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Chapter 6
Aragorn came down to eat the next morning to find that Faramir
had taken him at his word on joining the others for breakfast. It was
as yet early, and the quiet dark-haired man was the only person there,
in a black tunic and cream leggings, hair still damp, and arm still
in a sling. From the stiff manner in which he held his injured hand,
Aragorn concluded he must have changed into fresh clothes on his own.
Idly he wondered why Denethor’s younger son had a strange affinity for
such dark colours that made him look unhealthier by accentuating his
pallor. Then he reminded himself that the pallor was after all not his
usual look.
Faramir glanced up at his entrance, and his face coloured
a little, making Aragorn wonder about it. He smiled in greeting and
sat down.
“How do you fare this morning,” he asked pleasantly, all
the while observing the other.
“Very well, thank you, sire,” Faramir replied softly and
almost, or so it seemed to Aragorn, shyly. He dismissed it as Faramir’s
intrinsic formality in all their dealings. Except of course, when he
was sleeping. A small smile played on his lips as he remembered how
Faramir had leant into his embrace the other night and taken all the
comfort he had to offer.
“You are awake early. Have you slept well?” he asked, as
he seated himself next to him.
Faramir raised his head slightly, the colour still tingeing
his sharp cheekbones. After a slight pause, he spoke slowly and with
some deliberation, “I slept as usual, sire, and awoke early.”
The phrasing of the words did not fool Aragorn. Faramir prided
himself on his honesty, but he was not beyond playing with words while
still maintaining the intrinsic truth in the statement. If the dark
circles that stood more prominent now were any indication, the usual,
as he termed it, could not be good. He said nothing however, and for
a while the only sound to be heard was of plates and spoons.
The arrival of the others banished the silence. Boisterous
greetings gave way to exclamations at Faramir’s presence, and the younger
man squirmed in his chair, as he was chided in turn by Boromir, Legolas
and Gimli for rising from bed.
“But I am fine now,” he protested weakly.
“You took a poisoned arrow,” Boromir retorted.
“It was a very mild poison,” there was a faint trace of defiance
in the quiet voice.
“And your wounds?” Gimli growled out, as he sat down.
“I have hurt my shoulder, not my leg, there is naught to
prevent me from rising from bed," Faramir said flatly, in a tone
brooking little opposition. Faramir, at that particular moment, looked
to be very much Denethor’s son.
Boromir’s bristled at the brusque note in his brother’s voice,
“I think you should return to your room after you have eaten,” he said,
clearly annoyed.
A single eyebrow arched up mutinously, and for a second it
seemed Faramir were about to reply, but then he appeared to realise
they were with company and instead turned to Gimli, “I am sorry, Gimli.
I did not mean to sound impolite, but the healers did say I need not
remain in my rooms.”
“I suppose the healers know what they do,” Legolas murmured
attempting to rid the room of the sense of disquiet. The rest of the
meal continued for the most part in silence, except for a little talk
of the day’s schedules. Aragorn quietly updated Faramir on the decisions
of the council the day before, and was very surprised to receive a look
of astonished gratitude in return.
“It is kind of you to let me know, my liege,” the younger
man replied formally.
“Call me Aragorn,” Aragorn suggested.
The faintest tinge of rose re-appeared on the pallid cheeks,
“I – but, - it is not the custom in Gondor for captains to refer to
their liege lord thus, my lord,” he said quietly.
“And what so the custom to address a friend?” Aragorn asked
smiling at him.
“By name, sire, but when you are my king, you are my king
first, and not my friend,” Faramir seemed a little flustered.
“Very well, then when it is not the occasion for me to act
your king, such as now, will you not call me by name?”
Faramir chewed at his lip irresolutely, and then nodded hesitantly,
“As you wish, sire.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Aragorn’ s eyes twinkled in response.
Faramir found himself reddening every time he spoke to Aragorn.
He had had a restless night, dreams had plagued him while asleep and
while awake, his mind plagued him – he could not forget the way he had
felt like kissing Aragorn. He kept fingering his hand where Aragorn
had kissed him. And he hung onto to the tiny shred of memory of a peck
to his forehead two nights ago.
He had spent most of his waking hours trying to analyse the
strange feelings he had felt building up inside him. He liked being
close to Aragorn, he liked feeling his touch, and hearing his voice,
and seeing the grey eyes of the king rest upon him while the lips curved
in a gentle smile. To his eyes, Aragorn’ s face had as much of an ageless
beauty as any elf’s. He had never felt like this for anyone else, man
or woman. Once he had been inducted into Gondor’s ranks, there had been
no time to build a close relationship with anyone at all. The only person
he was close to in an emotional sense was his brother, a fact made all
the more necessary as their mother had passed away in their childhood.
And then Aragorn had come, and Faramir found himself feeling
extremely unsettled. Here was someone whose company he craved. A man
who was brave and noble and kind and gentle all at the same time. A
man of duty and honour. A man who was soldier and scholar. A man who
was the best king the land could ask for.
Aragorn respected everyone around him. For here he sat telling
Denethor’s youngest son the details of the decisions taken by the council.
In his father’s time he had considered himself lucky to receive even
news concerning his own command. And then Aragorn wanted him to call
him by name.
Some deep recess in his mind already did that all day and
night, especially night, when he was awake, unable to sleep from restlessness.
Somewhere it kept repeating that seemingly magic name. His heart was
singing by the end of it all. Aragorn had called him a friend!
Trying to maintain the seriousness of the situation he uttered
the only question he could think of, “What news of the archer?”
“None,” Boromir replied from across the table, “None at all.
But, Tarlong has sent some of his people into the markets and the streets
to pick up some intelligence on the matter. So, perhaps we shall learn
more. Until then, Aragorn, Tarlong insists your guard will remain doubled
and on alert at all times.”
Faramir frowned unhappily, “That does not bode well. The
man is still at large.”
Aragorn shrugged. He was still annoyed about the over protective
steps Tarlong had implemented and found that thinking about it simply
made him more annoyed.
“How did he enter?” Faramir asked.
“It would not have been very difficult,” Legolas replied,
“He would have entered in a dark cloak similar to what the soldiers
wear, and would have passed the gates unhindered. ‘Tis only now that
they apply more caution.”
“After the horse has bolted,” Gimli muttered darkly.
“They are unused to such underhand dealings,” Faramir said
in defence, “We have long been at open war, and yearned for peace. They
thought it had come at last.”
“It will,” Aragorn said suddenly, in his well-modulated sincere
voice, his eyes locked with Faramir’s, the promise of his statement
shining out clearly.
Later in the day, the emissaries Aragorn had sent into Harad,
Khand and Rhun returned with their reports, and he found himself closeted
with those matters until late into the night. Boromir sat with him too,
and king and steward read the lengthy exhaustive dispatches in detail,
and spoke long to the envoys to gauge the situation.
“Harad has requested that they send over an envoy to call
on you, sire,” the man who had been sent to Harad said.
“And we have decided to extend him an invitation,” Boromir
told him, “but at the same time we will increase vigilance in Ithilien.”
The reports were long an detailed covering nearly everything
about each of the lands from their military strength, as could be observed
by the emissaries, to notes on various important personages of the land.
When they had finished both Aragorn and Boromir were tired, the steward
more so because he had spent the entire day indoors. It was not that
he disliked reading. He had read most of the books on military and strategic
issues that the city had to offer, but a breath of fresh air was something
he craved.
They had lunched with the emissaries and partaken a small
dinner later in Aragorn’ s study so as to complete reading the reports
for another council had been convened the next day. Boromir had inquired
news of Faramir’s whereabouts from the servants who had brought the
food, and had been told he was in his room. Before retiring Boromir
had mentioned he would check on him, and almost on impulse, Aragorn
joined him too. Opening the door to the younger brother’s room, they
observed his reposing figure on the bed, blankets drawn to his chin,
face against the pillows, so that the only thing lit up in the moonlight
streaming through the chinks in the curtained windows was a dark mop
of hair. Unwilling to disturb his sleep, they left silently.
And Faramir released a long breath, opened his eyes, and
went back to watching the pattern the stray moonbeams made around his
room.
The council was short and precise as they deliberated over
breakfast. Faramir had come too, his arm still in a sling and his face
a little pale as he politely brushed aside queries about his health.
Aragorn noticed he was the last to arrive, probably deliberately so
that he would not have to spend too much time in exchanging pleasantries
with the others, most of which would consist of replies to questions
about his health.
The emissaries spoke quickly and precisely laying down all
the pertinent facts, and the one who had returned from Harad reiterated
their request.
“I am sure we can agree to that,” Boromir said and mentioned
their plans regarding the envoy as also the precautionary steps they
would take including watching the situation in Ithilien carefully, as
the road from Harad ran through it forests and dales.
His statement was not met with overall approval. There were
many frowns, for the memories of the war still lingered heavily on everyone’s
minds as they slowly ate their meal. But with both Aragorn and Boromir
favouring the proposal, the dissenting voices were not vocalized, and
more than once in the days to come, Faramir wondered if that had swayed
the turn of events in days to come.
Faramir was still feeling immensely tired. He had quietly
seated himself in a place away from the windows, in the shadows, knowing
his face still looked haggard. His wounds were healing slowly, his waist
throbbed a little and his arm hurt him every time he took off the sling.
He supposed it was due to a lack of rest, but he could not afford to
lie idle any longer. He had meant to finish his long overdue paperwork
the day before, but had found himself tiring out midway, even though
he had used a scribe for the actual writing as his arm was immobilized.
He had finished reciting everything to be written and then dismissed
the man, deciding to go through them later. He suspected he was more
drained from the experience of slowly reciting everything for the man
to write.
Once the short meeting was over, he slipped out quickly and
went through the papers carefully and methodically, checking them for
accuracy. There were many requirements to be seen to for his troop,
especially if they were to be put on alert on the Harad road, and if
he could finish the paperwork now, he could tender it to Boromir, who
received all such requests as captain general. And then, in a day or
two, he could journey down himself, perhaps. Or by the end of the week.
After partaking of his noon meal, he collected the prepared papers and
wended his way through the corridors till he reached the room Boromir
used as some sort of a makeshift study, next door to Aragorn’ s. He
was rarely found there, preferring to be out most of the time, but he
was there now, looking through the requisitions another captain had
dropped in.
“Faramir,” he exclaimed in a pleased tone, “Where did you
vanish earlier? I searched for you!”
“I have brought you the requirements for the Ithilien company
for the next three months,” Faramir handed him the sheaf of papers.
“You were working?” Boromir’s eyes narrowed, as he drew forward
a comfortable chair for his brother to sit on, “you were to be resting!”
“Nay, I had a scribe write them out for me,” Faramir said
quietly, as he sat on the proffered chair.
“And I will ride out to Ithilien as soon as I may remove
this sling,” he continued.
Boromir stopped rifling through the papers and slipped off
the table he had been half sitting on.
“Ithilien? You wish to ride to Ithilien?”
“Yes,” Faramir relied simply, “I have not visited my company
for well nigh a few weeks now. They are few and scattered while the
rebuilding progresses but all I have seen of them of late is Mablung
when he came here two days ago.”
“You will do no such thing of course,” Boromir snapped back
at him.
Faramir raised his head in surprise, and stared back at his
brother’s face in surprise. Boromir seemed – angry? And upset?
“If the Ithilien Company needs to be visited I will do it.
You will stay home for a few weeks as per the healer’s advice. If you
wish to ride, you may – till the Rammas. To Ithilien? Definitely not!
You have not the strength.”
“But it is my company. I command it. I cannot stay away so
long!”
“Whether you can or you cannot is not the issue. I say that
you may not.”
“But, Boromir, I am fine now, and it is not a very long ride.
And I do not ride out for a few days yet. I will be completely fine
by then.”
“In a few days? Were you not listening to the healers? Your
arm will take a few weeks to heal! And your other wound is not minor
either.”
“But the company needs-“
“I will go in your stead.”
“No!” Faramir raised his voice angrily.
It was loud enough to be heard by Aragorn in the study next
door, and he raised his head in surprise. Through the walls floated
the rest of the argument, as both brothers had raised their voices greatly
without realising it.
“It is my order that you may not!” there was an undercurrent
of frustration in Boromir’s voice, reminding Aragorn that his steward
had slept late and risen early like him and was probably feeling as
irritated as he was.
“And need I remind you, Captain Faramir, of the penalty for
refusing to obey one ranked senior to you in Gondor’s army?” the loud
voice continued.
“You would not – but - but Boromir, I will not let you go
in my stead,” Faramir’s voice took on a pleading note, “It is not yet
altogether safe in those parts. Harad road runs through it, and the
times are still uncertain.”
“Safe! You stop me on the grounds of my safety?”
The sound of a chair being scraped back reached Aragorn’
s unwilling ears as he placed his papers down unable to concentrate
as the voices floated in. Against all the etiquette and polite behaviour
he had been taught, he listened, as his instinct told him to.
“I do not need you to take my stead yet again! You have done
that once, and it was once too many to my mind,” someone was pacing
up and down, and from the sound of the hitched voice that spoke, it
must have been Faramir.
Aragorn obeyed instinct yet again and striding to the other
room, pulled the door open. Neither brother noticed him.
“It is merely a short trip to Ithilien,” Faramir was saying,
“You make too much of it!” his dark hair flopped over his face. The
grey eyes were flashing with annoyance, but the circles underneath remained
and had gone a little deeper it seemed. He came to a stop by the fireplace.
Boromir suddenly moved towards him in a swift motion, and
grabbed his arms, inadvertently pushing him back against the fireplace,
“I will not see you get hurt ever! Do you hear me?” When the smaller
figure pinned against the stone structure spoke, his voice came out
in hitches.
“Nor I you,” Faramir said closing his eyes a little. All
of a sudden he was reminded of his conversations with his father, except
that he would never have dared to reply so to him. He would have obeyed
implicitly.
Boromir had not finished his say, however, and his next words
struck Faramir deep, “Father is dead, Faramir!” he said quietly, “Do
you not understand? You need no longer risk so much for so little. You
need no longer indulge in senseless ventures searching for a few pitiful
words of acknowledgement. Do you understand, brother?”
Aragorn stood frozen in the doorway, and watched the range
of emotions flicker across the ranger’s face. Then Faramir heaved his
brother’s hands off his shoulder, straightened himself up, and spoke
equally quietly, “And you need no longer take on such ventures either,
and cement your place in his heart!”
Leaving a shocked brother standing in front of the hearth,
he walked out, brushing past Aragorn as he left, and realizing for the
first time, that his king had heard every word. His countenance took
on a horrified look and he backed away muttering incoherent apologies,
and then, turning away, he swiftly walked down the hallway, almost racing
away.
Aragorn stared at him a moment and then at Boromir who too
had realised his presence, “What have I done? What have I said?” came
the anguished whisper, “I must find him.”
“Not now,” Aragorn blocked the doorway, “for now, my friend,
you get some rest, and let your brother do the same, you are both weary
and spoke with little thought.”
“I should not have,” came the unheeding reply.
“Nay, but you are tired, and so is he. Leave him be and speak
to him when you have greater control of your emotions, and he of his,”
Aragorn urged. Boromir finally glanced up into his face, and then nodded
slowly.
“You speak words of wisdom. Much like he did. I would be
a fool not to heed you. I will see him later as you say.”
Dinner was a lonely affair for the king. None of his friends
joined him. Boromir he knew, had spent the rest of the day working out
his anger at himself by practicing his swordplay, and had retired early
in a fit of despondency. Of Faramir there was no news. Legolas was tending
to Arod, after the magnificent horse had sustained a slight injury,
and Gimli had joined some of his kin for the meal.
It was a very bored Aragorn who finally rose a little grumpily
from the table, and decided to see if he could find any of them. Boromir
he found sleeping, as also Legolas, while Gimli, he deduced, had not
returned from his night in town.
He decided he would pay Faramir a visit, and his lips curved
in a small smile. He hoped the younger man was in a better frame of
mind now, for he realised he had come to be quite fond of him. He had
heard much of him from Boromir, and found all he had heard of to be
true, and much more. His steward’s younger brother seemed to be one
of the most endearing people he had ever met, and one whose company
he liked. Now that he had gotten Faramir to be a little less formal
with him, they might spend more time together. The thought pleased him
greatly. Stopping the boy lighting the candles along one of the hallways,
he inquired for Faramir’s whereabouts, and received a hesitant reply
that he might find him in his chambers.
The chamber was a little neater now. The books had been piled
away somewhere. It was a partly cloudy night outside, but the moon was
still spectacular. The light shone through the open windows and balconies
of the room illuminating the light grey sheets on an empty bed, when
he entered.
He heard the soft breathing first before he saw the resting
figure, dark hair splayed out over the papers, cheek resting against
the yellowed pages of a large book, while the shoulders leant against
the edge of the heavy wooden table. One leg was curled up on the chair.
A quill and some ink lay nearby, along with a half-written parchment.
A small spot of ink rested on the tip of Faramir’s nose but it was the
faint tear streaks lining the cheeks that caught his eye.
“Faramir,” he called out softly, gently placing a hand on
one bony shoulder.
The grey eyes flew open alert and watchful, and then bewildered
as the ranger found himself not lying in bed but sitting at a table.
Unmistakable tinges of red surrounded now fully open orbs as the younger
man stiffly straightened up and stood.
“Sire.”
“Will you not be more comfortable lying in bed?” Aragorn
said lightly.
Faramir continued to stand stiffly even as his face fell
a little, and then he nodded slowly. Aragorn stepped forward, and clasping
him by one good shoulder steered him into a small couch near the open
balcony. He nudged the surprised man into it and then sat by him, as
a cloud flitted over the moon and dimmed the light.
“You were crying,” he stated simply.
Embarrassment flooded across the anguished face in front
of him, “Nay,” came the weak response.
“It will be all right,” Aragorn suddenly said, not even sure
himself why he said it.
Faramir bit his lip uncertainly. Aragorn slowly lifted a
hand to his hair and watched the colourless face with concern. Faramir
sniffed and bent his face yet again.
“He is not angry with you,” Aragorn said, trusting entirely
to his finely honed instincts to provide him the correct words.
The grey eyes looked back at him hopefully, “No?”
“No,” the king said softly, stroking the soft dark hair beneath
his hand. The cloud must have flitted away from the moon because the
pale silvery glow suddenly shone through the window they sat by, and
lit up the younger man’s quiet face, marking out the furrows, ridges
and lines, the circles dark against the chalky face. But none of it
took away from the ethereal beauty of the young man, and Aragorn almost
gasped at the sight.
“How could anyone be angry with you?” he demanded softly,
and was dismayed to note the grey orbs turn bright, as they filled up.
He continued to stroke his hair softly, and observed the tense face.
Faramir seemed confused and almost distressed, his eyes were held shut,
and he was breathing a little raggedly. A thin scar stood out under
the left eye, and Aragorn fingered it lightly. At the touch, Faramir
gasped suddenly and the shining eyes brimmed over as tears flowed down
unchecked and he seemed to crumple within himself. Aragorn grabbed him
in his arms, surprised at the reaction, and held him there till he had
cried himself out; the silent sobs wetting his shirt as the younger
man folded into his embrace completely.
It stopped as suddenly as it had started. Faramir jerked
away suddenly and began stammering his apologies, “I –I do not know
what came over me, my liege – please, please – f-forgive me, I was tired
and –“
“There is something on your nose,” Aragorn heard himself
say.
Faramir stared back at him in confusion as Aragorn hooked
a finger under his chin and pulled his face forward and wiped away the
ink spot. He continued to hold his chin, while slipping the other arm
carefully around his shoulder, mindful of the injuries.
Grey eyes stared back at grey eyes in close proximity. Faramir
sniffed again, and Aragorn tightened his hold around his shoulder, still
holding the chin up gently. And the moonlight continued to play on their
faces. Faramir was looking at him, and the expressions in his eyes could
only be described as one of rapture. He had never before noticed how
beautiful the younger man was, and instinct took over again. He did
not know why he did it, perhaps he felt later, he was drunk in the moonlight.
Perhaps they both were.
When their lips met it was with mutual accord, and within
seconds Aragorn’ s experience in the matter became apparent so that
Faramir simply submitted to him completely, and lost himself in a heated
and passionate kiss. He felt himself fall back against the couch, and
ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder and waist with the sudden
movement, as an immense pleasure flooded through his brain. His lips
were being claimed hungrily, and Aragorn’ s tongue was frantically exploring
each and every region of his mouth.
They came apart in confusion. Aragorn in dismay and Faramir
still dazed from what he felt had been the most wonderful moment of
his life to date.
“Forgive me, I should not have,” Aragorn said breathing hard.
Faramir placed a finger on his king’s lips and shook his
head gently, “Do not ask for forgiveness, my liege.”
“I should not have – you must – I should leave now,” Aragorn
said distractedly, after gently removing Faramir’s hand.
“No!” Faramir cried out, and then taking a deep breath, said
softly, and almost pleadingly, “Stay. Please?”
“No –“ Aragorn said weakly, trying to stand up.
The slim hand was gently placed on his, not grasping, not
demanding, merely resting gently there, as the soft voice pleaded, “Just-
just stay. Please . . . I ask no more than your company, I vow. It is
restful. Just this once.”
Grey eyes stared soulfully back at Aragorn, their unfathomable
depths seemed such that he felt he thought he could drown in them. He
stayed.
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Chapter 7
He had never felt such an intense passion build up in him
before, as when Aragorn’ s mouth covered his. The pain from his injuries
as he fell back with Aragorn over him, went unheeded as his mouth was
subjected to touches as never before. He felt a delicious warmness course
through his veins, as he returned the kiss with utter compliance. And
then it was over. They came apart, and he lay in a daze wondering if
he had dreamed it. Could one truly feel as wonderful as he did in real
life? Had Aragorn truly kissed him or was he dreaming? And why was he
asking to be forgiven?
He reached out for the pink, exquisitely shaped lips, touching
them to confirm they were indeed real. They were real. He could feel
his heartbeat quicken at the touch. He could not let Aragorn leave.
He stammered out the words begging him to stay. Aragorn stopped,
half-standing by him.
Aragorn stood by the seated figure watching the moon continue
to play on the pale, drawn face and pleading eyes that glinted with
a silver light. Traces of wetness glistened as the lips trembled with
each tremulous breath.
“Please stay,” it was almost a whisper, so soft was the voice.
He wanted to hold him in his arms and comfort him, and take
away all his worries for it was evident there were many. He wanted to
wipe away the tears that streaked the face of one of the bravest young
men he knew. He wanted to keep him in his arms and calm him and soothe
him, and take away the pain and anguish reflected in the grey depths
that looked up to him.
He sat down next to the dejected figure, and reaching for
him, pushed a few stray strands of hair off the damp face. Faramir seemed
almost to still himself at his touch.
“You will stay?” still soft, as soft as the cold seeping
in from outside.
He would. Whether he should or not, he would stay because
Faramir needed him. If it took his presence to ensure the peace and
quiet of one who had endangered his life for him, then he would provide
that.
“I will,” he found himself replying just as softly. The face
in front of him lit up with relief and pleasure. A pleasure as understated
as every action he had come to expect from the younger man.
“You must not be alone. You are still in danger,” Faramir
continued.
“It is cold,” he said quietly, ignoring that statement, “you
should sleep now. You have taxed yourself enough today.”
Faramir shook his head unhappily.
“Very well, then I shall take your leave,” he said coldly,
and was immediately dismayed to watch how the face fell immediately
just by the slight frost in his tone.
“No!” Faramir looked extremely unhappy now. He seemed to
have lost his normal eruditeness, and seemed instead to be searching
uncomfortably for words. He had turned his head away and Aragorn could
no longer see what went through the expressive grey eyes, as the next
words tripped out haltingly.
“I had dreams. They wouldn’t stop. I was in a darkness so
foul, so deep, it was not until you called me that I saw a light pierce
through it. And you were there. You called to me, and I knew you were
safe. I knew I should trust you. Now I see other dreams. And they are
not as usual. And I – I am – I worry for – “ he suddenly turned towards
Aragorn, his eyes laced with anguish, and reached for his face.
Aragorn felt the warm hand touch his face, and immediately
felt his muscles tense up.
Faramir was still speaking, “I was worried, and you were
standing there alone, and I knew something was wrong, and then the archer
. . . it must not happen again. You must not be hurt.”
He had wondered about that. About how Faramir’s quick reflexes
had saved him from a fatal disaster. “I was not hurt,” he breathed out
covering the thin hand with his, “you were. And for that I am sorry.”
“Nay, you are my king. And I owe you my life and my brother’s.”
He pressed gently on the hand against his and registered
their warmth despite the biting chill. The healer in him came to the
fore as he placed a palm against Faramir’s forehead, and then neck.
“Nothing will happen,” he said firmly, “the guard is doubled,
and all men are on alert. He would be a fool to try anything now. Sleep
now, and I assure you there will be no nightmares this time.” He had
driven them away once; he could do so a second time.
“I will be there.” Reaching for the younger man, he pulled
him up gently, and guided him towards the bed.
“Where will you sleep?” Faramir asked worriedly.
“I will sit by you for a while and then take the chair,”
he said firmly.
He was met by a horrified glance, “No. You must take the
bed. I will use the chair.”
“No.”
“You – you can use the bed too,” came the hesitant reply,
as they edged closer towards it, and then after a slight pause, “It
– it is quite large. You can have one side, and I will take the other.”
“I shall see. But first you must sleep.”
He helped him into the bed silently, pulled the covers up
to his chin ensuring that he was comfortable and warm, and then sat
by his side, watching him.
He saw the dark void that had held him trapped and refused
to let him go. And he had not wanted to leave. Fear of what lay outside
kept him there. The guilt of his survival preyed on him to convince
him that absolution lay in his suffering this unstoppable wandering
through an endless void. He felt the heat of a fire licking him while
he himself stood and watched with the grim satisfaction of one who welcomes
an end to existence. But the end never came. All that came was more
darkness, never-ending and terrifying.
Until the light pierced it, and he felt the caress of someone’s
hand and awoke to his king’s voice. He dreamt of it often, and each
time he awoke breathing hard, his face flushed, to find that none stood
over him as had happened that day.
Not this day. The caress was real as were the grey eyes that
looked into his face with concern.
Faramir stared back into the grey eyes that he had first
beheld when awakening from the darkness that had held him in its sway
months ago. The reverence he had felt then upon beholding this noble
face had intensified which each future encounter so that now he was
no longer aware of what he could attribute the depth and intensity of
his feelings to.
But Aragorn was here now, sitting by him, on his bed. He
struggled to sit up, gritting against the pain that hit his shoulder
as he pressed his hands down in his attempt.
“No, lie back,” Aragorn said worriedly.
He shook his head as he finally managed to sit up, ignoring
the little twitches that ran through his aching body. He reached out
a hand for the worried face in front of him to reassure himself that
this was no dream. Aragorn was staring at him with puzzled eyes. He
tentatively put a hand to the cheek, feeling the faint stubble under
his fingers.
“Faramir-“ Aragorn seemed to gasp out almost breathlessly.
Faramir let his hand remain on the other’s cheek, and leaning forward
brushed the full lips with a chaste kiss, before leaning back against
his pillows.
“It is you,” he said quietly, his eyes closed now.
It was Aragorn here, and no dream. It was Aragorn he had kissed.
“Yes it is. I will stay by you, do not worry.”
Aragorn awoke early the next day, uncomfortably perched on
what appeared to be a chair. Awakening fully as the sun sent its first
ray out into the dawn sky, he realised he lay in a room not his own.
He awoke to the sight of a pair of keen grey eyes resting upon him.
He sat up in surprise and stared back at Faramir, and then remembered
all that had passed the night before. Faramir lay, staring at him quietly.
“I must leave now,” he said distractedly.
Faramir nodded.
He left trying to analyse what he had done. He had kissed
his friend, a man many years younger than him. Fallen on him with a
passion he hadn’t exhibited for years now. And he found he had liked
it. He didn’t know what to think now.
Breakfast was a quiet meal. Legolas was back with his horse,
Gimli had not woken up yet and Boromir and Faramir spoke the bare minimum
to each other. They had exchanged a few words before eating. Boromir
had apologized for his outburst, and Faramir for his. Then they had
argued over going to Ithilien again. Both looked angry now.
“It is to the king to decide then,” Boromir said flatly with
an air of finality.
Aragorn had tried to get out of it but could not. The Ithilien
Company had become strategically very important now that messages had
been sent to Harad inviting their envoy into Minas Tirith for discussions.
He could not honestly say that all his councillors were behind his decision.
Ithilien was situated on the road that wound towards Harad, and that
made the rangers’ duty even more important. Increased skirmishes were
being reported against stray bands and reports were coming in of orc
sightings. There were still many surviving after the war of the ring,
in little groups hiding away in dark caves and mountains, more of a
nuisance than a major problem. But they could not let the problem escalate
at such a critical time. Action was needed there and soon.
Faramir was very vocal in his insistence that he be allowed
to re-join his company. It was, as he pointed out, his company,
and he was their captain.
But, as Boromir was quick to point out, he was an injured
captain, and therefore more likely to be a bother to his men than a
help - A fact that did not go down well with the younger brother. The
affection resulting from the mutual forgiveness earlier vanished into
air. They stared each other down stubbornly, while Aragorn drummed his
fingers on the table. All three of them were in his study and the matter
had not progressed beyond the stage of argument. Unable to take the
sight of the bickering any longer, he finally raised his voice.
“Enough! Have the requisite supplies sent over to the company.
I will see the reports on the their deployment and movement and decide
by tomorrow what our next step should be. Until then, let them remain
under your lieutenant’s command,” this to Faramir.
“Very well,” Boromir replied formally.
Faramir promptly protested, “But sire!”
“That will be all,” Aragorn said coolly, glancing back at
the straight-backed reddening figure. None of the vulnerability of the
previous night showed here. It was the soldier standing before him now,
the fighter, and not a very happy one.
“Boromir, I need to talk to you,” he continued.
Faramir stood his ground resolutely, “Sire, I still think
–“
“Tomorrow, Faramir,” he said firmly.
At the quartermaster’s to ensure the supplies were going
through, as were his messages to his lieutenants, Faramir was feeling
furious. He felt like a child. He had spent the last night crying in
Aragorn’ s arms like an infant, and then had gone and kissed him. And
then childishly insisted that he stay with him the night, when it was
obvious Aragorn wanted to leave. Then he had argued with Boromir over
breakfast, almost argued with Aragorn, and now been summarily dismissed
like a child. And this when he was simply trying to do his duty. He
flexed his arm a little. The sling was off now, even though the healer
had said he mustn’t exert his arm for a few weeks. His waist injury
was merely a niggling feeling now. It twinged every now and then if
he bent too far, but it had not required stitches, and seemed to be
healing well. If he held his hand at the right angle, his shoulder felt
just fine. He was fine now.
But it was obvious Boromir would convince Aragorn to force
him to stay here. He could not let that happen.
They needed him in Ithilien. That was his company there.
He had learnt to fight with them, grown as a soldier with them, eaten
with them, defended Gondor with them, led them with skill and intelligence.
It was his duty to be there, and not here in Minas Tirith where he was
hardly needed.
Where he could be near Aragorn and dream of his lips on his,
as they had been last night. He sat at his table idly fingering his
lips, trying to make sense of the night’s happenings. They had kissed
and he had liked it. But had Aragorn? Aragorn did not seem angry or
disgusted. When he had awoken in the morning, the king had been sleeping
in his chair curled up uncomfortably, looking years younger, handsome
and intelligent. The light of day had brought a new meaning to the passion
that had emerged in the cover of the night. They had given in to sudden
stirrings then, but should they have? He could feel a growing attraction
for Aragorn, and he had realised with dismay that it was not a platonic
attraction, for otherwise the sight of his king would not send a heat
coursing through his body. He would not feel his lower body tense up
in reaction, and he would not fight to control himself each time. He
had not felt such a way for many years now.
And Aragorn had not withdrawn. Could it be that Aragorn felt
something too? He would find out.
And . . . he would show him he was no snivelling child who
needed to be protected always. Had he not defended the city during its
siege? He would show him.
In the gathering dusk, Aragorn stood in his room after finishing
with his duties for the day, finally letting his mind wander back to
the events in Faramir’s bedroom. He had been avoiding thinking about
it because it confused him. He was no novice to making love to men,
he had been a soldier and ranger, and these things were not uncommon.
And he was sure they were not uncommon to Faramir either. In the war-filled
days they had lived through, often the only succour to be obtained was
in the arms of another man. The womenfolk were often away in refuge.
But this was time of peace, and he was king of Gondor, betrothed
to a beautiful maiden who was giving up much for him, and as king he
had to provide an heir. But, Faramir . . .
Faramir was different. He felt himself yearn for the strange
young man who could be so complex as to be so many things all at one
time, soldier, scholar, child, and adult. The same man who had wept
like a child could in the space of a few hours become a proud upright
soldier. He turned as the rapping sounded through the wooden door.
It was Faramir.
The younger man strode into his room, when he beckoned to
him to enter, slowly but not diffidently. He did look a little nervous
though.
He raised a questioning eyebrow at him.
“I have come to ask you something,” Faramir began.
He knew what it was about. What else could it be about?
The question never came. Faramir advanced upon him, and caught
him by the waist. The pale lips touched his, at first hesitantly, and
then with enthusiasm. He felt himself fall back onto his bed, his mind
racing, his heart beating furiously as the other’s mouth submitted to
him completely. He sent his tongue into the other’s mouth, exploring
each spot leisurely, caressingly, lovingly as his mind abandoned logic
in favour of the lust his body was filling up with.
Faramir was running his arms up and down his chest now, and
pressing down on him. He felt himself begin to harden, as he wrapped
his arms around the slender figure atop him, running his hands over
the slim back like a feather, down his rump, over his thighs. He slipped
his hands under the tunic, and touched the soft skin underneath, and
then through the string holding up the leggings. He ran his hands lightly
under the cloth, letting his fingers dip down the little crevice. Faramir
moaned, and their lips came apart.
They stayed that way entangled in each other, for a few seconds,
his shirt half open and Faramir’s hands resting on his chest. His own
hands he slipped out from under Faramir’s now loosened leggings, as
they stared into each other’s eyes. They were gasping heavily, each
feeling the other’s hardness press against his body.
The Faramir bent down and nuzzled his neck. Aragorn gasped
as he felt his neck being nibbled gently, then the material of his shirt
was pushed away, as wet lips closed over his nipple and toyed gently
with it, sucking and teasing. He closed his eyes and breathed raggedly.
It had been so long, so long since he had had anyone give him pleasure
in such a way. The mouth wandered over his chest, pressing down on his
own hair, and scratching him, until it reached the other nipple, and
teased him once again.
“Did you like that?” Faramir asked huskily, lifting his head,
and staring back into Aragorn. Such a different Faramir from the one
in his arms the night before.
He simply gasped in response. The face looming over him was
flushed with sweat, surrounded by a messy clump of hair that straggled
over it, and the effect was seductively maddening. Those lips could
make him beg and plead for more, he felt, as he realised their powerful
appeal. He felt the throbbing in his lower body intensify as he reached
for the other man’s neck and pulled him down, claiming his alluring
lips hungrily. Expertly he rolled over so that the younger man lay underneath
him now.
All thoughts of his betrothal and the heir to the throne
had flown out long ago. All that lay in his mind was that an exquisite
young man lay on his bed.
“I did like that,” he replied throatily, “you are quite talented,
young one. I did not realise that.”
“There is much you have to realise, sire,” came the husky
reply.
“Call me Aragorn,” he offered. There was a strange expression
in Faramir’s eyes, one he could not place.
Faramir’s hands reached for the bindings of his leggings,
“Would you like to see what else it is I know?” he asked softly, almost
purring into Aragorn’ s ears. The touch of those fingers almost made
him cry out.
He grabbed the younger man by his shoulders but Faramir instead
of responding, suddenly backed away.
Aragorn had grabbed his injured shoulder unknowingly. He
could not possibly scream out, but it hurt him. Unbearably. And so he
flinched away.
And the spell of madness was over. Aragorn pulled away and
sat down on his bed, while he lay there a little dazed and in pain,
but saying nothing.
“You came to ask me something,” Aragorn said quietly.
Faramir sat up slowly and shook his head, “This is not the
time for it,” he said finally.
“Very well,” Aragorn said as he stood up and straightened
his clothes. They were both up now, and very flustered, and unsure of
how to proceed.
Sounds of footsteps came from outside.
“The guard is changing,” Faramir said unnecessarily, and
Aragorn nodded in reply.
“What have you thought of Ithilien?”
He knew he should have waited. Waited for a better time,
but the question preyed on his mind.
“I will let you know tomorrow.”
It was a long night, and a fairly wretched one.
And morning brought more unpleasantness.
“I have decided,” Aragorn announced after the morning meal,
this time to an audience that included Faramir, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas
and Tarlong.
“I will go to Ithilien,” he said. Five pairs of surprised
eyes stared back at him incredulously as he continued, “I want to see
how things stand for myself.”
“I shall ride out tomorrow.”
“You cannot leave the city!” Boromir cried out, “How can
the king leave the city? Who will govern in your stead?”
“You will. You are the steward.”
“But Sire, there is an assassin on the loose,” Tarlong said.
“Yes, and it will be the last thing he will expect me to
do,” Aragorn said smugly.
The chorus of protest was drowned out by a voice like a whiplash,
“It is by the order of the king of Gondor and Arnor.”
“Very well, I will inform the escort.” Tarlong replied in
a subdued tone.
“No, they will attract too much attention,” Aragorn said
firmly.
“But how can you travel escortless?”
“I shall go as a ranger. Let not the news spread abroad that
the king is travelling. I shall return in a days’ time after all.”
“We will come with you, of course,” Legolas.
“With respect, that would only attract attention,” Faramir
pointed out.
“He’s right,” that was Boromir,” Aragorn, surely you do not
intend to –“
“I do.”
“I will accompany you then,” Faramir said calmly.
“No.”
“You wish to travel alone? Boromir cannot come with you.
King and Steward cannot leave the city like this at the same time. It
is unheard of.”
“It is unheard of that kings rush into suchlike, while the
captain general sits back,” Boromir muttered.
“It is unheard of that kings do not know the situation on
ground in their realm,” Aragorn snapped back.
“Then Faramir had better go with you. And, he will return
with you. Mablung will handle the rangers until he can return to active
duty,” Boromir retorted.
back
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Chapter 8
The entire day went into preparing for the ride. Aragorn
had to inform some of his closest councillors and none of them were
happy. Faramir, in turn stayed away from everyone, poring over some
maps. He could use his injured hand fairly well now, if he ignored the
twitches of pain. Boromir was unhappy, but he had pointed out he was
capable of riding, that it was just for a day, and Aragorn would be
there too. And as Boromir made no mention of the injury to his side
he too did not speak of it. It would hurt while he rode but he was sure
it would be tolerable.
The warden of the houses of healing however had plenty to
say on the issue. But Faramir had had plenty of experience dealing with
him in recent months and managed to prevent him from going to either
Boromir or Aragorn and telling them to stop him from riding.
The preparations tired him out so that he retired early,
and for once, slept easily. They set off the next afternoon with minimal
fuss, using two ordinary horses borrowed from the stables. Aragorn was
dressed in a faded green ranger outfit, and his usual grey travelling
cloak, while Faramir wore the green and brown garb of the Ithilien Company.
They would have no problem blending into the background if the need
arose.
They rode in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts.
The events two nights ago had left both of them extremely uncomfortable
in each other’s presence but they could not have refused to travel together.
Both wanted to make the journey anyway. Aragorn kept thinking back to
the way he had thrown himself on the younger man. He could distinctly
remember the other’s lips roving over his body and how it had aroused
him. Never before had anyone else evoked such passion through his body
that he had forgotten everything. He felt odd now. In the light of the
day, he felt very odd. He should not have done that. They had almost
crossed a point in his bedchamber that night, and he was unsure how
such a thing had happened. Not that he was a stranger to bedding a man,
but that had merely been to satisfy stray urges of a younger man, when
there was no other choice.
But now the choice was there, and he was older, but he still
found himself irresistibly drawn to a man less than half his age, and
that man seemed drawn to him too. What had they done? He should forget
about it, and not mention it at all. He was to get married soon, after
all.
Faramir’s thoughts rested more on enjoying the land he was
re-visiting after a few months now. He had spent enough time thinking
about the events of the night, and like Aragorn he had reached no clear
conclusion, other than that perhaps, it would be better to try and forget
what had happened, because Aragorn certainly seemed to prefer not to
remember it.
They were barely halfway to Ithilien and the sun was fairly
low in the sky, when the saddle strap on Aragorn’ s horse broke. It
was only his excellent riding skills that prevented him from falling
headfirst. A cursory examination revealed that the straps had been frayed.
“Almost as though someone had run a knife at them for a while,”
Faramir said quietly, “For I am sure, the stable does would not utilize
such old equipment that it starts tearing and fraying. Someone has done
this, sire.”
“And we have no way of finding out whom until we get back.”
“Then do we turn back?” Faramir asked.
“No, we can ride your horse together,” Aragorn decided, “I
see anyway, that you have trouble riding.”
“No! I mean, yes, of course we can ride together, but I do
not have trouble on horseback,” Faramir stammered out worriedly.
“You are a terrible liar, young one,” Aragorn said, as he
mounted Faramir’s horse, and then motioned for the younger man to join
him.
“No, I-“ Faramir protested as he moved to mount the horse
too. Aragorn reached down and grasping him by his shoulders and waist
yanked him up, not roughly, but not delicately either. And Faramir feeling
his injured shoulder and side wrench by the movement had to bite at
his slip to stifle the cry of pain.
“I suppose that did not hurt at all?” Aragorn asked smiling
wickedly.
Faramir had no reply.
They rode on quietly, and Aragorn gently wrapped an arm around
the younger man’s waist as he controlled the horse. The other horse
followed them saddle less, they had decided they could get equipment
for it from the rangers, who kept some horses with them, although they
did most of their scouting on foot. Aragorn smiled to himself as he
noted how comfortable Faramir seemed to be in his arms. The ranger was
leaning back against him, his head resting against Aragorn’ s broad
chest and shoulder, as they rode on in companionable silence, each contemplating
the nearness of the other.
Somehow when Faramir was this near to him, all Aragorn’ s
doubts vanished. He loved holding the younger man near him. He loved
the touch of his skin, the soft scent of his hair, and he loved the
feel of the supple, slender body in his arms. And all doubts about enjoying
the very feel of Faramir vanished from his mind. His decision to forget
all that had passed between them vanished the moment he felt Faramir’s
closeness to him.
And from the way the other leaned back against his chest
peacefully, he knew his feelings did not go unreciprocated. He found
he regretted breaking away from Faramir just then. He knew the younger
man had withdrawn slightly. It must have been from inexperience he decided.
He was scared! Of course he would be. Aragorn, you are a fool. He
is still young. You should not have hurried him like that!
When they returned to Minas Tirith, perhaps if he went a
little slowly, perhaps then they could . . . Faramir wanted it. There
was no doubt about that. He lightly stroked his hand across the man’s
stomach and smiled to himself as he heard a contented sigh from the
half -sleeping figure in front of him. Just a little lower maybe, he
decided.
Faramir absorbed the warmth of Aragorn’ s proximity, and
revelled in it. He had certainly found the long ride getting uncomfortable
and his healing muscles had begun to protest at the exercise, but now
he could just sit back restfully. Even though twitches of pain did exist,
Aragorn’ s arms around him seemed to push them away. He leaned back
against the chest he had let his lips rove over two nights ago, and
found to his surprise that he felt no sense of wrong over it. He craved
the experience and knew Aragorn felt the same way.
If only Aragorn had not grabbed his aching shoulder so hard,
they might have gone further. He did not how much further, but he found
he did not mind however far it went. Somehow the cover of the night
had given him a boldness he had never before possessed in such matters,
and he found he still retained it. His mind refused to let go of the
picture of Aragorn’ s bare chest.
Then he felt the hand across his waist move, slowly, circularly
over his taut stomach. Then the reins of the horse were handed to him,
and another hand joined the one on his now tense midriff. The rough
cloth of his tunic scraped against his increasingly sensitive skin,
and a fire sparked up in his groin.
He stroked the lower belly now, and slowly drew his hands
lower. Faramir was wide-awake now. He could feel him tensing up. But,
he was making no move to stop him. And Aragorn realised he had no desire
at all to stop doing what he was doing.
He moved his hands along slowly, then slipped one under the
short tunic, and ran it lightly over the soft material of the green
leggings, smiling as his roving hand encountered a bulge. Smiling wider
now, he ran his hand over the bulge once and pressed it lightly, and
Faramir stiffened slightly. Then he removed his hand promptly and his
smile widened as a sharp hiss came out of the younger man’s mouth. He
moved his hands upwards, onto the smooth flesh of the stomach, up along
the chest, underneath the tunic. His fingers roved easily, pinching
lightly all along. Faramir was breathing in small gasps now. He felt
his own arousal grow, and the movement of the horse they sat upon only
aided him on as he lightly pinched one of Faramir’s aroused nipples.
Slowly he reached his hands down lower and lower to the bindings
of Faramir’s leggings and tugged at the string, loosening it, all the
while blowing soft breaths onto the back of Faramir’s neck. He pushed
his roving hands in through the loosened string, feeling the warmth
radiating off the soft skin of the lower belly. Faramir shivered in
anticipation, his eyes closed now.
Bending his head a little he lightly kissed Faramir on his
neck. His hands groped the flesh of the young man’s groin, till finally
the fingers closed around what they sought, hot and damp now. And that
was when the other gasped loudly and let go of the reins, sending their
horse into near-panic state.
Aragorn reacted with near elven speed and yanking his hands
free grabbed the reins and took control. The rearing steed was calmed
down. He climbed slowly down, and then reaching for the softly panting
younger man still atop the steed, knotted up his leggings for him.
“Not on a horse ever again, I think,” he chuckled suddenly.
Faramir was blushing furiously now.
He too slid off the horse, and they were soon standing face-to-face,
lips almost touching, still a little breathless after their experience.
Faramir looked particularly dishevelled, his face red, hair wild and
clothes unkempt. Aragorn too looked a little excited but his clothes
and hair were as normal. He sighed softly at the sight.
“We had better tidy up, I suppose,” and guided his companion
towards the tiny stream nearby where the horses had wandered off to
drink water.
Faramir found he was still breathing very raggedly and spent
a while at the water’s edge trying to regain his senses. It was very
difficult. He could still feel the touch of Aragorn’ s hands across
his body, and the wetness where the lips had touched his neck. Distracted
by his thoughts he did not hear Aragorn’ s shouts until too late.
They were being ambushed by a party of Orcs. Aragorn’ s horse
had run away chased off by their arrows, as had his own, and they stood
now on foot to defend themselves against the foul creatures. There were
five of them and the two men soon found themselves set upon, with barely
enough time to unsheathe their weapons.
The Orcs attacking Faramir had soon realised he was not at
his best. They attacked him with greater ferocity, knocking his sword
from his hands. They soon had him almost down on the ground in a daze,
near the water’s edge as they attacked him with ferocity.
“This is a good piece of man flesh. He will be fun,” the
first Orc’s mouth dripped as he spoke. Before Faramir could realise
it, he was down on the ground with the stink of the Orcs looming over
him. He kicked out, catching the kneeling Orc on his chest. There was
a loud yell, and then the other one pounced upon him.
He tried to roll away, getting himself covered in mud and
grass. A fist landed on his injured shoulder and he screamed out in
pain. His shirt was almost ripped off him. He gave one painful thrust
and rolled a little distance away towards the water, finally getting
a look at his surroundings. He could hear shouts and noises further
up the bank, and looking up he realised Aragorn was still standing up
to the three Orcs single-handedly, but would need help soon.
He struggled to get up to his feet, only to be thrown to
the ground by the foul creature. He clawed desperately at the ground
trying to throw the beast off, when his fingers closed around a stone.
He had no other weapon, so he used it effectively knocking out his attacker.
Picking up his sword he disposed off his two fallen opponents and then
launched himself at the remaining, helping Aragorn breathe a little
easier. They were at the water’s edge now, and the ground was slippery.
Trying to maintain a foothold in the wet mud, he didn’t notice the second
Orc fighting Aragorn suddenly throw himself in his direction. Three
flailing figures fell into the water with a tremendous splash. In the
ensuing confusion Aragorn managed to dispose off his opponent, before
running to help Faramir who was now struggling with one of the foul
creatures in the water. Andúril glinted in the light of the setting
sun, as Aragorn promptly came to his friend’s rescue.
Their five opponents lay dead around them on land and in
water when Aragorn dragged the dripping figure up the bank.
Aragorn yanked the shivering, dripping figure out of the
stream, none too gently. Faramir winced at the jerky movements.
“The horses,” he said slowly.
“We’ve lost them,” Aragorn muttered angrily.
“We will have to walk,” Faramir stated tiredly.
“Not any longer today. We will set off again in the morning
after getting some rest,” Aragorn said, raising a hand to cut off Faramir’s
protest, “We should find a place to spend the night.”
“I know of one not far from here,” Faramir said slowly, “The
old refuges built in these lands still stand. We use them often, and
one is not far from here. It is a small rock formation. We can spend
the night there.”
The days were getting shorter, so the sun was slowly sinking
and the cold had started to set in, causing him to shiver as he spoke.
He clamped his teeth down as he spoke trying to prevent the sporadic
tremors that ran through his aching body.
“You are cold,” Aragorn said, distressed, “take my cloak.”
“No, it will get wet just like mine has,” Faramir said unhappily,
“I will have to put up with the wet clothes till we reach the caves.
It will be a little warmer inside them,” he added reassuringly.
The two of them set off together with Faramir leading the
way.
The little rock formation was a system of tunnels and caves
that Faramir led them into slowly. Aragorn could make out that he was
quite exhausted and cold. The sun had long gone below the horizon and
it was quite dark now, with just a few stars shimmering in the sky.
“The tunnels are built so we can hear the approach of anyone
at the entrance even this far back,” Faramir had explained tiredly before
sinking to the ground in a dazed stupor. Aragorn let him sit there while
he explored the place thoroughly. A small opening in the roof let light
through, as did another small opening, some distance away which seemed
to lead to a dank little pool surrounded by mossy rock.
He returned to his exhausted companion to find him leaning
against a rock with his eyes closed, the water dripping down from his
clothes and forming a puddle around him. Shaking his head slightly,
he tried to rouse him. Faramir stirred a little, but the eyes remained
half-closed.
“Sleepy . . .,” he muttered tiredly, as his head dipped against
Aragorn’ s arm.
Aragorn put a hand to his head, and finding it a little clammy,
promptly set about redressing it. He decided he’d have to get Faramir
out of his wet clothes, and wrap him up in something warm for the rest
of the night.
He pulled the damp clothes off with no little difficulty.
It was increasingly cold, and the tiny tremors that ran through the
slim figure were of no help either. He pulled him up to get the hands
out of the sleeves of the wet tunic, and winced at the resulting whimper
of pain. The bandage covering the shoulder was no longer white but covered
in grime. Seeing no other option, he untied it exposing the healing
stitches. He also noticed the bruises around the now healed cut in the
side, and shook his head resignedly. Faramir was covered in dirt and
scratches just as he himself was.
He took off his tunic and undershirt. Pulling the tunic back
on he tore the soft material of the undershirt, and dipping the strips
in the water of the pool, he cleaned himself up cursorily, and then
went over to the other man, and pulled off his wet leggings tugging
at the cloth as it clung to the other’s skin, and using the wet strips
of cloth cleaned him up a little. He spread the wet clothes out to dry
near the opening.
The only light to be had was that of the early stars pouring
in through the opening in the roof, and when Aragorn lay the younger
man’s naked body gently upon the ground, the starlight played upon the
bare, pale skin, marred by bluing bruises, and red scratches, making
it look seemingly enchanted. The tiny droplets of water that clung to
the still wet frame glistened like hundreds of precious stones. Aragorn
sat by quietly for a moment entranced by the sight. He let his eyes
rove over the entire frame, the lanky body with a slender chest, slim
hips, and long legs, and the curly mass of hair between them, where
his hands had gone exploring earlier, before he picked up what remained
of the undershirt and rubbed him dry, ignoring his pained murmuring.
He ran the cloth over each and every part of the younger man, revelling
in the feel of him. Gathering him up in his arms ensuring he avoided
his healing shoulder, he sighed and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead,
before, bringing him closer, and wrapping his heavy warm cloak around
them. Faramir’s body was cold to touch, which was no surprise after
the drenching he had received.
“Poor dear,” he murmured softly to the unconscious young
man, “Why does so much have to happen to you? And all on my account.”
Faramir was still shivering intermittently. He hugged him
closer and felt idiotically pleased when the younger man snuggled against
him and buried his face in his chest. They sat wrapped in each other
with the cloak wound around them waiting for the night to completes
its passage. He gently ran a finger down one arm under the thick cloth,
and watched as the younger man awoke slowly and lifted his head, and
turned glazed grey eyes upon him. The only light available was that
of the stars above, faint but enough to make out Faramir’s face staring
up at him. He eased himself up a little, and the cloak fell away a bit,
revealing the naked shoulder his arm was wrapped around.
Smooth and pale, it stood out over the dark cloak covering
the rest of the body, and just the sight of it was enough for the king
of Gondor. He craved to take that mouth in his again. How beautifully
Faramir submitted to him always, even if on horseback. He could clearly
remember how it felt to have Faramir under him.
He gently ran a finger over the exposed collarbone, lightly,
bringing it to rest at the little dip under the throat. Faramir’s eyes
were closed and he was gasping hoarsely now, the warmth of each breath
hitting Aragorn’ s neck at regular intervals. He pushed the cloak further
down, and took the finger exploring over the gleaming white of the naked
chest that could just about be seen. He drew circles, lines, triangles,
all manner of shapes, sometimes with his fingertip, sometimes lightly
with his nail. He dragged the single finger slowly down over the taut
stomach, all the while working it over the skin. And the effect it had
on the younger ranger in his arms was surprising. Faramir was crooning
in delight at the touch, his neck thrown back, head resting in the crook
of Aragorn’ s other arm.
Aragorn continued exploring the supple body in his arms with
his finger, while simultaneously plunging his mouth into the exposed
shoulder and neck. He kissed, nipped and licked the soft skin, tugging
at it gently with his teeth at times, and felt himself grow hard just
listening to the soft, delighted squeals coming from the younger man’s
mouth. Faramir’s hands were now wrapped around his back, his legs wound
around Aragorn’ s legs, and his head was thrown back, eyes closed in
the ecstasy of Aragorn’ s mere touch. Aragorn smiled at the delighted
figure in his arms, and brought his hands up to stroke his face. His
finger brushed the scar underneath the left eye briefly.
Faramir’s eyes shot open suddenly, briefly filled with a
plethora of emotions ranging from fear to pain, and he tried to pull
away. The cloak fell off, and he scrambled away on the rocky floor trying
to back off, but instead ended up slipping on the water that had pooled
from his own clothes and falling painfully on his rump, his eyes glazed
and his hand on his cheek. The fall however seemed to wake him up, and
he stared at the floor.
“I am sorry, you startled me,” he said quietly, shivering
a little as cold air hit his bare skin, “Wh – where are my clothes.”
“They are wet. Come back under the cloak, I cannot have you
falling ill again.”
Silently the dejected young man slipped underneath the thick
old cloak, and let Aragorn hold him.
“How did it happen?”
The question went ignored.
“Someone hit you, didn’t they? Who was it?” Aragorn asked
quietly. He held Faramir tight against his chest to ensure he wouldn’t
escape his grasp again and examined the scar with his fingers in the
dim light, “It looks like a scar caused by something small and sharp,
not a knife or an arrow, but too deep to be just a fist. It looks like
– a –ring.”
Faramir turned his head away and tried to wriggle out of
Aragorn’ s grasp. Aragorn ruthlessly held him in place, ignoring the
grunt of pain as the pressure fell on the healing cut on the waist.
“A sharp ring,” Aragorn continued, his eyes narrowing, and
he sucked his breath in sharply as he realised that only one person
could have done it.
“Dene –“ he started off and stopped as Faramir raised a pair
of alarmed eyes to his face, enough to tell him he had deduced correctly,
“Why did he hit you? And that too so hard that it cut deep enough to
leave a scar.”
The distraught face turned away again, seeking the comfort
of his body.
“He thought Boromir had died,” came the muffled reply.
“He was angry with you because of that?” Aragorn knew Denethor
could be unreasonable but this seemed going too far.
The quiet voice came filled with sorrow, “No, he was angry
with himself for sending Boromir. He wished he had sent me, but he hadn’t
you see, so he thought if Boromir had not gone, he would be alive. He
was – he was - grieving deeply.”
So much to wish you were dead instead! Aragorn thought
to himself angrily. Faramir had not said it, but the words he had not
said were only too clear to Aragorn, who had come to understand each
expression and gesture that the man in his arms delivered.
“And then what did he do?” he asked gently, hoping Denethor
had had the sense to realise his error.
“He sent me away.”
“He sent you away?” Aragorn demanded, “Did he say nothing
else?”
Faramir’s face remained buried in his chest, “I fell against
the mantelpiece, and my mother’s vase fell off it. He was so - angry.
He told me – to –to leave and not return until he called.”
His tunic felt wet and he realised it was the wetness of
tears. He had no words to say. Denethor had died soon after by his own
hand, and almost taken Faramir along, an experience that had left the
younger son both comforted and bitter. Comforted that his father’s love
had finally shone through, and bitter at the method it had taken to
show through. They had told him of it after the war. Mithrandir, the
grey pilgrim had told him softly of everything, while his uncle and
Boromir had sat by. But, any reaction Faramir had shown had been in
private, to himself.
Aragorn had heard of the tense relationships in the steward’s
family, and of how Denethor and Faramir had rarely got along well, and
he had been very glad to see the closeness between the two brothers.
Aragorn had been very young when his own father had died but Elrond
the lord of Imaldris had taken him under his wing and brought him up
as a son and never let him feel the loss. He couldn’t even begin to
imagine how it might feel to have a father who preferred to ignore the
existence of his own son.
Faramir was still sobbing silently into his tunic.
“I let Boromir get hurt. If it were not for me, father would
still be alive. I should have gone in Boromir’s stead. It is my fault.
I should not have listened.”
“Ssh,” Aragorn said helplessly. His simple question had taken
an unexpected turn, one he had no idea how to handle.
They finally fell asleep in each other’s arms under the light
of the few stars that lingered in the sky.
Faramir woke first. The sun had yet to rise, but the sky
was lightening above them. He gently pushed away Aragorn’ s arms and
stood up, realising suddenly that he had somehow been divested of his
clothes. The previous night’s memories returned to him, and he groaned
as he remembered what had happened. He was still confused, half ecstatic
from the memory of Aragorn’ s kisses and touches, and very annoyed with
himself for weeping like a babe in his arms.
He rose wincing as his sore muscles protested, and picked
up his damp clothes from near the opening. They were damp but still
drier than the night before. The chill in the air made him shiver so
he wanted to cover up as soon as possible. He heard a soft footfall
behind him as he knelt down to pick up his clothes. Before he could
turn around however, the softness of an old cloak fell across his shoulders
and back, and he looked up into Aragorn’ s gently smiling face.
“How do you feel now?”
He nodded quietly. Aragorn’ s arms still lay over his shoulder.
And their faces were at brushing distance. Two hungry mouths met and
they fell against the moss-lined floor near the pool. The cloak fell
to the ground and Aragorn was on top of him, ruthlessly kissing him.
He felt the soft, damp moss against his back but ignored it. Aragorn’
s kiss spread warmth through him such as he had never experienced before.
The other man’s rough clothes rubbed against his skin, adding to his
excitement. The surface under him was sticky and wet, but he ignored
it even as it clung to his skin.
“Aragorn,” he murmured reverentially, as they rolled over
on the floor, his legs wrapping themselves around the other man.
Aragorn groaned suddenly, “What is this thing?” he asked
staring at the green residue sticking to his fingers.
“Moss.”
Aragorn sighed and pulled himself loose. Then he leant over
him and kissed him lightly all over his face. Above them through the
opening, the first light of day began to shine through, falling on his
upturned face. Aragorn brought his hand to the youthful face, and lightly
stroked the soft cheek. Faramir rose to a sitting position with a sigh,
making a face as he realised his bare body was now covered in the slimy
green mix. Aragorn stood up, and searched for the strips of cloth he
had used the night before. Wetting them, he helped Faramir move onto
a dry rock and clean up, checking the healing injuries from the arrows
thoroughly to see that they had not been affected by the moss before
he sent his strong hands lingering over each spot on the younger man’s
lower back and thighs that the green residue clung to.
They had just finished getting Faramir into his damp clothing
when the faint sounds filtered in through the tunnel. Someone was approaching
the rock formation.
back
to top
Chapter 9
Aragorn reached for his sword, but Faramir stayed his hand,
as voices floated along the tunnel.
“Mablung! Damord! Anborn!” he called out.
Soon, the little cave had become a reunion point for a small
group of Ithilien rangers with their captain, a move that almost left
their king happily ignored. Aragorn watched with a loving smile as the
young man he had grown so fond of was greeted with delight by his men.
Faramir responded with characteristic quiet happiness, until all of
them noticed their liege too stood there with them, and dropped onto
their knees, even as Aragorn smiled widely, and waved his hand at them
to rise.
Greetings and explanations were hurriedly exchanged as the
men left the cave for the ranger’s camp near another refuge. All through
the morning, Aragorn and Faramir sat in the camp and listened to the
rangers report the level of activity they faced due to renewed Orc attacks
or from stray groups of outsiders. Aragorn watched as Faramir spoke
to his men with his usual quiet efficiency intermingled with the obvious
pride he felt for them. And the obvious regard in which his men held
him. After sending the rangers off to their duties, Faramir requested
Mablung to stay back so that they could decide on troop requirements
and other logistic issues.
The camp was in a different refuge - another cave, which
Faramir told Aragorn was as large as the one at Henneth Annûn. But this
one was simply hidden in the rocks and had no ponds or lakes nearby.
The ground, Aragorn noted, absently was completely dry and hard. As
they talked to Mablung, he noted that the tiredness was creeping back
into the younger man’s voice. And he noticed that Mablung seemed to
have noted the same thing.
Around noon, after they had had some food and ale, he turned
to Faramir, “That’s enough for now. Get some rest. You will need it
before we return.”
Faramir seemed ready to protest when Mablung spoke up, “Yes
Captain, there’s a pallet at the back of the cave. You could lie down
for a while.”
“I don’t –”
“You should. The water was very cold, and so is the air,”
declared Aragorn and Mablung gave him a thankful glance.
Faramir didn’t protest again, and Aragorn realised with not
little worry that he probably was quite exhausted. Placing a hand against
his forehead he was relieved to see that it felt alright. Tucking the
younger man under the blankets, he joined Mablung at a makeshift table,
and continued the discussion they had been having, in a very soft tone.
When they were done, he adroitly steered the conversation towards Faramir
and spent the next hour and a half listening to the lieutenant talk
about how he’d see Faramir grow from an inexperienced young man into
a captain of rangers. Mablung had been with the company even before
Faramir had joined, and had been like a mentor to him.
He spoke of Faramir’s maturing as a soldier, of the day he
first killed someone, and how he had reacted to it, of how much he loved
his life in Ithilien and how much he loved his brother. And Aragorn
found he was listening attentively and learning a few more things about
the sleeping man, and getting fonder of him by each minute.
When Faramir awoke two hour later, he felt refreshed and
much more energetic, and found to his consternation that he had no work
to do because all the plans they had discussed for the company’s requirements
had been drafted out while he was sleeping and now the papers lay stacked
in front of the king who was happily smoking his pipe and listening
to Mablung talk. And to his horror, he realised that Mablung was talking
of the day he had fallen at Osgiliath, while Minas Tirith held out against
the dark forces, waiting for Rohan to come to their aid. Aragorn listened
gravely as Mablung spoke of fighting the fell forces, until Faramir
interrupted them. He was still uncomfortable speaking of it. They had
feted him as a hero for leading his forces in that battle, but as far
as he was concerned the real heroes were two halflings from the north
and the king and steward of the realm.
Aragorn smiled at him as he joined them, “We should leave
soon, sire” he said without preamble, “Boromir will probably send out
half the army if we are even half a minute later than the time we said
we would return.”
They borrowed horses from the rangers, fast steeds that moved
at twice the speed their horses had taken the day before, and reached
the city as dusk fell over it. Lamps were being lit all over. At the
gate, Boromir and the others greeted them. Their changed horses were
not commented upon; as everyone assumed the other pair had been too
tired to undertake the return journey. When they all sat down to eat,
Faramir spoke of the broken saddle strap. Seeing the servants enter
with the food, he became quiet, and Aragorn suggested they talk of it
after food in his study. So, they spoke instead of the Orc attack, while
the others listened with worry.
“How do you think it happened?” Boromir said, as soon as
they had gathered there.
“It was cut,” Faramir stated emphatically, “It looked frayed,
but it was clear someone had made a cut to the strap first to weaken
it.”
“Someone who has easy access to the stables,” Legolas pondered.
“All the city does, these were not from the royal stables,”
Faramir told him.
“But local knowledge is still needed is it not?” Legolas
asked.
Boromir nodded slowly, “So, it was either a local or a spy.
Which one?”
“A spy? From Harad, do you think?” Gimli asked.
“Yes. Or even Khand, but my worry is if it is one of the
locals. Why?” Boromir asked suddenly, “Why target Aragorn?”
“Because he’s the king,” Gimli said.
“Yes, so why target the king? What can one of the subjects
have against Aragorn?”
Aragorn maintained silence all through listening to everyone,
but contributing nothing.
“It cannot be an objection to having a king at all,” Faramir
voiced the thought uppermost in all their minds, “Or they would have
acted earlier. All this has happened very recently. So it must be instigated
by some recent action that someone in the city disapproves of.”
“And if there is no such action?” Gimli asked.
“Then it is the work of spy. Whoever this person is had access
into the palace, we must remember that, and knew that we were going
to use horses from outside the royal stables. It is someone either in
the household or in the higher ranks of Gondor.”
“But why?” Gimli persisted, “What could have happened that
has suddenly induced someone to try and hurt Aragorn?”
“Harad!” Boromir cried out, “the peace talks.”
Everyone turned to him, and Aragorn leant forward frowning,
“You think someone is opposed to peace?”
“With Harad? Yes,” Boromir stated, “Do you not remember how
most of your council is against it. All those old fogies like Eredil
will never trust Harad enough to want peace with them.”
“Eredil,” Gimli said thoughtfully stroking his chin.
“It could be anyone,” Faramir reminded him.
“But Eredil is most vocal about his disapproval,” Legolas
stated.
“Well, what do we do? We cannot have the councillors being
shadowed all day. It would cause an uproar if they were to find out,”
Faramir said.
“No, we cannot,” Aragorn said firmly, “We have no conclusive
proof against anyone. These acts could be by anyone in this household.”
“Not the household. We know all the servants,” Boromir said
promptly.
“Reasoning can change,” Faramir told him.
“On the day the arrows were shot at you, Eredil was in the
citadel at the same time,” Boromir said.
“So were Mardinel, and Firiel, and Tarlong and many I do
not remember of now. It is not enough,” Aragorn said emphatically.
“And someone like Eredil would not do such a thing himself.
He would get another to do it for him,” Faramir said.
“Yes, but even if it was someone else, he would still have
to enter the citadel with ease, would he not?” Boromir mused.
“Whatever you say, but I will certainly keep a closer eye
on the council members from today,” Legolas declared, and Gimli added
consent.
“And I will get some my most trusted men to start checking
into the actions of the entire household and the council,” Boromir said.
“If this is indeed Harad, there might be trouble when their
envoy comes,” Faramir said suddenly.
“We will have to sort the issue out before he comes then,”
Aragorn said calmly, “now let us discuss Ithilien.”
When they finally withdrew for bed at night, Faramir was
the last one to slip out. Aragorn smiled at him gently, and taking his
weary face in his hands, told him to go to sleep. Faramir obeyed, his
arm was hurting him again. When he reached his chamber, he found Boromir
waiting for him.
“How do you feel?” his brother demanded, “Aragorn said you
might feel fevered because you fell into the water, and that you fought
those Orcs despite your injury, and you have ridden very fast today.”
“I shall be fine,” he replied reassuringly, happy to see
that his brother did not seem angry with him. He grasped Boromir’s arm
gently knowing that his brother hated any display of emotion. To his
surprise, Boromir suddenly gave him a small hug, and gently ran his
hand through his hair, an action he had not displayed since Faramir’s
early childhood.
“Sleep well,” he said softly and then left.
The next day, feeling much better than he had for the past
week and more, he watched as Tarlong and Boromir sat and discussed strengthening
Aragorn’ s guard some more. Aragorn simply groaned and left the room.
Legolas and Gimli entered at the same time, and stared after their friend
as he left shaking his head, followed by two armed guards. After Tarlong
had left, the three sat and talked while Faramir listened. They listed
out each person in the household and in the council, listened as Boromir
discussed what he knew of their past history, and wondered if he or
she could be the assassin since by now they had concluded that the archer
was definitely one who could enter and leave easily. Within a short
while the exercise had reduced to a joke as Boromir’s recollection of
one particular councillor took on a particularly sordid hue, and soon
all of them were laughing madly.
Finally when they had calmed somewhat, Faramir turned to
his brother, “Have you spoken to the men?”
Boromir nodded, “For the next two days they will be intensively
following the movements of all within suspicion. After all it is barely
thirty people, ten councillors and twenty of the household staff, including
the kitchen staff. I have also learned something from some of the old
army records. Lord Eredil was at one time the best archer Minas Tirith
boasted of.”
“That does not say anything,” Faramir protested.
“No, unfortunately, it does not,” Boromir sighed, “For, some
years later, that title went to another, Lord Saracel from the council,”
he rose at that, “I must leave shortly.”
The new battlements had been built in the port of Cair Andros
and Boromir had wanted to check on them personally. He was to return
the next morning and had meanwhile even told Aragorn that he should
not leave the citadel at all.
Aragorn had raised an eyebrow at him and then when Legolas
and Gimli had joined Boromir in his chorus glared at all three of them.
Faramir had simply watched the proceedings bemused. Finally, Legolas
rode out with Boromir to Cair Andros after the noon meal, and Gimli
joined his kin for another night out in town. Aragorn had had enough
of them hovering around him, and had threatened to ride off escortless
unless they stopped behaving like his personal guard, of which, as he
pointed out, he already had two. Seeing him in a foul mood, his friends
had left him alone for the night, after requesting Faramir to keep an
eye on him. And Faramir had solemnly promised that he would, inducing
a gleam in his king’s eye that he found very exciting.
Later in the evening as the shadows began to fall, Faramir
returned after finishing his work at the quartermaster’s to find the
palace quiet and nearly empty. Aragorn had requested an early meal,
and dismissed the servants. They ate quietly, just the two of them.
After they had eaten, Aragorn rose, “Would you join me for some wine,
Faramir?”
“Certainly sire,” Faramir replied, his mouth suddenly feeling
very dry. He would join Aragorn for a lot more, if he would just ask.
And Aragorn did.
“In my bedchamber,” he said softly. Faramir nodded silently.
They sat with empty wine glasses in hand; neither had had
more than a spot to drink. Taking Faramir’s glass and placing it away,
Aragorn pulled him up from his chair gently and stood in front of him.
They stood in front of each other silently for a few seconds just drinking
in each other’s sight.
And then Aragorn moved. He reached out and tugged at the
bindings of Faramir’s tunic, pulling them loose, and then helped him
remove the tunic. Then he undid the string of the leggings, and pulled
them swiftly down even as Faramir stood with his eyes half-closed, a
rapt expression on his face as Aragorn deliberately ran a finger lightly
along his inner thigh. Rising up he motioned for him to step out of
the fallen clothes, and watched as the younger man obeyed, showing just
a slight trace of self-consciousness at having his entirely naked body
exposed to another man. Aragorn stared back at the figure he had held
in his arms in that cave for an entire night.
His heart fluttering a little, Faramir silently moved towards
Aragorn, and reached for the long robe he wore. Aragorn gently pried
his fingers away. Faramir stared back at him in dismay, and opened his
mouth to speak. Aragorn tenderly placed a finger on the pale lips to
silence him, and then lowered him with great care against the pillows.
Sitting by Faramir, he ran a hand through his hair, before leaning down
to kiss him lightly on the lips. With infinite care, he then moved on
to kiss him first on his neck, then his shoulder, then across his chest
and stomach. Straightening up, he glanced at his beloved’s face, and
smiled as he noticed the mingled expression of anticipation and desire.
He stood up, and shrugged himself out of the robe, letting
it slide to the floor in one fluid motion revealing himself for the
first time to the younger man whose eyes devoured the sight of his naked
body hungrily. Faramir stared at him, and then sat up reaching for him.
Aragorn came and stood by the bed while Faramir knelt on it and ran
his hands all over his skin. Tentative fingers roamed his chest and
stomach and down his back, before the hungry eyes settled on his lower
body. The hesitant hands rested along his muscled flanks, and well-sculpted
backside before coming to his throbbing erection. Aragorn shuddered
briefly at the touch, and grabbing Faramir by his bony shoulders pivoted
him a little before joining him on the bed. The younger man moved forward,
and began to slide his hands over Aragorn’ s shaft. He stroked it hesitantly
at first and then as he realised what the touch was doing to Aragorn,
his movements became more skilful, the long, dexterous fingers running
lovingly up and down the engorged length, until Aragorn finally spilt
his seed all over his fingers, softly muttering Faramir’s name over
and over again.
The king moaned passionately and pulled his lover down onto
the bed with him and began kissing him, sucking at his mouth. He wrapped
his arms around his slender lover, hugging him tight and set to explore
his body with his hands once again. His splayed fingers came to rest
over the Faramir’s taut backside, and pushing him onto his back, he
began to spread the legs apart while stroking his arousal gently.
Faramir felt the strong, callused hands run over his lower
body and gently take his length in them and stroke him before letting
him go, as the fingers began exploring lower. Each touch of those wonderful
fingers sent him to a new height of ecstasy. He was breathing with difficulty
now as Aragorn’ s very presence began to overwhelm him. Aragorn teased
his hand in between his legs, and began fingering him lightly with almost
feather like touches.
“Aragorn,” he cried out a full-throated cry, as he clutched
at the sheets. He felt he could bear into longer; he was going to burst,
“Please, Aragorn, do not make me wait, I cannot.”
“Ssh, love. We must go slowly,” Aragorn admonished him gently,
as he spread his legs further apart, and continued sliding his finger
up and down the crack, “I must prepare you properly, or it will hurt.”
“Hurry!” Faramir almost sobbed out, staring at Aragorn out
of large grey eyes, still clutching the sheets with his fingers.
Aragorn smiled, and then swung off the bed. Faramir groaned
loudly, a guttural sound filled with desire and want, that simply sent
a fire racing through Aragorn’ s own aroused body. Quickly he went over
to a chest of drawers and pulled out a small vial. Pouring the liquid
onto his fingers, he reclaimed his position on the bed, and then gently,
once more, slid his finger along the crack.
“Have you ever before -?” Aragorn asked him.
“Not – not this far,” Faramir murmured softly. He had touched
and been touched by other men, and sometimes laid close to them at night
all in his soldiering days when the tensions of war made men turn to
those closest for succour. But he had never been made love to by one
or made love to one himself. Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.
“Turn around,” he suggested.
Faramir obeyed, keeping his head turned sideways so that
Aragorn could see his profile, and the desire clearly written on his
face. Aragorn rubbed the oil all over his hands, and pushing the legs
apart, set to applying it along his crack. Faramir moaned deeply. Aragorn
bent and gently kissed the scar on his shoulder, and then began a series
of kisses all the way down the spine. Slowly, tentatively, he placed
a fingertip against the tight entrance, and gently rubbed the oil in.
Another guttural moan came out of the figure under him. As tenderly
as he could, he slid the finger in little by little, all the while kissing
Faramir’s back. His finger was soon completely inside the tight, hot
tract, and Faramir looked rapturous. A second finger followed the first
causing just a little twinge of sweat on the pale brow, even as the
kisses caused the lips to crease into a marvelling smile. A third finger
however caused a small cry of pain that made him reach up and stroke
the thin face. He thrust his fingers in slower and slower, painfully
stretching the muscles. Beads of sweat stood out on Faramir’s brow as
he sucked his breath in.
Aragorn watched in concern, and stopped thrusting.
“No! Go on!” Faramir cried out, gasping.
Aragorn smiled, and then pulled out his fingers. Stooping
to brush Faramir’s head with his lips, he pulled him up, and turning
him around, lifted his hips off the bed with one hand, forcing him to
wrap his legs tightly around him. Pulling him close, he prepared to
enter him, resting the tip of his shaft lightly against Faramir’s entrance.
He wrapped one arm around his back, and used the other to tease Faramir’s
throbbing erection. The younger man’s breathing was coming out in short
heavy rasps now, and his head was thrown back, exposing a long bony
neck that Aragorn immediately started kissing.
“Hurry, please!” Faramir wailed out as Aragorn continued
to tease him by hovering and not penetrating. Slowly and steadily, still
kissing lightly, Aragorn pushed in a little, and closed his eyes as
the tight muscles closed around the tip of his inflamed member, and
aroused him even further.
A sharp rapping sounded on the outside door. Almost by reflex,
the lovers pulled apart, Faramir grimacing at the sudden, painful movement.
They stared at each other nearly frozen. The knocking sounded again.
“Who is it?” Aragorn called out in an irritated tone while
Faramir gave out a groan that was almost a sob, as he curled over hugging
himself.
“Sire, an urgent missive from Rohan has arrived,” came the
voice from the other side of the closed door.
They stared at each other again, and then Faramir nodded
silently. Missives from Rohan, and urgent ones could not be ignored
lightly. Aragorn sighed, and gently stroking Faramir’s face called out,
“I will be there.”
He pulled on his robe even as Faramir slid off the bed slowly,
flushing a little and looking extremely disappointed.
“Soon, dear heart,” Aragorn said gently and reassuringly.
Faramir gave him a small, almost shy smile, and pulled on a robe he
found lying near the bed. He coloured slightly as he realised he had
just soiled Aragorn’ s sheets.
When Aragorn returned from the door, he had a strange look
on his face, and a piece of parchment in his hand. Faramir moved towards
him worried. Aragorn did not seem to notice him as he stood reading
the parchment, his face creased in thought. Faramir came and stood by
him, his glance straying onto the parchment.
A single word leapt out at him, and heart beating mercilessly,
he read the whole missive.
Aragorn suddenly realised warm breath was falling on his
neck and looked up to Faramir’s almost white face. And then back at
the message that he realised the younger man had also read. The missive
from Edoras to inform them that Lady Arwen and her escort had reached
their court, and would set out soon to arrive in Minas Tirith for her
wedding with Aragorn.
Faramir backed away towards the door, his face a mask of
desperation. Aragorn stared at him silently, rooted to the spot, as
the younger man finally backed up against the heavy wooden door, and
then turned and stumbled out.
back
to top
Chapter 10
Aragorn continued to stare at the wooden door that had now
swung shut. He suddenly felt his legs wobble and stumbled over to his
bed, his mind thrown into utter confusion. Arwen! Arwen was coming.
Why did he keep forgetting that? He stared at his bed forlornly, and
realised suddenly that the sheets were damp. Faramir! He stared at the
soiled sheets and then sank his head into his hands, his mind in complete
turmoil.
Faramir threw himself onto his bed breathing heavily. He
had had to maintain a stoic appearance all through the distance between
his room and Aragorn’ s especially when he came across the guard in
the king’s hallway. Thankfully the light had been too dim for the soldier
to notice anything untoward in Faramir’s appearance. They had simply
nodded at each other and gone their way.
He still could not believe it. How could he have forgotten
the king was betrothed? Why had he entertained such a hope? Had he but
thought with greater clarity, he would have realised that to fall in
love with Aragorn was the stupidest thing he could do. He loved another.
He had probably just realised how Faramir felt about him after the way
he had wantonly thrown himself onto him so many times. Aragorn was just
being his usual generous self and giving him what he desired. How could
he been so foolish as to think they could take it any further? The king
loved Arwen. Everyone knew their tale. It had endeared the future queen
greatly to the female populace because they considered it very romantic.
What had he done? He had almost tried to destroy a marriage.
He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest resting his head on them
wearily. Part of his mind kept screaming at him for his stupidity in
falling in love with one who was unobtainable while the other part simply
replayed the sensation of being with Aragorn, the feel of his lips on
his, of his hands touching him, of giving him pleasure, of almost being
made love to by such a wonderful person. He loved Aragorn, there was
no doubt of that in his mind. His heart kept screaming it out every
second.
But Aragorn loved Arwen.
He suddenly realised he wearing one of Aragorn’ s robes.
Standing up trembling all the while, he pulled it off and held it in
his hands, staring at it, his eyes filling up. He brought the robes
close to his face. It smelt of the man he loved. He would know that
smell anywhere. It reminded him of the warmth he could find in the king’s
arms, of the affection that radiated from the grey eyes when he looked
at them, of the feel of strong arms wrapped protectively around him.
He would never feel all of those again. He could not! He
threw the robe angrily into a corner of the room, cleaned himself up
and pulling on a nightshirt decided to try and sleep.
Faramir’s clothes lay on the floor – a dark olive green tunic
and black leggings. He picked up the tunic, fingering the almost invisible
embroidery on the collar. He hadn’t noticed it earlier because Faramir’s
shoulder-length hair had fallen over the collar. He closed his eyes
wearily still holding the tunic, feeling the fine, soft material under
his fingers.
These last few days, he had held Faramir close to him so
often and he had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much that Arwen had slipped
from his mind. It needed just one look at the younger man to set his
heart racing and make him want to wrap his arms around him. Faramir
had originally intrigued him. The assassination attempt and its aftermath
had simply confirmed everything he’d seen and guessed about him. And
the closer they got to each other, he found his feelings caught up in
a maelstrom. Now, he wanted nothing more than to hold him in his arms
forever and kiss him and make love to him. And he knew Faramir liked
it too. He could not forget how Faramir had literally screamed in desire.
He remembered the raw want in the eyes, the hoarse voice that had demanded
him.
Faramir had trusted him enough to let him go so far. He had
seen it in the other man’s eyes. And now how betrayed he must be feeling.
Aragorn knew he should do something, he just didn’t know what. Arwen
was giving up her immortality for him. They had dreamt of this day,
of making a life together in happier times. And now when that day was
drawing near he found his heart drawn towards another, but at the same
time he still seemed to love Arwen.
Aragorn was terribly, terribly confused.
Faramir found he couldn’t sleep. He just kept remembering
Aragorn’ s arms around him, warm and comforting. He had always been
used to hiding his feelings and retreating into a shell when hurt. But
the last few days with Aragorn had spoilt him and he craved the comfort
of having someone near him.
Knowing he would never get any sleep this way, and knowing
there would be work to attend to attend to once Boromir returned on
the morrow, he rose and rummaged in the store of herbs he had in his
room. He found what he wanted easily, although he usually preferred
not to use it.
Aragorn finally arose tiredly from where he sat. He would
have to return the clothes to Faramir’s room. He left his room silently,
noticing with no little annoyance that he was still being heavily guarded.
He knocked softly on Faramir’s door but there was no response
from inside. Finding the door unlocked, he pushed it slightly and poked
his head in. Faramir lay curled up on the bed, his eyes closed and his
breathing relaxed. Finding him asleep gave Aragorn greater courage to
enter. He draped the tunic and leggings over a chair and walked up to
the bed, and knelt down by it. His eyes took in the herbs lying by the
bedside and he deduced that Faramir had taken recourse to a sleeping
draught. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his dark lashes standing
out against his skin, and the traces of what looked like a stray tear
lining his cheek. Aragorn lifted a hand to brush his cheek but hovered
indecisively not wanting to awaken him. Finally he sighed softly and
sat back on his heels awhile just watching the rise and fall of his
chest.
The blankets had slipped to his waist, and Aragorn realised
that there was a draught in the room. He pulled the thick blanket over
the sleeping man, careful not to wake him. Faramir murmured something
unintelligible, but didn’t wake up. Aragorn stood indecisively for a
minute. He really wanted to hold Faramir again and kiss him. He wanted
to run his hand through his soft hair and let him rest his head against
his chest as he had done earlier. He wanted to slip off that nightshirt
and run his hands up and down the bare body, shower kisses upon it and
complete what had been interrupted.
Then the reason for the interruption came back to him. He
sighed softly again and let his eyes rove the room, until they fell
upon the robe thrown carelessly in the corner. He felt his breath catch.
“You must have been angry at me,” he said a little sadly,
to the sleeping figure, “And well you should be. Sleep well, dear one.”
Picking up the robe, he walked quietly out of the room.
Boromir and Legolas returned the next day in time for the
noon meal. Faramir had spent the morning talking to Tarlong who seemed
to be getting increasingly frustrated at the fact that the assassin
still remained free. He had however managed to make a list of all who
had been in the citadel the day the attack had taken place and tried
to draw some sort of a pattern of who had been where.
He was looking at it while waiting for the others to join
him at the table, and groaning loudly when Boromir and Legolas returned,
followed by Gimli who had met them outside.
“What is it?” Boromir asked a little amused, for Faramir
had thrown the parchment onto the table and sat frowning angrily now.
Legolas picked up the long parchment filled out in Tarlong’s
neat and tiny handwriting.
“A list of all within the citadel on the day of the attack?”
Gimli asked as he read over his friend’s shoulder.
“Yes!” Faramir ran a hand through his hair.
“This is practically everyone in the council! And almost
all of the servants. And many names I cannot recognise. So many people?”
“It is a large building,” Gimli said in a wise tone.
Faramir scowled at him before replying, “And most of them
have none to vouch for where they were during the attack.”
“But should it not be possible to find out who was near the
rooms during the attack. Most of these people it appears were at the
other side of the citadel, in the courts outside or in the meeting rooms
downstairs. The archer fired from one of the upper floors in the living
quarters, did he not?”
“It will be difficult. We are the only people inhabiting
those rooms currently. That is five of us,” Boromir said, “they are
deserted otherwise, and there would have been no one on the look-out.”
“Eredil and Saracel are both mentioned, I see,” Legolas said
thoughtfully.
“And Eredil claims to have been in one of the studies looking
at land reports while Saracel claims he was in the library annex. And
there was no one with them who would know.”
“Your men are keeping an eye on them?” Legolas asked Boromir.
“Yes, I should be hearing from them by this evening.”
“The sooner we find him the better,” Gimli muttered.
“We will,” Boromir assured him, “But until then, we should
look out for Aragorn.”
“He will certainly like that!” Gimli quipped sarcastically.
Legolas shook his head resignedly and turned to Faramir,
“do you remember who the first people were to reach Aragorn’ s side
after the attack.”
Faramir knitted his brow in confusion. He remembered there
had been someone trying to pull him away from Aragorn, no to help him
up. There had been voices around him but he had been in pain and he
had been so worried for Aragorn that he had not really noticed. And
the next few days had been so confusing, he had never really found out
who else had been on the balcony with them.
“Tarlong, I think,” he said remembering the man’s voice,
and Legolas nodded, for Tarlong had been the one to inform them that
day, “and –“
“Boromir, Legolas, you are back from Cair Andros!”
They turned as Aragorn entered the room and greeted him.
Faramir looked away feeling his heart catch at the sight. He had not
seen the king in the morning as they had eaten separately and he had
been partly glad. But he also knew he could not entirely avoid Aragorn
all the time and the sooner he faced him the better. But he still wasn’t
prepared for the way he felt when his eyes fell on his king. He could
never forget how beautiful Aragorn had looked last night.
“I hear the escort has set out from Rohan?” Gimli asked with
a wicked smile. Faramir felt his heart lurch. He knew which escort Gimli
referred to, and hearing about did not help him.
“I suppose all the city of it knows by now?” Aragorn asked
seemingly carelessly, “Yes they have left. And will arrive here in a
week’s time. They travel at a very fast speed it seems to me.”
“Arwen apparently cannot wait to see you,” Legolas teased
him as the food began to be served.
“And Aragorn pretends to be unmoved but we know he cannot
wait either,” Boromir added cunningly.
Faramir placed his hands on his lap as the soup was served.
“And Boromir when will you get married?” Gimli asked his
voice booming across at the steward.
“Soon, I hope. I look forward to having some fun at his expense,”
Aragorn muttered.
“Marriage? Nay, my friend, I am a warrior, us warriors are
married to our weapons,” he said to a chorus of groans from Legolas
and Gimli, “Ask the elf to get married. He is far too old.”
Legolas raised a carefully crafted eyebrow, “I am still considered
young among our kind. Now the dwarf-“
“Then that leaves Faramir,” Gimli interposed hastily.
“Ah yes, Faramir. He will surely make some girl very happy,”
Boromir said affectionately as his brother glanced up confused at suddenly
becoming the topic of conversation.
Faramir’s gaze fell upon Aragorn who looked completely inscrutable.
He turned his head away unhappily and tried to head off a conversation
that was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He had found the one
he wanted to spend his life with, but how could he reveal that it was
a man and not just any man, but the king himself.
“Is not Eomer’s sister a good friend of his?” Legolas was
asking Boromir with mock innocence. Faramir nearly spilt the soup on
himself.
“Aye I heard they spent much time together in the gardens
of healing,” that was Gimli again.
“There was nothing else we could do,” Faramir found himself
protesting, “The warden would not let us leave the premises.”
All he got in reply was a chorus of coughs and sniggers.
Aragorn watched Faramir being teased. He looked exceedingly
uncomfortable and had almost splashed his soup onto his clothes at least
twice. The more he saw his discomfort, the more he wanted to talk to
him. Having slept over the events of the last night, he had come to
the conclusion that Faramir trusted him greatly and felt for him. And
he knew he himself felt something for the younger man. He was till confused.
And Faramir was refusing to meet his gaze. They needed to talk. It was
important that he explain things to Faramir, but explain exactly what
he did not know. And how he could explain what was happening, he definitely
did not know. But he had to talk to Faramir. He had acted on impulse
without thinking rationally and Faramir was hurt because of that. If
he didn’t sort out the matter he would end up hurting everyone involved.
The teasing around him continued mercilessly, only to stop
near the end of the meal when a messenger entered. Aragorn sighed as
he took the missive, remembering how another missive last night had
created such turmoil. He read it swiftly and turned to his expectant
friends.
“The emissary from Harad will be arriving with his party
in a week’s time,” he said flatly.
“The same time as -?” Gimli started off.
“Yes,” Aragorn nodded, “We cannot put them off. We’ll just
have to fix the discussions after the wedding.”
“But Aragorn, his arrival will only goad anyone against the
treaty to act,” Boromir said.
“We will have to be prepared for all eventualities then,”
Aragorn said with finality. It seemed to him that his friends were exchanging
looks and deciding on something, but he was in no mood to bother.
Pushing away his plate he stood, “Boromir, Legolas if you
could let me know of the news from Cair Andros? Shall we meet in half
an hour in my study?”
They left the room and discarding the normal practice of
leading them out of the room, Aragorn tarried a little. He slipped into
a quiet hallway nearby and waited. As he had expected, Faramir had been
the last to leave. He grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into an
empty room. Kicking the door shut behind him, he turned towards Faramir.
“Faramir, I –“ grey eyes stared apprehensively back at him
and he realised he was still gripping the younger man’s arm tight. He
maintained the hold and stared back into Faramir’s eyes. The younger
man held the gaze for a fraction of a second and then dropped his face
forward.
“Oh Faramir,” he said softly, cupping the chin in his other
hand and lifting it. Faramir tried to turn his face away but he wouldn’t
let him, “Look at me.” He carefully avoided adding any endearments much
as he would have liked to.
Aragorn thought he could see wetness glistening in the corners
of his eyes. The lower lip seemed to tremble a little. He let go of
the elbow and slinked his arm around Faramir’s waist instead, still
holding his chin up. They were standing within a hair’s breadth of
each other, so close that he could feel the warmth of Faramir’s breath
on his face. Any closer and their lips would be touching. Faramir’s
eyes gazed back at him warily; they had the same apprehensive look as
that of a tiny animal cornered in a trap.
Gently, he kissed the creased forehead, “I am sorry, Faramir.
I -“ he rubbed one hand across Faramir’s lower back soothingly, and
stroked his hair with the other as he spoke softly.
“No,” said Faramir very quietly, pushing away his hand, “We
should not have.”
Aragorn took in the reddening face and slightly hitched breathing
and silently cursed their ill-fated predicament. He was not sure what
he was going to say so he had decided to speak whatever came to mind.
But Faramir, it seemed, was not going to give him that chance.
“Lady Arwen arrives in a week,” Faramir continued, his tone
completely flat.
“Yes,” Aragorn said dully, in agreement.
“May I leave now, Sire? My services will be required. There
is still much work to be done,” it was his earlier polite and formal
tone.
“Yes, you may,” Aragorn said quietly.
When he left the room a few seconds after Faramir, he came
across a very annoyed trio of elf, dwarf and steward.
“Where did you vanish?” Boromir demanded, “We thought you
might be with Faramir but he was alone.”
He suddenly guessed he was probably going to have someone
around him at all times and groaned inwardly at the prospect.
back
to top
Chapter 11
Faramir stumbled back to his room where he sat heavily on
his bed and took a few deep breaths. He could still feel the tingling
sensation on his forehead where Aragorn had just kissed him.
And the touch of those wonderful hands on his back. He gave
out a strangled sob at the thought. Once the effect of the herbs had
worn out the night before, he had woken up, and found his memories full
of Aragorn. When he tried to go back to sleep he dreamt of Aragorn’
s kisses on his back, of Aragorn’ s hands on his chest and of Aragorn’
s fingers inside him. Just the thought of that sent a wave of pleasure
through his body and he found himself cursing. He did not want that1
He did not want to be reminded of the wonderful things Aragorn had done
to him. He could never have those again.
“I need to go back to Ithilien,” he found himself rasping
out to himself as silent sobs wracked his figure.
He curled up across his bed, heaving unhappily, letting his
fingers clench the sheets for support.
All he had now were memories of Aragorn’ s little ‘indiscretion’
with him, for what other word could he give it? But even that indiscretion
had remained incomplete.
The rest of the day brought little respite from the bleakness.
Boromir called in the men he had deputed to track the movements of the
people in the citadel had nothing to report as yet. No one had done
anything extraordinary. They now had reams of useless information on
the personal habits of all those men, but as Boromir had pointed out,
most of such information, their father had already gathered. That at
least three councillors spent more time with certain women from the
cream of Gondor’s society was a fact recorded in a thin file in what
was now Aragorn’ s study. That one of the eldest counsellors, a man
who had never shown interest in taking a wife, now had a frequent female
visitor half his age was a new fact but not one of much use.
“All we have learnt of is of their love lives,” Boromir snorted,
when he met the others, “I had thirty people shadowed for two days,
and that is what we learn. Cheating husbands and wedding bells-to-be!”
“It will take time I suppose,” Legolas said but his tone
held a note of worry to it.
Did they have enough time?
“Nothing else at all?” Faramir asked despairingly, “No visits
outside the city or to a different level than they usually frequent.
No lords seen at those pubs in the lowest level where they say no self-respecting
people are seen after sundown?”
“None! In fact few have left this circle or the one below,
where most of the counsellors live. One of the cooks went out for a
while yesterday but that was too meet his grandmother. Mardinel was
away briefly today but that was to visit his father’s grave. Eredil
it seems simply wandered the streets in the lower levels awhile yesterday
in the evening, doing nothing particular. Saracel rode out of the city
for a short period but again merely seemed to be seeking air. Another
councillor, Gelardos rode out yesterday. We have nothing concrete to
go on.”
“What do we do?” Faramir asked worriedly.
“Wait,” Legolas said.
“That is difficult,” Boromir opined, “We have an assassin
on the loose.”
“There is no other choice,” the elf repeated unhappily, “but
to guard Aragorn closely.”
Then Legolas questioned Faramir again on the events on the
day of the assassination attempt, forcing him to think back carefully
over whether he had noticed anything untoward.
“I had a feeling,” Faramir said wearily, “Something seemed
wrong.”
“But you must have seen something to make you feel so,” Gimli
said for what might have been the twentieth time, unable to accept that
mere intuition had led Faramir to the balcony, “how could you know he
was in danger? Is it not possible that you might have seen something
and not realised it?”
“I just knew,” Faramir snapped out finally, “The same way
I knew Boromir was in danger when he was attacked by the Orcs.”
Then Boromir made him recount the entire sequence of events
yet again, and Faramir shut his eyes trying to string together disjointed
vague memories of an immense pain, a tender voice and a loving embrace.
Aragorn’ s embrace taking away the pain, Aragorn’ s touch acting as
a soothing balm to cover his worry and the immense ache that had filled
him then, Aragorn’ s voice full of love and tenderness . . .
He opened his eyes and realised that he was breathing heavily,
while Boromir sat by him looking at him out of concerned eyes.
He sank back unhappily as Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder
and said quietly, “I am sorry. You were hurt badly and the memory must
be an unpleasant one. We will not trouble you anymore. You could not
have noticed anything.”
Aragorn stood reading the piece of parchment in his hands,
trying to concentrate on it. But his head felt heavy and ponderous.
So he moved near the window and opened it to let in some fresh air.
It was cold outside. There would be no one outside in such weather,
he knew, so he wondered if he might not take a small stroll outside
to clear his head.
A closer glance however did reveal that someone was there.
He watched the silent figure sitting unmoving upon a cold
wooden bench. Just watching him made Aragorn’ s heart ache strongly.
But so did the letter he held in his hands, the one that had come with
the missives from Rohan, a letter from Arwen.
His eyes strayed toward the garden again. Faramir was still
seated there hunched miserably in the cold. A cool breeze flitted through
the leaves and he thought he saw the signs of a tremor ripple through
the bent shoulders.
His feet moved of their own accord, and he soon found himself
silently walking through the small shrubbery that led to the garden
Faramir was seated in. He stopped behind a tree when he heard the faint
murmuring. Apparently he had not been the only one to notice Faramir’s
presence there. The steward of Gondor now sat with his younger brother.
He could hear their words clearly; faint though they were.
“But I do not see why you want to return to Ithilien so soon,”
Boromir was saying.
“I need to,” came the reply.
“Why?”
“I cannot stay here, Boromir. The city is – it is stifling.
I don’t-“
“Stifling?” Boromir’s voice sounded incredulous at that.
“I can’t take it any longer!”
“You cannot take what?” the steward’s voice still sounded
surprised.
“The memories,” came the faint reply, “There are too many
memories here. It is – it is hurtful,” came the halting reply.
“Memories, Faramir? What memories are these you speak of
that hurt you so much. We have had nothing but good times in our life
here!”
“Good times?” Faramir sounded surprised, “Yes, perhaps we
have. But not of late.”
Aragorn stiffened at that.
“I do not understand you at all,” Boromir fumed, “are you
telling me that you are tiring of the White City?”
“No,” came the response in a shuddering tone, “I tire of
being reminded constantly of – of -,” he paused uncertainly before continuing,
“I see the fire in my dreams.”
There was silence for a few seconds. Faramir had turned away
from his brother’s gaze and Boromir in turn seemed unable to say anything.
“How was it for you while I was away?” the question seemed
very sudden.
Faramir must have felt the same way for he did not respond
immediately. Aragorn could see him turn towards Boromir in surprise.
“Was it very bad?” Boromir asked softly, “Did father say
anything to you?”
“He missed you greatly,” Faramir replied in a colourless
tone.
“Did he say anything to you?” Boromir repeated.
“Many things,” Faramir said tiredly, “but why bother with
that now? What is over is over.”
“Faramir, what did he say?” the steward’s voice was firm.
“He wished he had not sent you on the quest,” Faramir said
dully.
“And?” Boromir prompted, knowing there was more that his
brother was not telling him.
“He wished you were not dead, that is all,” with that the
younger man turned away from his brother again and continued watching
the night sky, “Mithrandir said you had survived when he reached here
just before the siege but he thought that was a falsehood.”
Faramir almost cried out as he felt his shoulders being wrenched
around. Standing in the shrubbery, Aragorn nearly jumped out, intending
to scold Boromir for such rough treatment, but stopped himself just
in time.
Faramir was staring back at his brother, his face set.
“What else did he say? Tell me,” commanded Boromir.
“Why, Boromir? Why do you wish to know what will only hurt
you?”
“Tell me.”
“Do you really wish to hear that father struck me when I
told him I had dreamt of seeing you upon a boat? That he hit me so hard
it scarred? That I fell so hard it broke the vase you loved so much?
That he wished I had gone in your stead because he thought you were
dead? That I agreed to lead the defence of the river because I had no
desire to live after that?” there were tears choking through Faramir’s
distraught voice.
Aragorn found himself clenching his fists. The younger man’s
voice reflected nothing but complete despair.
So did the steward’s, “Faramir, I-“
“If I had not been so rash, he might still be alive, Boromir.
My stupidity worsened his mind. It was my fault. If I had not been struck,
he might have held on a little longer, at least till your return. If
only he had seen you, he would have recovered from his mood. Oh, Boromir,
forgive me! It is my fault!”
“No! It is not,” Boromir cried out in horror, and wrapped
his arms around his brother’s trembling figure.
“Yes, it is,” came the sobbing voice, “I am useless.”
“No, you’re not!”
“Let me leave,” came the desperate plea, “I cannot take it
here anymore.”
“Very well, after the treaty is signed then.”
“Can I not leave earlier?”
“You know you cannot be away during Aragorn’ s wedding! He
will be sorely hurt if you do that.”
There was no reply to that statement. Just silence.
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Chapter 12
It seemed for the next few days there was talk of nothing
but the upcoming wedding. Whether it was the gossip in the local inns
or the chatter among the palace servants or the small talk among council
members, everything invariably came back to the wedding. Talk of the
treaties invariably turned to the wedding too. Everyone in the council
knew that the envoy from Harad would arrive on the day of the wedding.
Tarlong was literally on tenterhooks, keeping his men posted
around Aragorn day in and day out. No new reports reached them about
the assassin, and each evening when the friends met, they found themselves
simply cooking up more and more theories.
“Is it just one man or a claque of them?” they often wondered
but found no answer.
Boromir’s men diligently kept their quarries in sight only
to find that like everyone else around the councillors were all caught
up with working on negotiations and treaties, while the servants worked
round the clock to prepare for the festivities.
Legolas and Gimli stuck to Aragorn all through the week.
It annoyed him but their endless arguments kept him occupied. Boromir
when he was not busy with his duties stayed near Aragorn too, and at
the same time kept a concerned eye on Faramir. His younger brother seemed
to be going through his duties in a daze, making the steward wonder
if he had erred in getting Faramir to open up to him.
They had sat quietly in the garden after their little talk.
Then he had helped his brother up, for Faramir had seemed completely
drained. They had come across Aragorn on their way back inside.
Faramir had stared back at him out of tired but impassive
grey eyes.
“Aragorn, is something the matter?” Boromir had asked him.
He shook his head in reply, unwilling to tell them he had
been listening to their conversation.
“Let him enjoy his little night-time strolls, Boromir,” came
Gimli’s booming voice suddenly, as he leaned down from the balcony he
stood upon, “In a few days’ time he will be busy doing other things
at night,” the dwarf tittered.
“Yes, more productive things,” Legolas walked out of one
of the entrances and joined them by the trees. Boromir joined in the
laughter. Aragorn gave a half-smile and turned towards the grey eyes.
Faramir’s face seemed pale; paler than he had ever seen it.
And he had shut his eyes and was leaning a little against Boromir’s
arms. He opened his eyes a second later and then moving away from Boromir,
shrugged a little as he said, “I must take your leave now, the hour
is late and I need to wake early on the morrow.” His gaze had barely
flickered over Aragorn.
Faramir stared at the papers in his hands. He had reams of
paperwork to deal with before he could return to Ithilien. The treaty
negotiations would begin in a few days. He was sure that would keep
all of them more than busy, so he had to finish all his work now. He
had sat down with it, hoping it would occupy his mind, and help him
forget.
It had not worked so far. He could not forget the one thing
that was the most popular topic of discussion all through the city.
He kept telling himself not to think of it, not to think
of Aragorn, or the few snatches of time they had spent together. But
he could not. In Aragorn’ s bed a few nights ago, he had been filled
with emotions and feelings he had never felt before. And he had thought
Aragorn had felt similarly.
All it had taken was one letter to shatter their illusions.
What they felt mattered no more. All that mattered was that Aragorn
marry and beget an heir. Even that he might have dealt with, but Aragorn
loved Arwen. And that only worsened the whole situation.
Or perhaps he was wrong and Aragorn had felt nothing for
him barring perhaps, sympathy? Had he been the one to throw himself
on his king unnecessarily. Maybe all that Aragorn wanted to do was not
hurt him?
Finding himself going nowhere in his thoughts and having
not done even a tenth of his work by the time evening had fallen, he
finally stacked his papers away and decided to take a weak in the gardens.
He was walking through the hallways with his head bowed down,
annoyed with himself for feeling so miserable. But he didn’t have the
strength to feel otherwise. Sleeplessness had returned with a vengeance
to plague him as though to make up for all the nights of calming sleep
he had had. He clamped his teeth purposefully. Those nights were not
nights he wished to think of, anymore. They left him feeling bereft
as the knowledge of what he was to lose dug deeper and deeper into him.
The more he tried to stay away from Aragorn the worse it became when
he caught even so much as a glimpse of him. To him it felt like a knife
was twisting itself into the core of his heart.
He never realised it when he collided full tilt with a tall
figure rounding the passageway.
Aragorn pushed out his hands to balance himself as he felt
someone bump right into him. For an entire half-second he wondered if
he was being attacked, before his eyes fell on the familiar grey eyes
that were riddled in confusion. A small gasp sounded from the younger
man’s lips.
Aragorn realised he had one hand against the wall, and the
other against Faramir’s back. Faramir’s eyes were still riveted on his
face as though hungrily drinking in his sight. He stared back into them,
then at the curve of his lips. They were standing within a hair’s breadth
of each other. He could feel a heat swirling in his lower belly, at
the thought of Faramir’s nearness. Every hair on his body seemed to
stand up.
Then the dark head bowed and Faramir stepped a few paces
back.
“Faramir,” he began, uncertain of what he wanted to say,
unsure of the maelstrom of emotions choking him from within.
“Sire?” came the bland reply. The face remained bowed.
He did not know what to say. What could he say after all?
What right had he to say anything at all? He could do nothing in the
current situation.
“Sire? Can I be of help?” came the expressionless murmur.
This time he looked up as he spoke, his features as blank as his voice.
“No.”
There was no help he could see. Faramir seemed to have decided
what to do, so he must simply follow his example. They should forget
their few hours together. He would marry Arwen, Faramir would marry
someone else, and all this would be forgotten.
“Sire, is that you?” one of his guards rounded the corner,
“I thought I saw someone –“
“It is all right,” Aragorn told him as the guard recognised
Faramir and bowed to him in greeting.
They departed wordlessly and Aragorn found himself clenching
his fists for no reason. Suddenly coming across Faramir had left him
feeling very tense. He sighed soundlessly. He loved Arwen. This was
Arwen, whom he had pledged himself too, so many years ago, Arwen who
would provide him his heir, Arwen whom he had once wanted to spend all
his life with.
Thinking of Arwen calmed him but then Faramir would enter
his thoughts and he would tense up again. He felt a fire racing through
his veins. He could not think of Faramir. He had to be practical. He
was a king and he had to marry.
And he knew somehow that Faramir would know and would understand.
But that thought gave him no solace. And he knew it would not give Faramir
any solace either.
The day of the wedding dawned warm and clear. The streets
were bedecked with banners and flowers to welcome the elves who had
accompanied Lady Arwen to Minas Tirith. People had gathered to watch
them and exclaim over their flawless looks. But the one to capture everyone’s
imagination was their future queen herself.
The wedding was to take place later in the day. The preparations
had reached a frenzy. Those close to the king were soon tearing their
hair in frustration as preparations for the ceremony began to collide
with preparations for the envoy’s visit. Aragorn had very wisely been
packed off with his foster-father Elrond so that he at least would have
no such worries.
In Aragorn’ s study, his friends sat trying to do two or
three things at one time. Boromir was going through the envoy’s schedule
as well as the daily reports of the commanders. Faramir was rapidly
going through the paperwork he had been stalling all these days and
at the same time trying to combat the weariness in his limbs from long
hours spent lying awake in each night. Gimli and Legolas were reading
through the reports from Boromir’s men and at the same time discussing
the ale drinking session that had taken place the night before in celebration.
Ale had flowed like water. And no ordinary ale either, but
instead the strong variety that Gimli had stockpiled in Minas Tirith
especially for such occasions. Faramir had debated over whether to join
in or not but had realised that avoiding Aragorn was not going to be
the solution.
Instead, avoiding his feelings towards Aragorn he had decided
would be the best solution. He was the only one to drink sparingly there.
There were only two choices before them – dwarven ale and wine from
Dol Amroth. The wine he had never liked. Childhood memories of his father’s
breath reeking of that same wine as he ranted at some other minor misdemeanour
of his were too strong. Dwarven ale he did not mind, although it was
strong. But for some reason, on that day, he was in no mood to drink.
He thought later that he might have subconsciously been trying to avoid
any loss of control, especially around Aragorn.
Whatever the reason may have been, it took barely an hour
for two men, a dwarf and an elf to drink themselves absolutely silly.
They cracked absurd jokes and laughed themselves mad over them Faramir
found himself laughing along too, for a while able to get away from
the emotions that tormented him.
It was while talk centred on the quest that Gimli suddenly
asked Aragorn if he’d remembered a song he had been singing in his sleep.
“I don’t sing in my sleep,” Aragorn protested.
“Oh, but you did – something about long hair and the look
of Luthien –“
“Nonsense,” Aragorn said hurriedly.
“Oh, is that the poem you once wrote for Arwen,” Legolas
asked with big huge eyes.
“Poem?” Boromir nearly choked over his mug.
Faramir turned away from the window where he had been standing.
“Let me see,” Legolas started, “how did it go now – My –
my – no – love – no - beloved – my only – oh! Aragorn, you must tell
us, I cannot remember how it went.”
“I wrote no poem,” the king of Gondor mumbled refusing to
look up at his friends.
“I’m sure we can ask Elladan or Elrohir tomorrow, they will
surely remember,” Legolas said wickedly.
Aragorn paled visibly, “You must not! It took me so long
to make them stop reciting it every time they saw me. I never found
out how they got to read a poem meant for Arwen – Legolas – did you
-?” Legolas!”
“I remember how it went!” Legolas announced suddenly.
“My dear and only love, I walk here –“
“Stand here –“ Aragorn said with a sigh.
Faramir poured himself another mug of ale and shut his eyes
and leaned against the window. Between Legolas and a now completely
drunk Aragorn the poem was recited in entirety. It was long and dwelt
with loving detail on the virtues of Arwen Undómiel.
Then Gimli asked for an encore.
And this time Aragorn sang it to the tune of an old well-known
love ballad.
Then Boromir asked for an encore.
Legolas and Gimli were busy arguing over the merits and demerits
of the wine and the ale. Legolas had wisely stuck to the wine, claiming
it to be very like the ones they got in Mirkwood and therefore better
than the ‘vile concoction Gimli brewed in his caves’.
“The envoy needs an escort from the Rammas to the city,”
Boromir said suddenly.
“I could do that,” Faramir offered softly, laying down his
quill.
“Very well, after the ceremony is over, get ready to leave.”
“Should I not leave earlier?” Faramir asked dully, “We cannot
have him waiting.”
“No, it is all sorted out. He sails up the Anduin from Pelargir
and the boat does not arrive until at least two hours after the ceremony
is scheduled to end.”
“And he will join us in the dinner in honour of the queen
tonight.”
“When do the negotiations start?” Legolas asked, “Does Aragorn
have time to fulfil his duties?” he smirked.
“What duties?” Faramir asked confusedly as he rifled through
the pile of parchments and papers searching for a requisition form.
He was feeling extremely tired.
“Why, his duties as a husband, of course,” Gimli said grinning
broadly while the other two burst out laughing, “Do you think Aragorn’
s room is filled with roses from the vales every day?”
“Oh,” Faramir stared down at his the desk. His hands were
almost shaking as he remembered how Gimli and he had bumped into one
of the palace housekeepers who had been carrying a big basket of roses
up the stairs. She had shaken her head at him as she had often done
when he was a child but instead of chiding him softly, had smiled broadly
as he had picked up one of the roses that had fallen on him and stared
at it surprise.
“What are these for?” he had asked in confusion.
Instead of replying, the woman tittered and shaking her head
once again excused herself saying she had tarried too long. Faramir
looked to Gimli confusedly and all he got was a smirk.
The rose he had picked up lay on the table in front of him.
They grabbed a hurried noon meal before leaving to prepare
for the wedding ceremony. Boromir and Legolas took it upon themselves
to help Aragorn get ready, with the aid of his twin foster brothers.
Having met them and spoken to them during the noon meal, Faramir had
a feeling Aragorn was going to be in for a chaotic time. He felt a slight
pang hit him at the thought.
Aragorn was getting married. It was a fact that was sinking
in very, very slowly.
Accept it, he told himself sternly, He must marry;
he is king. And if marry he must, it must be with a woman. He is marrying
one he loves.
When he reached the place where the ceremony was to take
place, it was well nigh evening. Aragorn was already there, dressed
in beautiful silken robes, his face grave and handsome. The Lady Arwen
joined him, resplendent in a beautiful gown and decked with flowers.
No one could miss the happiness in Aragorn’ s face when he saw her or
in her face when she saw Aragorn. It was a short and simple ceremony.
Faramir sat through it, his heart pounding furiously, trying desperately
to think of something else. He tried to divert his thoughts by reciting
poems he had learnt as a child, in his head, and somehow all he could
remember were the ones about romance and undying love. He tried to count
the number of banners wound around the tall trees around them, but that
was of no help either.
Aragorn is getting married, he thought to himself dumbly.
He felt his heart constrict as he watched the handsome king
speaking solemnly. The lips moved and words came out but he never heard
them. He merely saw the lips move and remembered how they had felt on
his bare skin.
The cheering around him pulled him back to where he was with
a jolt. The ceremony was over.
Gondor now had a queen.
On
to Chapter 13
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