Faramir Fiction Archive

The Steward’s Moon (NC-17)

Written by J_dav

01 February 2010 | 12184 words

Title: The Steward’s Moon
Author: jdav
Warnings: Rated NC-17 for graphical sexual content, infidelity, violence, plot-twists, hay fever, happy endings and horses.

Notes: Celeborn has fled Lothlórien following the events of a former lover’s death in strange circumstances. Disoriented, helpless and lost, he stumbles into a hamlet on the periphery of Rohan. Chance brings him to Faramir, who is on a hunting trip in the country.

Chapter One

The barking drew nearer. I tried to stay motionless and calm. But the rise and fall of my frightened heart gave me away completely. I cursed under my breath as the barking drew ever closer. They had cornered me. My hands went about my shoulders instinctively to draw my hood up. It was then that I remembered I had not bothered to take even a waterskin, far less a cloak, when setting out on this mad journey.

The thundering hooves of the fine horses of Rohan heralded the arrival of the scouting party. Twenty, I could tell by the sounds. There were twenty of them and twelve hounds. It was impossible odds if they discovered my hiding place between the rocks.

“Who trespasses on the Mark?” a loud, gruff voice demanded.

I remained silent, hoping desperately that they would pursue other game. But they would not, I knew. They had followed me across the plains into this craggy outland without rest or reprieve. They were determined to hunt me down.

A fierce gust of wind blew across the plains and I stifled a groan as my sleek, silver hair billowed like a strand of moonshine, bright against the mossy rocks.

“There he is!” the men shouted.

I could hear the sounds of swords being withdrawn as they hurried towards my hiding place. I gritted my teeth. I would not certainly be led out like a truant lad. I was Celeborn, Prince of erstwhile Doriath. I rose to my feet with as much dignity as I could muster at the time and steeled myself for the inevitable. I tried to look calm and unruffled despite my disheveled, pathetic state.

“It’s one of the fey folk!” they exclaimed as they saw me. “Fall back; he’ll conjure spells!”

A spark of irritation rose in me at the ignorance of these men. Conjure spells indeed! Still, their ignorance and fear might make them let me be. I had no wish to be dragged to Edoras and imprisoned for trespass. I would have to remain there until Mithrandir or Saruman intervened to gain me release.

That was what I thought before a bolt from a crossbow grazed my thigh and I screamed in agony. I could hear exclamations of surprise and anger as the hunting party tried to hold back their hounds. The creatures had turned uncontrollable because of the scent of fresh blood. Since I was atop the rocky outcrop, the dogs could not reach me. But the men could.

Strong arms hauled me up and dragged me down forcefully. I groaned in pain as they lifted me up into the saddle of one of the spare horses.

“He won’t last the ride,” one of the older riders opined.

I tried to fight off the unconsciousness caused by blood loss in vain. Perhaps it was for the better. I certainly did not wish to be aware of the damned pain which burned my leg.

The burning of damp wood, the scents of sickness, herbs and strong tea and the all-too familiar stench of blood awakened me. As my eyes cleared, I found myself staring at a low thatched roof. I was still in Rohan then. My suspicions were confirmed when a gust of wind brought the pungent smell of horse-dung to my sensitive nostrils.

“You’re awake,” a shrill, high-pitched voice said. “Let me go fetch the master then.”

I tried to crane my head to see her. Immediately, I wished I had not. She was the ugliest crone I had the misfortune to meet. Some of the old women in Edhellond had been ugly and unattractive. But this ponderous girth of flabby, shriveling flesh was undoubtedly the most repulsive example of feminine kind I have had the misfortune to look upon.

Something of my thoughts must have been evident on my features for she cackled and trilled, “Oh, we can’t all look like you, Elf.”

I tried to form an apology for my rudeness, but my voice devolved into a squeal of pain as she pinched the wound in my thigh.

As pain threatened to send me back to blissful unconsciousness, she remarked interestedly, “You see, Elf.” She waved her fingers before me. They were reddened with the fresh blood that had spurted from my wound when she had pinched. “You and I are the same colour inside.”

I was so glad to faint again.

When consciousness resurfaced, I could smell roast meat and porridge. My stomach made its presence known in a defiant growl. I quelled my hunger determinedly and cast my eyes about. The crone seemed to be nowhere in the dingy chamber. The pallet on which I lay was the only piece of furniture in the shelter. It was pressed close against the mud wall of the hut. I crinkled my nose in disgust as I saw a centipede crawling lazily up the wall. My eyes roamed to the other side. An opening served as the entrance to the hut. A coarse hide hung in the opening to give the hut a semblance of privacy; a far cry from the elaborately wrought doors I had built for my private chambers at home.

The hide was pushed aside and two men walked in. The crone followed them, pure hatred marring her features. I tried to look calm and composed as the men discussed my situation in plain Westron.

“He’s fine, you say?” the younger man asked the crone.

I could not help being impressed by the quiet dignity that this man had. He was not of the Rohirrim, I knew instinctively. For one, he did not smell of horse as those of Rohan did. There was an unconscious air of nobility about his youthful, serene features; almost something elven in his gestures as he spoke to the crone courteously.

“They’re all trouble, lord,” the woman was saying. “We should take him to the King.”

“I assure you,” I managed to find the right words in the common-tongue, “I am no trespasser. I lost my way.”

The men looked down at me. The younger man, the one the crone had addressed ‘lord’, seemed openly curious as he glanced at my unclad torso in an assessing manner. The crone must have undressed me when attempting to tend to my wounds. I frowned at the young man’s open appraisal; then decided to let it pass. After all, I would have done the same if I had been in his position. I am handsome.

The older man exclaimed, “He looks like one of them from the enchanted woods where the witch rules. We should take him to Théoden, Lord.”

“What is the normal procedure to deal with trespassers?” the younger man asked the crone, his eyes still measuring me.

“They are thrown into the prison until someone comes along to plead their case.”

“I see,” the younger man spoke quietly. “Well,” he addressed me, “are you recovered enough to accompany the men to Edoras?”

“I believe I will heal in another day or two,” I said calmly. “But I will not accompany anyone to Edoras. My land is Lothlórien and I will journey north as soon as I may.”

“Nobody is there to vouch for you. Our enemy’s spies are many and his wiles limitless. For all we know, you can be one of them. You will go to the King, Elf,” the older man said firmly. He was not treating me with discourtesy, I realized, he was merely being cautious. It was a shared trait amongst us all.

“Can’t I be judged by you?” I addressed the younger man who seemed to the person in charge. “Your men wounded me. I was trespassing. Let it end at that. I am not a spy, I swear.”

“I am not of Rohan,” the man shrugged. “My hunting party was responsible for your wound and I apologize.”

“Those of Lothlórien have fought against the enemy all their lives,” I began again.

“So did Saruman before he turned a new leaf and became an apprentice of Mordor,” the older man reminded me.

“I am Celeborn, the lord of Lothlórien,” I said finally.

I had to get out of this disastrous situation fast. I had absolutely no wish to be taken to Edoras and subjected to a human King’s judgment. I liked the Rohirrim well enough, but not well enough to let them judge me. I had decided to keep my identity a secret. But the possible consequences of this ill-advised venture did not hearten me at all. I wanted to return home as soon as I could.

The men were staring at my unclad, disheveled form with some disbelief. I decided to repeat my words.

But before I could, the crone began cackling in the odd, irritating manner she had and spluttered, “You are that, Elf, and I am Queen Beruthiel herself!”

The older man laughed at her barb and shook his head at me before leaving the shack. The younger man was still staring at me. I huffed in disdain and drew the blanket to my chest. It smelt of horse. I cursed under my breath. Why did everything have to smell of horse?

The crone left, still cackling over her splendid line. I rolled my eyes despite my intention to be calm and respectable.

The younger man laughed and came to stand over me. I glared at him.

“I see no reason why you should laugh at a lost elf whom your hunting party wounded,” I said acidly.

My sarcasm was a well-renowned vice. There were rumours that I must have had Noldorin ancestors somewhere in my lineage for so remarkable was my acerbic tongue. They pained me, such tales, for I am pure and free of the taint of my wife’s clan.

“I am not laughing at your tale,” he said simply as he dropped to his haunches beside me. His calm brown eyes were inspecting my admittedly odd-coloured hair.

I did not reply as I brought my hands up into a tangle to form a nest for my head to cuddle in. Let him stare as long as he wanted, I decided nastily. I would try to procure my wife’s aid and escape from this hovel.

“The old manuscripts of our forefathers speak of only one silver-haired elf, a Celeborn of Doriath,” he said in a thoughtful tone.

“I am aware of that. You might as well as believe me and let me travel home,” I said scornfully. How dared they even doubt me?

“As I said, I am not of Rohan. I cannot answer for the customs and the laws of these people. My men wounded you, though it was because they were scared. They have never seen one of your people before. So it is my duty to stay with you till you are hale. But I cannot aid you if you wish to escape the riders of the Mark. They are my allies and I respect their laws.”

This was delivered in a matter-of-fact manner. I could not help being intrigued by this strange, young lord. Not of Rohan? Did that mean that the man was from Gondor?

“I gave you my name. It is but fair that I know yours,” I said curiously.

I had already forgiven him for wounding me. I might have done the same. I had done the same. I quickly blanked out my past. It would not help me.

He tilted his head, his eyes lighting up in delight as he realized I was content to put the incident of the wound behind us. When thus lit up, his eyes shone in compassion and sincerity. I was taken aback frankly. I had seen many men including the late, unlamented Isildur and none of them had been as honest as this young lord; not even Estel, Elrond’s foster-son.

“You are right.” He inclined his head in a gesture of courtesy.

His unfailing civility amazed me. There was his manner of speech which never varied whether he addressed an equal, a warrior under him, a disgruntled elf or an ugly crone. Barely did those born and bred in the elven courts from their infancy equal such nobility. And it was less likely in the case of men.

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor.”

He smiled as my eyes widened in recognition. The son of the steward then… From what Mithrandir had said, I understood that this man was intelligent and less impulsive than his brother.

“Well-met, Lord Faramir,” I said courteously, tempering my arrogance with politeness.

“Well-met indeed,” he offered me one of those ephemeral smiles that had the potency to warm the onlooker’s heart.

“Why is a son of Gondor hunting in these plains?” I asked curiously.

“May I ask why the lord of the golden wood² is roaming like a mendicant?”

I groaned and threw my hand over my eyes in petulance. I had no wish to answer that question.

“I am serious, lord.”

He placed his hand on mine, the blanket offering but scant separation. It was soothing to smell something other than horse. I inhaled sharply as his scent pervaded the air. As his hand squeezed mine, I lifted my limb from over my eyes and glared at him.

“They say Théoden is mad. I have seen him and I believe the rumour. If you are taken to Edoras, your motives will be thoroughly scrutinized.”

He sounded eminently reasonable. For a moment, it felt as if I was younger than him. His wisdom ranged beyond his youth. Perhaps not even age and experience could lend me a defense against the rash, impulsive nature I had.

“I was lost.”

I cringed at how pathetic those words must sound. He raised his eyebrows reminding me of Elrond. Then he smiled and said, “I am sure you are right. But I am not so sure that those in Edoras will be inclined to believe you.”

“They can go muck their rotten stables!” I cursed and made to get up. I would be rid of this country as soon as I could.

He shook his head, a frown settling on his forehead. The frown did not suit him at all. He pushed me back onto the pallet and left his palms on my shoulders as if to prevent me from rising again.

“You must heal first, lord,” he chastised me, disapproval clear in his brown gaze.

I felt guilty for his concern. Contritely, I said, “I will not attempt it again.”

The frown cleared away from the noble forehead leaving behind the warmth of before. It made me happier. Displeasure and anger did not become his handsome mien.

“Shall I fetch you something to eat?” he asked me.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled acknowledgment. I was about to apologize for that when he gave yet another of his trademark smiles and hurried out of the tent.

I sighed and closed my eyes. He would make an excellent ruler someday… if Gondor still stood. With the current situation, I did not think the chances favourable. Would he die defending his city? Yes, he seemed the type of warrior who remained faithful till the end. I wondered why I was thinking of his future. I have never been renowned for selflessness. Things and people that did not concern me had never merited my attention.

There was the sound of the hide curtain being pulled open again. I smiled and looked up to greet him. I believe a Naugrim¹ curse escaped me when I saw the crone in the entrance, a vessel of broth in her gnarled hands.

“Nothing pretty, I’m very sure?” she asked me cheerily when she heard my curse.

I did not deign to reply. The pain that had receded while talking to Faramir made a majestic comeback when the woman seated herself beside me.

Suffice it to say that being spoon-fed by that crone is not something I would ever wish upon even my enemies.

Notes:

¹ Naugrim – of the dwarves.

² The golden wood – Lothlórien.

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