Faramir Fiction Archive

The Prince of Ithilien (NC-17)

Written by Raihon

08 June 2007 | 33215 words

The Hunt

In the late afternoon of the following day, Faramir grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows and headed across the large courtyard of the estate. He poked his head in the kitchen and asked the cook, “would you like me to bring back some venison?”

The cook chuckled and said, “I was about to take the hatchet to some chickens, but I can keep the birds for another day, or just in case…”

Faramir frowned. “There will be no ‘in case,’ I assure you.”

She nodded, her eyes twinkling. “No. Of course, my Lord.”

Beregond hurried over. “Off for a bit of hunting, Prince Faramir?” he asked hopefully.

“I am mainly hoping to get some practice in. But if my arrow should happen to find a deer…” he smiled at Beregond. “Would you like to join us? I am on my way to meet Legolas, who likes to humiliate me with his skill.”

At the mention of the Elf’s name, Beregond no longer looked so eager. “Ah, well, no. I am on duty soon…” he bowed quickly and went back to the guardhouse.

Faramir sighed. Contrary to what he and Aragorn had anticipated, people seemed to be getting less comfortable with the Elves as more of them arrived to Emyn Arnen. There were only six, and they kept mostly to themselves, being as unused to living near men as the men were unused to them. Still, there was a tension growing that Faramir did not completely comprehend.

Faramir walked through the gate and off the road, into the open area that stretched between the estate proper and the Elven settlement by the river. He followed the course of a creek that ran down the shallow slope of the hill, enjoying the water’s music. At one point he noticed relatively fresh deer tracks by the creek and made a mental note to follow them on his way home if he did not find other quarry sooner.

The Elven settlement spanned both sides of the small river, a beautiful wooden bridge connecting the workshops on one side with the homes on the other. The Elves’ houses were built around a copse of oaks and were all interconnected with pathways constructed on the sturdy lower branches. Faramir climbed up to the first level of the houses and called out, “Legolas?”

Faramir jumped as a voice answered from directly behind him. “I heard you coming.”

“No doubt,” Faramir said, turning around. Legolas was dressed in light clothing, his bow already slung across his shoulders. “Shall we go find some suitable targets?”

They walked up hill to a stand of trees and skirted it for quite some time. “I suppose that not just any tree would do?” Faramir asked impatiently.

“Any dead tree,” Legolas said, giving him a disapproving look. “Why would anyone want to shoot at a living tree?”

Faramir sighed, but then spotted a fallen trunk near the edge of the small wood. It was a good choice, having fallen against another tree and offering targets at various heights. “There,” he gestured, and Legolas nodded.

Faramir carved several small circles of bark from the trunk while Legolas counted off fifty paces from the tree. They shot a round of arrows and went to retrieve them. Faramir was annoyed that he had to seek a stray arrow of his a short distance into the woods. “I must make time to practice more,” he grumbled.

“Your arm is still cold,” Legolas reassured him, counting off the paces again. “It will warm up.”

Indeed, the next round of shots was truer and Faramir relaxed into the rhythm of the bow. After a few more rounds, he asked, “what will you do if Aragorn declares the forests of North Ithilien a preserve?”

“I will go there.”

“And do what?”

“Live among the trees. Help them. Heal them, if I can. They suffered much under the shadow.”

Faramir put down his bow and watched Legolas shoot for a while, trying to discern what it meant to him to help the trees. “I must confess, I do not entirely understand your relationship with the trees. I lived among those trees for many years, but I do not feel for them the tenderness you do.”

“Men have forgotten how to listen to them.” Legolas put down his bow and sat cross-legged on the ground, looking up at Faramir.

Faramir sat facing him. “Will you move the other Elves there?”

“I think some will come, and more from Greenwood will join us, many more if we are to be self-sufficient. Some like Arasail and Luthir will want to remain here to work with Éowyn on cultivating gardens and orchards, but most will want to live among the wild trees.” Legolas looked at him with opaque blue eyes.

“There are men who think they own those trees,” Faramir said, watching Legolas’ face carefully. “And the laws of Gondor probably agree with them.”

“And what would they do with those trees?” Legolas’ eyes flashed anger. “Cut them, strip them and sell them? Burn them in order to clear farmland?”

Faramir nodded. “Is that wrong?”

Legolas looked away. “No, not of itself. All things have their right uses.” He ran his hand along his bow. “Gondor has more land than it has men to people it. Surely there are places that can be left wild and unmolested.”

Faramir looked down at the ground, running his hand over the rough grass. Legolas had a point. Most of the settlers were coming from Anorien and Lossarnach, regions where every hand was still needed at planting and at harvest. They could live well if they stayed in their foster homelands, and it would be better for the Kingdom as a whole if they did so, at least for now. But if the Valar willed it, someday Ithilien would flourish and be dotted with thriving towns. That is, if Faramir acted wisely now to bring about such a future.

Then Legolas said gravely, “Aragorn has made an offer to the Elves. I would stay in any case, as would Arasail and Luthir, but that promise is why the others have come.”

“A promise made on my behalf,” Faramir muttered, irritated that Legolas seemed to be trying to put him in his place.

Faramir idly plucked a blade or two of grass and felt Legolas’ gaze on him. He dropped the grass, wondering if Legolas felt empathy for the grass, too, so carelessly put to death by this wanton man’s hand. Faramir sighed. “All things have their right uses,” he repeated quietly.

For a while, the two gazed down the hillside to where a small segment of the Anduin was visible over the ridge, glinting in the last rays of the sun.

“We need not…” he caught himself. “I need not encourage the settlers to return to Ithilien in any haste, but I cannot justly stop them. Those trees have grown up around the bones of their ancestors, men and women who stood in the face of the growing darkness and gave their lives hoping to hold it at bay,” he said with increasing emotion. “It is important to them, and to me, and to all of Gondor, that Ithilien come to life again.”

Legolas’ eyes betrayed a deep sadness. “They are being called home again,” he said.

Faramir nodded, and was glad that Legolas understood this, at least. He put a hand on the Elf’s knee. “The lives of Men are short, my friend, but memories endure. They may never have seen it except from afar, but Ithilien is their home, and they long to return.”

Legolas bowed his head and Faramir withdrew his hand. When Legolas looked up, he said, “if you truly want Ithilien to come to life again, you must not let Men have their way. Let them return, but let them share the land, let the trees and the animals enjoy the retreat of the shadow, as well. One creature should not flourish by causing another to suffer.”

Faramir felt troubled, for in his heart, he agreed with what Legolas had just said. Who would be a better steward of Ithilien’s treasures, someone like Lord Anmuin or someone like Legolas? Anmuin thought only of his own advantage, but the kind of stewardship Legolas had in mind would make the trees masters of men. There was another kind of stewardship, though: there were honest people who would honor the land and its gifts by making proper use of them. The good of Ithilien would best be served by Men and Elves working together, but Faramir doubted he had the skill to bring about such a partnership.

Legolas grabbed his arm and pulled them both to the ground, flat on their stomachs. Faramir looked at him in alarm, but Legolas smiled. He nodded toward the woods and Faramir detected movement within.

“What do you see?” Faramir whispered.

“Deer,” Legolas replied.

Faramir looked at him and grinned. “One of them may be rightly used by my cook tonight,” he said, crouching on his knees and nocking an arrow.

Legolas did the same. “Get down. You have no target,” he teased, bumping into Faramir with his shoulder.

“I see them well enough,” Faramir retorted, pushing back.

“If you let me get my shot off first, you will see nothing but the leaves they kick up behind them,” Legolas said, and both men stood and drew their bows, releasing their arrows at the same time.

They walked to the wood to see if they had felled their targets. They found two animals laying still in the leaves. Legolas knelt beside his deer and Faramir did the same, gently caressing her neck and thanking her for her sacrifice.

That night Faramir sat in front of the fireplace in the library, the family’s favorite room in the house. His arms were wrapped around a two-year-old Elboron, who was curled up in his lap.

“You killed the deer?” Elboron asked. “You shot him?”

“Her,” Faramir corrected. “I shot her with an arrow.”

Elboron looked into his father’s eyes, his face showing concern. “Did it hurt her?”

“Probably not,” Faramir said, smoothing the boy’s hair. “And then I went to her and thanked her for her gift.”

“What gift?” Elboron asked, not understanding.

“She gave her life to feed us.” Faramir looked around him, suddenly moved almost to tears. “Just like the trees gave their life so we can burn them in the fireplace to keep us warm…” he hugged his son even more tightly.

Elboron turned his head to the fireplace and softly said, “thank you, trees.”

Faramir laughed and covered his son’s face with kisses. “Thank you trees for your wood, thank you cows for your milk, thank you sheep for your wool, thank you Mama for making Elboron…”

Elboron giggled and squirmed. “Thank you Papa, thank you Maida…”

Maida, sitting quietly in a corner of the room sewing, raised her head and smiled. “You are welcome, my angel. Come along now, time for bed,” she said, standing and stretching.

Faramir kissed the boy goodnight and went up to Éowyn’s study, where she was preparing her report for the Great Council. Faramir came up behind her and lightly ran his hands over her hair, across her shoulders, down her arms and up again, until she shivered under his touch. “Thank you for our son,” he said, his hands moving now over her swollen breasts and down to her stomach. “And for this one, our soon-to-be-first-daughter” he said, leaning against the back of her chair so he could reach further down, below the curve of her stomach to the tops of her thighs.

Éowyn sighed. “You are most welcome,” she said.

“You are most inaccessible,” Faramir complained, his hand stopped by her belly.

“Help me to bed,” Éowyn said, smiling tiredly.

Faramir helped her undress and then undressed himself.

Éowyn lay on her back, one arm stretched out, welcoming him, the other cradling her belly. “You know we can’t…”

“Shh,” Faramir said, sliding into bed next to her, slipping one leg between hers and spreading her open as he kissed her. Light as a butterfly’s touch his hand roamed over her skin, and she flushed with desire. “I know what the midwife said,” he whispered in her ear. “Tonight I seek only your pleasure, love.” Faramir smiled as his words quickened Éowyn’s pulse and his hand found its quarry.

“My beautiful wife, my noble lady, mother of my much beloved children,” he said, timing the stroking of his fingers to the rhythm of his words. He kissed her neck and shoulder. “The one I see before I close my eyes at night, the one I wake to again in the dawn.” Éowyn groaned and he slowed his pace. “Can I ever tell you with words how much I love you? How I desire you? I cannot. Let me show you.” Éowyn moaned with pleasure as he kissed her deeply, his hand deftly pleasuring her. “Éowyn,” Faramir gasped, getting carried away by seeing her responses to his touch. He pressed himself into her hip. “Oh, my beloved! You make me ecstatic, just watching you.”

Again, Éowyn groaned and began to whisper, “yes, yes, yes…”

Faramir gently flicked at a nipple with his tongue until it was hard, then took it in his mouth. Éowyn’s cries exploded and she convulsed under his hand. When she was through, Faramir arranged the pillows so that she could sleep comfortably, then lay curled around her back, careful not to press too closely against her, lest she notice his need and feel obligated to reciprocate.

“Sleep well, my love,” Faramir whispered, but she was already asleep. Faramir clenched his groin muscles, frustrated but happy. If all went well, it would be just two more months until he could join with her again. He banished the thought and tried to fall asleep.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/the-prince-of-ithilien. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!