The cloaked figure slid silently off his horse some distance
away from the camp, and began walking towards it ignoring the raindrops
beginning to splatter in the darkening twilight. His tread was light,
and he flitted perfectly through the shadows, so that he managed to
get by unseen. The mood inside was an uplifting one, and those on sentry
duty seemed to be slacking off, in the manner of men who had just returned
from winning a hard-fought battle, which they had in fact done so.
Faramir, Steward of Gondor, clasped the cloak tight, as he
negotiated his way through the tents, stopping when he reached his destination.
He hid near the entranceway, trying to figure out his next course of
action and hoping he was not acting foolishly. He had sneaked out from
the citadel, where he was still enclosed under the healers’ orders.
The war of the ring had been over some weeks now, and like much of the
populace, he too was waiting for the great event – the king’s
return. But Aragorn had delayed his claiming of the throne, and the
talk around the streets of Minas Tirith was beginning to pick up. And
Faramir anted it to stop before it turned ugly. He had already heard
several unsavoury rumours. Couriers ran everyday from the city to Aragorn’s
camp and back, and he was now sure that many of those words had reached
his king’s ears too.
Aragorn’s continued delay had him worried. He was almost
beginning to wonder if it was the rumours that were holding Aragorn
back from entering the city. Perhaps he wanted to ensure he had everyone’s
fealty, Faramir had thought. He would enter the city tomorrow, and was
now camped out just outside it on the Pelennor. But Faramir still wanted
to talk with him before the ceremonies on the morrow. He needed to know
how matters stood.
Unable to communicate directly with the king, and unwilling
to trust such a sensitive issue to letters, he had decided to meet the
king directly and speak to him. However, he had been unable to that
in the daytime, for he wished to keep the visit a secret, having no
intention of sparking off any more talk, and so it was that in the middle
of a rainy night, he found himself picking his way between the tents
on the Pelennor where Aragorn was camping out before entering the city
the next day.
He could hear voices floating out from inside the tent. He
thought he made out that of Mithrandir and a few others in elven tongues.
Someone appeared to be advising Aragorn to rest. It seemed they had
all ridden hard that ay and Aragorn had strained a back muscle the day
before.
“You must be prepared for all eventualities tomorrow,”
another voice spoke up, the accent and delivery indicating him to be
a northern ranger.
“You worry for nothing,” someone retorted –
Mithrandir. Faramir recognised him. His ears perked up at the mention
of his name.
“You have naught to fear from Faramir. He knows where
his duty lies.”
“He is Denethor’s son,” came the ranger’s
response.
“Which answers nothing,” Mithrandir snapped back,
“I assure you, Aragorn. His loyalty to you is unquestionable.
He will hand over your throne to you tomorrow and that will be that.”
Faramir had to strain to hear Aragorn’s response. He
could make out nothing, just some indistinct mumbling, and then –
“I know that. I could see it in his eyes when he woke
up!”
He knew that voice. He had heard it before, urging him to
leave the shadows and arise. He had found himself obeying unreservedly.
It was that same beautiful voice, he knew. The rain continued to fall
gently around him.
He could hear other snatches of conversation too. And then
movement sounded out. He pressed back further in the shadows, and waited
until a set of figures had left after bidding Aragorn a good night.
When they left, he moved forward, still standing by the flap to ensure
everyone had indeed left. He stood absolutely quiet, confident that
he was neither seen nor heard.
“How can I help you, my lord Steward?” the voice
floated out softly, and he knew it could not be heard beyond the tent.
He moved noiselessly out of the shadows and lowered his hood,
observing his king, stretched out tiredly on the pallet, propped up
against some pillows. Aragorn’s face was just as he remembered
it from the day he had recovered, regal and kindly. He felt the sudden
onrush of love he had felt on that day too, a warmth encompassing his
weary, cold and wet muscles. He pulled the cloak tight around himself.
“I merely wished to visit you, my liege,’ he
said as he bowed low.
“I am not crowned your king yet,” Aragorn began
but stopped at the expression on Faramir’s face.
“You are the king in all but name Sire, and that shall
soon be remedied.”
“What brings you here, on such an unpleasant night?”
Aragorn inquired, “You are not completely out of the healers’
care, are you?”
“Nay, I am no longer under the warden’s thumb
or I would never have been allowed to ride here,” Faramir assured
him.
“It does not look me that anyone is aware of your presence
here, Lord Faramir. You seem to be at pains to conceal it,” Aragorn
replied amusedly.
Faramir winced a little as he heard Aragorn call him ‘lord’.
It was his father’s favourite verbal weapon – to refer to
him as a lord in his particular sarcastic tone that he seemed to reserve
for his younger son.
“I wished to speak to you alone,” he said quietly.
“Then make yourself comfortable. Come, sit down. Forgive
me for not rising, but I am not dressed to receive visitors,”
Aragorn said calmly, as he placed the steaming bowl on the table by
the pallet.
Faramir noticed for the first time that the other man was
bare-chested under the mantle that he had swept over his upper body.
He wrapped his cloak tighter around himself, and sat down
on the pallet by Aragorn’s side.
“You are cold?” the other man inquired solicitously.
“Nay, I – I would keep my mantle on if it is
alright with you, Sire,” Faramir said almost nervously.
Aragorn shrugged, “I am sure you hide nothing underneath
it, my lord.”
“oh!” Faramir sat up in a rush, allowing the
garment to fall open.
“I do not,” he stammered hurriedly, “I
am unarmed.” He stretched his arms out, the cloak falling open
wider, revealing his attire – a thin nightshirt.
“Evidently the healers are not aware of your journey?”
Aragorn said smiling.
Faramir shrugged and removed the mantle completely, “No.
They would still have me drink healing potions and other vile concoctions
each night, but tonight, I emptied mine into the grate in my room. But
I could not sneak past them to get to my clothes. So I snuck into the
stables in my cloak.”
“This must be a matter of great urgency,” said
Aragorn running his eyes over the younger man’s body critically.
He still looked a little pale and thin, he decided. He could make out
the sharp relief of his bones, for the nightshirt was very thin, and
hid little. Faramir had a lithe and lean build, not as warrior-like
as his brother, but the tone and carriage spoke of soldiering experience.
He made a strange picture in the nightshirt that reached till his knees,
and the boots that covered his feet under that. He was removing the
gauntlets from his hands.
“It is,” Faramir insisted.
Aragorn waited patiently, stretching himself up into a more
comfortable position. He had been tired earlier, but now felt strangely
refreshed by these unusual occurrences in his tent. He was glad to see
Faramir looking fairly well. He had, after all, cured him, and it felt
good that his healing abilities had worked effectively.
“There has been talk –,” Faramir began,
and then stopped. His eyes were on the blanket that Aragorn had draped
over his lower body, and his fingers were nervously picking at the tassels
that hung from its edge. The light from the lantern fell on him, exposing
the lean contours of his body under the nightshirt, “That is –
I do not know what you might have heard,” he continued stammering.
“Heard about?” Aragorn asked encouragingly.
“The people know you are here. You healed many and
they have seen you. They await you, yet you do not come. There is talk,
and I do not – I would – I would like – that is, I
do not know what keeps you back –“
Aragorn waited, even as Faramir glanced up at him helplessly,
as though seeking help.
Faramir chewed his lip nervously, “I do not know what
keeps you from the city, but if it is I – I mean – I assure
you, my king, I welcome you as my liege. You have my unquestioned loyalty
and devotion. I would do anything to serve you, my lord, and I would
welcome you into the city and to your throne with great pleasure. Your
people await you, my king,” he trundled out and then came to an
abrupt breathless stop.
Aragorn stared at the sincere and open face in front of him,
noticing the way the light played on the dark hair, highlighting with
a reddish hue, “I would never doubt your loyalty,” he assured
him.
“I would do anything to assure you of it, my liege,”
Faramir said, “You have but to ask. I am yours for the asking.”
Aragorn started at the words, before his eyes fell once again
on the compact frame sitting by his legs. The little massage Legolas
had given him had left him feeling languorous yet tingling in the muscles,
and now the sight of Faramir’s body under the almost transparent
cloth combined with his words left a strange feeling in his groin –
a strange but not unwelcome one.
“Anything?” he murmured softly, watching the
other man’s emotive eyes.
Faramir nodded quietly, “Anything,” he stated
emphatically, “You showed me the way out of the shadows,”
he said, “Out of the darkness that I thought would never leave
me. You came and I knew I would never be assailed by that dreadful despair
ever again. I am yours to command. You need but call.”
“I know,” Aragorn said gently. He did know. He
had seen the love shining out of Faramir’s eyes when he had woken
up in the houses of healing, and he had known the love was directed
at him. No matter what any of the others may have said, he had known
he would never need to question Faramir’s fealty. He looked up
to see that love still shining out of the grey eyes in front of him.
“I shall arrive at the city soon, my lord. And I know
you will follow what you feel is the rightful course,” he said
warmly.
“The rightful course? That would be to offer you your
crown, my liege. I assure you, I will never hold it from you. Let me
prove my loyalty to you.”
“You have no need to do so -, “Aragorn said.
“I do,” Faramir insisted, “I know there
are some who will doubt my willingness to give up the rule the Stewards
have held all these years, but I would assure you that I accept you
as the rightful king,” he urged.
“Do not lay store by the stray words of others,”
Aragorn replied, aware that Faramir had heard the conversation in his
tent earlier, and that such talk had probably done the rounds within
Minas Tirith too.
“They may be stray words, but they are spoken nevertheless.
I would not have even the slightest doubt in your heart that I do not
serve you entirely,” Faramir said.
“I have no doubt,” Aragorn repeated.
“I would do anything to prove myself worthy of that
sentiment. You need but ask,” Faramir repeated promptly.
“There is naught I require of you right now, my lord
Steward,” Aragorn said as he shifted himself trying to find a
more comfortable position. Faramir had a gentle lilting voice, one that
he found he liked very much. He stared back at him, taking in his thin
features and the slim body underneath the shirt. He found he had an
overwhelming need for comfort that night, and he could not get Faramir’s
expression of complete love and devotion out of his mind. The same look
that still adorned the expectant face in front of him.
“At least let me help you, my liege,” Faramir
spoke up suddenly.
“Help me?” Aragorn repeated and followed his
gaze to the bulge that was shaping up under the blankets.
“Yes, Sire.”
“And what is it you intend to do, my lord Steward,”
Aragorn asked, his eyes glinting merrily.
“It is my duty to ensure your comfort and happiness,
my liege,” Faramir responded huskily, as he began undoing the
clasps on Aragorn’s tunic. He looked up slowly at Aragorn, and
finding him making no move to put a stop to proceedings, grasped at
the waistband of the leggings, and quirked an eyebrow at the sight of
the obvious arousal.
“You must let me ease your discomfort, Sire,”
he continued, as he lowered the leggings, freeing Aragorn’s shaft
from its restrictive confines.
“I must?”
“You must,” came the firm reply, “You have
my utmost loyalty and devotion.”
“I was always assured of your loyalty, Faramir. That
I would never doubt!”
Aragorn watched with fascination as Faramir spat on his hands
and rubbing them together, grasped at his arousal gently, and began
stroking it. The Steward seated himself so that he straddled Aragorn’s
legs, his own hardening shaft bumping against the king’s thighs.
Leaning forward, he began licking at Aragorn’s chest, even as
his fingers continued working up and down the increasing length. He
looked up as Aragorn threaded his hands through his long hair, gasping
lightly as the wet tongue circled one of his nipples, and gentle teeth
bit into the hard nub.
Aragorn let his hands run down Faramir’s back, the
skin soft yet firm. He moaned slightly as the tongue now flicked at
his other nipple, hardening it. The tongue followed a wet trail across
his chest and abdomen, even as the hands continued working at his shaft,
enlarging it slowly and assuredly. It entered his navel, nipping slightly
at the skin; a trail of kisses marking his lower belly, as the hands
left his shaft. The tongue began licking up and down the engorged member,
coating it with more saliva, causing the sensation to pool up in Aragorn’s
groin till he was almost crying out loud. He clutched at Faramir urgently,
unsure of how much longer he could hold out.
Faramir looked up almost lazily.
“I am yours, if you will have me,” he breathed
out.
“Yes,” Aragorn grunted out, as the fingers closed
around him once again, stroking teasingly.
Faramir placed a finger on his lips gently, and then rose
up gracefully, so that he now knelt across Aragorn’s legs. Spreading
his legs apart, he spat onto his hands again and rubbed his fingers
into his opening quickly. He brought his opening near the tip of Aragorn’s
erect shaft and lowered himself swiftly onto it.
Aragorn thrust into the narrow channel almost eagerly. Faramir
grunted slightly, as the tight ring of muscles was breached for he had
barely prepared himself. He pushed down biting his lip as he did so,
lowering himself further, clenching his muscles around the swollen shaft,
until he had completely sheathed himself. An upward movement signalled
his readiness to Aragorn, who began thrusting gently at first and then
as Faramir became progressively more excited, harder and faster. He
grabbed at the slim hips straddling him, unmindful of the bruising force
of his fingers, clenching tighter, allowing them to dig into the soft
skin underneath.
Faramir grasped at his arms, “Faster,” he grunted
out encouragingly.
They began rocking together in perfect rhythm; Aragorn timing
his upwards thrusts with Faramir’s movements, revelling in the
feel of the tight muscles encircling him. They were both holding each
other, grasping tight. Faramir threw his head back, letting out a series
of soft, almost feral growls, as Aragorn kept pushing into him. He still
wore his nightshirt, but it hung askew, the bindings loose, exposing
his chest. It had slipped almost to the elbow on the left side.
A sheen of sweat covered his body, gleaming in the soft light
of the lantern. Aragorn moved his head forward, and pushing up the interfering
garment, assaulted Faramir’s chest and stomach with his mouth.
He kissed and licked, even as he continued thrusting into Faramir. His
teeth bit into the skin at regular intervals, intent on marking the
younger man in as many places as possible. Faramir’s own arousal
bobbed up and down against the flat plane of Aragorn’s stomach,
and the hands suddenly left hold of Aragorn’s arms and slipped
down intending to provide some degree of relief.
“Oh no, you don’t,” Aragorn murmured, grabbing
Faramir’s wrists. He knew he was nearly at the end of his tether,
and had guessed that Faramir had not far to go either. With one final
thrust, he pushed into Faramir knocking him onto his back, still gripping
his wrists fast. Faramir’s legs were wrapped around his waist
now, and he was moaning incessantly.
Aragorn felt his release fill up Faramir’s tight channel,
and smiled at the wide-eyed look on Faramir’s face, as he sated
himself. Faramir was crying out almost painfully, thrashing his captured
wrists.
“Aragorn,’ he wailed piteously. Aragorn smiled
and pulling out of Faramir, lowered himself so that his groin rubbed
up against Faramir’s swollen member. He felt the sticky release
pool out under his stomach as Faramir cried out loudly.
They lay in each other’s arms, tired but sated, the
bedclothes thrown haphazardly all over the tent.
“I shall always be yours for the asking,” Faramir
avowed, as he lay back panting slightly, submitting to Aragorn’s
gentle strokes across his back, as it eased up the soreness that was
fast making itself felt across his backside.
“I shall be ever glad of that,” Aragorn assured
him, and kissed him lightly on his lips. Faramir responded promptly,
and they soon found themselves lying tangled in a mass of arms and legs
upon the mussed up bedclothes, taking up from where they had left off
the previous time.
When the coronation occurred the next day, everyone cheered
as the event went off without a hitch. The people of Gondor accepted
their king as their Steward had done, and all were happy to note that
the two men seemed to get along famously. The Steward did seem, however
to move with a little difficulty but he had after all been wounded in
battle, and it was felt that the rain the night before might have served
to accentuate his ailment. Aragorn moved slowly too, but he had pulled
a muscle while riding so that was to be expected.
