Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Sorry for a slightly shorter chapter this time but it had to be done this way.

Chapter Twenty-Six – Regression

He had sent horses up the Anduin. Now he was waiting.

Waiting for something that would undoubtedly, cruelly, crush the idea he wanted to cling to so stubbornly, but which was not powerful enough to keep him safe. A cool wind, armed with truth, royal commitments and obligations, wound its way across the courtyard, toying with his hair and making him feel exposed, vulnerable. This fragile world he and Aragorn had begun building had obviously no place in time. Still, Faramir felt cheated for if sweet joy, though it may be but an illusion, was possible here, the outer world was not meant to intrude.

Aragorn had not known what to say; he had blanched at the news. All colour that he had gained since joy first slipped into the darkness that had surrounded his soul had been lost in a single instant. Faramir ached at the sight, but even so, his own surprise was too great to be forgotten; and the world had turned to face reality at last and all he could do was to accept.

The large oak by the gate stood behind him as a silent guardian. Proud, strong and protective, it was everything that Aragorn was not. Faramir did not touch the King, and the King did not touch him. The courtyard steadily filled with a tense silence.

He tried to draw strength from the large tree, letting its age-old energy flow through him and lend him something to lean against when nothing else supported him. It worked only to some extent. Faramir was too nervous, too afraid and too confused to focus. There were clouds in the western skies, almost purple in places. The air was heavy with a blend of expectation and the promise of rain; Faramir fought to keep his breathing even.

Aragorn had had no words to offer, nothing at all. In the corner of his eye Faramir could see the man he had somehow come to love. And then he saw the horses returning.

Five horses, with riders. Faramir had time to wonder why the Lady had not asked for a servant of her own to accompany her and the Prince, but that was all, for soon he could make out her fair features and she seemed to glimmer even in this impersonal, callous daylight.

He had never before seen such a graceful rider. Even Legolas son of Thranduil paled in comparison; the Lady was one with her beast though she had not known it for many hours.

“The Lady Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell and Prince Eldarion of Gondor,” someone announced. Faramir stood numb in the courtyard, hearing but barely listening.

He bowed as she slid from her saddle without aid.

“Lord Faramir.” Her voice was sweet but serious all the same. She was suddenly in front of him. “We are most grateful for you offered hospitality.”

With a throat gone dry, Faramir raised his gaze to her face and he inclined his head, nearly bowing again and having no idea what an appropriate greeting ought to look like. “You are welcome in my house.” The words were bitter on his tongue but he pushed them out into the world for it was his duty to speak thus.

She was beautiful – beautiful. It was odd how she somehow resembled Aragorn. Tall, slim, pale of skin and dark of hair. Her eyes were a silvery blue while Aragorn’s were grey but there was some underlying similarity in them nonetheless. There was one great difference easily spotted, however: Arwen still carried herself with great pride and self-assurance, though it was of a quiet nature.

Her attention rested on Faramir for moments that seemed longer than hours. Then she turned to Aragorn and the ghost of a smile crossed her features.

“My lord.”

For the first time since they stepped out into the courtyard, Faramir turned to look at Aragorn. He was pale. A random stranger would perhaps think him calm and collected, regal even, but Faramir felt the apprehension flowing from him, and saw the nervous light in his eyes.

“Arwen.” Aragorn spoke quietly.

She held his gaze for a while too until she turned partly towards the party of riders. At her move, Faramir suddenly spotted the boy who had slid to the ground also but who was hiding among the horses. She said nothing but he must have understood her anyway for he stepped forward and with eyes trained on the ground, came up to greet his host.

“Lord Faramir,” he mumbled. His mother gently pushed back his hood and the daylight caught in the dark locks.

“Eldarion,” she admonished in a murmur.

The boy lifted his gaze and Faramir met grey eyes with just the slightest hint of blue. Eyes that conveyed just how frightened their owner was.

Faramir had thought he must force himself to smile, but the act came fairly easy to him after all. “Prince Eldarion,” he said and hoped he sounded complaisant, “I welcome you too to my house.”

The boy acknowledged his words with an almost invisible nod.

“Lord Faramir…” Arwen’s hand slipped to her son’s shoulder as she spoke. “Your men could not say for certain for how long the road would stay flooded. I am sorry for this inconvenience.”

He shook his head – because he must but also because the tension that was building between them all was nearing tangible and he needed something to move. The world felt a little more stable now that he had greeted his guests and their presence was a reality and could not be dismissed as a dark fear, and he was Steward of Gondor though that was usually something he easily forgot.

Too easily perhaps..?

“Worry not,” he said, ignoring the suggestion that drifted by in the wind. “You may stay for as long as is necessary.” He ignored the ripple of longing that coursed through him.

With him, and Aragorn.

Aragorn…

Aragorn only, by his side… strong but trembling hands mapping his skin… kisses melting into moonlight…

He pushed the images away. “My Lady.” He gestured towards the house and she followed smoothly, leaving her son and his father to walk behind them.

As soon as he signalled movement, the courtyard erupted into activity. He did not need to cast one glance over his shoulder to see that the horses were being led away and luggage picked up. In fact, he refrained from looking back because grey eyes bore into his back and there were pleas and pain in that gaze. Faramir swallowed down the swirl of emotion that rose within and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

There were mumbled words behind him and he heard Eldarion answer equally quietly. He thought he detected a faint wave of relief washing over Arwen.

“Guest rooms have been prepared. Let me know if there is something you need.” He attempted a smile at her but failed.

“Thank you.” She glanced at him and she looked genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”

He should say something in return but could think of nothing.

The waxing moon sailed between heavy rain clouds and in the patches and pools of silver the wet grass gleamed. Faramir stood by his window in his bedchamber, lost in thought though trying not to think. He felt exhausted. Dinner had been a short, somewhat uncomfortable affair; he recalled but bits and pieces of broken conversation about the wild rains that were speeding westward and about travelling in general. Eldarion had hardly said a word beyond an appropriate ‘thank you’ or ‘please’, and Aragorn had been quiet as well. Therefore, Faramir had listened to the twining together of his and Arwen’s voices – a combination he had never envisioned existing within his walls in Emyn Arnen.

The rest of the Rivendell party was housed at the tavern, in guest lodgings, and Faramir liked to imagine the stunned expressions of Thellie’s children as they beheld the elves. But when he himself beheld Arwen he admitted to other types of feelings.

She was gentle and he liked that about her. She knew well her status but did not overemphasise it, neither in speech nor conduct. Her heart was given to her son, Faramir thought, and he despised the stubborn sting of jealousy at the image of the two of them and Aragorn at the same table. There was something so right about that combination that it hurt.

But Eldarion was fearful of his father though Aragorn spoke softly. In the silver glow of the moon Faramir could almost transform the image of Aragorn’s face into Denethor’s: dark hair acquired a hint of grey, grey eyes darkened and stubble faded away… into moonlight…

White glow washing away… faces rising about him… words that always sliced through his heart in their simple cruelty.

White glow on dark grass – darkened words… and then there was only moonlight.

Faramir shook his head brusquely until the window-glass once more appeared before him. He stared out into his garden but sharp contours and edges were muddled in the milky haze that enveloped them. He fought the mist, but it slipped forth and hugged the trees close. Faramir felt himself dissolving as Emyn Arnen claimed what was its due.

A chill seeped across the floor and wrapped around his feet. Faramir shook it off, first mentally, but when that did not work, he dragged himself to the surface and drew a long breath. As consciousness returned to him, he realised he had dropped onto his bed and he was not half as sore and stiff as he might have expected.

So, though the room was cold without a fire heating up the air, or providing some illumination, he remained where he was, trying to sort his way through the mess of blurred images that still flitted at the edges of his awareness.

A part of him fervently wished that Arwen and Eldarion had never come, that they would forever stay in Rivendell like dusty characters magically bound to an old tale seldom retold. Another part of him reacted to, and bled at, the sight of the strained relationship between father and son. But Aragorn had never asked him for advice.

He lay back and closed his eyes, his thoughts completing circle after circle in a never-ending spiral dance which led to no solution. The house was quiet which he guessed he should have found strange since two more people had joined them. He had left shortly after dinner, supposing that Aragorn and Arwen needed to talk, and such talk was certainly not meant for his ears. Arwen had thanked him again. The light in Aragorn’s eyes was almost gone.

He did not know what he wished for: bright sunlight that would dry up the roads and see the Lady and her son on their way again, inevitably joined by Aragorn, or more rain, drenching Emyn Arnen wholly, making it impossible to travel and keeping them all locked up together… Rain that finally slashed through the mist and forced it back into the ground. But when he briefly opened his eyes again and glanced out into the gardens, all he saw was a dense sea of white.

He knew not for how long he had been lost in dreams when a raspy sort of sound reached him. With the night so intimately twined about him, Faramir found strength only to roll onto his side and sigh. Then there was silence for some time until the soft rustling of fabric tried to pull him out of the blessed darkness he had found. He ignored it, sank deeper into oblivion and almost won before some movement anew called out to him.

Reluctantly he shifted to accommodate the presence of another. He found he was fully stretched out and his feet were not touching the floor anymore. It was a pleasant discovery and Faramir enjoyed the feeling of softness for a while. He would have been wholly content with this but still he was not left in peace and something warm and solid pressed against him. Not in a threatening way, not courageously, nor demandingly or boldly, but cautiously and pleadingly. Faramir allowed for it to happen and he found that he liked it. The company was comforting and something soft tickled his chin but it did not bother him. He exhaled and there was peace for a long while.

When next he was touched, it was different. Something brushed his cheek and then his lips. The touches were more urgent and less fleeting. He tried to drag himself into the world of awareness but was lost somewhere in between. There was some more pressure on his lips and then there was taste. Faramir cherished that and he wished for more. It was a blessing when his lips were parted and the kiss deepened. Warmth spread through him and whatever nameless despondency that had previously held him dissolved into nothingness. He felt loved.

The kiss ended but he was not left alone. The soft lips that were not his own left a string of new kisses along his cheek and brushed against his ear. Faramir was already smiling when the words reached him.

“I am sorry…”

A chill threaded its way through the warmth and brought with it a harsher sound. Faramir lost his balance and landed in a cool, barren place. Edges and shapes returned, were given their proper nature back and he opened his eyes to the black night and the drumming rain that shut out the moonlight.

There was nothing but night and loneliness.

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