dealing with whatever mundane problems he had – which they would never understand anyway – a new offering was needed. In this moment, Faramir could not care less.
When flames refused to spring up again, he slung out a curse and slammed his branch into a nearby young birch. There was a moment of complete silence in the woods surrounding him and then a hiss rippled through the trees. Faramir dropped the branch even as he sunk down upon the ground and weariness instantly replaced his wrath. If he cried, he did not know.
He sat for some time in the crushed grass, capable of only watching the smoke rising towards the clouds. A light rain began to fall but he did not move. Somewhere, in the heart of the fire, the embers cooled and there were no crackles and no wheezing of the wood. Then there was no more smoke either.
Issues such as rejection.
His father of course. Naturally. Boromir? Perhaps.
Faramir had opted to go to Rivendell in his brother’s stead but Denethor had point blank refused to see that happen. In the presence of both his sons, he had raged about the Elves, their declining culture, their innumerable weaknesses and their hatred for Men. With a dangerous light in his eyes, he had then lowered his voice and, striding towards his sons, whispered that it was now Gondor’s – Gondor’s! – time to rise. Thorondir’s heirs could, free of any elvish magic that devoured the soul, govern as Kings, and no one would think twice about it being a line of Stewards. That would soon be forgotten, if only Boromir the proud and the valiant made this dormant but awakening power known in Rivendell, to the half-elf that thought he still had any authority left.
A bitter sorrow had risen in Faramir then, as he had listened to his father’s words. Thorondir, son Belecthor II, had seen the White Tree of Minas Tirith die as his father passed, but could do nothing except leave it be in hopes that one day the King would return and bring with him new life.
Boromir said nothing. Stern and tall he listened as Denethor unfolded before them his plans for the future. The eldest son would bring his message to Rivendell, return with glory and govern together with his father. Faramir would be sent away, on various missions in Ithilien, to learn whatever was to learn for one who would never get to touch the throne or the Winged Crown. And Faramir wanted neither, but when Boromir nodded in silent acceptance, his heart was smashed into pieces.
Later, his brother spoke to him earnestly in an effort to convince him that they both – the two of them – would see this done together, and that Boromir could never abandon him. Alas, this rejection in front of their father had already caused too much damage and not much pain left him. Faramir watched as his brother rode off and then chided himself, vowing to think better of him for travellers needed much well-wishing in those days, and now he was glad for it as he had never seen Boromir alive again.
Dusk crept forward and circled Faramir where he sat slumped in the grass. The rain had ceased to fall but even so, the air grew moister as the mist rose above the undergrowth. He watched it tangle in the wild roses that grew some feet away and fleetingly he toyed with the idea of staying here all night. The land was silent in waiting. The energy of the young birch beside him had seeped inward and Faramir would not touch it.
A sense of numbness had settled in him long ago and as he gracelessly tried to rise his legs only obeyed him after a while. Three dark nights without a moon stretched out before them and that now seemed to him an eternity. Ithilien was never wholly content when it could not see its Lord.
The initial bluish glow of night was swiftly conquered by a more sombre, greyish light as Faramir slowly made his way back to the house. He felt defeated and worn out, his hair smelled of smoke and it was not that usual spicy scent which burning fire-wood normally soaked him in.
If he had known, would he have refused Aragorn? If he had been but one step ahead of himself.
Not for the first time, Faramir wondered if he actually had a connection to reality, at all.
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