Faramir Fiction Archive

Smoke (R)

Written by Etharei

10 June 2006 | 3262 words

Cast or Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Rating: hard R
Disclaimer: None of the recognizable characters, names or places featured here belong to me. This is based on a work of fiction by Professor JRR Tolkien, and regardless of what present-day legalities say, in my mind they belong first and foremost to him.
Timeline: post-ROTK
Warning: Allusions to a het relationship
Beta: Kenaz
Author’s Note: Written for Lady Mina in the Mistletoe-in-May 2006 challenge. Her request read: “a touch of humor would be nice, but not a necessity; other than that, the writer has free rein – go for it”
Summary: Éowyn’s pregnancy and Éomer’s visit leads to Faramir learning some things about his wife, the Rohirrim, and himself.

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Faramir son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, strongly disliked smoking pipeweed, though the practice had gained popularity in Minas Tirith over the years since the King brought the custom down from the North. After spending the majority of his life breathing the fresh air of the land that was once – and would be again, if he had his way – termed the garden of Gondor, Faramir found the scent of burning leaves somewhat repulsive. He would often ally himself with Legolas in sitting upwind when they had to be in the presence of Aragorn and Gimli during their post-meal smoke. Tonight, however, he was puffing furiously into his pipe, as if attempting to make up for all the years spent avoiding it.

It was hand-carved meerschaum with a fragile amber stem- a gift from Pippin. Clouds of smoke drifted through the still night air, hesitant and formless; Faramir remembered being fascinated as a child watching Mithrandir create beautiful shapes out of mere air, though he hadn’t liked the smell even back then. Perhaps Aragorn could teach him the technique; it really was very calming to just sit and have a bit of a smoke.

There was the sound of movement behind him, of a heavy body padding over hard floor. Faramir self-consciously shifted his weight to his other foot. The ferocity of his puffing doubled as he determinedly refused to think about the reason for his present feeling of discomfort.

Said reason however, was clearly unwilling to cooperate, because the next moment a large, callused hand was resting warmly on the center of his back. “Faramir?”

Audibly swallowing, the Steward of Gondor forced himself to meet the eyes of the King of Rohan.

A mere week after the Prince of Ithilien made a public announcement that his lady wife was finally with child, a burly rider arrived with message declaring that the King and Queen of the Mark were coming to Emyn Arnen for a long visit. Faramir had wondered if they would truly be able to make the journey, for Lothíriel, too, was expecting, but Éomer had made a promise at their wedding so many years ago that he would not miss his sister’s first babe, and Faramir did not know anyone who kept to his pledges more staunchly than his brother-by-marriage.

The gesture had moved Éowyn to tears; it had taken her and Faramir an unusually long time to get with child, a matter that had sparked rumours around the settlement and the courts of Gondor about the fertility of ‘overly spirited’ women. Though they had proven the rumour to be groundless, the healers nevertheless had urged the couple to err on the side of caution through the pregnancy. He knew his wife well enough to not treat her like she was made of spun glass, but when they lay in bed at night Faramir felt reluctant to do anything more than lovingly hold his wife. He thought that a few months of celibacy shouldn’t be difficult; in the dark days of war, there had been precious little time and opportunity to indulge himself in bodily pleasures.

Yet he was quick to find that resisting need was far easier when one was exhausted after a week of chasing orc-bands through Ithilien or attempting to function under the ever-present weight of his father’s judgement than during the bright free days of relative peace-time. In addition, his body had grown accustomed to being tended nightly, and was not in the least bit appreciative of being deprived of the luxury. As the weeks passed Faramir had grown edgier, but his terror of causing his excitable wife to become emotional and risk harm to their babe meant that he would often suppress his increasingly volatile emotions. By the time his brother-by-marriage and cousin arrived, Faramir was a bundle of nerves encased within an even-meeker-than-usual exterior.

He quickly became grateful for Éomer’s presence; having already gone through the process of being an expectant father, the King of Rohan was aware of the tensions plaguing his sister’s husband, and would often take the beleaguered Steward out on an exhilarating ride or spar with him until he was as tired as he had been when he lived as a Ranger. Éomer also seemed to be scrutinising him more closely now, perhaps because of aforementioned bodily needs that were still not being tended to, and Faramir was tempted to point out that he had never yet been unfaithful to his wife, and that certainly would not change now when he was sharing a roof with her overly protective brother.

One evening they returned to the manor after a round of drinks at the nearest inn unsteady enough that they were supporting each other, but adamantly refusing assistance from their ever-present guards. Their watchful shadows left them at the foot of the stair towards the private bedchambers, and a particularly sudden tilting of the ground beneath his feet sent Faramir stumbling sideways into an empty guest-room, his arm on Éomer’s shoulder pulling the bulkier man in after him.

“I am very glad that you are here, Éomer,” Faramir mumbled, leaning back on the door as the floor continued its blurry wobbling. “I daresay I would have lost my wits otherwise.”

The Lord of the Mark chuckled, moving close and pressing their brows together. “It is what happens. Everyone worries about the mother, the father is left to fend for himself. I had Elfhelm with me during Lothíriel’s first. Kept me from exiling some good men who seemed to be overly appreciative of my wife’s beauty. It occurred to me that you might need a similar companion.”

“I did,” admitted Faramir with a bright smile. “Though I did not know it until you arrived.” The coldness of the wooden door against his back seeped through the fabric of his shirt, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from Éomer’s hard body. Which was pressed against his front. The Prince of Ithilien blinked. When had the man gotten that close? There was plenty of wall in the empty room to lean against; why was Éomer using the area that Faramir was already occupying?

He could smell the ale on the other’s breath, hear the rhythmic beating within his own chest. Éomer’s eyes were a rich brown, intensely deep, still burning with the wild fire of youth.

He must have parted his lips, because when Éomer swept down and possessed them he was suddenly inside Faramir’s mouth. The younger son of Denethor thought he knew now what the charge of the Rohirrim over the Pelennor Fields must have been like, glorious and unstoppable, and through his mind sang a ringing horn-note that he could not have heard but nonetheless knew had been sounded on that fateful day when an oath of fealty had been kept.

It occurred to Faramir, rather belatedly, that perhaps Éomer’s discreet questioning of his men and household and constant awareness of his whereabouts had not been due to any suspicions of infidelity.

Or was Éomer Éadig testing him?

If so, Faramir was proving to be as weak as his father had always thought him to be. The drink- or something else equally intoxicating- made him glad to be rid of his cumbersome clothing. His leggings went last; there was a dull thud as something hard hit the floor, only slightly cushioned by fabric. Grey eyes out of Dol Amroth- passed down from mother to son, and therefore detested by his widower of a father- saw his unused pipe make a half-roll, pivoting on its deep bowl. He couldn’t remember why he had it with him, or the still-sealed bag of ‘Longbottom Leaf’ that had come with it, but he literally leapt off of the scratchy sheets, picked up the pipe, and fixed his eyes on his feet as he asked his wife’s brother if he had some flint and steel.

Just then the door opened, and Faramir knew that someone in the Far West must really, really hate him.

Éowyn’s sharp, falcon-fierce eyes swept through the room until they caught sight of them, standing near the window. The amber orbs disappeared for a moment behind their lids; her glance went to the thoroughly rumpled bed, her fair eyebrows launching themselves high on her forehead as she registered the implications of the scene displayed before her. Her brother’s complete nakedness garnered only a passing glance, but Faramir was speared with such a stare that he found himself wanting to cover his head with the sheet and throw himself out of the window; the pipe lay forgotten on the sill. He stilled, reminding himself that he should face the consequences of his actions, that he was a man.

And so was Éomer. Oh, Valar.

Thoroughly braced for anything from a scream fit to burst his eardrums to being bodily tackled and thrown out of said window, the Steward visibly jumped and nearly lost his grip on the sheet when Éowyn smiled, casually asking her brother, “Does he?”

“It appears so,” replied Éomer, fondly returning her smile as if he were not standing there in only his skin.

“And Lothíriel?”

“This is not our first child, after all.”

“Of course.” In the awkward gait of a woman who was determinedly attempting to walk as if she were not carrying a babe in her belly, Éowyn approached them and laid an affectionate kiss on her brother’s cheek, brushing sweat-slicked locks the same colour as her own away from Éomer’s chiselled face. “Just keep the noise down; you are in Gondor now, and I am sure you know better than to disturb the sleep of a pregnant woman.”

“Éowyn?” the name came out more like a squeak. A part of Faramir was greatly opposed to drawing attention to himself at that moment, especially when his wife did not seem to be currently inclined towards mariticide, but most of him felt that if he did not attempt to gain a grip on the world he was going to start screaming very soon.

He immediately regretted speaking when those sharp eyes focused wholly on him once more, and this time she was within striking distance. I am a man, he repeated to himself. And she is a woman. A woman with fists like iron, nails capable of breaking through skin, and- most terrifying of all- with a ripe belly threatening to burst with his child at any moment.

“Er-”, he stuttered, which did not seem to impress her at all. ”-do you not mind?” He bit down so hard the moment the words left his mouth that his tongue barely escaped being sliced off at the tip.

Éowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan and Witch-King’s bane, gazed at him for a long moment with an undecipherable expression. Finally the smile returned, and she pressed a tender kiss on his mouth. “Dearest Faramir,” she said quietly. “Yes, I do mind.”

Éomer must have made a movement, for Éowyn eyes briefly flickered sideways towards him, but Faramir could not tear his eyes away from his wife. He had always loved the fairness of her features, her untamed beauty that had no rival amongst the darker bloodstock of Gondor, but being with child had brought out reserves of gold in her hair and eyes and skin that made her glow like the Sun. “Yes, brother mine, we do mind. Any woman worthy to be called a wife minds if her husband shares his body with another. But it is the price to pay when one gets with child, and the women of the Riddermark take care that their husbands do not hear their complaints. I speak of it now only because I am your sister, Éomer King, and you always want the truth from me, my husband. But tell me, dear Faramir- what do the men of your country do when their women are in their final term or have just given birth and cannot see to their needs?”

The Prince of Ithilien blinked. “It is a point of pride that men would abstain during this period. But, for those who find themselves unable to do so, there are houses in the City where- where such needs could be seen to by women in the trade.” Living with Éowyn all these years had made him proof against a good amount of shock; it helped, especially when discussing matters of such intimate nature, to think of her as a close confidante who happened to be a woman. Which she was. A woman and a close confidante, that is. Not to mention his wife.

Éowyn nodded. “And do not think that the women of Gondor do not know it. But it is expected. So, to answer your question, I do mind. But I also understand.” Of course, she had lived with men for most of her life- her brother, cousin, uncle. Faramir wondered if Lothíriel knew, and was similarly understanding; she, too, had grown up in a household of men. “I do not think I ever told you this, dearest, but in Rohan, a woman would rather that her husband shares his body with another man than another woman. Perhaps it is a matter of competition. Men and women are not so different from one another as one might think.”

“For myself, I am glad that you find Éomer an acceptable substitute whilst I am heavy with child. He is, after all, my brother and the next best thing. I daresay he came in time; you have been getting quite irritable this past week.” She kissed him again, this time on the cheek, and patted her swollen belly. “Now this little princeling and I must take our rest. I bid you both a good night.”

She was gone in a flurry of skirts, closing the door behind her with a rather ominous thonk. Faramir could only stare after her in bewilderment and shock.

“If it will make you feel better,” Éomer’s rich baritone sounded behind his ear. “This was another reason why she wished for my presence here.” Seeing Faramir’s incredulous expression, he continued, “You know how she understands men as well as if she were a man herself. She saw your noble attempts at remaining chaste, and what it was doing to your normally sweet temperament, though you rightly did your best to keep it from her. I think she also feared that the tension will grow too much, and you will end up engaging with someone who does not know how to be discreet. So she wrote to me about it, and I consented to give what aid I could.”

“She- my wife- asked you to- to seduce me?”

“To facilitate the process,” Éomer said gently. “I would not have pressed you, if you truly did not wish for it. And Éowyn preferred it be me than an unknown man or, even worse, another woman.”

Still trapped in a state of shock, Faramir stared at his wife’s brother for a long time. Éomer endured his perusal, meeting his gaze evenly and with no sign of bashfulness or apology. His features were so similar to Éowyn’s- golden and rich- that there could be no question that they were siblings. Yet Faramir remembered the feel of the virile masculine body next to his, the strength within those brawny limbs, easily overpowering his own lithe, more graceful form- there had been no mistaking them, no way he could have pretended that he was with his wife rather than her brother.

A memory materialised from the mists of youth, meant to be forgotten until it never happened- but how does a man forget his first time at anything?- when he learned what was expected of a son of Denethor and a respectable man of Minas Tirith, and what was viewed to be so unacceptable that the very mention of its existence was taboo. It was something many highborn youths attempted once, never to mention to their parents- somehow it did not occurred to them then that their own fathers must have been their age too, once- and done to satisfy natural curiosity when age could still be used as an excuse. A few, of course, found themselves wanting to experience it more than once. Fortunately Faramir had sense enough, even when caught in the brashness that adolescence seemed to inspire in mortal men, to profess distaste where he had not felt any; it was another matter in which he envied his brother, for Boromir was at least able to detest it honestly.

Somehow they must have crossed the distance between the window and the bed. Faramir only remembered hot hands- rough, restless, roaming… coarse hair rubbing against the sensitized sweaty skin of his chest, tongues meeting and mating with hunger; and muscular thighs parting his, the hands returning again, exposing and opening him until Éomer was inside him, large and hard and slick with something, sliding in easily, filling and stretching him further until it bordered on the edge of pain. Though it felt like the most intimate intrusion imaginable, Faramir found himself trying to take the other man in deeper, punctuating each rhythmic thrust with a breathy grunt. Éomer kept it slow, almost agonisingly so, making them last until both their bodies trembled with tiredness; then ecstasy hit Faramir like a white-hot arrow.

He moaned long and brokenly, fingers gripping white-spattered sheets hard enough to tear. A ripple of tightening muscle swept through him, his rear channel gripping tighter and constricting; a few thrusts later Éomer reached his own peak. The Lord of the Mark was far less modest, and literally roared as his final hard thrust delivered a burst of white warmth into Faramir’s body.

Gasping for breath and feeling the summons of sleep, Faramir found himself looking at the infamous young warrior-King of untamed Rohan as they lay in a comfortable tangle of sticky limbs and linen sheets. He remembered hearing his own voice saying, “Only a man and a woman together is right and blessed. Of course I know this, father.” Denethor’s expression remained suspicious, but then again his father always looked for any symptom that his younger son was lesser than his older. Eyes, rich brown and intensely deep, gazed at him now with compassion. They seemed to say: This is our lot. We wonder what could have been, but those are dreams for other men with other lives. Not us.

A hand tightened about his wrist, and this time the message was characteristically less gentle: My sister loves you, and to me she is worth more than anything I could wish for myself. Do not forget this.

Faramir nodded. As they stood to get dressed, something prompted him to look at the window. Smoke still rose from the bowl of the pipe, but a gentle breeze was stealing the wispy cloud away into the night.

The End

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