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I could hear the sounds of swords being withdrawn as they hurried towards my hiding place.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.

Chapter Two

“It’s a new day,” the crone greeted me.

I frowned at her before rubbing my eyes and looking blearily at the sunlight which washed in through the entrance. I tried to test my thigh surreptitiously, would it stand my weight? It complained with a spasm and I resigned myself to yet another bedridden day in this hovel.

The gnarled fingers came up authoritatively to push the blanket away from my form. I suffered her inspection in sullen silence. When she prodded and poked in the area of the wound, I had to bite down on my lips to stifle the gasp of pain that threatened to escape me. She chuckled and continued her examination. I made a mental note to give the healers of Lothlórien more say in the matters of medicine. I had truly not recognized the paragons for being the stellar examples of patient-care that they were.

I made to sit up as she drew away. I was casting my eyes about for a chamber-pot when she remarked, “You are a pretty one.”

I had believed that my blushing days were far behind me. But this crone had a way of upsetting my fine composure with her lurid statements.

“I thank you,” I managed to splutter before renewing my search.

“What do you need?”

I debated for a fraction of a moment before giving in. She was in charge. It would not do to gainsay her.

“I need the chamber-pot, my lady.”

The last two words were pure flattery on my part. I did hate myself for being brought so low to call this unappealing, rude creature a ‘lady’. Still, circumstances rule us.

She ran a cool, measuring look over my blanket-covered form before nodding and saying, “I’ll ask one of the men to help you with it.”

I waited impatiently as she sidled out. A few moments of suppressed tension later, Faramir strode in, a worried expression on his face.

“Good morning,” I greeted him.

He made a noncommittal noise deep in his throat before sitting down on the pallet beside my prone form and clasping his hands together in tension.

“Yes?” I prompted him. He did not look quite the calm, young lord he had been the previous day.

“The midwife says that your wound is getting worse.” Those brown eyes were filled with remorse. “The men are preparing a litter. We need to get you to a good healer.”

I was touched by his guilt about my condition. I was even more touched by the fact that he had chosen to admit his remorse openly unlike my wife who seemed to believe that deception was the antidote to hurt. And the fact that he had been stirred enough by guilt to immediately start doing what he judged the best course added yet another golden reference in the mental archive I was compiling on him.

“Yes?” he was asking me concernedly.

“I’d be grateful if you sent someone in to help me with the chamber-pot,” I said easily. “As for the wound, you need not worry. I have always had a history of getting sicker before convalescing.”

“I am not sure,” he shook his head querulously. “You cannot possibly know what is wrong with your body with your reflexes so dulled. You did not even notice that I came in last night four times to look in on you.”

I was even more touched by this latest revelation. But the prideful creature that I was, I could not help acerbically saying, “My reflexes were dulled because the crone saw it fit to sedate me senseless with her hellish concoction.”

“What?” he asked in alarm. “I will immediately get someone else to watch over you! I am extremely sorry for her callousness.”

“Don’t be,” I sighed. “She drugged me because she felt it would be better to let my body rest completely without the pain keeping me awake and restless. Drugging a patient is a healer’s privilege. My son-by-law has been known to drug those who incur his wrath. I wouldn’t put it above my wife too.”

“Oh,” his lips parted in a perfect round as he contemplated my revelation.

“Yes.” I yawned and stretched. “I’d be happy to tell you more about their devious tricks, but I really need the chamber-pot. Could you send someone in?”

“I am sorry,” he apologized oh-so-charmingly that I had to smile. He would go far in life, this young lord of Gondor, I was sure.

I was still mulling over his courteous manner when I felt a tentative hand come to rest on my shoulder. I looked up to see Faramir trying to guide me into a sitting position.

“A menial-” I began.

“No task is menial, my lord.”

I did not quite know what to reply. So I remained silent as I obeyed his touch and rose dutifully into a sitting position. The crossbow bolt had neatly torn apart the ligaments of my thigh. The crone’s herb poultices stung badly as the raw flesh was exposed to the air. If only my wife had been there…

“Brace on me,” he said firmly.

I complied. As he helped me brace my weight onto his shoulder, I noticed that his eyes were discreetly trained away from my body. A small flare of discontentment rose in me. Didn’t he find me enticing enough to peek at? The onerous task was soon accomplished and he restored me to my previous dignity as he tucked the blanket up till my chin.

“Thank you,” I said politely. I did not what else to add. What could one say to lords who insisted upon menial tasks?

“If your wife and son-by-law do these services for strangers without the slightest expectation of gratitude, then can’t I do the same?”

“But you are not a healer. It is their vocation to be of service,” I said perturbed.

“It is the duty of a warrior to serve.” He shook his head in conviction. “It is the duty of a leader to serve.”

“Spare me the philosophy,” I said irritably. “I hear enough of that from my wife and I think it is more than ample to last me an eternity.”

He laughed; a clear, rich sound that helped to alleviate my pain considerably. For all his wisdom and politeness, there was a wonderful freshness in him that soothed the world-weary spirit. My wife would have liked him, I thought. Such an honest specimen of mankind, how had he grown untainted by vices in the court of Gondor?

“My parents were determined to raise my brother and me away from the court affairs,” he divulged.

“How did you know?” I asked in surprise.

“My mother told me so,” he laughed again, his clear eyes shining in suppressed mirth.

“No,” I said huffily, “that I was thinking of your tutelage and upbringing, how did you know that?”

“You spoke aloud.”

His laughter was so contagious that I had no recourse but to join in. My mirth was abruptly drawn to an end however, when I accidentally slapped my thigh with my hand as was usually my wont when ensnared in laughter.

“Ow!” I whimpered in pain and clenched my eyes shut, cursing myself for the stupidity.

“Should I call the midwife?” he asked; all concern. His hand hovered over my fingers, touching but ever so slightly.

The mention of the midwife provoked my reply. “That crone? She belongs by a birthing-bed, not a warrior’s bed.”

“Are the two so different?” Faramir smiled mischievously as he wantonly baited me.

“Am I so entertaining when I am angry?” I asked sardonically. This was one of my wife’s pastimes too, baiting me. Before my marriage, Oropher had loved to provoke my anger. Would it never change?

“Indeed,” he laughed, his hand coming to rest securely over mine. “I have found that you are irresistible when roused to anger.”

If the last two words had been omitted… I would have probably run back all the way to Lothlórien despite my current state. But he had not omitted those words and why did I think of such an outré scene?

“What are you thinking?” he asked me curiously.

“I wanted to see the outside world. It’s boring to be cooped within,” I lied coolly.

“Is it true that elves fade when they don’t see the starlight?” he asked with deep interest.

“I don’t know. I have never met elves of that sort.” I winked at him. “Have you?”

“You are my first,” he said happily, oblivious of the stunned look that glazed my features. “I am so delighted to meet you, you know, despite the less than favorable circumstances which brought us together.”

“So am I.”

Did he have a unique talent of spouting all these quirky word combinations or was it deliberate? I met his open gaze. No, he was anything but deceptive. He simply seemed to possess the knack of coming up with odd sentences every now and then. I was to blame. Centuries of leading a depraved, hedonistic life had given me finely honed instincts to track down innuendo in even the most innocent of words.

“So what do elves actually fade of?” he asked. “Unrequited yearning?”

I pondered quietly. Normally, I would have been reticent with strangers. But with Faramir, I felt at ease enough to speak my mind.

“Perhaps,” I said quietly. “Lúthien’s love proved that.”

“Elves loving mortals must be the cruelest fate to befall our kindred,” Faramir remarked in a hushed voice. “I cannot imagine the grief involved.”

“Fortunately, it does not occur everyday.” I smiled and tried to lighten the dismal gloom that had fallen upon us. “In recent times, the sundering of our kindred has ensured that such unions don’t perchance occur.”

“Do you see always the better side of everything?” he queried, his features frowning in puzzlement at my unflagging optimism.

I laughed and clasped his hand saying warmly, “Indeed, Lord Faramir. I believe it is one of those virtues that my wife found irresistible when we met.”

“You love her.” It was a plain statement.

I looked up into his slightly darkened eyes before asking, “Is it that obvious?”

“Very,” he laughed. “My father speaks in the same wistful, reverential tones when alluding to my mother. They loved each other deeply.”

“My love for her…” I shrugged. “It is a strange thing, Faramir.”

“What happened?” he asked quietly, as if torn between hesitation and curiosity.

My reticence resurfaced again and I said rashly, “It is none of a stranger’s business.”

He nodded and rose from the pallet. I watched the cold composure setting in on his features and sighed. How often had I seen my wife hide behind this calm when her feelings were hurt?

“It is just that-” I tried to be apologetic and reasonable, “that I am not used to speaking about my personal matters to anyone.”

“I am sorry.” His ready apology told me that I had done the right thing.

“We are estranged, my wife and I.” There, I had finally said it.

“I am sorry again,” he sighed as he resumed his seat on the pallet. One of his hands patted my shoulder in an awkward gesture of comfort. It shouldn’t have wrought an effect at all, but strangely it did. “My parents had never fought in their life together. I know less about martial estrangements than my brother, which is saying something since he has never been drawn to women.”

“And you?” I asked. It was my turn to be curious.

“I love women.” His fingers seemed warmer as they clasped my shoulder. “I find their company pleasing. If not for the fact that the war is nearing, I would have wooed and married a suitable girl by now.”

“I see.” That is a pity, I added mentally.

Had I expected young men to descend to the levels of carnality that I practiced? I had found pleasure with both women and men. I continued to do so.

“I will not ask you the same question.”

Was I paranoid or was there a subtle undercurrent of teasing in his tone? I looked up and met his gaze.

“Why?” I had to ask.

“You look like a,” he groped for words, “like a sensualist.”

I fought down the heat that blossomed in my damned body. Sensualist indeed! That he was true merely served to make me more enflamed. But I brought myself back under the strict control of long discipline.

“It is not what you think. My wife and I are not estranged because of my sensual tendencies. She knows me too well.” He would not believe me, I was sure. But a part of me wanted him to believe me.

“I am sure that you are right.” His ephemeral smile graced me with its radiance again.

“Can I return home after I heal?”

“The lawmakers of Rohan are strict, my lord. If you continue to keep the purpose of your journey a secret, then I will have no recourse but to fall in with the local administration. I might be held answerable for your release otherwise.”

“There was no purpose to this journey,” I grinded my teeth in helpless exasperation. “How many times should I tell you that?”

“Many would find it hard to believe that the famed lord of Lothlórien wandered into Rohan, lost and emaciated,” Faramir said frankly. “I wish you could at least tell me. You cannot roam about aimlessly, that is simply too far-fetched to believe.”

“I was running away.” It would be easier to get it over with. His brown eyes were wide in shock as the words left my lips.

“Aren’t you a tad older to know better than running away?” he asked incredulously.

“I had nothing left,” I whispered. I did not know what had driven me to confess the deepest secrets of my being to this stranger, but confess I did.

“I made a mistake once.” I cleared my throat and looked away from that all-too seeing brown gaze. “What was a hobby for me turned into an obsession for him. When I was reconciled with my wife, he changed. At a later occasion, he threatened me with my wife’s destruction. I had to give in. I allowed him ascendancy over me in every little whim of his. I did not care,” my voice broke down completely as I had feared it would, “I did not care at all as long as she was safe. But she knew me too well. She asked me to stop. She’s a proud woman. So when she begged me to end this, it broke something within me. I…” I clenched my eyes tight shut. “I killed him. The coward that I was, I rushed directly to her, the blood fresh upon my hands. She has always been a brave soul. She took the blame upon herself. How she must hate me! I am her husband. I vowed to protect her. But look where that love led us to!”

“My dear Celeborn.” His voice pronouncing my name just hollowed out what remained of my shriveled-up heart.

“Look at me.”

There was something powerful and commanding in his voice. I complied sullenly. He chose his words carefully, “She loves you. That is why she did it for you.”

“I know!” I cursed again. “It makes it harder to ever gain her forgiveness. I hate her for being so noble. I just don’t deserve her, you see.”

“Why else would she love you then?” he asked kindly.

I shrugged. “Even the wisest can make foolish choices. I was her folly.”

“Can I tell you something?” he asked solemnly.

I nodded uncaringly. He was barely past his youth. What secrets would he have nursed in his young heart that I had not heard before a hundred times in the course of my life?

“You are very rash in judging people. Your wife did not make a foolish choice. You treated your former lover very badly. Casting lovers away like used clothes is not something that will endear you to them. Now, she has given you another chance. All you need to do is return to her.”

I cursed; a long list of expletives that I had hoarded down the centuries. He looked extremely impressed, but refrained from remarks.

“I cannot return,” I said finally in a very quiet tone.

“Why?”

His fingers were now drawing circles on my shoulders as he twisted in his seat to face me completely. The gesture reminded me of Elrond. He had a technique to soothe people by drawing circles on their inner wrists.

“Why?” he asked again patiently.

“Because I am broken,” I whispered. “What I had with my lover was brutal and extreme. I was the laughing stock of my country. But I learned to crave it. It was never like this before. I had lain with men, but I had always stayed away from such extreme practices. I was shocked when my lover first subjected me to… to it.”

“But you did not remain shocked?” he asked wisely.

I nodded. “I learned to need it. I cannot touch her again knowing that I crave something more sinister. I would die of shame were she to realize the truth.”

Somewhere along the narrative, my voice had given away again. I despised my weakness. But there was nothing to be done about it.

“We’ll find a way,” he murmured reassuringly. Inane words, I wanted to shout at him, inane words! There was no way.

“Try to rest now. You need your strength to help you heal.”

His gaze was still as warm and comforting as it had been at the beginning of the conversation. So he did not think any less of me? I found that an absurdly comforting thought.

“There’s really no way,” I said, “though I am very touched that you have listened to my follies without judging me.”

“Celeborn,” he omitted my title and it sounded even more welcome this way, “I may be young. But I have seen my share of war and warriors. I know what drives us to these practices. Once that driving force is eliminated in some other manner I believe that things will be all right.”

“What?” I asked in disbelief. “Not even my philosopher of a wife preaches like this, if I may say so.”

“I am not a preacher, Celeborn.” He bent to regard me carefully.

The atmosphere felt extremely suffocating all of a sudden. I tried to control the tension in my voice as I spoke, “Well, how do you propose to eliminate the driving force?”

A warm hand cupped my jaw and he leant forward to breathe, “I am sure that I can find a suitable way if you have no objections.”

“I love my wife.”

“I will help you renew what you had with her. You won’t be tormented anymore by your past, I swear.”

I wanted to believe him. I would have done anything to achieve the end he promised. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. My composure was rapidly falling apart and I did not want him to see that.

But he was a very kind man. His fingers resumed tracing circles on my shoulders making me sigh. He was speaking softly about some boring subject that I would not recollect in the least the next morning. His warm tones achieved what the subject could not, I felt at peace. Thoughts drifted away from me until I was all alone in the comforting darkness of slumber. Not alone, for a compassionate, wise voice that belonged to the owner of the warm, brown gaze still continued to utter soothing words that lulled me into deep reverie.

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.

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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