Faramir Fiction Archive

The Steward’s Moon (NC-17)

Written by J_dav

01 February 2010 | 12184 words

Chapter 3

“Altáriel,” I whispered as she opened the door to let me in.

She smiled in welcome. The chamber was lit with perfumed candles. Satin gleamed on the decadent marriage-bed. Blue eyes shone in anticipation as her fingers clasped mine in a blatant gesture of invitation. I laughed at her lack of coyness.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” I lied. “I am merely overwhelmed. We are finally here.”

“Shall we save all those speeches for tomorrow morning?” she purred. “I have some ideas that I have been dying to perpetrate upon my silver tree.”

Those words sent a shiver down my spine. I nodded shakily and led her to the bed. My hands came up to fumble with the laces of her gown. She slapped them away impatiently and undid the ties with a speed that would have rivaled even a professional courtesan. With a low, husky laugh she straddled me and her hair obscured us from the world. I brought my mouth to her parted lips and pushed the gown away from her shoulders.

The sight took my breath away, literally.

She was a magnificent woman, her pale skin unblemished but for the faint scars on her hands. The scars had been a subject of reticence and I had never pressed her for answers. I bent to press my lips to those scars, sealing my vow of devotion. My hair brushed against her taut nipples and she moaned deep within her throat. The sound aroused me unbearably and my hands came to grip her waist. Her skin was heated silk under my hands. When I fondled her breasts she hissed and bent forward to bite down on my collarbone sending fiery signals down into my loins.

“Altáriel,” I murmured over and over again as her fingers mapped every inch of my upper back.

“Lie down,” she commanded, her eyes dark oceans of passion.

I complied and sighed as she undressed me swiftly. Her thighs encased my waist as she knelt above me and stretched. The wanton display made me growl and I reached up to pull her down atop me so that her pelvis met mine. We moaned at the sensation and gripped each other as I bucked against her in rising urgency.

“I need you,” I whispered in her ear, delighting in the shiver that wracked her body when my hot breath fondled her earlobe.

“Let me taste you first,” she murmured as she pushed herself up and glided down to my loins where my erection jutted proud and ready.

“I am-” I began in disapproval.

“Shhh…” she said, “let me.”

A curious finger had already begun tracing a path along my penis, its touch exquisite torment. I groaned and bucked to gain more friction. But she settled into languor as she slowed and began provoking me deliberately. Her eyes were half-closed as she contemplated her finger’s path down to the sensitive tip of my erection.

“Altáriel!” I hissed in need.

She did not reply as she played with the foreskin gently making me groan deeply. She laughed huskily and gathered up a pearly drop of ejaculate I watched in stunned disbelief as she brought her finger to her lips and sucked on it.

Our eyes met and she proclaimed smugly, “You taste ravishing.”

It proved to be too much for me. I growled and leapt, pushing her back so that I lay atop her. With a commanding nudge, I forced her legs open and positioned myself. She laughed as she drew her legs up and gave me a sultry look of invitation.

I looked at the picture she made, of boneless repose given a bodily form. I did not deserve her at all.

She huffed in impatience and brought one hand to stroke my erection purposefully. When my ejaculate tainted her hand, she stopped and brought her fingers up to my lips. The intent was clear. I glared at her, then capitulated and drew her fingers into my mouth. I had never liked this particular act, but the masterful expression in her eyes persuaded me. I tasted the unique flavour of her skin and the alien taste of my own seed. If anything, the perverse act spurred my lust higher and I drove into her with a low growl.

I woke up with a gasp. To my right, squatting on the floor was the old crone. Her head lolled against the wall as she slept the sleep of the dead, her mouth wide open and her snores thunderous enough to cause a quake. Glad that I had not awakened her, I sighed and settled back onto my pallet. I felt miserable, I felt lonely and I missed my wife. Of course, I would never admit any of these to a living soul.

My vivid dream had wrought an unwelcome change to my body. I tried to will away the reaction in vain. I cursed; self-pleasuring on top of my current list of sins. Disgustedly, I moved my right hand to wrap around the tumescent mischief and began firm, fast strokes. Then I ceased as I wondered about the mess that would happen on the pallet if I continued.

I had never given a thought to such things before. When in my land, I could couple or masturbate wherever my fancy wished me to. I did not even know if there were washerwomen.

Sighing, I made to get up. I would get no rest in this state. Perhaps I could steal out silently and return without anyone being the wiser. I pulled on my tunic and brushed back my hair with my fingers.

My thigh complained quite when I gingerly tested it. But with the determination that I must have caught from my wife because of those long years of cohabitation, I gritted my teeth and hobbled past the crone. I was not quiet enough, but the woman slept on, blissfully unaware.

I muttered a few words of gratitude to whichever deity had taken pity on me and stepped out of the tent.

It was a full moon night. The yellow orb stared unblinkingly at me as its cold radiance washed over the grasslands. Pain made walking nigh impossible, but I persisted down the path that led away from the group of hovels. The moonlight was a soothing companion and relaxation set in. I found a stable door to lean against and sighed. My gaze turned north and I imagined that I could see the tranquil woods I ruled.

The soothing night air was calming down my rambunctious erection and I smiled in relief. I would not have to indulge in self-pleasuring. The activity usually left me hollow, lonely and miserable. I loathed it.

“Celeborn?” a familiar voice asked.

I turned to find brown eyes gleaming from beneath tousled-hair. He looked younger, his features open and concerned.

“I merely fancied a walk,” I lied coolly. Whoever said that elves never lie did not account for me.

“I thought I heard a sound of distress,” he said uncertainly, joining me by the stable door.

“Must have been one of the horses. There are more horses than men here.” I shrugged.

“No doubt, you are right,” he assented quietly.

“It is a splendid night, full moon and all,” I remarked as I tried to change the subject. My thigh hurt hellishly, but I would never admit that.

“They call it ‘The Steward’s Moon’ in my land…”

“Why?” I asked, truly curious.

He leant back against the stable door before beginning the tale. “Mardil Voronwë³ was the first of the stewards. Mardil the Good, he was called by our people. He took up the rule of Gondor when the foolhardy King Eärnur⁴ did not return from his ill-advised combat with the Witch King. It was spring. It is said that the moon shone full upon Mardil when he took up the rod of the stewards. Since then the first full moon of spring is called The Steward’s Moon.”

I said quietly, “That seems most apt.”

“Of course, our tales and folklore cannot enthrall you as the elven lays can,” he demurred. “We are yet a young race.”

“By our reckoning, you are indeed a young race. But unlike us, you do not fritter away your youth in dance and song. The race of men practices wisdom that took us years to achieve. Even now, there are those like me who are not tempered by prudence and perception.”

“Thank you,” he said, his eyes shining in gratitude at my words.

I smiled and reached across to clasp his shoulder.

His eyes darkened in thought as he weighed some course of action in his mind. I tilted my head inquisitively. He smiled and stepped forward to push the stable door open. The smell of horses assailed me and I scowled at him. His smile became a mischievous smirk as he nudged me in. I hobbled inside and turned to stare at him as he entered and closed the door behind us.

“I loathe the smell,” I had to say.

“I know,” he assured me easily as he met my gaze.

“What?” I asked uncertainly.

A familiar strobe of desire was making its way down my body. His unwashed scent, the smell of horses and my own sweat conspired to make my senses acutely perceptive of the pheromones awash in the air.

“I did promise you something,” he said quietly as his fingers began a steady path down my forearms making me shudder.

I did not reply as I stared at the small expanse of chest-hair displayed because of the undone top buttons of his shirt. A wince escaped me when his fingers ghosted over my thigh. The stab of pain served to intensify the heady feeling that I reeled under. I had closed my eyes and leant back against the door, so I did not see his fingers undoing my tunic laces and letting the garment fall at my feet.

When his strong arms came to embrace me, I sighed and relinquished my will.

Notes:

³ Mardil Voronwë ‘the Steadfast’, the first of the Ruling Stewards. His successors ceased to use High-elven names. I have taken considerable liberty in adding the legend of the steward’s moon. It seemed to enhance my plot.

⁴ Eärnur of Gondor – was lost with a group of knights when he led them to combat the Witch King in Minas Morgul. Because of his disappearance, Mardil assumed the rule of Gondor as the steward.

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