jump to chapter 1
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· 11
Chapter 1
“This was a good idea,” the Steward of Gondor stated as
he leaned back against a tree stump, “A sunny day, fine weather,
good horses - all the ingredients for a nice ride. What more could one
ask for?”
Reaching out towards the basket placed near him on the grass, he helped
himself to a cherry, lazily flicking it towards his mouth. He had ridden
out with Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli towards the homesteads around the
city of Minas Tirith. A visit to the house of one of the city’s
lords had taken them some distance away, and while returning they had
stopped by a stream to eat some food before proceeding onwards. The
horses had needed a rest so they too had sprawled by the stream awhile.
Atleast Faramir and Aragorn had sprawled, while Legolas and Gimli had
wandered off to explore the area.
“There is much I’d like to ask for,” came an equally
indolent reply in his ear, and he suddenly found the speaker’s
face in front of him, a pink tongue snaking out for the cherry before
he could pop it into his mouth.
His king leaned over him, smiling almost wickedly, as he slowly chewed
the fruit, allowing a little of the juice to drip out onto his lower
lip.
“That was mine!” Faramir cried out indignantly as he tried
to sit up and reach for more fruit.
A hand held him back in position however and he found himself staring
into the face of the person he found he loved the most in all of Middle-earth.
“Are you not going to ask me what I’d like to ask for?”
Aragorn asked smiling broadly, as Faramir sighed and leaned back against
the stump. Aragorn sat by his side.
“Fruit, perhaps?” he said sarcastically, and then felt
his mouth go dry as Aragorn flicked his tongue out to lick at the juice
dripping onto his chin. One hand still lay splayed across Faramir’s
chest.
“What kind of fruit would you like to offer me, then?”
Faramir snorted, as Aragorn wiped his mouth clean on his sleeve, “Well,
you stole the last cherry away from me, Legolas and that horse of his
ate up all the apples between them, and you wouldn’t let me carry
all those oranges that Lord Ardamir offered us, and I don’t think
he was happy about that, so there is nothing I have to offer you.”
Aragorn quirked an eyebrow, “You have nothing to offer me by
way of fruit? Then, I suppose I must take what you can offer me!”
He lifted his hand off Faramir’s chest and slipped it around his
waist, letting it rest lightly over Faramir’s lower belly.
“Right now?” Faramir gasped, having discerned from Aragorn’s
expression and actions that he was in a very playful mood, “Here?
Out in the open? When Legolas and Gimli may return any moment? When
anyone who might pass by might see us?”
Aragorn continued to look on him enigmatically. With his other hand
he pulled the basket closer to them.
Faramir stared back at him, half in dismay and half in wonderment.
Aragorn always had these interesting ideas to try out, and to date he
had never been disappointed with the outcome. There had been one occasion
when Aragorn had made love to him on horseback, another time when they
had romped in the hay in the stables without anyone having even an inkling
of it. Another time, Aragorn had cornered him during the spring festival
and proceeded to make love to him in one of the terraces of the citadel
while on the grounds directly below them, the people of Minas Tirith
had performed a harvest dance. Later Aragorn had said he liked the background
music provided by the minstrels. He looked up at the bright blue sky
and the wisps of white clouds that trailed over it, and inhaled heavily,
breathing in the smell of heather. It *was* a beautiful day. It seemed
a shame to not allow himself to be even happier. And it was not like
their companions couldn’t already know that the relationship between
the King and the Steward had long crossed the bounds of platonic friendship.
“Very well! Let’s!” he said brightly. The more he
thought about it, the more the idea of Aragorn making love to him on
the fresh grass, surrounded by the music of the birds in the trees around,
appealed to him.
“Very well,” Aragorn said calmly, and dug into the basket.
Faramir began to untie the bindings on his tunic.
“Yes, I’ll have this fine bread, I think,” Aragorn
said, his eyes still trained on the food basket.
“What?”
“All you have left in the basket is bread. I shall have that
if you would be so kind as to offer me some,” Aragorn said turning
around and bestowing a twinkling smile on his Steward.
Faramir stared at him, his mouth falling open. He had untied his tunic
almost halfway, and it now flapped down, exposing his lean chest. Aragorn
was grinning at him. He seemed to be enjoying himself greatly, as he
sat back regally, calm and serene as always. Faramir on the other hand,
was reminded of the fact that he now sat kneeling with his legs apart,
his tunic undone, his face flushed, and the sight of Aragorn seemingly
unmoved by the suggestion on how to spend their time, was simply adding
to the constricting feeling arising in his leggings. He gulped, and
then sighed heavily. Two could play at this game, he had decided.
“Of course, my liege,” he smirked, and reached for the
basket, pulling out a loaf of sweetened bread. He ensured that he leaned
over Aragorn to reach for the basket and that their bodies brushed for
the barest second in the process. Sitting back, he began to slice the
loaf with his hunting knife, and then pulling out a slab of cheese,
cut off a hunk and presented the meal to his King in a wooden plate.
“Your humble Steward would like to offer you your meal, Sire,”
he said ensuring that his eyes stayed lowered, and his voice took on
a meek and submissive quality.
“Humble???” Aragorn snorted.
Faramir nodded, his eyes still lowered. Then he peeked up with a grin,
to notice Aragorn staring at him amusedly.
“Well, well! If I had known my Steward would be so obedient,”
Aragorn started off, as he reached for the slice of bread.
Instead of taking the plate however, his hand closed around Faramir’s
in a tight grip, and pulling it up, he gently kissed the wrist, at the
same time, effortlessly taking the plate from Faramir and placing it
on the grass. He then wound the other arm around Faramir’s neck,
and pulled him close to claim his lips in a slow and tender kiss, nibbling
at the younger man’s lips gently. Faramir responded promptly,
opening his mouth a little and letting in Aragorn’s tongue. They
came apart just as slowly and leisurely as they had come together.
“I think my humble Steward makes a fairly tasty meal without
the aid of the bread,” Aragorn breathed out, as he lowering his
lover onto the grass and began attacking the still exposed portion of
his chest, “’mmm… tasty indeed! So very tasty.”
Faramir moaned in response as Aragorn found an aroused nipple and began
nibbling at it. He could feel the grass tickling the back of his neck,
a sensation that reminded him that he still wore his clothes and that
that state was acting as a great impediment to his desire to feel Aragorn’s
mouth and hands all over him. Releasing his grip on Aragorn’s
waist, he began attempting to shed his clothes even as Aragorn took
his oral assault to the other nipple.
“Oh!” he nearly yelled out, as Aragorn deliberately bit
into the small hard mound. He managed somehow to remove the rest of
the bindings on the tunic, with no help from Aragorn, and then eagerly
began to lower the waistband of his trousers, only to be stopped by
Aragorn. The King lifted his head, up a mischievous grin on his face.
“No, keep them on.”
“No!” Faramir said horrified. He was feeling incredibly
aroused, and Aragorn; he noticed was leaning possessively over his half-naked
body, fully clothed, obviously aroused. He thought he had never seen
Aragorn look so beautiful before, and he had no idea if he’d last
were Aragorn to remove those clothes. However, he had another pressing
problem right now, “No, let me take it off!”
“No! You keep them on.”
“Aragorn!”
“Faramir, my love,” Aragorn said teasingly, running a hand
down the front of Faramir’s leggings.
The younger man whined pleadingly. His arousal was straining against
the fabric, and he felt a heat spreading through his groin. Aragorn
however continued to ignore him, and bending his head down, attacked
Faramir’s navel, licking it gently. He slid a hand under Faramir’s
body and cupped the cloth-covered buttocks, running his fingers along
the crack through the fabric.
“Aragorn! Please!” Faramir wailed as he felt a dampness
set in between his thighs. Aragorn was back at work on his nipples now,
biting them harder.
Faramir tried once again to get his hands to his leggings but found
his wrists swiftly caught up by Aragorn’s hands. He found his
body protesting the sudden lack of attention to his backside. But it
was nothing compared to the feeling in his groin. Aragorn moved up and
began kissing him on the mouth again; biting at is lips, letting his
tongue explore the moist cavern of Faramir’s mouth.
And when Aragorn grabbing Faramir’s left wrist, pulled the hand
down and made him rub his own cloth-covered crotch, Faramir could hold
it no longer. The sudden friction was all it took for his straining
erection to react and he felt the wetness spread across his breeches,
the warm liquid spurting out onto his thighs, as he moaned loud and
long. He felt his tense muscles relax, and found himself lying back
languorously, breathing heavily, even as Aragorn smiled down at him.
Then he felt his hands being lifted and found he was wrapping them around
the hard, moist flesh of Aragorn’s erection.
The King had lowered his leggings and was now straddling Faramir’s
hips. The Steward found a sudden burst of energy flow through him at
the sight of the proud, straight shaft. Ignoring the moist discomfort
of his clothing, he rose, and gently pushed his king onto his back,
and proceeded to take him in his mouth, working his tongue up and down
the expanding flesh filling up his mouth. Licking and gently scraping
his teeth against the tough mass of flesh, he swallowed Aragorn whole,
and when his lover came, took in his release till the last drop was
wiped clean off.
Aragorn lay back in a tired yet happy state. Faramir had found a piece
of cloth from somewhere and was using it to clean him up. When he had
finished, the King pulled on his leggings, and then reached for Faramir
to clean him up. He couldn’t help but smile as he took in the
sight of the damp leggings. Faramir had buttoned up the tunic, leaving
just the topmost binding open.
“I hope you have spare clothes,” Aragorn murmured, as he
gently kissed him on the lips. “If you are going to do that again,
I should probably not change so soon!” Faramir exclaimed.
“The energy of youth!” Aragorn murmured, smiling at his
lover’s happy face, “I have a good mind to insist you stay
in those clothes. I should love to see how the people in the next village
react to it!”
Faramir snorted, but then looked up worriedly, hoping Aragorn hadn’t
meant it. Sometimes he just couldn’t trust Aragorn to not indulge
in these sorts of pranks.
He found he had adjusted to it very quickly. Unused to being allowed
to play pranks or have much fun in his childhood under the strict watchfulness
of his father, Faramir had been in for a shock when he had observed
Aragorn and his two elven half-brothers in action together. But even
that hadn’t prepared him for Aragorn’s innuendo loaded pranks
when they had acknowledged their feelings for each other.
He had once opened a package delivered to him during a council meeting
in Ithilien only to find it full of stained sheets, the evidence of
a bout of lovemaking. He had hastily hidden them from the view of his
councilors and returned to the meeting in so flustered a state that
some of them had actually inquired after his well-being. Then there
had been the time when Aragorn had taken him under the council table,
after tying him to the legs. He had then left him there and walked off
with barely fifteen minutes to go for the morning council to begin.
The next ten minutes had been the longest of Faramir’s life, as
he had strained against the restraints. He had trusted Aragorn however,
and Aragorn had kept that trust by coming back and releasing him leaving
him just enough time to straighten himself up for the meeting.
For now, he just hoped Aragorn would let him change. He was beginning
to feel uncomfortable.
“Oh alright, go and change but I’m going to kiss you once
again before that.” Faramir submitted happily. Aragorn’s
kisses could make him forget which world he was in. It must have worked
that way for both of them, for, lost in the deep embrace, they did not
hear their friends return. It was only when Legolas coughed that the
two of them pulled apart, Faramir blushing furiously, Aragorn calm as
ever. “You’re back,” Aragorn said pleasantly. “Yes,”
came the curt reply. Faramir had no doubt Legolas didn’t entirely
approve of this relationship. Elves tended to mate for life, and Legolas
seemed uncomfortable with the idea that Aragorn might even in the past
have shared a bed with others other than Arwen, be they male or female.
He seemed to hold the same views on Faramir consorting with Aragorn
despite being married to Éowyn. It was strange, Faramir had thought,
for their wives seemed aware of their closeness, although they never
spoke of it, but neither seemed to mind. They knew they were loved by
their husbands, and seemed secure in that knowledge. And both men liked
their closeness to manifest itself in a very physical relationship with
each other. It had not taken long for Legolas and Gimli to know of their
relationship. Now, Gimli stood uncomfortably watching his friends while
Legolas glanced at Faramir’s disheveled appearance, and his lips
curled in obvious disdain at the sight of the large stain adorning the
his crotch. Aragorn made himself busy picking up their things, and Faramir
stood glumly in his soiled clothes watching the glint of annoyance flash
in Legolas’ eye, as he moved to help Aragorn clear up.
“We should be leaving soon,” the Elf said in clipped tones,
“You should get ready,” he told Faramir pointedly.
Aragorn glanced up thoughtfully at the hard tone his friend had adopted,
and Faramir who had already reddened considerably, felt his colour deepen
as Aragorn’s eyes turned to him.
“Yes,” he mumbled, and fled towards his horse and rummaging
in his saddlebags, pulled out a spare pair of pants. He moved towards
the riverbank to clean himself and change.
When he returned, all the preparations for their departure had been
completed. The horses stood saddled and loaded and ready to leave, the
riders standing by. When Faramir reached his horse, he felt a hand on
his arm. Turning slightly, he found himself in Aragorn’s arms.
The King embraced him gently, and brushing back a lock of hair off
his face, kissed him on his forehead, then on his nose, and finally
brushed his lips fleetingly.
“I liked that dear heart,” he murmured, “We must
try it outside more often.”
Faramir had returned the embrace all too willingly. When Aragorn drew
back reluctantly, he looked up to notice that their friends had heard
the words and did not seem particularly happy with them.
The ride back to Minas Tirith was quiet, neither of the four speaking
to each other, until they were riding across the Pelennor.
“Is aught the matter Legolas?” Aragorn asked as they trotted
at a leisurely pace towards the city.
Legolas and Gimli stared at each other first before the Elf turned
towards the King and the Steward and gazed at them appraisingly.
“You should be careful, Aragorn. Someone might have seen you,”
Legolas replied after a long pause.
“And what of it if they did? We are neither of us all that bad
to look at, are we, Faramir dearest?” Aragorn asked in amusement.
Legolas whipped around in annoyance at that, stopping his horse, and
forcing the others to follow suit. He glared at the two men, particularly
at Faramir.
“You do not know what people say, do you? Surely you realise
the lack of a heir is beginning to prey on people’s minds. The
news has reached as far as my settlement in Ithilien. When the king
returns after decades and one no longer in the prime of his youth either,
people want to know an heir will be there.”
“Do you know what talk is beginning to circulate? That Faramir
maintains a closeness to you to ensure that should you remain childless
he will be declared your heir formally. He is after all to all purposes
ruler of Gondor in your absence.”
“And those who talk of your relationship, albeit behind doors,
all say that Faramir instigates everything because he wishes you and
Arwen to not have an heir,” Gimli added heavily.
Chapter 2
Faramir nearly fell off his horse when he heard the words that were
being spoken. Legolas continued to favour both of them with hard looks,
which Aragorn returned with an expressionless face and narrowing eyes.
No! That is not true,” Faramir protested.
“True or not, is it what is being said,” Legolas stated
firmly.
Any attempt on their part to answer that remark was promptly quashed
by a yell from Legolas. He had seen signs of a party of Orcs and a small
band of those creatures now flew out of a nearby bush ready to ambush
the group of riders.
The fight was furious but short. Aragorn cursed under his breath as
he dispatched off one of the Orcs with ease. It seemed they would never
be rid of these pesky bands of Orcs that still roamed the countryside
in small groups. He had found a fine outlet for the emotions brewing
close to the surface from what he heard earlier. Near him, Faramir dealt
with his foes with quiet efficiency. He and his rangers had been coming
across these fell creatures regularly in the months after the war of
the ring. The Orcs that had survived the battle now roved the countryside
in small groups that attacked unwary travelers, and the Rangers had
done a fine job, hunting them down.
Legolas and Gimli had handled their quota of with ease too, but Faramir
remembered later that they hadn’t played their usual game of keeping
count of the numbers each felled. It might have been because there were
so few but he had seen them play at that even when there were just three
Orcs to deal with. These had been eight in total.
The four warriors needed no help, but it arrived all the same just
as the last of their attackers had been dispatched of. The sound of
riders had their attention briefly, before they realised that it was
Lord Ardamir, whom they had just visited and one of his men.
“We got news of Orcs in the vicinity and thought we’d ride
up to warn you,” the newcomer said. He was one of the lords of
the city and a fairly important member of the council. Faramir had known
him from his childhood days as he was a distant relative, albeit some
years older than him.
“But you don’t seem to require any assistance,” he
continued, sounding reasonably impressed at their skill.
Thanks to the attack, when the four friends returned to the city, they
were not looking their best. All four of them had scratches to show
for their encounter but no serious injuries. There was the odd scrape
or two, a few bruises. Aragorn sported the most serious injury, a long
gash that ran down his sword arm. It was shallow and showed no signs
of poison, but nevertheless it made an ugly sight, for the sleeve was
ripped badly, and it bled freely, staining the fine material. It looked
far worse than it felt, something the healers too acknowledged.
The reaction to the encounter however were a little unexpected. As
one of the captains confidently stated, Orcs that ventured into the
Pelennor, so close to the city were a rarity. They usually tended to
wander further away from Minas Tirith, and in fact most of them were
to be found in Ithilien. It made a few men wonder. Especially as the
king had almost had a riding accident earlier that week. A large splinter
of wood seemed to have been lodged in his horse’s saddle, and
the poor animal upon being scraped by it, had shied in pain. It was
only Aragorn’s skill and the fact that Legolas who had been riding
next to him had immediately come to his aid that had saved the king
from a nasty fall.
Two unusual events in the space of one week might not normally have
raised talk either, but they did appear to. Or so it struck Faramir.
Things had proceeded normally when they had ridden back. It was over
the next few days that he began to feel unsettled, especially in light
of what Legolas and Gimli had said to them. Aragorn had called for a
meeting of all his councilors, and the working area of the citadel was
bustling with activity. More than once there and a few times around
the streets too, he heard the conversation centre around Aragorn’s
recent spate of unlucky accidents. He even heard references to a hunting
trip Aragorn had been on when his quiver had turned out to be empty.
Faramir had other memories of that hunting trip. Finding his quiver
empty, Aragorn had ordered the others to proceed without him, making
Faramir stay behind, and then proceeded to use the time very effectively.
Faramir still tingled at the thought. Then his mind was brought back
to the conversation. He could see one of the older members of the council
talking to Ardamir, and it appeared he was asking him about the Orc
ambush. Faramir sighed again. Ardamir had a day after they had, and
when the Orc attack became the topic of the day, he was the most sought
after for all the details, although he himself knew little other than
what had occurred when he had appeared on the scene.
Legolas’ words kept ringing through his mind. They had shocked
him to the core. He had not even expected to be Steward. To be considered
to be eyeing the seat of power in Gondor was something he would never
even consider. It was something intrinsic in him. He had been brought
up hearing that the Stewards kept the throne for the king to return
and take up. And that was what he had always held. He had helped safeguard
that throne and now the king had returned.
What left him feeling completely sickened was the thought that anyone
could think he would use his relationship to prevent an heir being born
to the throne. As far as he was concerned his allegiance was to Aragorn
and Aragorn’s heirs forever. And as if Aragorn would be so silly
as to not understand the need for an heir. He had told Faramir once
that Arwen wished to take it slowly. And that he himself felt she needed
time to assimilate the implications of her mortality before she had
to go through the joys and travails of childbearing and rearing.
He could feel a changing mood in the councils as the week progressed.
He had never had it easy with them ever. He was after all, never expected
to be the Steward. Most of the King’s advisors were the same men
who had formed the council in his father’s days. And much like
his father, they too were always used to seeing him as an unimportant
second son of the man who for all practical purposes ruled their land.
He had often stood on the other side of the table from these men, fighting
to get them to allocate his company in Ithilien the requisite supplies
for them to hold their domain against their enemies. Now he sat with
them as Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, untrained for either
post. Besides with the King returned, the Steward’s post was nothing
more than a decoration.
Aragorn had appointed him Prince of Ithilien soon after his return,
a fact that it now seemed, did not go down too well with some. It was
felt that there was no real reason to give him a title like that. He
could apparently have continued to captain his rangers. But Aragorn
had wanted Ithilien to once again be the famed land it had been, and
he had wanted someone he could trust and someone he considered competent
to oversee that. He had known Faramir for barely days when he had appointed
him but those few days had been enough for him to have decided he liked
the young man and trusted him greatly.
But the Councilors had different ideas. He usually had to fight as
much as before to get them to ear his words. And while he would never
even have thought of getting Aragorn to intervene, being far too used
to the ways of these men, the king did do so, off and on. Aragorn was
fair and just and impartial and when he did intervene on such occasion
it was when he felt Faramir or even any other member who was not being
given a chance to speak had something worthwhile to say. Most such incidents
involved Faramir. It happened thrice that week during the meetings,
all to do with Ithilien’s restoration. Aragorn knew his Steward
was the best man to advise on that score, and as matter of protocol
all decisions were put before the other councilors too. Their needless
questioning requiring certain areas of funding had forced him to step
in and extend his implicit backing to the prince.
Faramir could feel the eyes of everyone on him. He knew there would
be atleast a few people there, voicing the thoughts Legolas had told
him of. He almost blanched at the thought but managed to control his
raging emotions. He had stewed over this the last few days and nights.
He had spent the nights alone since Aragorn had been embroiled in more
meetings, and the gash on his arm was still healing, the healers having
forced him to keep the hand in a sling for safety’s’ sake.
It had left him with far too much time to think and worry. He knew
deep inside that he needn’t worry. He knew Aragorn knew and trusted
him. He knew they had very deep feelings for each other, and that it
was unlikely others would understand that. Yet, he worried because the
unvoiced thoughts running through the heads of everyone who looked at
him contemplatively as well as the barely hinted words that others directed
at him hurt him for their injustice.
After the long and tiresome meeting over Ithilien’s restoration,
Faramir stood quietly on the terrace leading out from his private chambers
in the citadel, trying to forget the tiresome events of the day. The
mood prevailing all through had not escaped him. He leaned his head
back against the cool stone of one of the walls and took a deep breath,
inhaling the smells from the garden below him.
“There you are!” The voice echoed exasperation, but he
didn’t turn around letting Aragorn take the lead. The king came
up to him, and gently pulled him into his grasp, brushing their lips
lightly. He smiled in response, and melted into the strong embrace.
Aragorn pushed him against the wall. Faramir smiled in pleasure. Aragorn
no longer wore the sling and his arm had healed well, the gash not being
very deep. A gentle wind blew around them, while the sky reflected the
colours of an approaching sunset.
“What are you doing?” Faramir gasped out as Aragorn slipped
a hand into the back of his leggings, pushing his shoulders back against
the rough wall.
“Completing what I started earlier. Where were we… ? Ah
yes, I remember now.”
He slid a finger slowly down the crack and then rested it lightly over
Faramir’s opening.
“Shall I make you soil your leggings again?” he asked grinning.
“No!” Faramir said mortified.
The finger slid into his entrance suddenly and swiftly, all the way
up to the knuckle, and Faramir gasped sharply in response, at the sudden
intrusion.
“No?” Aragorn asked, still smiling softly. He twisted his
finger in and pushed once again, sending it all the way in. Then he
pulled out, and watched Faramir’s eyes darken with disappointment
at the loss.
“I want you – now,” he told the younger man, his
hand still placed over the taut buttocks, stroking them.
Faramir nodded wordlessly, his eyes shining.
“Now. Here,” Aragorn stated calmly, looking around him
at the hard stone surface, and the fact that they were out in open air,
albeit hidden from outer view.
“Take off your clothes for me then,” he commanded, and
sat back on one of the stone benches nearby, watching Faramir all the
while. The younger man obeyed immediately, pulling off his tunic to
reveal his lean chest. Then he slipped off his boots and lowered his
leggings and stepped out of them, exposing himself completely to the
feasting eyes of his king.
Aragorn scrutinized him slowly taking in every familiar curve of the
supple body, every scar that marred the other man’s skin, every
crease or wrinkle before until Faramir began to shift uncomfortably,
beginning to feel awkward under the lustful gaze. Finally Aragorn took
pity on his bout of shyness and stood up.
“Now undress me,” he commanded.
Faramir smiled and steeped forward eagerly. He repeated his movements
languidly, peeling off each layer of cloth with deliberate slowness
stopping every now and then to subject the skin being exposed to a loving
series of kisses, nips and licks, softly fingering the battle scars
that coated his king’s body too, stopping a while on the recent
one from the Orc encounter, until Aragorn too was completely nude and
in a heightened state of arousal from the tender ministrations of the
younger man. Then Aragorn pulled Faramir down to the floor and began
kissing him.
Faramir however still had Legolas’ words at the back of his mind.
When Aragorn pulled him into a forceful kiss, he accepted it submissively,
his mind still pre- occupied. Then Aragorn pushed him back so he lay
on his back on the old floor, and pushed his legs apart. Placing a pillow
he had brought from the bedchamber beneath Faramir’s hips, he
knelt down in front of him, and took his arousal in his hands working
on it gently. Around them the light was fading slowly, draping everything
with the mellow shades of dusk. He sighed contentedly.
The contentment however, was shattered when they heard a sound from
just below the terrace.
“What was that?” Faramir sat up in surprise, promptly reaching
for the first piece of cloth eh could lay his hands on.
Aragorn grabbed a sheet he had brought and winding it around his lean
lower body, walked to the parapet.
“Nothing,” he said calmly, “there is no one here.
It must have been one of the gardeners.” “Do you suppose
he saw us?”
“We are many feet above the garden, Faramir,” Aragorn said
patiently.
“Yes, but -,”
“Hush darling. Let’s get back to where we were.”
Leaning over Faramir, he discarded the sheet, and began stroking his
shaft gently.
But Faramir was far too worried. He had suddenly remembered that they
were out in the open and could perhaps be seen from certain angles from
the citadel. It scared him greatly. So lost was he in his thoughts and
nearing such a frantic state of worry, that despite Aragorn’s
ministrations, his limp member stayed as it was.
“Faramir!” Aragorn scolded gently, “What are you
doing?”
Faramir glanced up, his grey eyes mirroring his anxiety, “I was
– I was … thinking,” he said lamely.
“This is no time to think, loveling. Save that for later, my
sweet,” he bent forward and brushed Faramir’s lips with
his.
“But what Legolas said… what if it is true? What if they
are truly saying all those things? What if some one sees us now?”
“No one can see us, Faramir! Not unless they take the effort
to climb four flights of stairs and stand at that window over there.
No one will take the effort to do so. As to what they say, let them.
I care not, and neither should you. All you should care is that I love
you greatly, and I wish to spend the rest of this day showing you how
much I love you. Will you let me do that?”
“But we should care, Aragorn. This is serious. They think I want
your throne!”
“And I know you don’t, so leave it be,” Aragorn said
tiredly. He had had enough of his councilors at the meetings. To have
to discuss them and their foolish talk while trying to make love was
not what he really wished to do. He leaned down onto Faramir’s
bare body once again, and kissed him softly in the hollow of his throat,
snaking his hand between his lover’s legs.
The lack of response yet again forced him to sit up irritated.
“You seem to have far too much on your mind,” he said coldly,
perversely satisfied at the flash of remorseful guilt in Faramir’s
face.
“No, ! -,” Faramir started miserably, but the expression
on the King’s face silenced him.
Aragorn gave him an inscrutable look, before rising, and picking up
his clothes. Faramir glanced at him surprised and even a little fearful.
Pulling the clothes on swiftly, the king moved towards the door, “I
shall be in my study. When you have recovered your senses, you may come
to me!” he said coolly and walked out of the room.
Faramir lay where he was, his hips still supported by the pillow, his
legs still splayed apart, a confused expression on his face, that turned
into one of acute distress as what had just occurred registered finally.
Chapter 3
Faramir lay in stunned surprise and then found himself wincing belatedly
at the annoyance he could read in Aragorn’s words. Still lying
on the cold floor for a while, he thought over everything that had happened.
But always, his thoughts returned to Aragorn. He could not get his lover
out of his mind at all. Even as he worried over the consequences of
what he had been told, he kept picturing Aragorn with him in bed. Just
the thought of their countless hours together sent shivers up his spine.
He moaned aloud, realising suddenly what had just transpired.
He had forced Aragorn to leave, unsatisfied. He sat up in alarm. In
his worry and distress, he had neglected Aragorn! The thought served
to distress him even more and he sunk his head in hands, moaning all
the more. How could he have acted like this? How could he let himself
be distracted like this when Aragorn had wanted to make love to him?
He had to apologise, he decided, and to show Aragorn he was worthy of
his love. Let anyone say what he or she liked!
He hastily pulled on his tunic and leggings, and snuck out of the room,
through the long, draughty passageways hat led to Aragorn’s study.
With most of the residents of the citadel having settled in for the
night, he met none save Lord Ardamir at the head of the passage that
led to the study. He found he was fidgeting anxiously as the other solicitously
inquired after his well-being. He finally managed to make his excuses
for not staying longer to talk and then turned towards the corridor,
not missing the quiet, contemplative look Aradmir gave him. He ignored
the implications of that look with alacrity and walked on, the nearness
of the study giving him a surge of emotional strength. He wanted nothing
more than to be with Aragorn this night. He paused at the door to Aragorn’s
study, and listened carefully to see if Ardamir or anyone else was around.
Hearing nothing but silence, he knocked softly.
“Enter!” Aragorn called out.
He entered, shutting the door softly behind him.
Aragorn was sitting at his desk, a large, bulky wooden thing that had
been around for many years. He shuffled in quietly and stood in front
of the desk, suddenly reminded of the days when he had stood there,
nervous and frightened to face his father’s wrath.
Denethor would be seated in that same chair as Aragorn across the same
wooden surface, demanding in his cold, hard voice an explanation for
some deed or the other of Faramir’s that would have displeased
him. Faramir often displeased his father, and the words he would have
to hear on those occasions always stung hard. Once in a while, in his
younger days, Denethor’s hand would sting him too. It was only
as he had grown older that they had resorted to treating each other
with cold silence and minimal interaction to avoid those disagreements.
He sighed unhappily at the onrush of memories, before looking up tentatively
at Aragorn who in turn was waiting impatiently for him to react.
“Well?” his king shot out. “I – I came to .
. . to . . . I’m sorry Aragorn,” he stammered out, “I
was wrong to behave as I did. Please forgive me, please?” he begged,
suddenly assailed by thoughts that Aragorn might not forgive him at
all. They might never be as they were. He would never feel Aragorn’s
body near his, the intense love radiating out on him, enveloping him
in the warmth of their embrace.
“Please forgive me?” he begged yet again.
Aragorn shrugged and tapped his quill on the table thoughtfully.
“I don’t know if I should,” he said musingly.
Faramir rounded the desk and came up to Aragorn’s chair. Sinking
to his knees on the floor, he placed his hands on Aragorn’s knees,
and looked up into his eyes frantically, “I beg of you. I was
wrong to be distracted like that. It shall never happen again. I have
hurt you tremendously. If you never want me near you again, I shall
understand, but please do forgive me for hurting you. It was never my
intention. I was worried and I let that colour my behaviour.”
“Well, really, you were distracted weren’t you,”
Aragorn continued seemingly unmoved, “You do that so often it
seems. When you should be thinking, at the councils, you do not. You
run your leg up mine. But when you should be running your leg up mine,
you sit and think. Whatever should I do with you?”
“Anything you like,” Faramir responded not missing the
teasing note in Aragorn’s voice. He wasn’t angry with him,
he thought, relieved.
“I should punish you.”
“Yes. Oh, yes,” he had often wanted Aragorn to get rough
with him, but his lover had demurred so far.
“Good. Take off those ugly clothes, and bend over that desk.”
Faramir obeyed ensuring that he took the robe off slowly. He leaned
forward across the table; quelling the memory of the last time he had
done this. He couldn’t help but remember leaning like this a few
times as a child. But on those occasions, he had had his leggings on,
and instead of a hand descending on his buttocks; it had been five strokes
of a cane. He bit his lip at the unbidden, unwanted memory, and thrusting
his backside up at Aragorn’s disposal, steeled himself.
Aragorn grasped his hips and adjusted the angle accordingly. He let
his hands wander for a few brief seconds over the pale skin. Faramir
sighed silently, the movement relaxing his tense muscles. He loved Aragorn’s
hands on him. Then the hand was moved away, and he knew without having
to turn around that it was raised in the air. What followed was a heightening
experience for Faramir.
Aragorn’s hand descended on him sharply. It stung, but Faramir
did not react. He leaned forward a little more and placed his palms
on the wood for support. The hand descended again. The fourth time it
fell, he cried out softly. The force pushed him against the table, pressing
his semi-erect shaft into the hard table. The blows rained down at the
same pace, some ten of them in total, leaving a heated, stinging sensation
across the swollen flesh, and he knew his skin would have turned red
with the imprints of Aragorn’s hands marking it all over. But
unlike the past experiences, this one left him incredibly aroused. He
doubted he’d ever see the table the same way again.
Aragorn stared in fascination at the way his palm left streaks of red
across the pale softness of Faramir’s backside. The legs were
stretched apart and quivering slightly from the impact of the stinging
blows he had been delivering. He ran a finger tenderly down one of the
marks and then lowered his head and lovingly ran his tongue over it.
When Faramir felt something cool and wet descend on the smarting skin,
he knew he’d never see the table that way again. Aragorn’s
tongue flicked all over his backside, finally slipping into the crevice.
He promptly spread his legs some more, allowing access to his entrance.
The tongue lapped over the sensitive skin, causing him to release a
strangled whimper. Then a finger entered him slowly, lubricated with
nothing more than saliva, scissoring its way into his passage. He gasped
at the painful intrusion but then his muscles adjusted themselves, and
when the finger pulled out he let loose a needy whine.
He heard Aragorn spit into his hands, and waited breathlessly. He found
himself being pushed against the hard, unyielding wood of the desk with
the entry of Aragorn’s member inside him, the spit proving little
help in easing the way.
Aragorn’s hands wandered up and down his torso, pinching at his
nipples roughly. His own arousal pressed painfully against the smooth,
polished surface, even as his hips rocked into the edge at regular intervals.
He would have an array of bruises to show for this on the morrow. But
he didn’t care. He groaned ecstatically as Aragorn sheathed himself
completely inside him and began thrusting hard and fast, his hand wrapping
around Faramir’s swollen shaft. He could not help but grin inwardly
at the thought of doing this upon his father’s desk.
Aragorn’s hands clenched around his waist as the older man came
inside him. He too, came almost immediately after that, his release
spurting out onto the wooden surface, pooling under his now limp body,
as it sagged onto the tabletop. He could feel Aragorn’s release
trickling down his inside thighs, as his lover too sagged on top of
him. His throat felt sore and he suddenly realised that he had been
screaming his pleasure out wantonly.
They rose after a while, Aragorn pulling out gently, yet causing Faramir
to hiss a little. He felt himself being lifted off the table equally
gently, and deposited on the large chair in front of the fireplace.
He gazed into the beautiful grey eyes of his king and lover and smiled
at him. Aragorn pulled him into a loving embrace and kissed him all
over his face.
They cleaned each other up slowly, Faramir trying his best not to let
his soreness show. But Aragorn must have realised it, for he helped
Faramir get up, and then held on to him as they walked back to the desk.
The sight of the mess on the table sent Faramir into a sudden spate
of giggles, causing Aragorn to lift his eyebrows in question.
“My father used to sit at that desk,’ Faramir said, still
laughing, finding that he no longer needed to worry about the memories
of arguing with the erstwhile Steward across this very table. It was
immediately replaced by the thought of being taken over it by Aragorn.
Aragorn threw his head back and laughed too, and they both stood there
in each others arms giggling softly for a while, before they could finally
clean up the desk and retire to Aragorn’s chambers to sleep, Aragorn
having discerned that Faramir would be aching a little. He carried him
there and deposited him on the cool sheets and even rubbed a little
slave on his still reddened backside before pulling him close under
the covers. Faramir looked tired and while the satisfaction and contentment
resulting from their lovemaking was clear on his face, the features
were still drawn and a little pale. He knew the younger man had been
worried about the events that had been happening.
They woke just before dawn, and Faramir quietly slipped away to his
own chambers after exchanging a prolonged kiss with his lover, who had
no desire to let go of his warm body. Aragorn finally released him with
a dramatic sigh. He watched with narrowed eyes as the Steward stood
gingerly, pulling on his clothes, suddenly made aware of the tiny aches
in his lower back from the previous night’s bout of lovemaking.
“Does it -, “ he began.
“No,” Faramir interrupted him promptly not wishing to see
guilt on Aragorn’s features, for he had truly enjoyed the previous
night, “It was wonderful. *You* were wonderful.” He bent
down to kiss his lover on his lips.
“Will you not punish me again?” “I think you’ve
learnt your lesson,” Aragorn replied smiling widely, as Faramir
pouted a little.
Faramir left reluctantly, walking slowly back to his chamber, wishing
he’d remembered to wear his boots, as he the cold seeped through
the floor into his feet. His gait was a little unsteady, but his heart
satisfied. He opened the door and paused, a movement at the end of the
passage catching his eye. He wondered briefly about it, but then remembered
that the next passage contained the guest rooms housing Legolas, Gimli,
Lord Ardamir, and Lord Dervorin while they were visiting for the meetings,
and that it would merely be an early riser among them.
Entering he promptly threw himself into his bed, crawling under the
covers, wincing slightly at how cold it felt without Aragorn’s
arms wrapped around him. He woke an hour later, as the sun crossed the
horizon, and sent for hot water.
He had it poured into a large tub that was placed on his hearth. He
had decided that a soak in warm water would help the stiffness in his
muscles, and began taking off his clothes. He had just peeled his shirt
off when a knock sounded on his door.
“Who is it?” he asked, pausing in the act of untying the
ties on his leggings.
“Legolas,” came the Elf’s voice. Faramir pulled the
door open, and ushered his friend in.
“Legolas,’ he said pleasantly, “what brings you here
this early?”
The elven prince was busy taking in his appearance, and Faramir realised
with a start that his chest was bare, and the love bites Aragorn had
marked him with last night were openly visibly. His leggings too were
half-undone and had slipped down his hips. The bruises left by Aragorn’s
hands had already begun to form. He shrugged mentally.
Legolas sighed, “You two do not take my words seriously, do you?
I hope you enjoyed the night!”
Wondering if Legolas had been the person he’d heard under his
terrace or whether he’d been the one in the passageway earlier
in the morning, Faramir groaned silently. He was tired and sore and
the water would be getting cold. He crossed his arms over his chest
feeling a little chilly.
“I appreciate your concern,” he began formally, only to
be cut off abruptly.
Legolas had noted his disinterested tone, and his blue eyes glinted
as he stepped forward and responded coldly, “My concern is less
for you and more for those impacted by your indiscreet activities!”
“You seem to know a lot about my activities,” Faramir sneered.
“Can you not keep your hands off him at all? There are guests
all over the citadel!” the elf responded exasperatedly.
His words stung Faramir a little, “No I can’t keep my hands
off him, and he can’t keep his off me either,” he said calmly.
“I can see that!”
“What did you wish for Legolas? I would like to bathe and the
water goes cold.”
“Merely to repeat what I said to you earlier.”
“Then why repeat it?”
“Because you do not listen, do you? You two are getting too public
in your affection.”
“We are not,” Faramir informed him, “Anything we
do between us is restricted to our chambers.”
Legolas raised an eyebrow, and Faramir reddened slightly as he thought
of the times in the stables, on the terrace, in one of the gardens.
“People see small things and they talk. And when they talk, they
talk of big things, like the throne and of heirs.”
“I do not want the throne,” Faramir said, a pleading note
in his voice. He was confused by all he kept hearing of, “Why
would I?”
“I don’t know!” Legolas said morosely, “Why
would you not? To rule Gondor is to hold great power in your hand.”
“I have no desire for such power!” Faramir retorted.
“Your father was not of like mind,” Legolas said pertly.
Faramir felt a rise of anger. He knew the Elf was annoyed with his
attitude and was therefore baiting him, he knew Legolas had known of
the uneasy relationship between Denethor and Aragorn when the latter
had served in Gondor as Thorongil under his grandfather’s Stewardship.
Legolas had little reason to respect Denethor having heard much of him
from Aragorn and others over the years. But Faramir had had enough of
the veiled references that the Elf constantly threw at him out of disapproval
of what lay between him and his King.
“You know nothing of my father,” he shot out, “I
would ask you to leave him out of this discussion.”
Legolas snorted, “I merely tell you the sort of talk that is
now happening in small circles behind closed doors. But when it starts
out in the open, none can help you, either of you. And you do not aid
matters by throwing caution to the winds!”
“If you must ‘serve’ your liege lord with such a
vulgar display of ‘devotion’ My Lord Steward, perhaps you
would consider not doing so in public!”
“You think I am vulgar because I sleep with my King?” Faramir
hissed out, “you think I do this out of gratitude to the fact
that one such as him would deign to spare me a second glance -,”
he broke off suddenly, confused. Part of him had always wondered how
Aragorn could indeed spare him that second glance, much less lie with
him.
Legolas looked at him thoughtfully, and then abruptly asked, “Do
you truly love him?”
“Are you calling me a whore?”
“No, I wished to know if you loved him,” Legolas repeated
patiently, unmoved by Faramir’s increasing anger and distress.
“Why else would I lie with him?”
“You said so yourself – gratitude!” Legolas pointed
out reasonably.
“I think you should leave now,” Faramir said ominously.
“Not until you answer my question.”
“I do not have to!” Faramir whipped around to turning his
back to the Elf. He had had enough of all this. He needed to think.
Of course, he loved Aragorn! Oh, he was grateful all right, but the
gratitude was entirely for the fact that Aragorn returned that love.
Gondor and her politics had never been a consideration in that love.
But it seemed that was not to be so. He was truly confused now. He irrationally
wondered whether Legolas had had this little ‘talk’ with
Aragorn too.
His musings were rudely interrupted when he suddenly found himself
being whirled around and pushed against the wall. Legolas’ arm
was held against the base of his throat, pinning his bare back against
the stone wall of the battlement.
“What are you doing? Leave me be!” he shouted out, trying
to release himself from the grip.
But Legolas was stronger than he seemed. His lithe body hid the fact
that he was in fact a great warrior and a very strong one. Faramir’s
struggles to make him let go were just that – struggles. He swatted
away the scrabbling hands as though dealing with an annoying fly, and
bore down on the Steward.
“I warn you, Faramir. If you ever hurt Aragorn, you shall have
me to answer to.”
“Why would I hurt him?” Faramir squeaked out angrily, his
voice affected by the hand across his throat.
“If you do not love Aragorn, put an end to this immediately,”
Legolas said ominously, “He is one of my closest friends. I will
not stand by quietly. And remember, you hurt others when you hurt him.”
“Let go of me,” Faramir said, “I do not have to prove
anything to you.”
And surprisingly enough, Legolas did let go of him, as suddenly as
he had grabbed him. He shoved him back against the wall and stalked
out, leaving Faramir to sink back against the wall and slide down to
the floor dazed and surprised to find himself blinking back tears.
When he finally heaved himself off the cold floor, his bath water had
gone tepid.
Chapter 4
Gimli sighed silently, hoping Legolas was having better luck with
Faramir. He should have let Legolas come here and met Faramir instead.
Aragorn was being a stubborn fool. They had decided the previous night
to speak to the two men for it worried both that their friends could
be the topic of petty gossip, and that it may hurt them in the long
run.
Aragorn listened to him even as he readied himself, and offered nothing
in response - no defence and certainly no assurance. He heard Gimli
out and then simply nodded and told him he’d keep what he had
heard in mind. He did look thoughtful however, but the Dwarf was unsure
as to whether that was good sign or a bad one.
He followed Aragorn out to the terrace leading off his room, saying
no more for he wished not to be heard outside of the walls of the room.
“You will be careful, will you not?” was all he said, as
he leant against the small wall overlooking the city.
“I take it Legolas speaks to Faramir on the same matter,”
came the amused reply.
Gimli sighed again. Legolas could talk to Aragorn next time. He preferred
straight answers. And Faramir was a nicer lad to talk to. He leaned
forward resting his elbows on the stonework. Aragorn stood beside him.
He was never entirely sure what happened next. He was leaning on the
wall one moment, and then the next he was jerking forward. And then
he was being jerked backward. He really was not sure. One moment the
city seemed to be rushing towards him, the next he was sitting on the
cold stone floor of the terrace, with Aragorn talking rapidly in his
ear. He heard a crashing sound, then after a short interval of silence,
there came more voices.
It took him a while to realise Aragorn was pushing him into a chair,
and asking him if he was all right. His elbows were abraded from where
the falling stone had scraped against them, and his shoulder hurt from
being pulled back forcefully by Aragorn, but otherwise he was all right
and he said so. Except for the strangely flighty feeling he got when
he remembered how it seemed the ground far below was rising to meet
him; he who could barely climb on to a horse.
So he latched on to some other subject.
“How?” he asked.
By now, the captain of Aragorn’s guard, Turgon, had entered the
chamber. Turgon took his duties very seriously. He stuck to norm now.
He promptly herded a concerned king and a confused vertigo-ridden Dwarf
back into the chambers, barked out orders to his lieutenant and then
proceeded to ensure that no commotion would take place.
Gimli grasped the mug of ale Aragorn thrust in his hand and found it
helped him regain his equilibrium. Aragorn, as expected, had headed
back to the terrace, unheeding of the lieutenant’s entreaties.
Turgon returned to announce that the offending stone had fallen on the
courtyard below, was now cleared out, the noise had been heard by only
those on this wing of the citadel, he had reassured them that naught
was wrong, and none knew of the mishap barring those in the room, and
Aragorn’s chief councillor, Minardil.
“The stone was loose,” Aragorn said calmly. Gimli looked
up promptly, then noticed the expression on the faces of the Men around
him and nodded.
“And I really should not lean forward so,” he murmured,
and he knew by the startled look that Aragorn threw on him that his
acknowledgement of what was surely a weakness had the King’s gratitude.
Sounds from the passageway made them look up, and soon they found themselves
in the company of a very concerned Faramir, Legolas and Minardil.
Legolas had headed out to the gardens frustrated at everything that
had occurred. He was annoyed - with Faramir, with Aragorn and also with
himself. He had not taken things along the right way. Faramir was just
as pig-headedly stubborn as Aragorn could be and he had forgotten that.
It must be an Edain trait he decided. He had expressly decided to tackle
Faramir himself and leave Aragorn to his dwarven friend’s single-minded
approach because he knew Aragorn would not listen to him.
Faramir had been no better.
“It must be Aragorn’s influence,” he muttered angrily.
He sat under the shaded trees watching the sunlight slowly stretch
over the city, and thought quietly about his friends; only to have his
musings interrupted by a loud crash. An upward glance revealed that
whatever the noise was, the source had been from Aragorn’s wing
in the chambers.
He dashed into the building, up the steps, his surefooted feet padding
swiftly, yet quietly, up the stairs and across the corridors, stopping
only at the sight of the figures standing out on one of the passageways.
Faramir found that the tepid water although not helpful for his aches
atleast left him feeling more awake to deal with the morning’s
meetings. His torso and belly were covered in marks and bruises, and
he had ensured his tunic had a high collar. He had even been forced
to lower the waistband of his leggings a little so it would not abrade
against the tender skin on his stomach.
But his mind dwelt elsewhere. He tended to keep mulling on his conversation
with Legolas. He supposed the Elf’s words had some sense in them
but he still felt that he had no right to interfere. A part of him also
felt that it was unfair Legolas chose him to speak to, when he could
have spoken to Aragorn too.
But what really hurt was to be questioned about the truth in his love
for Aragorn. He was ever grateful to his king for much, it was true.
Aragorn loved him, and he respected him, feelings that Faramir had received
from few. But to think that he indulged in this relationship as a token
of his gratitude was absurd. He truly loved Aragorn, since the moment
they had met. He had felt something then. And he still felt it.
It angered him to hear that people might be talking about them, as
Legolas had said. He knew he would have to control himself in future,
however for it was of no use getting angry with the messenger just because
the message induced disappointment. He dressed quickly and walked out
of his chambers towards the halls, only to come across the figure of
Lord Minardil, striding swiftly down.
It took the older man barely a few seconds to explain to the worried
Steward that a mishap had occurred in the King’s chambers but
none had been hurt. Then, Legolas had run up o them, his usually serene
countenance marked by concern and Faramir knew he was aware something
had happened.
Minardil gave him a sketchy greeting, and a few words of explanation
and then waved his arm, “We were on our way to the King’s
chambers. I felt it appropriate to inform Faramir of the little accident
that you no doubt are already aware of.”
They were soon at Aragorn’s door.
Aragorn tried his best not to drum his fingers impatiently on the table.
He was beginning to feel a headache form behind his temples. It was
barely mid- afternoon and he found the thought that he already felt
tired rankled him. And they had yet to discuss the request by Rohan
for help against Orcs in their western borders, one that he was sure
would cause debate. But then, anything, it appeared could induce debate
among his councillors, he thought sourly.
Though he and the others had outwardly dismissed the morning’s
incident as caused by a loose stone on the terrace, he still found himself
bombarded by questions. The piece that had slipped off had been a thick
fat slab, and it had been noisy, and potentially dangerous to both those
above and those below. It was a good thing Arwen was away visiting in
Dol Amroth. He had no desire to cause her worry. Poor Gimli had had
a frightful experience. He could stand anything, but not such a great
height looming towards him. He had however recovered soon enough and
had even joined Turgon in examining the stonework, as Aragorn had left
for the council, where the news of an ‘accident’ had already
reached.
“It is strange,” Duinhir of Morthond had commented, “The
citadel’s construction is surely not so faulty.”
“Nay,” that been Ardamir, “In all these years, not
a crack has there been in the stonework. Is it not Faramir?”
Faramir had glanced up expressionlessly at that, “Not that I
am aware of,” he had acknowledged quietly.
“Strange indeed then,” spoke up another councillor, “Perhaps,
my King, you would consider looking deeper into the matter –“
Minardil stepped in with alacrity, “It has been looked into,”
he said firmly, “You must remember that much of the city was impacted
by the war. We shall go through the Citadel’s surfaces carefully
now.”
Aragorn nodded at him, “Yes, we will get that done. It will not
do for another such mishap to occur. Someone could have been standing
underneath that terrace!”
“Yes, more such mishaps can be disconcerting,” Ardamir
had spoken up, his tone making it clear that he referred to more than
just the occurrence of the falling stone.
Aragorn had promptly brought the meeting back to order in an especially
acidic voice by reminding the others in the room that they had gathered
there with a specific agenda in mind.
The headache remained, a dull throb. Atleast the painful discussion
on the reinforcement of the defences in Pelargir was over and done with.
There yet remained the matter of aid to Rohan though. He motioned to
Minardil to table Éomer ’s request for help. His eyes fell on Faramir.
The younger man was shuffling through a sheaf of papers, and Aragorn
struggled to keep a soft smile from forming on his face, as he remembered
the previous night. He’d noticed earlier that the Steward’s
movements were minutely slower and had no doubt over the cause. He desperately
wanted to reach out and ensure that Faramir was not hurting from the
experience. When they had met in the commotion in his room earlier that
morning, Faramir’s eyes had been directed at him the moment he
had entered the room, and the intense fear and concern that he had seen
in them had hit him hard. The look had changed to one of pure relief
when Aragorn had indicated that he was perfectly well, and that no one
had been harmed.
They had been unable to speak after that, as Faramir had excused himself
during the noon meal saying he wished to discuss some matters with a
few of the councillors. That had been immaterial however, for Minardil
had requested speech with Aragorn then.
Minardil had got to the point immediately, “That was no loose
stone.”
“I am aware of that.”
“There have been far too many incidents to ignore. And this was
far too close. Someone would have had to enter your chamber.”
“Yes.”
“Your guard keeps an eye on all who enter the passage. They saw
none hereabouts yesterday save Faramir,” Minardil said bluntly.
Aragorn nodded, “He was in my study,” he said firmly.
“I said nothing,” Minardil said mildly.
Aragorn glared back at his chief advisor, “Please do not tell
me you could even think -,” he could not even say it.
“No! I would never doubt Faramir. I merely wish to point out
that someone entered your chambers somehow, and I must find out how.
If I may have leave to have a through search conducted?”
He had nodded thoughtfully, the idea that someone was out to harm him
still a little too fantastic for him to comprehend.
And now, the repast long over, and the headache making its painful
presence felt, he found himself wishing to subject some of his councillors
to grievous harm. The Rohan issue as he had suspected did give rise
to much debate.
“Aid? But we need those troops to guard against troubles of their
own,” was the general consensus.
“We can yet spare a few troops to aid them,” Faramir spoke
up.
Aragorn looked up at that.
Faramir gave him a glance before speaking, “I spoke of this to
the Lords Beren and Tirion earlier, Sire,” he indicated to the
two younger members of the council, who like him still captained troops
for Gondor’s army, “They ask only for temporary aid, and
we have some troops we can spare, without endangering our own defences.
I could not discuss it earlier with you Sire.”
“I should like to hear more of those plans then, Faramir, as
would the rest of the council I am sure.”
“Oh, I thought you might have discussed this last night,”
asked Ardamir of Faramir, in a soft voice that could be heard only by
those near him, “When we met in the citadel last night, I assumed
you were on your way to the king’s chambers?” Aragorn being
seated nearby heard it.
“No we did not,” came the cold response of the Steward,
before Aragorn could say anything.
“It seemed a matter of great urgency and the hour was so late,”
Ardamir said silkily, as those around him began to take a sudden interest
in the papers in front of them.
Before either King or Steward could respond, both with faces as carved
from stone, Beren spoke up in confusion, “But we discussed it
merely today,” he pointed out earnestly.
“Indeed,” Faramir responded, before turning back to the
Council, and encouraging Tirion to put forth what they had spoken of,
when they had met at noon.
Aragorn looked at Ardamir in puzzlement, wondering at his words. He
had had only so much interaction with the other as these meeting called
for. The spite he had detected in those words directed at Faramir angered
him. And yet, he wondered why it was so, for he had understood that
the two were kin. Ardamir he knew was related to Denethor. Perhaps,
he thought, he had been influenced by Denethor’s impatience with
Faramir.
He had no time to ponder however, for he had to once again call the
council to order. They behave like children, he thought exasperatedly,
as an argument began to brew swiftly.
“Our relations with Rohan seem to be of great importance these
days,” the remark by Lord Merdil, an old friend of Denethor’s
was obviously directed at Faramir.
“I was given to understand My Lord, that they were always of
importance,” Faramir responded icily, “I oft heard such
from *you* before.”
“And they were of great aid to us during the war,” Tirion
pointed out.
“My Lord Tirion,” the older councillor responded with deliberate
slowness as if speaking to a child, and thereby sending a flush up the
other man’s face, “This is not a state of war, and we are
as yet unsure of our own defences. Do I need to remind you that the
King himself was attacked by Orcs some days ago?”
“I believe that is what Lord Tirion has been attempting to explain,”
Faramir injected.
“My Lord Steward,” came the languid response, “Do
you really think the numbers you retain in Ithilien are enough to get
rid of those foul creatures?”
“You certainly seemed to think they were enough to face them
earlier, My Lord, and under worse conditions if I may remind you,”
Faramir literally spat out the words, an obvious reference to earlier
meetings across this very table, “Is there aught else you wish
to say?”
Aragorn moved forward frowning intending to quell he argument but before
he could speak, Merdil’s voice cut across.
“Your request for more men then was unreasonable and impossible,
my dear boy! We needed our other fronts guarded just as well!”
The foregoing of Faramir’s title did not escape anyone’s
notice, and the Steward himself paled slightly.
“My Lords!” Aragorn interrupted, fuming, his voice hard
as rock, “I fear we deviate from the subject at hand.”
“My apologies Sire. I got carried away,” Merdil responded
smoothly, “and to you too, My Lord Steward, My Lords,” the
accent on Faramir’s title this time was greatly pronounced.
Faramir bit his lip uncertainly, “Forgive me, My Lords, Sire,”
he murmured, his white face colouring slowly.
Aragorn flashed a gentle reassuring look on him, and then the council
plunged back into discussion, in a more sedate fashion this time.
By the time they adjourned for the day, Aragorn’s head was pounding
miserably. And they had still decided nothing! For a brief second he
wondered how Denethor had ever put up with the cantankerous lot of advisors.
He knew they were good men, yet there were times when they let their
petty foibles get in the way. Faramir had once told him he had considered
falling on his knees before them to beg for more supplies and they had
taken an entire week to sanction half the amount. He could now see why.
He had jokingly told the younger man he’d have had greater success
if he’d offered to fall on his knees and do something other than
beg. Faramir had not been amused.
He wondered if he ought to seek out Gimli and borrow a case of Dwarven
ale from him. He wished greatly to see his friend was all right and
the ale he knew from past experience could numb one.
He sighed and leaned back against the chair in his study, closing his
eyes tiredly, only to open them again as he heard the door open. He
smiled at Faramir, and leaned back once again. He felt a warm hand slip
under the neck of his robe, and squeeze his shoulders gently.
He gazed into the concerned eyes warmly and smiled again.
“You are tired,” the Steward said softly, as he continued
with his soothing ministrations.
Chapter 5
Aragorn let himself relax as Faramir’s gentle fingers eased
the tension out of his aching muscles. It was early yet, not even evening,
and the sun outside imparted a pale golden light to everything. Aragorn
let his eyes drift shut and inhaled the soft musky smell of the younger
man’s nearness. His half-lidded eyes fell on the desk, and his
mind wandered to the events of the previous night. Faramir’s worry
had annoyed him at first but then as he had begun to simmer down, he
could understand the wariness that the normally introverted Steward
was beginning to display. When Faramir had shed that wariness he had
felt moved. And yet, the younger man had been right to worry, for obviously
his appearance there had not gone unnoticed.
Faramir’s belief in him had been apparent in the way he had come
to Aragorn and in the way he had readily submitted to him. The ‘punishment’
he had meted out had had Aragorn feeling a little ashamed later but
Faramir had indeed seemed to enjoy it. He thought of the number of times
he had convinced the normally restrained Steward to abandon caution
in front of his desires, in the hayloft, on the balconies, the other
day during their ride, while hunting, and had never been refused.
He could still remember Faramir as he had been in the first few days
of his reign, a quiet young man, who had always been there at his side
when required, aiding him in the myriad matters that fell to him to
see to, driving his still healing body to near exhaustion as he rushed
to keep up with the requirements of a Steward’s job that he had
been untrained for. His face had been permanently creased with lines
of worry in those days. It seemed he was trying to prove to himself
that he could shoulder his unforeseen responsibilities.
He hadn’t changed much, Aragorn decided. Faramir still worried
over everything far too much. He sighed heavily.
“Forgive me,” the Steward’s soft voice suddenly broke
into his reverie.
“For what, love?” he asked sleepily.
“For my behaviour during the council. I merely added to your
headache by arguing with Lord Merdil like that.”
Aragorn sighed, “It was not entirely your fault. But, yes, you
let him provoke you. I wish you would remember that you are Steward
now, and that does count for something.”
“Merdil is many years older,” Faramir began quietly.
“Yes, and that is why you need to heed his opinions too,”
Aragorn interrupted, “you are no longer just a captain petitioning
for increased supplies for your men, Faramir. You are a Steward and
a Prince making decisions for your people. I know you would never come
to a conclusion without thinking it out clearly. You must let the others
know too. Merdil was wrong to address you as he did. I think everyone
realised that.”
Faramir sighed, “He used to address me so, earlier. He was an
old friend of father’s. And father had little good to say of my
command.”
“Yet you retained your command, and a tough one at that,”
Aragorn reminded him.
Faramir shrugged, “No tougher than any other command in Gondor.
But we needed more supplies and we lost more men than the others, so
I was required more than once to justify any requirements before the
entire Council.”
Aragorn pursed his lips slightly at everything Faramir left unsaid.
He’d gleaned most of it himself - how Denethor was scathing in
criticism when things went wrong, and how sparing in praise when small
victories were attained. They were dismissed as just that - small victories.
A request for supplies would be met first by a long list of the errors
committed that warranted those supplies, before the requisition was
grudgingly approved. Faramir had told him laughingly that those sessions
with the council had actually strengthened the abilities of the Ithilien
Company. The Rangers strove to ensure there were no slip-ups ever. They
patrolled the land to the point of exhaustion safeguarding the border,
keeping out intruders. And in all that Faramir led from the forefront.
Aragorn shook his head slightly. From what he knew of Merdil, the man
was just being his habitual self. Deriding Faramir’s abilities
was something of a common trait among Denethor’s close friends
he’d noticed.
“What of Ardamir?” he asked suddenly.
“Ardamir?” Faramir asked in surprise, his fingers stilling
their soothing movement.
“He is your kinsman, is he not? His words – they seemed
-,” Aragorn stopped, unsure of what to say.
“His father was grandfather Ecthelion’s brother,”
Faramir told him, “We are all that is left of the House of Húrin
for now. He was a good friend to father, too. They shared a common view
on many things.”
The last few words came out with just the faintest touch of bitterness
that startled Aragorn a little. Faramir usually controlled his emotions
perfectly.
“It matters naught now, dear one,” he assured gently.
“He – he – Father - was a good man, Aragorn,”
Faramir said suddenly.
Aragorn sighed silently. Faramir was back to his usual mode of controlled
politeness where his father was concerned. In all the months Aragon
had known him, it was just once that Faramir had released his pent up
feelings on his father’s suicide, an act in which he too had almost
lost his life. It had been a nerve- racking ordeal for both men. Faramir
for he had had to deal with a matter that upset him greatly and still
gave him nightmares, and Aragorn for he had held the shaken younger
man in his arms all through to give him comfort.
“Yes, love, he was a fine leader.”
They spoke no more for a while after that. Aragorn let himself sink
lower in his chair as the fingers carried their gentle and effective
work to his temples.
“You’re wonderful,” he murmured, as the throbbing
began to dissipate.
“I can do many more wonderful things,” came the suggestive
reply.
“Really?” he asked smiling.
“Yes. Would you like me to do many wonderful things to you?”
“Soon,” he laughed when he heard a sigh from Faramir.
“Aragorn, that stone –“
“Not now, my love, not now.”
After a while, he grabbed Faramir’s hands bringing them to his
lips and kissing them, “Come sit with me,” he said quietly,
and rising led Faramir to the pile of cushions that he had left in front
of the grate. The waning rays of the sun played on the pile through
an open window. Although it was near season’s turning, the day
was as yet warm, so the grate remained unlit.
They sank into the soft mound, and he pulled Faramir into his arms,
letting his lean body rest between his legs, the back against his chest,
head leaning against one broad shoulder.
“It was deliberate, was it not?” Faramir asked without
preamble.
“Yes.”
“But, how, Aragorn? Who could come to your rooms? They are always
guarded when you are not there. And I was the only one to come to this
wing last night.”
“Minardil is seeing into it, sweetheart. Don’t worry, dearest.
All will be fine.”
Faramir’s eyes said everything that the younger man’s mouth
couldn’t. Aradmir’s veiled references to his presence near
Aragorn’s rooms the previous night, the constant looks that were
thrown his way when Aragorn had given him a glance of gentle reassurance
after the tiff with Merdil . . . Faramir wasn’t sure what to think
any longer. Not only was their relationship in stress but now it appeared
Aragorn’s very life was in danger and they didn’t even know
why, and given the events he wasn’t surprised that it seemed his
involvement could be suspected.
“Faramir, sweetheart?”
He looked up at Aragorn in consternation, as the voice broke into his
distraught thoughts.
“It hurts me to see you worry,” the King said gently. He
brushed his cheek lightly, murmuring, “All these lines, and you
are yet young! You fret too much, love.”
“You could have been hurt,” Faramir murmured.
“But I wasn’t,” Aragorn responded.
Faramir shook his head silently, but Aragorn silenced him by placing
a finger on his lips.
“You mustn’t worry so, sweet one. I am here now. I’m
here for you.”
He drew the lean frame close into his embrace and Faramir burrowed
against him gratefully.
Aragorn sighed softly, “It seems to me dear heart, that ‘twas
you who needed your head and shoulders rubbed more than I did.”
Aragorn pulled him close and pushing the hair off his shoulders, gave
him a tiny kiss on the exposed skin, causing the Steward to look up
at him, his eyes shining a little.
“I do love you,” Faramir breathed out.
“I know.”
“I would do anything for you.”
“I know dearest.”
Faramir leaned up and gently took Aragorn’s mouth in his, “Anything,”
he breathed out.
Aragorn nodded back at him when they pulled apart. Wrapping his arms
around Faramir, he began undoing his tunic. Faramir sagged back against
him contentedly. He undid the entire tunic, and then spreading it open,
coaxed his lover forward so he could remove it entirely. Then he pulled
the younger man back to him.
His eyes fell on the bare chest and midriff and he gasped softly, causing
Faramir to start, worry writ clearly on his features.
Aragorn stared at the reddened marks and the dark bruises from the
encounter over his desk, and gave Faramir a contrite glance.
“You should have told me I was hurting you,” he scolded
gently.
“You were not,” Faramir said, his eyes shining at the memory
of the pleasure he had felt, “You were so wonderful! I could only
hope you received as much pleasure out of it as I did.”
Aragorn stared at his Steward, lying against him, his legs splayed
slightly apart, his pale chest with its soft tufts of hair openly displaying
the marks he had caused, and felt the warmth rush through him at the
loving look that was reflected in those eyes.
“How could I not get pleasure out of being with you?” he
asked softly, as he leaned down and kissed the hollow of Faramir’s
throat, “But it would never pleasure me to hurt you or to do anything
to you that you do not wish.”
Faramir gulped softly at the gentle tone.
“I love you so much,” he said softly.
Aragorn turned him slightly and gently lifted his chin and gave him
a small kiss on his forehead, “And I love you.”
He felt the younger man snuggle into his embrace, shifting his body
sideways to enable him to curl up against Aragorn’s chest. He
gently fingered the large bruise above the right hip, careful not to
let the touch hurt. Then he let his fingers wander over the naked upper
body, tracing the myriad scars dotting it. He stopped momentarily over
a particularly deep and nasty one running across the flat upper stomach,
feeling Faramir’s slightest flinch as he did so. He moved the
finger. Faramir had told him it had been caused on his first patrol,
in Ithilien when they had been ambushed many years ago. He had been
a new soldier yet and the Orcs they had encountered had held them for
almost an hour before they were rescued. As the youngest in a troop
of hardy man he had received more than a fair share of their ‘treatment’,
in a dark, dank cave.
They had come across the cave on the hunting trip and when Aragorn
had proposed they spend a while there, Faramir had blanched and refused
outright. The story had come out then, in a bland voice that left Aragorn
unsettled for hidden between the sentences he uttered Aragorn could
easily make out the sense of failure he must have felt then, and how
Denethor might have exacerbated it. Faramir had shown him the ugly scar
and quietly confessed a dislike of dark spaces after that, and begged
him to take away the pain of the memory.
He looked at the marks once again, and then shifted, aiming to rise.
Faramir raised his head quizzically.
“I’ll get something for those bruises,” he said,
and gently shifted out of the embrace. He nudged Faramir back against
the cushions, and walked back to his desk, to get a paste that was often
used to ease dull aches and pains.
He returned to where Faramir now lay languidly and kneeling by him
began to rub the salve in gently.
Faramir marvelled at the feather light touch in those long, rough hands.
As the strokes covered his lower body, and the warmth of the salve spread
through him, he found himself moaning almost in pleasure. He could feel
a stirring sensation in his groin, and he knew a distinctive bulge had
appeared in the front of his leggings. When Aragorn slipped his hand
underneath the cloth, and tugged the waistband a little lower to expose
more of his skin, he whimpered.
“Hush,” Aragorn scolded teasingly, “This is no time
for all that.”
“Yes, it is,” he protested.
“Do you know what I’d like to do, right now?”
“What?” Faramir asked breathlessly, trying to conjure up
the various possibilities.
Aragorn shrugged off his tunic and leggings hastily, and sat by Faramir’s
side, placing one hand over his chest to prevent him moving.
Faramir could do nothing else but nod. His throat already felt hoarse.
Aragorn had moved his hand up to his throat and was gently stroking
him. He let the fingers play lightly over the Steward’s chest,
running it over the sprinkling of hair that covered the slender chest,
before letting it come to rest on the waistband of the pants.
Gripping the cloth with both hands he nudged Faramir to lift his hips
upward. The younger man did so with an ardent eagerness. The leggings
were unceremoniously pulled off, freeing Faramir. Aragorn continued
in the same soft and sensual voice.
“Run my lips over your soft skin, mark your tender flesh with
more of these,” he gently placed a hand over a bite mark over
the left nipple, and pressed lightly down on it, before proceeding to
bend and nip at various spots all over the bare torso.
Faramir cried out softly with each tiny bite, but there was no pain
in the sounds. Aragorn finally let up and then brought his gaze lower
and smiled as he saw Faramir’s arousal. The Steward inched his
own hands closer to his lower belly.
“No,” Aragorn said softly.
Their gazes met, Faramir’s etched with want and strain, Aragorn’s
full of love and reassurance. Faramir relaxed a little. He could see
Aragorn was controlling himself. Aragorn smiled reassuringly at him,
and then lowered his head and gave Faramir’s erect flesh a very
slow lick that elicited a loud cry.
“Pl – please,” Faramir moaned in response, his fists
clenching at the pillows under his hips.
“Soon,” Aragorn told him, and then promptly lowered his
head and took him in his mouth, opening wider and wider till he had
him completely engulfed in it. Faramir jerked back, a series of whimpering
noises coming out of his throat. Aragorn’s erection rubbed against
his legs, sending the most enticing sensations up his skin. They came
together and then collapsed against the pillows tired yet pleased.
Outside the sun had begun to set.
“I must get ready for supper,” Faramir said reluctantly,
unwilling to move out of Aragorn’s embrace.
“Dine here tonight – in the study,” Aragorn told
him, and then seeing the hesitation in Faramir’s eyes, added,
“Minardil will be here. He comes to talk of what he may have found.
There will be others too.”
Faramir nodded, his face a little reddened.
“I know,” Aragorn said seeing the flushed countenance,
“It is alright. You spoke truly last night; and our friends did
so too. We shall restrain ourselves whilst the citadel hosts the council.”
Faramir could do no more than look contrite. They shared a gentle,
prolonged kiss before parting, Faramir to his room to finish going through
some papers, Aragorn to search for Gimli and Legolas to invite them
to dinner.
“Do you think he may have found how the entrance to your chambers
was breached?” Faramir asked, as they left the room, “Perhaps
you should sleep elsewhere until he does so.”
“The only place I’ll leave my chambers for is yours,”
Aragorn teased, “Are you inviting me?”
Faramir sighed impatiently in response, even as Aragorn told him not
to worry yet again, and then added that his guard had been increased.
And so it had, Faramir noticed as he strode through that wing.
Aragorn found Legolas fletching his arrows in his large and airy chambers,
and greeted him. The Elf returned the greeting and placing the arrows
upon a table nearby, rose to join his friend who was happily helping
himself to a new blend of wine hat had just arrived from Mirkwood.
“You have been worried of late, my friend,” Aragorn said
pleasantly, passing him a cup of wine.
“Aragorn,” Legolas sighed heavily, accepting the cup, “In
all the while I have known you I have found cause to worry. If it is
not strange creatures you find necessary to imprison in my father’s
realm, it is strange men who seek to get rid of you in your own realm.”
“Did you speak to Faramir?” the king asked promptly, quite
sure that if Gimli had come to him, the Elf would have gone to Faramir.
He did not envy the young Steward. Legolas tended to get annoyed easily
in such situations.
“I asked him to beware of prying eyes, if that is what you seek
to know.”
“I’ll warrant you said much more to him. But I am as much
responsible for all that happens, and you know that.”
“Yes, it is mostly your doing, but you will not listen to me.
I hoped Faramir might, but I spoke wrongly to him. I shall apologise
soon. I am as yet angry with both of you.”
“Why, my friend? Why does my happiness cause you anger?”
“How could you think your happiness would irk me, Aragorn! I
worry for you.”
“I am an old man, Legolas. I can take care of myself.”
“Yes, you can, and you have all these years,” Legolas assented,
and then continued, “But this is a realm of men, Aragorn. They
think not as the elves do. And you are their king. They have expectations
of you.”
“Which shall be met. You know that, do you not?”
“I do, Aragorn. And so do you. But do your people? These are
Men, Aragorn. They have not the wisdom of years behind them. And they
can be fickle minded.”
“I am one of them, Legolas,” he responded mildly.
“Yes, but you were raised among my kind, Aragorn. Those of my
people who wish to settle in Ithilien deal often with the lords here,
as do Gimli’s people at work on the walls. They hear of things
and they give credence to rumours because there is no proof otherwise.
They hear talk of the King’s friendship with his Steward, and
though no one says it aloud, it is but obvious that there is more than
just that, for there is no son to the King yet! It is but the lords
and those close to you who talk now, but if you keep on as you two do,
others will too."
“I trust him,” Aragorn said needlessly.
“And you love him?” Legolas inquired promptly.
“Yes.”
“And Arwen?”
“Yes, and yes, he loves Éowyn too.”
“Does he love you Aragorn?” The Elf watched the reaction
of the king steadily.
“Yes, he does. I know he does,” Aragorn’s voice was
calm and steady, the tone of a man sure of himself.
Legolas nodded suddenly, as though having made up his mind, “You
are dear to me, and this world of men is new to me. I may have been
unwilling to trust them entirely and also been needlessly intrusive
for which I must apologise to you and to Faramir. Yet I would ask you
to just be watchful, my friend, that is all.”
“Nay, do not apologise. Your concern is welcomed. I am glad for
it. And your words are wise. Arwen and Faramir caution me oft, but I
listen not,” Aragorn said quietly as he thought of his wilder
bouts of lovemaking, especially in the hayloft in the Royal stables,
“Perhaps, it is for the best from now on, that I heed atleast
Faramir’s words.”
Legolas nodded, “It will not diminish the love ‘twixt you
two if so, Aragorn. And it will be the better for him.”
Faramir waited in the study, quietly drumming his fingers on the desk.
He was the first to arrive, the others still at their errands. He spent
the time trying to analyse the attacks on Aragorn. On his way out of
Aragorn’s wing as well as while entering it, he had tried to think
out how the intruder may have entered the chambers, but it seemed impossible,
given that in Aragorn’s absence the Tower Guard always stood there.
With Aragorn inside, they would be reduced as per his orders.
How could anyone pass through the guarded passageways unnoticed? For
no one could enter while Aragorn was there unless they had reason to.
He continued drumming the desk lightly, and suddenly remembered how
the desk had been used the night before. He felt the flush rise up his
neck, and hurriedly stood trying to calm himself. To get rid of the
erotic memory, he thought back to the days of his father’s occupancy
of that table.
He remembered an evening just like this, at season’s turning.
His father was furious over something or the other he’d done,
and had hauled him over the desk and lectured him long, given him a
few strokes of his cane, and sent him off to bed without supper.
It was then that he remembered what Boromir had done at that time and
oft again.
When Aragorn and Minardil entered followed by Legolas and Gimli, they
found the Steward studying the large shelf of books near the grate very
thoughtfully.
He turned a shining pair of eyes to them, “I think I know of
a way our intruder may have entered,” he declared, calmly.
Chapter 6
Faramir’s words brought them to a sudden halt. Minardil was the
first to move forward. He promptly went to Faramir’s side, stared
at the shelf, then at Faramir and raised an eyebrow. The others trooped
in curiously watching the two men.
“I remember hearing about -,” Minardil’s voice trailed
off and his face contorted into a frown as he too started at the shelf.
“They have not been in use for so very long, I fear everyone
has forgotten about them altogether,” Faramir said mystically,
“Boromir and I found of them by accident. There was little need
for them in all these years. I should have remembered earlier,”
he said remorsefully.
“Remembered what?” Legolas interposed in his soft voice
after his questioning glance drew blank looks from both Aragorn and
Gimli. But his question went unheeded.
“I never realised -,” Minardil said in a shocked voice,
“To think – Oh Eru! How could I have been so careless!”
“It is not your fault,” Faramir said earnestly, “It’s
my error entirely. I knew and I forgot. And to think I have used them.
I am such a fool!” he spat out bitterly.
That was as far that the other three of the occupants of the room were
willing to let their more knowledgeable friends go.
“Faramir! Minardil!” Aragorn said sharply, causing the
two worried men to turn and stare at them in confusion.
“What do you speak of?” Legolas urged, “We do not
understand.”
But Faramir, rather maddeningly chose not to answer immediately. He
looked towards Gimli, “You have the old plans of the Citadel for
the restoration, Master Dwarf? The ones that the archivists found in
the library last month?”
“They are here, in Aragorn study, along with the plans for the
new housing settlements south of Emyn Arnen,” Gimli responded
after a confused pause. He waved towards a jumble of parchments and
scrolls lying on a small round table in a corner of the room.
The Citadel having survived the war relatively unharmed was accorded
the last priority in rebuilding efforts. The houses in the lower levels
had been worse affected, and the people dwelling there more numerous
so those had been seen to first, so that it was only now, after so many
months that anyone had thought to consider whether the King’s
and sometimes the steward’s residence needed renovating or not.
Faramir promptly walked over and rifled through the papers, speaking
all the while over his shoulder, “Passages. They would not be
in the new ones you used earlier, of course. But I am sure they are
there in the old maps. That is how Boromir and I know of them.”
Turning around he released the other three had still not comprehended
what he was saying.
“Passages,” he repeated in a clear voice, “There
are hidden passages running all through the Citadel. One opens into
this room, behind the panelling between the cupboard and the fireplace.”
That was very clear. He was greeted with a chorus of voices, three
surprised ones, and Minardil’s gravely voice, corroborating what
he’d stated.
“Why was I not told of this earlier?” that was Aragorn.
“Where do they lead?” Gimli sounded very interested, “I
did wonder about the thickness of some of the walls. I should have realised
it sooner!” He began to examine the panelling minutely, “How
does it open?”
“Why are they no longer in use?” Legolas asked.
Faramir answered as patiently as he could once the others had quietened
after realising they were all speaking at the same time.
“Forgive me, Aragorn,” he turned remorsefully to his King,
“I am sorry to say that I had completely forgotten of their existence
until today,”
He fished out a few large parchments and handed them to Aragorn, before
walking over to where Gimli stood.
“As had I, and almost everyone else, I expect,” Minardil
added, “Although I am surprised to hear you know of them, Faramir.”
“I have used them a few times,” the younger man replied
smiling suddenly.
“You have?” Aragorn looked up from the papers startled.
“Yes, they also opened into my rooms as well as Boromir’s.
Once we had found them, I never had to worry about being sent to bed
without supper,” Faramir grinned at the memory.
He removed a few books from the third shelf, and reaching into the
back, ran his fingers over the wood, until he found the tiny crack.
Prising it loose, he found the little opening that contained the lever
to open the passage. He tugged at the piece of metal, hoping it had
not rusted over the years. The movement was smooth, overly so.
Gimli, still examining the panelling nearly fell over when it suddenly
gave way under the light pressure and a long narrow panel swung open
to reveal a dark enclosure.
The others watched surprised. Faramir glanced into it and nodded, “Here
it is,” he said, “And the lever has been used of late. I
am sure this is how the entry was effected.”
“We need to explore this,” Gimli said firmly.
“Right now?” Aragorn asked, cocking an eyebrow upward.
“Yes,” Minardil and Faramir said simultaneously.
“We need to confirm whether someone is using this passage to
enter your room, Sire,” Minardil explained.
“We shall need torches,” Gimli said.
“I’ll go get them from the stores. I would not like anyone
else to know of this,” Minardil said.
The others clustered around the opening, examining the shelf and the
lever that worked it, it’s smooth movement indicating very recent
usage. Gimli asked Aragorn for the plans intending to study them.
“If we must explore, we must,” Legolas muttered, “But
I do not like places such as this, dark and enclosed! How did you forget
about this Faramir?” he asked curiously.
Aragorn looked toward him for an answer to. He shrugged.
“We stopped using them after Boromir left for his command in
Osgiliath. He came home but once in few months. It was to remain our
secret for Father would have been annoyed if he knew we had broken so
many rules, so I could tell no one else. Then I left for Ithilien, and
well, I too share your dislike for such places now.”
“Now?” Gimli interposed suddenly, but Aragorn knowing the
reason behind that was linked to Faramir’s first and rather painful
encounter with Orcs promptly cut in.
“Are they no longer in use at all? Who else knows of these?”
“They were built years earlier, perhaps even as the Citadel itself
was first built for escape routes naturally. But their use has not been
necessitated for a long time. The city’s defences have always
stayed. Who knows of them I cannot say. The older people may remember
hearing about them, as Minardil did, for there is mention in one of
the histories.”
“But these plans have them marked clearly,” Gimli spoke
up.
“The maps are not from the general archive,” Faramir replied,
referring to the libraries, “They were from a restricted archive
that none enters without leave from the King or the Steward.”
“Is that how you found them as a child?” Aragorn asked
suddenly struck by a picture of a very young Faramir poring over the
vast books in the archive, earnestly reading and making notes. He almost
smiled, but he also found himself picturing a very young Faramir sitting
hungry in his chamber until his brother could sneak something in for
him.
Faramir nodded, “I was to help Mithranidr do some research during
one of his visits. I managed to copy out the map over those days, so
we could explore at leisure later.”
Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that, while Gimli and Legolas smiled.
“It seemed fun,” Faramir said defensively.
“Where is the map you drew?” Gimli asked.
“Oh, we memorised it and burnt it. We could not risk Father finding
it. We’d already broken enough rules you see.”
Minardil entered then carrying two unlit torches stashed under a bundle
of mail and armour. Discarding the other times he handed one torch to
Gimli and kept the other. They lit them on the small fire in the grate,
and then stared at each other before nodding and stepping into the passage.
They were all too curious for any to want to stay back, even Legolas
and Faramir.
Their dinner lay forgotten on the table, already cold, as they all
set forth, closing the door carefully behind them unwilling for anyone
to find out what they had discovered.
The passage was narrow but long and high. It wound between stone walls,
following the path of the citadel’s structure. It was dark and
they had to tread carefully although they planned only to cover a short
distance just to see if they could make out which parts were in use.
It was fairly airy for there were many hidden vents to allow air in,
even if the light stayed out.
Minardil or Faramir stopped every now and then to point out a particular
room they might be behind. In such places, levers held the door closed,
and more than one was found in a condition that indicated recent usage.
None however opened out to particular rooms. There were peepholes too.
They were very tiny but quite effective, fitted to coincide with carvings
on the panels inside the rooms and could be opened and closed from the
passage.
At one place, no more than twenty paces from Aragorn’s room,
the passage branched out.
“That goes to the section near the wall,” Faramir said,
“And then under it to open outside.”
“Where?” asked Gimli.
“This one I think opens in the gardens of healing,” Faramir
mused, “there is a little stone structure there.”
“There are others?”
“Yes, one on this level itself in the building outside the Citadel
gates, one on the other side of the sixth level in a section of the
wall, and one in Rath Dinen through a shallow dry tank.”
They followed the other branch a short distance, noticing all the while
signs of an intruder’s presence. Faramir stopped suddenly and
the others saw he was glancing through a peephole.
“Your chambers,” Minardil said quietly.
Faramir nodded grimly, “The lever has been used recently.”
He looked a little pale and tired, Aragorn thought, realising that
the younger man would have had little sleep the night before, after
their episode across the table. And the stifling atmosphere of these
musty passages was beginning to get to him. He had stayed very close
to Aragorn all through their walk. The King turned to Legolas who held
one of the torches now, and noticed he too looked distinctly unhappy.
“We should return now,” he declared, “And explore
further later. I think I should see the plans carefully first.”
“You are right,” Minardil agreed, “And it is not
safe for you to remain here longer. Whoever is using these passages
must not know you have found them.”
“What rules did you break?” Aragorn asked Faramir suddenly,
as they walked back, trying to break his pensive mood.
It took Faramir a minute to understand what he spoke of. He shrugged,
“I took the map out of the archive to show Boromir, without permission.
And then of course, every time either of us was punished we took the
other food anyway.”
Aragorn nodded quietly in the dark.
They returned to Aragorn’s room, and stopping to examine the
vicinity, clearly noting the scratches on the wooden door where it had
been scraped open after years, and the disturbance in the layer of dust
on the floors. Faramir examined the eyehole into it. It lay near the
door, on a pattern of carving near the grate, and gave a small gasp
audible only to Aragorn who stood next to him.
“What is it?” Aragorn whispered watching the others open
the door.
“I can see the table,” Faramir said turning around and
sagging slightly against the wall.
“And?” Aragorn asked puzzled.
“And there is one in your chambers too, right over the bed. And
one in mine too.”
Aragorn stared uncomprehending at him.
“Aragorn, what if someone saw us? And last night, over your table,
-“ he gulped a little. He was pale and sweating a little now.
Aragorn didn’t answer. He simply grasped Faramir’s hand
and pulled him out through the open door behind the others and pushed
him into a chair, letting him regain his composure, while Gimli and
Minardil discussed the find.
Legolas had helped himself to a glass of wine, and now he filled another
and brought it to Faramir handing it over silently, getting a surprised
yet grateful look in return. Aragorn threw him a thankful nod too.
The wine calmed Faramir a bit. He was irritated with his reaction.
He was glad they had turned back, unsure whether he could have negotiated
the enclosed space much longer. His mind kept harking back to the ordeal
he had been put through in of the deep caves in Ithilien by Orcs during
his first patrol. Aragorn had helped him get over that but the memory
still unnerved him. He really needed to get over it, he told himself,
angrily. He had purposely kept up a commentary of the rooms they passed
as a distraction, but then the sudden intake of the fact that he and
Aragorn might have been observed making love brought his worries back
on.
And he kept getting struck by memories of his brother now and the way
they had explored these ways. Boromir had commanded the party that had
rescued his patrol from the Orcs, barging through the cave just as he
often barged through the hidden door in his room laden with food, and
on one occasion a large load of books. Denethor had forbidden him from
reading anything for a week in a fit of anger, over his performance
at sword practice.
He shook of the memories and straightened himself. Aragorn’s
hand rested on his shoulder, a strong, reassuring touch. He looked up
and met the equally reassuring eyes, and nodded unhappily, then they
joined Gimli and Minardil in their conversation.
“You’re not safe here,” Minardil told his King promptly.
“But if he moves now, it is too suspicious,” Faramir protested,
“We have to catch these people.”
“And we cannot do that if they realise we have discovered one
of their secrets,” Legolas said.
Aragorn said nothing, waiting for his friends to thrash it out.
“But he is in danger this way,” Minardil protested.
“You have to block the passage,” Gimli said.
“Then it’s obvious he knows of the passage!” Legolas
pointed out.
“No, not deliberately block it,” The Dwarf said exasperatedly,
“Do it in error.”
“Shift the large chair to get more space near the window, perhaps,”
Faramir suggested.
“Yes! And something similar to all the doorways, while Lord Minardil
here starts his investigations.”
There was little objectionable to that so Aragorn forbore from saying
anything. He did however; bring an end to the discussion claiming tiredness
and hunger. They moved the chair and then had a hurried meal of cold
soup and breads and cold meat before all retired for the night. Legolas
even extracted an assurance from Aragorn that he would not take it into
his head to wander through the secret passages later in the night.
Faramir left the last, a few minutes after the others, for he had been
gathering up some paperwork from Aragorn’s desk.
They exchanged a brief kiss.
“I wish I had not promised Legolas,” Aragorn mused, “I
quite like the idea of a secret passage leading to your room. It saves
us trouble. Worry not, sweetheart. All will be fine.”
“I worry for your safety,” Faramir whispered, “Anything
could have happened.”
“But nothing did. Sleep well, dear heart. You look tired. We
shall save our nocturnal trysts for quieter times, much as I hate to
do so! ” He wished it were otherwise. He wanted greatly to be
with Faramir that night, not as much for making love to him, but to
offer him comfort for it was obvious the younger man was worn out.
It was a while after Faramir had left for his chambers that Aragorn
while perusing revenue estimates, found that his lover had left behind
his gloves. He did not need a second excuse. Faramir would need those
gauntlets in the morning. They were a worn pair, but he wore no other,
for these had been presented to him by his brother when he received
his captaincy of the Rangers. Although the night was yet young, Faramir
would probably be asleep, but all he wanted to do was look at him awhile.
He wanted to assure himself that the worry and sadness he had seen on
that beloved face had been smoothed away.
Knowing that one of his guards would accompany him at Minardil’s
orders, he grabbed some papers too.
The moment he stepped out, Celion of his guard followed right at his
heels, albeit apologetically. He shook his head smiling and talked to
the young man, asking after his family. The soldier replied blushingly,
the awe he held Aragorn in very apparent.
They entered the wing where Faramir’s room was and Aragorn was
relieved to note Celion had no untoward reaction to that. He frowned
seeing a sliver of light under the door to the small anteroom his Steward
used a study.
“I will be a while with the Steward, Celion,” he said,
waving the papers with one hand as he knocked on the door, with the
other, “You may leave if you wish.”
The soldier shook his head, and still blushing furiously said, “I
–I - my orders, Lord. I must wait for you.”
Aragorn sighed. The door opened to reveal Faramir, still fully clothed,
his hair tousled, and yes a little bleary.
“Aragorn!” he exclaimed, and then noticed Celion down the
passage and gave vent to a relieved sound. He let his king in and shut
the door behind him, as Aragorn placed the gauntlets and the papers
on his table.
“I needed some doubts cleared before the council,” Aragorn
said and then held his arms out and pulled Faramir into his embrace.
The Steward rested his head against his King’s chest, and closed
his eyes, as the strong hands wrapped around his slim waist and held
him tight.
“You should not be here,” he murmured softly, but made
no effort to pull away.
“You should not still be awake.”
“I could not sleep,” Faramir admitted, running his fingers
absentmindedly over the embroidered pattern on Aragorn robes.
Aragorn gently led him through a connecting door to his bedchamber
and they both sat down on the soft bed, Faramir remaining in the warm
embrace all along. He held him close, letting his tired Steward rest
against him. He could see a chest of drawers had been moved and a faded
tapestry hung on the wall over it.
“What troubles you tonight?” he asked softly, unsure what
might have caused the unhappiness he could sense in his young lover.
“‘Tis naught,” Faramir murmured.
“Do you remember those Orcs still?”
“No,” Faramir said surprised, “I did awhile in the
passage, but I am well now. It is an ld matter and I have faced worse
than that.”
That Aragorn whole-heartedly agreed with.
“The eyehole?”
“I probably worried for nothing,” Faramir tried to sound
dismissive but failed miserably.
“No. I should be more careful in future,” Aragorn frowned,
unwilling to face up to the fact that Faramir’s fear could be
real. That someone may have seen them make love earlier, or Eru forbid,
the last night, when he had spanked the younger man, in such a foolish
manner.
“No –“ Faramir began, but was stopped by a fleeting
kiss.
“And you remember Boromir?” Aragorn asked him gently.
Faramir sighed, and burrowed his head lower, “I miss him so much.”
“I know love, I know.”
“I must return soon,” Aragorn whispered, after a small
pause, “Let me hold you till then. You give me the most comforting
feel ever.”
“You said you had doubts to be cleared,” his Steward came
right back to business.
“Yes, I doubted if you were sleeping, and I doubted you had another
pair of gauntlets for the morrow. Rest now. You’re tired,”
he scolded and ruffled the dark hair, all the while holding him gladly.
“You’re so good to me,” Faramir mumbled.
Aragorn hugged him tight at the words. He was still angry with himself
for hauling Faramir over the table. He had no doubt it had featured
in Denethor’s punishments to his younger son that seemed far more
frequent than those to the elder son. But he knew the two brothers had
been good friends too. He was sure Faramir was as depressed over Boromir
this night as he might be over the possibility that their relationship
might be openly obvious to someone else.
He should leave soon, he knew.
But it just felt right holding his young lover. He could still remember
the first time they had made love, in this same bed. Faramir under him,
pliant and trusting.
At first, right after the coronation, Faramir had been always polite
and formal, keeping his distance from the King, under the impression
that that was as Aragorn wished, even though he was always there to
aid and support the King, working hard through those busy months when
all their efforts were concentrated on restoring Gondor to normalcy.
He had seen the princedom and the retention of the Stewardship, as concessions
by a king to his Arandur, his servant. He even saw Aragorn’s request
to call him by name in the same light.
It had taken both of them a while to acknowledge their feelings, and
more still to act on them. They had not looked back after that.
“I love you,” he said softly as he gently rubbed Faramir’s
back a while. There was no response from the Steward. Looking down,
Aragorn realised the younger man was fast asleep now, his head dipping
against Aragorn’s chest, his hands resting limply against him.
He sighed silently at the sight, and carefully lowered Faramir onto
the bed on his back and pushed a pillow under his head. He straightened
out the thick bedclothes, and wrapped them around the sleeping man.
After ensuring that he would be warm, he leant over Faramir and placed
a soft kiss on his lips.
Faramir murmured something in response but stayed asleep, his dark
hair splayed over the white pillows.
Aragorn returned to his room, Celion still at his heels.
Chapter 7
Aragorn returned to his room quietly, wishing he could have spent more
time with Faramir. He wished he could have held onto his Steward all
night, watching him sleep, ensuring no dreams disturbed the much-needed
slumber. And he knew he too would have slept better.
But he had assured Faramir that he would display restraint as befitted
their current situation. He had no doubt over Faramir's feelings for
him. He knew Faramir loved him no matter what. Yet there seemed to be
those around who had problems with that, and their actions were hurting
the Steward. He wondered if indeed someone might have seen him make
love to Faramir, or even spank him over the table. That someone was
trying to hurt him, and in the process hurt Faramir was obvious.
And sitting back and watching Faramir get hurt was not something he
was prepared to do. They would have to wait for more privacy in the
citadel. It would just be a week or so more, he told himself. And then
the councillors would be done, and then he would be with Faramir all
through the day and the night.
The possible danger that he himself faced he did not worry over. He
could take care of himself. He was a warrior.
He spent the night in an uneven fashion, and arose early the next morning
to meet with his council again.
Faramir rose the next morning from a fitful sleep. He had awoken during
the night again not long after Aragorn had left, aware that the King's
absence caused an ache in him that no healing herbs could cure. He had
tried to get back to sleep, but the peaceful state of slumber that Aragorn's
embrace had lulled him into, was no longer attainable. He found himself
drifting off his weary mind focussing over and over again on much he
wished to forget.
He spent the night dreaming of his brother, of their childhood, the
hidden passages, and Aragorn. He was very worried for Aragorn. The King,
he knew, might not take the actions attempted upon him seriously. Or
rather he might but he would not expect others to do so. Years spent
as a ranger in the North tended to condition one into looking after
oneself always. Faramir could understand that, it was something he realised
all soldiers felt, more so rangers, who often spent much time wandering
alone through wild lands. They fought their own battles.
Aragorn had not realised how many people there were willing to take
over that job for him. He had found even the assignation of a personal
guard superfluous. But then, he was King now, and he had many to fight
for him. And many to worry for him too, Faramir being one such.
The younger man had been horrified when he had realised that there
had been entrance into his lover's rooms that he had forgotten all about,
one that allowed direct access to the King.
Anything could have happened, his mind kept repeating. And anyone might
have seen them. Anything could have happened to Aragorn, to his lover.
Sleep eluded him for the most part, coming in fits and starts, as his
dazed mind flitted from thoughts of his brother to the thought of Aragorn
being harmed.
He wished he could have Aragorn near him so he could protect him.
Minardil and Gimli were already in Aragorn’s study when he entered
it to pick up some papers. They had the city's plans over a table, and
were poring through them minutely.
"Trust Faramir to have found this map as a child," Minardil
was saying, referring to the old map from the archives, "That boy
spent more time in the libraries than all the other children combined."
"Aragorn," Gimli greeted him noisily, "Lord Minardil
and I were thinking of going through the passageways once again."
"Yes, I would like to see if there are any other signs of anyone
having used them recently," Minardil acknowledged.
Aragorn agreed. He had realised during the night that one of passages
opened into the rooms Faramir used, a thought that bothered him more
than a little. He excused his councillor from the morning's meeting,
a little envious, for his sharp eyes had not missed the look of relief
that crossed the other man's face. Minardil was the chief councillor
in charge of military matters, leaving commercial and other aspects
to Lord Merdil. They were to discuss the new commercial treaty they
had signed with Khand. They had discussed it at length for a week before
signing it. Now that it was signed, someone had felt compelled to discuss
it all over again, for it had far too many clauses and confused many
people.
And they were to discuss the sending of aid to Rohan. Well, he'd have
Minardil there for that for sure.
He sighed heavily, to the amusement of the other two, and picking up
the required papers, left the room, reminding Gimli to be available
for the meeting on the restoration work after the noon meal.
It was a long and tiring day for everyone. Minardil and Gimli combed
various passageways all morning, and found nothing of use. The meetings
were predictably irritating – the mod ranging from boring to acrimonious.
The next few days went by in a rush of councils and debates. Minardil
had finally given Aragorn a thorough report on his findings. It was
very clear they had recently been in use, but as yet they had no idea
who might have used them. He had set investigations in full swing, having
handled most of the information flow through normal and espionage channels
under Denethor's rule. He had also ensured that the passageways that
led outside the citadel were watched by those of his men posted unobtrusively,
nearby.
Aragorn and Faramir deliberately avoided each other's company unless
required. Neither was too happy about it. But they would not have had
the time even if they had wished to meet.
The commercial treaty had hit a snag and Aragorn found himself having
to meet various petitions sent by the different guilds and merchants'
groups in the city. What time he spent not in councils, he spent placating
the traders and producers, explaining the details of the convoluted
agreement.
Faramir spent much time with Gimli looking through the reconstruction
plans for Ithilien, and then defending them before the Council. When
he wasn't doing that, he would go through the old trade agreements Gondor
had had with various lands, friends and enemies both, so as to prove
to the council that the current treaty with Khand was by no means riddled
with errors and detrimental to Gondor's best interests.
It was with relief that Aragorn finally sat down in his study with
a glass of wine. Much of the work was done, finally. The council meetings
were all over, and most of the issues resolved.
They had finally agreed to allow the sending of a small force to aid
Rohan against the Orcs on their borders, thereby resolving atleast that
issue for the time being. The issues over the new treaty had been resolved
to the satisfaction of all parties involved. And just that afternoon,
a grumbling group had finally sanctioned the massive outlay that rebuilding
Ithilien would require. Officially they would cite their reasoning to
be that the revenues that Ithilien would be able to generate once returned
to somewhere near its full glory would be generous. But the main driver
behind the sanction had been the not so subtle hint from a short-tempered
King that given Ithilien's strategic importance, he would approve the
spend anyway.
Aragorn sipped the wine slowly as he sorted through some scrolls. He
felt almost contented. In a couple of days, all the guests in the citadel
would leave and they would have a little more privacy. He thought of
Faramir's face and smiled as he remembered the serious faced young man
who had sat through the meeting that afternoon, tirelessly defending
the plans that Gimli and his people had drawn up, assuring the recalcitrant
council of the returns in the form of taxes and duties. The sanction
when finally given had brought a small smile to the tired face.
Aragorn shut his eyes briefly, imagining himself showering tiny kisses
all over that face. He sighed, opening his eyes. Perhaps they could
go riding on the morrow. Just riding, nothing else. But he doubted if
he could be with Faramir that long and do nothing else after spending
the last few nights alone, deprived of the only company he had desired.
He wanted Faramir. He needed him, as soon as possible. He needed to
kiss him, make love to him, to hold him in his arms as he slept. Aragorn
stared at the piece of parchment he had picked up absentmindedly. Then
he placed it down, making up his mind immediately. He quickly finished
his wine, and then purposefully straightened out his rumpled clothes,
as he prepared to leave.
Faramir walked silently down the long corridor leading to his wing.
His eyes lingered momentarily on the tapestries hung upon the walls,
depicting various scenes of life in Minas Tirith. There were scenes
of people sitting in taverns, of the horses in the stables, of children
playing in narrow, winding roads, and even a few of the citadel as seen
from the lower levels of the city.
He walked slowly past the pictures he had seen so often in the past,
thinking of the work that lay ahead in Ithilien over the next few months.
It was a pleasing thought, but the discussions in the afternoon had
been tiresome and had left him with a headache as well as protesting
muscles in his back from sitting all day long. He felt very tired, and
found himself thinking with pleasure of a warm bath and perhaps a glass
of wine, a light supper and then bed. The last thought made him gloomy.
He did feel drained and wanted no more than to sleep, but he still felt
he might get better sleep should he attempt to do so in Aragorn's arms.
He walked on conjuring in his mind the feel of Aragorn's arms around
him; those long, sinewy limbs wrapped around his chest, pulling him
back to lean against the strong chest, gentle lips hovering over his
face, and the soft, sensual voice of his king lulling him into relaxation.
Lost in his thoughts, he failed to realise that there was someone nearby
until he felt his arm being grabbed. Before he could even open his mouth
however, a hand clamped down on it, even as he was pulled unceremoniously
into the entrance to the hidden passage behind the tapestry. He flailed
his arms uselessly and tried to kick his legs out, but it was to no
avail. His arms were grabbed and a hand snaked around his wait, half-dragging,
half carrying him down the narrow space.
Chapter 8
Faramir struggled frantically against the iron hold on his arms, and
tried to shout out, but it was to no avail. His hands were held tight
to his sides, and a strong arm across his chest kept him in place. He
even tried kicking his legs out, but the grip would not slacken, and
then he found he was being dragged unwillingly down the passageway.
He could however do little but struggle ineffectually.
It was dark and dank, and he found himself breathing heavily through
his nose, as the walls seemed to close in on him. His mind was screaming,
and arrays of dark, threatening images were swirling through his head
ready to assault him any moment now. He could hear the awful laughter
of a vicious group of Orcs, he could hear Boromir’s voice, and
he found himself stumbling heavily.
Then the hand came off his mouth and he instinctively reacted.
“Let go off me!” he shouted, his voice reverberating through
the small space, and his breath coming out in small gasps, as the hand
caressed his face gently.
“Hush!” came the response, and Faramir gasped again, although
this time, in relief.
“Aragorn!” he cried out, even as the King swung him around
and pulled him close for a hug before releasing him.
“You kicked me on my shin,” Aragorn complained, even as
he began searching for the mechanism to open the hidden door in that
part of the wall. Faramir leaned heavily against the wall, trying to
steady himself, and to ignore the closed feeling.
“Whatever were you -,” he spluttered out when he had finally
regained some semblance of control.
“I was trying to get you to my bedchamber, without anyone knowing,”
Aragorn responded, rather smugly it seemed to Faramir.
“You scared me!” he pointed out.
Aragorn snorted, “My brave Faramir never gets scared,”
he declared, as he pushed the lever he had located.
They stepped into the cosy room, and Faramir promptly breathed easier,
as he slumped against the wall.
“I don’t like that place,” he said quietly.
“Oh love,” the response was contrite, and he was immediately
enveloped in the comforting embrace of the King, “Forgive me sweet
heart. I should have realised I could have caused you to panic.”
He leaned in tiredly, snuggling into the warmth of Aragorn’s
body against his, “No it is my fault. You are right. A Steward
should not panic so. I should learn to conquer my childish fears.”
“It matters not the least but I’m sure you will, darling,”
Aragorn soothed, “You have conquered so much more.”
Faramir felt his face flush at the praise, and buried his head into
the strong shoulder.
“You always say nice things about me,” he mumbled.
“Because you deserve nothing but the nicest things to be said
of you, always,” Aragorn declared playfully yet passionately,
crooking a finger under Faramir’s chin and lifting his face so
he could gaze into the eyes that were always full of adoration for him.
He found himself staring at Faramir’s parted lips and lowered
his mouth onto Faramir’s and began savagely kissing him, slipping
his tongue into the pliant mouth under his, matching Faramir’s
little moans of pleasure with his own, their hands running over each
other’s bodies, until they had to come apart for air.
“I need you,” Aragorn murmured hoarsely when he released
his Steward’s mouth.
Faramir stood limply in his arms gasping for breath, his clothes in
disarray, much as Aragorn’s were and barely managed to nod in
response. They stumbled into the large bed in the centre of the room,
falling onto the soft sheets in a tangle, as they kissed once again.
“All these days without you in my arms,” Aragorn moaned
when they came apart and finally lay in each other’s arms.
“I missed you too, greatly,” Faramir replied, running his
hands over Aragorn’s body delighting in the touch of each strong
muscle under his fingers.
“I have been waiting all day for those stupid meetings to get
over,” Aragorn complained as he began to slowly undress the younger
man, “They took such ages and ages! I really think we need to
retire some of the council members.”
“Do they bother you so, My Lord?” Faramir asked troubled,
knowing that some of the older council members would every now and then
drop a few subtle hints reminding everyone including Aragorn of their
experience in Gondorian politics. He rose up slightly to allow his shirt
to come off entirely, leaving him bare-chested.
“Merdil is becoming far too stubborn and so is Ardamir. They
are used to things as they were, and wary of change,” Aragorn
responded, as he began unlacing Faramir’s leggings, “But
enough of them! They bore me all day as it is.”
He tugged the cloth down, urging Faramir to raise his hips and finally
pulled the pants off with a slight flourish so that Faramir lay completely
naked beneath him.
“Lovely one,” the King said and then smiled delightedly
as the younger man flushed, the colour spreading across his body.
“Take me,” Faramir murmured softly, “Take me now.”
“Soon.”
Aragorn undressed himself slowly, deliberately lingering over each
button when he saw the reaction his actions were having on the naked
flesh of his lover. Faramir’s hand snaked down to his groin, and
Aragorn promptly grabbed it.
“No,” he commanded gently. Standing up, he undressed himself
completely, and then laid his bare body over Faramir’s so that
their lips met. He moved his body a little, so that their arousals brushed,
and laughed as Faramir gasped in response - a raspy, throaty sound,
almost feral in tone.
“Do you like that?” he whispered into Faramir’s ears,
and received an enthusiastic nod in return. He brought his hands up,
placing each over Faramir’s nipples and massaged them slowly in
circles.
“I want to make love to you. Is that what you want?” he
asked, using his fingers to pinch the nipples lightly.
Faramir nodded again, “Yes, yes please!”
Aragorn rose, causing his Steward to almost whine in response. He reached
for the table near his bed, and pulled out a small vial full of oil.
Faramir spread his legs in anticipation. Aragorn knelt between the
parted legs. He bent to kiss Faramir on his lips, and then pouring some
oil onto his fingers began to massage it into the cleft between his
buttocks.
Faramir bucked in response, his excitement at the touch coming across
clearly. Aragorn gently rubbed the oil over his puckered opening, his
nimble fingers massaging the sensitised skin gently, but not entering
yet.
“Hurry,” Faramir moaned desperately as another feather
light skirted over his opening but refused to breach it yet.
“Hush, love. Have patience. I need to prepare you,” Aragorn
admonished.
“You take forever,” came the complaint.
Aragorn looked at his impatient lover, flushed and breathing heavily
under him, and promptly withdrew his hand from the well-oiled cleft.
Faramir nearly whined, “What -?”
“Well, if my ’speed’ displeases you,” he said
teasingly, “Perhaps you should prepare yourself?” he handed
the jar of oil to Faramir, and stretched back at the foot of the bed.
Faramir actually whined this time. Aragorn grinned and got back to
teasing Faramir with his fingers. The Steward kept wriggling and writhing
as the fingers flew lightly over his most intimate parts. The King had
his other hand placed firmly across Faramir’s belly to prevent
him moving, but he could not help but writhe.
“You move about too much!” Aragorn muttered, “I ought
to tie you up!”
Faramir looked up immediately, his eyes gleaming, “Why don’t
you?” he suggested softly as Aragorn raised his eyes.
“What?” The king stopped his ministrations and sat up.
Faramir too arose, with a little difficulty, his breathing slightly
laboured, for the hardness in his lower body refused to go away.
“You could tie me up, and –“
“No,” Aragorn started, frowning a little.
“Oh, yes!” Faramir breathed out enthusiastically, his eyes
shining, “Tie me to the bed and make love to me.”
Aragorn had an uncomfortable feeling Faramir had probably done this
before. He’d known he wasn’t Faramir’s first lover,
and that others had experienced his Steward’s usually yielding
body before him, and that not all of them might have done it out of
love. He had guessed that Faramir had been starved enough for love in
his younger days to willingly accept wanton lust as love. He just did
not like to think what all the younger man may have acquiesced to merely
to feel a little wanted.
“Tie me up and take me now, my king,” Faramir rested his
head on Aragorn’s shoulder and began fingering his left nipple,
watching fascinated as the dark nub began to harden under his ministrations.
Aragorn grunted in pleasure, when he gently pinched it.
“Thrust into me. Push yourself into me till I scream,”
he continued hoarsely.
“I’m not -,” Aragorn began uncomfortably, trying
unsuccessfully to crowd out the image of Faramir lying under him writhing
in pleasure, unable to do anything about it. He groaned involuntarily
as his right nipple received the same gentle massage.
Faramir let go of him and arose. He looked around the room, as though
searching for something and then finally shrugged. He grabbed his under
tunic and ripped it into strips. Aragorn stared at him in surprise,
and before he could even realise it, his lover had thrust the strips
of cloth into his hands and stretched himself on his back across the
bed. He stared down at the lithe body, the light from the lamp bathing
it in a dull yellow light, bringing out each contour, each ridge and
furrow.
Faramir looked at him impatiently, “Aragorn,” he murmured,
deliberately tingeing his voice with a raw, hoarse quality.
Aragorn breathed heavily in response. Faramir looked like a long, sleek
cat as he stretched himself languorously displaying his lean, spare
frame to his feasting eyes. With a seemingly deliberate slowness, the
younger man parted his legs, pulling them up, folded at the knee, exposing
himself completely. He lazily reached a hand out to touch himself.
Aragorn immediately latched at the wrist. He picked up the pieces of
cloth, and used them to bind each wrist to the bedpost. He was forced
to lean over Faramir to do so, and was rewarded by a series of strategically
placed licks over his bare skin. Once he had tied each wrist securely,
he leaned back on his haunches and stared down at his lover, the well-
muscled thighs quivering in anticipation, the obvious arousal eagerly
awaiting attention, the luscious lips almost pouting in need. He bent
and kissed him slowly on the lips.
Then he kissed him on his chest and shoulders, marking him with little
bites all over. Faramir trembled at each touch, and constantly cried
out his need. Aragorn deliberately avoided touching him anywhere near
his arousal, concentrating instead on the upper body. Still tingling
from the feel of Faramir’s hands on his nipples, Aragorn could
think of no better way to return the favour. Instead of massaging them
however, he took one hardened knot between his teeth and tugged at it,
invoking a garbled cry from Faramir.
He bit in harder and the Steward bucked beneath him, his hardening
member poking into Aragorn’s hip, and nearly causing him to lose
control. He transferred his attentions to the other nipple, sinking
his teeth into it, pulling at it, causing his lover to shudder intensely.
He let go, dragging his tongue down the skin over Faramir’s ribs,
slowly licking each bony outline, dipping into the furrows between,
until he reached the smooth skin of Faramir’s flat stomach. He
swirled his tongue in the depression of the navel, and looked up. Faramir’s
body was arched up, his head thrown back, his arms stretched taut. His
legs were struggling to stay in place.
Their gazes met. Aragorn rose, his eyes still locked in Faramir’s
enraptured eyes. He knelt between Faramir’s outstretched legs,
in front of his now erect shaft, his own arousal throbbing almost painfully
with need.
“Please . . .” the Steward’s voice was almost plaintive,
as Aragorn urged him to fold his legs back and lift his hips up and
then edged his hands towards the oil slicked entrance.
It turned into a high-pitched whine when he slid in first one finger,
in one swift move, and then another, scissoring them in through the
tight passage, letting the remaining oil lubricate the way. He removed
them and placed the tip of his swollen member near the tiny hole.
Faramir’s eyes were full of need and desire. “Now,”
he moaned.
Aragorn needed no further invitation. He entered the narrow passage,
slowly at first but then as Faramir thrust his hips up to take in more
of him, he too increased his pace, pushing and probing inwards until
he hit the spot he searched for. Faramir’s entire body seemed
to go rigid, as he screamed out Aragorn’s name. His legs wrapped
around Aragorn’s waist, the knees pressing into him.
The King started rocking back and forth, gripping Faramir by the waist
and lifting him higher to meet his thrusts. They moved in unison, the
feel of the narrow channel tightening around his member sending Aragorn
into ecstasy.
“Harder,” Faramir grunted out.
Aragorn felt the muscles constrict around him, squeezing him, encasing
him in the warmth he loved. He leaned forward and felt something wet
bump into his stomach. Letting go of Faramir’s hips he grabbed
his engorged member and ran his hands lovingly up and down it. The younger
man reacted immediately. His breathing became shallow and rapid. His
muscles constricted and the two of them came simultaneously.
Aragorn felt his release spurt out filling up the tight passage, even
as his hands filled with Faramir’s juices. He shuddered letting
his head fall forward, and his grip on Faramir’s shaft tightened,
squeezing it gently, before collapsing on him in a boneless heap.
They lay like that for a few minutes, getting their breath back. Aragorn
finally heaved himself off his lover.
“I love you,” Faramir stated quietly.
Aragorn kissed him gently on his lips. He felt better than he had all
week, and he suspected Faramir knew that.
“Let me untie you,” he offered.
“Can’t I stay here forever, like this?” Faramir asked,
smiling.
“I would do that, you know,” Aragorn growled out, his eyes
twinkling merrily. Rising, he went to the small antechamber nearby,
leaving Faramir as he was.
“Aragorn, come back!” Faramir panicked.
“Hush, love,” Aragorn said as he re-entered the chamber,
with some wet cloth in his hands. He had wiped himself, and now he proceeded
to do the same to his young lover. Faramir was ticklish, so it took
a little longer than they thought it would.
“Let me untie you now,” he said, smiling, when he’d
finished.
It was as he was undoing the first of the knots on Faramir’s
left wrist that someone knocked on the study door.
“My Lord,” came a familiar voice from outside.
Both King and Steward started. Faramir cast a fearful pair of eyes
up at Aragorn, who groaned.
“Sire!” the voice and the accompanying knock came louder
this time.
“I’ll get rid of him,” Aragorn promised quickly and
rose, giving him a gentle reassuring smile. Faramir tried to smile back
but all that came out was a look of abject misery.
Aragorn quickly grabbed a robe, and pulling it around himself walked
out of the chamber into his study, closing the connecting door behind
him. Faramir heard the outer door opening and a murmur of voices and
the scraping sound of desk drawers being opened, as he struggled to
remove the bonds that Aragorn had loosened. He had just managed to almost
get the bindings off his left wrist when he heard the odd sounds from
outside, as though someone had fallen.
Before he could react, however, the door flew open, and Aragorn appeared.
Or rather he seemed to slump in and then hang limply as though held
by someone. Someone who now walked into the room, and cast a derisive
glance at Faramir, naked in his king’s bed, struggling to get
rid of his restraints.
But Faramir’s gaze was focussed entirely on what he now realised
was the unconscious form of his king.
Chapter 9
Faramir moved forward in shock, crying out when he realised his wrists
were still restrained. He was still gaping at the sight of Aragorn’s
still form being supported in the hands of his kinsman, Lord Ardamir,
his dismay augmented by the sight of the red wetness that stood out
just under Aragorn’s hairline, when his kinsman spoke.
“Ah, Faramir! Enjoying a nice evening whoring yourself away,
are you?”
He stared up at the other man now, his face flushing slowly as he tried
to process what was happening. Then a second man entered the room, and
he found himself staring into Lord Merdil’s sneering face. He
did not think it boded well at all.
“What is the meaning of all this! What are you-,” he started
off, suddenly aware of how he looked to anyone else’s eyes, seated
naked on Aragorn’s bed, his hands tied to the bedposts.
“I could ask the same of you,” Ardamir cut him off, coldly,
“But I fear I have no wish to learn the answer.”
“It would have little to do with you at any rate, My Lord,”
Faramir responded almost instinctively in attempt to get his frantic
nerves to calm down, “What ails the king?”
He immediately moved his leg, intending to kick out at Ardamir as he
moved towards him.
“Stay where you are, My Lord Faramir,” Ardamir walked in
and shoved Aragorn’s limp body onto the bed, falling across Faramir’s
legs, trapping him in place, “Or your dear lover will leave this
world a little earlier than I planned.”
Faramir noticed in shock that the other man held a tiny dagger in one
hand, which rested upon the King’s neck. The little vein there
pulsed slowly, and Faramir let out a breath he hadn’t realised
he’d been holding.
“What are you doing?” the Steward asked angrily, deciding
to assert his authority although he had a sinking feeling nothing would
come off it, “What is wrong with Aragorn? Call the healers. He’s
hurt!”
“We know he’s hurt. I hit him,” Merdil said calmly,
“And don’t bother to call the guards. They shall be unaware
of the happenings around them for a while yet.”
“*You* hit *him*?” Faramir repeated angrily, but steadily,
having realised that his initial misgivings were proving true.
“Yes,” Ardamir said calmly, removing the knife and coming
to stand in front of Faramir.
Faramir noticed he had his hand readily placed on the pommel of his
sword. Faramir’s own weapons were nearby too, a knife lying on
the table by the bed, that he usually kept in his boot. He was careful
however, to not even look towards it. He tried desperately to remove
the restraint, even as Ardamir continued speaking.
“We think it is time for a change of rule in Gondor, and since
you seem so supportive and so acquiescing towards your king, we guessed
your support would not be forthcoming.”
“A change of rule?” Faramir gaped.
“A change of rule,” Merdil stated firmly, “This stupid
pretence of being ruled by some northern chieftain whose head is forever
stuck in elven notions has gone too far.” He reached for something
around his belt, and Faramir noticed that it was rope.
“Enough talking. Untie him. We will take him along with us and
finish this off once and for all,” Ardamir said quietly.
Merdil reached for Aragorn’s limp figure, and Faramir heart sank
when he noticed how still his King lay.
“Why untie him?” Merdil asked as he began tying Aragorn’s
hands together, “He seems to be fond of being held in place.”
“Let go of Aragorn,” the furious steward cried out when
he saw what the councillor was doing, “I have no idea why you
choose to harm your own king and commit treason thereby, but let me
assure you, that is sheer foolishness on your part!”
“Oh, shut up, Faramir! He is no king of ours. Northern upstart!
Bringing his uncouth ways, and his elven folk into Gondor. And that
eleven settlement in Ithilien, with all their different ways. Look what
he’s done to you!”
Questions raced through Faramir’s mind, visions of the attacks
on Aragorn coming back to him in full force. And the answers too came
immediately with startling clarity. He took a deep breath and tried
to think clearly. He knew he had guessed right, that the situation was
serious. He was unarmed and bound, and Aragorn was unconscious. From
what he had heard it seemed the guard too were unconscious and with
the end of council meetings and deliberations everyone in their tiredness
had become complacent. He knew too that yelling for help would bring
none. Aragon’s rooms were deliberately situated away from the
hustle and bustle of the citadel. He knew too that he was in an extremely
embarrassing position right now, nut that seemed the least of his worries.
“What do you want?” he finally retorted, trying to play
for time. If he could just get his hands undone, and reach for the knife
. . .
“For Gondor to have a ruler it deserves. One of will and strength
and one who is born to hold that place.”
“Aragorn is all that and more!” Faramir could not stop
himself from saying that. He failed to understand how anyone could not
see Aragorn for hat he was – the best thing that had ever happened
to Gondor and its people.
“He’s a ranger from the north. And that is all. What claim
has he upon the throne of the South Kingdom. He is of Isildur’s
line. Let him rule the north, it is of aught to us. Who is he to take
over the great tradition of the Southern Kings and the Stewards?”
Merdil retorted.
“And you! What manner of steward are you? To declare him King
with so little as a meeting with the other councillors! Your stupid
adoration blinds you, you fool!”
“He has the approval of the people,” the Steward gritted
out, remembering all too clearly the way the people of Minas Tirith
had embraced the man who had spent the entire night after the breaking
of the siege healing her people.
“The people are ill-informed,” Ardamir spat out, “
What know they of matters of rule and state? Denethor would never have
done so.”
“That is much that the Lord Denethor would have done that I will
never do and much that he did not do that I will ensure is done,”
came the cold response.
Yes, Denethor would never debase himself so by completely submitting
to another in this manner. Have you no shame, Faramir? No sense of worth
of the House if Húrin?” Retorted Ardamir, drawing himself up to
his full height, as though to remind Faramir that he too was descended
from that line, “Look at you! All trussed up just so a mere ranger
to take your body!”
Faramir glared back at him. He could not move his legs, for Aragorn
lay upon him, and his hands were still tied to the bedposts. He knew
he presented a picture that was unusual to say the least, and the idea
that something he had willed Aragorn to do to him, might seem debased,
made him feel angry.
“Does that Rohirrim piece of ice give you no satisfaction that
you resort to this?” came yet another shot. “Leave Éowyn
out of this!” Faramir said, his voice turning to ice.
“Yes, you do that, don’t you?” Ardamir retorted sweetly,
“Denethor would be mortified if he could see you. Is this how
you ‘serve’ your king, child? It may be alright for Elven
males to flaunt their whoring with another male, but it hardly befits
the court of Gondor.”
“You speak too much –“
“We must leave soon,” Ardamir interrupted the steward mid-sentence,
“Get this fool off the bed, and let us move on.”
“Where are you going?” Faramir cried out when he saw Merdil
haul the still unconscious king to his feet.
“You come with us, do not worry. I’m going to untie you
now, but if you try anything at all, it is your beloved king who will
suffer! I do not intend for him to survive the night, anyway. If you
wish to make him suffer before he dies, then by all means try to annoy
me. ”
Faramir would not let any of this happen without a fight.
The moment his hands were freed, he lunged, hitting out at Merdil’s
unprotected side with one hand, and jumped at Ardamir immediately, grabbing
his knife off the table. But his blow did not have its usual strength
behind it, still numbed from the ropes, and Merdil recovered soon enough
to toss Aragorn’s limp figure back to the bed and throw himself
on Faramir.
It was a battle he knew he would lose, but he had had to try. He kicked
out from under Merdil’s form, even as Ardamir grabbed his hand
and wrenched the knife out of it. He was then pulled up to stand by
Merdil.
Ardamir lunged at the Steward. Wrapping his fingers around the slender
throat, he levelled eyes with Faramir before speaking.
“Our past attempts were constantly foiled. But this time, I have
ensured naught will go wrong. Aragorn will die, and it is on your head
that the blame will lie. Do you think everyone falls for your stupid
act of love for the king? He dies tonight and so do you!”
His eyes were glinting, the hunger for power obvious in them.
“This time I am not going to fail. And not even you, you little
shameless slut, can stop me. Gondor returns to the rule of the Stewards
and I shall be her new Steward.” “You *are* insane!
He felt a stinging sensation across his left cheek as he was slapped
hard. He would have fallen had it not been for Merdil holding him in
a vice-like grip.
“Put on your clothes,” Ardamir said coldly, “We leave
now.” He hauled Aragorn’s unconscious form up and dragged
him forward.
“Leave? Where for? I will not come anywhere with you. You are
insane if you think you can get away with this.”
“This northerner will come with us, and there is naught you can
do to stop it,” the knife was back at the King’s throat,
pushing in just a little, enough to cause merely a nearly unnoticeable
drop of blood to well out of the broken skin.
We tried earlier to get rid of him,” Merdil gnashed his teeth
in anger, gripping Faramir’s arms tighter “Those Orcs that
waylaid you last week were no incidental attackers. And the loose stone
was no accident. But this time, nothing can foil our plans. Your friends
are busy drinking themselves silly in the taverns, and that fool Minardil
is off questioning people somewhere in the city.”
“Do you really think you can get away with all this?” Faramir’s
voice rose in his anger.
“But of course! As far as the city is concerned, we were seen
riding out for our lands earlier this evening. My dear child, there
are more ways to enter and leave this building or even this city than
the gates!”
Faramir was about to snap back that he was well aware of that, but
then he realised just in time that these men did not know of their secret
being discovered. No one else had really known that he too knew of the
passages, and it was easy to guess that these two men had snuck back
in through some passage that opened near the city walls.
Ardamir was truly insane, he decided.
Ardamir picked up his long tunic and tossed it to him. He pulled it
on, even as his mind raced furiously. Merdil *helped* him.
“You are quite pretty,” the older man murmured, “Ardamir
has little interest in other men, but I had a few flings in my youth.
It has been a while,” he murmured, running his other hand down
Faramir’s face.
“Don’t touch me!”
Merdil laughed in response, “Tell me young one? Is it always
the older men who interest you? Your swordmaster first wasn’t
it, and then that ageing captain of the rangers? And now a man old enough
to be your father! Aragorn has found a fine way to ensure your loyalty,
I can see. And he certainly seems to get enough in return” he
said derisively, tugging at Faramir’s still slightly numb wrist.
He was dragged through the long corridors once again, but this time
his fear o enclosed spaces were overridden by his fear for Aragorn.
Aragorn was still unconscious, his face pale, and his eyes remained
frighteningly closed all through. And was in grave danger. Faramir had
never really known Ardamir well as a child but he knew he had been a
good friend to Denethor, as had Merdil. It was not beyond either man
to resent Aragorn’s arrival. But that the resentment could run
so deep as to result in multiple assassination attempts over these months
of Aragorn’s reign, he found hard to believe.
Faramir tried desperately to undo the bindings on his wrists, but they
were too tight. And Merdil clutched his arm hard all along. His palm
hurt from where the knife he had tried to use had nicked it, and he
realised that blood trickled slowly from his hand, leaving a thin trail
on the floor.
“We are here,” Ardamir said suddenly.
Faramir felt himself being pushed through the opening and realised
that they had reached one of the exist that led outside the Citadel.
It was dark outside. Cool, night air hit his face, bringing with the
scent of a night flowering plant. They stood, he realised, in a small
depressed area, mud and stones overgrown with grass. He could see structures
nearby. All was shadowed and silent.
They were in Rath Dinen.
“A fitting place for the king and the steward to die, is it not?”
Ardamir whispered in his ear, pushing him forward towards what he now
realised was the pile of rubble and charred timber that was all that
was left of the House of Stewards after Denethor killed himself.
Chapter 10
Faramir felt his mouth go dry, as his gaze fell on the horrific reminder
of his father’s death. He barely heard Ardamir’s words,
as he tried to calm himself. He shivered slightly. Merdil still held
onto one of his arms. They had tied his hands again once he had dressed,
and the grip was tight. And the knife was still held at Aragorn’s
throat. He knew even one wrong move on his part could result in a grievous
injury to Aragorn, if not worse. Merdil’s breathing felt warm
on the exposed part of his neck.
In front of him all was dark and misty, and he found his nerves were
taut and completely on the edge. This very place was one he was extremely
uncomfortable in, and on this occasion the circumstances seem so fantastic
yet scary that he had to try very hard to regain some semblance of order
in his frantic thoughts. In all this while, he had studiously avoided
coming here, unwilling to visit this place that he often visited in
some of his worst dreams, and so the remains of the House of Stewards
had been left as they were, awaiting orders from the current Steward
who was loathe to even think about the place. Aragorn had wanted to
erect some kind of a memorial here, and it had only been two weeks ago
that Faramir had finally agreed to it. Work was yet to start, however,
and so the rubble remained.
It was completely silent around them and Faramir wondered where the
single guard who usually patrolled the main entrance to the street might
be. It was not hard to guess.
He heard the dulled sounds as Ardamir lowered Aragorn’s prone
body onto the ground. The older man then came and stood in front of
Faramir.
He held the knife he had wrested from Faramir in his hand, “I
was going to borrow your sword, but this serves just as well. One thrust
through the heart should do it.”
Faramir tore his eyes away from the remains of the Stewards’
house and stared back at his kinsman’s gleaming eyes.
“You are insane,” he repeated, his heart racing despite
his best efforts to calm himself. He’d used that very knife to
kill many an Orc in his days in Ithilien. It was sharp, with a longer
blade, and very effective; a single stroke aimed at the right spot usually
achieved its intent.
“You repeat yourself, Faramir. It is boring.”
“Why here?” he breathed out, giving voice to the question
that dominated all those floating in his head. It was unbelievable,
he thought. What was happening was so unexpected he kept wishing he
could wake up and find it was all but a dream. And yet, he knew it was
real.
He had let his guard down for the smallest second and these two men
had taken advantage of that. Instead of protecting Aragorn’s life
as he was sworn to, he had let his own pleasures take precedence. But
then, he thought bitterly, he had been doing that awhile now, and Ardamir
had obviously observed them enough to know that this was bound to happen.
“Why not here?” Merdil stated, “It sounded fitting.
You lured your king here, to show him what you wished for the memorial
for your father and then it’s quite simple. Our fine young Steward,
exhibiting all the madness and despair that his father before him is
supposed to have shown, takes his King’s life, at the site of
his father’s suicide. Now, if we place the wounds just right,
it can easily look like the King tried to save himself by striking you,
but unfortunately, he did not strike in time to save his own life.”
“No!” He stared horrified at them, as the words sunk in.
He wriggled his wrists desperately hoping to loosen the bindings but
to no avail.
“Oh yes! A knife through you too, you little traitorous slut!”
“*You* are the traitors here!” He retorted in anger, “You
swore allegiance to your king. How can you do this to him?”
Merdil swore at that and smacked Faramir had across the back of his
shoulders. Faramir felt his legs give way under him at the sudden blow.
He fell to his knees; unable to balance himself with his hands tied
and cried out as he landed on the rubble. A clout to his head sent him
sprawling face first to the ground, his temple striking one of the myriad
blocks of stone scattered all over the place.
He lay there dazed, desperately wondering how he could extricate Aragorn
from the clutches of these madmen. Aragorn was unconscious and hurt,
he screamed to himself. He had to do something! He felt warm air blow
down his neck, and realised Merdil was leaning over him, while Ardamir
came and knelt down in front of him. He tried to kick out, but then
in one swift movement Merdil had straddled him, to keep his legs in
place.
“The youngeling speaks far too much, Ardamir. Should we give
him a little lesson before we send him his way,” he murmured,
running a hand into Faramir’s collar stopping at the faint marks
left over on the right shoulder from one of Aragorn’s more passionate
kisses.
Ardamir stared coldly at Faramir and it seemed to the younger man that
the councillor’s eyes gleamed angrily, as he grabbed his chin
and forced him to raise his head, “I always said he spoke too
much, when least required. Denethor should not have let his hand grow
light these past years. A few more thrashings would have helped Do as
you please with him, but remember we should be ready to leave soon.”
With that he dropped let go of Faramir’s chin, and rose.
Faramir stiffened involuntarily, and tried to ignore their words in
an effort to regain control. He needed to think, he knew, and to devise
some way to prevent the two men from carrying out their plans. He hoped
desperately that Legolas or Gimli might have noticed their absence,
but how they could track them here he did not know. He decided he could
still stall for time, atleast until he himself could devise a way to
save Aragorn from further injury.
“Oh but he does get thrashed now, doesn’t he?” Merdil
continued silkily to the Steward’s dismay, “Aragorn does
it. Does he always take you over the table like that, child? Your father’s
table? I saw you that day, you know. You made a fine sight. Do you remember
Ardamir?” he called out.
There was a snort in reply from the other man, who had now moved towards
Aragorn and was kneeling by his prone body. Faramir stared at him in
alarm wondering what he was going to do. He tried to move but was stopped
immediately by an increased pressure on his neck and back.
“You’re certainly a pretty one, aren’t you?”
Merdil said conversationally, “You do seem so willing. You seem
to do everything your dear King wants you to. I wonder what all you
might do to save him?”
Faramir turned his head sharply at that ignoring the pain shooting
through his neck at the movement. The surprise must have shown clearly,
because the other man laughed.
“Scared are you, little one?” He ran a finger along the
exposed portion of Faramir’s neck as he continued, “You
certainly trapped a fine one there. No less than the King for you, is
it not? You must be so happy. I do wonder how it is Aragorn cares so
much for a pathetic little thing like you? He might be a ranger but
he fights well enough.”
“Whatever you want to do to him, Merdil, you must hurry,”
Ardamir said in a bored tone, “Aragorn might wake up.”
He rolled over Aragorn’s body so that the King now lay on his
back, and began feeling along his chest as though to find the perfect
place to strike. His precise movements induced more fear in Faramir’s
mind than Merdil's words were doing.
“You can’t get away with this,” he hissed, and tried
to kick out his legs.
“Yes we can. No one can suspect us,” Merdil said. He pressed
Faramir’s neck down and lowered his entire body on him to prevent
him thrashing around. The younger man was forced to turn his head to
be able to breathe, “You’ve been involved in all the suspicious
happenings to date. Do I even have to tell you how many rumours fly
that all this cosiness you exhibit towards the King is nothing but a
sly front?”
“Oh, I’m sure you really do crave his attention, but so
openly, dear boy? And we are not even in the city. I told you, dear
child, we know of ways in and out of the city that no one else does.
Now tell me, what will you do to save your king’s life?”
“Let him go,” Faramir gritted out, as he watched Ardamir
rocking back on his heels, having pinpointed the area to strike, “Please!”
“It would have been much more fun if he were awake to watch me
touch your filthy little body that he covets so much,” Merdil
murmured.
“Let us get this over with soon,” Ardamir muttered quietly,
“It is unlikely that little fool’s screaming can be heard,
but there is no call for unnecessary risk. Fool around with him all
you please, but do it soon. I need you to come and hold up Aragorn so
I can strike him.”
Faramir gasped softly at that. Merdil rose off him, and promptly hauled
him to his feet, pulling him up by his collar. He felt increasingly
frustrated. No matter what he tried, he could not free himself, and
time was running out. He finally took a deep breath and spoke, as Merdil
dragged him forward.
“What is it you wish me to do? I will do what you wish, Lord
Merdil, please just leave Aragorn be,” he knew even as he said
the words that they were of little use. Merdil had been playing with
him and that much was obvious.
“The other man simply laughed now, and shook his head, “I
cannot grant that. Aragorn will die, no matter what you do!”
“It’s a pity. I don’t think I’d want a turn
with a pathetic little slut like you, but Aragorn would have been a
fine piece to do,” he goaded, as he dragged Faramir towards the
other two men, “I’ve heard tales about the northern Dúnedain,
specially the ones that are fostered at the elves’. They say they
have fine skills. Is that why you run after him, child? I should have
had some fun with him, I suppose.”
He shoved Faramir to the ground again, and knelt by Aragorn now, letting
his hand over his chest.
“I wouldn’t let you near him!” Faramir retorted defiantly.
Ardamir snorted again, “You’ve failed then, haven’t
you? In all your duties. If you had to let down the House of Húrin as
you have done, you might atleast have done it properly. You really are
a disgrace, just by your mere presence! You have let Gondor down Faramir,
and you shall pay for that tonight. I will see you dead, and not merely
dead but dead and dishonoured!”
Faramir waited for the tirade to end, before he straightened himself
the best he could in his awkward position on the ground, and then spoke.
“It is you who disgrace the house. You are letting Gondor down,
do you not see that? He is the King. He is of Elendil’s line.
How can you dispute his rule? It was our duty to rule Gondor ‘til
the King returned, and we did so for years. Why do you wish to destroy
that now?” he knew his tone had changed from angry to pleading,
but he could not help it. Ardamir might have been his father’s
crony and a kinsman, but surely Denethor would never have gone to such
lengths. He would have accepted Aragorn, of that Faramir was sure. He
would have accepted what was best for Gondor. If he could only get Ardamir
to see that.
Ardamir rose and stepped forward, his usually handsome features contorted
in fury, “How dare you?” he shouted.
Hauling Faramir up, he grabbed his hair with one hand, and slapped
him with the other, forcefully across his face, twice. The second blow
was hard enough to send him nearly spiralling to the floor as the grip
on his hair loosened. Already tired somewhat by the prior exertions,
he found himself sliding to the ground exhaustedly. A kick to the ribs
however, had him shooting up again. He cried out in pain. Looking up,
blinking away the tears he hadn’t even known had coated his eyes,
his eyes fell on Aragorn, still lying there. The red stain under his
hair had grown larger now. He stared hard hoping for the grey eyes to
open, forgetting for one brief moment the aches and pains that coursed
through him as another kick landed on the small of his back sending
him falling again.
“Enough!” Merdil stepped forward, “Too much bruising
may look suspicious. The bindings we left on the bedposts could explain
some of the marks but it is better not to stretch it too far! Let me
deal with this fool!”
“I would have liked to have sent you to the same fate as your
poor father sent himself through,” he blazed at Faramir as he
pulled the staggering man up.
He pulled his face closer till their lips were almost touching. Faramir
shuddered and tried to avert his face, but the grip on his chin prevented
him from doing so.
Then they hard the sound.
It was very soft, and had it not been for a moment of absolute silence,
Faramir might not even have heard the tiny moan that came out of Aragorn’s
lips. All three men turned immediately, to see the King stirring slowly.
“Kill him – now!” Merdil hissed out, even as his
friend moved forward, the knife glinting in what little light there
was.
“No!” Faramir cried out and wrenched himself out of Merdil’s
grip.
He threw himself, bound hands and all at the moving figure. They fell
to the ground in a heap. Faramir was not entirely aware of all that
happened, just that it was ark, and there was a lot of noise, and little
he could do. He kicked wildly at the figure under him, he used his head
to butt into what he thought might be the other man’s ribs. He
even contemplated biting him. A stinging feeling went through his right
shoulder, but he ignored it.
The confused state of affairs continued until he felt himself being
pulled away, “That is it! I’ve had enough of your silly
little tricks,” Merdil was screaming, as he loomed over him.
Faramir cried out at the sudden pain that rushed through his shoulder
and upper chest, as Merdil viciously pulled out the knife that had lodged
in his shoulder during the tussle. Silent tears coursed down his face
as he lay on the cold ground, his body trembling and heaving, his bound
hands shivering incessantly. Merdil handed the bloodied weapon to Ardamir
who had risen by now.
He stared in a daze at them. His upper body was on fire and he couldn’t
even get up. The knife glinted menacingly over him. He shifted his gaze
towards Aragorn and noticed the eyelids fluttering, and he wondered
vaguely if he might get to see those grey eyes again. “Leave him
be!” For the second time, an unexpected sound cut through a brief
moment of silence. Ardamir and Merdil whipped their heads towards the
entrance route they had used. Faramir couldn’t see where the noise
came from, but he recognised the voices.
Then something or someone fell on him snarling in fury. He felt his
head being pulled up roughly, and just as suddenly it seemed it was
smashed into the hard ground. A blinding pain shot through his aching
head at the impact, and he sobbed harshly. Ardamir, he thought, was
screaming in his ear. Around him, confusion reigned. The pain across
his head seemed to override everything else and it suddenly seemed darker
than before. He thought he was dreaming. He thought he could hear Legolas
whispering in his ear, asking him if he was all right. The Elf sounded
angry, he thought. He tried to burrow away from the pain and noise,
but he couldn’t move and his head and shoulder were aching miserably.
He heard Gimli shouting, and wondered why his normally genial friend
was so angry. He wondered if they were all shouting at him, but found
he couldn’t imagine why. Unless they were still angry over him
and Aragorn. He couldn’t help that, he told himself.
But Aragorn had been hurt, and he thought he said so to the Elf, who
was helping him sit up. Then everything went completely black.
Chapter 11
Legolas grabbed Faramir as he pitched forward, and gently pulled the
unconscious man into his arms, tugging his legs from under Ardamir’s
prone form. The stained knife lay on the ground, having fallen out of
the older man’s hands when Gimli had shoved him off a struggling
Faramir. Minardil and Turgon of the guard had taken care of Merdil at
the outset, and in the confusion that ensued; Ardamir had turned from
where Aragorn lay to attack Faramir. He had grabbed the dazed Steward
by his hair and slammed him into the ground, all the while screaming
at him. Legolas had reached them just in time to prevent him driving
the knife into Faramir’s unprotected midriff.
“He said Aragorn was hurt!” he called out to Gimli and
Minardil, where they stood over Aragorn. Turgon was determinedly seeing
to the two conspirators.
“Yes, he has an injury to his forehead, but he is rising now,”
Minardil called out.
Aragorn was indeed trying to rise, despite Gimli’s best efforts
to prevent him doing so. He looked dazed and confused, having woken
up amidst the struggles that had ensued around him. His face was pale
and the blood that seeped out of the cut under his hairline, stood out
starkly against the grey skin. He was trying now to take stock of his
surroundings.
“What is happening?” he murmured tiredly, as Minardil helped
him sit up, “Where – Is that Merdil?”
The other man simply nodded, as Aragorn buried his aching head in his
hands, and then almost immediately jerked it up, ignoring the pain that
hit him.
“Faramir!” he shouted fearfully, “I saw him. Where
is he?”
“He is well,” Gimli tried to reassure him, as Aragorn made
to get to his feet. He stumbled over the stones towards Legolas who
was still holding Faramir.
“He is a little bruised, Aragorn, but I think he will be all
right,” the Elf stated.
Aragorn crouched by them and gently brushed the hair off Faramir’s
face and studied the discoloured forehead and face, and then examined
the cut on the shoulder. It was an ugly gash, and still bleeding, but
it was not very deep. He could see other signs of injury too, marks
all over the body, and a shallow wound in the palm of the right hand.
Aragorn himself was in no fit condition. He sank to his knees and tried
to think clearly but his head was pounding. He looked around once again.
“Rath Dinen,” he gasped softly, as he realised where they
were.
“They chose a fine place,” Gimli muttered sarcastically,
the anger coming through clearly. The Silent Street had plenty of connotations
and none of them seemed pleasant given the circumstances, especially
for Faramir.
“Let me see to his injuries,” Aragorn said painfully, standing
up once again. His head whirled as he rose, and he nearly fell, only
Minardil’s hand on his arm keep him up.
“He will be fine,” the older man said gently, “Come,
Sire, you are hurt too. We should get you in. It is too cold. Turgon,
arrest those two men.”
“We’ll see to Faramir,” Gimli assured him, while
Legolas effortlessly scooped up the Steward’s unmoving form.
Aragorn nodded unhappily, and finally accepted Minardil’s arm,
his face scrunching up in pain. The councillor gently led him back to
the Citadel with Gimli’s help. They decided to use the passage,
having no desire to attract untoward attention. Turgon stayed behind
to watch over their prisoners until the rest of the guard came to take
them away.
A chilly breeze was heralding the onset of dawn as they left the street.
The sky had lightened somewhat. Aragorn stubbornly stayed awake all
through the walk back to his rooms, collapsing against Minardil only
when he reached his chambers, the headache from his wound proving too
much to bear.
The Warden of the Houses of Healing had hurried to the Citadel to tend
to both men. After seeing to their wounds, he had declared that neither
was seriously hurt. Faramir might need to keep his arm in a sling for
a few days and both would probably suffer a bad headache, but that would
be all.
The others heaved a sigh of relief at that. They had been worried they
may have arrived too late when they had seen Aragorn lying still on
the ground, and Faramir struggling against the attackers. Their arrival
had been a matter of chance. Wishing to ask Aragorn if he wished to
join them over the ale they had brought back from one of the taverns,
Legolas and Gimli had stopped at the king’s chambers only to find
them empty, and the chair that had been propped against the passage
entrance no longer in place. It had been the tiny stains of blood from
the cut in Faramir’s palm that had alerted them to danger. A closer
look revealed hastily covered up signs of struggle. The stains had shown
them the way down the passage too, and hurriedly calling on Minardil
and Turgon for help they had set out in search of their friends.
When Aragorn woke up later in the day, he had wanted to rise immediately,
and had much to say on the subject of his enforced bed rest. Leaving
the angry king to deal with the Warden, the two friends had hastily
escaped to Faramir’s rooms in search of a little quiet. Faramir
had slept all through since they had brought him back, waking up just
once for the briefest of seconds. Legolas felt a little guilty as he
noticed the exhaustion written on the sleeping man’s face, when
he thought of how he had deliberately chosen to speak to Faramir on
a subject that he should really have spoken to Aragorn of. But Aragorn
was a very close friend, and Legolas had found it easier to confront
Faramir first, especially as he had found that that way he could safely
vent his anger and frustration on the other man, something he could
never get himself to do with Aragorn.
“Poor lad,” Gimli said, “He looks tired.”
“He’s waking up,” Legolas exclaimed, as he saw Faramir
stir under the covers.
“I’ll get the Warden,” Gimli offered.
“Yes, but do not let Aragorn know. He will not lie still!”
Legolas said as he darted towards Faramir who was trying to push off
his covers in his half-asleep state. Legolas stroked his hair gently
and urged him to wake up, as he murmured something unintelligible. Faramir
awoke in a haze of dull pain. His shoulder stung, and his head throbbed
miserably. He blinked a few times, trying to figure out why he felt
so tired. The memories came rushing back, and he sat up gasping in horror,
as he remembered that someone had been trying to kill Aragorn. Then,
he realised he was in his chambers and not out on the grass where he
last remembered being. “Hush, now, don’t move yet. Let me
help you,” the soft, musical voice rang in his ear, and he looked
up in surprise at Legolas’s concerned expression, and he wondered
of it had all just been a dream. “Legolas? What do you do here?”
he asked, his voice strangely hoarse and dry. “Would you like
some water?” the Elf asked gently. He nodded, and tried to sit
up only to fall back down with a cry. A sharp sliver of pain shot through
his head, another through his ribs and shoulder, and unbidden tears
pooled in his eyes, as he gasped at the waking sensations. “Lie
still,” Legolas cried out softly, “Let me help you.”
He nodded, and tried to sit up only to fall back down with a cry. A
sharp sliver of pain shot through his head, another through his arm
and unbidden tears pooled in his eyes, as he gasped at the waking sensations.
It hadn’t been a dream he realised. Merdil and Ardamir had indeed
attacked Aragorn.
“Aragorn,” he pleaded hoarsely, unable to speak beyond
that.
“He’s fine,” Legolas said soothingly.
He found himself pulled up leaning against the Elf’s chest. Too
confused to think clearly, he obediently opened his mouth and sipped
the water that Legolas fed him slowly. He felt very tired, and he was
extremely worried for Aragorn. He wanted to sleep but not until he had
seen for himself that Aragorn was safe. He asked for him yet again.
More voices filtered through his muddled brain and he struggled to concentrate
finding the Warden, and Gimli had entered the room. They wouldn’t
let him get up again. The Warden looked him over, even as he protested,
then gave him a healing draught, which soon put him to sleep again.
When he woke a second time, he felt much better, and this time he had
a clear memory of all that had happened. He sat up quickly against his
pillows and yawning, glanced around his rooms, stiffening when his eyes
fell on the figure curled up in the large chair by the fireplace. A
white bandage stood out under the dark hair, and the face was still
a little pale and drawn but it was still the face he loved. “Aragorn,”
he cried out softly, and regretted ot immediately for the king seemed
to be resting and he had no wish to disturb him. Aragorn however, came
awake immediately and turning at the sound, moved forward swiftly, his
expression relieved and happy. Soon Faramir found himself wrapped around
a careful but loving embrace, his face being subjected to a series of
gentle kisses.
He found he was sobbing silently, tears coursing down his cheeks, even
as kisses rained down on him.
“Why do you cry? Do you hurt anywhere?” Aragorn demanded
fervently, pulling away a little, and subjecting Faramir to a critical
scrutiny.
“No, I am well, but I was so scared for you. They wouldn’t
let me get up and – Oh Aragorn! You are hurt! You should not be
out of bed,” Faramir said worriedly, as he fingered the bandage.
“I sneaked out, but Celion waits for me outside. They said you
were sleeping for you were very tired, but I was so worried for you,
I had to see you for myself” Aragorn murmured, as he stroked Faramir’s
hair gently.
Faramir moved a little and made space for Aragorn so that they could
sit comfortably in each other’s arms.
“I was afraid they hurt you badly. You were lying so still all
the while,” Faramir said quietly, “If it had not been for
the others arriving when they did, I fear -,” he shuddered at
the thought, “I – I tired to stop them, but I could not
have kept up much longer.”
“Hush, sweetheart, don’t think about it anymore. We are
both well, and that is all that matters.”
When Legolas and Gimli went to see Aragorn in his chambers a while
later, they found the bed empty. Wisely forbearing form raising an alert
immediately, they nevertheless, raced down to Faramir’s chambers
stopping only when they saw Celion standing in front of the door with
a determined expression on his young face. He nodded shyly at them and
let them enter before resuming his guard duty.
Legolas shook his head with a sigh at the sight of Aragorn leaning
against the pillows on the bed, holding Faramir tenderly in his arms,
both men fast asleep.
Aragorn recovered completely in two days as did Faramir but for the
bruised ribs and immobile shoulder that caused restricted his movements
somewhat. Aragorn had been concerned over how Faramir might have felt
to be dragged back into Rath Dinen, but the younger man would not speak
of it. He, in fact, spoke little of what he had endured while Aragorn
had been unconscious, merely relating the reasons Ardamir and Merdil
had given for their acts. But Aragorn’s conversations with Merdil
and Ardamir themselves, a few days later, in the rooms where each had
been placed under arrest, had also given him an inkling of anything
else they might have said to Faramir. He did not at all like the idea
that they might have taunted the younger man.
He had expected resistance to his claim, and Faramir’s immediate
acknowledgement of his heritage, as he had healed him of the black breath
had surprised him greatly. Now, that the opposition had come and in
such a string manner, he was not sure what to feel. These were old men,
who had been in Gondor for many years. Their actions would be tried
by the entire ruling council and he knew well that they faced either
exile or death, for attempting to murder the King and the Steward. He
himself was very angry with them, but he found that the anger was more
due to the fact that Faramir would have been harmed too by the whole
plan, and of the worry the Steward had endured all these weeks on account
of such lies as were perpetrated by the two men.
That night they made love for the first time after the ordeal, slowly
and gently, relishing each other’s very presence, and both knew
deep inside that whatever might have been said to put down their relationship
was mere fallacy, and that the other knew it too.
Aragorn smiled as he watched Faramir greet Arwen a few days later.
The younger man still wore a sling, and his face still bore faint marks
of injury, but he looked well otherwise. He had, a few days earlier,
received a sudden and unexpected message from Arwen, that she had cut
short her journey to Dol Amroth and would be returning soon. Aragorn
was soon to have an heir, as she had discovered. It was news that had
been received with great joy all over the City, and the Queen’s
arrival was cheered by all. Aragorn and she had spent a few quiet moments
together before entering the throne room where a small celebratory lunch
had been planned with the lords and ladies and other important dignitaries
of the land. He had quietly accepted that Legolas had been correct when
he had advised him and Faramir to tone things down in public, yet at
the same time he found that others seemed more receptive of his closeness
with Faramir. It was now a well- known fact that Faramir had kept Aragorn
safe while they were in Ardamir’s clutches, and that very fact
seemed to have brought the Steward back into the rest of the Council’s
favour. And now Arwen’s open concern for the younger man, and
her genuine warmth on seeing him well would go a long way in convincing
people that the rumours floating around earlier had been just that.
Watching Arwen smiling and talking to the various dignitaries, even
as he listened to the prattle of one of the ladies, he suddenly remembered
that Éowyn would be returning from Rohan on the morrow. She had heard
of what had happened, but only after Faramir had recovered, much to
her chagrin, for he did not want her to worry. She had left for Minas
Tirith as soon as she could.
Aragorn looked towards Faramir again, smiling as he noted how fine
he looked when he dressed up in court finery. They had the rest of this
day, after the lunch, he decided, and excusing himself as politely as
possible, he walked in the direction of a small curtained alcove. Catching
Faramir’s eye, he nodded discreetly towards the alcove.
Faramir caught the glance, and watched bemusedly as Aragorn slipped
out of the celebration. Waiting a few moments, he too moved out discreetly,
and slipped through the curtains, into the tiny little room.
Aragorn smiled at him and gently tugged him forward, kissing him lightly
on his lips, “In your chambers, after we are rid of all these
people,” he said.
Faramir nodded smiling, and Aragorn deepened the kiss before pulling
away and slipping out again. When Faramir came out a few moments he
ran into Legolas who quirked an eyebrow at the curtains.
“I love him greatly,” he told Legolas quietly.
“I know,” came the equally quiet response.
The celebration left most of the inhabitants of the Citadel feeling
lazy and sluggish for the rest of the day, save the two men in the Steward’s
room, who had not time for laziness, as they hastily pulled off each
other’s clothes., and fell into the soft sheets where they spent
the rest of the day undisturbed.
The End
