Chapter 1
Aragorn stood at the window of the room and watched the city of Minas
Tirith spread out before him. The faint sounds of someone stirring made
him turn towards the bed. He moved towards it and sat by the reposing
figure, smiling quietly into the grey eyes of his Steward.
“How do you feel now?” he asked tenderly, pushing a sweat-dampened
lock of hair off the clammy forehead.
“Better,” came the scratchy reply.
“Liar,” Aragorn muttered but his features softened as Faramir
sighed and curled up on his side facing the King, “Poor thing,”
he murmured gently, as he stroked a wan cheek, “You shall feel
much, much better soon. I promise.”
Faramir simply grasped his hand in response, but the grip was weaker
than Aragorn had ever known it to be.
“You must drink that brew the healers have sent over. It contains
herbs meant for such fevers.”
His patient promptly made a face, “It tastes terrible,”
he said unhappily.
“If you do not, I shall write to Éowyn in Rohan and tell her
you are ill. She shall return immediately, and all our plans for this
week shall be disrupted.”
“They have already been disrupted,” came an almost bitter
reply, “Because of my stupidity!”
“Hush!” Aragorn scolded gently, and then stroked the distressed
face gently, “ There is no stupidity in falling ill, love. It
could happen to anyone. Our plans can always be adhered to another time.
For now, I merely wish to see you recover soon. You had us very worried,
my sweet.”
Faramir gave him a remorseful look, and the dark lashes dropped. Aragorn
sighed softly and bent down to kiss him lightly on his cheek.
He had to use up every ounce of self-control to stop there. It had
not taken him long to realise that Faramir in a fevered state could
present a very arousing picture. Even now, when he was recovering rapidly
from his illness, one look at him was enough to stir up a familiar feeling
in his groin. The dark hair was strewn wildly, and stray strands stuck
to his damp brow. His face was flushed, and Aragorn could not help but
notice that the hue went all the way down to his neck. The heat had
forced the steward to leave his shirt half open, and it now lay askew
over his squirming body, exposing a glistening shoulder and chest as
flushed as his face.
Aragorn had not even realised the younger man had been ill, when he
had arrived in Minas Tirith a week ago. Éowyn had left for Rohan with
Arwen for company leaving the two men to ostensibly discuss matters
of state. Faramir had dismissed his ailment as a light cold and paid
no attention to his aching throat or the slight headache he felt. They
had gone out hunting and been caught in the rain which only served to
aggravate the condition. It was not until Aragorn had reached the Steward’s
house later that night, that he had realised Faramir was ill. He had
found the younger man leaning against a wall in a near faint, and had
just managed to catch him in his arms as he had collapsed. The healers
had been called in and they in turn had diagnosed it as the new strain
of fever that had broken out in some parts of Gondor.
Aragorn had sat by his bedside and watched the ministrations, until
he had been asked to leave. He left but then found to his dismay that
he was to be kept away from Faramir for they could not have the king
of Gondor falling ill. He had protested vehemently, silencing himself
only when he was told Faramir wished him to stay away from the houses
of healing too.
He had fretted and fumed but to no avail. All that night he lay awake,
wondering how Faramir was feeling, for when he had last seen him, his
steward had been writhing uncomfortably between the sheets in the healing
room. His eyes had been dazed and the king was not even sure if he had
heard him speak to him.
The fever being a new strain, they were still developing the antidote
for it. Unfortunately Faramir was one of very few whom it seemed to
affect very badly. And he was hit the most. His condition had only worsened
the first few days and Aragorn had had a hard time controlling his emotions,
when he was allowed to see him. It hurt him tremendously to think that
the young man was suffering, and on one particular night when the healers
had been excessively worried, he had feared greatly that he would lose
one who had come to mean so much to him in so short a span of time.
He had insisted on being allowed to hold him and had sat by the writhing,
delirious figure, clutching the thinned wrist and stroking the fevered
brow for hours. In his heart, he decided that that had helped. For,
the younger man’s health had improved and now, some days later,
the healers had acceded to his request to move back to his room in the
citadel, for the healing houses were a little crowded, and Faramir chaffed
to be there.
A knock on the door interrupted them as a servant came in with some
food for Faramir, a bowl of steaming broth that made the patient groan.
“I’m not hungry,” he said irritably.
Aragorn took the bowl and dismissed the servant before turning to his
Steward, “Of course you are. You have barely eaten anything ever
since you were ill. And you know this is all you are able to have yet.
Sit up now.”
He placed the bowl on a table and gently tugged the reluctant man up.
Helping Faramir sit up against the pillows, he dipped a small wooden
spoon into it and held it up to the steward’s mouth.
“Eat now.”
Faramir simply groaned again and tried to swat Aragorn’s hand
away weakly, but was ultimately forced to slowly ingest the broth, spoonful
by spoonful. Aragorn held the spoon up to his mouth, each time gazing
at the pale lips for a second longer than normal. He longed to simply
crush them with a bruising kiss, to feel the younger man’s mouth
melt under the force of his passion. Once again, he was made painfully
aware of how entrancing Faramir’s body seemed in the flush of
fever. Even the warmth of his skin affected Aragorn as their hands brushed.
“Not hungry,” Faramir tried to murmur after a while.
“There’s hardly any left - just a few drops,” Aragorn
coaxed, as he held the spoon up.
When it was over, he picked up a wet towel and helped him clean up.
Wiping it over the neatly sculpted mouth he let his fingers rest briefly
upon the lips. He wrapped an arm around the slumped shoulders and hugged
him gently, before bestowing a tiny kiss on the worn forehead, wishing
he could make that kiss more forceful, and simply push him down and
make love to him.
Faramir sighed in response, a soft little sound that Aragorn was by
now used to. That Faramir loved him, he knew. He had said it often,
and he said it again now.
Faramir had accepted him as king with an ease that had never failed
to amaze Aragorn. The more he had got to know the younger man, the more
fond he had become of his quiet natured yet brave and honourable Steward.
When the mutual fondness and respect turned to love, he could not say,
but it had seemed inevitable. Ever since they had first shared their
bed, the love had only grown. It was not a matter they could speak of
to anyone for the world of Men would frown upon it, as they were both
married. But they loved each other and that was all that mattered.
And that Faramir needed him, he had guessed without being told. But
now, in his delirium, Faramir had said much that he would have normally
left unspoken. And what Aragorn had guessed had been confirmed. Among
those he had cried out for, were the expected ones – his father
and brother - both lost during the war of the ring; an experience that
had left the Steward more scarred than he cared to admit. But an equally
frequent call had gone out for Aragorn.
Faramir curled into his embrace now and shivered a little forcing him
to tighten his hold. He slipped an arm around his waist, and at the
last moment stopped himself from snaking it any further down.
“You had me so worried,” he said softly as he stroked the
limp, dark hair.
“Forgive me,” came the remorseful reply.
“Nay, ‘tis my fault for not noticing you ailed earlier.
I was trained in healing after all.”
“No! It is not your fault. You could never do wrong!” the
force behind the words startled him as much as the words did.
“You cannot say that,” he said lightly, “Everyone
makes mistakes.”
“No,” came the insistent response, “You can do no
wrong. You are always good, and kind and just and –,” he
broke off suddenly, wearily before whispering, “You do so much
for everyone. You did so much for me. The second son of the steward,
that is all I was. You made me a prince, though I deserve no such title,
and you sit here now and care for me when you should be resting.”
“Hush. You will tire yourself out, if you speak so much,”
Aragorn said, his mind still reeling from the words he had heard, “And
you are wrong. You deserve your princedom for I know how much you love
Ithilien. And you are the Steward now. All that I do for you earned
it. And I sit here and care for you, and will do so as long as needed
for you deserve that too. I love you much, my Prince, and you must never
forget that!”
Grey eyes stared back at him apprehensively, “I am fortunate
that you choose to do so.”
Aragorn sighed. Everything that he had normally seen in Faramir’s
eyes or read in his actions now seemed to be coming out in words, “That
is the fever speaking, love,” he said quietly, “You know
I love you and I know you return the feeling. I do not care why I do
so, but if you must know, be assured it is because you deserve it. I
cannot think that anyone would not love you. But I love you more than
anyone else could, and you must never forget that!”
Faramir opened his mouth again but the weariness written across his
features did not escape Aragorn's eye. He gently let go of the tired
man and nudged him down gently, “Rest now, dear one, and when
you wake up, let us not speak of such silly matters.”
Faramir bit back his words and lay down as commanded, but his eyes
were still clouded.
“You are ill still,” Aragorn insisted softly, “and
you tire yourself out by saying such things. Banish these silly notions
from your mind, and do not trouble yourself so, I beg of you, my love.
‘Tis I who should wonder what you see in one so old as I!”
That had the effect opposite of what he desired. Faramir shot up immediately,
“I do love you,” he said beseechingly, “I would do
anything you ask of me.”
“I know,” he stated soothingly, trying to push Faramir
down again, “Lie down now.”
And he did know. He had always been deferred to in their relationship.
They met when he wanted to; they made love when he wanted to, and where
he wanted to, and, as he wanted to. He would have thought Faramir had
no real heartfelt interest in the matter if he had not seen the adoration
in his eyes or heard the love in his voice. He had inferred enough to
realise that while his Steward could be forceful and decisive in matters
of state and put his point across in the council, or in any matter of
the mind, when it came to affairs of the heart, he would never take
the lead.
They spoke of it just once. He had asked Faramir what he wanted to
do, and was told they would do as the King pleased. A suggestion that
for once he would like to do what Faramir desired was met with confusion
and bewilderment.
“But I desire only to please you, Aragorn,” he had said
in a sincere but puzzled tone.
He was scared of losing anyone who loved him, Aragorn had realised.
It had struck him very forcefully that deep inside Faramir did not have
the belief that he would love him forever. It seemed similar in case
of Éowyn. It hurt him but there was little he could do. Faramir himself
seemed not to have realised that so he could say little. And that he
felt that way was understandable. It stemmed from being the less favoured
son of a stern father, who had had no words of love to give to Faramir
until too late.
He picked up the medicinal brew now and brought it to the ailing man,
“Here, drink this. You will feel better.”
“It smells terrible,” Faramir sighed, “What vile
herbs have they put into this?”
“Some new herbs from Khand,” Aragorn said, “You need
fear nothing, love. It is safe to ingest. I am sure I remember it from
my travels there many years ago. It had a strange name and the leaves
had many uses. But the flowers were used for something else . . . I
cannot recall what it was.”
Noticing that Faramir looked sleepy, he stopped talking and gently
tucked him into bed, coaxing him to lie comfortably, and covering him
up.
“Aye, you do everything I want,” he told the sleeping figure,
“In your fever you look so lovely, my sweet. If you only knew
how much I desire to lie with you now I fear you would forget your fever
just to please me.”
Sighing a little he left the room to get some things. He planned to
stay by Faramir’s side that night as he slept. He found himself
thinking about the herb. He wished he could remember what other use
the flowers had for it had been something important and they were rarely
used. They gave strength to those recovering from extreme illness yet
the people in Khand had used them sparingly.
He returned to Faramir’s room with a blanket and draped it over
a chair. The smell of the herbs lingered on in the room. A strange sickly
sweet smell, that brought back a fragment of memory. A happy one, he
thought, but could not be sure.
He sat in the chair comfortably for it was huge and cushioned, and
pulled the blanket over him, trying to jog his memory.
It was when his sleep was interrupted that he remembered what the flowers
were used for. Moonlight streamed through the room from the window.
Faramir’s face loomed over him as he struggled to open his eyes.
Warm breaths fell over his neck and chest.
Long slender fingers were unlacing the bindings of his shirt, even
as the other hand slipped underneath the cloth and began playing with
his left nipple, the heat of the other man’s skin radiating onto
his.
“Faramir?”
“Aragorn!” came the dreamy voice, “Aragorn! My love!”
The dark head bent and nuzzled his exposed collarbone, the warmth continuing
to creep across his skin. But this time it wasn’t just the warmth
of Faramir’s fever, but that of his own aroused body too.
An aphrodisiac! A voice screamed in his head, as a wet tongue
slicked over his throat. The flowers were used as an aphrodisiac
in Khand!
Chapter 2
Somewhere in his sleep-laden mind Aragorn could piece together disjointed
memories of dark haired maidens wearing diaphanous clothes and exotic
perfumes and beautiful cream coloured flowers that emanated a strong
sweet smell, as the skilled fingers of the courtesans of Khand squeezed
them into exquisitely moulded clay bowls.
“Faramir!” he barely had time to gasp out his lover’s
name before he found his open mouth claimed in a tender, loving kiss.
Sleep left him immediately, as he stared back into enraptured face above
him.
His shirt now lay open, exposing his well-muscled chest, and Faramir
had wrapped his arms around his neck. He had climbed onto the chair
now and was kneeling over Aragorn in such a way as to render it impossible
for him to move. His tongue explored Aragorn’s mouth gently, making
him moan involuntarily.
The sound made Faramir press his body down further upon him. All that
the Steward wore was a thin nightshirt that reached to his knees. But
it had ridden up as he knelt and Aragorn could feel an unmistakable
hardness pressed against his stomach. He felt his fists clench, as the
heat of Faramir’s arousal combine with the kiss threatened to
sweep him away. In the hot tongue that set upon him, he could taste
the juice of the flowers.
“Did you like that, my liege?” came the hoarse whisper
as Faramir drew away. The King bit back a whimper at the feeling of
loss that instantly washed over him. Faramir rose in a swift, graceful
motion, and held out his hand.
“Come, Sire. Come to my bed, and let me pleasure you,”
he said softly. The faint light of the moon played upon the planes of
his body under the thin robe he wore, as he waited expectantly. Aragorn
automatically put out his hand and grasped the thin, damp wrist. The
pulse raced erratically under his fingers, and as further proof, when
he raised his eyes, he could see that just his touch had made Faramir
throw his head back in ecstasy.
“Aragorn!” he murmured reverentially, before tugging his
King over to the bed.
It was the gentle tug that brought Aragorn back to his senses. He gently
but firmly disentangled his hand and frowned at his Steward.
“Tell me what you wish me to do, my liege,” Faramir said
huskily.
“No!” he replied calmly, “you are ill, and I insist
you go back to sleep now. You need the rest! And so do I.”
Thin, long fingers reached up for his cheek and brushed them lightly,
“You said you desired to lie with me. I heard you, my liege, my
love.”
Aragorn winced mentally. He had thought Faramir had been asleep. The
Steward was continuing to speak, “ You will not let a mere fever
come in our way will you, my lord? ‘Tis so short a time we get
to ourselves. We have wasted enough time already. Come, my King, let
me pleasure you,” the voice was rich with a throaty sensuality
that had Aragorn clenching his fists.
“Nay – ,” he began weakly, only to stop short as
he saw Faramir’s seductively smiling countenance change into a
unhappily pouting one.
“Do you not desire me anymore then?” the hand slipped off
his cheek.
Aragorn felt his heart wrench at the words. The tone that accompanied
them had lost the huskiness. It was raw and unhappy. But Faramir had
not given up yet. The hand that had slipped off Aragorn’s cheek,
now rested on his bare chest.
“Tell me what I must do then, my liege. I would do anything,
you just need tell me. Even if you love me no longer, let me at least
give you some joy this night.”
Aragorn grasped the hand that had trailed down from his cheek and stared
back into the other man’s eyes.
“Of course I still love you!” he exclaimed, and then gasped
as Faramir’s warm fingers began to work on his nipple. The other
hand snaked around his waist, and he found his own hands automatically
reaching for Faramir’s lithe body and pulling him closer.
In one sudden, swift motion, the younger man reached forward and fell
into Aragorn’s open arms, kissing him everywhere. His wet lips
roved Aragorn’s bare torso, while his hands pulled the open shirt
off. Then, the King suddenly felt himself falling back onto the soft
bed behind him, under the onslaught with Faramir spreading his body
over his. The pillows felt soft and cool under his back, while at the
same time his chest seemed to be on fire as the kisses continued, accompanied
by purring sounds from the shapely mouth that was now attacking his
flat stomach.
Aragorn moaned softly as a tongue explored his navel and lower belly.
Faramir’s hand was toying with the waistband of his leggings,
shifting it up and down but never pulling it down completely. He ran
his hands up and down the Steward’s back cursing the cloth barrier.
He wanted it off, but then that would mean Faramir’s mouth would
be off him and he did not want that.
He adjusted himself, leaning forward a little to pull up the thin cloth
exposing his lover’s taut backside to him. Faramir made a noise
between a squeal and a delight, and lifted his head up to smile at Aragorn.
Straightening up, he sat kneeling over Aragorn’s thighs, effectively
trapping the King under him, a situation Aragorn found extremely intoxicating.
Meanwhile Faramir had pulled his robe off, revealing the familiar contours
of his body. Sweat glistened on the pallid skin, making it seem almost
like velvet. Aragorn had seen his lover many times, but this one night,
he thought he looked as he had never before. His eyes travelled down
from the face, to the chest, down a flat stomach to the arousal that
made itself apparent between the Steward’s long flanks, and found
himself groaning as a wave of desire swept over him. Faramir’s
long, slender fingers went back to the waistband of his leggings. He
felt the aching sensation in his groin intensify.
Aragorn tried shutting his eyes and telling himself that Faramir was
ill and probably in no condition for to do what Aragorn wanted to do
with him. He scrunched his eyes tightly, trying to think up the correct
phrase to use. How was he to convince Faramir to lie back quietly, without
hurting him immensely? Even one wrong phrase would make the sick man
think he was rejecting him. And the effect of the drug was obviously
not helping. He had always wondered what Faramir’s thoughts were
behind the intense stares he used to bestow upon him at all times. He
seemed to be getting a good indication of that now.
The sensation of having his leggings yanked down interrupted his thoughts.
Long fingers clasped his erect shaft and stroked him slowly, causing
him to nearly shout out. He shuddered as much from the sensation as
from the look in those eyes, that even now stared up at him. Grey eyes
gazed at him hungrily, questioningly, even as the beautiful lips parted
a little, and a pink tongue snaked out, hovering enticingly over his
aching shaft.
He tried to tear his eyes away, but he could not. The usually solemn,
noble mien of the man he had come to trust the most now looked enchantingly
beautiful. There was no other word for it. The flush of fever had seemed
attractive, but the drug’s effects had added to that many times
over. Wanton need was etched on the thin features.
He nodded almost imperceptibly, unable o help himself. The signal was
immediately understood. His tiniest gestures could be interpreted accurately
by the younger man.
The shapely mouth closed over his shaft, as Faramir took in the engorged
length, not slowly as he usually did, but swiftly this time, sending
Aragorn scrabbling at the sheets in an effort to control himself. He
grasped at the unruly hair bent over him and felt himself thrusting
forward as a skilful tongue attacked him. He had been aching for this
ever since he had seen Faramir that evening, and his body responded
swiftly. When he came, Faramir took his seed in hungrily, and the trickle
of wetness that spread over his legs told him that the Steward had found
his release too.
He shuddered as Faramir finally removed his mouth, and collapsed over
him, the damp, sweat-lined face resting against his flat stomach, strands
of thick hair splayed over his chest.
It was a while before he could sit up slowly and pull Faramir up along
with him, holding him in his arms, feeling the warm body of his gentle
Steward leaning against him. He gently kissed him on his lips. Faramir
reacted promptly and kissed him back, surprising Aragorn. Aragorn felt
a hardness against thigh and looking down, remembered what his Steward’s
brew had contained.
Faramir moaned needily into his mouth, and thrust himself against Aragorn.
The feel of the hardened member sent jolts through the King’s
veins, and he closed his eyes trying to control himself. He couldn’t
so he opened his eyes again and decided to make the best of the situation.
“Do you know what I really want tonight?” he asked softly
pulling away a little.
“Aye, tell me what you want,” it was almost a demand.
“Tonight, I wish to give you all you desire. Why don’t
you tell me what it is you desire, my sweet one?”
“You are all I want,” came the muffled reply as Faramir
began nuzzling his neck, “I want you – inside me.”
Faramir pressed against him and he could feel the warmth of his arousal
against his belly. He was being pushed down again, and Faramir’s
legs snaked around his own. They fell together against the pillows,
onto their side. His hands strayed to the Steward’s backside,
running over them lightly. Then Faramir turned onto his back so that
Aragorn lay over him.
“I love you,” he said, his eyes shining and his voice slurred,
as he ran his hands all over Aragorn’s body, “I love you
inside me. I want you to take me till I scream, my liege.”
Aragorn tried once, reason poking its head through for a brief second,
“But dearest you are ill–“
Faramir wrapped a leg around his waist and thrust himself up, positioning
his opening near Aragorn’s arousal, “Yes, my love, and you
are the one who can always heal me.”
Reason fled promptly.
“I need some oil,” he aid determinedly. He was not going
to hurt Faramir.
“Why?”
“Love – “
Faramir grinned lazily up at him, “It is said of you, my liege,
that you must have had some magic in your tongue to have charmed the
dreaded Lady of Morthond with your words.” He leaned back against
the pillows and spread his legs apart exposing himself to Aragorn.
The King of Gondor stared at his lover, who seemed to be making all
the decisions. But then, he told himself, that was what he had wanted
– for Faramir to make the decisions. So he shrugged and leant
down to tiny, puckered opening on offer.
He licked the ring of muscle, and smiled mentally as Faramir squealed
in delight. Slowly, he continued to lick the tight ring of muscle but
refused to penetrate it yet, sensitising it further and further. Then
he stuck his tongue in, and Faramir released an incoherent moaning sound
as he slicked it in and out, wetting the narrow passageway liberally.
He pulled out causing a whine to emanate from between his lover’s
lips. Then he attacked him again, sending his tongue in deeper this
time, simultaneously cupping Faramir’s buttocks in his hands and
lifting him slightly. He explored him slowly, taking his time, and felt
Faramir clutch at his head, somewhere a voice in his head told him he
should be forcing Faramir to sleep, but he ignored it, and listened
to his lover’s call instead.
“I need you inside me,” the Steward was groaning, “I
need to feel you, Aragorn, my love, my king.”
He pulled his tongue inciting an aching whimper. Leaning forward, he
brushed Faramir’s lips with his, and then stuck a finger into
his passage gently. Faramir smiled dreamily and mumbled out more jumbled
words. He pushed it in slowly, gently, feeling the tight wet, channel
close around it. He probed on watching as Faramir arched his body up
sobbing for more. Then he pulled it out and bending down, stuck his
tongue in again. He wet him thoroughly before pulling out again.
“Please Aragorn, my dearest!” the grey eyes looked beseechingly
at him, and fell upon his now engorged member. Faramir’s own arousal
was glaringly obvious and he seemed to be aching for release as much
as Aragorn as. Or, perhaps more, Aragorn thought ruefully, as he remembered
his own experiences with the drug.
“Soon, sweetling, soon,” he said reassuringly. Whatever
the young one said, he was not going to hurt him now.
He reached towards the small table by the bedside and grasped the jar
of oil the healers had been using to massage Faramir’s forehead
when he had had a headache. He applied it liberally to his hands and
shaft, and then turned back to Faramir whose eyes were upon him, still
pleading. Gently preparing Faramir to receive him, he worked his oiled
fingers in carefully watching Faramir’s face for any sign of pain
as he stretched him. They had not lain together for more than a month
now, and Faramir felt very tight. All he saw was the same expression
on his face.
Pulling out his fingers, he positioned himself carefully and slowly
entered the slicked entrance. Faramir shouted in delight, his sudden
noisiness amusing Aragorn greatly. The drug obviously manifested itself
in many ways.
He pushed in slowly, allowing the muscles to clench around him.
“Faster,” Faramir screamed.
He ignored him, and thrust slowly in. He brought his hands forward
and grasped Faramir’s shaft and began slowly rubbing his hands
up and down it, in rhythm with his thrusts.
Faramir jerked up and brought his legs around his waist, his hands
clutching at Aragorn arms, the nails raking into his skin, as he arched
his back, and shouted again. A sudden intense shudder as Aragorn thrust
further in told him he had hit Faramir’s sweet spot. The steward’s
release coated his fingers and dripped onto the sheets. He came almost
immediately after that.
They collapsed in a heap bonelessly, Faramir kissing him all over his
face and chest repeatedly telling him he loved him and that he was the
most wonderful being on Arda. Aragorn felt his hot breaths fall all
over his skin, and the clammy feel of his lover’s face and sighed.
“Well, you’re not at all wonderful. You never listen to
me. You were supposed to sleep!”
Faramir stopped kissing him and looked up, a wicked grin spreading
across his face, “Then punish me, dearest,” he said eagerly.
“Your punishment is this,” Aragorn said pulling him close
and claiming his lips in a deep, passionate kiss, even as he wondered
whether how long the drug’s effects lasted. He had little energy
left, while Faramir seemed to be ready to jump out of bed and fight
an army of Orcs single-handedly. It would fade as the drug’s effect
faded, he knew, and Faramir would be back to normal.
Faramir hugged him tight, and Aragorn was suddenly worried to note
that the heat radiating off his lover’s body had increased now.
“Love,” he murmured uncertainly, “you are ill, youngeling.
Please rest now, dear one.”
And surprisingly this time, Faramir murmured in acquiescence, his head
sinking tiredly against Aragorn’s chest. The drug seemed to be
wearing away.
Chapter 3
Aragorn waited until the warm breathing hitting his chest had evened
out, before he tried to move out of Faramir’s embrace. Faramir’s
arms were wrapped snugly around him, and he was forced to shift them.
The movement resulted in a soft whimper from the Steward but he remained
asleep. Aragorn gently lifted him and placed him on the pallet near
the large fireplace, covering him up in the blankets that had fallen
to the floor. Then he cleaned himself up and pulling on spare clothes,
replaced the soiled bedclothes rapidly.
Picking up a wet towel, he proceeded to wipe Faramir’s bare skin
clean, slowly and tenderly, letting his hands explore the thinned body
in detail. Faramir looked completely worn out. There were dark circles
under his eyes that stood out against the ashen paleness of his face,
and thin lines had formed around his mouth. Aragorn’s long fingers
brushed over numerous battle scars that dotted Faramir’s chest
and back and his long limbs. Many years spent defending Gondor against
the shadow had left their mark on the brave young man.
He felt warm to touch and Aragorn was soon left berating himself for
having succumbed to Faramir’s request. The younger man had been
so ill; he should have forced him to rest, instead of listening to him,
and making love to him.
“But I could never resist you, my sweet,” he murmured softly
as he swathed him in blankets once again and carried him back to the
bed. Laying him down on the bed, he ensured that Faramir was comfortably
clothed in a fresh sleeping robe and covered in blankets. The only robe
he had been able to find had been his own. It was a little large, but
it was warm.
The younger man mumbled something and snuggled into the warmth of the
bedclothes. He lay curled up on his side, his face turned towards Aragorn.
The King gently pushed the stray strands of hair stuck to his face and
kissed his lover lightly on his temple. Faramir’s expression relaxed
immediately, and the tired lines seemed to vanish, as a soft sigh escaped
from between his lips.
Aragorn drew away and moving towards the table, began to sort out the
herbs kept there, searching for an alternative. The after effects of
the medicine Faramir had taken were excellent and highly desirable,
but his lover was in no condition to experience them once again. They
needed to change the medicine. Faramir had been too ill to indulge in
any activity that could get as strenuous as the lovemaking he had literally
demanded from Aragorn.
He should not have listened, he thought to himself. Faramir looked
so tired right now, and he had fallen asleep almost immediately. He
knew from experience that his Steward rarely slept so easily, usually
lying awake instead till the wee hours before drifting into a light
slumber, often plagued by painful dreams.
He had often woken up in the few nights they spent together, to find
Faramir’s grey eyes focussed intently upon him. He would invariably
make love to his Steward all over again, revelling in just feeling the
supple body encased in his arms. And Faramir would quietly submit to
his desires, asking in return merely to be held in his arms.
The rustling sound of sheets interrupted his thoughts, and he turned
towards the sound only to see Faramir moving restlessly in his sleep,
throwing his blankets into disarray. He was by his side in an instant,
holding him, and calming him down, pulling him away from whatever nightmare
haunted his sleep then. He had done this often and each time it would
take little more than his touch to soothe the younger man. It was the
same this time. Faramir curled into Aragorn’s embrace, his breathing
shallow and rapid, as beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. When
Aragorn tried to move away, he whimpered, and moved closer in his sleep,
swinging one slender leg over Aragorn’s thigh.
The sight of the bare limb over his leg nearly drove Aragorn into distraction,
but he had heard the tremor in the faint sob that had resulted from
his movement.
“I am here,” he whispered reassuringly to his unconscious
lover as he gently nudged the bare leg off and pulled the blankets up
again, all the while continuing to hold Faramir in his arms. When he
was done he lay back against the pillows and let the still sleeping
man rest his head against his chest. He could not possibly let Faramir
suffer a relapse of his illness, all because he, the King of Gondor,
could not control his lust.
He ran his hands through Faramir’s hair, smiling as he noted
how the usually neat hair was now a dark unruly clump. He fingered his
drawn face slowly, tracing out the sharp contours wishing as he had
on numerous occasions before, that his lover could have been spared
all the ordeals he had gone through. He had battled so many things in
so few years, been hurt so often, and lost much he loved, and yet survived
everything bravely, but still retained humility and gentleness. Three
nights ago, Aragorn had been afraid he was going to lose him forever,
and that to a mere fever.
It had reminded him rather painfully that Faramir, although he had
Numenorean blood in his veins, would not live as long as he would. He
would do anything to see him happy. A part of his mind argued that he
had made Faramir happy by giving him what he wanted this night, but
the other part argued that he had merely given into his lust because
Faramir had looked so appealing, unmindful of the exhaustion he would
cause him.
He felt extremely contrite for his Steward did indeed look completely
worn out, and to Aragorn’s eye, he still retained the strange
attractiveness that the fever seemed to cause. This time, he had a faint
hint of a smile too on his sleeping visage.
He didn’t seem to be in pain, Aragorn decided. He’d never
forgive himself if he caused Faramir to hurt. Thankfully, his illness
did not seem to be worsening yet either. He found himself drifting off,
his young lover still ensconced in his arms.
He was wide-awake, however, when Faramir began to stir. He stayed by
his side, quietly watching him awaken. It was a rare sight to his eyes.
Faramir would usually be the one awake, staring at him whenever they
lay together. If ever he had awoken before Aragorn, it would have been
due to some terrible dream. This time however, the dreams that may have
floated through Faramir’s head seemed to have been pleasant ones.
But he was still worried about his health.
Grey eyes opened sleepily to his gaze. Aragorn smiled. Faramir looked
so endearing as his expression turned puzzled and confused while he
tried to make out his surroundings and at the same time, pleased at
the sight of Aragorn’s face.
“Aragorn,” he whispered softly, his voice still sounding
husky.
“How do you feel now, dearest?” he asked tenderly while
aiding Faramir in his attempts to sit up.
Faramir’s eyes widened a little as though he were still trying
to decipher how he had woken up in Aragorn’s arms.
“I am well,” he replied distantly, looking down at the
robe he wore, “But why am I in your clothes?”
“Your clothes were soiled last night,” Aragorn explained.
“Last night -,” Faramir spoke uncertainly, and then his
eyes widened as the memory of their revels hit him in full force.
“I – last night -,” the distressed voice trailed
off as he shut his eyes and a flush spread over his pale cheeks, a ruddy
hue that promptly sparked off a warmness in Aragorn’s groin.
The King took a deep breath to control himself, before replying remorsefully,
“Forgive me sweetheart. You were ill and I should not have –“
“But you didn’t,” Faramir spoke wide-eyed, “I
forced it.”
He pulled away from Aragorn’s embrace, all the while muttering
unhappily, “I behaved so disgracefully. You must hate me so, to
have forced you to make love to me. I know you did not wish to.”
“Why would I hate you for wishing me to make love to you? I wish
or no more, dearest but not when you are so ill and weary. I tired you
out needlessly when I should have insisted you rest.”
But Faramir seemed not to be listening. He continued speaking in hurried
phrases, the words tripping over each other, “Forgive me for not
heeding your words, Aragorn. I know you wished not to lie with me tonight,
but I made you.”
“Faramir!” Aragorn couldn’t help the raised tone,
“Stop saying that!”
Tear-filled fevered eyes glanced fearfully up at him, “You are
angry with me,” Faramir spoke uncertainly.
“Yes, I am!” Aragorn growled as he stood up, and walked
over to the window. He found he could not stop the words coming out
now, “Do you not love me Faramir? Tell me now and I shall never
bother you again.”
He heard a gasp from behind him, but he didn’t turn. He would
never have confessed to this fear of his, but Faramir’s words
had hurt him, though he knew the Steward would never have intended so.
But the fever had made a different man of him, and Aragorn found himself
scared now that he would learn what he had so far managed to hide from.
“I – Aragorn, - ”
“Do you feel anything at all for me?” he asked brutally,
his voice hard.
He heard the rustling of clothes from behind him. Faramir seemed to
be rising from bed. The tiny, unhappy voice came from behind him.
“Forgive me. I did not mean for this to happen. I do not know
what came over me. But to see you here by my side, and when I heard
you say that you wished to lie with me this night, I thought- I only
wished to please you Aragorn,” the voice had turned hoarse and
pleading now.
Aragorn shut his eyes in despair, “Do you love me Faramir? A
simple yes or no will suffice,” he repeated calmly, turning around
to stare at the drooping figure of his Steward.
The ashen face lifted up, shock mirroring the worn expression, “I
love you Aragorn,” Faramir said beseechingly.
“And yet you do not trust me?” Aragorn responded tiredly.
“I do trust you! Since the day you saved me from the shadows.
I knew you were the King. You could be no one else. I knew I could give
Gondor over to you.”
“You trust me with Gondor but not with your heart?” he
asked brutally.
“I would trust you with my life!” Faramir protested.
“With your heart, Faramir. Do you trust me to love you forever,
unheeding of what others may say, or of what may happen?”
Faramir nodded brokenly, tears now flowing down his pale cheeks, “I
trust you with all I have, Aragorn. You saved me.”
“Is that all I am then? Your saviour? To pull you out of the
shadows.”
“Nay. You save me everyday. Without you, there is naught for
me here. Believe me Aragorn, please, I beg of you. Why do you doubt
me so today? Is it for what I have done? I was not myself, Aragorn forgive
me,” Faramir was almost swaying on his feet as he spoke, and Aragorn
had to put out his hand to support him.
For a moment he almost thought, the hand might be shrugged off, but
then it was accepted gratefully.
“Then why will you not believe me if I tell you that I love you
and that nothing you do will change that? It is you I love, loveling,
and if you, one day, choose to ask me to make love to you, I will willingly
do it. Why do you fear me so? Do I seem so stern to you, my love that
you cannot ask me for what you desire?”
The dark head fell into his shoulder, “Nay, it is not what I
please that is of aught. It is what you please that we must do. I will
not lose you,” he muttered fervently. The heat radiated off his
forehead onto Aragorn’s shoulder through the cloth.
“Faramir!” he said shocked, “You would never lose
me love. How can you speak so?” He gently pulled him away and
stared into the stricken face quietly.
“I do not want to lose you,” Faramir sobbed incoherently,
“One day, you too, will see for what I am and stop loving me.”
“What do you say?” Aragorn exclaimed uncertainly.
“You will realise how worthless I am and you will love me no
longer. I am of no use. Father spoke true. I was ever the lesser man.”
“Faramir!”
His literally shouted out the name causing Faramir to look up, out
of scared eyes that wrenched at Aragorn’s heart. He had never
realised how much of an impact Denethor continued to have on his lover
even after his death.
It was obvious such thoughts had remained dormant in the younger man’s
mind for long now, and the impact of the fever had brought them out,
loosening his tongue and his self-control. For, under normal circumstances,
Faramir would never have admitted to such matters. He spoke rarely of
his father, preferring instead to dwell on the happier memories of his
brother’s love and affection for him.
“I do see you for what you are,” Aragorn said softly, clasping
the warm face in his hands and staring into the deep grey eyes, “I
see you for the lovely noble man you are, for the brave captain, the
intelligent scholar and the sweetest lad I have ever known. You are
you, my dearest, and it is you I love. Do you truly doubt me, sweetest?”
The same scared expression dotted Faramir’s visage.
“Look into my eyes and tell me you doubt my love for you,”
Aragorn insisted.
“I could never doubt you,” came the hoarse reply, and Aragorn
automatically found his spirits lifting. He had been foolish, he knew,
to think that Faramir might not love him, but for a while he had feared
that to be the case.
The hands that had hung limply by Faramir’s sides now suddenly
wrapped themselves around Aragorn, the grip very weak, but there nevertheless,
“Forgive me,” Faramir whispered, his head sinking against
his king’s chest.
“You keep asking my forgiveness, love. It sounds – trite,
now.”
“I know you love me, and I do trust you, but the fear never leaves
me.”
“Then I will drive it away for you,” Aragorn said firmly,
gently stroking his hair.
A stifled sob made him lift the drooping chin in concern, “Faramir?”
Faramir’s eyes were brimming over.
“What is it, love? Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked frantically,
shocked to see the stricken expression upon the Steward’s face.
He placed a palm against the exposed throat. It was warm to touch, “What
is it you require, love?”
“You. I beg of you. Please Aragorn, stay with me tonight.”
He raised a curled fist and wiped his eyes, and then sniffed softly.
The gesture completely undid Aragorn’s resolve. Faramir seemed
to be hurting terribly, and he would do anything to prevent that.
“I had every intention of doing so,” he promised softly.
He tugged him towards the bed, sank down next to him, and pulling him
closer, hugged him gently.
They stayed that way awhile, in each other’s arms; the Steward
slumped against his King for he had no strength to stand on his own.
The King meanwhile, found he loved holding his lover in his arms so,
as he soothed his fears away, holding him as one would hold a child.
They spoke after awhile, of simple, ordinary things, of the weather
outside, and how they could go riding when Faramir’s health improved.
Outside, the sun rose, a thin line against the horizon. They even spoke
of the herbs from Khand and how Aragorn had encountered them in a courtesan’s
house, where he had had to take refuge once, a story that made Faramir
laugh.
It thrilled Aragorn to hear him laugh like that and see his mood improve.
“I do not like how I behaved last night,” Faramir gulped,
his head still in Aragorn’s shoulder, “Can I make it up
to you?” he raised his head, and attempted a coquettish grin,
failing miserably as the pallor on his face showed up how awful he felt
inside.
“Yes,” Aragorn said promptly, “Get to sleep, you
little imp. And take what rest you can for there is much work to do!
The papers are piling up on my desk and the councillors are beginning
to get tiresome, and no one will let you work for some days yet, so
I must do it all!”
Faramir gave him a guilty look, but before he could start off again,
Aragorn placed a hand on his lips, “Say nothing! I merely jest.
But rest you must, and I will ensure you do that if I must tie you to
the bed.”
“Tie me to the bed?” Faramir inquired with a small smile,
“I should like that.”
“Really?”
“Those flowers – are they all destroyed?”
“Why, need more, do you? Have you not thrown yourself wantonly
upon me enough for one day, my dear loveling?”
“Well . . . you seemed to like it.”
“Go to sleep, dearest!”
THE END
