Faramir Fiction Archive

The Steward’s Moon (NC-17)

Written by J_dav

01 February 2010 | 12184 words

Chapter 4

“You need me,” he whispered as my trembling fingers hovered over the clasps of his tunic. “Why do you hesitate?”

I shook my head and pulled my unwilling hands away. More infidelity would not help my conscience at this stage.

“Let me make you better,” he hissed. His fingers dug into my shoulders and pulled me to him, gaining a loud groan from me.

“Relax,” he said, “and trust me.”

“Trust,” I laughed weakly. “I cannot trust someone who wounded me a week ago!”

“Yet you do.”

“I think I am mad.”

His fingers clenched down on my shoulders and he twisted me down onto a bale of hay. I shouted a curse and then resigned myself to his exuberance as he fell atop me, his hot breath caressing my face.

“I could have fallen on my unhealed leg, you fool,” I chided him. He laughed, a low husky voice that effectively threw my caution to the wind. I knew I would regret it the next day, but I applied my fingers to the pleasurable task of ripping his shirt apart.

“You are more impatient than a human,” he observed, as I tore the garment and threw it away.

The warmth of his flesh against mine, along with the maddening scent of his musk, was more than I could bear and I hissed in want. He chuckled and bent to bite down on the knot of my collar-bone, eliciting a long drawn-out, hoarse cry from my lips. I let my hands rove over the plane of his back, delighting in the play of muscles under his skin as my fingers ghosted over them. When my hands followed the clean divide of his ribs, through the valley along his spine, he stiffened and gripped my flanks, rubbing against my loins to gain more friction.

“Hush,” I tried to soothe him as his movements inflamed us more. I could not help the bucking of my hips against him as he moved above me in that wanton, uncontrolled manner.

“Shut up and hurry,” he growled. To emphasize the point, he brought a hand between us, dragging our erections together into its grip and pulling forcefully. Pain flared through my blood and I bit down on my lips to stifle a shout.

His brutal stroking continued and I pushed him away, so that he was flat on his back atop the hay. I rolled over and kissed him, ensuring that he was almost asphyxiated. His nails dug into my skin as he flailed from the lack of air to his lungs. His tongue fought a fiery battle with mine, suckling and defending the territory. I wound my fingers in his curly hair and withdrew to his neck, allowing him deep, shuddering breaths.

“Celeborn!” he exclaimed.

I looked up innocently, the taste of his sweat still lingering on my tongue, having obtained it from an extensive exploration of his areola. He laughed disbelievingly and pushed my face back down to its interrupted task. I had many faults; but nobody had ever accused me of being an uninventive lover. I put my skills to good use in rendering him speechless. At the height of disorientation, he was as blasphemous as Galadriel and the thought did nothing to help my guilt. But it was a relief to lose myself in something as tangible and painful as this, instead of brooding upon my past.

There was nothing of Rúmil’s coy manipulations in Faramir. The man was frank and open. He gave freely, without holding back and that was enough to make me grieve. Such innocence, I had not seen in anyone for a long time.

“I am close,” he said brokenly as I applied my fingers and lips to the warm, sweating skin of his inner thighs.

“You are very close to me,” I teased him, blowing across the organ in question. He shuddered and arched, trying to gain contact.

“Please,” he hissed.

“Since you ask so nicely,” I obliged, clamping down his waist with my hands and applying one of my most refined skills to bring about his physical release. He came with a wail, his body shuddering in the aftermath. I dragged myself up and took him into my arms, knowing well the cataclysmic nature of a young man’s orgasm. It was a long time before he stilled to quiescence in my arms, his breath harsh and uneven. I sang to him an old hunting lay of Doriath, marvelling at the sheer innocence of his features. Let him never lose that, I prayed.

“I am ever so sorry,” he mumbled finally.

“What for?” I asked him quizzically, wiping away the droplets of sweat from his shining forehead.

“For not reciprocating,” he said dolefully, raising himself to rest on his elbows with great effort.

“We have time,” I said easily, lying down at my ease on the hay. Hay was uncomfortable and irritated my skin, but it was better than a stone floor. A horse in one of the stalls whinnied before returning to its sleep. I rolled my eyes. The place stank worse than a pigsty.

“I would rather be a pig-keeper than a stable master,” I mused out aloud.

A low, throaty chuckle distracted me from my ponderings and I opened my eyes to see warm, brown orbs dancing mischievously.

“What are you thinking?” I wanted to know.

“Mithrandir was right about you, you see,” he remarked, the grin not quitting his face.

I raised my eyebrows and demanded, “What slander does he spread about me?”

“I hardly call it slander,” he teased, “particularly when you have proved it yourself.”

Scandalized, I rolled over and pinned him beneath me. His body shook with suppressed laughter and that did nothing to help my chagrin.

“What did he say?” I demanded, punctuating my sentence with several bruising bites on his neck.

“That you are the main attraction of Lothlórien.” He laughed outright as I groaned and buried my face under his chin. “He told me that you are a very handsome specimen, in and out of clothes.”

“The damn, meddling, busybody,” I began indignantly. “Not only does he take advantage of my hospitality, he also sees it fit to spy on me!”

“Perhaps you weren’t all that discreet,” Faramir commented snidely.

This playful side of him was entirely at odds with the quiet, responsible, compassionate man he was in the daylight. I shook my head. My encounters with Rúmil had all been on the other end of discretion. A wry smile fought its way onto my lips. I must have been mad to allow him such liberties. Then I thought of why I had consented at all.

“It was worth it, you know,” Faramir was saying.

“I beg your pardon?”

“If I had a wife that I loved as much as you love yours, then I would have done the same.”

I had not expected such words of wisdom to come from kiss-swollen, bruised lips. It was one of the surprises that life delighted in providing me.

“I am more grateful than I can say,” I said simply.

“I should be the grateful one,” he retorted. “I got a chance to sample the delights of the famed lord of Lothlórien.”

“My blushes!” I rolled my eyes as I leant in to kiss him silent. When I looked up again, he was sufficiently distracted and did not attempt to speak. Grinning, I said, “You are going to break too many hearts, young lord. The sight you look!”

“I resemble my mother, ‘tis said,” he said languidly, running his hands down to cup my hips.

“I have not seen her. But I have heard Mithrandir say that she was a very beautiful woman. Then you must certainly resemble her.”

“Whom do you resemble?” he asked me, his eyes shining in curiosity.

I stared at him incredulously for a few moments. He seemed in earnest though and I muttered, “I wouldn’t know. My parents left for the west when I was very young. I don’t remember them much. I think I resembled my father. I am not sure, though.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” His eyes were huge, brown orbs that I had to chuckle at the sight he made.

“Because,” I suppressed my memories. “Because I liked this land and I didn’t want to go west.”

“Does that mean you will not leave with your wife?” he asked tentatively. “But it wouldn’t be right. You belong to the west!” He had the passion of a fanatic when truly roused, I noticed wryly.

“I belong with my infuriating wife. If she goes west, I shall go with her, provided she will have me,” I said simply. It was a decision made for me.

“She shall certainly go west. She came from there, after all.” He yawned and pulled me closer for gaining warmth.

“I am afraid that things are never so simple when it comes to her.”

“Women are complicated; my brother says so.”

“Men are worse.” I thought of Rúmil and suppressed a flinch. “It depends, I daresay.”

“Go to sleep,” he ruffled my hair as if I were a young human child. I snorted, but obeyed him anyway.

When I woke in the morning, my whole body complained ardently. I was too old to go trysting in stables. I sighed and plucked away the strands of hay that clung to my sweating skin. My hair must have been a scary sight, I feared. Beside me, blissfully ignorant of the disheveled, disreputable state he was in, Faramir slept like a man after a hard day’s labour. I rose and gingerly stepped away from the hay bale, taking utmost care not to wake him. In sleep, the innocence was even more perilously enhanced.

I sighed before making my way to a pail of water placed in the nearest stall. The horse snorted and reared at me. I glared at it.

“Do let the horses sleep, Celeborn,” a muffled, sleepy voice implored.

“I am just borrowing the water from the good beast,” I said righteously.

I was not sure if it was the man or the beast that snorted. I rolled my eyes and ‘borrowed’ the pail of water before returning to the hay bale. Faramir yelped and shot to his feet.

I turned to face the stable door, my limbs arching into the first defensive position I could think of.

“You are allergic to hay,” Faramir said in a high, disturbed voice.

I turned to stare incredulously at him. He pointed at my torso, and on looking down, I saw red welts.

“Allergic?” I chewed over the word.

“You are not tolerant to hay,” he waved his hand impatiently and rushed to my side. “I wonder if it will do down fast. Wait here,” he said briskly, getting into his torn tunic and breeches. “I shall get you something.”

“I have never taken badly to anything before,” I could not help remarking.

“Apparently you have, now,” he retorted before disappearing and leaving me alone with those irritating horses.

He returned with a balm that stung too badly and I threatened to kill him if he dared bring it near my skin ever again. The welts had turned purple now. He seemed worried.

“I don’t think anybody in Rohan will have such a reaction to hay, as inured to horses and fields as they are,” he said helplessly. “I have asked around for antidotes and they don’t have any.”

“Just tell them that I am contagious,” I muttered. “At least, they won’t insist on keeping me imprisoned.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed joyfully, pulling me to him and kissing me, welts and all. I indulged myself thoroughly before breaking away and glaring at him.

Contritely, he patted a welt and tutted in sympathy before saying, “It is a brilliant scheme. You can leave the place!”

Before I could say anything, he had rushed out again, only to return with the Rohirrim commander. I endured with frosty disdain as the commander inspected me from every angle before pronouncing me guilty of conjuring a black magic to inflict myself with this strange ailment.

“What does it do?” he asked me brusquely, fear shining in his eyes.

“He won’t answer,” Faramir said quietly, all grace and wisdom. “But I have learnt this in my researches about the elves. This sickness infects your children fast and then the pregnant woman. There is no cure. We must set him loose far away from our men and herds before he affects us all!”

I found myself thrown out of the little hamlet. Faramir had bravely volunteered to see to it that I did not return to the place. Armed and horsed, he followed me at a safe distance, so that I did not infect him. Once we were far out of sight from the eyes of the Rohirrim, he whistled and drew up with me. I rolled my eyes and pulled his tunic closer to cover my neck from the bright sun. The welts stung badly when exposed to the sun and his tunic had too small a collar to cover my neck properly. He chuckled and dismounted, falling into stride with me.

“You have such an enticing rearview,” he said jovially, looping his arm through mine. “It was with great difficulty that I restrained myself from pushing you down to the ground and pounding you senseless.”

The brutal imagery did nothing to help my composure and I settled for a snort. He laughed, his voice as pleasing as the warmth of his body pressed against mine.

“How long does it take?” I asked him disconsolately.

“I don’t know,” he grinned. “My brother says that it is the freckled, gangly city-lads who have never done a day’s work in their lives that fall prey to hay fever. You seem to have a very severe reaction to it.”

“You are very cheerful about that,” I said acidly.

“I did not expect the valiant, respected lord of Lothlórien to have a reaction to hay,” he said snidely.

“Recent developments may have proved that I am neither as valiant nor as respected as the tales say,” I observed petulantly.

“When you come to Gondor, I shall take you to my uncle, Imrahil. He rules in Dol Amroth. He is like you, a hedonist. You shall get along well.”

“Does he resemble you?”

“I have been told that I take after him,” he said.

“Then I shall certainly get along well with him.”

“Flatterer,” he grumbled, though the twinkle in his eyes gave him away completely.

“Promise me one thing,” I begged him. “Stay as you are, never lose your innocence. You will realize the beauty of it one day.”

“Really, Celeborn!” he exclaimed, turning crimson in embarrassment. “I am anything but innocent!”

“I didn’t mean it that way, and you know that well,” I said irritably.

Sudden warmth gushed through me and I knew instinctively that I was home. I was miles away from Lothlórien, of course. But I was home. Faramir muttered an imprecation under his breath and stilled his horse.

“You look terrible,” the voice that I would love above everything else washed over my senses like foam over sand on the seashore.

I did not dare to meet her eyes. But Faramir clucked impatiently and I gulped before looking up. Blue eyes, eyes that had ensnared me from the very moment I had first met their disdainful regard…

“He was lost,” Faramir chimed in helpfully.

“And you found him,” she said quietly. There was no disdain or pride in her voice. Startled by the absence of those emotions, I watched as she moved to embrace Faramir, her eyes shining in gratitude.

“Thank you,” she whispered as he returned her embrace. When she stepped back, he proffered a gallant bow and kissed her hand, the very soul of chivalry.

“It was my pleasure to help him,” he said, the innocence and honesty in his eyes painful to watch.

“But we owe you a debt, and a large one at that,” she said. “You have my favour, Lord Faramir. When things are at their direst, call to me and I shall aid you with all that I am.”

Faramir looked stunned, as was I. I had never heard my wife professing gratitude to anyone, least of all a young human. But the fervent tones testified to her sincerity.

“Come now, Faramir,” she smiled. “Did my husband teach you to be wary of my words?”

“He did not teach me anything useful,” he rallied with a quip. I rolled my eyes as they laughed.

“I should leave, before the Rohirrim send word to my brother that I am held hostage by perilous beings.”

I stared tongue-tied as Galadriel once again spoke words of gratitude and joy. Then they turned to me. I muttered something vague about being indebted to his aid.

“Celeborn!” Galadriel chastised me.

“Take care,” he said smiling, coming to embrace me. I relaxed as his fingers patted me soothingly. “It shall turn out all right,” he reassured me. “Just use your common sense occasionally.”

I spluttered and exclaimed, “Advising me!”

“You need it,” he shrugged as he stepped away and winked at Galadriel. Before I could retort, he whistled for his horse and leapt nimbly atop it. With a graceful wave to us, he dug in his spurs and cantered across the plains, into the sunset.

We watched his form until it had disappeared. Then I turned to face her, willing myself to hide my turmoil from her.

“Come.” She nodded towards her mount. The sparkle that had glinted in her eyes had given away to weariness. Her form was spectrally gaunt and made worse by the hollowed cheekbones of her face.

“I-”

“Are you reactive to hay?”

“I found out the hard way.”

“A pity then,” she remarked, her eyes regaining their sparkle. “We Finwëans harbour depraved fantasies about stables, seashores and sand dunes. It is an inherited affliction. I could always find another partner, I suppose.”

“Altáriel,” I said wearily.

“Yes?”

“Do you think it shall get better?” I did not know how to ask.

“Of course. If you beg me nicely for an antidote,” she replied calmly.

“I don’t mean the hay.”

When she spoke, her voice was low and pained. “It shall not, I fear. It deepens with the passage of time.”

“How do you bear it?” I wrung my hands. “I am nearly mad because of it.”

“It is not that bad,” she smiled. “When has company not alleviated misery? Thank the fate for that. We suffer together.”

“Love is the worst kind of suffering,” I groaned as we walked towards Lothlórien. “I frankly curse the day I met you.”

“You might have died of boredom if you hadn’t met me.”

“Little comfort does that give me,” I muttered.

But I was relieved. Faramir was right, in everything. She loved me just as badly and incurably as I loved her. That was pure relief. She would have me back. I stole a glance at her set mien. She would have me back after another courting. But I was in no hurry. That she deigned to speak to me was the most unexpected of gifts fate had given.

“I don’t deserve you,” I said simply.

“Some would say that it is the other way around,” she remarked.

“I don’t agree with them.”

“It is a moot point. We are stuck together.”

“That gives me supreme consolation.”

“You have a limited imagination, to be consoled so easily.” She threw me a scornful glance.

“I am pleased with my imagination, as it stands.” I shrugged. “As long as I have you, I need nothing else.”

“You can’t play the sheath with me,” she was teasing me.

I knew then that it would be all right. That she teased me meant she had forgiven me already.

“I suppose I could control the urge for the sake of our harmony,” I replied.

“I certainly expect you to. I have absolutely no inclination to see you murdering your paramours in that field.”

Her easy words caught me stunned. She seemed to sense it for she leavened her sentence saying, “An act of passion is not necessarily an act of crime.”

I did not reply. The last thing I wanted to do right then was to bicker with her.

During the war on the fields of Pelennor,

Lothlórien.

“Altáriel?” I rushed into the chamber and caught her as she fell limp into my hands. “What ails you?”

“Faramir calls for me. He is hemmed in by the enemy.” She frowned and pulled away from me, wincing as she did so. “I would be damned rather than letting him die.”

She did not let him die. Her word was sacrosanct as always. Though the effort of keeping him alive until he made it back to Gondor nearly sapped her life, she prevailed at the end.

“Did you have to?” I chided her wearily as my fingers trembled while caressing her dear, worn face.

“He saved you. I can never repay him enough,” she said simply.

The end of the 3rd Age,

Gondor.

“Celeborn!” Faramir rushed to greet me, his features aglow with that innocent joy which had always characterized him despite his many trials.

“Hail the Steward of Gondor!” I laughed as I embraced him.

“You look splendid,” he remarked.

“I cannot say the same of you.” I eyed his convalescing form with concern. “You look terrible.”

“You looked worse when you had the hayfever,” he teased me, as he led me into the palace. “Where is your lady?”

“Charming the dwarves, I suspect.” I rolled my eyes. “She can be such a performer when the fancy strikes her.”

“This is Éowyn,” he introduced me to a beautiful, golden woman.

“The White Lady of Rohan,” I smiled and bowed in acknowledgment.

“I am undeserving of such titles,” she said, her blue eyes raking me. “But it is a pleasure to meet the lord of Lothlórien. Lord Faramir holds you in high esteem.”

She resembled my wife in ways more than one. I met Faramir’s amused gaze. When she took her leave of us, I told him, “She shall give you hell.”

“You speak as from experience,” he laughed.

“Trust me,” I muttered. “I know her sort. I have been disastrously involved with one for many long years.”

“The sentiment is shared,” Galadriel broke into the conversation as she joined us, escorted by her nephew, her features jubilant and content.

“I did never thank you for saving my life!” Faramir exclaimed, leaning in to place a kiss on her cheeks.

“Dear me, Galadriel,” Erestor remarked, “whenever did you start saving handsome young Gondorians?”

“Only the once, nephew-mine,” she laughed. “There was a debt of honour involved.” The same mix of gratitude and peace shone in her eyes when they rested upon Faramir again. “My warmest wishes for your upcoming marriage!”

“Celeborn was not sanguine about my martial harmony because of certain traits he has perceived in my betrothed.”

Galadriel sent me an affectionate glare before saying, “But you are not Celeborn, after all.”

The resulting bout of laughter that spread among the gathered people did nothing to enhance my shaky reputation. I could only smile and bear it with good grace. I suppose she was entitled to make such statements. After all, I had provoked her by comparing Éowyn to her and drawing conclusions about happy matrimony.

4th age,

Aboard a ship.

I wound my arms about her slender waist and inhaled deeply of her scent. She leant against me, her elegant back pressing against my chest. We fit together exactly in whatever orientation we cared to align ourselves. As inseparable as a pair of old shoes, Elrond had once teased us.

“Look at the sky. It is the full moon tonight,” she said quietly. I could discern the weariness in her voice. With some subtle manipulation, I would make her retire. Asking her directly rarely worked to my advantage.

I watched the moonshine playing coyly with the waters below.

“T’is the Steward’s Moon tonight,” I said, as I remembered another night when a young human had explained to me the significance of the first full moon of spring.

“What does that mean? I have heard of the hunter’s moon and the vulture’s moon. I have never heard of the steward’s moon.”

“Long, long ago-”

“Let us skip that part,” she murmured drowsily.

“Very well then.” I sighed, sounding extremely put out. She chuckled and pressed against me more forcefully.

“Mardil Voronwë was the first of the stewards. Mardil the Good, he was called by the people. He took up the rule of Gondor when the foolhardy King Eärnur 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 should have thanked Faramir for teaching you the history of Gondor,” she said, “among many other things.”

“I had never seen you thanking anyone before… that day on the plains. I don’t understand,” I halted. “That wasn’t much. Theóden would have let me return once he was convinced of my identity. I was hardly in danger.”

“Faramir did not save you,” she agreed sleepily. “He saved us.”

“I know.” I knew that now. He had made clear to me in one single night what I had never understood in centuries of introspection.

“I am retiring to bed,” she muttered. “I don’t think I will make it till there without falling asleep on my feet.”

“Then there is no reason why you should employ your feet to get yourself there,” I said. Then I matched word to action and pulled her into my arms, lifting her light form off the deck. Her hands came to twine about my neck involuntarily. The sight of her wide, blue, shocked eyes made me laugh.

“Whatever are you doing?” she asked a trifle breathlessly.

“Do you terribly mind?”

“Not in the least,” she blushed and ducked her head into the folds of my robes, nuzzling her nose against my skin.

With one last grateful look at the Steward’s Moon above us, I carried her to our cabin and shut the door behind us.

We were going home.

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