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Mist (R) 
Written by Geale30 September 2010 | 88324 words
Chapter Four – Sleep
He was standing by a small forest pool. It was dark and deep, and no ripples disturbed the smooth surface. Around him were thick fir-trees and beyond them was darkness.
He was alone, save for the presence that hovered unseen beside him, sometimes disappearing but always returning. The grass beneath his feet was thick and green.
Slowly the presence beside him began to form into a more physical shape but Faramir could not make out its features. He thought he saw fair hair which made him think of his brother, and he lifted a hand to the forehead, touching his brow.
Every time he brushed the hair aside, a dark strand fell down to gently caress his fingers.
He left the pool and walked out into a garden. Far away to his left was a stone bench, gleaming white in the silvery light of the Moon that hung low in the sky somewhere.
White glow.
White stone.
Faramir meant to reach the bench but something pulled him in another direction. A large willow was sweeping the grass with its heavy crown of boughs and leaves. He rested against its trunk, shielded from view and secure.
Hands were stroking his sides. Exploring him. Making him shiver against the bark. He closed his eyes but still saw the gardens and the fire that was burning by the pool.
Soft lips pressed a kiss to his neck and warmth flooded through him. Desire rose so quickly in his body that he wondered if he knew it not always. The hands were still stroking, touching…
They swept over his naked skin, awakening him. He moaned aloud, giving into lust and feeling himself swelling.
The stone bench was cold but he lay down upon it eagerly and willingly. He was open.
Kisses were bestowed upon him and they left a tingling trail behind. He raised his hips and was rewarded with more gentle stroking. His manhood was pounding where it lay heavily on his belly and he yearned for more.
To be filled. To fill.
Faramir arched upwards into his lover’s embrace. The warm body above welcomed him, but then it dissolved though the caresses continued.
He knew the second he came, too fast but unable to hold back. His body was shaking with such force that the bark threatened to dig its way into his over sensitised skin. He clung to the tree helplessly, succumbing to pleasure fully. His release glistened in the moonlight, and he rolled over.
Amidst softness he felt a relentless pounding, and dazedly he reached down to brush a hand against his groin. He was warm. Warm and hard. With no awareness of the world around him, he began stroking himself, loosely trying to surface. He slid his fingers up and down his swollen length, his mind too far astray to consider it in depth.
He knew his sensitive spots, knew how to pull back the skin in the motion that gave him the most pleasure. He arched upwards slightly as his thumb brushed against the slit at the tip and he was enveloped by his own soft moan that spilled from his lips.
A sheen of sweat graced his brow as he strove to climax. Hazy memories filled his mind but he could not tell them apart or name them. Small silver stars invaded his vision and he increased his speed. A burning sensation that was both blissful and unbearable was building low in his belly and the first drops of his essence wet his fingers. Once more he brushed against the slit and felt a tidal wave of lust wash over him. He came to the sound of his own cry that resonated in the air around him.
Slow was the process of waking up. Deep sleep was reluctant to let him go but eventually he surfaced and opened his eyes. He lay in his bed, on his stomach, and his sheets were twisted and damp.
Sweat covered his body and his shirt had ridden up above his waist. With something akin to surprise mingled with humiliation he realised he had spilt himself while sleeping. His skin was sticky and sensitive.
Confused he rolled onto his back, silently telling himself it was not so strange. But it somehow made him feel uncomfortable, reminding him of his younger days when desire was not restrained by logic.
He cast a glance out the window. It was not yet dawn and mist lay heavily upon the grass.
Faramir tried to go back to sleep.
Tuilë 29
Anor had risen above the treetops when he finally made it into the dining hall. Though he had bathed, Faramir imagined he could still feel the sweat clinging to his body and it upset him. Unable to figure out the reason for this uneasiness of his body’s doings – and possibly the longing that was the root of the problem – he tried to shake off the feeling as best he could, resolving to focus on breakfast to begin with and today’s work after that.
He usually ate alone if no one was staying with him. Damrod was busy with the piece of land he had acquired during winter’s final days, and Mablung seldom stayed away from his home after he married. Maelir would not share any more breakfasts with him.
He was so used to this by now that when Aragorn appeared in the doorway, he nearly dropped his teacup.
“Faramir.” Aragorn greeted him with a smile. He looked more rested and his cheeks had gained some colour. Yet there was a wavering uncertainty in his voice as he spoke, as if his confidence had fled him and left him in doubts of his own person. “Am I disturbing you?”
“No, of course not!” He firmly set down his cup and got to his feet. “I was… I am used to being alone, that is all.”
“You need not rise for me,” said Aragorn as he stepped into the room. “Please, Faramir, do sit down.”
He sat down.
The King was casually dressed in a simple green tunic and leggings. The deep green shade suited him well, Faramir found himself thinking as he watched Aragorn approach the table. His wavy, dark hair was still a bit damp, looking like it had recently been washed.
“Have you eaten?” He would not have asked if Aragorn’s hair did not imply that he too had woken up late.
“I have not,” said his guest. “It seems I was tired enough to sleep until now,” he added after a pause, confirming Faramir’s theory.
“Yea,” he nodded but found no other words. It was obvious that he was having breakfast which in turn made it clear that he had not risen at dawn.
He found a servant instead and ordered him to bring the King what he desired – a request that proved to be very modest when uttered.
Silence enfolded them as they waited. Faramir felt uneasy continuing with his meal when Aragorn still expected his.
Had it always been this difficult? In the Houses of Healing Aragorn had saved him from the promise of a certain death and immediately Faramir had felt a connection to him. He had promised to serve the future King, and when the King came into his own, he promised to serve him as such. They spoke of many things then: of Boromir and of Denethor’s death by his own hand. If Aragorn was surprised at seeing the lack of deep emotion in Faramir he did not show it and he asked no questions. They spoke of the future and of matters of state. Seldom or never did they mention their own hopes or dreams. Conversation tended to stay within strict, but unmentioned, boundaries.
Faramir spoke to Éowyn instead and she became his rock. She too had seen much grief and despair despite her young age, and they found plenty of common ground. For many weeks they had talked about everything and anything they could think of and they took comfort in each other. With burning cheeks Faramir silently admitted his attraction to his own sex, refusing to look at her as he spoke. Then he felt slender arms embracing him and a chaste kiss pressed to his cheek.
‘I shall not have to worry that you are falling for me then,” she had smiled.
Then it was her turn to admit that maybe, just maybe, she found Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, ‘agreeable’, and her cheeks flushed as brightly as Faramir’s had done only moments earlier.
The memory always made him smile. It did so also this time and Aragorn looked curiously at him from his place
across the table.
“What lightens your heart so, if I may ask?”
Faramir shook his head. “Memories,” he sighed.
“And then they make you sigh?” said Aragorn, raising his eyebrows.
Faramir laughed softly. “Fond memories,” he clarified. “Of days when things were simpler.”“Be careful, Faramir. You are young yet. Do not let the hands of melancholy grasp you before you turn at least seventy.”
He looked up just in time to see a shadow pass over Aragorn’s face. It disappeared quickly, as if it had never existed at all, but he was sure it had been there. He nodded. “I will try to heed your words, my lord.”
Silence stretched between them again after that and it was not broken by the arrival of Aragorn’s breakfast.
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