Night on the Plains
Disclaimer: Tolkien's, not mine!
This is a random piece of smut/comedy which came to me in connection with Flower of Ice and Steel. It didn't really fit into the main line of the story development, so I'm posting it as a stand-alone as a Christmas present for Tommy Ginger. Hopefully I've put in enough background that you'll be able to follow this even without having read the main story (but to be honest, it's really PWP, so it's not as if you need much of the story).
It has been another long day, riding from one settlement to another, trying to ease the burden placed on my brother. He has been thrust into the kingship by the loss of our dear kinsmen – a role he neither wanted nor sought. Nor was he raised to it, and there is much to learn. For the time being, his place is at Edoras, overseeing the court, consolidating the army and drawing together the strands of the noble families who govern the various parts of the Riddermark. So I have taken upon myself the role of trying to survey the country to see what resources of food and livestock we have to support the population.
The farms and villages here in the Eastemnet have not been too badly hit; there was no organised campaign to lay waste to the countryside, burning rick, cot, and barn, trampling crops, the way Saruman's army did in the Westfold. But this part of the country suffered sporadic attacks from bands of orcs from Mordor, and still does. The fall of Sauron has left many of his creatures still roaming the lands north and west of their former homes, and they are desperate for food. With the thought of marauding bands of orcs hanging over us, I find it immeasurably reassuring to have Cynefrid as my sergeant-at-arms, experienced, battle-hardened and a comforting presence. He can also be relied upon to raise my spirits, either by making fun of the young Riders in his charge, or (though he is careful to do this in private, for he would not undermine my authority for all the silk in Harad) by making fun of me, usually by teasing me about my "dancing partner."
My "dancing partner" is how he refers to my betrothed. He didn't know who he was talking of when he first came up with this name. All that he knew was that I seemed uncharacteristically cheerful the morning after news of the victory at Morannon reached Minas Tirith. He and his friend Aldwulf (who had lost a leg on the Pelennor fields) advanced the theory that I had found myself a pleasant dancing partner at the victory celebrations. It rapidly became apparent that they intended this as a euphemism for a somewhat different, albeit frequently related, activity. I sometimes wonder if they would have been so bold (nay, insubordinate) had they known whose company I had kept. Somehow I think that knowing Cynefrid, he would have teased me just as heartily had he been privy to the information that my "dancing partner" was in fact the ruling Steward of Gondor. Cynefrid is not one to stand on ceremony.
Still Steward, but no longer ruling. For King Elessar has been crowned and now sits upon the throne of Gondor. A more ambitious, vainglorious man might have felt that he had lost something of importance; not so my beloved, who (like my brother) had not been brought up to think the office would be his by right, and who does not desire men's adulation for self-aggrandisement. For Faramir is a quiet, thoughtful, scholarly man, though immeasurably brave in battle. And, though he does not desire adulation, nonetheless he is the sort of leader men would follow through flames to the world's ending.
How strange that I, a shieldmaiden from the north, should have won the love of my scholar-warrior, and that I should fall in love with a man who recites poetry in ancient languages to me. But we do love one another. And it is perhaps stranger still that such an honourable, reserved man should have taken our love so far in its expression before we are yet wed. Mind you, it is not as if I gave him much choice in that particular matter. The circumstances of our meeting – as the world teetered on the brink of eternal ruin – and my temperament meant that our courtship was not entirely conventional. That, and the fact that he is a very handsome man, with the lithe yet muscular figure of a warrior. This line of thought makes me smile to myself. And the recollections keep me warmer than the fire.
For it is night once more: yet another cold, clear night beneath a black sky filled by immeasurably distant stars. I have rolled myself in my cloak and blanket, hoping to sleep, but I can hear the Riders by the fire. This evening's sport is ribbing young Osred.
"Have you so much as had a sniff of a girl's skirt yet?" asks Godfrid, a red haired lad who, if truth be known, is not much older than Osred.
"Nay," says Edric. "First sight of a tavern-wench's tits, and he'd come in his braies. There's no chance he'd keep it up for more that the time it'd take Cynefrid to down a tankard of ale."
"You'd know all about that – I've heard of more than one girl tell how you've shot your load early before now," says Godfrid. I try to stuff my cloak in my mouth to stifle the snort of laughter that this train of thought sparks, but not quickly enough. Cynefrid is sitting between me and the others, and hears my chuckle.
"Now surely your dancing partner's had more practise than these lads, and can last long enough to see out a full measure out with his lady," he whispers.
"Cynefrid, you're a bastard, you know that," I laugh, trying to keep my voice quiet. "Nay, he's long past the problems of these striplings." And I bury my face in the blanket, knowing full well that Cynefrid is far too adept at reading my facial expressions. I roll away from him and think back to a night in Minas Tirith.
Faramir had come to my chamber. I watched as he let his clothes fall onto the chair, thinking I would never tire of this sight: his torso, lean and strong, the dark curls of hair on his chest, the sinews in his arms, his long legs, slender and hard. Just the sight conjured up the feel of his body beneath my hands, beneath my lips, the memory of the weight of him, pressing me down into the bed. I felt the heat rising within my body at the thought of what was to come. He turned to look at me, a half smile forming, his own arousal clear for me to see.
"My lady, are you pleased to see me?" he asked, with a low laugh which turned the heat in my loins to a fire.
"I know you have always been able to read my thoughts in my face," I said with an answering laugh.
I trembled as he slipped into my bed and gathered me to him, his lips on mine, his hands running the length of my back and down over my arse. With his mouth and tongue, he left a hot trail down to the hollow in my throat, then down over my breasts, where he sucked on first one nipple then the other. And all the while, his hand ran up my thigh, a firm touch, his fingers teasing, circling, but not going where I desired them most. I tried to shift my hips beneath him, to move myself against him, but he held me in place with the other hand while he continued with tantalising movements, stroking ever nearer, but not near enough. It wasn't until I reduced to whimpering in his ear, begging for him, that he finally ran his fingers through the triangle of hair between my legs, then as I moved to meet him, slid his cock inside me. I threw back my head, crying out for more.
But then he did something new and unexpected. He slipped his other hand down the back of my leg and looped his elbow round the back of my knee, drawing my leg up until my knee almost touched my breast. And, Béma, just thinking about it now, I can remember the sensation. It is all I can do not to gasp at the memory of it. The last thing I want is the Riders to hear me make that sort of gasp. Biting down on my cloak I feel my groin throb and know I am becoming wet just thinking about Faramir. With my hips at this angle, he filled me so completely, and seemed to hit some hidden place deep inside every time he thrust. And suddenly my body took over, completely uncontrolled. Almost without warning, faster than I had ever known it, pleasure swept over me. Wave after wave of heat sent my mind spinning among the stars. I could no more stifle the noises I made than fly – I cried out, screamed, clutching his shoulders, raking my fingers down his back. How long my pleasure lasted I didn't know, nor did I care. Afterwards, I lay limp beneath him, trembling, gasping for breath like one half drowned.
And then, gradually I became aware of the world once more, and found that Faramir still lay on top of me, buried within me. His chin was tucked over my shoulder, face hidden in my hair as it lay spread across the pillow. His cock was still hard as iron, but I could feel tremors rippling through him, his back shifting beneath my hands. Then he raised his head and I realised he was laughing gently.
"My lady, oft I have heard of men who have... nay, I must confess, when younger, I have myself loosed my arrows at the first sight of the enemy. But never have I heard tell of such a fate overtaking a woman."
I blushed, and shut my eyes. "I'm sorry, I... It was... Too much, too good. Oh Béma, I can't find the words."
I felt Faramir's hand stroke my cheek. "My lady, there is no need to apologise. I cannot think of a greater compliment you could pay to me than this." Cautiously I opened my eyes. Faramir smiled at me, arrogant, smug, self-confident. It never ceased to amuse me how circumspect and gently spoken he was in most of his dealings, yet how self-assured he was when we were alone in bed together. Though it did occur to me that eliciting a reaction like mine would make anyone smug. I shut my eyes once more, my lips curling into a wry smile. If he could act thus, so too could I. Pushing against his shoulder, I rolled him onto his back, and gently eased myself off. Faramir gave a low groan of disappointment, but I touched my fingers gently to his lips, silencing him. He had said a week or so earlier that I would know when I wanted to bring him this sort of pleasure, and he had been right. I kissed his jaw line, then down his neck, flicking my tongue over his adams apple. Then I let my lips nuzzle his skin as I moved down, hearing him gasp as I nipped gently at his nipple (a long drawn-out groan) before sliding my tongue over the hard muscles of his belly.
I kissed the inside of his thigh, then ran my tongue the length of his cock, tasting the brackish taste of my own moisture before reaching the tip and discovering a new, salty taste. Through my lashes, I looked up at him – he stared back at me, eyes intent, lips slightly parted. Slowly, deliberately, I ran my hand between his legs and brushed my fingers over his balls as I slid my mouth over his cock. I heard him moan, watched as his head fell back on the pillow, his eyes shutting tight. Then I turned my attention wholly to the task. I learned from the noises I heard him make what gave him most pleasure, and took pleasure myself in the movements of his hips as he came undone, as he unravelled completely beneath me, eventually making almost as much noise as I had done as he yelled, my name shading into a cry of pleasure. He tasted of salt and of sweetness, and as he had done those few nights earlier, I found myself wiping my lips with the back of my hand as I slid back up his body to kiss him.
As he lay limp in my arms, I remembered his words to me a few days earlier, and whispered my reply to them, "Now I know what it is to be queen of the world."
The sound of Godfrid's laughter brings me back to the present. Morgoth's teeth, I should not have let my mind drift off along this line of thought. For my loins are throbbing, but with Cynefrid and the others within earshot, there is nothing I can do about it. Gritting my teeth, I roll over, suddenly aware of how extremely uncomfortable the ground is beneath me. I fear sleep will be a long time coming.