Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Fifteen – Confusion

Tuilë 38

There was laughter again. There was laughter as quick fingers pulled out a discarded shirt from underneath the bed where it had haphazardly ended up the night before. There was laughter as courage cast the curtains aside and let whitish daylight flood the bedroom.

“No rain!” Maelir cried as he beheld the world that seemed to lie at his feet, even if it was only a small part of it, namely Faramir’s gardens. “But by Manwë‘s beard it is late I think!”

Faramir rolled over, pulling at the blankets and keeping himself covered from the waist down. Where this sudden rise of modesty came from he knew not but he responded to the compulsion nonetheless. “Manwë has no beard…”

Maelir spun around. His black hair was one magnificent mess and he had bothered with no clothes even though he was loosely holding his shirt in one hand. “Have you ever seen him?”

There was so much light. So much self-assured glory all around that emotions grew tangled and confused. Maelir’s eagerness triggered a small smile and yet there was something building in Faramir’s breast, something shadowy that ached. He met Maelir’s glittering eyes. “No…”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because I imagine the Valar being more similar to the Elves in appearance and form.”

He rubbed his eyes and yearned for the shadows he had never particularly liked – indeed had run from when he could. But across the walls there were but brilliant patches of light and streaks of brightness intertwined. There was nothing left of last night – when he had succumbed not to reason and nor to desire, but to power of another kind, something to hold on to when the world spiralled out of control. In this morning, there were no explanations to cling to.

Maelir dropped his shirt on the bed but looked at Faramir with some interest. “There are no bearded elves?”

Old tales were long gone from his memory in this moment. “None, save for one I think…If I remember the lore correctly.” He ran a hand through his hair as his hands needed to do something. “I am not entirely sure, to be honest.” His copper locks smelled of frenzied lovemaking – the kind you immerse yourself in while trying to forget your own heart. He swallowed down a sudden rise of revolting self-loathing.

“So, see?” Maelir prompted. “I could be right, in other words.”

Faramir attempted a wry smile. “As unlikely as I believe it to be, I suppose you could be, yes.”

Triumphantly the young man grinned. Then he half turned towards the bathing chamber. “Can I wash here, Faramir? Or will you send me off into the world with dried sweat and… well…” He cast a glance downwards, and smirked.

“Wash!”

Faramir waved a hand in the same direction and Maelir was once more laughing as he half heartedly pulled on his clothes and went to find someone who could heat some water for him.

When the door closed behind him the energy sank towards the floor. Gradually the morning settled more firmly and the daylight secured its hold on the bedchamber completely. There was always laughter when Maelir was around, Faramir knew that, but it was of a careless nature. Or not careless maybe, but… unreliable? Non-committing?

Not that Faramir wished for anything else, really. He had never meant to bind with the younger man in any truly serious fashion and so he ought to be content. A moment’s pleasure, another night not spent alone, some life… But in the end there would be nothing tangible to hold on to and that was a burden heavier than many others.

Chiding himself, Faramir rolled back onto his stomach and closed his eyes to the world. Compared to the fates of many others in Middle-earth he was a lucky man. But even after thirty years did he not know exactly what was expected of him and too often did his world drift into another… Maybe he wanted too much… though he hoped and wished it was not so.

And he wished for anything that might chase the innate numbness in his heart away.

Dark tresses filled his hands. He whimpered when the initial burn assaulted him but the immediate pleasure that washed through him was more than enough to conquer any pain. He was pressed deep down into the mattress but lifted his hips, more than eager to be filled. The bedchamber was drowning in the sounds of ragged breathing and heated skin was bathing in sweat. A thousand rays of sunlight made pearls of sweat glisten and the temperature was wildly rising. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, succumbing to pleasure and letting the rest of the world dissolve around him. His lover’s hands erratically stroked his skin wherever they could reach – when they were not busy supporting them and keeping them stable in this frenzied joining of bodies.

The oil had slicked his passage and was easing the intrusion but Faramir would have managed without it – that was how deeply he needed this. In vain he had fought the desire to let this man have him so completely, but maybe it was because of this that the pleasure was now great beyond understanding. He cried out in surprise as he suddenly exploded, his aching flesh rubbing against the sheets. Hands were stroking him everywhere as his lover slid in and out of him at a merciless pace. Faramir thanked the Gods he was there in the moment for it was willingly that he opened himself up to this man… his lover… he was open…

…open for Aragorn…

Aragorn, Aragorn, Aragorn…

“Faramir!”

The call woke him up, and reality struck him down forcefully. He jerked to the sound of the voice and the shining world swam around him.

“Faramir, are you alright?”

Maelir was emerging from the bathing chamber with a linen towel wrapped around his slim hips and his hair dripping wet. Faramir blinked at him in confusion as the sensation of Aragorn thrusting into him refused to let him go. His flesh was swollen and he was hard and aching, and he scrambled onto his side, pulling at the blankets and securing them around his hips.

“You cried out… Are you unwell?”

Maelir made an attempt to sit down on the bed, but Faramir frantically shook his head against the pillow. “Fine… fine. I had a… bad dream, ‘tis all.”

The young man frowned. “I like it not when you dream. Are you quite sure you are alright? You look flushed.”

“Fine,” he repeated through the throbbing of his body and the pounding in his head.

Maelir gave him one last dubious look before he muttered something inaudible and to Faramir’s extreme relief returned to the bathing chamber.

He held his breath for a few agonisingly long moments until he finally heard Maelir close the door, and then he took himself in hand and, filled with shame, brought himself to completion, biting his tongue hard as he came to not make a single sound. If there was any pleasure to be gained from such a disgraceful act, Faramir did not know it.

It was nearing noon when they left the dining hall together and wandered towards the entrance hall. Still plagued by his dream and with images tumbling over themselves in his mind, Faramir did not speak much but it mattered not since Maelir was in a bright mood and did most of the talking himself, having seemingly forgotten the earlier incident.

No, he had never liked it when Faramir dreamed but he was quick to cast off any troubles that came his way. His solution to this particular problem was to simply forget or at least pretend it never happened. Dreams were for Maelir strictly nothing more than capricious twists of fantasy that could easily be chased off by revealing to them some daylight, thus unmasking them.

“I have kept you from your work,” Maelir admonished himself now. His black hair was glistening in the rare hints of sunlight that fell in through the window-glass and he had casually slung his cloak over a shoulder. He did not look rueful in the slightest.

Faramir shrugged. “I have time enough to work later. Worry not.” It was tradition by now: Maelir offered an apology – or several, depending on the time he had spent in the house – and Faramir assured him all was well.

“You will have a nice day in the woods, I think. And I will have a pleasant walk back.” The younger man glanced out through the windows. “I hear the fires are still lit near the village. Have you much left to do?”

“The rain has not helped,” admitted Faramir. “But I shall be fine.” He tried a smile but faltered.

Maelir’s presence was so… palpable. He was so alive, so curious and so animated. Yet his company was demanding and in this moment, Faramir felt utterly incapable of matching his excitement.

There was nothing in the corners. No invisible eyes or ears spread the gossip through the hallways; instead the silence enfolded them heavily, and since it was so, Faramir’s silent gratitude fell unnoticed to the floor. They came to a stop by the double doors leading out into the gardens. Maelir gave a brilliant smile but somehow managed to add some shyness to it.

“You do not regret what happened yestereve?”

Faramir met his brown eyes and though his heart suggested something else, he shook his head. “No,” he said. He drew a deep breath, “But…”

“Hush.” Maelir lifted a finger and placed it against his lips. “I know what you wish to say: that it must not happen again.” His smile softened. “And you wish for me to forgive you for using me… but I already said I will not accuse you of such a thing.”

Faramir sighed as the finger slipped from his lips and Maelir caressed his cheek.

“In fact,” he continued, “I wish for you to do it again…” Leaning in, he placed a light kiss on Faramir’s lips. “If you change your mind…” He drew back and there was a suggestive glow in his gaze. “Or if you ever make up your mind…”

Taking a small step back, Faramir put some space between them. “I cannot…”

Maelir regarded him thoughtfully. “If I had been older?” he asked softly.

Had you been different.

This time he managed a smile. “Nay, you are as you should be.” He reached out for the doorknob. “Go now, and conquer the world with your charm.”

Maelir’s laughter rang out in the hall. “Oh, believe me I shall!” He dove forward a left a last kiss on Faramir’s cheek before he swept through the open door.

Faramir leaned against the wood as he watched the slim figure elegantly speed down the stone steps. The cloak flowed behind him as he moved over the grass, but before he was swallowed up by the trees, Maelir spun around.

“You are lovely, Faramir!” he called and his words cascaded into the air and carried all the way to where the older man was standing. Then he was gone.

Unable to quench a laugh despite himself, Faramir shook his head and gently closed the door; in the next moment, silence was all around him once more.

He should pull on his boots and coat and continue his work in the woods but instead he fell against the door, devoid of all determination. So immersed in his thoughts he was that he noticed not that he was no longer alone. A polite cough broke through his ponderings and startled he looked up, only to meet the grey gaze of Aragorn.

“My lord…”

The King was pale and he looked tired: there were greyish shadows under his eyes and there was little passion in the way he carried himself. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, and immediately Faramir was struck by how thin he was. There was something in the way Aragorn was looking at him that was enough to tear Faramir’s heart into pieces.

“My I speak with you, Faramir? I… did not wish to disturb you, while you had company…”

The pain in Aragorn’s voice was badly hidden.

Note on bearded elves: Cirdan the Shipwright is described in RotK (book VI, chapter IX) as having a long, grey beard. I know there is an ongoing debate on facial hair among the Elves, but I imagine that, in his current state, Faramir is not very concerned with it.

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