Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Sorry! I’ve been away on holiday. I hope you’re all still patiently waiting, for, you see, at least one of these men is finally getting a bit creative!

Chapter Seven – Ideas

He knew when the door slid open behind him. The movement was so precise, so perfect, that it worried him not at all. He lay waiting in anticipation, and he heard the rush of silk as it slid from shoulders down to the floor.

The waiting in itself was arousing; he knew he was sought out, chosen above all others and this knowledge his heart cherished as his body prepared.

The bed dipped as he was joined by another, the one who desired him and would come to him on a night such as this one. Yes, he was desired, but he knew he himself wielded a mighty weapon. He never spoke of this, but it was so.

Strong hands held him and slid down his side and stomach. He wore nothing, nor did his visitor. Soft kisses were left on his neck, his cheek, and they melted into his skin.

His lover was already aroused; no doubt he had spent time in his own bed, visualising what he would do now, pleasuring himself as images of his younger partner flooded his mind.

Faramir knew this as it was what he did himself.

He swayed backwards and he earned himself and decisive stroke of a determined hand. His length pounded in his lover’s grasp and he exhaled deeply. His muscles were relaxed and he was filled without hesitation. Little by little, his lover pushed inside, his blunt head sliding into the heat. Faramir lay still, not pushing. He thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being so completed by another.

When his lover had sheathed himself almost fully within, Faramir surprised him by rolling onto his stomach, taking the other man with him. He lay on top of Faramir, his weight a welcome burden, but it took them both some time to adjust. Then Faramir felt his lover’s arousal begin to push into him, even deeper now, and he lost his breaths to the black night, swelling further in response.

He was pressed into the mattress mercilessly, time and time again, but this also he cherished. He would soon reach his peak, but his lover would continue nonetheless. He threw his head to the side to catch some air as the slick shaft was buried in his body once more. It hit his sensitive spot without hesitation, and Faramir climaxed suddenly, crying out words he knew made little sense.

He lay spent as his body still accepted his lover’s thrusts. A hand came up to brush the hair out of his face and kisses were left on his cheeks in an unchecked commotion. The moment hot release coated the insides of his channel, Aragorn drove his tongue into Faramir’s mouth.

Tuilë 30

Hundreds of silvery droplets of water covered the table top. The surface was in severe danger of drowning but Faramir could not care less. He threw his hands into the basin and ruthlessly scooped up a new handful of water and splattered it onto his face. His shirt was drenched but this did not bother him either. And if this was not enough, he could always step outside into the pouring rain.

The morning was not a bright one, and it was not old. A crash of thunder had woken him a half-hour ago but Faramir grimly suspected that the telltale heaviness in his groin would have done so anyway, no matter the way of the weather.

It was idiocy – plain madness – but he imagined he walked with some difficulty, so vivid had his dream been. If he did not watch his too creative mind, he would soon claim he was pregnant as well.

Faramir lashed out at the basin once again and the floor glumly accepted the extensive dose of water it received.

Whatever was the reason for this? Faramir rested his hands on the table and surrendered to miserable pondering. He was not falling for Aragorn no matter what his mind conjured up when he was not in control of it.

It was now some time since Faramir decided he ought to stop considering himself less worthy of things other people deemed completely normal and natural. No, it had not been easy at first, but in the end – if he wanted to lead a healthy life – he had realised this was his only option.

However, this fact did not mean that life could not be complicated – and bringing other people into it was always complicated. Faramir had made some decisions and they were important.

A King for a lover?

Faramir left the basin in peace and pulled off his shirt. Scars still ‘adorned’ his skin, to use his father’s old expression, but they were inevitably fading. He had built some more muscles in the woods, but undoubtedly that was also connected to him eating properly these days. ‘Properly’ according to him, that was. Damrod was of another opinion still.

Clothes were an obvious requirement but Faramir paid no more attention to what he dressed in than what was absolutely necessary. He was not going to impress the rain at any rate. He chose a heavy pair of boots and was about to reach for the doorknob when he caught his own image in the looking-glass.

Issues such as choices.

He was born in the White City and had lived there for years that now seemed even longer than they had when he was still his father’s son and the little brother of someone who was already great man, or at least close to becoming one.

Stone. Everywhere there was stone. People spoke of the glory of Minas Tirith, but Faramir saw none of it. In his younger days, his brother would climb to the top of the Tower of Guard, and in ecstasy throw out his arms and laugh the wind in his face. When Boromir grew older he became more solemn and though he still climbed the Tower, nowhere to be seen was his remarkable joy of youth. And the stone weighed down Faramir’s shoulders and his heart.

Then he met with the wild lands of Ithilien and that very heart was lost, if not wholly than partially. The woods, rivers and clearings spoke to him in a way that was entirely new to him, and gradually this connection between man and wilderness intensified and was finally cemented as his blood from an orc-inflicted wound for the first time seeped into the earth. From that day, Faramir was bound to Ithilien as the land depended on him.

Few people – and not many knew in the first place – understood this, and fewer still were the ones who would accept and approve. Maelir knew none of it and perhaps that was the main reason for why Faramir had chased him from his bed. No, Faramir could not live without love but his vows were to his land and not to another human. If he never found a life partner, at least he had fulfilled his destiny as Guardian, Keeper and Protector. It was only one of many choices he had made, but it was the most important.

He let out a small sigh and left his bedroom.

But indeed the ways of the Gods are strange, reflected Faramir later that afternoon when the rain fell softly like snow on no wind and made the green leaves glisten of life. It was no use even trying to light a fire, but he had built a minor mountain of old branches and smaller twigs and stems, waiting to be set aflame.

He had worked himself first into a rage of an unknown kind that was over almost before it had ignited. The reason for it awakening within he knew not, but then he did not search for its source either, stubbornly ignoring any suggestions regarding dreams that his mind graciously provided him with. Then tiredness had taken over but he had swiftly dispelled that from his body. Now determination had slid into his mind and he turned over a new idea in his head, inspecting it from every angle he could think of.

He tried to deny that he had already made up his mind, but knew it was futile even though the consequences of this latest decision of his were unknown. Still, this was why he finished his work earlier than usual, returned to his rooms to bathe and change, and then, a little later, stood in front of a door and drawing a strengthening breath, lifted his hand and knocked.

“Enter.”

A small grin briefly swept over Faramir’s face at the tone used. Years of training certainly could change you, he thought sardonically. His father would have approved, no doubt.

He pushed open the door gently and was met with a rather rare sight that caused him to blink uncertainly. The King of Gondor lay, barefooted and dressed only in leggings and a thin shirt, diagonally on the bed, reading what looked like an unusually dull book, judging by its dust coloured pages. What was more, he lay on his back with his feet at the headboard so that when Faramir stepped inside the room, he only tipped his head back further and smiled in a peculiar upside-down sort of way.

“Faramir.”

“My lord…”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, downwards.

“I am interrupting you?” Faramir queried, more affected by this sight than maybe he would have liked.

“On the contrary,” said Aragorn, still smiling. “You are my saviour it seems.” He dropped the heavy volume on the bed beside him. “It is my own so when I say it is mind-numbing I will not insult your library.”

“Then I will not allow you to secretly leave it there before you return to the City.” To his own surprise, Faramir found himself laughing as Aragorn threw him a mischievous glance. Somehow it lightened his heart to see the King so at ease and relaxed. Also it was a good omen.

“Ah, but you cannot constantly keep watch,” said Aragorn. “You shall never know what happened.” Self-assured he patted the book. “So my friend, what brings you here? And how can you be so dry when I am sure I saw you heading out this morning?”

It was silly, but Faramir found the idea of Aragorn taking notice of his actions a pleasant one. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I come with a proposition,” he said, searching the older man’s face for any reaction. “It may involve some rain, but I am sure you will survive it.”

Aragorn showed no sign of anything, he only listened and continued to watch from his position on the bed.

Faramir drew another breath. “There is a tavern down in the village. It will be full of upset workers cursing the rain and the singing is nothing to brag about, but the food is warm and the ale is brewed with devotion I hear.” He fell silent, unsure now of how to continue.

“You ‘hear’?” Another smile, gentler this time, was painted across Aragorn’s features.

“I do not come there very often,” Faramir shrugged, suddenly remembering with perfect clarity all the times he had chosen to stay at home instead.

“But you are going there tonight?”

“I am,” Faramir said slowly. “And I would enjoy some company… Would you come with me? My lord,” he added partly out of habit and partly because he felt he needed a proper ending to his request.

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment until he nodded in an awkward way against the covers. “Yes,” he said before he sat up and ran a hand through his dark hair, smoothing it down.

Faramir saw the muscles playing beneath the shirt as Aragorn reached for a discarded tunic. It was nothing he had never seen before, but a shadow of the former heaviness in his body came back to him and images from his dream glittered at the edges of his conscience.

And he acknowledged this and did nothing to chase it away.

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