Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Eight – Desires

Aragorn was surviving, but both he and Faramir were ending up at least partly drenched. The roads were generally good, but here and there the rain had battered them hard and reduced them to large pools of mud, and as the rain kept on falling from above, there was only one possible outcome.

“Valar!” cried Aragorn at last when he for the third time slid into a new puddle that painted his black boots a not very charming brown.

“I…” Faramir took a step to the right, trying to not trip over a fallen branch and simultaneously avoiding Aragorn’s puddle, “… somehow doubt that…” he picked his way forward carefully in the growing dusk, “… calling the Gods… Damn!” He bent down and groaned.

“What was that?” If there was a teasing note in Aragorn’s voice, Faramir chose to ignore it.

“More mud,” he grumbled and was pleased to hear Aragorn unexpectedly chuckling to his left.

“So tell me, Faramir,” said Aragorn a few minutes later when they had made it past the misery that supposedly was a part of the road, “how much longer?”

Faramir looked up. He pointed. “Just around the bend. You can actually see the lights through the trees.”

“Ah, yes!” Aragorn nodded. “Think not that I have not appreciated this walk, but, well, one cannot walk forever.”

Faramir felt a sudden childish urge to scoop up some of that mud and throw it at his King as if he were his brother or friend – or even lover, but he restrained himself and settled for a smile. “We have the walk back to look forward to as well,” he said.

“Should I live to tell the tale, it will be recorded and stored in your library.”

Faramir made no answer to this, but he felt lighter as they approached the heavy, wooden tavern door. This profound change in Aragorn appealed to him very much though he did not know its origin. Maybe the way in which they were conversing and interacting would cause other ideas to well up in his mind – he was no fool and he knew the signs – but somehow he was not in the mood for repelling such thoughts.

He paused for a moment with his hand outstretched, palm against the wood, meaning to push open the door and provide both him and Aragorn with much needed shelter from the constant downpour. Looking at it from this angle – if it indeed was a new one – he had never truly quenched any desires. Yes, he had postponed certain things, he had suppressed a few ideas and wishes, but in the end he had achieved and accomplished more than he, during his childhood years, had ever imagined possible. He had hidden from view, exploring his passion in the depths of night, or far away on some journey that allowed him respite from his father’s piercing gaze, and perhaps that was cowardly, but he had done it. He had learnt a lot this way, and only occasionally, in the bleak hours of dawn, did bitterness taunt him and toy with images of him also stealing kisses and flirting within the ever-watching walls of the Citadel. But no, that had been his brother’s privilege.

“Faramir?” Aragorn was watching him with a questioning expression. Around them night was falling and the torches sizzled in the rain. They cast some light on Aragorn’s face but faint shadows played there too as his hood held most of the light at bay. “Do you need some help?”

Without further ado, Aragorn covered Faramir’s hand with his own and then gently pushed. During one glorious moment Faramir was trapped between the door and Aragorn and he knew only two things: the first was that the wood was soaked through and cold to the touch, and the second was that Aragorn also was soaked through, but that he minded not that touch at all.

They were met with the type of welcoming clamour that seem to, in certain blessed taverns, inhabit the very wood they are built of. It is a warm, heartfelt greeting that at once ensures you that you are safe and that you may stay for as long as you wish – if there is enough silver in your pocket. If not, then you may at the very least leave with a full stomach and fond memories of good conversation.

Faramir pushed his hood back and in the crowd he spotted at least three of his former Rangers at one table. Wax candles and a roaring fire in the hearth supplied the folk with warmth and light, and drenched cloaks hung steaming across benches and a few larger chairs. Together with these, long tables took up most of the space. Some were pushed together, easing conversation for larger parties, and some stood by themselves, signalling – as long as you were sober enough to pay attention – that other people wished to be seated with no strangers.

They made for the back by unspoken agreement. Aragorn let his hood fall further forward and so his face was nearly completely hidden from view. Faramir’s appearance was probably better known in this place, but there was no reason for why the King of Gondor should announce his presence.

The scent of roasted meat and spices hung low in the stuffy air, tantalisingly mixed with that of ale. Faramir chose one of the few smaller tables that was placed near the wall and simply dropped down on a bench unceremoniously. He watched Aragorn do the same, but opposite him and they both ended up facing each other in the glow of yet another candle.

He meant to say something, but was hindered by the peculiar gleam in the dark eyes that gazed out at him from beneath the woollen hood. Like this, Aragorn seemed almost a ghost to him, some kind of phantom, shrouded in dark mystery. Faramir swallowed, uneasy, as the exaggerated drama of his own thought nearly made him blush.

Aragorn nodded slowly. “This was a good idea.”

“It is alright, then?” Faramir heard himself asking and was pleased that at least his voice did not waver.

An odd smile swept across Aragorn’s lips. Faramir felt sure he had never seen one quite like it, and in a flash he grasped something of what Aragorn must have been when he was solely a Ranger – not an aspiring King, not even a potential one, if such a time had ever been.

“Perfect,” was all that Aragorn said.

Somewhere along the way Faramir had lost some of his control and he knew it. He could not be more sober and already desire was gaining on rational thought. Random images from last night’s dream, and maybe other dreams, rushed through his mind and though they did not stay with him, they left him marked and… expectant?

“Faramir!”

The loud call momentarily drowned out the rest of the noise, and two seconds later a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Faramir, my friend!” Damrod was grinning down at him, eyes suspiciously bright. “This ‘s indeed a surprise! I had…” he leaned down and his grin was replaced by a most serious stare that would soon give way to some more of that alcohol-induced grinning, “… had given up hope, Faramir.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “All them nights alone,” he grieved, not bothering to clarify whether he spoke of himself or of Faramir, though it was rather obvious. “Alone… But now!” He straightened and briefly his grip on Faramir’s shoulder tightened. “Now you’re here!” He was back to grinning.

Faramir smiled wryly up at him. “Always perceptive, my friend.”

“Always,” agreed Damrod, trying a serious look that he soon rejected. He stood for a moment, staring at Faramir and then he frowned. “I should tell you, though…” He swayed forward a little, but kept his balance. “That others are also here,” he finished with a conspiratorial wink.

“Others?”

“Yea, y’ know… others.” Damrod fixed him with his stare as if meaning to convey his message silently.

Faramir waited patiently.

“He’s o’er there. Talkin’ to someone… I could not see to whom.” Waving a hand in an unspecified direction, Damrod made a face. “You ‘ad best not see it. Or do so, if you ‘avn’t changed your mind.” He frowned once more and blinked. “Y’ ended things with him, you said?”

“Yes… yes.” Faramir swallowed hard as a little heat crept into his cheeks. An awkward feeling settled low in his stomach and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He has no obligations towards me… He may see whoever he fancies.” It was only when this feeling was properly in place and these words were spoken that he understood that his uneasiness had less to do with Maelir than the man currently sharing his table.

He chanced a glance at Aragorn – and now he did blush fully. The King’s eyes were on him, seeking answers to these new riddles.

“It is over,” he finished lamely, wondering why on earth he was speaking more to Aragorn than Damrod, or even himself.

Towering above him, Damrod nodded decisively. “Well, I just thought you should know!” he declared quite clearly and gave Faramir’s shoulder an encouraging slap. “But I see you ‘ave company…” He turned his interest to the stranger Faramir had brought with him.

Aragorn pushed his hood back a few inches and the candlelight sought its opportunity: its warm glow drifted across Aragorn’s features and Faramir felt something else inside him giving in.

“Damrod,” he began uncertainly, “this is…”

“Oh.”

Faramir looked up at his friend. Damrod’s eyes had widened considerably and he was staring at Aragorn like he was being offered a sight of the Valar.

“Oh,” he repeated and managed a slight bow. “I see.”

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Damrod the Ranger, trusted friend of the Steward of Gondor?” He spoke in a low voice, clear enough to be heard but only so by those addressed.

Damrod nodded numbly, his lips pressed together tightly and his face took on a whitish hue.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Aragorn inclined his head and then leaned back a little. “Will you not join us?”

“It…” said Damrod, “I’m sure you have… matters to discuss, y’ know. I’ll…” he patted Faramir’s shoulder. “Be off, yea.” He nodded once to Aragorn and with an expression of wonder transforming into panic, he dashed from their table.

A breath that Faramir apparently had been holding escaped him and made the candle flame flutter.

“I…” he said, not knowing precisely why he was feeling mortified.

“Faramir.”

He looked up. Aragorn was watching him with an amused expression and kindness in his eyes.

“Whatever you were going to say, please forget it. It is long since I was in any tavern, breathing air that contains life and being spoken to with little formality. Please?”

Faramir nodded slowly. He dismissed his thoughts of doom and straightened in his seat. “Ale?”

“Please,” repeated Aragorn with a broad smile.

As the night progressed the singing commenced and Faramir was proven right. There were the usual songs of maidens catching the eyes of a brave, but – as judged by her father – unworthy man, which ultimately ended with at least one of them, preferably all three, lying dead on the ground by morning. Then there were the songs of war, about victories and celebration, and about returning home – songs that praised ancestry and the land that had raised you. But though these were sung without much elegance, they were sung with passionate, ardent love.

They had shared a large plate laden with meat, cheese, roasted vegetables and some type of smoked fish that Aragorn had quickly discovered pleased Faramir the most. The Steward had tried to object, but Aragorn was quite determined and so the food was divided between them with some fuss but in the end, satisfactorily.

Faramir’s eyes strayed often to Aragorn’s face and though he was well aware of it, he could not stop himself from looking. After his third jug of ale he found it more difficult to name the type of energy that was seeping from his companion’s form.

They did not speak very much and this had troubled him at first, but after a while the silence had grown more comfortable he thought. It was odd, he reflected, how much more confident he was in his own home. Coming here meant stepping out into the world again and more or less into unknown territory. He tried to reach out for something to hold on to, but he was only met with the bustling and buzzing of the crowd. It made him uncertain, and his surroundings seemed to shift around him.

Outside, behind the heavy curtain of clouds, the sliver of the waning moon would ride low in the heavens. Its silvery light would not be of much help to any wanderers even if the sky were clear. These days, all that embraced Emyn Arnen at night was mist.

A lazy mist that embedded the woods in a treacherous softness. It spread over the fields and floated through the meadows, and yet it did more than so: it wrapped itself around Faramir’s senses and sought out his dreams. It told him he was safe – calmness was its first gift – but then it stirred something inside him that was not calm at all. But when he awoke, all was but a dream.

He lifted his head and met Aragorn’s searching gaze. The King rose to stand and it seemed so natural that Faramir followed him, dropping coins that glimmered of silver in the candlelight.

There were people in their way, laughing, dancing, but Aragorn skilfully wove his way around them. Faramir was one step behind and though he knew his feet touched the floor, he was dazed. By the door, just before he stepped through, he spotted Maelir and caught his eye. The young man began smiling in the way he always did when he wanted something; it was a smile that started with a delicate twist of his head and steadily grew into a brilliant show of passion. Faramir lessened his pace as he was captured by that initial spark Maelir sent forth.

It took him one second to hesitate and one to choose, and Faramir followed Aragorn into the night.

The air was cold and heavy with wetness. The torches were still burning but no rain assaulted them now. Compact silence hit Faramir like the blow of a blade after the rowdy singing inside. He heard the door close behind him and took another step, but he had done no more than that before Aragorn turned and with a calculated move, spun them both around and away from the light and into shadow.

Faramir was pushed against the tavern wall and felt air rush out of his lungs as Aragorn’s mouth descended on his and claimed him in a scorching kiss. Desperate lips pressed against his own and he greedily tasted them. He pulled Aragorn closer and hands frantically tugged at his clothing. Faramir opened his mouth almost at once and for a second the onslaught of Aragorn’s tongue was more than he could handle. He was burning in the cold night, sure that he was losing his sanity as Aragorn’s hands finally gave up their attempt to find skin and instead went straight for his groin.

Surprised, Faramir bucked and caused Aragorn to growl deep in his throat. The older man fell against him, his hand trapped between them, and Faramir used the moment to drive his tongue deep into Aragorn’s mouth. He tasted meat and ale, and none of the pipe-weed that Rangers seemed to crave. His head swam as Aragorn scraped his teeth against his bottom lip and performed a swirl of his own tongue, setting Faramir’s fleeing senses aflame. With a gasp he ended the kiss and air rushed inside his lungs once more.

As his head cleared, he no longer felt Aragorn against him, and no more did he stand pressed against the wall; he blinked in the darkness. A couple of feet away, stood the King, his hood concealing more than the night ever could – all but the gleam in his eyes that were fixed on Faramir.

Steadily, the mist crawled across the trampled grass.

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