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Mist (R) 
Written by Geale30 September 2010 | 88324 words
Chapter Six – Visions
The rain continued to fall as the last daylight faded into the dripping woods and was replaced by a heavy dusk. Faramir rose at times to stir the fire or add more wood to the flames, but most of the time he and Aragorn sat in silence, only occasionally wording some random thought that crossed their minds. When he deemed it was late enough, Faramir sent for a light dinner and wine. Somehow, in that stillness, he thought he had understood that Aragorn had no great desire of leaving – or take dinner in a more stylish way. Nevertheless, he made sure.
“That would be alright with you, my lord?”
Aragorn stirred in his chair, and his eyes which had nearly drifted shut focused on Faramir. “Yes, perfectly fine,” he smiled. “I like this room very much… It reminds me of the Hall of Fire in Imladris.” His gaze grew distant for a moment but then he seemed to pull himself together. “I am glad to have found it, even if it is but for a little while.”
Not knowing exactly which words to choose, Faramir hesitated before speaking. “I have never been to the Elven realms, but I am honoured that you find a likeness between this room and one in your childhood home.”
Aragorn’s head dropped back against the back of his chair, but his eyes stayed fixed on Faramir’s face. “Would you like to see Rivendell, Faramir?” His question was tentative, not spoken with too much confidence. “We could travel there after the summer. My brothers… would surely welcome us both.”
It was an offer that made Faramir partially overwhelmed and partially nervous. Also, a certain question was burning in his mind, but he forbade himself to utter it. “I confess I have long wished to journey thither…” he said slowly and cautiously. “But I would not intrude…”
“You would do no such thing,” said Aragorn with more self-assurance as if Faramir’s willingness were the approval he needed. “You are welcome there as my Steward, if nothing else. You have met both Elladan and Elrohir and they think highly of you.”
This was nothing that served to make Faramir less nervous, but he forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head. “I would love to see Rivendell.”
“Perhaps…” Aragorn hesitated. “I could… I could settle some things while there.” His energy changed at that, flowing inwards instead, and Faramir bit his tongue to keep it from betraying his stern will.
The King’s gaze dropped and he sighed. If it was the fire that failed or the growing darkness of evening that caused a new veil to draw across his features, Faramir knew not, but suddenly Aragorn seemed older and wearier.
He leaned forward a little, chastening himself while doing so, and sought to connect with Aragorn. “You business there is your own,” he said softly and the rain outside fell gentler to not drown out his voice.
Aragorn closed his eyes and relaxed a little. His hand was resting on the armrest and in the dull light, the Ring of Barahir glinted invitingly. Faramir could not help that his eyes were drawn to it. Once that piece of jewellery had symbolised a promise and now it was hope manifested and secured. If indeed hope was secured; looking at Aragorn in this moment would suggest otherwise. Still Faramir could not draw his eyes away from the ring and as he watched it, the flames in the fire-placed seemed to dance in a far-off distance and the room slowly dissolved. A silvery glow seeped from the ring and seemed to crawl towards Faramir. He squinted at it, staring as it slid through the air that stood between their chairs and landed on his own armrest.
His breathing grew shallower as he watched and the world dimmed around him. He was aware only of the silver light that lingered for a moment on the fabric and then brushed against his own hand, sending a ripple across his skin.
It fingered his hand gently, curiously. Mesmerised, Faramir let it slip through his fingers and steal across his palm. He did not move but simply waited to see where this would take him.
It came not as a surprise to him when Aragorn’s hand slowly reached out for his own and gingerly closed the distance between them.
Faramir let himself be held; dazed he felt Aragorn’s skin meet his own and fingertips draw small circles upon it. Aragorn’s hand sent a wave of warmth washing over him and it left him calm and peaceful. Thus Aragorn held him while the silver light surrounded both their hands, continuously flowing forth from the ring.
He saw his own skin mingle with Aragorn’s, visible beneath the haze of silver that lay over it. Yet Aragorn’s touch grounded him and he was not let go, in more ways than one. He was connected, open.
A sudden noise from the doorway behind him broke through his dizzied state of mind and Faramir unwillingly looked up. A servant had entered with their dinner.
Aragorn was standing by the window, deep in thought.
Faramir could see for himself how the rain had ceased to fall, and how the mist rose from the grass to meet the night.
“Thank you.”
Faramir looked up from his wine-glass and met Aragorn’s grey eyes. His guest seemed more at ease now and dinner had been a fairly comfortable affair despite the long silences. Faramir, in desperate need of saying something had asked for news from Minas Tirith but he suspected it was rather obvious he cared not much for it in the end.
Occasionally the Ring of Barahir gleamed in the firelight and Faramir felt his skin tingle.
That which was not, marked him and he was lost in it.
Aragorn smiled.
“I am sorry, my lord?”
“Thank you, Faramir,” repeated Aragorn. “I needed this very much.”
He nodded as Aragorn rose from his seat and glanced towards the door. “I should leave you now to find some sleep.”
“Let me escort you,” Faramir found himself saying. “My chambers are not far from your room,” he added quickly, setting his glass down on the small table that had been produced for them.
Aragorn said nothing but waited for him to rise and together they left the sitting-room.
The spring nights up until now had been clear and since the days grew longer, by habit the hallways were only dimly lit. A bluish light floated through the window-glass and filled the open spaces. Clouds hindered the stars from shining down upon the gardens and no moon could be seen either.
“Your house is quiet,” said Aragorn as they walked along a corridor, only inches apart but not touching.
“I never knew…” Faramir tried to consider this. “Perhaps it is so. I like it this way.”
“I am not complaining,” Aragorn assured him quickly. “It is peaceful… Different form the Tower.”
“It was my intention.” The words slipped out of him before he knew it but there they were: floating in the air before them, too late to take back.
“I understand you.”
Faramir frowned, but kept his gaze trained on the row of windows they were passing by. “You do?”
“Yes,” said Aragorn simply.
Perhaps it was nearing midnight. There was not even expectancy in the air; Faramir could only sense the lack of presence and that would have unsettled him had he been entirely focused on his surroundings. As it was though, he was not, for Aragorn’s presence was far too tangible to be ignored.
They turned left into a new hallway and soon they stood outside Aragorn’s door upon which shadows played and formed a complex pattern. They came to an inevitable stop and Faramir was sure he felt his feet sinking down into the floor. He knew Aragorn was watching him and he slowly raised his eyes to meet those of his King.
They appeared darker in the shadows but there was also brightness in them, coming from a source deep down in the grey. That glow had encouraged hundreds of warriors and repelled much darkness. It was a light to be drawn to and Faramir felt himself sway before it.
“Faramir…” Aragorn’s low voice was nearly swallowed up by the night. “I…” He drew a long breath but no other words came and he exhaled, his eyes not revealing his thoughts.
Faramir watched as the blue shifted around them as the clouds in the sky were caressed by some wind. He knew not what he wanted, and he could not read Aragorn’s mind. He should leave, but was unable to.
He tried to breathe evenly. His heart’s beating was undetectable and again came to him the sensation of Aragorn’s hand holding his, shrouded in a silvery haze. Unconsciously he lifted his hand to his face and ran his fingers along his chin and lower lip, as if only another part of his body could confirm the impossible knowledge his skin held.
And Aragorn was still watching him, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes melting into shadow but for the light that was in them.
Silently Faramir turned from the door and began walking down the hallway.
Somehow he knew the mist came from the North, but its intention he could not determine.
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