Trick or Treat Fic Exchange
Title : Hriwdú (Winternight)
Author: mooms
Recipient : talullahred
Fandom: LOTRFPS
Pairing : Faramir/Guiser
Rating : NC17
Prompt : Apple
Summary : Hriwdú (Winternight) is the ancient Gondorian Festival akin to Halloween, when the curtain between this world and the next is thin. Fires are lit to ward off evil spirits, traditional games are played and Guisers go from house to house in costume.
Disclaimer : This is fiction, written for fun, not profit. The characters belong to Tolkien and I am just borrowing them for a brief time.
Hriwdú (Winternight)
Tongues of yellow and orange flame leapt into the sky from the great bonfire in the courtyard, making grotesque shadows dance on the walls and pillars. Excited children shouted in delight and dogs barked as the showers of sparks flew up. The scent of wood smoke filled the air and huge logs crackled and spat.
Standing on the terrace, his hands on Eowyn’s shoulders, Faramir shuddered and drew his thick cloak around them both. She laid her slender hands on his, but did not speak, knowing well that this was an ordeal for him.
While others saw light, warmth and comfort in the flames, a means of warding off malevolent spirits and keeping Gondor safe, she knew that he saw the Pyre of Denethor and relived his father’s last few mortal moments of agony amid the consuming flames.
This festival was always so hard for him, yet every year they and their young family made the cold journey from Ilithien to spend a few days in the White City for the sake of Tradition and loyalty to the King. Eowyn was relieved, when King Ellessar and Queen Arwen declared that supper was laid out and would be followed by the traditional games. She felt Faramir’s tense body relax, as they watched their laughing children, costumed as ghosts, witches and ghouls, join Prince Eldarion and his sisters in the race to the banqueting hall.
The hall was decorated with branches bearing Autumn colours and everywhere were tallow candles tall, short, slender and fat, with trays of bright pumpkins and squash and apples both russet and crimson. There were flagons of apple juice for the children and strong, mulled cider for the adults and the tables groaned with good things. The air smelled of cinnamon and cloves.
Faramir let a servant take his cloak and took up his seat at Elessar’s right hand, so that they could talk together. Eowyn and Arwen already had their heads together, planning the games to follow. As always, when he and his king were together, there was a third person there, who was never spoken of, but they both knew it and on this night both had poignant memories.
They drank deeply and by the time the bobbing for apples had begun and they had been dragged to their feet by their laughing wives for the game, Faramir was feeling distinctly light-headed, as if instead of his skull, his neck bore only a hollowed-out pumpkin, such as the children had earlier made into jack-a-lanterns.
A huge tub had been drawn into the centre of the hall and filled with water, into which had been cast a barrel of apples. Faramir felt himself pushed to his knees and saw that he was facing Elessar opposite. The children began counting down from 10 and on “three, two, one, GO” he dutifully dipped his head into the tub and came up for breath, laughing, spluttering and half-drowned, but apple-less.
Elessar emerged with a rosy apple gripped firmly in his sharp, white teeth and a look of triumph as seal-like, he shook the water from his dark hair and beard and Eldarion shouted in triumph and did a little victory dance.
Their wives and the other court ladies swept the children into a group and made them form lines and await their turns at the apple-bobbing. Faramir and Aragorn accepted towels from the servants and dried their dripping faces, and then Aragorn put his arm around Faramir’s shoulders and hugged him.
There came a loud knocking at the door and the guards announced a troop of guisers, working their way through the city as was traditional at this festival. Elessar smiled at him, before going over to greet them and see that they were generously supplied with food and drink to ensure that only benign spirits would visit, for on this night the veil between the dead and the living was thin.
Faramir watched the children for a while and drank automatically as yet another goblet of warm cider was thrust into his hand. Suddenly, he had a vivid flashback of a small boy taking part in this same game on a long ago Hriwdú and an older, rougher boy pushing his head under the water and holding him there. He had not been strong enough to throw him off and for a dreadful moment, he had feared that he would drown and cross the veil.
But his guardian had been at hand and he had been plucked from the water, his assailant knocked to the ground, spitting out blood and a broken tooth as a fiercely protective Boromir stood over him, already the warrior at ten years old, daring the bully to touch his brother ever again.
He always tried at this game, but never managed to get an apple. Boromir always succeeded and would hold out his hand and offer him one,
“Come, Little Brother. I know this is your favourite fruit!”
Faramir would look up in adoration at his brother as he bit into the sweet but sharp flesh, for he knew that there was nobody like Boromir.
Now, as often happened to him in a crowd, he found he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, away from the laughter, the chatter and the drunken singing. He moved out of the hall and down a narrow passage, his boot heels ringing on the stone flags. The torches in sconces on the walls fluttered as if in a draught and he paused and looked around in vain for the source. These walls were thick and there were no windows here.
He gasped aloud as a figure unfolded itself from the shadows in a recess set into the wall and his hand went automatically to his sword. His brother had taught him well and although the Wars of the Ring had passed years ago, there had still been dangers to face and it was prudent to be vigilant even within these walls.
“Who goes there? Come forth and show yourself.”
He sighed in relief as one of the guisers stepped into the torchlight, although he did not remove his hand from his sword hilt yet. The man was not dressed in a shroud, as the others were, but as a warrior, although he wore the same death’s head mask as his fellows.
“You are welcome, Guiser, on this Winternight, but you have strayed away from the hall and got yourself lost. I will escort you back to the light and warmth.”
As he spoke, a chill ran down his spine, for the guiser, still silent, extended his arm from beneath his cloak, an arm clad in wine coloured velvet over chain mail and slowly opened his clenched palm to show a polished, juicy red apple.
Faramir reached out and took the apple, his nerveless fingers brushing warm, living flesh,
“Brother?” he whispered hoarsely and the torches went out, plunging them into total darkness.
Faramir found himself propelled along the corridor by strong hands and his guide never faltered, knowing the way as well as he did, yet keeping total silence. Still his nostrils were full of the familiar scent of his brother and the bitter-sweet memories of forbidden fruit.
They encountered nobody and he was pushed into a small chamber used for informal meetings, where a fire was kept burning in the grate and there were comfortable chairs and a couch.
In the firelight, he allowed himself to be disrobed quickly, a little ungently and without ceremony. Boromir had always been in a hurry and had approached their lovemaking with the same bold, recklessness with which he fought. In any case, they had always to be careful for fear of discovery. Their father’s wrath had he learnt of this would have been terrible and consumed even his favoured firstborn.
When he was naked, experienced hands explored his body, relearning him and his responses. He longed to see the beloved face, to kiss those remembered lips and stretched out a hand to the mask, but his wrist was seized as if in a vice and the guiser shook his head.
Frustrated and aching with want and need, his hands went to the laces of Boromir’s breeches and this he was allowed to do. Sinking to his knees, he released the hard and throbbing member and closed his eyes as he tasted his brother again.
Long fingers twisted painfully in his hair as he held Boromir’s cock firmly and ran his tongue around the empurpled head, teasing the tiny slit, before relaxing his throat and taking him in fully, as he had been taught so many years ago. This was a game he had taken to with ease and eagerness to please. He missed the little grunts and gasps he was used to eliciting, but he knew that he was giving pleasure from the way that his brother moved his hips and the fingers tightened and pulled.
As he tasted the precursor of Boromir’s seed in the back of his throat, his head was pulled up and knowing immediately what was wanted, he turned, still kneeling and braced himself against the couch, the velvet rubbing his forearms and raising the fine hairs.
He felt the warmth of the fire on his buttocks and the backs of his thighs for a moment, before it was replaced by the warmth and weight of Boromir, who held his hips and thrust into his body hard, with no preparation.
Faramir’s fingers clawed at the velvet and he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through the burn and stretch. In spite of the pain, his heart leapt and as he was claimed he exulted that he and not Aragorn, whom he also loved dearly, had been chosen this night.
The friction of his own cock rubbing against the edge of the couch brought him to a climax and he cried out as his brother spent himself in his willing body, blacking out for a moment.
When he opened his eyes, he was alone in the room, fully dressed and booted and he looked at the couch expecting to see an embarrassing stain, but there was none.
Yet when he walked to the door and into the corridor, where the torches burned brightly again, he felt that familiar, reassuring discomfort that had always told him he was loved by one person at least.
He hurried down the corridor and back into the hall, where the children were now getting gloriously sticky and trying to catch candied apples dancing on strings.
At the door, the group of guisers were being seen off with bags of fruit and sweetmeats by the King and Queen and Faramir ran to stop them, scanning the group. He pointed at the one dressed like his brother,
“You, Guiser, remove your mask.”
Arwen and Elessar turned to him in surprise at his tone and agitation, but the man complied and he found himself gazing into the face of a total stranger.
“Why are you dressed like that and not like the others? Have you been here in the hall all night?” he challenged.
The man bowed deeply and kept his eyes averted,
“I meant no disrespect, My Lord, Faramir, rather to honour the memory of your dear brother. I am a merchant and had these clothes so like his, from a Harad trader. It was my thought that of all our honoured dead, he was the most loved here. And yes, we have all been here together tonight.”
King Elessar raised the man up,
“That is so, as I have seen myself. Your gesture was a noble one and appreciated. Lord Faramir was shocked only. Is that not so?”
Faramir nodded dumbly and the guisers took their leave.
Elessar took Faramir’s arm and led him to a seat, his eyes full of concern,
“Are you well, my dear friend? I too was shocked at first, but no harm was meant.”
Faramir looked at him gravely,
“I am well. No harm was done.”
Elessar squeezed his shoulder and turned to call for more cider, while Faramir realized that throughout the entire encounter, he had kept the apple clutched tightly in one hand.
Now he slowly opened his palm and looked the apple, no longer a plump, enticing fruit, but a dried up, wizened thing, smelling of staleness and death.
The End
Author: mooms
Recipient : talullahred
Fandom: LOTRFPS
Pairing : Faramir/Guiser
Rating : NC17
Prompt : Apple
Summary : Hriwdú (Winternight) is the ancient Gondorian Festival akin to Halloween, when the curtain between this world and the next is thin. Fires are lit to ward off evil spirits, traditional games are played and Guisers go from house to house in costume.
Disclaimer : This is fiction, written for fun, not profit. The characters belong to Tolkien and I am just borrowing them for a brief time.
Hriwdú (Winternight)
Tongues of yellow and orange flame leapt into the sky from the great bonfire in the courtyard, making grotesque shadows dance on the walls and pillars. Excited children shouted in delight and dogs barked as the showers of sparks flew up. The scent of wood smoke filled the air and huge logs crackled and spat.
Standing on the terrace, his hands on Eowyn’s shoulders, Faramir shuddered and drew his thick cloak around them both. She laid her slender hands on his, but did not speak, knowing well that this was an ordeal for him.
While others saw light, warmth and comfort in the flames, a means of warding off malevolent spirits and keeping Gondor safe, she knew that he saw the Pyre of Denethor and relived his father’s last few mortal moments of agony amid the consuming flames.
This festival was always so hard for him, yet every year they and their young family made the cold journey from Ilithien to spend a few days in the White City for the sake of Tradition and loyalty to the King. Eowyn was relieved, when King Ellessar and Queen Arwen declared that supper was laid out and would be followed by the traditional games. She felt Faramir’s tense body relax, as they watched their laughing children, costumed as ghosts, witches and ghouls, join Prince Eldarion and his sisters in the race to the banqueting hall.
The hall was decorated with branches bearing Autumn colours and everywhere were tallow candles tall, short, slender and fat, with trays of bright pumpkins and squash and apples both russet and crimson. There were flagons of apple juice for the children and strong, mulled cider for the adults and the tables groaned with good things. The air smelled of cinnamon and cloves.
Faramir let a servant take his cloak and took up his seat at Elessar’s right hand, so that they could talk together. Eowyn and Arwen already had their heads together, planning the games to follow. As always, when he and his king were together, there was a third person there, who was never spoken of, but they both knew it and on this night both had poignant memories.
They drank deeply and by the time the bobbing for apples had begun and they had been dragged to their feet by their laughing wives for the game, Faramir was feeling distinctly light-headed, as if instead of his skull, his neck bore only a hollowed-out pumpkin, such as the children had earlier made into jack-a-lanterns.
A huge tub had been drawn into the centre of the hall and filled with water, into which had been cast a barrel of apples. Faramir felt himself pushed to his knees and saw that he was facing Elessar opposite. The children began counting down from 10 and on “three, two, one, GO” he dutifully dipped his head into the tub and came up for breath, laughing, spluttering and half-drowned, but apple-less.
Elessar emerged with a rosy apple gripped firmly in his sharp, white teeth and a look of triumph as seal-like, he shook the water from his dark hair and beard and Eldarion shouted in triumph and did a little victory dance.
Their wives and the other court ladies swept the children into a group and made them form lines and await their turns at the apple-bobbing. Faramir and Aragorn accepted towels from the servants and dried their dripping faces, and then Aragorn put his arm around Faramir’s shoulders and hugged him.
There came a loud knocking at the door and the guards announced a troop of guisers, working their way through the city as was traditional at this festival. Elessar smiled at him, before going over to greet them and see that they were generously supplied with food and drink to ensure that only benign spirits would visit, for on this night the veil between the dead and the living was thin.
Faramir watched the children for a while and drank automatically as yet another goblet of warm cider was thrust into his hand. Suddenly, he had a vivid flashback of a small boy taking part in this same game on a long ago Hriwdú and an older, rougher boy pushing his head under the water and holding him there. He had not been strong enough to throw him off and for a dreadful moment, he had feared that he would drown and cross the veil.
But his guardian had been at hand and he had been plucked from the water, his assailant knocked to the ground, spitting out blood and a broken tooth as a fiercely protective Boromir stood over him, already the warrior at ten years old, daring the bully to touch his brother ever again.
He always tried at this game, but never managed to get an apple. Boromir always succeeded and would hold out his hand and offer him one,
“Come, Little Brother. I know this is your favourite fruit!”
Faramir would look up in adoration at his brother as he bit into the sweet but sharp flesh, for he knew that there was nobody like Boromir.
Now, as often happened to him in a crowd, he found he wanted to be alone with his thoughts, away from the laughter, the chatter and the drunken singing. He moved out of the hall and down a narrow passage, his boot heels ringing on the stone flags. The torches in sconces on the walls fluttered as if in a draught and he paused and looked around in vain for the source. These walls were thick and there were no windows here.
He gasped aloud as a figure unfolded itself from the shadows in a recess set into the wall and his hand went automatically to his sword. His brother had taught him well and although the Wars of the Ring had passed years ago, there had still been dangers to face and it was prudent to be vigilant even within these walls.
“Who goes there? Come forth and show yourself.”
He sighed in relief as one of the guisers stepped into the torchlight, although he did not remove his hand from his sword hilt yet. The man was not dressed in a shroud, as the others were, but as a warrior, although he wore the same death’s head mask as his fellows.
“You are welcome, Guiser, on this Winternight, but you have strayed away from the hall and got yourself lost. I will escort you back to the light and warmth.”
As he spoke, a chill ran down his spine, for the guiser, still silent, extended his arm from beneath his cloak, an arm clad in wine coloured velvet over chain mail and slowly opened his clenched palm to show a polished, juicy red apple.
Faramir reached out and took the apple, his nerveless fingers brushing warm, living flesh,
“Brother?” he whispered hoarsely and the torches went out, plunging them into total darkness.
Faramir found himself propelled along the corridor by strong hands and his guide never faltered, knowing the way as well as he did, yet keeping total silence. Still his nostrils were full of the familiar scent of his brother and the bitter-sweet memories of forbidden fruit.
They encountered nobody and he was pushed into a small chamber used for informal meetings, where a fire was kept burning in the grate and there were comfortable chairs and a couch.
In the firelight, he allowed himself to be disrobed quickly, a little ungently and without ceremony. Boromir had always been in a hurry and had approached their lovemaking with the same bold, recklessness with which he fought. In any case, they had always to be careful for fear of discovery. Their father’s wrath had he learnt of this would have been terrible and consumed even his favoured firstborn.
When he was naked, experienced hands explored his body, relearning him and his responses. He longed to see the beloved face, to kiss those remembered lips and stretched out a hand to the mask, but his wrist was seized as if in a vice and the guiser shook his head.
Frustrated and aching with want and need, his hands went to the laces of Boromir’s breeches and this he was allowed to do. Sinking to his knees, he released the hard and throbbing member and closed his eyes as he tasted his brother again.
Long fingers twisted painfully in his hair as he held Boromir’s cock firmly and ran his tongue around the empurpled head, teasing the tiny slit, before relaxing his throat and taking him in fully, as he had been taught so many years ago. This was a game he had taken to with ease and eagerness to please. He missed the little grunts and gasps he was used to eliciting, but he knew that he was giving pleasure from the way that his brother moved his hips and the fingers tightened and pulled.
As he tasted the precursor of Boromir’s seed in the back of his throat, his head was pulled up and knowing immediately what was wanted, he turned, still kneeling and braced himself against the couch, the velvet rubbing his forearms and raising the fine hairs.
He felt the warmth of the fire on his buttocks and the backs of his thighs for a moment, before it was replaced by the warmth and weight of Boromir, who held his hips and thrust into his body hard, with no preparation.
Faramir’s fingers clawed at the velvet and he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed through the burn and stretch. In spite of the pain, his heart leapt and as he was claimed he exulted that he and not Aragorn, whom he also loved dearly, had been chosen this night.
The friction of his own cock rubbing against the edge of the couch brought him to a climax and he cried out as his brother spent himself in his willing body, blacking out for a moment.
When he opened his eyes, he was alone in the room, fully dressed and booted and he looked at the couch expecting to see an embarrassing stain, but there was none.
Yet when he walked to the door and into the corridor, where the torches burned brightly again, he felt that familiar, reassuring discomfort that had always told him he was loved by one person at least.
He hurried down the corridor and back into the hall, where the children were now getting gloriously sticky and trying to catch candied apples dancing on strings.
At the door, the group of guisers were being seen off with bags of fruit and sweetmeats by the King and Queen and Faramir ran to stop them, scanning the group. He pointed at the one dressed like his brother,
“You, Guiser, remove your mask.”
Arwen and Elessar turned to him in surprise at his tone and agitation, but the man complied and he found himself gazing into the face of a total stranger.
“Why are you dressed like that and not like the others? Have you been here in the hall all night?” he challenged.
The man bowed deeply and kept his eyes averted,
“I meant no disrespect, My Lord, Faramir, rather to honour the memory of your dear brother. I am a merchant and had these clothes so like his, from a Harad trader. It was my thought that of all our honoured dead, he was the most loved here. And yes, we have all been here together tonight.”
King Elessar raised the man up,
“That is so, as I have seen myself. Your gesture was a noble one and appreciated. Lord Faramir was shocked only. Is that not so?”
Faramir nodded dumbly and the guisers took their leave.
Elessar took Faramir’s arm and led him to a seat, his eyes full of concern,
“Are you well, my dear friend? I too was shocked at first, but no harm was meant.”
Faramir looked at him gravely,
“I am well. No harm was done.”
Elessar squeezed his shoulder and turned to call for more cider, while Faramir realized that throughout the entire encounter, he had kept the apple clutched tightly in one hand.
Now he slowly opened his palm and looked the apple, no longer a plump, enticing fruit, but a dried up, wizened thing, smelling of staleness and death.
The End