Faramir Fiction Archive

A Hard Choice (NC-17)

Written by Nerey Camille

17 December 2011 | 13421 words

Summary: Faramir finds himself in a very, very complicated dilemma, one that neither his heart nor his ethics can find a clear solution for.
Pairings: Aragorn, Arwen.
Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex.
Warnings: AU (Éowyn doesn’t appear), sexual content, some angst, some immorality (such as blackmail and adultery), some violence (implied).
Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien’s. No profit is being made.

Notes: As always, feedback is very much appreciated. Thanks to Jade for the inspiring request! I hope the result is to your liking, now that the story is – at last! – complete. Thanks Bartemia for your enduring interest and long comments, that really kept me going! This story is based on the book The Lord of the Rings. Regarding characterization, I drew inspiration for the story from my joint work with December on a (yet unfinished) plot based on her challenge Loyalty. My deeply felt thanks go to her for granting permission to reuse that work, but most of all for the magnificent experience. I wonder if you’ll recognize elements from our discussions in the story…

Written for the 2011 Midsummer Retakes.

Request by Jade: I’d like to see Faramir face a tough choice of having to choose between a man he’s always admired and secretly desires or an elf who desires him. Who he chooses is up to you but it must not be an easy choice for him to make. Though I’d like a rating of R or NC-17 any rating will be fine and it can be any man and any elf.

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Chapter 1. Where the Steward and the King first meet, under rather unusual circumstances

Faramir stirred, opened his eyes, and looked at the man who bent over him. By the wisdom and majesty on his brow he knew it was the King, returned to Gondor against all hope. By his kind, gentle features he recognized the saviour of his dream, the fearless lord who had gone into the shadows to find him and bring him back.

A light of knowledge and love was kindled in Faramir’s eyes, and he spoke softly. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

The older man’s words were music in Faramir’s ears. “Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”

Faramir smiled inwardly, moved to the core. So fitting for a King to bring healing to the soul as well as the limbs, to transmit with his first words both his care for a subject’s well-being and his appreciation of that subject’s value as a helper. His father would have done neither… but Denethor’s days, the days of sadness, were over now and joy was at hand.

“I will, lord,” he replied. “For who would lie idle when the king has returned?”

Chapter 2. Where the Steward is happy, and then he realizes he is in trouble

Joy had indeed come with the return of the King. Despite his father’s death, for which he grieved, Faramir was happy in the days that followed Sauron’s fall. He worked hard to help rebuild Minas Tirith, city of kings, and to relieve the many hurts of the country. For the first time in his life he felt his work was valued by the man to whom he owed allegiance, and it made a difference so great he could not yet believe it.

It took him some time to realize that his happiness was of a sort that could lead him to trouble. At first he didn’t question his sheer elation whenever Aragorn asked for his presence and they both spent hours side by side, working together in silence. Or the feeling of intense well-being whenever Aragorn’s hand would touch his shoulder or arm in a gesture of approval and affection. Or even the fact that he always called him Aragorn in his mind (although he invariably addressed him as King Elessar aloud), and felt a secret pleasure in doing so.

But one evening, the Steward and the King met on the walls of Minas Tirith. The moon was young and cast but a pale light into the warm late spring night. Faramir had come on the battlements for some fresh air and quiet after a long day’s work, and so had Aragorn, apparently. He came to the young man who stood by the wall and stopped mere feet away from him. They both looked east in silence for a while.

“A moon like this always reminds me of the night on which I learned Boromir’s death,” said Faramir in a low voice.

“I can understand that,” replied Aragorn, equally softly. “The thought is grievous, is it not?”

“It has been for so long, but not tonight,” said Faramir, and he was surprised by his own words, yet knew they were true. Here, in Aragorn’s company, he felt nothing but a great serenity. Even though his dear brother was very present on his mind and the sorrow of his death should have weighed on his heart like a tombstone, it didn’t. And Faramir realized it was because he no longer felt alone.

He remembered, though, that Aragorn had no such reason for contentment, and that he too must have missed Boromir and grieved at his death. More than that: he must certainly have felt the burden of guilt; one that only he, Faramir, might be able to relieve.

“I never thanked you for what you did for my brother,” he said, “sending him over the river after he fell. The thought that I could see him one last time has comforted me many times. It must have helped him, too, knowing he was with friends who would not forsake him.”

Aragorn’s hand came to rest on his shoulder, in a silent gesture of gratitude. Faramir stood there, enjoying the night. A small tremor ran down his spine.

Then there was the time when Aragorn summoned him to his quarters. There had been delved into the ground a fine bath, chest-deep and large enough for a tall man to lie in it without touching its borders. When Faramir arrived that day, he found the King pacing to and fro inside the tub, his chest making little ripples on the water as he moved. Faramir was not prepared to see the King in such a private situation, and stood hesitating on the threshold; but Aragorn beckoned to him, and the young man could do nothing but obey.

So forward he came, acutely aware that Aragorn’s head was at the level of his own ankles, and that it would seem disrespectful, not to mention awkward, to look at him from above. Yet he could not see any way around the problem, unless the King actually expected him to climb into the bath with him. At the thought of being naked in Aragorn’s company, Faramir’s stomach gave a jolt of excitement, and to his utter embarrassment and alarm he felt the beginnings of an erection inside his trousers.

“I wish to have the bath expanded,” said Aragorn. “I’ve called you so we could discuss the new measurements. I would like it to be big enough for two people to swim comfortably in it.”

“Two people, my lord?” asked Faramir feebly, one half of his mind wildly wondering who might Aragorn want to share his bath with, while the other searched desperately for a way to hide the state he was in. Finally he knelt beside the tub, his hands folded on his lap and his eyes firmly fixed on Aragorn’s head.

“Yes. There will soon be someone to share these rooms with me.”

This time, Faramir managed to recover his senses and ask in a hopefully appropriate tone:

“Are you… welcoming a long-term guest, my lord?”

Aragorn laughed.

“Something like that. I am getting married.”

Faramir gaped. All at once his physical troubles disappeared, while at the same time it seemed that his heart skipped a beat and some part of it was torn and started to bleed softly. Yet his mind was instantly and keenly alert, and he had time to register a light of pure happiness in Aragorn’s grey eyes. That sobered him more than anything else, and he mastered himself quickly.

“All my good wishes, my lord. I doubt not the lady in question is truly exceptional.”

“She is indeed,” said Aragorn with a smile, “and she loves water. That is why I have called you.”

Much later, after discussing all the arrangements for the bath and other parts of the royal apartments, Faramir was finally granted permission to leave. He felt dizzy. He walked all the way out of the halls without noticing where his feet led him, and finally found himself in a quiet garden near Rath Dínen. It was a place his mother had loved, one of the few green areas in Minas Tirith, probably the fairest since it was reserved for the Steward’s use and had been personally tended to by Finduilas. Faramir sat on a bench, miserably looking at the blooming flowers. He could pretend no longer. He harboured feelings for his King that were well beyond the admiration and gratitude that might be expected from him as a subject. Earlier, while in Aragorn’s room, he had been unable to avoid seeing Aragorn’s body; he had revelled in the contemplation of his damp hair falling over his back, his broad shoulders that carried the burden of a kingdom, his strong arms and legs, his richly draped manhood gently swaying in the water… He had wondered what kind of lover this magnificent warrior would be, he had imagined what it would be like to bury his hands in that black mane, to be held and caressed by those strong arms, to…

He desired Aragorn, there was no doubt about it. That in itself was no cause for ailment, for Faramir had discovered long ago that he could feel attracted to people of any gender. He knew it to be a part of his nature, as well as that of a number of other people; and for all that desire between two males was considered a crime and a disgrace by most in Gondor (his father among them), he had never felt any shame or guilt because of it. The law did not frighten him; his conscience had ever been his only compass, however high a price that had cost him; and the nights spent with some of his Rangers had taught him that love and lust between two men were no different in nature, not dirtier or worse than between a man and a woman.

Nor was it surprising that he should have fallen for Aragorn, of all people. The man had saved him; he had soon replaced his father and brother as a leader and a friend; he was the greatest warrior and lord of people Faramir had ever met (or would ever meet, for that matter); he was a lover of lore and peace, even as himself; and into the bargain, he was a sensitive, clear-sighted, marvellously fair man who looked far younger than his true age. Why, it was only to be expected that he should fall in love with him; if anything, the reverse would have been queer.

Yes, the fact of loving a man was no news to Faramir; the fact of loving Aragorn might be almost unavoidable; but all that was now of no avail. Aragorn very likely didn’t share his tastes, he might be revolted by the very idea. Even if he didn’t mind it personally, he was the King, and as such he was supposed to set an example and enforce Gondor’s traditions. Finally, most insurmountable of all, he was already in love, a most profound and passionate love. And from what Faramir had seen in the King’s eyes, Aragorn was not the kind of man who would love at once more than one person. Nay, there was no way Aragorn would return Faramir’s feelings. All that remained for the young man to do was to hope that the future Queen would be a fit mate for Aragorn, and that he himself could endure her. He believed so; he trusted his love to be greater than his need, or even his desire of Aragorn; and that would aid him. Yet as he looked over the walls of the garden toward the blue skies and the white pinnacles of the Citadel, he felt tears welling inside his chest.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Faramir feels very happy around Aragorn, but doesn’t question the fact at first. But when Aragorn calls him to discuss some arrangements for his marriage, the pain Faramir feels at the news and the fact of seeing Aragorn in his bath make him realize that he loves and desires Aragorn, hopeless though these feelings certainly are.

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Chapter 3. Where the Queen arrives, and Faramir is pierced

The Queen had arrived, and Faramir had found her dazzlingly beautiful. He could very well understand why she had been called Evenstar, or why his lord loved her. As she held Aragorn’s hand at the wedding, Faramir himself had had some trouble keeping his senses and his mind centred on the ceremony, for she seemed by her mere presence to take everyone around her onto a journey across the skies, far far away from the ugly world where they were standing. Lovely, so lovely she was, almost too bright to behold in her nuptial attire. It had taken a while for the impression to pass away.

Then there had been the evening feast. It had been even worse to contemplate Aragorn’s joy as he received his Steward’s good wishes with a radiant smile. Such happiness was in his traits that it was almost painful to behold. And Faramir felt his heart shrink, for all that he thought the Queen to be a fitting match for the man he loved. He felt alone, horribly and desperately alone in the midst of the general merriment, and his misery was made worse by the fact that he could not share it with any living soul, least of all with Aragorn his friend. The Elven lady’s sparkling presence seemed to Faramir like thunder shattering his hopes again and again, and he wondered if he could ever get used to the pain.

Because from now on he was to live near her and see her day after day…

Starting today, for he had only seen her so far amidst a crowd of other people, and Aragorn wanted his Queen and his Steward to be more personally acquainted. So Faramir fastened the mantle of his black and silver court dress, threw a last look at his reflection to ensure that no trace of his sleepless night showed on his face, and headed for the royal apartments.

Queen Arwen was sitting in her boudoir, with Aragorn standing by her. As Faramir entered and bowed, the King familiarly took him by the arm and led him to a seat in front of her.

“I will leave you two to speak,” he said, and kissing his lady’s hand most tenderly he left the room before Faramir could say a word.

“Steward Faramir,” she said, and the sound of her voice was more exquisite than Faramir had thought possible in any living being, “it is most gracious of you to have come to speak with me. I find myself a stranger in this city, Queen to a people whose customs I do not know, and away from the only homes I have ever known. If you would bestow your friendship and kindness upon me, it would be most gratefully welcome.”

With these words her limpid gaze bore deep into his eyes, and Faramir felt his very soul was being looked at. No place to hide, no way to flee from that clear stare that in one second reached to the bottom of his mind. Faramir met Arwen’s gaze steadily and brazenly, and read in her grey eyes that she had discovered his secret.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Faramir meets the Queen and finds her dazzlingly beautiful, which crushes his hopes of being loved by Aragorn even more. On top of it, the King wants his Steward and the Queen to become friends, but as soon as Faramir is alone with Arwen, she looks at him and discovers his secret.

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Chapter 4. Where the Queen isn’t happy, and Faramir is in even greater trouble

Faramir waited in the royal gardens of Minas Tirith, holding a bundle of papers in his hand. The usual butterflies zoomed around inside his belly, as he braced himself for yet another of those enchanted moments. What would she say of the words he had painstakingly written in the tongue of Imladris? The thought worried him but for a moment; she was gentle and kind. She would praise his effort, correct his mistakes with easy courtesy, and tell him as always that he would do better next time. And then they would spend the afternoon enjoyably, she talking of her ancient home, he listening, as much entranced by her loveliness as by the marvellous tales she unveiled for him, and only now and again speaking of his own country, of Gondor, its people, its customs, its legends. All things she was eager to hear about, although less now than a few months before, he had noticed.

Was she happy? He desired her to be; most sincerely. So frail she was and so strong at the same time, both Elvish and most piercingly, endearingly human. He had come to wish her joy and happiness even more than he did Aragorn, for the King was a tough and seasoned man, one who had borne the weight of mortality on his shoulders since he was born, whereas her… Yet a shadow of doubt remained in his heart. And it was growing.

But not today. He would, as always, welcome her, and treasure these hours during which he could enter a different world, one long gone by but still endlessly fascinating, that of the Firstborns and their subtle, yet powerful magic… And in return for that gift he would offer his friendship, that he knew was more precious to her than any other. For as a sister she was dear to him, and he understood her.

His Ranger-sharp ears didn’t detect her soft footsteps on the grass, but some other sense warned him of her sudden presence. He turned, smiling as he beheld Queen Arwen’s beauty approaching amidst the trees.

“No sun can shine when the Evenstar comes,” he murmured as he bowed low, as always overwhelmed by her comeliness.

“Ah, but I am jealous of her nonetheless. For she has shone on you far longer today than I have. How are you, my friend?”

She took a close look at him and saw, as always, sweet melancholy beneath his joy. He saw in her gaze more suffering than he had ever perceived so far. But she smiled before he could say anything.

“You promised to translate that text before our next meeting. Was it very difficult for you?”

“Not so much as to be unmanageable,” he smiled, handing her the bundle. She examined it carefully.

“It is very good indeed,” she said respectfully. “Your mastery of Imladris’ tongue has become second to none, except that of the people who were raised there. But what is that?” She was looking at a piece of parchment that Faramir still held in his hand.

“This is something else, and I crave your indulgence upon reading it,” he said. “I wished to write something for you, and I have been working on it for some time.”

He gave it to her, reciting the verses to himself as she read; lines about her kindness, her gaiety, her wondrous beauty. He felt quite sure the poem would please her; he was all the more shocked and distressed when he saw tears of sorrow falling from her eyes. Her trembling hand opened and the parchment slid onto the grass. She looked at him, despair in her face, and as he returned her gaze with anguished grey eyes, she fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.

For a moment Faramir was at a complete loss about what to do. Then he sank beside her, took her hands in his, tried to wipe her tears with a handkerchief.

“My lady… my queen… do not cry, I beg you…”

She shook her head and the piece of tissue fell on the earth. Understanding there was nothing else for it, Faramir opened his arms and allowed the Elf to lie against his chest. Arwen took refuge there eagerly, clutching to him as a drowning person to a lifeline. The young man caressed her long black hair, brushing her pointed ears. Both hair and skin were as soft as silk and strangely cool. Her tears fell on Faramir’s bosom, each of them going straight through his heart; and in a sudden impulse of pity Faramir drew his arms around her and embraced her.

“What a fool I have been,” he murmured. “I knew you were not happy. You are disappointed in us, aren’t you?”

“The King,” she cried in a barely audible, broken voice, “the King…”

Faramir nodded. The pain and pity he felt for her and Aragorn were boundless.

“Does he know?” he asked quietly. She shook her head.

“He won’t notice,” she said bitterly. “You are the only one I can turn to, the only one who will understand me… But for you…”

She looked up at him with tearful eyes.

“But for you, I would long have cursed the choice I made,” she said, and suddenly her lips were brushing his.

Faramir drew back sharply, and his eyes scanned the garden for any witnesses to what had just happened. Reassured that they were alone, he looked at her, aghast.

“What in the name of Gondor are you doing?”

Her eyes saw horror and mistrust in his, and filled anew with unshed tears.

“Faramir,” she pleaded, “you cannot possibly deny the feelings that are between us. You care for me, and you are the only one I wish to be with. You are tender, passionate, everything that Aragorn is not. We have the same tastes. Had I known you before I pledged my troth to Estel, I would have chosen you.”

“Arwen,” he adjured, using the Queen’s name for the first time, “I pray you to listen to reason. You know in your heart that you do not really love me; and painful or discourteous as it may seem to you for me to say it, I do not love you… at least in that way. But even were it so, how could you, how could I betray the King’s trust and our oaths of loyalty? You have made a choice, my lady,” he added in a gentler tone, “you must live by it.”

With these words he rose, proffering his hand to help her to her feet. But Arwen stood up by herself, and her eyes glared with vexation.

“So that is what you think?” she retorted fiercely. “That I should accept this situation, resign myself to leading an unhappy life for a few short years, and then die as any mortal princess would?”

Her blazing eyes met his stern, firm, kind look and once again she felt she would melt in tears. But she bit her lip, straightened her spine and held Faramir’s gaze steadily.

“I thought I had found a friend in you,” she said coldly, “one who truly cared for me. But I see I am alone. You would rather take the King’s side. Think you I do not know why?”

Faramir paled with hurt and anger, but spoke softly.

“Do not be unjust in your grief. You know full well that is not how the matter stands.”

She dropped on her knees.

“For the last time, Faramir, I beg it of you!”

He shook his head, unable to speak. She rose to her feet, and slowly her face became grim, as if she had adopted some desperate resolution.

“You will not grant my request,” she said quietly, and Faramir shuddered at the new ice in her voice. “Therefore I will ask no more, but command instead. I am the daughter of Elrond and your Queen, and I shall not accept this doom. I chose love, and love I will have. I require it from you. And were you not to obey, I know enough of your secrets to disgrace you in the eyes of the King and the whole realm of Gondor. I give you until tomorrow at sunset to think out your answer.”

She turned and walked away, leaving Faramir thunderstruck in the gardens.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

The Steward and the Queen have become friends and meet regularly in the royal gardens to discuss Elven and Gondor cultures. But when Faramir gives Arwen a poem in Elvish he has written for her, she starts to cry. Understanding she is not happy with Aragorn, Faramir comforts her, which results in the Queen kissing him. Horrorstruck, the Steward tries to talk her into keeping the oaths she has taken, which only angers her. In the end, she gives Faramir a choice: either he becomes her lover, or she will tell Aragorn of Faramir’s inappropriate feelings for him… and Faramir has only one day to think out his answer.

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Chapter 5. Where the Steward doesn’t know what to do

Why, oh why had he given her that blasted poem? Why had he tried to comfort her when she started to cry? And above all, why in the name of stars did he let her into his arms? Despite knowing perfectly why he had done it all, and also that it was entirely useless to scold himself for his actions now, Faramir couldn’t refrain from asking himself these questions many more times than he ought to. Partly, no doubt, because they caused less anxiety and were easier to answer than the only important question he had to deal with at the moment: the choice that was before him, to do or to refuse to do the deed the Queen had required of him.

Faramir buried his fingers in his hair, hopelessly. As he walked in Finduilas’ garden, he reviewed again all the elements of the situation, but could not find the missing clue, the one that would definitely tip the scales one way or the other. Shaking his head, he came under the shadow of Finduilas’ favourite tree and knelt slowly on the grass.

“Mother, I need your counsel again.”

He spoke in an undertone, tenderly and reverently.

“I have been ordered by the Queen of Gondor to give her the love she doesn’t receive from the King, lest she reveal my love for him.”

A stunned silence. Faramir could perceive disapproval in it.

“Do not judge her too harshly, mother. She is a lady beautiful beyond words, in whom it is said that Lúthien’s likeness and spirit have returned. She’s proud of her lineage and she’s been idolized by her own people for thousands of years. Yet she’s given all she had for the love of a mortal man, and now she finds her hopes foiled. For Aragorn is a Ranger used to toil and solitude and will never need love as much as she does. Can you represent yourself her suffering on understanding that she has made a great mistake and that there is no turning back? Don’t you imagine how it must have hurt her pride to feel neglected by the man she’s chosen, and to have to acknowledge her plight before one of her subjects, only to be rejected a second time?”

A lovely sound echoed in his mind, softly as if it came from far away, but concerned and gentle.

“You seem to care a lot for her,” said Finduilas’ beloved voice.

“She is dangerous in her wrath,” replied Faramir fondly, “and well she should, for she’s inherited the temper of the Lady of the Wood, which from what Frodo has told me is worth beholding. But deep inside she is only a frightened child. How could I not care for her?”

“Do you intend to obey her orders?” queried the voice quietly.

“Alas! I do not know what to do.”

A pause, then the voice spoke again.

“What does your heart wish?”

“My heart revolts against this deed. I loathe the idea of making love to her, not being her husband. It is unworthy of her –or of me. I turn cold at the pain it would cause Aragorn, should he ever learn of it. Not to mention that I would be guilty of high treason, especially if the Queen were to become pregnant by me.”

“You also could never abide blackmail.”

“That’s right. I can’t,” said Faramir, not even flinching at the severe word she had used.

“Then why are you in doubt, my son? Another might be frightened by the Queen’s threat, but I know you are not the sort to give in to fear.”

Faramir sighed.

“Aye, that is so. What can she do anyway? She might cause me to suffer the King’s scorn (that would hurt the most), or banishment, or death. I’d rather face any of these with a clear conscience than buy safety and respect in a way that would make me unworthy of them. For if my love for Aragorn is considered treason, what would he think of my sleeping with his wife? Nay, madam, ever since you left me I have valued my own peace of mind higher than reputation or even life.”

“But there is something for which you would sacrifice it, is there not?” the presence in his mind murmured softly.

“Aye, and that is the King’s well-being,” said Faramir, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I fear what might befall if I refuse to do this deed.”

The voice was still, silently asking for an explanation. Faramir sighed.

“The Queen shall be unhappy. She will be left alone with Aragorn, without even the comfort she could find in me up to now. She is likely to take out her frustration on him and make both of them miserable. That would be bad enough, but she may do worse. She may select another lover, one who may not be trustworthy. Then her secret will be betrayed. If any of this happens, Aragorn will greatly suffer, and I will not be able to help, for I will have fallen in disgrace. I know well that he will rue my absence in any event, but the more so if he is wounded in his love for Arwen. As for the political consequences of a rift between the royal spouses, who can tell what they could be? Were the Queen’s secret to be discovered, it could even lead to a war between Gondor and the Elves. If I accept her proposal, all this could be avoided. And as Steward, to care for the well-being of the King, the Queen and the realm of Gondor is not only my heart’s desire, but my foremost duty.”

“This is not a choice then between love and duty. You are only wondering which option would better serve both the King and the man you love.”

“Not only him, the Queen as well, mother,” he corrected her quietly. “Though you are right in saying that I wish to do first what is best for Aragorn. Heavens, my heart can’t stand either betraying him or causing him avoidable pain. My duty as Steward is to ensure the kingdom’s welfare, and yet also to uphold the laws.”

His mother was silent, and Faramir knew he had once again reached a dead end. He stood up wearily. He looked at the sun slowly going down into the West, and knew the decision must be made soon. It might not be a choice between love and duty, but it still amounted to choosing between the lady and the tiger: the King’s wrath or the Queen’s love. And for all that was at stake, he didn’t know what to do.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Faramir asks the spirit of his mother for counsel as he muses the choice Arwen has imposed on him. He is neither angry with the Queen nor afraid of her, but that doesn’t help, for either choice is partly against his heart and his duty. As the sun goes down, Faramir still doesn’t know what to do.

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Chapter 6. Where a long-kept secret is discovered

The Queen of Gondor knocked on the door to the Steward’s rooms. Faramir opened and she entered briskly, laughing at his expression of surprise. Faramir looked into the corridor to ensure there was no one and closed the door carefully before speaking to her.

“My lady, what are you doing here?” he asked, a slight frown on his brow.

“Why, paying you a visit, it would seem, my lord Steward,” came the playful answer.

It was cold outside. Arwen had immediately felt the warmth coming from the hearth and she was already extending her hands to the bright fire. Faramir joined her and helped her out of her cloak, which he hanged on the wall.

“These are beautiful rooms,” she said, curiously taking in the interior of Faramir’s quarters, that she had never seen. She noticed his sober but elegant taste and the pictures and objects of Elvish and Gondor craft on the walls.

“I am glad you think them so,” said Faramir absent-mindedly, coming back towards her, “but really, Arwen, this is most unsafe. We are in the heart of the Citadel, anyone could have seen you coming!”

“No one has seen me. And even if they had, cannot a Queen check how her Steward is lodged? Come on,” she said, putting her arms around his neck and touching her nose to his, “you haven’t even given me a proper welcome.”

Faramir enfolded her in his arms and his lips brushed hers. Gently, his tongue caressed the inside of his lady’s mouth, tenderly and unhurriedly, until she sighed with ease.

“I could never tire of this,” she said, throwing back her head and hair, eyes closed.

Faramir quickly seized the opportunity to land a kiss on her exposed neck.

“I am happy to see you here,” he said, smiling.

Her eyes opened and her gaze became mischievous for a moment, but then she had to close them again, for Faramir was kissing her, and this time his kiss was full-fledged, deep and vehement. His hands came to rest on her hips, and Arwen’s mind was blown away for a moment, as she lost herself in the fiery dance of their tongues. Then suddenly she laughed, slipped from his embrace and ran to the window, where she stood with her back to him, panting a little.

Faramir gave a half-annoyed, half-amused sort of sound. Oh, didn’t she love to be as playful and elusive as an elfling, rendering him mad with desire, knowing he could never decide if he found it frustrating or endearing that she, being thousands of years older than him, behaved so much more as a fickle child.

But he could deal with it. As well she knew, for she was trembling slightly, fully expecting her teasing to be soon properly returned. Faramir walked soundlessly until he stood behind her. Without turning, she seized one of his hands and squeezed it.

“I wanted to see what views there are from here,” she said.

“A fair sight of tall Mindolluin,” he replied. “Take care not to expose yourself.”

This brought her back to the danger that was ever hanging over their heads.

“Is this safe?” she asked.

“I suppose so,” he said, after a short pause. “Anyone might come looking for me, but as long as it is locked, they will not enter. Only the Warden of the Keys on the King’s orders could force my door, but Aragorn would not resort to such means unless in the gravest circumstances, such as a military emergency. He has no reason to look for me at this hour, or to expect that I should be available.”

His arms surrounded her, and his chin came to rest upon her shoulder, as he looked across the window with her. Then he pushed back a strand of hair in order to kiss her ear. Slowly, he drew his tongue over the sensitive skin, his teeth gently biting the pointed lobe. Arwen moaned and relaxed against him.

“You do know how to undo me…” she murmured, and turning towards him she buried her hands into the mane of dark hair, her lips eagerly searching for his. She kissed him as a thirsty traveller would drink from a fountain, and Faramir felt the usual temptation to laugh as well as a great surge of tenderness for her. Arwen slid a hand under his garments and ran her fingers over his chest, and Faramir shivered and felt his manhood swell at the thought of what would follow. She pressed her body against his, kissing his face and jaw, and Faramir applied his lips to the swan-white skin of her neck, now as avidly as a famished man would fall on a plate of food. One of his hands squeezed her buttock, the other cupped one of her breasts and Arwen gasped.

“Come,” she said raggedly, drawing him by his robe. She threw herself on the bed, face up, curtain of hair flowing over the coverlet and pillows. Her fingers ran upon his arms as Faramir straddled her and deftly undid the laces on the front of her robe, pushing it away from her body. As always, the beauty of her naked breasts rendered him speechless for a moment. He shook his head and reverently caressed one of them, then he sucked the nipple and Arwen pressed his head against her bosom. Faramir’s hands slid beneath her skirts and pushed them up, stroking her calves and thighs along the way. Arwen undid the clasp on her girdle and the whole robe fell to the sides, revealing the remainder of her body. Faramir chuckled. These garments, so very practical for the activities they were about to engage in, had started to be popular soon after he had become Arwen’s lover. The Queen’s style was imitated by every lady of the court, and Faramir doubted not that if ever she decided she’d rather be fucked from behind, fashion would quickly change again.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you for some time,” he said, lowering his head between her legs so that his hair brushed her inner thighs and the soft fur covering her sex. The sensation caused Arwen to instantly shiver with pleasure, and Faramir grinned. “The dress may have passed as a harmless fancy. But aren’t your maids up in arms about your habit of wearing nothing underneath?”

“Oh, they do not know,” she guffawed. “I don’t mind wearing undergarments as a rule. I only take them off if I am going to see you… though it is a nuisance to always have to wait for them not to be looking.”

“I see.”

Faramir’s tongue casually licked the little pomegranate seed that lay below the eaves of the forest, coaxing a jerk out of the elf’s body. Then his mouth glided further down.

“Your fountain, my lady, is already flowing,” he remarked calmly. “May I take that as a compliment to my beauty?”

Faramir was a good lover, but sometimes he overdid the talking part. She suspected he did it on purpose.

“Take it as you will, as long as you don’t stop,” gasped Arwen impatiently.

Chuckling to himself, Faramir complied. His arms roamed ceaselessly the silken skin of the Queen’s thighs and belly, sometimes going as far as the edge of her breasts; his tongue danced wildly on her bushy mound, and around the entrance to her haven. His lips bathed and swam joyfully in the waves of her stream, and she was the gayer for it. Her hands conveyed possession and command as they caressed his hair and pressed his head against her. Her body was in chaos: it was writhing like mountains scattered by an earthquake, fluttering like a bird lost in the middle of a storm, melting like soft silver in a dwarfish fire, and she was moaning, Faramir thought, as only an Elven princess being satisfied could.

Arwen stopped moving and cupped Faramir’s head, lifting it from her lap.

“Come…” she pleaded.

Faramir’s face emerged, red and wet but harbouring a broad smile.

“Wait.”

He quickly disrobed himself, with a sigh of ease. Naked, he was a prodigious view to Arwen. She could never stop marvelling at his body: tousled hair, admittedly not nearly as silky as hers but inexplicably more alive and strong; hair-shadowed chest, incredibly welcoming and warm; long well-shaped limbs, whose firmness made her moist with desire; slightly dark skin, that spoke of a life spent outdoors and somehow evoked to her the wild, untamed nature that crouched under his civilised manners; and of course, that funny, wonderful part of him which gave her so much pleasure, and which was now standing at attention. She extended a hand to touch it lightly.

“Come,” she said for the third time.

“My Queen’s wishes are orders to me,” he answered teasingly. He helped her out of her robes, until she lay naked before him, and he slowly lowered himself upon her. Arwen stretched herself upon the bed, buried her hands in his hair and spread her legs, feeling with a profound pleasure his shaft sliding slowly into her.

“You are the jewel of all lovers, I swear,” she said in a strangled voice, and Faramir felt again a stab of tenderness at her words.

King Aragorn Elessar was sitting comfortably in an armchair, a cup of wine in his hand, his feet towards the fire, and he was content. Everything in Gondor was going well, there hadn’t been any Orc incursions in the last few months and now, on top of it, he was about to receive the visit of a dear friend. Legolas of Mirkwood had written to him to announce his arrival to Minas Tirith, accompanied by a party of Elves who meant to restore Ithilien to its former beauty. The letter said they would arrive in five days, and it was dated three days ago.

Receiving Elves would be a welcome change from the people of Gondor, who sometimes tended to take themselves too seriously. It would also be good for his wife, Arwen Evenstar, in whom was ever present the longing for her home. It had worried him at the beginning, but now Arwen seemed to be settling in Minas Tirith at last; she had been much more cheerful these last months.

Aragorn, former Ranger of the north, revelled in the peace of these days after so many years of toil. He smiled at the equerry who entered and handed him a roll of parchment. Aragorn opened it and read it twice. Then he rolled it again and looked at the servant.

“Where is the Lord Steward? Is he in the Citadel?”

“I expect so, my lord.”

“Then find him and tell him to join me here.”

Arwen and Faramir cried together, and then lay motionless, their bodies damp, and hot, and appeased. Faramir moved off Arwen and lay at her side, tracing her cheek and jaw with one finger. Her lips blossomed into a grateful, affectionate smile. Faramir smiled too, happy that she was happy, and pulled her into a hug. She snuggled to him and soon fell asleep peacefully. For now, Arwen the Mortal slept like any human, and making love tired her.

Faramir kissed her brow, and caressed the long silk of her hair while he listened to the small sounds of the castle. And so Arwen found him, still beside her, when she woke up a little later, refreshed and untroubled as a flower opening its petals in the first morning of the world.

“You are always so beautiful when you wake up,” he murmured tenderly.

She smiled, and gazed at him, and her eyes held no bitterness, only joy. She would never spoil this moment saying that if she looked glowing, it was only because and when she awoke in Faramir’s arms. Aragorn’s shadow was ever present between them, there was no need to bring it closer.

Faramir looked back at her, knowing that whenever she held her silence there was a good reason, and thanking her for it. On the rare occasions at the beginning when she had criticized Aragorn, even implicitly, it had pained him, and she had since learnt her lesson well.

“I love you,” he said artlessly. Once again, she did not answer, but this time it was because the words had brought tears to her eyes. That Faramir seemed to consider as answer enough, for he lifted himself on his elbow and kissed her. Then he laughed, and she laughed with him, and all tension dissipated. For a short time.

Arwen rolled over Faramir and eyed him unabashedly, chewing her lower lip.

“I do feel like another round. Do you think that Gondor can live without a war for another couple of hours?”

Faramir laughed, said he hoped so, and raised himself on his two elbows to lick one of her nipples.

The equerry entered the King’s study again, a perplexed expression upon his face.

“The Lord Steward is nowhere to be found, my lord.”

Aragorn lifted his head from the great map before him and looked at the servant sternly.

“Are you certain of that?”

“His quarters are locked, there was no answer when I knocked, and no one has seen him in the Citadel or going out of it.”

Aragorn frowned. This was strange. Faramir was under no obligation to be anywhere near at this hour, but it was not like him to be impossible to find.

He looked at the parchment the equerry had brought him earlier and read it again. It was a message from the lord of Lebennin, urgently requesting aid from the King of Gondor. A horde of Orcs and Haradrim, remnants of the armies of the Dark Lord, had crossed the Anduin near Pelargir; as he waited for Faramir they were roaming the lands and destroying everything in their path. They must be halted, and he needed his Steward.

A decision had to be made. Aragorn only hesitated for a second.

The Lord Húrin, Warden of the Keys, hastened towards Faramir’s rooms. He had been ordered to find the Steward, anywhere he might be, and to bring him to the King without delay. As he had told his lordship, the Steward was usually easy to find, and if no one had seen him pass the gates of the Citadel (of which he was certain, for his job was to be aware of such things), then chances were that he was in his rooms and had decided, for reasons of his own, not to acknowledge his presence.

“Heavens know that I do not like to disturb him,” had said the King, “least of all in this intrusive fashion, when he is the hardest-working man in the realm, but it can’t be helped. Tell him I shall make amends to him later.”

Even before reaching the Steward’s chambers, Húrin knew that he had been right in suspecting Faramir was there. The door was thick, but still he could hear the moans and sometimes even cries coming out of the room. There was more than one voice, and the Lord Húrin thought sympathetically that whatever the King did afterwards to atone for it, this was indeed a good moment he was about to ruin. But orders were orders, and so Húrin knocked upon the door, curiously wondering who Faramir might be with. He was not married, he had no declared lover, nor was he known as a man who brought that sort of company to his rooms.

Though by the sound of it, he had a good deal of practice in the matter. The people inside were obviously enjoying themselves so much that they had not heard his loud knocks. So Húrin took out the key that opened the Steward’s quarters, and after a short hesitation inserted it into the keyhole. It made a lot of noise when he turned it, but still Faramir and his unknown companion (or companions) didn’t give any sign that they had heard.

No other choice but to enter the place! For a split second, Húrin almost hated the King for putting him in this awkward situation: couldn’t matters of state have waited for a few minutes? On the other hand, he was positively brimming with curiosity; never again would he have the chance to see this much of Faramir’s privacy; although they had been fast friends for more than twenty years, the Steward was so guarded about these matters…

Húrin took out the key and slowly pushed the door open, then advanced cautiously into the room. At the far end, in front of him, was the bed, now put to full use by its occupants. The curtains had been drawn, probably to dissipate the heat of lovemaking, and Húrin averted his eyes from the couple moving rhythmically on the sheets. The man lying face up on the bed must be Faramir, though his voice was barely recognizable as he urged his partner to ride him faster and deeper. Of the girl atop him Húrin could only see her swan-white skin and a long, silky curtain of black hair. Even now they were so completely engrossed in each other that they had not seen or heard him. Blushing, Húrin stepped forward towards the bed, intending to tell Faramir that the King was expecting him.

Only when he was three feet away did Faramir glance up. They gazed at each other for a second and Húrin was surprised by the expression of sheer dread that spread over Faramir’s features. Then the girl sensed something was wrong and turned to see what was frightening Faramir so. She looked Húrin squarely in the eyes and he suddenly felt weak at the knees.

It was the Queen.

---

Note on this chapter: this is the first time I publish a scene featuring graphic sex. It was tricky to write, so I am particularly eager to read your feedback on the matter!

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Faramir and Arwen have been lovers for some time. One day, the Queen visits the Steward unexpectedly in his own rooms. As they are engaged in private activities, the King receives news of an attack on Gondor. Given the urgency of the situation, he orders the Warden of the Keys to find the Steward wherever he may be. Húrin then forces Faramir’s door and catches the Steward and the Queen in the act of lovemaking.

---

Chapter 7. Where the King is required to judge on a hard matter

The Queen and the Warden stared at each other for an interminable instant. Then Arwen suddenly covered herself with her own long hair, moving away from her paramour with a cool dignity. Faramir sat up on the bed and the expression of his face chilled Húrin to the bones.

“What in Morgoth’s name are you doing here?”

The Warden of the Keys was a valiant man, who had stood firm when Minas Tirith quailed under the Shadow, but now he could see death in Faramir’s eyes. He backed away, though he was fully armed and the Steward was naked and weaponless.

“I am here on the King’s orders,” he said. “He was expecting you.” His gaze trailed to Arwen and Faramir understood the Warden was starting to recover. It was important not to let him, to catch his attention again.

“And is there war in Gondor so that you should come in this fashion?” asked Faramir irritably, reaching for his tunic.

“I… I do not know,” said Húrin, his training to obey stronger than his feeling of repulsion. “But King Elessar told me to give you this,” and he proffered the roll of parchment that had caused all the uproar. Faramir opened it, read it quickly, and his face became grave. Not only had they had incredibly bad luck, but he must indeed meet the King immediately. He grabbed his clothes and started to don them. His body ached with unquenched desire, but that was the least of his troubles now.

“My lady,” he said, already dressed, “I must join the King at once. Indeed, there is a military emergency.” Neither the bitter irony of this statement nor its significance were lost on Arwen, though she showed no outward sign of it. “You should get dressed and go back to your apartments,” added Faramir, and lowering his voice, “discreetly, if you can”. Then he kissed her hand respectfully and made for the door.

Only at that point did Húrin seem to regain his wits.

“Wait a moment, Lord Faramir,” he said quietly, and Faramir stopped dead in his tracks. He noticed how the man had called him by name, not giving him anymore the title “Steward”, but decided to ignore this detail.

“What?” he asked curtly.

“I know you have to meet the King right now, and I understand there is a situation that takes precedence over what has just happened here. But that doesn’t mean I’ll let you get away with it.”

Faramir made an effort to appear calm and unimpressed.

“So?” he asked in an all too patient tone.

Húrin’s eyes actually glistened with tears, and his voice faltered.

“We have been friends for a very long time, Faramir, and had anybody told me that one day you would do something dishonourable, I would not have believed them. I would have staked my life on you – blindly. I wish I had not lived to see such a deed, and I cannot stand with you on it. We have a King now, a good King, by Elbereth! and my loyalty is to him. And you, lady, all I can say is that no woman of Gondor, being the bride of King Elessar, would have acted as you have.” Arwen paled in hurt and humiliation, but Húrin ignored her and turned to Faramir again. “I don’t care whether you love each other or why ever you decided to forsake virtue and duty. I will not see the King hurt by your treason, not if it can be avoided. But this must stop. Your word, both of you, that it will – or else I must tell the King the truth about his wife and Steward.”

Faramir’s eyes flashed dangerously, but he turned to Arwen, who was fixing Húrin proudly.

“I will make no such promise,” she said, and what little hope Faramir had had crumbled around his ears. Well, she had spoken. So be it. Faramir’s gaze confirmed to Húrin what Arwen had just said. The Warden seemed taken aback for a moment, but then his eyes grew hard again.

“As you wish. I will request an audience with the King as soon as this military emergency is solved. But I must say I think it damn selfish of you to care not for the pain it will cause him.”

“Spare us the morals, master Warden,” said Faramir drily. “As for the audience, I shall request it myself from the King for you. And now, may I leave?”

“You may – I shall escort you.”

Faramir glanced at the Queen and his lips silently formed the words: “Be ready.” She nodded. Then he turned and left without a single look back. He was starting to think that if he stayed in the room one more minute with the Warden, he might throw him out of the window.

“We will do thus, then,” said the King, and the captains bowed and left the room, heading towards their quarters to start accomplishing Elessar’s orders. Faramir lounged back in his armchair and sighed. He had recommended that a small corps be sent to deal with the orcs; Aragorn wished to go, but Faramir convinced him that readying the apparel for a King would take longer than sending the soldiers alone. And anyway, for a fit army it would be no more than a skirmish.

“I grudge your depriving me of the fun,” said Aragorn, and Faramir sighed again.

“Beside the fact it wasn’t necessary, there is another reason for which I thought it better that both you and I stayed. As you know, I usually don’t run from danger.” The double meaning of his words was a good one, he thought wryly.

“I know. But what is that reason?” asked Aragorn, curiously and a little worriedly on seeing Faramir’s grave and somehow very tired face.

“It is a delicate matter that must be treated with the utmost secrecy. But first, let me call for the Lord Húrin. He is the one in charge of the secret, we could say. It might be a good idea for the Queen to be present as well.”

Confidentiality was best ensured in the King’s private parlour, and there Aragorn sat thoughtfully while Faramir went to fetch the Lord Warden. As they came back, the Queen entered through a back door and sat at Elessar’s side without a word. He kissed her hand devoutly, and a shadow passed over Húrin’s face. Faramir stood impassive, and Arwen’s mien was cool and majestic.

“Well, Lord Húrin, my Steward here says you have something to tell me?”

“Well, perhaps it would be better if Lord Faramir explained it to you,” said Húrin, rather uncomfortably.

‘Coward,’ thought Faramir. ‘Very well, I’ll step out and let the lion tear me to pieces for you to watch, since that is what you wish.’ His father’s nature spoke in him loudest when he was faced with other people’s scorn.

“Húrin and I were having a debate earlier about morality,” he said coldly. “We couldn’t agree on how an honourable man should behave in a given situation, and thus in the end we both thought that it was better to submit the case to you.”

“Well then, submit.”

Faramir thought for a moment.

“It is like this. In one great kingdom, there was once a King who married a very noble, very beautiful lady. He was very much in love with her and he had a good heart, but he couldn’t make her happy. She was far away from home, and they were of different age and breeding, and he cared so much for his kingdom that he didn’t really know what happened within his wife’s heart. After some time, the Queen began to feel attracted to a noble lord, one of the King’s most trusted and esteemed subjects, and she made advances to him. This lord was secretly in love with the King, and the Queen threatened to reveal that illicit feeling to her husband, should the lord resist her wishes. The King’s subject wondered where his duty lay: what would serve his beloved sovereign better? To betray his oaths and make the Queen happy, or to stay faithful and let the King deal on his own with a failed marriage? What do you think he should have done, my lord?”

“Why, he should have told the King the truth.” Aragorn’s reply came without hesitation.

Faramir arched his eyebrows:

“With all due respect, would you have believed such a story, my liege?” he asked softly.

“Do you mean…?” Aragorn looked surprised for a second, and then he actually laughed. “In my case it’s impossible, so obviously I wouldn’t believe it –” he turned to his wife to exchange a laughing glance about how ridiculous this assumption of her not loving him just was – and he stopped short.

Arwen’s face was a battlefield of emotions contending against each other. Embarrassment, pity, scorn, spite, pride, defiance, fear – all of these Aragorn could read in an instant. His gaze went from her to Húrin, whose head was bowed in shame, and realization dawned on him. He looked incredulously at Arwen, then at Faramir.

“If my Queen here tried indeed to seduce this man,” he said, and it was plain that controlling his anger required a mighty effort, “and your intention was to prompt me to mercy, you’d better not try.”

Faramir drew himself to his full height and lifted his chin.

“I am the man, my lord, not he. The story happened as I have told you. I made the choice of the lady. The Lord Húrin discovered it when he was looking for me, and he came to report to you, without knowing the motives.” He knelt, but kept his gaze riveted to Aragorn’s blank face. “My life is yours. But for truth’s sake, though you may not believe it or take it into account, I must be allowed to say that whatever I have done, I have done out of love for my country and for you.”

He braced himself, certain that things would turn nasty in a few moments. He could feel the King’s astonishment receding and a powerful, thunderous wrath building up in its place. Faramir wondered briefly how Aragorn would deal with them, but could find no answer: he had never before given the King a reason to be angry with him. Alive to each one of these last seconds of quiet as they went by, he waited for the storm to unfold.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Húrin demands that Faramir and Arwen stop their relationship, or else he will inform the King of it. Since Arwen refuses to make the required promise, after sending troops to deal with the orc attack Faramir himself brings Húrin to the King. Húrin declines to speak, and it is Faramir who finally tells the King the story of his romance with Arwen. Then he kneels and waits for the King’s wrath to unfold.

---

Chapter 8. Where external help is needed

“Where are they now?” asked Legolas, prince of Mirkwood.

They were standing outside Aragorn’s reading-room, leaning on the balustrade of a balcony that overlooked the royal garden. There was warm sunlight, and the sound of fountains below, and birds singing in the clear winter morning; and no one would see Aragorn cry as he told his friend the story of his wife’s infidelity.

“They have been locked in their chambers. Húrin guards them both.”

“Prisoners?” asked Legolas quietly, with the faintest note of amazement in his voice.

“Under threat of death.” Aragorn’s accent was that of a man defeated.

“My friend,” said Legolas sympathetically, his hand coming to rest upon Aragorn’s shoulder. Aragorn blinked and his hands tightened over the balustrade.

“I wanted to kill them,” he said tonelessly after a few moments, “to tear them limb from limb with my own hands. I reached for my sword, but I wasn’t wearing one… if I had, I believe I would have murdered them then and there. I told Húrin to take them out of my view, and then… I smashed everything that was breakable in the room. I was so mad…”

Aragorn seemed surprised and even puzzled, as if he was recounting some stranger’s behaviour instead of his.

“It took Húrin a long time to convince me to retire and have some rest. But I couldn’t stand the alcove any more, couldn’t bear to see the bed where I had lain with her so many nights…” Again, Aragorn’s voice broke and he collapsed onto the balustrade, sobbing violently. Legolas waited silently, his hand on Aragorn’s shoulder, till after a while the King went on, in a hard voice that was trying not to crumble. “I haven’t slept these last two days. Last night, I went into her room – I needed to understand, I needed to be told by her that it was true, I still couldn’t believe it… She acknowledged every word of it. I asked her why she didn’t tell me that she wasn’t happy, why she didn’t let me know…”

Again, Legolas waited for the flow of tears to ease.

“What did she say?” he whispered.

“She just stood there, incredibly calm, and told me that that was the way I was, and that letting me know would have made me miserable without making her happier. She said our marriage had been a mistake, and that Faramir gave her joy and bliss… Oh, Valar,” he straightened up, drawing a hand over his eyes to wash tears away, “what am I to do, Legolas? I do not want a public scandal, but neither can I let it pass. And I cannot keep them locked for ever. In my darkest hours I have thought about ordering them to kill themselves…” he trailed off. Aside from his need for justice, he didn’t know how he could ever live without Arwen and Faramir. That unspoken question Legolas could read in the King of Gondor’s downcast shoulders and lost gaze.

The Prince of Mirkwood pondered his friend’s story for a long time, before tentatively speaking.

“This man, this Faramir, he said he loved you, didn’t he?”

“Yes. I asked her about that too, and she confirmed it was true.”

Legolas’ voice became even more cautious.

“Do you blame him for what has happened?”

Aragorn took some time before answering.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” he said finally. “I know he isn’t really to blame, or at least, my head knows it… my heart is another matter, though.”

Legolas drew a short breath, as a man preparing himself to jump into cold waters.

“If they hadn’t been discovered, he would have kept your wife happy for you. Don’t you think that is something for which you ought to be grateful?”

Aragorn looked at his friend as if he was mad for a full thirty seconds. Then slowly his eyes widened in comprehension.

“Well… that makes sense.”

“There would be a way out of this situation,” said Legolas thoughtfully, “a good way, but it is exceedingly difficult. The long years of toil you have spent fighting the Enemy might prove a trifle compared to it.”

“Let us hear it,” said Aragorn, apprehensively but stoutly.

Legolas’ voice was barely a murmur when he whispered his idea in the King’s ear.

Previously in ‘A Hard Choice’

Legolas has arrived. Aragorn, who is still devastated and angry, tells his friend the whole story, including the fact that the Queen and the Steward are being confined to their rooms. He doesn’t know what to do with them. Legolas suggests that there is a way out of the situation and whispers his idea in the King’s ear.

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Chapter 9. Where things finally start to look up

“Let her make you happy. Let him make her happy. Try to make him happy.”

These had been the words. And though he had at first been scandalised by the idea, it kept coming back, no matter how hard he tried to forget it.

He turned in his bed – the single bed he had had brought to his reading-room – for what felt like the umpteenth time. He was tired of not sleeping. The idea looked so perfect in theory, but it could never work.

He turned again. How could something so wicked be even conceived? How could he think that it would be desirable for all of them to content themselves with a surrogate for love? It had been enough for Arwen and for Faramir. Could it be so for him?

He turned again. What in Mordor’s name was the matter with him? To give himself to another man… To speak ever again, let alone sleep with, a traitorous wife… The mere idea was sickening. And if the world was filled with debauchery, did he have to be a part of it?

He turned again. But what other solutions were there? If he punished them, he would lose them – and he didn’t want to. It might be weak, cowardly, despicable – but it was the truth, and he was still honest enough to admit it. What then? Could he forgive them?

It was one way or the other. Either they had betrayed him, and he should punish them – or they had not, and he should welcome Arwen back and thank Faramir for taking care of her. With all that that implied, like allowing his wife to keep her lover, however ludicrous or absurd the whole concept might seem to him.

His heart was torn in two, one half crying for vengeance, the other reluctant to find fault with his love. What Arwen had done just blew all expectations, all reasonable scales. How could he react to it? Faramir was another matter; Faramir he could forgive, in time. But Arwen…

He turned again, eager to avoid the pain that thoughts about her caused. Time was running out. Rumours would soon start, if they hadn’t already, as to why the Queen and the Steward should be keeping to their rooms, and why the King looked so miserable. He had to make a decision. This idea of Legolas… no, he could never do it. Valar, to have intercourse with Faramir… Awkward. Could it be easier than he expected?

He turned again. Whatever his heart demanded, be it revenge or reconciliation, he mustn’t act on his own feelings. He was no Ranger any more, he was King of Gondor, and it was still his burden to think of its people. He could not burn the Queen and the Steward to ashes without explaining why, and what then would be left of the glory of Númenor, after the throne of Gondor and the race of Elendil had been dragged through the mud by a scandal of adultery and treason? How would the people look to him for guidance, after his image had been tarnished by this spectacular failure – for that is how his marriage to an Elven princess would be seen?

He turned again. Everything he had dreamed of, everything he had so long laboured for, had crumbled like a house of cards. What was the use of anything? What remained for him to hold on to? The rule of Gondor? He snorted bitterly. That had ever been but a millstone around his neck, however exalted and privileged the position might appear to others. It was tolerable, while he had Arwen and Faramir with him; he knew it would become a crushing weight without them, unless he could draw strength from somewhere else.

No, nothing remained, no hope to rely upon, for he did not believe that Legolas’ solution could really work. But there still was duty. To others, and to himself.

He turned again. Dawn was spreading its wings outside. As resolve hardened in him, Aragorn felt a strange, deep gratitude welling up suddenly in his heart. Fate was cruel: thank the Valar, and all his years of toil, for having given him the strength to endure also this stroke.

“It is done,” said the son of Thranduil.

Aragorn was sitting by his window, his cheek resting on his hand, but he raised his eyes to gaze steadily at Legolas when the prince of Mirkwood came back from the Queen’s rooms.

“Have you given her my message?”

“Every word of it.”

“And…?”

“She wants to see you.”

“I can’t.”

“It will do you good, my friend. Besides, I do not think she will believe me till she has heard it from your lips.”

Isn’t it enough that I forgive her? Isn’t it enough to allow her to depart, if she so wishes, or to stay here as my wife, if she would have it so? Can’t she be content with my apology for failing to make her happy, and my permission for her to find fulfilment elsewhere? Do I still have to face her?

Beyond his strength as the task seemed, Aragorn knew the answer to his questions. He had long learned that the more one did, the more he was expected to perform.

“She is waiting outside,” added Legolas persuasively.

It had done him good, after all. She had flung herself into his arms, crying, and he had felt the solid ice in his chest melting into a flood of warm waters, that came flowing out of his eyes. He felt shaken but distinctly more cheerful as he walked the corridors that led to Faramir’s quarters. Legolas had pressed him to go and see the Steward straight away and Aragorn tried to convince himself it was a good idea. But he had to fight to retain his courage, which seemed to be scattering in all directions now that he needed it more than he ever had.

Sooner than he had expected (or wished) he had arrived before the great doors, and Húrin was bowing to him. Aragorn straightened up and made a sign; the Warden of the Keys opened the doors, closed them behind him, and Aragorn was alone with Faramir.

The young man had been sitting near the fire, gazing abstractedly into the flames, but he looked up and rose as soon as he recognized the King. Aragorn hesitated for a moment.

“I am here to tell you that I forgive you,” he said bluntly. “I do not hold you blameworthy for keeping the Queen happy; I am grateful that you tried to save my marriage. I have just seen the Queen and we have reconciled ourselves; I cannot guarantee that I will find in my heart the untarnished love I gave her before, but we are going to try.”

Faramir managed to nod without showing his astonishment.

“I am glad to hear that,” he said gravely.

“That is not all,” continued Aragorn softly. “I do not want to deprive her of any company that makes her happy, in whatever way. I have allowed her total freedom in that respect, and I would be grateful if you continued fulfilling the role you have assumed, for as long as she wishes. It is not an order – it is a request, provided you still want to do it now that no pressure forces you either way.”

This time, Faramir’s eyes showed such incredulity that Aragorn found himself unexpectedly repressing a laugh.

“I have all my sense. I have seen it does her good, and it does you good. I want both of you happy,” he clarified.

“But what about you, my lord?” asked Faramir, frowning with concern.

“Happiness is beyond my reach anyway, or so I fear; therefore do not trouble for me.”

He looked at Faramir’s face; pity and sadness were written plainly on it.

“Aye, you love me truly, I can tell that. You wish you could be a solace to me instead of to Arwen, do you not?”

To his surprise, his frankness did not appear to embarrass Faramir, who just looked away and bit his lip.

“I wish I could,” he said.

Aragorn stood looking at him, feeling himself starting to tremble, and in that second the final decision was made. He extended a hand.

“Come, my son,” he said. “I wish to be comforted, you wish to comfort me, nothing should be easier.”

Faramir looked at him and after a second nodded. He advanced, stood hesitating for a moment, then the two men embraced. Aragorn hugged the younger man and, for the second time that day, felt a wall of ice crumbling and melting within himself. His voice was slightly wet when he spoke.

“I’d much rather see you than Arwen at this time. You are completely free, my friend; but if you feel like it, I would be glad to have your company for dinner. My rooms.”

Once again, Faramir had needed all his reason to face what was coming: hope and fear were equally strong in him. Had he understood aright the meaning of Aragorn’s words and gestures? He told himself for the tenth time that it couldn’t be; but against all reason, his heart kept hoping, and by the time he reached the door to the King’s apartments, it was thumping so badly Faramir thought there surely was no need to knock.

And now, they were both sitting next to the fire, glasses of wine in their hands, silent. Dinner had been shy; there was no other word for it as they both ate the excellent food and tried to find again the easy camaraderie that had been theirs before all this had happened. Shy, but not uncomfortable; and that, in this most entangled situation, should be counted as a great achievement. As was this companionable silence in front of the flame, yet Faramir knew that it could not last for very long. The air was slowly filling with expectancy and even tension. Faramir was not sure yet that he was not entirely imagining the whole thing, but he was ready to trust his feelings. And those told him that Aragorn had taken the first steps and was not willing or able to go any further without some help.

As in a dream, Faramir rose, put his glass casually down upon the mantelpiece and came to stand behind Aragorn, who did not move. He barely trembled when the Steward’s hands came to rest lightly upon his shoulders; then he relaxed as long, deft fingers ran soothingly through his hair. Faramir closed his eyes in blissful gratitude and his hands, almost without his knowing, proceeded to massage the royal neck and temples until he heard Aragorn sigh. Then, still without believing this was happening or that the voice that came out of his lips was actually his, he spoke aloud:

“You feel tense. I could do something to ease the stiffness in your muscles. But you would have to lie down and remove your clothes.”

Aragorn obeyed like a child, and Faramir was only faintly amazed; after all, what was this in view of all that had happened in the course of this bizarre day? He focused on the thought that his King needed care and comfort; otherwise, it might have been difficult to keep his hands from wandering more than was needed over the splendid body that was now confidently stretched beneath them. A gift too precious, this fragile, heartbreaking trust, to be gambled for any pleasure, even the most innocent one of feeling too offhandedly the touch of this sacred skin. And so Faramir concentrated on relieving every bit of tension from the taut muscles, until he felt the King falling asleep and himself starting to yield to weariness.

One more effort of will, he thought, to let go and not try to extend this most exceptional moment. Softly he woke Aragorn up.

“My lord,” he said, and for the first time ever, he allowed into his voice the caress that was in his mind, “you should sleep in a proper bed.”

He felt Aragorn agreeing sleepily, then going suddenly tense again as the meaning of the words penetrated his tired brain. Faramir guessed what was causing the King’s distress and blamed himself for his lack of tact.

“Shall I have another bed brought here for you, my lord?” he asked apologetically.

“Nonsense,” said Aragorn with an effort, “it is only a bed.” He rose, took gratefully the dressing gown Faramir was offering him and wrapped it around himself, then sat again on the couch and looked at Faramir.

“Thank you.”

Faramir shook his head.

“If there is anything more I can do…”

Aragorn gazed towards the next room, where the bed that held the memories of all his nights with Arwen was waiting for him as a sombre threat, as a trap. He looked at Faramir again.

“Stay.”

He didn’t say “please”, but he meant it, and Faramir knew it. He slowly took Aragorn’s hand into his own and brought it to his lips.

“I will.”

Long ago did these events take place, and much happened afterwards. For six-score years, Aragorn and Arwen dwelt together, as King and Queen of Gondor, in great glory and bliss; but none knew, though the Steward was the most honoured subject in the land, how important a part he played in that happiness.

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