Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

We pick up exactly where we left off, in the dining hall.

Chapter Thirteen – Fear

Aragorn was stroking his hair. Faramir’s tears were drying up but he refused to break the silence and confront whatever reality he was living. Wrapped up in Aragorn’s embrace he was momentarily able to pretend that he knew naught of any other existence. He could not say for how long they had been standing there, but he was very conscious of the magic the King wielded, the energy that surrounded him, and its potential. His head cleared a little and this must have made him tense for Aragorn’s soft stroking stopped and he carefully withdrew. In the chilly night air the shadows stirred once more and Faramir blinked and shivered.

He reluctantly lifted his gaze to Aragorn’s face and was surprised by what he saw. The King’s eyes were bright, unusually so, and he looked troubled but still so very calm. Faramir knew he was staring but he could do nothing else for in this moment Aragorn was simply beautiful. Numbness spread through him and he swallowed hard. His own eyes were stinging.

Aragorn almost smiled as his fingertips brushed against Faramir’s forehead. “Dusty,” he whispered. “You smell of smoke.”

Faramir watched his lips form the words. Instinctively he licked his own ones and he tasted the salt of his tears on them, a heavy weight he thought might be enough to anchor him in reality. But when Aragorn’s face drew closer he could not tell if it was a trick of the night or not. His breathing grew shallow and nervousness gave birth to a rush of nausea within. Aragorn’s bright eyes were wide and his lips parted slightly. His warm breath swept over Faramir’s face in gentle waves and for a moment, blurry memories touched the edges of his awareness: late nights in some hideaway, other shadows playing on soft skin, arms slung across a chest, the soft breathing of the sleeping, air rushing out of lungs as peaks were reached and there was no holding back… Then Aragorn’s face was once more before him and his body felt heavy and he could not move. Indeed, all he could do was to watch with building apprehension until he could see no more than the light in Aragorn’s gaze, and then he closed his eyes as lips touched his own. His eyes drifted shut.

Warily, Aragorn pressed against him, unhurriedly exploring him. His hands came up to Faramir’s face and cradled it before they began caressing him. Fingers slowly swept across his forehead, touching his brow. They brushed against his cheeks and trailed down his jaw line. They sought out his ears and combed through his hair, tenderly massaged his neck and then wandered all the way up to his eyebrows. All the while, his lips simply rested against Faramir’s, unmoving.

Falling, falling, endlessly falling, Faramir stood in silent acceptance as Aragorn’s fingers left tingling trails all over his skin. How could he not have welcomed the touch though he knew not what strength was left in him? When he could take no more, he would indeed fall. But it did not happen, and then he felt the coolness of the Ring of Barahir brush his chin.

The hands travelled down his throat, only applying the gentlest of pressures. Faramir’s pulse was slowing down until his heart was beating no more, he was sure. The King did not break the contact. Instead, his hands moved upwards again and it seemed to Faramir that white light, white glow, seeped from them into his body. He trembled at the touch when Aragorn traced patterns across his cheeks, moving closer to their joined mouths. When the fingertips stroked the corner of his mouth, adding some strange presence to the kiss, Faramir swayed. He knew no longer if he breathed as Aragorn’s fingertips explored the kiss from outside. He was lightheaded and as Aragorn’s fingers finally left their mouths and brushed against his forehead once more, he thought he would faint. But then, as if sealing the kiss before ending it, Aragorn pressed his fingers to Faramir’s brow and perhaps he whispered something against Faramir’s mouth for he could feel the flow of warmth, and then he withdrew. Faramir was left with an overwhelming sensation of loneliness.

A shiver slithered down his spine and he was breathing again. Like this, with his eyes closed, it was easier to remain in the moment, but it would be but an illusion. Slowly opening his eyes, the air shifted around him and he grew unsure of what had just transpired between them. Fearing all which had a name, and all that did not, he looked up at Aragorn.

The older man was standing several feet away. Still facing Faramir he was, but his whole form seemed frozen as if a kiss would leave no traces in him. His expression was gentle still but he did not meet Faramir’s gaze; in his eyes were a distant light. It seemed like he was gradually melting into the night, that they both were and in some way or another became ghosts, phantoms… shadows themselves. Time was no more.

When Faramir finally spoke, his voice drifted softly out into the room and mingled with the shadows.

“Did you… was there..?”

Ever so slowly, Aragorn raised his eyes to meet Faramir’s. In them, wonder was touched by fear.

“Does it matter?” It was scarcely a whisper. “Does it matter, Faramir?”

“I know not.” Truth seemed weightless, a fragment of fantasy.

The first signs of life flickered in Aragorn’s eyes and he took a few steps closer. “Do you know this?” He did not touch.

“What feeling, my lord?”

A hint of urgency slipped into Aragorn’s voice. “I cannot name the power that urges me to kiss you.”

With his heart sinking low in his breast, Faramir shook his head. “No,” he managed. “I could not say.”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and he searched Faramir’s face. “I hurt you. I do not wish to do so…”

He should say something but he could form no words. Disappointment washed over him in steady waves for there was so much reluctance in Aragorn… So much unwillingness and so little comfort now.

“I hurt you so deeply.”

Visibly hesitating, Aragorn lifted his hands and his fingertips ran down Faramir’s cheeks, causing new tears to sting in the younger man’s eyes. “Yet, I cannot…” He leaned in closer and Faramir let him, having no energy left to fight him. “Why is this, Faramir? Why is this?”

Desperately, Aragorn pulled him closer and, starved, Faramir pressed his lips against the willing mouth. His own arms encircled the King’s waist and he met with no resistance. The kiss deepened as he parted his lips and Aragorn’s tongue tasted his. Utterly scared that it would end too soon, or that it would twist into a mere dream, Faramir tugged the King closer and the first rush of desire claimed him. He could feel the tremor that rushed through Aragorn simultaneously and he prayed it was due to passion and not fear. However, Aragorn tensed and broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.

“What is this?” He sounded much less calm now as distress clearly wove itself into him. He leaned his forehead against Faramir’s and his hands ran down the younger man’s back in an unsteady rhythm. He pressed a kiss that was no more than a tremble to the corner of Faramir’s mouth and then sought out his neck by dragging his lips against the stubbly cheek to explore the soft skin behind his ear. His breathing came in short gasps and Faramir shivered against him, reflexively tugging on his tunic. “Why do I desire you so?” Aragorn mumbled but his never-idle hands kept up their stroking. “It is so long since I lay with a man.”

An unexpected jealousy spiced with great surprise stabbed Faramir hard and he must fight to try to quench it. “You have done that?” he asked hoarsely, unable to look at Aragorn and equally unable to completely hide his feelings.

Aragorn pulled back but his hands secured Faramir’s arms around his waist, forbidding them to leave. “I was a Ranger… It was many, many years ago. You were not even born.” Despite everything, his eyes still shone.

Faramir nodded numbly, trying to pretend that he accepted this.

“Faramir.”

He met Aragorn’s gaze. The older man was eyeing him intently and had spoken sternly but his anxiousness betrayed him.

“Faramir…” Aragorn sighed once more but the ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled Faramir close and drew a deep breath. “You still smell of smoke.”

Faramir clung to Aragorn more fervently then he would ever have thought possible, or – only hours ago – allowed himself to do. Hands were once more sweeping over his back, stumbling over his tunic and he gave himself over to the feeling of been so utterly explored.

“I watched you last night,” Aragorn said gruffly, leaving a rough kiss at his temple. “You were so beautiful.” His hands came down to Faramir’s lower back and they pressed down softly. “Say something, Faramir… Please say something.”

A thousand words – mostly innocent lies and excuses – rushed into his mind. Words that would not bind Aragorn to him, words that would leave the King happier but himself more miserable… Words that would bring him more of that loneliness.

“I want you,” he whispered into the room. “I dream of you.”

Aragorn’s embrace tightened and for a second the silence grew so heavy that it became hard to breathe.

“Lie back.”

Confused, Faramir did nothing.

“Please Faramir… Before I lose my confidence.”

Aragorn released him and Faramir simply stared at him. The younger man was still slumped against the table but he could not believe what Aragorn was proposing. He looked questioningly at the King into whose eyes a new gleam had slipped. He opened his mouth to speak but Aragorn placed a shaky finger against his lips.

“Lie back,” he whispered.

Swallowing uneasily, Faramir slid onto the table and lay down. Trepidation and expectation stirred within as he realised just how… accessible he had become. Still, the mere thought of Aragorn’s hands racing across his body when displayed like this had his heart beating gloriously fast.

Aragorn was watching him with an expression that mirrored Faramir’s own feelings very well. He parted his legs and so invited Aragorn to come closer. He could see the doubt that rose in his mind, could detect the fear from the night before. Aragorn drew a deep breath but then stepped forward, placing himself between Faramir’s thighs at the edge of the table.

“This scares me so much,” he admitted in a low voice. “So much.”

With that, he began caressing. Looking up at him from his position on the table, Faramir was struck by the acute importance of guarding his heart from opening up too much. As Aragorn’s hands travelled up his sides, stroked his chest and shoulders, he realised how dangerously close he was to crossing a border that he should not even know of. Aragorn was King, he belonged in Minas Tirith – Faramir was bound to Emyn Arnen. Yet, when questing fingers found their way underneath his tunic and met with his skin and he arched upwards at the pleasant touch, he dizzily thought that there had to be some way… That they could sort that out, if Aragorn only continued to touch him.

Aragorn’s hands chased away all other thoughts as they skimmed across his belly and pushed the material up towards his chest. The older man leaned down and pressed a kiss to his skin, adding a second and a third. A dull pounding settled low in his stomach and Faramir writhed on the table. His hands desired nothing more than to push Aragorn’s head lower, towards his groin, and he fought this urge fervently. The kisses melted into his body and his breathing deepened. Aragorn dragged his lips across his skin, his beard scraping against it and sending sparks flying through Faramir. Involuntarily, he pushed his hips upwards and it was only afterwards that he realised the implication of this action. Aragorn abruptly stilled his movements and in the surrounding darkness, something very painful awoke. Panicking, Faramir forced his body to comply with his will.

“I am sorry…” he breathed even as his skin burned from desire.

Aragorn dropped his head onto Faramir’s chest. “No… No, please…” His hands hesitantly stroked Faramir’s sides. “Of course you would…” His voice wavered in the night. “I meant to pleasure you. I mean to… I just…” He swallowed and did not continue.

An immense pang of disappointment nearly made Faramir choke but he made an effort to rise and Aragorn lifted his head and straightened. His expression clearly proved the relief he must be feeling at not having to go through with his self-appointed task. Faramir pushed down the tunic and tried to appear undisturbed. Silence once more enfolded them as he slid off the table and forced his legs to carry him. Desire died down and he was left eerily empty. Aragorn allowed him the space he needed, his energy seeping back into him. He stepped back from Faramir and dropped his gaze.

The gardens lay in darkness and not even the mist was visible. He commanded his body to move and he drew away from Aragorn, making for the doorway as exhaustion crashed down on him.

“Share my bed tonight.” Aragorn’s plea was weak. “Just sleep…”

Faramir stopped and half turned towards the King. He stood in the shadows, defeated and wary.

Slowly Faramir shook his head. “No… I cannot.”

He closed his heart and left the dining hall, as a very real pain once more embraced him.

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