Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Fourteen – Reunion

There was only moonlight, only white glow… all around him…

It held him close, continuously flowing forth… coming closer…coming so close… And then another was coming closer, turning round, turning,
and desire was coiling around his senses.

Only moonlight… clad in white glow, coming closer. There was naked skin, and there was touch. He welcomed the touch, longing to taste, and
there was moonlight…

He was open, so open. And he was joined where he lay in the sea of white, white glow… Lust flowing forth, fingers filled him, lust in his
mouth… longing to kiss and to gently caress.

Turning around, white glow dancing – there was but whiteness and skin. Succumbing to pleasure, he was turning, turning around, coming closer.
He felt skin… meet his own, skin meet his own… touching his brow, a tongue in his mouth. He was open.

Open, so open… White glow, flowing forth… playing on soft skin, longing to touch and the moonlight was exploring him, touching his brow…
dancing, turning…

He welcomed the touch, succumbing to pleasure, longing to taste, to be filled, to gently caress… and it was so. He was breached, muscles
relaxed and he welcomed the touch, flowing forth in the white glow.

His essence was flowing forth, like white glow on naked skin. Longing to taste, he was turning around, longing to taste, seeking a mouth, and
there was only moonlight.

Tuilë 37

Three dark days, during which the Moon was not seen, passed. Faramir slept fitfully, woke early in the bleak hours of dawn, and shivered in the chill that seemed to seep down into Emyn Arnen from the eastern mountains; the land was restless with its glowing white lord missing from the heavens. Faramir spent fewer hours in the woods and more inside behind his desk. There was correspondence that needed his attention: various requests from merchants further south along the Anduin, a dépêche from Minas Tirith and two letters from Éomer that mostly concerned trade, horses and a not so subtly phrased demand that Faramir inform him whether or not his sister was truly as happy as she claimed. There was a letter from Éowyn herself in the pile but he lay that aside to read later.

He did not see Aragorn. Sometimes he even wondered if the King ate at all or desired daylight and fresh air. But he was not to judge for he exhaled in relief when he entered a room and found it empty, and he was grateful for every hour of sleep that was untouched by dreams or images of the King. When he awoke, he convinced himself he remembered no details, and the mist lay heavily upon the grass each night.

His heart remained closed, he thought – so closed that not even the nimble fingers of the curiosity that restlessly swirled in the corners could pry it open. His heart, closed and cold, grew heavier and heavier with each passing hour but he thought, too, that he cared very little. Which was a lie, but at least that one stung less than the fear that ruled the King and which Faramir could not face.

Now the afternoon hours were floating by as he sat staring at the door. He felt oddly saddened by Éomer’s letters. The King of Rohan was proud and strong – and very, very male in a sense that Faramir had never fully grasped. Boromir had shared some of his traits: both were reluctant to admit to any weaknesses and any stronger emotions in a man not provoked by battle were better off stored away. Women could be expressive and capricious – indeed it was charming if they were – but a man’s disposition was expected to be entirely different. Consequently, Éomer’s letters were relatively short and to the point; he wasted little time inquiring about Faramir’s situation or reflections.

Still they were good friends. Lothíriel, wife of Éomer, was pregnant with their first child and there was bound to be a great feast in Edoras following the birth. They were all already, albeit unofficially, invited; by the grace of the Valar, Lothíriel would give birth to a healthy child, followed by many more. That would give life to the Golden Hall.

Faramir let the letter fall silently from his hand. ‘All‘… That meant himself, Legolas and Gimli of the Dwarves… and Aragorn, and the Hobbits maybe. The remnants of the Fellowship that he himself had never been a part of. Hobbit wives and children maybe… He had more in common with them in that respect.

There would be drinking… and more drinking. Legolas would not eagerly participate of course but he was so much better at being… not… affected by others’ opinion of him. And Éowyn was a married woman these days and though she teased him about it, she was conscious of Amrothos’ faint, but existent, jealous streak.

He could not keep from smiling, however, at the memory of Éowyn’s first meeting with one of Imrahil’s younger sons. She had claimed the father to be handsome but when she laid eyes upon Amrothos she saw all that was in Imrahil but in a younger version. Faramir had teased her endlessly that summer, but true to her nature, she had gained what she desired and he did, contrary to Éomer, believe that she was truly happy.

Still, though, this did nothing to change the nature of the celebrations to come: Edoras, beautiful and golden, was a place for men.

Not really knowing why, Faramir pushed back his chair and stood. Securely wrapped in his cloak, he wandered through the corridors, trying not to think, trying not to feel. And when the entrance doors closed behind him, the early evening breeze rose to meet him, he sank down upon the stone steps and closed his eyes.

The voice was soft as if not to disturb the stillness. “Faramir?”

When he opened his eyes again, the shadows lay stretched out upon the ground and the tiny sliver of the newborn moon was tentatively fingering the darkening sky in the east. There was growing confidence now in Ithilien as leaves and grass was once more touched by moonlight. The wind gave a long sigh and then silence settled down again.

Maelir was standing before him with a frown and worry hovering about his slim form.

“Are you alright?”

There was so little energy left. Faramir felt focus slipping away into the dusk and he barely recognised his own voice when he spoke, “Yes…”

Maelir tentatively moved forwards and when Faramir did not object he smoothly climbed the stairs and dove into the shadows provided by the vines above. An unexpected smile tugged at Faramir’s lips.

“You have made no peace with the moonlight yet?”

The smile was returned, albeit with a hint of embarrassment attached to it. “Nah…” Maelir dropped down beside him and tilted his dark head to the side. “How are you?” He seemed to hesitate but then continued. “I was surprised to see you at the tavern that night…”

Faramir nodded slowly. Perhaps it would have been better had he never acted on that idea at all. He could not see now that it had given him anything to be joyful for. “I was… I had a guest, from Minas Tirith,” he said, thus evading the question and hoping that Maelir would be content with the answer.

“So I guessed.” If there was an implicit accusation in Maelir’s choice of words and tone of voice it was not apparent. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “But it was good… Good that you…” He faltered, lacking the right words to not come off as patronising.

“Left the house?”

The young man flashed a grin. “Yes. Good for you, Faramir.” Large brown eyes travelled all over the older man’s hunched form. “So how are you?”

“I am fine,” Faramir said, hearing himself how false that assertion rang, given his current position on the cold stone steps.

“And if you were to tell the truth?”

“Then…” Faramir sighed as a stronger wind pushed a cloud towards the west and revealed the first stars in the sky. “I… know not.”

“Faramir.” Maelir shook his head gravely. “I nearly drowned on my way over here – all this mist was intent on killing me, I am sure, and so I think I deserve some honesty.”

“Oh… I had not even realised…” Pulling himself together, Faramir squinted in the failing light. “I have grown so used to it I did not even notice it.”

“Well I sure did,” shuddered Maelir. “This so-called spring has not impressed me yet.” He hugged his knees and offered yet another grin, more teasing this one. “But then, I am not the one who must spend his days in the woods, burning stuff.”

Faramir found himself smiling too. “No you are not, so I wish to hear no complaints.” He frowned as he, by habit, ran his eyes over his companion’s slim shoulders and long legs. “That is a light cloak you are wearing, are you cold?”

Maelir opened his mouth to reply but no words came. He bit his lip.

Faramir raised his eyebrows.

A familiar gleam slipped into Maelir’s soft brown gaze, but he spoke with care. “Are you offering some warmth?”

Was he?

The crescent moon was rising in the east and the evening chill gradually grew sharper. Maelir released his knees and edged a little closer, moving into Faramir’s personal space.

“Who shares your bed, Faramir? Who has dimmed the light in your eyes?” He lifted a hand and brushed a few strands of hair from a furrowed brow.

Suddenly not able to fight anymore, all remnants of energy fled him. Faramir felt his shoulders slump and he knew not who acted first: his head landed on Maelir’s shoulder and arms encircled him and brought him close. He recognised the scent, the feel, the movements… Young hands stroked his back, just like another pair of hands had done among other shadows; these hands knew not the weight of a sword, they had never been covered in the blackened blood of both friend and foe. These hands were not… Aragorn’s.

Aragorn smiled, eyes shining as he cupped Faramir’s face and placed a new kiss on his lips. The Ring of Barahir was glowing, eagerly challenging the moonlight that spilled through the open window, flowing forth into the bedchamber; the summer night was warm. Sweet laughter swirled around them as Faramir wound his legs around Aragorn’s waist.

‘I had this dream…’ he mumbled against the soft lips.

Aragorn stretched out on top of him and his smile would only grow. ‘Oh? Show me then,’ he suggested.

They shared a lazy kiss as hands pushed fabric aside.

‘Show me… Show me, love…’

With a jerk, Faramir was brutally brought back to his own body and immediately hit by the cold. It was not Aragorn’s taste that lingered on his lips. Maelir had tensed and uncertainty drew across his face.

“Faramir…” He licked his lips quickly. “I did not mean to… I know you said before that…”

Faramir shook his head, trying again to banish the images that could be nothing but non-truths that would never be. “No, no… It is not your fault. I should not have…”

What should he not have done? When there was no reason and no logic to be had, what difference did anything make?

“Taken advantage of me?” Maelir’s confidence returned as he identified the familiar guilt. He even produced a smile. “I am here by my own free will… You need not tell me, you know.” His fingers were trailing down Faramir’s back again, a bit more eagerly this time. “Just do it – take advantage of my presence. I will accuse you of nothing.”

His resolve wavering, Faramir looked straight into what was supposed to be his former lover’s eyes. “It is not fair.”

But Maelir only shrugged, carefree, light-hearted. “That is your opinion, not mine.”

So Faramir, in desperate need of solutions, stood and extended a hand to him. “Come then. Let us go inside. Let us find you some more shadows to hide amongst.”

But everywhere there was only moonlight.

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