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Chapter 1
Pale sunlight streaked its way across the skies above Minas
Tirith as the city began to arise and face a new day. Inside one of
the rooms of the king’s palace, a slumbering figure stirred the moment
the first shaft of light pierced its way through the open window. Grey
eyes gazed dully up at the ceiling of the bedchamber, out of a haggard
face, as Faramir, captain of the Ithilien rangers sighed soundlessly.
Another day was here.
He rose from bed slowly and wearily, for yet again he had
had little sleep at night. He went over to the mirror and bowl of water
placed in a corner of the chamber and stared dispassionately at the
visage reflected back at him. The lack of sleep over so many days showed
clearly in the redness tingeing the eyes encircled by dark circles,
and it occurred to him rather mirthlessly that he probably had more
lines creasing his face than his elder brother Boromir did. From there
his thoughts took their natural progression of late. Boromir was alive,
something he would remain eternally thankful for. How he had feared
when his brother had left on the dangerous quest, how they had come
across his broken horn, and assumed him dead, how he dreamt of seeing
Boromir floating down the Anduin, how his father had grieved and grieved
till his death at the purported loss of his eldest son, not even surviving
long enough to confirm with his own eyes the rumour that his favoured
son was indeed alive - injured but alive, the second person Faramir
had set eyes upon awakening at the houses of healing after falling in
battle. The first had been King Elessar.
The king! Faramir hurriedly splashed water on his face and
rapidly changed into a fresh set of clothes, grimacing as he realised
he had dozed off in the same clothes he had worn all day the day before,
not even bothering to change for the night. His books lay strewn over
the bed, on the table, everywhere. Ever since he had realised he was
having trouble sleeping, he had turned to his books for solace, as always,
but unlike earlier he had found none forthcoming this time. Hurriedly
he piled them up on the table, and then running a comb quickly through
his hair pulled out the tangles. He had no time to tarry for the king
had called a council early that morning.
He glanced at his face frowning yet again, and splashed some
more water on to it, cursing the dreams that kept him awake. He seemed
to be fighting a losing battle. If he slept, he dreamt, terrible dreams
that woke him up each night without fail. Dreams of the fire that had
consumed his father and almost consumed him alongside, of his brother
falling to orcs, of that terrible interview with his father after they
had thought Boromir dead, of his ride on the Pelennor to hold out against
the forces of darkness, and all compounded by his one recurring dream
of the fall of Numenor. He wondered if he should simply take a sleeping
draught every night. At least it would banish the strange despair that
overtook him every time he woke up, drained and exhausted by his nightmares.
Drying his face, he hurried to the council immediately. He still had
the same room, far away in one of the lonelier parts of the palace,
which he inhabited till the rehabilitation work in Minas Tirith could
be finished. Then Boromir would move to the steward’s house, near the
citadel, and he would either move to a smaller place, or as seemed more
likely simply billet out with his men in Ithilien, where the re-building
was to start in earnest soon.
He decided not to bother to get anything to eat. He did not
feel very hungry, and had quite forgotten that he had not eaten dinner
the previous night, having found himself caught up with paperwork for
his troop’s supplies.
He had not minded so much, having found that to him mealtimes
now had begun to seem as much a bother as they had when his father had
been alive. Then meals had been eaten mostly in an uncomfortable silence.
If Boromir had been home, which was seldom, father and elder son would
talk, the younger remaining silent and not venturing to speak unless
spoken to, and even then carefully so as to not cause offence inadvertently.
And when Boromir was not around, silence would prevail, a tense, fragile
silence, with Faramir wishing Denethor would say something, anything,
even if in rebuke. The rebuke would invariably come, a snap about toying
with his food, or some other equally caustic remark, that would always
cause a familiar pricking in his eyes. Even the rebukes had stopped
as he’d grown older, and any talk between Denethor and Faramir had reduced
to just the level absolutely necessary.
Had anything at all changed, he wondered as he strode down
the long winding corridors towards the part where most of the household
dwelt. Now he found himself excluded from most of the talk at meals
with the king, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli for the fervour of the ring
war, and the destruction of the one ring was yet to die down. Talk always
centred around either the travels of the fellowship of nine, although
not so much now that their halfling friends had returned to the shire,
or the battle at helm’s deep, or the final battle against Sauron’s forces.
And Faramir had not been present at any of those. He had not even been
present at the battle of Pelennor fields. He had fallen trying to help
the white city hold out until Rohan came to their aid. And that was
something he had no desire to talk about, for while they might have
held out, he had lost many of his men. He simply maintained a stony
silence all through. And as he realised later, it only added to the
others’ perception of him as extra-serious.
It appeared no one else shared his predilection regarding
food. He was the first to appear at the council room, and had to wait
a while before he was joined by Aragorn, who entered looking refreshed
and relaxed, and smiled gently at him before proceeding to his place
at the head of the table.
“Sire,” Faramir bowed.
“Faramir, you are early,” came Aragorn’ s amused reply, as
he poured himself some mead from the jug placed on the table.
Faramir did not know whether to reply to this or not but
was saved reacting when the door opened yet again, to let in more people,
including Boromir, Legolas, the elven prince of Mirkwood, and his dwarven
friend Gimli. The discussion was to centre on the re-building of the
land of Ithilien, and proceeded mostly along leisurely lines, barring
a little bickering between Gimli and Legolas about the proportion of
forest cover to be left intact. Legolas had plans to move some of his
people there, and they were already in the process of beginning the
resettlement. Faramir, who was there in his capacity as the captain
of the Ithilien rangers found little to say, and so sat back contemplating
the strange group around the table.
The king, the elf, the dwarf, the councillors, his brother
all seemed to be earnestly interested in the discussion. In his father’s
day he had had little experience of council meetings, Denethor seeing
no reason for his presence in one, unless it was to report on his troops.
Even now, after being snubbed badly at an earlier meeting, he found
he preferred to remain silent, and not volunteer an opinion. Things
had definitely not changed greatly since his father’s day he decided.
Boromir sat across him, and looking at him, he realised with a start
that they had spent barely minutes in each others presence each day,
and the pang in his heart deepened as he noticed the quiet looks of
amused resignation exchanged between his brother and the king, as the
arguments between elf and dwarf became more vocal and even caused some
of the council members to take up cudgels on behalf of one or the other.
It was obviously a usual occurrence, one that Aragorn and Boromir both
seemed to anticipate and now treated as a bit of a joke, that he was
yet to understand. He felt the stirrings of resentment as he realised
that there were now others in this world who were as close to his brother
as he was.
Faramir sighed silently, wishing he could spend some more
time with his brother. He had missed him so much earlier. But Boromir
was busy with his duties as steward nowadays, indulging in much hated
paperwork, while at the same time keeping up his duties as captain general
of the white tower, and what little free time he had he seemed to spend
catching up with the young ladies of his acquaintance. After all, since
the king was engaged to the enviably beautiful Arwen, daughter of Elrond,
the next catch in the market was the tall, well-built, handsome steward
of Gondor. Boromir looked extremely happy and as fresh and energetic
as the rest of the group.
Was he the only one who felt tired to his bone and weary
beyond imagination? And why did everyone else look so happy? What was
he missing out on that the happiness refused to overtake him? Was that
why he had heard Gimli referring to him as dour and grim, and suggesting
to the halflings when they were here, that they play a practical joke
or two on him? He still remembered how everyone had laughed at that.
Aragorn had smiled, the halflings and Legolas had grinned and Boromir
had literally roared with laughter, while he himself had bitten his
lip, and then tried to smile it away, but all that had come out was
a weird grimace, that had made everyone laugh even more.
He hated what he had become, unable to find pleasure in anything
he did, but try as he might, he could not help it. It had annoyed him
greatly that Boromir had joined in the laughter. Until that point he
had considered telling Boromir something of his worries but after that
he had decided against it. Boromir had returned home after long, and
he would not bother him with his own stupid nameless worries.
He found himself assailed by memories all the time, and none
of them good. His thoughts kept returning to his father, and as each
day passed, he felt more and more to blame for his death. If he had
not fallen, his father would not have gotten so desperate as to end
his own life. If he had only trusted him and not doubted his love. And
then he would wonder how his father would have reacted to Aragorn’ s
return as king, and feel angry with himself for thinking such thoughts.
In the background the hum of conversation continued, and
he simply decided to ignore it. Why was he present here at any rate?
He had no role here, among people like the king, or even his brother,
the steward, or Legolas soon to be the lord of the elves of Ithilien.
He was merely a captain of rangers who should be out captaining his
men, but that he had been pulled out while the rebuilding effort went
on.
He felt superfluous. When they were growing up, and Gondor
had been kingless, he and Boromir had always had an understanding that
when the elder one became steward, the younger one would be his chief
councillor. For no one could question Faramir’s sharp intellect. But
they had a king now. Boromir was the steward, and not only that he had
happily offered to continue as captain general, for with a king in place,
the steward’s office held little to it but name. Aragorn hardly had
a need for councillors; he had more experience than anyone amongst them,
and had travelled more widely than anyone else in Gondor. He was not
only an excellent warrior but also had a sharp tactical brain, and at
the same time, like Faramir, an interest in lore. Growing up in the
house of Elrond, he had honed all these skills to perfection, and Faramir
had figured out that in front of his king he would rank a poor country
cousin in all these matters. He wished he could sit with him, and talk
to him of lore, literature, and poetry but after all, Aragorn was king,
and he was merely the brother of the steward. Aragorn had a realm to
govern, and he could not possibly ask him to take time out of that to
spend with him, and cater to what Denethor in a fit of anger had referred
to as his foolish pursuits, despite the fact that he himself had been
accomplished in all these matters.
Why could he not be happy for the rest of the people?
Why was he being so self-centred? After all, the king had returned.
That was what they had wanted all these years, hadn’t they. And the
steward and the king got along famously; things could only get better
for Gondor. Why then did he feel like this?
He should have been happy. Instead he found himself constantly
on the edge. Nothing had changed. Instead of having to prove his worth
to Denethor, he would have to prove his worth to his king. After all
Elessar had never really seen him in action.
He knew Aragorn respected Boromir tremendously and loved him like a
brother. They had fought together, and Boromir’s opinions held a weightage
with the king. The same went for the elf, and the dwarf and even for
Éomer , king of Rohan, whenever he visited. Aragorn had fought with all
of them, and had even known the elf from years earlier. It was the same
thing all over again. The same fight for respect, the desire to be heard
and to be heeded. Would it happen? Aragorn usually heard out what he
had to say patiently and encouragingly, for Faramir usually spoke slowly
and never without thought. But he had spent too many years being snubbed
in council meetings, and most of the councillors had spent years watching
his opinions being scorned. Old habits died hard. Silence was his only
refuge and he welcomed it gladly.
The drone of the conversation got louder, so Faramir tried
to stifle his growing disquiet, and pay more attention to the council
proceedings. He would not give in to self-pity he told himself.
“When you have the time, Lord Faramir!’ came a sarcastic
cry that pulled the young man reluctantly out of his reverie. Reddening
slightly, he realised that everyone was looking to him to answer something,
and he had no clue what it could be. Looks of scorn and resignation
met him from around the table. Lord Eredil, the council member who had
called out to him, looked impatient, while Gimli and Legolas seemed
to be awaiting his reply, and across the table, Boromir was shaking
his head half in resignation, half in disappointment.
Faramir felt the familiar poundings of an intense headache
set off in his temples. Unconsciously raising a hand to his head, he
bit his lip.
“I’m sorry, I did not –“ he began, and then his eyes fell
on the king’s face. Aragorn was looking at him with a strange expression
on his face, that Faramir could not entirely decipher. Suddenly the
room whirled in front of his eyes, hunger and exhaustion combining with
the embarrassment of the situation to make him nauseous.
Aragorn entered the council room mulling over the reports
he’d been reading over breakfast. His couriers had come in from news
from across the land as they did every few days. Opening the huge doors,
he noticed the usual figure he’d come to expect punctually before time,
standing by a window. He suddenly remembered the last time they had
spoken in this room. After a meeting, he had asked Faramir to stay back
and then as tactfully as possible asked him not to visit Ithilien for
a few days since the dwarfs there found him getting in their way with
the re-building efforts. Faramir had apparently offered perfectly innocently
that he and his men could help them out with the rehabilitation work,
an offer that some of the dwarfs had taken as an insult. Gimli had wanted
to speak to the young captain himself, but Aragorn had rightly guessed
that the dwarf’s gruff manner would only cause distress to the ranger
and had taken on the job himself. And even his quiet explanation had
not managed to keep the worry out of those clear grey eyes.
In hindsight though, it had amused him that Faramir could
take such a simple request so much to heart, and he could not keep the
smile out of his voice as he greeted the younger man. Faramir had glanced
up at him then and with shock Aragorn had noted that he looked more
haggard than usual. Compared to Boromir’s boisterous, good-humoured
outlook, Faramir came across as the most dour of creatures, but closer
inspection had shown the astute king of Gondor that the grimness seemed
to be a front to hide a deep-rooted sadness. He never failed to note
how often the strained face took on a look of puzzled bewilderment.
Before he could inquire further, however, the other attendees had walked
in. But it did not escape his notice that Faramir’s thoughts were somewhere
very far away all through. He didn’t blame him. His friends’ constant
arguments on the building efforts were beginning to get on everyone’s
nerves and only the strong bond of people who have fought for each other,
prevented him from saying anything. So he contended himself with secretly
observing the wan face of his steward’s younger brother, noting with
unease that he looked as bad as he had done the day he had seen him
battling the fever that had been brought on when he had been injured
during the siege.
Gimli’s question shook him out of his reverie. He seemed
to be asking Faramir about the requirements for soldiers’ outpost. Faramir
was sitting straight backed in his chair gazing blankly out of the window
behind Gimli. If he had been an elf, he’d have been taken to be asleep.
Heads turned towards the silent ranger who continued to stare out of
the window unmindful of the others. Aragorn raised his eyebrows slightly
as Lord Eredil repeated the question in a tone laced with sarcasm, in
an effort to gain Faramir’s attention. He watched with concern as the
young captain dragged himself back into reality, and flushed unbecomingly.
The reddish hue turned slightly pale as Faramir raised a hand to his
forehead and then stammered out something, the words fading away. Aragorn
realised Faramir had caught his gaze, and the other’s grey orbs were
now wide open with something akin to fear. Conflicting emotions flitted
across a worn face, embarrassment paramount among them. The grey eyes
blinked and dropped, and a slight tremor rippled through the hunched
shoulders, as the eyes screwed shut.
Aragorn acted swiftly without even realizing what he was
doing until he’d put out a hand and tipped over the jug of mead onto
the table. All eyes turned away from Faramir to the king and the councillor
sitting next to him, as they hurriedly rose, tipping back their chairs
noisily, patting away the liquid dripping down the table onto their
clothes. Aragorn sneaked a glance towards the young captain at the other
end of the table. Faramir had finally opened his eyes and glanced up
slowly.
“My apologies, Lord Mardinel,” Aragorn said courteously to
the councillor next to him, a pleasing man, much younger than most of
the other councillors, on whom most of the liquid had fallen. He himself
had escaped with barely a few drops splashing onto his clothes. “I am
aware all of us have a busy day ahead. I fear we will have to conclude
this meeting at a later time.”
He could make out that his three friends were holding back
remarks about his clumsiness with great difficulty, so he took his time
with the councillors as they dispersed. When they had all left, his
three friends rose. Faramir rose too, slowly, sluggishly, as the other
three descended on to him.
“What manner of a ranger were you?” Legolas inquired, and
the others followed suit with similar comments. Faramir walked towards
him, his expression creased with worry.
“Sire,” he said bowing to take leave of his king.
“Stay, Faramir,” he commanded gently. The furrows on the
weary face in front of him deepened.
“I may have spilt the mead, but there is still some good
wine. Come, my friends, let us reassemble in the study, and drink to,
well, whatever each one of us wants to drink to.”
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Chapter 2
The study had not been redecorated at all by its new owner.
It remained much the same, Faramir realised as he entered it after everyone
else. Legolas, Gimli and Boromir had dropped into comfortable armchairs
arranged around a warm fire kindling in the grate. Boromir was already
poking at the wood lazily with one booted foot, careful not to let it
get too close to the fire. Faramir realised that there had been a few
additions - the armchairs. Denethor had usually invited his guests either
onto the straight-backed chairs at the table or a small couch in one
corner. And he had rarely lit a fire until the winter had truly descended
upon the city.
He himself had always sat on the uncomfortable high backed
chairs when invited to sit, which was rarely. His visits to the study
had always been too short for him to require sitting - a few words from
his father, and then he would leave. When there were more than a few
words to be said, sitting had never been an option to counter Denethor’s
anger. He had lost count of the number of times he had stood in this
very room and experienced the strength in his father’s hand when he
had been young. As he grew older, Denethor stopped striking him, and
simply avoided him instead, resulting in his visits here becoming few
and far between.
He stood now, near the door, uncomfortably wondering what
to do, and where to sit. Aragorn looked up from behind the table where
he was pouring wine into goblets and smiled as he waved him in, vaguely
gesturing him to sit somewhere. All that was left to sit on were the
tall chairs, so he lowered himself into one, and unconsciously tucked
his feet into the rung running through its legs. Placing his hands on
his knees, he cupped his chin in his palms and leaned forward listening
cursorily to his brother and the elf arguing about something to do with
the stables.
“Do you need help with the wine, Aragorn or do you think
you can spill it on your own?” Gimli asked, causing Boromir and Legolas
to stop arguing and snicker instead. Faramir could never get over the
casualness between the four friends. To them, the king was always Aragorn.
Aragorn had once asked him too to drop his formality in their interaction,
something Faramir had promptly shied away from. He could almost see
the disapproving looks on the faces of the councillors and other important
people of the land if a mere captain of the Gondorian army were to refer
to their king by his name. Thankfully, Aragorn had not pursued the issue.
Through the window he could see that the sun now lay hidden
behind clouds. Aragorn came forward with the filled goblets, and handed
them around. Watching his movements, Faramir suddenly remembered he
had not eaten anything since the day before.
The conversation stopped momentarily as they sipped the wine.
Faramir took a very tiny sip. It was the wine that had come over from
Dol Amroth, one that his father had particularly liked, a particularly
strong variety, good in small doses, but not advisable in large doses.
Unfortunately Denethor had a tendency to imbibe it in large doses, especially
when dealing with his younger son. Faramir gripped the goblet a little
tighter as he took another tiny sip. Why did everything bring back such
unpleasant memories?
“Where is that blue vase that used to rest on the mantelpiece?”
Boromir’s question caused him to raise his eyes with a start. His brother
was looking towards the mantelpiece of the fireplace in consternation,
“It was mother’s,” Boromir continued in a soft voice.
“There was no vase there,” Aragorn said frowning.
“I wonder where it went. Perhaps father moved it away somewhere
else. I would like to hunt for it.”
“It broke,” Faramir heard a voice blurt out, realizing belatedly
that it was his own voice, and promptly regretted having spoken.
Why did I say that? Now he will surely want to know how
it broke. The familiar pounding set off in his head, and he found
himself gripping the goblet even tighter, as he gazed up to meet the
eyes of his brother and king. Legolas and Gimli were half listening
to the conversation.
“How?” Boromir asked, aghast, “father had kept that vase
for years. It was all he kept of mother. How did it break?”
Faramir felt everyone’s eyes rest on him. Boromir’s near-impassioned
outburst had increased the others’ interest in the matter.
He bit his lip, wondering what to say. He was quite incapable
of lying, and if he even so much as tried, Boromir would easily catch
him out. Besides, men of Gondor were known for their sense of honour.
“I – I – it… it broke, it fell – off the mantelpiece. Slipped
– it slipped off, and broke. While you were on the quest,” he stammered
rapidly, his heart sinking as he noticed Boromir’s eyes narrowing. Aragorn
was watching him with a puzzled expression on his face, while Legolas
and Gimli looked on curiously.
“It slipped?” Boromir stated calmly, questioningly.
Faramir took a larger sip of the wine hoping it would help
fortify him a little, and then nodded miserably.
“How did it slip?” Boromir asked, an ominously patient undertone
lacing his voice.
I fell against it. Faramir said in his mind.
“I am not sure, I did not see it fall,” he said quietly.
That was true at any rate. He had been pushed back against the mantelpiece.
His eyes had been on his father’s face, not on the vase that had fallen
off as his shoulder blade had hit it. He had not even realised what
had happened until Denethor had cried out in rage and sorrow when it
had crashed into the ground breaking into smithereens. Then he had been
shoved away nearly to the ground while Denethor had knelt and lovingly
picked up the pieces of a favoured memory of his wife. In a voice so
cold that it had frightened Faramir, he bade his younger son to leave
and not show himself to him unless requested.
He looked back at Boromir straight into his eyes, noting
with distress that his elder brother seemed very upset by the news.
A tense silence descended upon the room, broken only by a knock on the
door.
“Sire,” the servant bowed to the king, “My lords. Sire, Lieutenant
Mablung is here from Ithilien and wishes to see Lord Faramir.”
Mablung! Faramir felt like slapping himself. He had completely
forgotten that Mablung was to come down to Minas Tirith today while
they went over the supplies to be allocated to their company. He glanced
at Aragorn seeking his permission to leave, and receiving it, nodded
to the servant.
“I will be there,” he said and sliding off the chair, quaffed
the rest of the wine down grimacing as he did so. Placing the empty
goblet on the table, he bowed to the others and left. The overwhelming
feeling in his heart was one of relief, at not having to explain to
his distraught brother the loss of a prized possession.
Aragorn stared at the retreating back of the young captain
in puzzlement. He could have sworn that Faramir had looked relieved
to be able to leave. When he had entered the room, he had looked shy
and unsure, and Aragorn had found himself strangely drawn to this strange
young man with a permanently worried face. He wished Faramir would open
up a little more to all of them. He spoke mostly to Boromir, and even
that was just a little. Boromir had once mentioned that his brother
was reserved by nature, and spoke rarely, preferring to listen instead.
Even the attempt to reduce the formality between them had backfired
as Faramir had given him a totally horrified look when asked to refer
to him by name.
Even when he drank, it was moderately, Aragorn realised,
as he watched the wine being sipped in small amounts. The grey eyes
had clouded over momentarily as though lost in some unpleasant memory,
and then Boromir had asked about the vase. And as that conversation
proceeded, Faramir’s eyes had a near frantic look as Boromir became
more and more distressed. Faramir had stuttered through an explanation
lamely and it occurred to Aragorn that no one in the room had missed
the desperation mirrored on his visage reflected in his voice. He seemed
to calm down a little after sipping some more wine, and a pall of silence
descended heavily upon the room. Aragorn wondered if he should say something,
but what could he say? His eyes fell upon Boromir and it seemed to him
that his friend almost felt like crying. He remembered seeing Finduilas,
Denethor’s lady, when he had served in his younger days in Gondor’s
army incognito. She had died young, and to her two sons much of her
memory probably lay only in inanimate mementoes like the vase. The tension
broke with the knock on the door, and he readily gave Faramir grace
to leave, inciting the look of sheer relief on that drawn face.
Whatever was bothering Faramir so much? He was sure if the
vase had broken by Faramir’s hands the younger man would readily have
admitted to it. In the little time he had seen him, he had been extremely
impressed by the other’s straightforwardness and integrity.
He sighed and turned his attention back to his friends. The
uncomfortable silence still lay over them, for Boromir was now staring
at the carpet fixedly, and Legolas and Gimli were wondering what to
do, staring glumly at each other, and then at their friend.
He said the only thing he could think of saying, “Some more
wine, Boromir? Legolas? Gimli?” It worked. Boromir glanced up nodding,
and the conversation on stables resumed, not as animated as earlier,
but good enough given the circumstances.
Faramir walked up to his room tiredly. He had spent all day
with Mablung, charting out the requirements for the forces in Ithilien.
It was a smaller force now, since it was peacetime, but supplies were
still needed, and every month, they would draw up the lists and at the
same time go through the rolls, seeing how everyone was doing, moving
men among companies if required, increasing strength where required,
drawing from companies that were over manned as the situation demanded.
He knew each and every man under his command, and loved being with all
of them, and living as one of them. A ranger. Just a ranger defending
his land who chaffed at not getting time enough to spend in the open
country on the other side of the river Anduin, for all the captains
were required in the city and would be there for the next few months
to debate on the various peace treaties and negotiations on hand.
Entering his room, he threw himself onto his bed wearily.
He had missed the luncheon meal, and had had to settle for some fruit
instead. Having forced himself to concentrate on his work all this while,
he now found his mind slipping back into familiar territory.
What a fool he had made of himself earlier in the day, he
thought wretchedly. And that too in front of his king. Not only had
he been caught daydreaming in the middle of a meeting where his inputs
had been required, but also when he had been invited to join him in
a cup of wine, instead of apologizing for his behaviour he had simply
floundered some more.
The subject he had dreaded so much earlier in the day hit
him with a full force. How was he to tell Boromir that their mother’s
favourite vase had broken because of him?
Because Denethor in a fury over his elder son’s supposed
death had taken all his anger and sorrow out on the younger one. When
Faramir had mentioned Boromir’s death, Denethor’s thin veneer of calm
had snapped. Grabbing the younger man by the shoulders he had shaken
him roughly and angrily, and struck him across his face with a force
that belied his age. Faramir had fallen backwards against the fireplace,
and knocked the vase over. Denethor had become incensed. Fear had coursed
through his veins as he had watched Denethor kneel down and pick one
of the broken pieces in his hand. For he had been truly afraid that
night, not so much by the physicality of the attack, as by the emotional
intensity behind it. He had found himself cowering like a child before
the open hostility radiating from Denethor’s eyes. On dismissal, he
had literally fled to his room, where he had spent half the night berating
himself for his cowardice, and the other half crying openly for his
brother.
He still had a tiny scar near his left ear, where the steward’s
ring had sliced the skin open, but it had been nothing compared to the
unseen scars he had felt in his heart.
The very memory served to bring tears to his eyes now, and
he buried his head into his pillow in an effort to prevent them falling.
Exhaustion overcame the overburdened mind, and he fell off into an uneasy
sleep, not rising even when Boromir pushed his head in later in the
evening to see why he had not come down to supper. He heard the scrape
of the door, but felt too tired to react. Boromir called out to him
softly, but his befuddled brain would not let him reply or even open
his eyes, even when Boromir quietly entered the room, covered him with
a blanket, and whispering him a good night, left the room.
That night his sleep was plagued by vague dreams of a terrifying
nature. He woke up many times that night, sweating profusely despite
the cold, unable to recall what exactly he had dreamt that he had awoken
so violently, and feeling extremely unsettled, his heart beating rapidly,
chest heaving up and down, gasping for breath. When daybreak came he
looked worse than he ever had. But he was also feeling hungry, after
having eaten next to nothing for more than a day, so he hurriedly washed
himself and dressed in fresh clothes, went down for breakfast.
Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were already there, planning their
day out. Boromir was planning to check on his troops posted on the outlying
areas of the city. These were his own men, handpicked by him, having
fought at his side often in the past. Gimli and Legolas were planning
a foray into Ithilien, and the three friends were attempting to see
how far they could ride out together. When he reached the table, Boromir
glanced up and smiled warmly at him, which caused Faramir to heave a
silent sigh of relief.
“You slept off early yesterday. I was worried,” the elder
man chided, “and the servants said you had not eaten all day.”
Faramir reached for some bread, and shrugged, “I had some
food with Mablung,” he said vaguely. He knew Boromir was worried about
him, but he wished he’d display that worry away from other people. Aragorn
entered when they had almost finished, and looking up in greeting, Faramir
felt like a knife was being twisted through him. He suddenly remembered
he had had a recurrent dream last night, which he was unable to recall.
What he did recall now was that Aragorn was involved in it somehow,
and that it had caused him great worry.
“I shall take your leave now, Aragorn,” Boromir said rising,
“I must leave early for the day ahead is long.”
“And we shall leave too,” Gimli announced as he and Legolas
rose, “It is a fair ride to Ithilien at least for me, on that stubborn
horse!”
Aragorn sighed dramatically, “And I shall sit indoors all
day poring over dusty treaties and peace agreements!”
Faramir spent a substantial part of the morning ensuring
that all the supplies required for his troops had been organized, and
stood ready for dispatch. And all the while he kept racking his brain
and trying to remember what exactly he had dreamt, that made him feel
so uneasy, and why it made him worry for Aragorn. By noon, he was completely
on edge, even the tiniest noise almost made him jump, and his nerves
were screaming with an indescribable tension.
He finished off his work and walked back towards the palace,
still feeling edgy and unreasonably nervous. Something was wrong. He
had no idea what but something was certainly most terribly wrong. And
somehow it involved the king. He entered the palace through the wide
doors, and the uneasiness intensified. Stopping mid-stride on his way
to his chambers, he quickly made up his mind, and stopping a servant
inquired about the king’s whereabouts, to be told he was in his study.
He did not think he would be at peace until he had seen for himself
that Aragorn was all right. And he did need to apologise for his terrible
behaviour the day before. It was about time he did.
Aragorn however was not inside his study. He was standing
instead on the long, large balcony that opened out from a number of
rooms and offered a view of the Pelennor stretching out below the remaining
levels of the city. Faramir stepped into one of the halls that opened
into the balcony and strode towards it. Aragorn stood looking out at
the view, his guard nowhere to be seen. Faramir knew from experience
that Aragorn insisted he would not have his guard cloistered around
him when he was the house. He stood at the entranceway and looked at
the older man, marvelling once again at the excellent physique, and
the handsome face, that could be both grave and relaxed. Aragorn truly
looked like the kings of old, noble of face and bearing, capable of
strength and sympathy both, his Numenorean blood ensuring that he looked
much younger than he actually was.
Looking at his king, Faramir felt himself tensing up. Something
was wrong, he knew that for sure. But what could it be?
“Sire,” he said hesitantly, stepping out into the open and
Aragorn turned around sharply. The swishing sound cutting through the
air was all the warning that Faramir’s overwrought mind needed. He lunged
at Aragorn immediately and pushed him to the ground covering his liege’s
body with his own. In the ensuing confusion all that remained clear
was the intense pain overwhelming his senses.
Aragorn stood in the balcony enjoying the opportunity to
be out in the open after a day spent entirely inside the walls of his
study. The sun had made a token appearance through the clouds for a
short while and he intended to take full advantage of it. He was going
to have a lot of work to do the next few days, reconciling some of the
more stubborn old members of the council to the fact that they could
attempt for peace with their old enemies. After spending all this while
poring over paperwork, he really wanted to go out, perhaps riding, but
there was still a little work left with Lord Mardinel from his council.
He was wondering whether he should invite Faramir on a ride, after he
finished with that. He found himself getting more and more intrigued
by the younger man. Whatever could be troubling him so much? He had
wondered if he should broach the subject with Boromir, but decided that
that would be going out of line. Instead he decided he would have a
go at it himself. With a sharp agile mind along with adept skills as
a soldier, the young ranger had him decidedly impressed.
The soft voice cut through his reverie, and he swung around
in surprise, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly entered the balcony.
Something whizzed by his shoulder, and in a shock he realised it was
an arrow, and if he hadn’t turned it would have gone straight through
his heart. Without warning, he felt himself being pushed down, and instinctively
readied himself to fall on his back on the hard stone floor, ensuring
he kept his head away from the surface, his cry of surprise muffled
by the weight of the body covering him. Somewhere he heard the sound
of more arrows, and he knew they had impacted with something but he
felt no pain save that from his back hitting the floor.
In the distance, cries and shouts rang out, as he lay winded
and half-dazed trying to recover his breath, his eyes closed as his
mind tried to process what had occurred. He was lying on the floor and
someone was atop him. Someone who lay unmoving. Soft hair pressed against
his jaw and neck, and a scent akin to heather wafted up to his nose.
Warm breaths of air hit his chest and shoulder at alarmingly rapid intervals.
He put his hands on the weight to push it away, and felt the warm liquid
on his fingers. Alarmed, his eyes flew open to the sight of the arrow
protruding from the shoulder of the slender figure lying protectively
over him. He felt the blood from a second wound on Faramir’s side trickle
through the soft cloth of the tunic onto his fingers.
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Chapter 3
A sharp stinging feeling hit Faramir’s shoulder and he felt
the momentum propel him and Aragorn forward.
Cover him! his mind screamed.
Another stab of agony hit his side and he felt the pain course
through his exhausted body like a fire, his distraught mind overtaken
by the pain. He felt his head slump forward against the strong muscular
chest of his king, and as a fresh burst of pain washed over him he unconsciously
buried his face deeper against the other man’s chest, taking comfort
from the very feeling of proximity, and the reassuring sound of the
king’s heartbeat, regular and rhythmic, merely a little rushed from
the current excitement.
A grey mist stretched before his eyes. Then he felt someone
trying to push him off. Then something brushed against the wound to
his side, and the agony intensified. Lifting up his head a little he
realised Aragorn was trying to get up. Through the mist he could make
out clear grey eyes mired in confusion.
“Stay down, sire!” he hissed out, before his head fell forward
again, refusing to stay up as pain shot across his shoulder and through
his neck.
He sensed movement around him, sounds of running feet. Hands
reached out for him, and he panicked as he felt himself being pulled
away from Aragorn. Being moved away from his king. No! his mind
screamed and he gritted his teeth determined not to expose Aragorn to
any more danger. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he flailed out at
the hands holding him, ignoring the red-hot skewers that seemed to be
pushing into his shoulder. He heard an unearthly moan, not realizing
it came from his own throat. To his befuddled pain-riddled mind it seemed
to come from another source. The king! Frantically he tried to pull
away from the restraining hands.
“The king,” he managed to whisper, through the pain.
“I am all right,” the gentle, regal voice of his liege filled
his heart with relief and joy. Then someone’s arms closed around him
in a comforting embrace. Strong arms held him against a strong, reassuring
body. A familiar voice was speaking softly and soothingly to him. A
soft smell of herbs hit his nostrils and he leaned into the embrace
wearily, letting the dense mist overtake him.
Aragorn stared at the blood coating his fingers, and promptly
tried to get up. Faramir’s head rose, and grey eyes clouded with pain
stared back at him. Before he could realise it, a young ranger captain
was practically ordering him, the king of Gondor and Arnor, to stay
down! Then to his dismay, the dark head slumped forward again and this
time lay there. The sound of running feet made him jerk his head to
one side.
“My lord!” he heard the Tarlong, the captain of his guard
cry out.
“Sire!” he heard someone else call out in alarm, it sounded
like Mardinel, “Sire, are you hurt?” Mardinel knelt by him staring wide-eyed
at the arrow embedded in Faramir’s shoulder, “Faramir-?”
“I am unhurt, help Faramir,” Aragorn croaked out, and watched
with concern as the captain of the guard and Mardinel gently lifted
the ranger off him, taking care not to hurt the injured man further.
A pain wracked moan slipped out from the pale lips on the ashen face
of the younger man. Aragorn scrambled up in concern as the weight shifted
off him, and moved forward as the injured ranger tried to get away from
the restraining arms, and called out for him in a voice reflecting his
suffering.
He grabbed at the struggling figure careful to avoid the
arrow.
“I am all right,” he said soothingly, as he slipped one arm
around the almost unconscious man’s uninjured shoulder, and the other
around above his wounded waist and tried to calm him down, holding him
in his arms as he would have held a young child. He felt Faramir collapse
against him with a relived sigh.
“Sire,” Tarlong pleaded, “You must move out of the open.”
“I doubt if the archer will attempt anything again immediately,”
Aragorn replied, “We must see to Faramir. He is wounded.”
“I will call a healer,” Mardinel told him.
“Yes, he should not be moved,” Aragorn replied and looking
up, he noticed with approval that Tarlong was effectively barking out
orders to the guardsmen, dispatching some to search for the would-be
assassin and others to guard the entry and exit points in the palace,
for it was clear that the arrows had been fired from one of the windows
a few levels above the balcony. One of the guards was shutting off the
doors to the balcony. Any news of an assassination attempt on the king
might lead to panic, and he wanted to ensure the news did not spread
if Aragorn did not want it to.
Aragorn stared worriedly at Faramir’s wounds. A thick, wicked
looking arrow protruded from the back of the right shoulder and the
injury to the waist was still bleeding. The arrow seemed to have merely
nicked it, but although it might not have ordinarily been cause for
too much concern, the flow would have to be stemmed soon especially
given that it was not the only injury Faramir had suffered.
The drawn face was covered in beads of sweat and extremely
pale now, in striking contrast to the raven hair that fell over it in
disarray, “It was meant for me and you are hurt, my friend. You should
not have! “
He gently lowered the inert figure onto his stomach, and
examined the arrow in the shoulder, his lips pursed tightly. He looked
up as he heard footsteps to notice that one of the healers had entered,
with herbs and cloths in hand, his face creased in worry.
“It will have to be removed immediately,” he declared indicating
the arrow, “Hold him down. I am going to remove it.”
The healer nodded, well aware that his king was as good at
the art as, and maybe even better than, the warden of the houses of
healing. He clamped his arms down over Faramir’s uninjured left shoulder
and upper body, and watched tensely as Aragorn gripped the arrow’s shaft
with both hands and pulled. It came out cleanly, coated in blood that
even now dripped off its point, and a pale sticky coating to it that
made the healer suck in a deep breath, and Aragorn’ s face take on a
stern expression.
“Poison,” the healer muttered needlessly. Blood seeped out
of the wound and Faramir gave out a sickly moan, but immediately slipped
back into unconsciousness. Aragorn felt a tug at his heart as he realised
how much pain the ranger had put himself through merely to save him.
He examined the arrow and the wounds wordlessly, and then
heaved a sigh of relief. It was not an uncommon poison and one that
they would be able to treat quite easily, fatal if it hit the heart,
but in such cases as this merely causing a mild fever and much pain
to the victim. Swiftly they stripped Faramir of his tunic and pressed
clean cloth against the injuries, to stem the blood loss.
“The poison needs to be cleaned out and the shoulder needs
stitching but it would not be wise to move him very far. The wounds
are deep, and they have bled much. He will be in considerable pain,”
the healer said quietly.
Aragorn nodded, “The nearest rooms are my new chambers. We
will shift him there for the time being. And later, when his condition
improves he can be moved to his rooms. I would not like to move him
to the houses of healing. It is too far away to carry him.” His tone
left no room for argument, so that finally the still unconscious Faramir
was placed gently and carefully on the bed in Aragorn’ s chambers, so
that the healer could finish cleaning out the wounds, stitch up the
shoulder and bandage the cut to the waist. Outside, Tarlong informed
Aragorn that the archer had not been found yet, his tone making it abundantly
clear that Aragorn was going to find himself constantly on guard from
now onwards. The captain of the guard was quite distressed by what had
happened. After all, the king had almost fallen, and the captain of
the Ithilien rangers now lay wounded.
It was a while later that Aragorn entered the chamber, having
spoken to Tarlong and also swiftly concluded his meeting with Mardinel,
his eyes not missing out on the fact that the guard seemed to have been
doubled around the palace. The healer had finished his work and left
so Aragorn left orders to have Boromir sent to his chambers the moment
he returned, and then came and stood by the wan, still figure reposing
on his bed, injured in the effort to protect him. The healer had offered
to send someone to sit by Faramir but he had refused, not entirely sure
why, but aware somehow that he should be the one to be there. Tarlong
had promptly agreed relieved that his king would be indoors, and it
was only the circumstances that had prevented Aragorn from pointing
out that he would not stay locked within four walls tomorrow or the
day after that.
Faramir felt exhausted. Terribly exhausted, and sick. He
wanted to get up, but found himself unable to move, unable even to summon
enough energy to open his eyes. He buried his face deeper into a soft
pillow, taking in the warm deep smell, herby in nature that helped soothe
him strangely. It smelt of something, no, someone. Someone like . .
. the king! The king was in danger . . . He struggled to get his eyes
open. He needed to warn Elessar. Something was very wrong. He tried
to rise. How could he lie here sleeping, knowing his liege was in mortal
peril? The resultant sharp stab of pain almost sent him hurtling towards
an encompassing blackness.
A soft moan escaped from his lips, and almost immediately
he felt someone’s hand running through his hair. It felt a familiar
feeling, and he knew he must open his eyes. It seemed to take forever,
but he finally managed to focus through half-lidded eyes on the hand
that was gently stroking his cheek and hair. A strong callused hand,
with long fingers. It looked so familiar. And it felt so cool as it
ran over his fevered face. He reached out to touch it, but his shoulder
seemed to be on fire, and he could not prevent the cry that escaped
his lips. He could not move his hand! The thought galvanized him into
action and he promptly tried to turn over, but the movement simply sent
a wave of pain through his entire being. He was being held down now,
those same strong hands were wrapped around his back and holding him
down, all the while softly speaking to him.
“Lie still,” the gentle voice spoke into his ear.
“The king . . .” he whispered again, his fevered mind going
frantic with worry. He could not let Elessar down. He owed him too much.
His own life, and Boromir’s life, for his brother had told him of how
Aragorn had healed him of the injuries inflicted by the Uruk Hai during
the quest.
“Sshh, it is all right. I am fine,” the voice came through
insistent, he knew that voice, “Do not move, you are injured.”
He took a deep breath and turning his neck painfully opened
his eyes fully, gazing up at the face bending over him.
Aragorn quietly adjusted the blankets around Faramir’s prone
body after the healer had left. Although sweat glistened on Faramir’s
exposed body, the weather was so unpredictable these days as the winter
was beginning to inch its way through, that in his weakened state, the
younger man’s condition could easily worsen. The ripped and bloody tunic
lay discarded on the balcony, so he was still bare-chested, his upper
body displaying other scars from prior battles. Trophies that all men
in Gondor carried as a sign of the years of strife that the realm had
had to live through. He sighed as his hand brushed against the bare
upper back, and he felt the warmth radiating from the pale, soft flesh.
He could feel the guilt surge through him. Faramir’s wounds were not
fatal but they were hurtful, and he would not be able to use his right
hand for a while yet, and it was all because of him!
All these years Aragorn had been used to defending others
as a ranger of the north, as a member of the fellowship. Even as a king
he had felt his first duty lay with his realm, his life above the safety
of the land. But now it had been borne out to him that he seemed to
have entered the class of the defended rather than the defender, a thought
that left him bemused. Sitting on the bed, he reached out for the dark
mop of hair and stroked it lightly, taking in the pale face underneath.
Faramir turned his face into the pillow, and Aragorn realised
the younger man was trying to wake up. A low cry of pain confirmed his
suspicions. He gently stroked the ranger’s face trying to get him to
relax. He could feel the muscles tense up, and wondered if he might
need to use the sleeping draught the healer had left behind. Faramir
was obviously confused about his surroundings.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered softly, still stroking gently,
but his words went unheard. Faramir’s injured shoulder twitched and
Aragorn realised he was trying to move his hand. He promptly but gently
held him down although not soon enough to prevent a pitiable moan from
the injured man. Leaning forward to soothe him, he heard him call out
once again. Softly, but in a clear voice, he tried to reassure the distraught
figure in his arms that he was all right, when the younger man’s eyes
opened, and the grey orbs settled on his.
“K –king Elessar,” Faramir gasped out.
Faramir stared back into the deep grey eyes, as he had done
all those weeks ago. He had awoken then, pulled out of the darkness
where he had been wandering restlessly to see the face of his king.
The same face that was giving him a look of – concern? Why? He felt
a tug of pain on his shoulder but ignored it as a rush of memories flooded
into his mind. An arrow! Aimed at Aragorn. A frightening vision from
his dream last night entered his mind. Aragorn lay on the ground, someone
over him, blood flowing. A convulsive shiver ran through his body and
this time the pain that coursed through him made him sob loudly and
harshly.
Aragorn was speaking to him, asking him to lie still.
“No, it is not safe,” he sobbed out, his mind racked by sights
from his dream, “I will not let you get hurt.”
“You did not,” Aragorn said soothingly, “It is safe now.
Here, drink this.”
He felt himself gently being moved onto his side, and wondered
why it caused so much pain. He grunted as the ache intensified. More
soft, comforting words were whispered in his ears. What was happening?
Where was he? This was not his chamber . . . and where was his tunic?
He could feel a firm hand on his bare back, a strange touch, but not
totally unwelcome, in fact he liked it. It made him feel secure and
at peace for the first time in many months.
Strong hands held him in place, and then something was placed
against his mouth and he instinctively swallowed the liquid and the
dreams returned.
It was almost an hour later that Aragorn sat back, heaving
a sigh of relief. Faramir had blacked out almost immediately after ingesting
the sleeping draught, and Aragorn had guessed the injuries and fever
had much to do with that. But it had not been enough to keep the dreams
away, for the slight body had shivered more than once and the worn face
had contorted with spasms, that would not leave until Aragorn had slipped
his arms around the sleeping figure and comforted him slowly. It was
only now that the young ranger had managed to slip into a peaceful slumber,
lying on his side, so that his face was now clearly visible. The small
dosage of sleeping draught would keep him out for at least another couple
of hours, and he would certainly wake up in a much better state than
now.
He stood up stretching himself, thankful that his duties
for the day had been dispensed with. He would have been loath to leave
Faramir alone in such a condition. He had had his leftover paperwork
brought to his chambers, and now he sat on a couch near the bed rifling
through it, at the same time wondering whom the would-be assassin might
be. He found himself unable to concentrate, his thoughts instead getting
diverted to the young man on his bed.
Faramir looked so very young despite the dark circles around
the eyes and the lines on his face. The pain he suffered was etched
on his face, making him look extremely vulnerable. He remembered the
first time he’d seen him, it had been in similar circumstances, for
Faramir had been in the throes of a fever that would not abate after
being injured while defending the city. It had been a brave effort,
a small defensive measure but much needed, and forgotten now in the
glory of the following larger battle and the destruction of the ring.
He had awoken and given him a look of love and reverence that had made
him realise just what being a king would mean and how he would forever
carry the aspirations of the people of his realm and reassure them just
by his very presence.
He had not progressed very far with his work two hours later
when the urgent knocking sounded on the door of the outer chamber, rapid
and loud enough to make the sleeping figure on his bed stir a little.
He strode out to the door and opened it, presuming it would be Tarlong.
It was Boromir, a very worried and anxious Boromir, followed
by Legolas and Gimli both just as worried and anxious.
“Aragorn! You are all right!” his steward cried out, “Tarlong
sent us right here, he said you had been attacked!”
“Does anyone else know,” Aragorn asked, letting them into
the outer chamber. He had no intention of letting out the fact that
the defences in the palace had managed to let an assassin through.
“No,” Gimli assured him in a loud voice that Aragorn felt
was sure to wake up the injured man inside, “Tarlong said you would
not have the news let out. You are safe then? We were worried.”
Aragorn raised a regal eyebrow, “Did Tarlong not tell you
I was all right?” he inquired, his heart sinking a little as he wondered
how Boromir would react to his brother’s condition. The last time he
had been in a state of near panic.
“Yes, but he was in such a hurry to oversee the changing
of the palace guard, we were not sure what he meant when he said you
had been inside here all day. He seems to be personally supervising
everything today,” Legolas told him, “But what did happen? Who is the
assassin, and how did he attack?”
Aragorn said quietly, “We know naught of the assassin yet,
save that he is an archer. I am all right. Faramir is not.” He reached
for the dismayed steward of Gondor and propelled him towards the inner
chamber where Faramir lay.
“Faramir!”
“Ssh… he rests,” Aragorn cautioned him casting a worried
glance at the sleeping figure, “Although he should waken soon. The effects
of the herbs seem to be wearing off.”
“What happened?” Boromir was as frantic as he had thought
he would be, “Is he very badly hurt?”
Aragorn pushed him towards the couch, forced him to sit down,
and then quietly related the day’s events to him.
“He will be fine in a day or two. He is in much pain now,
but it will abate, as will the fever, though he may feel discomfort
from the shoulder injury for a few weeks yet,” he concluded to the worried
group.
His clear quiet voice carried through with conviction so
that by the time he finished the three listeners were relieved enough
to wonder about the assassin. They discussed it quietly, Boromir having
moved to the bed, where he sat beside his brother, stroking the dark
hair gently, frowning as he felt the slight heat radiating from the
skin. They were still talking when Faramir stirred under the touch,
and turned his face towards the palm that lay on his hair. Immediately
his eyes flew open.
“Boromir,” he gasped out weakly, and Aragorn noted that this
time, the grey orbs were clear and lucid, and the pain did not show
up so much. The sleeping draught usually worked as an effective painkiller
too.
His brother simply nodded, as though not trusting his voice.
The sight of Faramir’s face almost as white as the sheets he lay on
had obviously hit him hard.
“What happened?” the same weak voice continued.
“Do not try to move,” Aragorn came forward, “You are hurt.”
“How -?” the younger man tried to move, only to be held in
place by Boromir.
“You were hit by arrows meant for me,” Aragorn came and knelt
by the bed.
Faramir’s eyes widened at the memory, “Are you all right,
sire?” he blurted out frantically.
“Yes, my friend, I have not suffered even a scratch,” bemusedly
he watched as F
aramir gave a relieved sigh, and then leaning forward gently
took his uninjured hand in his two hands and gripped them tightly.
“Thank you Faramir, but you should not have endangered yourself
so. You saved my life, but you have hurt yourself and that grieves me,”
he said softly. The wan face of the other squirmed in embarrassment.
His reply was barely a whisper but in the silence of the room, it reached
everyone’s ears clearly.
“I would do anything for you, my liege, you need but ask.
I owe you everything. You brought my brother back to me.”
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to top
Chapter 4
Faramir felt his voice dying to a croak, but that was not
what was uppermost on his mind. What struck him was that Boromir seemed
to have frozen in his place, and that Aragorn was clutching his hand
tight.
Then the steward suddenly bent and brushed his lips on his
forehead, unmindful of the presence of the others in the room. Faramir
blinked his eyes in reaction, feeling a wetness in the rims of his eyes,
as he smelt the air of the outdoors from him. And of horses, and saddle
leather. How glad he was that Boromir was alive!
“It is good to see you are all right, little brother,” Boromir
said softly, his own grey eyes shining a little. And then as if aware
of the presence of others in the room, he bit his lip, “How fare your
wounds?” he asked a little gruffly.
Faramir felt his throat had never been so dry before.
“I am well enough,” he replied his voice not as strong as
he would have liked it to be.
Boromir’s eyes narrowed a little at that and he seemed ready
to dispute the claim but instead simply placed the back of his palm
against Faramir’s cheek.
“You are still fevered,” Aragorn broke in. He was still holding
his hand. It felt nice and comfortable and strangely reassuring.
“I feel fine, sire,” he replied flushing a little, feeling
the strong rough fingers tighten around his hand.
Aragorn clasped the hand he held tightly. He could feel the
pulse racing rapidly in the slender wrist that his fingers were wrapped
around. The slender, long fingers entwined around his hand were callused
from wielding a bow. He watched as the worn face suddenly transformed
with Boromir’s display of affection, showing him a glimpse of what it
might have looked like in happier times. When curing Boromir of his
near fatal injuries it had never occurred to him that he might have
been inadvertently giving joy to more people. Watching the grey eyes
blink rapidly, he was suddenly very glad he had used his skills effectively.
“You look not very fine, my young friend,” Gimli said gruffly
but with concern as he came and stood over Aragorn’ s shoulder. The
king watched with concern as the young ranger coughed, his face grimacing
as the movement stretched both his shoulder and waist.
He found Legolas holding out a cup of water and taking it
from him, quickly pulled Faramir up in his arms in one swift motion
and held the cup against his lips.
A sharp cry of pain escaped from the pale lips at the sudden
movement and made Boromir lean forward in concern, but the water was
gratefully accepted.
“Should he not eat something?” Legolas asked suddenly, “Are
you hungry Faramir?”
“He should be,” Aragorn replied promptly, “He has been sleeping
all day long. Some broth and a little bread perhaps.”
“No -,” Faramir murmured weakly.
“Yes,” came Boromir’s emphatic reply.
“I will go and tell the kitchens to prepare some,” Legolas
offered. Aragorn gave him a grateful smile, while continuing to hold
Faramir in his arms, for it felt to him that he seemed to feel comfortable
in his embrace, noting the soft texture of the skin and its warmth.
He adjusted the blankets around the trembling frame. It had gotten cooler
for the sun was sinking below the horizon outside.
“Did they catch him?” Faramir asked suddenly, his eyes were
closed, and his voice slurred, enough indication that he was not yet
completely awake.
“No, not yet,” Aragorn admitted.
“Then you are still in peril,” Faramir exclaimed worriedly,
and sat up straight, his eyes wide open, only to slump down again with
a grunt of pain. Aragorn promptly tightened his grip around the flailing
body.
“Do not move!” he said sharply.
Faramir suddenly realised that he was in Aragorn’ s arms.
He found himself unconsciously leaning into the embrace. It was unlike
Boromir’s hugs. There was a completely different quality about it. One
that he could not place anything about, other than the fact that he
liked it. One strong arm was wrapped around his chest away from his
shoulder, and he could feel the fine cloth of Aragorn’ s sleeve against
his bare back, while his hand lay loosely across Faramir’s chest underneath
the thick blankets. A strange tingling feeling ran through him, stronger
even than the pain that dully throbbed on and on.
And then he realised he was half-undressed. He felt his face
redden up, and tried to pull away, causing another jolt of pain to travel
through him. And that the room he was in was not his. He glanced around
in confusion, the sheets were white, his sheets were grey, the walls
– that drapery?
“This is not my room,” he said slowly, sitting up stiffly,
ignoring the protests from his injuries, while Aragorn loosened his
grip but continued to keep his arms around him.
“No, you were in no condition to be moved too far, so I had
them bring you to my chambers,” Aragorn said. Now feeling even more
embarrassed, he tried uncomfortably to shift away from the embrace,
and the king as though realising it, finally released him, but pushed
him back to lean against the pillows, half-sideways to avoid hurting
his injured right side.
Boromir spoke up then, “Can he be moved now? I would have
him lie in my chambers, in case he is ill at night.”
Faramir stared back at his brother and realised with a start
that the older man looked quite worn out. He remembered that Boromir
had been out all day seeing to the troops. It must have tired him out.
“You look tired,” he said quietly, his voice still feeling
very hoarse, “I would not have you forego your sleep on my account.
I will move back to my own chambers.”
“No,” Boromir said angrily, his grey eyes glinting like steel,
an expression that Faramir rarely found himself at the receiving end
of from his brother, “You are ill. And you know your dreams get worse
when you are ill. I will not let you sleep alone.”
Faramir felt his face flush. Why did Boromir have to expose
his weaknesses to an audience? There was only one person he could appeal
to. He turned to Aragorn who had been watching the exchange quietly.
“Sire?”
Aragorn stared back at both of them appraisingly, “Boromir,
you look exhausted. I think your brother is right my friend. Faramir,
you will stay the night here. You have not fully recovered.”
“Here?” Faramir felt his heart sink at those words, “But
I cannot –“
Aragorn stared sternly back at the protesting young man,
“I command you to stay here! Not just as king but as a healer too.”
Grey eyes filled with unhappiness and pain stared back at
him as he continued, “I will sleep in the next room.”
“But –“
“Faramir, you take arrows meant for me, but you will not
do this little that I request you to?” Aragorn put on his most persuasive
tone.
The eyes fell, the long, dark eyelashes a striking contrast
to the paleness of the thin, lined face. He spoke even more softly,
placing a hand on the uninjured shoulder, “It is merely for a night.
If you will eat food you will heal faster.”
Boromir sighed, “Aragorn, I –“
“No, Boromir, you seem to be asleep on your feet!”
“Very well,” the steward retorted a little tensely.
“But you could get Faramir a nightshirt. Something warm.
Ah, Legolas, thank you my friend,” this to the blonde elf who had just
entered followed by a servant bearing a tray full of food.
Aragorn dispatched the others to get ready for dinner for
they had come to his rooms straight from outside. Then he watched the
slightly built young man sitting up on his bed, with the blankets tucked
around him, toy with his food awhile.
“Eat,” he implored softly. Faramir coloured a little at his
words, his eyes still remaining downcast. It took a while but finally
the bowl of soup was emptied and the chunks of bread consumed. He watched
silently as the young ranger blinked a few times and then closed his
eyes and slumped down against the pillows a little, still favouring
his left side, while the herbs he had added to the soup began to take
effect.
“Sleep well, my friend.”
Boromir returned with a nightshirt of a soft grey fabric,
and they swiftly dressed him in it, wincing as the unexpected movements
forced the sleeping man to moan unconsciously.
Faramir welcomed the sleep out of sheer tiredness. All that
movement had hurt him a lot although he had tried his best not to let
it show. And he felt extremely confused about taking up Aragorn’ s room
for the night. It was a beautiful gesture on the king’s part, but he
surely did not deserve it. But he had no energy to protest, and Aragorn
would not let him either. Gondor was truly lucky to have him as her
king. He was strong, and intelligent, and well versed in matters of
war and strategy and politics and diplomacy, and a very handsome man.
The young man felt himself relax almost instantly as he slumped
against the pillows, pillows that Aragorn normally used. He could smell
pipeweed, a strange smell he had taken a while to get used to. But now,
he welcomed it as a familiar smell. Thoughts turned to dreams and he
pictured Aragorn through his closed eyes, as he had first seen him,
dressed in a grey travel-stained cloak, worry staining his handsome
face, as he had pulled him out of the dark void he had been wandering
in. And then the next time he had seen him, as a king in full regalia,
with the crown on his head. There had shone then on his face the look
of the kings of old, that Faramir had imagined from the tales he had
read and heard. Images ran through his head, of Aragorn smiling, Aragorn
laughing, Aragorn bending over him in concern, Aragorn holding him up
and giving him water, Aragorn’ s hands on his skin, and the strange
feeling that it caused in him, the strange but nice feeling, Aragorn’
s hand gripping his fingers intertwining. It kept the nightmares at
bay for a while. There were no clear dreams of fire or water. Each time
he sighted the star shaped island or saw the endless whiffs of smoke,
Aragorn would suddenly appear and hold him in his arms, stroking his
hair and face, and whispering soft words into his ear, the steady beating
of his heart a constant reassurance to his terrified self. When his
father’s stern face dismissed him curtly, Aragorn comforted him, wiping
away his tears, and soothing him so that he would not feel the aches
that assailed his body.
But then, Aragorn fell… and there was blood everywhere.
Aragorn shifted uncomfortably on the bed in the next chamber.
The bedding was too soft for him to sleep properly. After years of living
outdoors, he found he slept easiest on hard beds, and had accordingly
made a few modifications to the huge bed in his rooms. It suddenly occurred
to him that Faramir should be sleeping on the soft mattress instead
of him, but he could do nothing about it now. Then he heard the soft
cry. He was up in a flash and by the younger man’s sleeping frame within
seconds.
He pulled him into his arms carefully, checking underneath
the nightshirt to see if the wounds had re-opened. The soft cry came
again, and he heard unintelligible words being murmured, interspersed
with moans of pain, each time he tried to shift him. Finally he manoeuvred
him into a comfortable position, the dark head lying limply against
his broad chest, his hands wrapped around the slim torso. He frowned
a little as he felt the bony frame. Faramir was slight in build, even
more so when compared to Boromir’s burliness or even Aragorn’ s muscled
proportions. He was not weak, merely slender with no extra mass on him.
But now he seemed to have thinned somewhat.
He quietly held onto the ranger, gently stroking his hair,
and telling him to calm down. Then he heard words he though he could
make out, talk of fire, and of smoke, and his face cleared a little
even as Faramir’s became progressively more clouded.
“It is all right, my friend, it is all right now. You are
safe. Do not fear,” he whispered softly, remembering what had been told
to him of Denethor’s suicide, and Faramir’s near death. He ran a hand
against his cheek, once smooth but now roughened by contact with sun
and wind and rain. Faramir did not have the strong handsome features
that characterized his brother. But he did have a gentle look, one of
culture and patience combined with gravity, something of an elvishness
in them, perhaps handed down from his mother’s kin. If he smiled, Aragorn
decided, it would be like setting a place alight.
The pale lips continued muttering incoherently, he was calling
for his father now, and mentioning his brother, and a boat, and a dream.
Aragorn vaguely remembered the steward of Gondor mentioning something
about Faramir dreaming of seeing his brother’s body in the Anduin. Tears
streamed down from the half-lidded eyes now, wetting the thin fabric
of Aragorn’ s tunic. Aragorn felt his heart grow heavy as he heard the
pitiful tone begging an unresponsive father for forgiveness.
“I should have gone,” came the quiet voice heavy with
tears. He could think of no response, and instead simply hugged the
unhappy man close and silently wiped the tears from his cheeks, wondering
how to get him to sleep peacefully.
Steadily he rocked the sleeping figure gently, taking care
to ensure it did not aggravate his injuries, and then the shout came.
Aragorn!
There was blood everywhere. Aragorn was on the ground. Arrows
flew through the air. Then the background blurred. They were outside
now, in the open, and Aragorn had fallen to the ground. And Faramir
was so far away from him.
Aragorn lay unmoving. So he ran towards his king. Screaming
his name, till he reached him. Till he could touch him, feel him.
Till he found himself back in his arms and realised it had
been a dream. Merely a dream.
“I’m here,” the king of Gondor whispered into the ears of
the young captain of his realm as he cried out for him, anxiety and
pain filling his low voice.
“Ssh,” he said softly, as he continued to rock him slightly,
and then stroked his hair and face. The gentle face was contorted in
sorrow and ache, the effect of the injuries manifested in the lines
on the young countenance. Aragorn sighed and felt his heart wrench at
the sight of the trembling ranger in his arms, who was clutching at
him desperately as though seeking some hold on the real world away from
dreams. He hugged him possessively to his chest and brushed his lips
lightly against the other man’s forehead.
Aragorn’ s lips hovered over his face and settled on his
brow, and he felt he could ask for no more at all from this world. The
touch seemed to fill his body with peace, and he felt himself falling
back into a deep sleep. A dreamless sleep.
Aragorn awoke the next morning with the sun, as was his wont,
feeling a little sleepier than usual, after having spent much time trying
to get Faramir to sleep. Only when he was completely sure the ranger
slept peacefully, did he himself lie back, and, not in the other chamber
but on an armchair in the same room, ready to go back to the younger
man should he need him. But the need did not arise.
The sun streamed in through the windows and Faramir slept
on, his exhausted body setting off on the path of recovery. He felt
the pale forehead, and was happy to find it only moderately clammy.
Outside, he found Boromir and Tarlong in conversation, along
with Legolas and Gimli, and joined them. There was no knowledge of the
archer whatsoever. The arrows were all they had to go on. A popular
local variety that everyone and anyone in Minas Tirith could get hold
of and use.
“Except that they were sharpened further and coated with
poison,” Tarlong concluded grimly.
“Well, we will just have to look closer, and question everyone
yet again. Someone must have seen something!” Boromir declared, “And
Aragorn your guard must be doubled.”
Aragorn raised and eyebrow at that but was given no chance
to speak, as the rest of the listeners nodded in agreement.
“Is the council meeting to be held today?” Legolas asked
him.
“I cannot delay it further. The peace treaties have to be
discussed and presented before them. I cannot tarry further,” Aragorn
replied.
“Eredil will oppose it, as will some other old-timers,” his
steward warned him.
“Yes,” Aragorn sighed in agreement, “Well, that we shall
have to see when we meet. Come my friends let us go eat now.”
Legolas and Gimli went ahead while Boromir and he stopped
by his room for a few minutes so the steward could see his brother.
The warden of the houses of healing too appeared just then, and joined
them. After examining the sleeping figure, he looked up satisfied, and
gave them permission to move the young ranger back to his rooms.
back
to top
Chapter 5
Boromir watched quietly as his younger brother ate. His right
hand lay in a sling now, and he was sitting propped up against the pillows
on his bed where he had been shifted earlier. Boromir had broken his
fast with the others and then taken some food to Faramir’s room, where
he had found him waking up. Sunlight streamed in through open windows,
and a cool breeze played through the drawn curtains. The room was a
mess of books as expected. They lay strewn over every surface possible,
the subjects varying from an account of a military commander from their
grandsire’s grandsire’s time to a slim volume of poems in elvish to
a more recent play by a rising author from Dol Amroth.
Faramir’s love for the written word was well known. And something
that Boromir had grown to accept and understand, for he had not let
it stand in the way of his duty towards the realm. The captain general
of the white tower was well aware that his brother was one of the best
soldiers in the land and an excellent leader of men. It was a proven
fact now. Faramir had defended Minas Tirith against the forces of Sauron,
helping the white city hold out till Rohan could ride to their aid.
He had been so proud of him.
He smiled suddenly as the sun played on the younger man’s
face, which had more colour in it now. The stormy grey eyes glanced
up from the tray of food balanced carefully atop crossed legs, reflecting
the gentle answering smile.
“You look much better now. I was worried last night,” Boromir
explained, “you seem to have slept well.”
“I did,” Faramir smiled a little wider now.
Aragorn drummed his fingers softly but impatiently on the
wooden arm of his chair. He had called a council on one matter and instead
they were discussing another. Peace treaties lay forgotten as the members
of the august body argued over the identity of the previous day’s interloper.
Nothing he would say would induce the men to change the subject.
Eredil was forcefully repeating yet again that the man would
have to be an outsider, possibly from Harad or Khand, and that any peace
proposal from either place should be rejected. At the other end of the
table, Lord Firiel saw no reason to accept why the assassin could not
be from Gondor itself.
“We may have a traitor amongst our people, it is not impossible,”
he stated.
“You are suggesting one of our people would betray the king?
What manner of speaking is that?” Eredil seemed to take the statement
as a personal affront.
“I see nothing wrong with the assumption,” Boromir stated
calmly.
“My lord steward –,” spoke yet another councillor.
“Lord Firiel makes a very realistic statement. Every man
has his price,” Mardinel spoke up.
Near Eredil, another councillor snorted loudly, “The likelihood
of it being an outsider is higher. What better way to throw Gondor into
disarray than launch an attack at her newly crowned king? Why, just
news of this can demoralize our people.”
“Which is why I ask you once again to refrain from mentioning
this matter,” Aragorn spoke up, “I cannot doubt that the citizenry know
something has happened, but the extent I am told is unknown to them.
Let it not get beyond the fact that an intruder was caught in the palace.
Now, if we may turn to the matters at hand?”
“My liege,” Eredil spoke with a slow drawl, “Surely you do
not think of signing peace with a land that may at this very moment
be plotting to rid Gondor of her ruler?”
“I cannot let mere suspicions come in the way of the work
at hand, Lord Eredil. Let it be proven that either of these nations
has a hand in an attack that has injured one of my captains, and I myself
will react harshly. But until then, we must discuss these.”
After ten minutes he began to wonder if he had indeed made
the right decision by changing the topic of discussion. Firiel had been
speaking about Haradrim customs all this while, in a slow monotonous
tone, and showed no signs of quietening down in the near future.
He found his thoughts wandering to Faramir. It still troubled
him that the ranger should be lying ailing in bed right now because
he had been hurt trying to protect him. If Faramir had not pushed him
away in time, the arrow he had taken in his shoulder would have hit
Aragorn in the heart. And here he was, hale and hearty while the younger
man endured pain and fever on his account. He hoped he was sleeping
easier today. Boromir had told him he had put him to bed immediately
after giving him something to eat. Aragorn decided he would visit Faramir’s
room and check for himself as soon as this meeting got over. If it ever
got over . . .
He directed his gaze idly towards the open window, wishing
he were outside and not in a stuffy room where everyone loved the sound
of their own voice. His guard had been doubled now, after the incident,
and it only served to stifle him some more. Silently sighing he remembered
his plans for a ride with Faramir. That was definitely off now, the
healers had said his arm would be immobilized for a few weeks at least,
and he was sorry for it. The experience of calming down the younger
man after his dreams only served to intrigue him more. There was much
he wanted to learn about him; much he wanted to probe for. And Faramir’s
quiet, moderate speech would be welcome after listening to his councillors
in session.
Firiel continued to speak, and he soon realised he was not
the only one twitching uncomfortably. Boromir looked openly bored, and
he had a tough time trying not to chuckle. His steward took his duties
as the captain general to be more important than his duties as the steward.
As he often reminded Aragorn, the king was here now. It struck him once
again that there was a great difference between the two brothers. Boromir
was boisterously friendly, he had been formal in the beginning but later
had eased up as their friendship had grown and they had fought side
by side. He wore his loyalty to his realm and his king on his sleeve.
A warrior, if ever there was one. To him Aragorn was king, friend and
fellow soldier all rolled in one, worthy of respect, love and loyalty
all together.
But Faramir was intensely formal. Aragorn was the king, worthy
of his respect, and no more, no less. As he had proven, his loyalty
was unquestionable. He was a soldier and a scholar, and one that Aragorn
longed to know better, and to talk to. He was sure they could find much
to talk of, and much in common.
Firiel paused finally, a small pause, probably to take a
swig from the cup in front of him, and Boromir seized the opportunity
with both hands, “So, it is decided then?” he asked, turning towards
Aragorn, “We invite the envoy from Harad into Minas Tirith to discuss
this further?”
His statement was met with an overall assent but the negative
rumblings were not altogether silent.
It was already evening when they finished. Aragorn remained
seated in his chair and waited for the councillors to filter out till
only his friends remained.
“How does the lad fare?” Gimli asked Boromir, as the door
closed behind the last man to leave the room.
“He is much better now. I made him eat a little food before
going back to sleep,” Boromir replied.
“Is he still in much pain?” Aragorn asked, “Does he sleep
well?”
“The pain is still there, though he will not say it,” Boromir’s
face creased a little, in worry, “But he seems to have slept well last
night. I was worried for him. He tends to sleep badly at such times.
He did not disturb you last night, did he?”
Aragorn shook his head gently, “I would not consider it a
disturbance.”
“I am grateful, Aragorn,” the steward said, his usually booming
voice much softer.
Faramir stood leaning heavily against the pillar on his balcony
watching the stars start to appear in the evening sky. Boromir had been
over for a short visit some time earlier. He wondered why he felt so
fatigued when he had lain in bed so long. The healer had put his right
arm into a sling, and he could not move it at all, adding to his irritability.
At least Boromir had helped him clean up a little and change into fresh
clothes that morning. It didn’t occur to him that his would be a natural
reaction from one who had lost some amount of blood and suffered a mild
fever from poisoning. To him, it seemed he was indulging in a criminal
waste of time. And, as he realised it was not just his time he was wasting.
His memories of that day before and the night were slowly returning.
Aragorn had spent all day with him, by his bed. He remembered hearing
his voice, and most of the night. He had no right to impose on Aragorn
like this. But it had felt so nice, he heard a small voice pipe up inside
him. Warm and comfortable and nice. He had felt loved in Aragorn’ s
arms.
Shutting his eyes, he sighed in confusion. He could not get
the thought of those strong arms wrapped around him, out of his head.
The smell of pipeweed as the older man whispered softly in his ear,
the gentle voice, the touch of his fingers, everything seemed imprinted
hard and fast in his mind, and refused to go way.
He had kept the dreams away last night. Driven them away
from Faramir’s head by his mere presence. He knew it. He knew it because
he had dreamed again today, and this time there had been no one to drive
the monsters away, and he had woken in a cold sweat, scared by all he
had seen but with no clear memory of what he had seen. It was not one
of his old dreams and that scared him.
“Faramir!”
Aragorn wound his way through the long passages and corridors
to Faramir’s room. He had meant to come earlier, but there had been
much work to handle, and Tarlong had come up with an entirely new set
of plans regarding the defence of the palace much to Aragorn’ s amazement.
He had thrown his hands up in despair but had been persuaded by Boromir
and Legolas to hear them out, and then approve them. Boromir had told
him his brother had been sleeping when he had taken his lunch up to
him, so he had decided not to disturb him.
He stopped short at the doorway when he saw the empty bed.
It had been made rather cursorily, with some semblance of neatness as
though the owner had tried to make it neatly but found himself unable
to. He took in the sight of books and manuscripts lying on every spare
surface.
Is this a library or a room? And where is Faramir!
Then he realised the papers were fluttering in the breeze
created by the curtains drawn across the door leading to the balcony,
and quietly walked over. Faramir’s slender figure was leaning against
the pillar, and neither the slump in the lean shoulders nor the tired
tilt of the dark head went unnoticed by the king.
“Faramir!” he called out softly.
The younger man straightened and turned, slowly, still using
the pillar for support, revealing a drawn face and sunken eyes.
“You are meant to be resting,” Aragorn chided gently, as
he walked towards the slim figure.
“Sire,” Faramir’s voice held a strange tone to it, one Aragorn
could just not place. He was wearing a deep wine red tunic and light
grey leggings that along with his raven hair only accentuated his pallor.
“You look tired,” Aragorn commented, as he clasped him by
his other shoulder, taking on the weight the pillar had supported. Faramir
held himself stiffly. He seemed reluctant to rest his weight on him.
“Have you slept well?” Aragorn inquired.
The dark lashes dropped, and then quickly rose again as Faramir
made a non-committal noise.
“Very well, then. I take it you have not. Come back to bed.
You were not supposed to get back on your feet so soon. You had a fever.”
“B-but I am well now,” Faramir finally seemed to have found
his voice, and searching his desperate face, Aragorn saw something he
recognised only too well. His young friend had no wish to be tied down
to a bed. The wind rustled through their hair.
“Very well, then just for today. Rest and recover your strength
and tomorrow you can rise, although I deem it too early! Perhaps you
will join us at the table for your meals?” Aragorn suggested, still
holding onto the ranger, “I’ll have some food sent up for you now and
you must eat it and then sleep.”
Faramir didn’t respond, so Aragorn took his silence to be
assent and pulled him back into the room.
“I do not wish to take up so much of your time,” Faramir
began only to be cut short.
“I’m going to tell someone in the kitchen to send you something.
Get into bed, and stay there,” came the stern command, as his king stepped
over the books on his way out.
Faramir sat at the edge of the bed, trying to combat the
strange dizziness he felt. Aragorn’ s nearness seemed to induce unknown
feelings in him. He couldn’t place them, merely that they seemed to
make him feel like he had been through a minor upheaval. His breathing
had quickened, and he tried to calm himself down first. Aragorn had
been right, he was tired. And perhaps, if he listened to him,
he could leave his room the next day. He was beginning to hate it here.
The walls seemed to close in on him.
Feeling thirsty, he looked around the room for the water
jug, still wondering why it was that Aragorn’ s very presence made him
so nervous. In front of the king he did not feel like a captain of rangers,
a grown man with a command. He felt inexplicably different, as though
after years he had found someone to lean against and to confide in,
to reveal fears he would reveal to no one. But that was foolishness,
he screamed back at himself, as he reached for the jug and the cup next
to it.
In his troubled state, and unused to holding his food in
his left hand, he ended up spilling the water on himself. The balcony
was still open, and a cold gust of wind told him he would have to change
his clothes if he wished to get healthier soon. The water had splashed
onto the front of his tunic and his leggings. He would have to change.
He decided he might as well change into his nightclothes, and began
unfastening the string holding his leggings with one hand. It took some
effort to do it one handed.
When Aragorn returned, Faramir was sitting on his bed, his
sling removed and legs bare, trying to take off his tunic with one hand.
It was a very loose shirt reaching down till his thighs, with buttons
halfway down it, but with only one hand in working condition, the young
ranger seemed to be having trouble not just unbuttoning it, but also
pulling it off. He had been able to open only half the buttons, revealing
a smooth slender chest. And now he was trying to pull it over his head,
unable to stretch around much, hampered by the injury to his waist.
A sharp hiss of pain sounded from the struggling figure.
“Do you need help?” Aragorn asked, stepping through the doorway.
The young man looked up at the sudden voice in his doorway,
his face reddening a little.
“N- no, I was just –“
“Come, let me help you. You do not want to hurt yourself
further, do you?” he gave him a critical once-over taking in with satisfaction
the colour in the cheeks. Moving forward he helped Faramir unbutton
the remaining buttons, reaching down till his midriff, pulled his uninjured
arm out of the sleeve, and then carefully, helped slide the right sleeve
over the other arm, while looking at the now healing wound. The long
fingers roughened by years of rough living and weapon yielding brushed
against his bare skin countless times, a feeling he yearned for more
and more.
Each touch of skin by skin sent unseen shivers through his
slight frame, confusing him greatly. The tunic slid down slowly, over
his body, exposing his skin inch by inch till it lay bunched around
his lap.
He was breathing with no little ease now, a fact that did
not escape the king’s keen grey eyes.
“Does it hurt?” came the prompt demand.
Dumbly, he shook his head, wondering what these strange feelings
assaulting him were.
“Now where are your nightshirts? These?” Aragorn opened the
closet door, and picked out the first robe that came to his hand, and
a towelling cloth.
Faramir shivered suddenly as a cold gust of air blew through
the curtains drawn across the open balcony, and hit his naked chest
and back. He had managed to stand up, and slip the tunic down and step
out of it. Sitting down swiftly, he had covered his nakedness with the
sheets, but his embarrassment at the situation had no shield. His body
was reacting in a completely unfit manner, and he had no idea why it
was happening so. At first he thought it was due to the chill, but then
he realised it had been the touch of the other on his body. He was not
used to hands as caring as these coming in such close contact with his
body.
Aragorn came up to him and dabbed at his wet skin with the
towelling cloth. Faramir felt his mouth go dry as the hands ran across
his chest and stomach. Then Aragorn helped him slip on the sleeping
robe. His hand brushed against Faramir’s throbbing lower body and the
young man felt a heat begin to spread out from between his thighs, and
shivered half in excitement at the intensity of the feelings that were
running through him.
“You are cold!” Aragorn exclaimed, frowning, “back into bed
now!”
Faramir tried shaking his head as Aragorn gently pulled his
right hand through the sleeve, and replaced the sling, but the pain
that that act set off was so intense he found himself stifling his voice
with a groan instead. He felt himself fall into Aragorn and being caught
by the other man’s arms. Lifting his head, he looked at the curve of
Aragorn’ s lips as if in a daze. Those lips had kissed him last night.
They were beautiful, he decided. Pink and full, and shaped exquisitely.
What did they taste like, he wondered idly, and what did they feel like.
His hand twitched to finger them, to feel them, to trace out their shape
slowly and imprint the feeling forever in his mind.
Kiss him, a voice spoke up in his head, he has done so much
for you, show him how much you care, kiss him now . . . Aragorn was
whispering something, but his own mind was speaking too loudly for him
to hear anything else. Slowly he raised his uninjured hand to reach
for that entrancing mouth . . .
The sharp rapping on the door made him sit upright, sending
pain shooting through his shoulder and waist both this time. He stifled
another cry, as Aragorn rose, and patting him reassuringly went to the
door. He returned soon with a tray full of food in his hands, while
Faramir tried to reign in his overwhelming emotions. He had almost kissed
Aragorn. What would the king have thought? He would have been disgusted
with him, and would probably never step near him again. He could not
do that!
If he wanted Aragorn nearby, he must never let him know these
terrible feelings that had begun to assail him. He must keep his emotions
in check. If Aragorn turned away from him, he would be unable to stand
it! He found himself being helped back against his pillows and the food
being thrust into his hands.
“Eat now,” Aragorn said softly, and sat by him while he ate.
“Will you like me to stay till you have slept?” the king
asked, as he took the tray away from him when he had finished.
“No. You have done more than enough,” Faramir said quietly,
“I cannot impose on you like this.” Every fibre in his being seemed
to be on an alert, as he waited for Aragorn’ s reply.
“Faramir, I will stay till you sleep, do not worry about
my time, I will just catch up on my – reading!”
“N- no, they must need you for other business. I would not
have the work of the realm held up on my account.”
“Ssh, you are here in the first place because of me,” Aragorn
said caressing his face gently, and the touch nearly took his breath
away this time.
Emboldened, he gently took Aragorn’ s hand in his and pressed
his lips against his ring, “My liege, I am yours to command.”
“Then sleep now,” Aragorn said sighing, “you need it. And
always remember that there are many here who love you and are loathe
to see you hurt, and I count myself among them.” He squeezed Faramir
hand tightly and lightly kissed the bunched up fist before laying down
his hand and helping him cover himself up. Then he left.
Faramir’s last thought as he fell asleep was to wonder how
those entrancingly beautiful lips would feel on the rest of his body.
On
to Chapter 6
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