Faramir Fiction Archive

Family Honor (NC-17)

Written by Mcguffan

14 July 2006 | 162886 words

Chapter 14

Leaning heavily upon his sword, Aragorn tried to catch his breath as a rushing tide of people threatened to sweep him away. His back was being pounded, words were shouted in his ears and then another wave of people would crash in upon him. Occasionally he saw a man from camp and he tried to smile but sweat was running into his eyes and he had to struggle not to become disoriented. It all reminded him of the madness and wild euphoria that followed a real battle- only in this case he, himself, felt calm and he had been one of only two men to fight. Before Aragorn had managed to collect the energy to begin moving towards a place where he might find some water and some shade, Halbarad was beside him. Aragorn did not object as the ranger took hold of his arm and began moving them through the crowd, keeping the people back with a glare and when that did not move them out of the way fast enough he simply pushed through them. When they came beneath a small canopy hung about with gauzy drapery for privacy Halbarad loosened but did not release his grip on Aragorn’s arm. While Aragorn caught his breath, Halbarad continued to look slow murder at anyone who came within his range of vision.

“What is it, Baradnin?” Aragorn asked quietly. The still almost painfully tight grip the ranger had on him bore witness that something was indeed wrong. Halbarad, though, was unable to answer immediately. While he struggled to push words passed the knot of trepidation lodged in his throat, however, Faramir came up to them his guards struggling to keep up with his pace.

“What is it?” The question was asked in the same calm tone but this time it was directed at Faramir. Nodding to the men that had accompanied him to keep others away from the canopy they had sheltered under the young captain took a deep breath. He wanted very much to go to Aragorn and let the older man put his arms about him but there were too many people milling about. Swallowing hard, Faramir recounted what Halbarad had told him of his conversation with Isu, and then added what he and Halbarad had discussed and finally he told Aragorn about his own final conclusion about the power and purpose of the Gauntlet.

“You believe that the Variags spread rumors aimed toward the West that the Gauntlet was a token of the Isildurioni then allowed it to be a prize in one of the tournaments, so that anyone arrogant enough or foolish enough to come for it would be caught?” Aragorn asked, turning the ideas over in his head even as he spoke.

Faramir regarded him helplessly, the urge to go to him, embrace him, press his face into his chest even stronger now. “I think it is a possibility we must consider.”

Studying Faramir, Aragorn could see that the young man was convinced. He was inclined to trust Faramir’s intuition and his heart sank. If Faramir had come to the correct conclusion then not only was the danger greatly increased but Aragorn had just destroyed generations of secrecy and planning in the space of a moment. Turning his eyes toward Halbarad, Aragorn saw his own feelings of shock and grief reflected in his friend’s face.

“It is a possibility we cannot ignore, but it is a bit subtle and elaborate for the Variags. I would think that such an enterprise would be beyond their capacity to plan.” Halbarad spoke up gamely. He had regained much of his reasoning faculties while Faramir talked and though he could not quell the dark fear that the Captain was entirely correct, he would not give in without a fight.

“The Variags have never been our true enemy but only pawns. The planning may have been done by others, perhaps in the Dark Tower itself.” Faramir trembled a little at his own words. Unable to resist the compulsion any longer he went to Aragorn and touched his wrist in what he prayed was taken for a casual gesture.

“They had you caught, Baradnin, and they let you go. Why would they do such a thing unless they wanted to see if you would try for the gauntlet yourself, or ally yourself with another who would try to win it? Did you not tell me yourself that though the enemy cannot be certain any of Isildur’s children exist they can make fairly accurate predictions about what sort of man any scion of that line would be like.”

Halbarad felt himself reacting to the self-recrimination in his lord’s tone. He remembered how Aragorn had summarized that the Variag trap was for `anyone arrogant enough or foolish enough’. He would have disputed the words at the time but he had still been flustered himself. Damn it, this was not Aragorn’s fault. Halbarad would not let the man blame himself. Rage swept through the ranger crowding out the fear. Now was not the time to challenge what Aragorn had said. There were too many onlookers and there was too much else that needed to be discussed. Later though, when they were safe- and they would get through this safely- Aragorn would bleeding well get an earful. The Chieftain was not going to get away with feeling responsible for events outside of his control- not while Halbarad was around. Safe in his anger, Halbarad felt able now to help figure out how they were going to extricate themselves from this predicament.

Faramir watched as Halbarad’s fists clenched at his side. The ranger’s face, which had been pale, seemed to have regained all its color in then some. Though fascinated, he had no hope of understanding what sort of internal processes seemed to be bringing Halbarad to frothing anger. He lost his interest in Halbarad’s mood; however, as he felt Aragorn gently pull away from his light touch. In the next instant, Aragorn had turned slightly. Now his body and Faramir’s ceremonial cloak concealed their hands from view. Thus, no one looking in from outside would be able to see as the older man clasped Faramir’s hand in his and squeezed gently. The relief of that contact was so great that Faramir might have smiled. He felt a shadow of the exhilaration he had felt while watching Aragorn’s fight return to him and there was a new strength in his voice as he asked his next question.

“What confuses me is, if Gandalf believed the Gauntlet was important to proving your identity then why didn’t he tell you?”

“That is easy enough.” Halbarad answered before Aragorn could draw breath to speak. The ranger was pacing now like a caged lion, ready to pounce at anything that moved. “He didn’t tell him because he knew Aragorn would be unlikely to go into the East for such a cause. He didn’t tell him because the Valar’s own ambassador cannot be bothered with the truth if that means there is a chance he won’t get what he wants.”

Faramir’s eyes widened slightly and he turned to Aragorn perhaps hoping that the other man would moderate some of the venom in the ranger’s accusation. Aragorn, however, was not certain he could deny Halbarad’s words. Isildur’s Heir had no doubts about his identity. He could hardly doubt it when he had the testimony of Lord Elrond to confirm it. What Aragorn was somewhat less certain of was his own value as a leader. If he was not suitable to rule then the mere possession of an ancient glove could not change that. It was also well within the realm of possibility that Gandalf would tell only what he thought he needed to know to make the decision the wizard had determined was correct.

“We cannot know with certainty what was in Gandalf’s mind when he suggested that the Gauntlet was important.” Aragorn announced, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “The question at issue now is: Do we proceed as planned?”

“You cannot go now!” Faramir exclaimed shocked that Aragorn would entertain such an idea. Unconsciously the Captain’s grip on Aragorn’s hand tightened.

“Absolutely not.” Halbarad agreed. “If this has all been an effort to draw out the Isildurioni then we are not dealing with a bunch of thugs. Those men out there will be trained hunters and all five hundred of them will have only one quarry. They won’t bother about the gauntlet, the Gondorhim or me. They will be intent only upon you.”

“I don’t know that there is an alternative. The only protection any of us have now is that the custom of the Gathering prevents the Variags from any open act of hostility. Once the Gathering ends and the tribes have departed the enemy will be waiting. If I go now, I will at least get a running start.”

“We can protect you. We can-”

“Fara-”

“No, my lord. We can. There are some tribes that will need to travel southwest. We can go a fair distance with them. The Variags will not attack if there are Khandrihm to witness it. They cannot be seen to be breaking the rules of the Gathering. Perhaps we can even tempt enough Khandrihm into Gondor itself where the Variags will not dare pursue in numbers.”

Even as the implications of Faramir’s words ran through his head, Aragorn felt self-disgust well up within him. There would be advantages to remaining with Faramir and his men. As they traveled west the Variags would grow increasingly less familiar with the territory. Also Aragorn could slip away more easily from the company while they were on the move. None of that changed the fact, however, that Faramir and his men would be putting themselves at terrible risk for his sake. There could be no doubt that the Variags would take vengeance on the small band of Gondorhim if their quarry escaped them. Finally, they could all be wrong and the Variags might be concerned only with the Gauntlet. If so then Faramir would be put needlessly at risk.

“He’s right. If we can use the other tribes as a shield we can leave Khand safely with the Gauntlet and the Enemy will not even be able to tell for certain if you were who they suspected.” Halbarad’s voice filled the silence left by Faramir’s pleas and Aragorn closed his eyes. What had seemed a victory only minutes before had turned into a horrific defeat. His conscience burned him that he was putting Faramir and those under his command at risk but there were too many unknowns to ignore the practicality of what the young captain had suggested.

Opening his eyes, Aragorn regarded the two men before him. He saw concern in their faces but they had mastered the worst of their alarm. Though both men had pledged their fates to his, Aragorn’s gaze lingered longest upon Faramir. The young man had changed in the short time since Aragorn had met him. Then, he had appeared so fragile yet still with the promise of uncommon strength and resilience in him. Now he stood here with the same resolute determination as Halbarad and the same curious nature and generosity of spirit that had been there from the beginning. Aragorn could not have explained why such a man had chosen to bestow his love and loyalty upon him but he had. Now it was Aragorn’s duty to ensure that neither man who had chosen to put their faith in him suffered for their choice.

“All right then, Halbarad and I will remain with the Gondorhim and we shall see where that path takes us.”

Various tribal representatives filed beneath the canopy after Faramir had departed. Their discussions with Strider were partially obscured by the sheer drapery hung to give an illusion of privacy and Faramir tried his best not to stare. He would have dearly loved to exchange places with Halbarad at that moment so that he could have remained at Aragorn’s side. As Gondor’s representative, however, Faramir had had his time with the tournament winner and he had had to give way to the others who wanted a chance to impress the foreign fencing champion. It was simple courtesy for Strider to accept official congratulations but Faramir knew Aragorn and Halbarad would use the time to ask more questions about the gauntlet.

Looking around, Faramir hoped to find the Variag officer among those waiting to see Aragorn. The Westerners’ previous exchange of words with Mordor’s closest ally had left them baffled but another conversation might give them greater insight into the accuracy of their current theory. Anything their enemy had to say would necessarily be informative. The officer seemed to be keeping his distance, though. When Faramir looked for him through the crowd the other man looked away as though he feared he would give something away if he so much as met Faramir’s eyes. Now that Faramir felt himself better equipped for a confrontation none was available.

Despite the difficulty of their situation, Faramir found to his surprise that his dominant emotion was relief. The uncertainty of what the `Killing Fist’ was and what it might do had unnerved him more than he had understood at first and though he had struggled to hide it the thought of Aragorn alone against all the strength of the Variags had terrified him. If any ill had befallen Aragorn while he stayed safe at the Gathering it would have destroyed Gondor’s young Captain. Now, though Faramir would be able to help divert or at the least dilute the threat.

There had been a moment during their hurried discussion when Faramir thought Aragorn was not going to allow him to help, when it seemed as though his fealty would be again rejected. That moment had passed, though, and that in itself had done a great deal to restore the Captain’s confidence. To be sure, the implications of Denethor’s desire for the Gauntlet still curdled his stomach, but now he realized he had not given his older brother proper credit. Boromir could be bold to the point of brashness but he loved his people. Not even for the love of his father would he take upon himself a title that not only went against the sacred traditions of his nation but would also sew discord throughout the country. It would take more than Denethor’s influence before Boromir would consent to do harm to Gondor for the sake of his pride. Faramir determined to have better faith in his brother in future and not allow the panic of a moment to weaken his trust.

The fear Faramir had for Aragorn’s personal safety could not be exorcised so easily. Yet, as he continued to ponder Faramir found himself wondering if it the revelation of Aragorn’s identity was truly something to be avoided at all costs. Of course Aragorn’s personal safety was of paramount importance but if that could be ensured then why shouldn’t Sauron and his servants learn that they, too, had reason to fear? Surely Aragorn would be more secure in Minas Tirith than alone or with only a few companions in the Wilds of Middle Earth. So much that was wrong could be put right if only the king would return. Aragorn’s absence hung over the White Tower like a pall. It affected the sprit of the people and sapped their will. Let the Dark One learn that his was not the only power. If that truth stirred him to wrath then let there be open war. A final confrontation was inevitable, why should not Gondor take the initiative? These thoughts bounded through his mind but ultimately Faramir trusted in Aragorn’s greater wisdom. If he said the time was not ripe then Faramir would not presume to contradict. Still it was a far better thing to be a King’s man than a Steward’s son.

Finally, the waiting ended and the time for Aragorn to be presented with the `Killing Fist’ had arrived. The Gauntlet was brought forth and placed upon a wooden pedestal. At first glance Faramir could not discern anything unusual about the gauntlet. It was a trifle larger than what most men could wear and the designs etched into the metal were a little more elaborate than what one typically found but otherwise it was an ordinary piece of chain mail. Faramir was a little disappointed despite himself. All sense of disappointment abandoned him immediately, though, the moment Aragorn emerged to claim his prize.

Aragorn had not had time to do more than rinse the worst of the dust and sweat he had acquired from his recent combat from his hands and face and wet tendrils of dark hair framed his face. His collar was open at the throat revealing, beside the strong cords of his neck the vulnerable pulse point above the collarbone. Aragorn had made no special effort to make tidy his usually disheveled appearance and his worn and dirt-stained attire make a striking contrast with the nobles of Khand. Perhaps Aragorn had even intentionally come forward in his most shabby, rangerly guise for the benefit of the Variags. If that had been his purpose, however, his effort was utterly wasted. It was as clear as day for anyone with eyes to see, Faramir thought. The streaks of dust turned to mud on Aragorn’s forearms did nothing whatever to conceal the truth. If the Variags were watching how could they not know?

Moving slowly Aragorn wove his way through the gathered Khandrihm to the pedestal. He paused a moment to study the object of so much contention. When he took up the `Killing Fist’ Faramir released a breath he had not known he was holding. What had he been unconsciously expected? A giant thunderclap and lightening writing Aragorn’s heritage in letters of gold through the air? A ball of energy to descend from the heaven and envelope Aragorn? Whatever fantasy his mind had been concocting had not come to pass. Aragorn had turned from the pedestal with the Gauntlet in hand and Faramir was beginning to hope that the assemblage might disperse quickly without further formal procedure. He was eager to return to camp and study his maps so that he could choose which tribes would be most amenable to serving as an unofficial escort. Aragorn’s presence before the crowd still commanded attention, though, and Faramir could not yet avert his gaze.

With the Gauntlet held lightly in one hand, Aragorn surveyed those around him. He wore an expression that none present was able to interpret. Then, as though coming to a decision, Aragorn moved purposefully toward Faramir. The Captain might have moved aside thinking Aragorn meant to go passed him but the ranger’s eyes pinned him in place. When the two were but a pace a part Aragorn stopped and sank to one knee in a single graceful motion laying the Gauntlet before him at Faramir’s feet.

An overwhelming sense of vertigo gripped Faramir and his vision went blurry. He seemed suddenly to be living in two realities where the details overlapped in shifting unpredictable patterns. He was still in Khand, still standing among various tribal nobles and a large crowd of onlookers but he was also standing at the gates of Minas Tirith with an army on the Pelennor Fields and thousands in the City watching. Aragorn was there in both visions, impossibly regal and filled with authority even though he knelt before Faramir. There were a few small differences. In Minas Tirith Aragorn’s hair had been carefully combed back from his face, there was a jewel at his throat and he wore the White Tree emblazoned upon his breastplate but that was superficial: Aragorn, his king and his beloved, was the same.

Even as the visions flickered and shimmered before him, Faramir started to notice that from moment to moment his vision of Minas Tirith underwent subtle changes. Each instant something was different. Sometimes Boromir was beside him and the brothers stood together then Boromir would disappear leaving Faramir alone only to reappear again. Faramir, himself, held the Steward’s rod of office. Then he was holding the crown of Gondor. Once Denethor appeared but then his image flickered not to return. The people around Aragorn changed too. Like Boromir Halbarad seemed to come and go. There were others. Beautiful creatures, so beautiful that they had to be elves, stood behind Aragorn. Sometimes there were many of them, sometimes very few but there was always one: fair haired and slight. There was a dwarf, too, and children.

Faramir grew dizzy. He could not make sense of all that was happening in two worlds at once but then the two visions united as Aragorn spoke across them: “I pledge to the service of Gondor and her people my life and honor.” The words, spoken now and at the gates of the city, pierced through the confusion of images and Faramir felt the world become steady. As soon as Aragorn had spoken the worlds again diverged. In Minas Tirith, Faramir himself had begun to speak: Asking a question of the crowd, perhaps. He would have to speak now also and he wondered if he was capable of it.

“Gondor accepts this oath and will remember it, always.” Faramir heard his own voice at something at a distance from himself. He had spoken as Gondor’s representative rather than for himself and he felt the difference in the marrow of his bones. Touching Aragorn’s shoulder with a hand that should have been trembling but wasn’t, Faramir tried to read the expression in his King’s eyes. The attempt proved futile. As Aragorn took up the Gauntlet and rose to his feet there was something so remote and unapproachable in his gaze that Faramir wondered if Aragorn, too, was being split between two worlds.

In Minas Tirith, the crowd was shouting in wild acclamation. Aragorn had risen to his feet. The cheers were deafening. The other Faramir had slipped to his knees. Faramir longed to mimic his double. Protocol demanded that he do so. It seemed necessary; as though some sort of ritual had been begun and could only be completed with a sign of Faramir’s homage. The world of Minas Tirith had started to fade, though, and the Captain managed to stay on his feet.

For a moment Faramir believed that his perceptions were still altered for he could still hear the roaring of the crowd. Eventually, he came to realize that he actually was listening to cheers and not just hearing the after-echo of the scene in Minas Tirith. Aragorn stood beside him and all the Gondorhim that had come to witness the end of the tournament were enthusiastically applauding. So were the Khandrihm. Some of the latter were clearly only being polite to the foreigners, others appeared to be gleeful that anyone besides the Variags had captured a tournament prize. Still others seemed genuinely appreciative of a good fight. Once more Faramir found himself longing to be back in camp, though now all thought of maps had slipped from his mind.

Closing remarks were thankfully brief and were largely ignored by most of those present, as people turned to their neighbors to discuss events. Faramir accepted congratulations with dazed grace. He was still disoriented as his hand was clasped or his shoulder patted. Aragorn, too, was bombarded with felicitations and good wishes. In the midst of what felt like chaos, Faramir had to struggle not to cling to the older man. Eventually the cheerfulness and backslapping receded enough for the Captain to signal a retreat.

As he was finally leading the way back to camp, Aragorn slipped away from his side. Faramir wanted to stop him, wanted to keep them together but the distance was still in the other man’s face and Faramir did not presently have the strength to bridge the vastness. The Captain had expected Aragorn to fall into step with his fellow ranger. Halbarad had looked like he had something hard and very sharp caught in his throat and he was doing his to breathe carefully around the obstruction. Had he also been privy to whatever it was that had affected Faramir?

Aragorn did not join Halbarad, however. Instead he walked among the Gondorihm. They clustered about him. Faramir could only catch one word in three of the ebullient conversations but they seemed to revolve around advice for the new recruit, nostalgia over first experiences in the service and a detailed discussion and analysis of the final combat. Aragorn drank in the enthusiasm around him. He listened to each man intently, even though a dozen were speaking at once. As soon as the camp was within shouting distance, the story not only of Strider’s victory but also his enlistment in Gondor’s service was being told at full volume.

Lieutenant Warin had pressed a mug of ale into his Captain’s hand and then retreated once he realized Faramir was distracted and not truly in the mood for casual conversation. The experience of divided reality was long over but the confusion of the experience lingered. Had what he had seen been a result of some hitherto unguessed at power of the Gauntlet? Had his imagination shown him what he had so desperately wanted to see: Aragorn’s return to his City. Faramir sometimes had dreams that had evoked similar feelings and responses but this time he had been very much awake. Even ignoring the strange images, what had taken place was amazing. Amazing, marvelous, humbling but not unprecedented. In his guise as Thorongil, Aragorn must have sworn a similar oath. Yet, each time a connection was made, each time a bond was formed Aragorn moved a little nearer to Gondor, a little closer to destiny.

Movement, very close beside him, broke Faramir from his reverie. Turning, Faramir saw that he was not the only one to have drifted away from the impromptu celebration. Halbarad, who had also found a mug of ale, inclined his head in apology. “I didn’t mean to startle you, Captain.”

“It is hardly your fault. I am a bit distracted.” Halbarad made no reply and the two stood together for a while, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

“He loves them, doesn’t he.” Faramir had been watching Aragorn’s interactions among the men and the words slipped from him without his conscious supervision.

“Oh, yes.” Halbarad answered without bothering to look up from his ale.

“How can he bring himself to leave—” `them?’, `us?’, `me?’ “How can he spend so long away from where he belongs?”

There was silence for so long that Faramir despaired of an answer but the ranger finally spoke. “I suppose he feels he must.” Then, Halbarad looked at Faramir with a weak smile. “You have made it harder for him, you know; harder for him to stay away.” It seemed as though Halbarad might go on and Faramir was eager for more. The habit of keeping his own counsel on such matters, however, overcame Halbarad’s temporary lapse and he fell silent again

Halbarad was an interesting man and Faramir would have liked to call him a friend. He doubted, though, that the ranger was not one to give friendship quickly or easily. Halbarad could spend weeks in continuous company and never reveal a single true thing about himself—as long as Aragorn was not present, at least. Faramir doubted he was capable of keeping so much of himself secret. It seemed a terrible burden. One day, though, Halbarad would be able to abandon his many disguises and be himself. When that day came Faramir hoped to take the time to become truly friends with Halbarad.

Oblivious to Faramir’s benevolent scrutiny, the ranger was staring into the middle distance. “It was strange today, earlier, after the fight.”

“Yes,” Faramir answered carefully. “I don’t think I understand all that happened.” The remark had taken him off-guard. Had Halbarad shared the vision? “Do you suppose the strangeness had to do with the Gauntlet?”

“I don’t know.” Halbarad chewed the inside of his lip. Magic and Halbarad did not sit comfortably together. “Perhaps not. I cannot see any advantage in investing an object with the power to give a select few people in a crowd a peculiar feeling, after all. Not terribly impressive.” Whatever Halbarad had experienced it was clearly not very comparable to the Captain’s own vision. Faramir was content to let the matter rest there until they had a chance to confer with Aragorn.

The two men waited together in what Faramir hoped was companionable silence. Eventually Aragorn seemed to be working his way to the periphery of the men clustered about him. When it became certain Aragorn was moving toward Faramir’s pavilion Halbarad and Faramir rose as one to follow.

It had not gone unnoticed that Faramir and Halbarad had kept to the periphery of the impromptu celebration. Several times Aragorn had sought his friends only to find them hovering around the edge of those assembled. It occurred to him that he should go to them and attempt to draw them out. But then they might prefer some time to themselves. The day had been stressful for them all and Aragorn would give his friends their space to collect their thoughts if that was what they wanted. For Aragorn himself, what was needed was to get caught up in the more ordinary but no less important concerns and cares of the soldiers. It gave him a sense of stability and comfort to hear the pros and cons of being posted to Dol Amroth debated as though it were the most crucial issue of the day. The enthusiasm of the Gondorhim had been a great solace. Listening to them eased the ominous tension growing in him.

Aragorn was in need of such comfort for he was under no illusions that the day had been anything but an abysmal failure. From the very beginning things had seemed to go wrong. Aragorn had not been able to find the words in all the night or morning to tell Faramir just how much he loved him and just how badly he would miss him. Valar knew Faramir had told him. Again and again the young captain had made it clear what even a temporary separation would do to him. Aragorn had held him and whispered loving words to him but he hadn’t been able to express everything that Faramir meant to him. Then there was the combat itself. Tired from lack of sleep and guilt-ridden about cheating Faramir of a proper profession of love, Aragorn had given his opponent far too many openings. The battle had been prolonged needlessly and the ending had been sloppy.

All that was not nearly the end. Even to remember how Faramir and Halbarad had revealed the true nature of the Gauntlet filled him with sickening dread. For generations, men had risked their lives to protect the secrets of the Isildurioni and Aragorn had tossed all that away for the sake of an ancient bit of armor. It was pointless to say that he had not understood the consequences of what he was doing. What sort of excuse was ignorance for one who aspired to become a leader of men? Despite the grim situation, Faramir, calling upon his own inner reserves of strength, had rallied and Halbarad’s flagging spirits had galvanized upon hearing the self-disgust in his Chieftain’s voice. Only Aragorn had remained mired in despair; so much so that he had not even had the strength to prevent Faramir from becoming further involved and thus risking himself and his men.

When he had first touched the Gauntlet, the fist that had been tightening around his heart closed. No stranger to the mystical ways of elves or the often-dormant thaumaturgy of the Istari Aragorn had trusted that he would be able to scry anything supernatural in the `Killing Fist’. When he touched the shards of Narsil his blood virtually sang. When Elrond drew upon the power of his Ring Aragorn felt air currents stirring in response. Here, though, there was nothing. The object was a complete null—just a lump of metal, too large to be useful even as a glove. Rather he should say no intrinsic power. It had had power enough to alter the paths of wizards and Stewards but the power was only what others brought to it. It was as Faramir had guessed and Gandalf had so slyly hinted, a symbol.

Having taken the Gauntlet, it seemed to Aragorn only right to use its symbolic power to show something of his deep gratitude to Gondor and to Faramir. He had sought an affirmation of the ties that existed between them. His intention had been to do honor to Faramir and Gondor but he was not sure that even that had turned out properly. He had expected that if the giving of his oath were to unearth memories they would be of Thorongil and Ecthelion but instead he was reminded of Arwen. The first time she had said that she would marry him- she just announced it, he had not yet had the courage to pose the question- he had felt joy suffuse him. He had knelt before her then and taken the Ring of Barahir from his finger and placed it upon hers. He had tried to anyway. The ring was too large for her and she could not even wear it on her thumb without danger of it slipping off. She had laughed and told him not to worry, that she would keep the ring for a while but that he would have need of it again. She had promised him that soon she would give him a token of her own—one she insisted he should always keep with him.

Of course, that had all been before Aragorn’s conscience and Elrond’s fears had prevailed over the precipitate inclinations of love. The feeling he had had that day with Arwen- as though the world was his and he had gained his beloved bride- that feeling had been with him when promising his life and honor to Gondor. It had amused him at the time that there was a certain irony in swearing allegiance to Gondor and Faramir as its representative. From the perspective of an onlooker, he had not acted like a man who believed he had just taken one step closer to a crown but that had been what it felt like—like he had just gained a kingdom, a lover, a bride. Surely that was not what he should have felt.

Any sense of triumph he may have experienced had been swept away as soon as he stood and took in Faramir’s face. His beloved’s countenance was filled with a fey light that reflected confusion and even pain. Aragorn had not known how to interpret Faramir’s distress. Had the Captain believed his oath had been nothing more than a cynical ploy? Surely Faramir would not impute such a base motive to him. Yet, at the nadir of his own confidence how could Aragorn expect Faramir to have more faith in him than he had in himself?

When Aragorn felt he had delayed addressing these issues long enough, he withdrew from the soldiers. Entering the Captain’s pavilion, he put the Gauntlet on the table. He had been staring balefully at the object for several moments when he heard the rustling of canvas. Steeling himself to accept recrimination or despair, Aragorn turned to face his friends.

“Stop that, both of you.” There was a harder edge to Aragorn’s voice than he had intended but the sight that greeted him had startled him badly. Just within the pavilion, Faramir and Halbarad knelt with heads bowed apparently waiting to be acknowledged. “Please, stop.”

`They do not mean to mock you. Whatever else, they do not intend that.’ Aragorn tried to assure himself as he strode across the room to his companions. Halbarad had raised his head in response to Aragorn’s words. The ranger regarded him a moment, meeting his eyes with a calm gaze before slowly getting to his feet. Aragorn let some of the accusation he was struggling to hold back show. Halbarad knew such displays, whatever the motivations behind them, made him uneasy. Halbarad knew how quickly Aragorn would interpret it as ridicule. Why then had he participated? Aragorn meant to ask exactly that but first he needed to get Faramir to his feet.

“Faramir, please, that is enough.” Taking a firm hold of the young man’s shoulders, Aragorn lifted him.

“You should allow me this, my lord. A great thing has happened today: the union of the king and the land.”

Once Faramir was securely standing on his own, Aragorn released him. He felt as he had when Faramir had first intuited his identity. Why should Faramir reverence him so? It was not a question Aragorn cared to address. Taking refuge in annoyance, he turned to Halbarad and with a raised eyebrow seemed to ask: `What is your excuse?’

“It seemed to be important, necessary, the right thing to do.” Halbarad answered his voice impassive. Tempted to throw his hands up in exasperation Aragorn contented himself with retreating to the fire. Even so, he did not miss the look that passed between Faramir and Halbarad. He knew he was being childish but he could not restrain his frustration.

“Aragorn, would it be better to talk in the morning?” Halbarad was extending the olive branch and Aragorn already feeling guilty about his churlishness accepted gladly.

“Yes, Halbarad. Tomorrow will be better. Thank you.” Giving Faramir a small smile of encouragement Halbarad slipped silently from the tent.

After Halbarad’s departure, Aragorn listened to Faramir’s quiet footsteps as he approached him. Then there was a gentle almost tentative pressure on his shoulder. Unable to remain aloof, Aragorn turned and let Faramir slip into his arms. He pressed the younger man tightly to him and kissed the top of his head. That morning he had been uncertain when, if ever, he would hold Faramir again. With the young man firmly within his grasp some of his anxiety bled away. Faramir returned the embrace and for long moments they were content simply to hold each other.

Aragorn had begun to relax. His grip on Faramir had eased a little as fatigue was allowed to creep through him. He was beginning to imagine lying down on the furs with Faramir pressed along side him. The slim body would be warm and malleable in his arms. Faramir’s beard would scrape gently against his neck as the young man nuzzled closer in his sleep. His lips would be slightly parted and his long lashes would…

“Why don’t you want to rule Gondor? Why don’t you want to be our King?” From any other man Aragorn would have taken such questions as a challenge, even as a threat but not from Faramir. Even so the older man felt himself tense. He had hoped that Faramir would not ask. Now that he had asked, though, Aragorn felt the need to answer.

“You mistake me, my Faramir. I want these things very much.” And it was true. He had denied it to himself so fiercely that there were times he had almost convinced himself that he did not desire power. But today, when for a few moments he had claimed the Gauntlet, knowing that that might announce his heritage to the enemy, when he had sworn himself to Gondor, binding himself more closely to the land he might one day rule, he had felt amid all the other emotions a step nearer to destiny and he had been elated. Then later, when those closest to him had seemed to further validate the vision of triumph he had had no choice but to confront the fact that he did want victory, he did want to be king, he did want all the power that that implied and he wanted it so badly that it was a gaping wound in his heart.

“I don’t understand.” Faramir was gazing up at him, his hands resting on Aragorn’s chest. Disengaging his own hold on Faramir, Aragorn sank down on several cushions exhaustion seeping through him. Faramir was quick to sit beside him. He wanted to be able to massage his shoulders or take of his boots or anything to ease his fatigue but the younger man did not want to distract Aragorn from the conversation or disrupt the flow of his thoughts.

“Of course you don’t understand. If I were to name a man I thought to be incorruptible, it would be you. Dear one, the very fact that I desire power is the first proof that I must not have it.”

“Aragorn, please. Why should you not desire what is yours? Surely all good leaders must want to be leaders, at least on some level.”

“If my blood is royal then it is also corrupt. When you grant me power over you, Faramir, it terrifies me that I might misuse that power. What if in desiring power I end by desiring something that does harm to those I love?”

“Such a thing is not in you.” Faramir spoke softly, a gentle smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You have great power already and I have seen you wield it. Your power rests in showing others the power in themselves. With you, men realize they can be better than they are. When you lead it is by the will of those who follow you that has nothing to do with the power you fear. Such power as that is antithetical to your nature.”

Even as he spoke Faramir knew that his words could not by themselves convince Aragorn. The fear was too deeply ingrained. One day, though, Aragorn would be offered the sort of power he feared; the power of a master over slaves and that power would be repugnant to him and then he would understand that he was a leader of free men and he himself would be free to embrace that destiny with joy. Until then, Faramir would soothe his beloved lord as best he could. He would try to show him the good he did and how much those around him loved and needed him.

Drawing Faramir’s face close, Aragorn gazed into the other’s light blue eyes. Then he kissed his forehead. “I am sorry to burden you with my fears, my love. You are good to listen and you are a great comfort to me.”

“I love you.” Faramir’s whispered words were nearly lost against Aragorn’s shirt but the older man heard.

“Lie down with me, beloved. I feel so tired my thoughts are muddled but I will find no rest unless you are beside me.”

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