Faramir Fiction Archive

Family Honor (NC-17)

Written by Mcguffan

14 July 2006 | 162886 words

Chapter 16

As they had for the last several days, grunts of exertion echoed through the Gondorhim camp. Walking through the pairs of sweaty men, making suggesting, snarling an order, offering a compliment or a neutral turn of his lip as the situation and individual needs of the men dictated, Aragorn was pleased with the progress that had been made. The Gondorhim had gleefully put aside their heavy armor and shields, the searing heat of Khand made plate mail utterly impractical. Aragorn had expected that the men would be willing to shuck the onerous metal but he was a little surprised to see the men embrace the new and fairly rigorous training regimen he had established. Usually, someone could be counted upon to resist change. He was grateful there were so few men that it would allow him to devote personal attention to each, perhaps that was why no one grumbled. Aragorn had even coaxed Flyn from his self-imposed exile to take a few of the men through some of the simpler moves. Faramir had praised this as miraculous and the love and admiration in his eyes had provoked in Aragorn a pleasure so poignant that it was akin to pain. He had explained to Faramir that luring Flyn had not been difficult: the former lieutenant had been going mad with boredom. Aragorn had only to give him tasks that he could do well, and he had hinted that he would keep Halbarad well out of the Gondorhim’s way if he behaved. It had not been a difficult concession to tell Flyn that Halbarad would cease to trouble him. The ranger had tasks aplenty of his own. He had been working terribly hard to destroy the mystique that naturally surrounded Aragorn without resorting to buffoonery. When not so engaged Halbarad spent time taking Faramir through the techniques that Aragorn was showing the rest of the men.

At first, Aragorn himself had wanted to be the one to introduce Faramir to the different ways of fighting. Every moment he could steal with Faramir was precious, but Faramir seemed acutely uncomfortable training in Aragorn’s presence. The young man apologized profusely but whenever Faramir took up a sword to practice he grew clumsy and awkward. Aragorn, who knew very well that Faramir was capable of fluid motion and sinuous grace, tried not to be hurt by his lover’s reaction. He supposed Faramir’s sensitivity had to do with competing with an elder and very martial brother and he consoled himself with the thought that it would serve a useful purpose for Halabarad to be seen spending time with Faramir while he himself concentrated on other duties.

Taking the short sword from a large, heavily panting, over heated Gorm, Aragorn stepped in to trade parries with the man’s smaller- widely grinning opponent. Aragorn himself favored a two-handed broadsword but he was equally facile with elven knives, a short sword or a spear. He was somewhat less comfortable with a mace or ax but there was not a weapon known to man, elf or dwarf that Elrond’s foster son could not use well at need. For the Gondorhim, though, it was a bit of a shock to see that those who had been considered champions and masters of arms were struggling when given different weapons while men with less prowess appeared to excel. After Gorm had caught his wind Aragorn returned the sword to him and gave a word of praise to each man before moving on. Yes, great progress had been made but they would leave tomorrow and Aragorn felt the weight of all that he not taught those in his charge. Despite the ever-present drag of responsibility on his spirits, Aragorn retained a positive frame of mind. He was fully committed now and with that commitment the doubts and fears that lived with him like an ulcer ceased much of their torment.

Faramir had performed his role brilliantly, furthering the camaraderie he started to establish among the tribes and consolidating it by securing several companions for a leisurely journey westward. Tribal politics was an undulating mass of greed, envy, ambition occasionally and unpredictably leavened with genuine public spiritedness and humanitarianism. Faramir picked his way atop the seething swamp, finding unerringly the best path there was to be found without being pulled under into the writhing sea of corruption. Faramir did not appreciate the magnitude of his own accomplishment and not even all Aragorn’s insistence could convince the young man that what he had done in Khand was truly incredible.

Thinking upon Faramir, a smile came unbidden to Aragorn’s lips. Thinking if for them, the pair of men he had been observing preened. Brought back to himself, Aragorn sternly tried to bring his mind back to the present. Thinking of Faramir would soon lead him to thoughts of losing Faramir, of losing his quiet but still eager and insistent questions, losing his keen and penetrating intelligence, losing the light of love shining in his eyes, losing the warmth of his long body pressed against him… Annoyed with his lack of discipline Aragorn shook his head then called out to dismiss the men to their evening meal. They would have a long day tomorrow. Thanks to Faramir they would be traveling at a leisurely pace but Aragorn did not intend to abandon the training regimen he had begun and the Gondorhim would need their sleep. Tired but looking forward to starting for home the soldiers moved toward the mess tent, while Aragorn decided that, rather than brooding about it he would take advantage of the time he and Faramir had left.

The boiled leather of his new hauberk chafed and Flyn tugged at it disconsolately. Recently the men had been ordered to put aside their breastplates, iron helmets and even their shields in favor of simple leather. It was against regulations but Flyn had found that wearing all his standard armaments in the burning heat of this accursed land was too much like being boiled alive. Thus, the former lieutenant had only made sure Faramir was aware he was breaking the rules and shucked the hot metal without further complaint. The only one who had shown even the slightest reluctance to abandon the old uniform had been Isu. As the order had come from his beloved Lord Faramir the Khandrim lad had obeyed unquestioningly but the boy had mourned the loss of the insignia that had shown him a member of Gondor’s army.

Flyn, who- probably out of petty vengeance- had been tasked with helping the little savage become better acquainted with civilization had watched his charge mope. Isu would probably have kept up his dejection all the way to Gondor had not the boy lit upon the idea of taking limestone and chalk and drawing the outline of the White Tree upon the tough leather he now wore. Seeing this improvisation, the other men had all eagerly done likewise and now every man in the Gondor camp wore the White Tree on his breast. Isu had even taken the initiative and drawn the design on Flyn’s hauberk. Though he had been annoyed at the liberty Flyn had not objected very strenuously. It had saved him the trouble of doing it himself.

Seeing the tree as Flyn struggled again with his hauberk, trying to force it into a position where it would not rub against already raw flesh, he thought of Isu. The boy had not been so irksome as Flyn might have supposed. He was biddable enough and seemed eager to learn the ways of civilization. Flyn believed that civilization had not come soon enough in the poor lad’s life. He had some of the most absurd notions that Flyn had to quickly squelch. Flyn found he could almost pity the Khandrihm in their ignorance. He might have actually pitied them had they not chosen to live in such a benighted climate and so close to the Enemy. As it was, the former lieutenant did his best to be patient with the boy. It would not do to be too harsh with someone who could not possibly know any better.

Still twisting painfully in his uniform, Flyn caught sight of a familiar silhouette. Made petulant by his discomfort, Flyn rose from his place. If Strider wished to play the part of Lieutenant, or Captain Flyn considered darkly, then let him have the responsibility of leadership. He would inform the ranger that the leather for the hauberks was of poor quality and unusable unless Strider meant the Gondorhim to be chafed to death before ever they engaged an enemy.

Rising, Flyn was on the point of haling the figure when the man turned slightly and the former lieutenant saw that he had been mistaken. With a tightening in his belly Flyn resumed his seat with an undignified thud. The strangeness of his movements must have captured Halbarad’s attention for he turned and regarded Flyn. Their eyes met for only an instant before Halbarad lowered his gaze, gave a brief nod and returned to what he had been doing. The gesture would have been polite, nearly submissive except that it came from Halbarad. Flyn struggled to contain a shiver as he concentrated on staring at his toes, willing the ranger to go away.

Flyn passed a few moments in wretchedness before he dared look up. When he did he saw that Halbarad had gone. As the threat of a confrontation disappeared Flyn felt anger and annoyance replace fear. It wasn’t enough that Strider and Halbarad could have passed for brothers, with the same weather beaten skin and sharp features they also had to dress alike. Of course, now that they were soldiers of Gondor the two men were dressed more or less the same as Flyn himself but this fact did not distract the former lieutenant from his irritation. To further the confusion both rangers had recently had their hair cut. Others had taken to the idea and now the camp was filled with men whose dark-hair reached to about the same length all of who were dressed in non descript leathers and homespun cloth cloaks.

Despite the rangers’ obvious similarities, though, Flyn realized that there was something more. His antipathy toward Halbarad made Flyn very vigilant. To avoid the sadistic wild man, Flyn had grown very aware of Halbarad. He wouldn’t have failed to notice the proximity of his nemesis except that Halbarad had not been moving like Halbarad. He had been moving like Strider. It was difficult to say exactly what it was but something in the way he carried himself, his posture, the tilt of his head. It looked like Strider. Now that his attention had been startling focused on how Halbarad’s carriage had suddenly altered it occurred to Flyn that neither did Strider seem not quite himself. He had difficulty articulating just what was different but the ranger’s presence was more subdued. It was almost as if he were trying to fade into the background— a useful skill in a forester but in this case the background he was trying to blend into was other people.

Not a particularly devoted student of human nature or the human condition Flyn experienced these ideas as vague stirring of intuition and uneasiness. As much as he may have lacked true philosophical insight he did have a keen awareness of the political climate. He usually could be counted upon to know who held power, who held influence and who resented their own lack of power and influence the most. Other strange occurrences also niggled at the back of his brain: From appearances, matters had changed. Strider no longer seemed to dominate all proceedings. Faramir took more imitative and Strider seemed content to spend the majority of his time training with the men. Indeed, it was Halbarad who spent long hours with the Captain, teaching his own close quarters- often underhanded- form of combat. In other circumstances, Flyn would have suspected some sort of falling out between the esteemed Captain and the upstart ranger but Flyn could sense no dissention between the two. Indeed, Faramir’s eyes still followed Strider with devotion bordering on adoration. The Captain hid it with somewhat greater success than he had in the beginning but it was still obvious to Flyn’s acute observation.

There was Halbarad’s behavior as well. Flyn likened the ranger to a wolf, wild, vicious, acknowledging no authority but that of his wolf leader. Now Halbarad treated Strider more of an equal, a mate or comrad. It might have been convincing but it all rang false in Flyn’s suspicious mind. For one, Halbarad had been leaving Flyn alone. Though he was glad to be free of the hated ranger’s omnipresent eyes, Flyn felt sure that this reprieve was none of Halbarad’s desire. He was convinced that nothing short of a command from Halbarad’s wolf leader could have kept the mad ranger from harassing him. But if Strider still retained his status with the Captain and the other ranger then why the pretense? Had something happened in those days Flyn had spent resting in his tent after Faramir had learned the Steward had taken a more than a casual interest in the expedition? Perhaps Strider was just focusing his energies elsewhere and in the absence of his complete attention Halbarad was taking liberties? The problem worried at Flyn, chafed him worse than the accursed leather hauberk. He needed to figure out what was happening or it would drive him mad.

“Spear practice?”

Startled from his musings Flyn looked up into the eager expression of his charge. Upon realizing that it was only Isu, he relaxed. “S-P-E-A-R practice” The older man annunciated.

“S-P-E-A-R” Isu repeated dutifully, though he was fairly confident that he had said it correctly the first time.

Flyn hesitated a moment but then shrugged. There would be plenty of time to sort out the problem of Strider and Halbarad later. Rising to his feet, he gave Isu what he though was an avuncular clap on the shoulder and led the way to the practice ground to continue the task of equipping the poor youngster with civilization.

Putting down his pen, Faramir read over his hastily composed notes. He was learning so much that he knew he would forget half of it if he did not make a record. Observations about the Khandrihm already covered sheets and sheets, ideas gleaned from conversations with Aragorn and Halbarad filled pages and thoughts with no discernable provenance yet fraught with possibility crammed the margins. There was so much that Faramir had no choice but to write without his usual devotion to organization. The tidy-minded Captain longed to devote the necessary time to categorizing all the information he had acquired. Time was at a premium, however. There was a great deal to do and Faramir feared that all would not be ready. Calming the sudden surge of urgency that occasionally assailed him Faramir once more took up his pen. It did not help the young captain’s anxiety that he was required to spend most of his day appearing relaxed and amiable before the Khandrhim elite. The stress of always being before the notice of large groups of people was taking a toll on his nerves. Faramir recollected with admiration how easily and gracefully Boromir accepted public scrutiny. He took the respect and obedience of all who observed him for granted but he paid for it with his constant and unfailing devotion to Gondor and his people.

The always welcome thought of his brother and his many accomplishments reminded Faramir of the hour he had managed to spend with Halbarad practicing a form of combat that Faramir longed to introduce to his warrior brother. The day after Aragorn had won the gauntlet, the rangers and the Captain had decided on how best to manage the situation in which they found themselves. An important part of this plan involved beginning a new training regimen for the soldier, one that depended more on stealth and was more suited to forests and uneven terrain. None of the three knew how much could be taught in the time available but Faramir had been tasked with drawing out their travel as long as possible. The rangers would work the men hard in the evening while, accompanied by their escort of friendly tribes, they made leisurely progress west, stopping early and starting late.

Faramir was eager to learn the new techniques. They were imperative for the present purpose and beyond their immediate need Faramir anticipated that he would have opportunity to make use of such tactics in Ithilien. Aragorn had expressed interest in teaching him. Faramir’s shoulders sagged a little as he remembered how clumsy and inept he had been that first day and the second and the third. Finally, he and Aragorn had decided that it might be better to let Halbarad try his hand at teaching the younger man. Faramir had not been able to explain to Aragorn why he lost his grip and started tripping over his own feet whenever he faced him with the expectation of even mock conflict. It was not that he believed he could injure Aragorn, though accidents could happen and Faramir felt sick every time it occurred to him that he should ever inflict even the least wound upon his beloved. If the fear of accident was his only concern he might have been coaxed out of it but it his true concern was much less tangible. It was just wrong. He could no more face Aragorn with a sword in his hand then he could spit on the banner of the Stewards. It simply went against his nature.

Sighing a little at the results of his introspection, Faramir found himself wishing for the comfort of Aragorn’s arms and the quiet reassurance of his voice. His lord was unlikely to make an appearance for some time yet so he prepared to rein in these thoughts lest he lose himself to fond daydreams. As he was mustering the self-discipline to tear his thoughts from his beloved he heard a soft tapping outside the tent. Hope soared in him even as Faramir chided himself for letting his fantasies run away with him. Calling out permission to enter, Faramir was just able to stifle a laugh of exaltation as Aragorn appeared smiling like a benevolent deity before him.

“I was just thinking about you.” Faramir murmured into Aragorn’s shoulder. The Captain had moved so swiftly into the ranger’s waiting arms that the tent flap had only just settled into place before the two had embraced. They had been separated for less than a few hours, yet each time they saw one another both felt their spirits lift and their mood lighten.

“I was thinking of you as well and these thoughts drew me irresistibly to you.” As Aragorn spoke he drew his fingers up Faramir’s back. The younger man sighed contentedly at the sensation but soon he looked up with a faint crease marking his brow.

“Everything is all right then? Nothing has changed?” Faramir asked, needing to make sure that Aragorn had not come earlier than his custom because of some unforeseen circumstance that required another alteration to their plans.

“Nothing has changed. In fact, my desire for your company and conversation has remained particularly constant and as I have found an extra moment I wanted to share it with you if you can spare it.” Even as Aragorn smiled his reassurance the very studious and demure appearance of his lover sparked a sudden passion in him. Aragorn buried both hands into his lover’s neatly combed hair. Pulling the younger man’s face toward him, he kissed him hard.

Immediately, Faramir wrapped his arms tightly around Aragorn’s waist. His own mouth was soft and yielding against the other’s assault. Faramir gave himself entirely to Aragorn, trusting to the older man for his strength, his balance and even his breath for it was utterly clear that Faramir would not turn from the kiss for anything so paltry as air. As always, Faramir’s responsiveness spurred Aragorn’s desire. He drew Faramir’s bottom lip between his teeth, not quite biting, and heard a soft moan as Faramir’s arms tightened about him.

While the fingers of one hand still raked through Faramir’s thick dark hair, the other lowered to clutch at Faramir’s hip. Hearing another barely audible sigh of bliss from the beautiful man before him, desire leapt higher in Aragorn. All his thoughts were eclipsed by the overwhelming need to move forward with Faramir still pressed tightly to him until he encountered the first stable surface. Then, they would abandon their clothing, tearing and ripping, desperate for the heat of flesh. Aragorn’s mind, driven by passion, slid over the necessities of preparation in a headlong rush toward the merging of bodies. He could hear in his mind his lover’s soft cry as he pushed through the barrier between them. He could feel Faramir’s nails digging into shoulders as they moved closer and closer. Subconsciously Aragorn’s fingers tightened in Faramir’s hair and he gripped his lover’s hip with bruising force as he felt the two of them pressing frantically against each other, fighting blindly toward that elusive alchemical reaction where sex transformed into the physical manifestation of love.

Catching his breath, Aragorn took a step forward needing to give his mental images reality. Faramir clung still harder moving with him trying to anticipate Aragorn’s advance so as to avoid any accidental separation. The younger man gazed up at him with absolute faith, his eyes dark with desire yet his countenance was open and completely trusting. Whatever Aragorn chose to do, Faramir would accept it; more than accept he would welcome it. If Aragorn caused him pain Faramir would not question him. He would open his arms to Aragorn’s darkest fantasies with a calm and contented spirit. The Steward’s younger son would ask nothing for himself. Aragorn’s happiness, Aragorn’s pleasure were Faramir’s only object, the only goal worth attaining. This knowledge terrified Aragorn even as it excited him but mostly it filled him with a wrenching gratitude that shook him to his very core.

The young man’s adoration gripped Aragorn’s heart with protective love. Yet, the young man was no fool to trust blindly in a first passion. In the beginning Aragorn had half hoped and half feared that Faramir’s attachment would be an intense but short-lived foray into romantic attraction. The ranger had been the object of hero worship before. Young men and women bored or frustrated in their everyday lives sometimes saw in him a mystery to be solved or a danger to be overcome and for a while they imagined themselves in love. This could be flattering, though more often Aragorn found it embarrassing, but in the ranger’s mind it had little to do with him. He was only incidental to the young man or woman’s need to be entertained or important or in love. It was not so with Faramir. Though it confused Aragorn, the trust he saw in Faramir’s eyes was based on understanding. Denethor’s son knew him. He had found his way through to the truth of a puzzle that even after years of close study had left his father and grandfather with no more than guesses. Faramir knew of the duties and responsibilities that defined Aragorn. He understood something of the demons that plagued him and he loved him even so.

To Aragorn’s eye the young man was inexpressibly beautiful and his passion, which had been racing through him like a windstorm took on solidity and greater substance. He experienced no diminution of his desire but it no longer rushed through with such violent abandon. There were times when Aragorn felt almost sick with waiting. The future- like Faramir himself- seemed within his grasp yet he dared not close his fingers. If he moved before time then all would be lost. The fact that Aragorn was deeply ambivalent about that future did not lessen his frustration. He wanted Faramir- to make love to him, certainly, absolutely, but he wanted more. He wanted to be able to claim him publicly, to acknowledge their relationship to the world and defy anyone who would dispute their rights and obligations to one another. He wanted Faramir as he wanted Arwen and, gods forgive him, as he wanted Gondor, Arnor and dominion over the next age. It was not to be, though. Not now, perhaps not ever. He was not worthy. He dared not risk harm to those he loved with his presumption. Slowly, Aragorn’s grip on Faramir’s hair eased, his fingers loosened until he was gently caressing the dark strands. His other arm wound around Faramir’s waist, holding him possessively but also protectively.

“Sit with me, my love.” Aragorn asked, struggling to slow his breathing. “Talk with me awhile.”

Panting softly, Faramir’s head came to rest against Aragorn’s shoulder. “A moment please, my wits have fled and I must await their return.” Faramir felt dizzy. It was so good of Aragorn to come see him, to take the time to make him happy with his presence. There was a hungry, greedy creature inside Faramir that was howling for more touches. It had awakened as soon as Aragorn stepped into the tent and had broken from Faramir’s control as it glimpsed the look in Aragorn’s gleaming eyes and now it screamed its need making Faramir’s body shake. This creature was hysterically ordering Faramir down on his knees so he could wrap his arms around Aragorn’s thighs and rub his face against the half hard flesh between his lord’s legs. Desire burned so bright that Faramir wanted to beg Aragorn to take him. It made no difference that his lieutenants had not yet come to give the evening report. `Let them see!’ The creature raved. `Let the world know who this man is. Let them see what you would do for him. Show him how much you need him, show him how you love him…’ The clamor of creature grew fainter as Faramir began to calm. It was folly to make love when at any moment Gildel or Warin might walk in. Besides it was not for him to demand or importune. He was grateful for what he was given. It was more than he deserved.

Feeling guilty for arousing Faramir without continuing, Aragorn rested his hands lightly on his lover’s shoulders. Aragorn had not meant to tease him. `Your weakness has made you selfish,’ he berated himself. The young man was flushed, his hair was unkempt from Aragorn’s assault and his clothing was rumpled and even as the older man felt sincere regret he also realized the he was feeling a bit pleased that it had been his kisses that had sent Faramir’s heart racing and brought the blood to his cheeks, his fingers that had raked through the raven locks and his hands that had explored the young man before him so thoroughly. Faramir belonged to him. Closing his eyes with self-disgust Aragorn knew he was glad Faramir needed him glad he loved him.

After a few moments, Aragorn put an arm around his lover’s waist and guided him to the cushions. The young man, however, could not be persuaded to settle until he added fuel to the fire and made certain there was nothing neither food nor wine that could be provided for Aragorn. As ever, Faramir’s solicitude touched Aragorn even as it annoyed him a little. It was as though part of Faramir feared that Aragorn would not come to him if he could not provide the most pleasant of accommodations. It had been worse in the beginning. Then, the younger man had reminded Aragorn of a humming bird, forced to move constantly and frantically, never allowed to be still for fear of falling. Now, while Faramir continued to fuss, he would soon settle at Aragorn’s side where he seemed to draw upon a newly discovered inner-stillness which soothed Aragorn and lent Faramir a dignity that at times approached majesty.

Looking around, Faramir finally realized that he had done everything he could think of to make his lord as comfortable as possible. Sighing a little, he permitted himself to relax. Seating himself beside Aragorn, Faramir kissed the older man’s shoulder lightly. He began talking as Aragorn had requested. Mostly he spoke about their immediate plans. He found that talking helped to purge his worries. He did not know how long he could keep the tribes with them. He conjectured about personalities and motivations of the Khandrihm. Much of what he had to say Aragorn had heard before but explaining it all gave his thoughts a clarity that they had lacked while they had remained locked in his head, flashing like lightening across the horizon of his mind. When the skein of his ideas had finally seemed to untangle Faramir ran out of words. The two men sat together for several minutes content to be in each other’s company before Faramir broke the silence to ask how Aragorn was proceeding with the men.

“There is so little time, my love.” Aragorn replied as he stared into the fire. “They are accustomed to facing the enemy, encumbered in full armor. I’m focusing on archery drills—as well as one particular maneuver. We are hiding our strategy in plain sight. Though, the Variags are ever watchful, I do not think they realize that our tactics are revealed in the exercises of the soldiers. I do not think the men themselves realize how what we teach them will be employed.”

“We are so few that the Variags do not bother to scrutinize our activities save to ensure none of us escape.” Faramir agreed. Feeling the sudden inexplicable need to protect Aragorn yet at the same time beset without doubt about his ability to do so Faramir wrapped his arms around Aragorn’s waist and pressed his forehead against his shoulder.

Returning the embrace, Aragorn spoke after a moment: “Halbarad tells me that you were born to wield to the bow and short sword.” With his head against his shoulder Aragorn could not see Faramir’s expression but he sensed a soft upturn of his lover’s lips.

“He is very kind, but I am sure he exaggerates.” Faramir was pleased with his training with the ranger. He had been able to appreciate the finesse required to execute maneuvers with the lighter, shorter weapon Halbarad had insisted they use. In Gondor all the nobility were trained with the broadsword and shield almost to the exclusion of everything else. Boromir had excelled in his training but Faramir found the heavy weapon upset his balance and was it was too clumsy for precise movements. Even with the more accommodating short sword Faramir would rate his skill as no more than adequate, however.

“That doesn’t sound like my Halbarad.” Aragorn replied with a grin.

As irrefutable as Aragorn’s assessment of his friend’s character might be, Faramir would not be swayed. With a sad little shake of his head, Faramir insisted: “I do not merit praise. Though my brother is renown for his skill and courage, I fear I have little of his talent.”

“Halbarad has watched men fight for decades. He knows what he is about.” Aragorn was about to continue, he wanted very much to convince Faramir that he deserved the compliment but an idea suddenly occurred to him and left him speechless: To Aragorn’s dismay he saw that Faramir’s inability to trust in himself was greater than his ability to trust in Halbarad’s judgment. It was a sad truth but such misery had been forced on the younger man because he loved others better than himself. He would take faults and blame onto himself rather than attribute them to others. Aragorn was familiar with this aspect of his beloved and that was not what had startled him. In Faramir, whom he loved very dearly, he suddenly saw himself. `Is my distrust of myself so great that I cannot truly trust those I love?’ It was a painful question, in part because there was no Denethor in Aragorn’s own past to have turned his love of others against himself. Now that the question had been raised, however, Aragorn had no choice but to grapple with it.

“It was not my intention to impugn Halbarad’s skill or judgment. He has been exceedingly patient with me and I would never wish to insult him.” Faramir had misinterpreted Aragorn’s silence as anger at a perceived slight of his friend.

“Of course not.” Aragorn replied automatically. He wanted to tell Faramir about his insight. The younger man’s mind was well suited to understand such things and it seemed to Aragorn that he never came away from his lover’s presence without having gained in wisdom or knowledge as well as joy. As he looked into Faramir’s anxious eyes, however, Aragorn hesitated to broach such an important topic when they had so little time. Instead another idea suddenly occurred to Aragorn. There was a sudden twinkle in his eye that he scrupulously kept from his lips.

“Would you make amends, then?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes, gladly.” Faramir agreed. It reassured him somehow when he had to earn forgiveness rather than simply receiving it as a matter of course.

“Then I will have you tell me five things in which you excel.” Aragorn demanded, the smile finally appearing. “I expect you to be sincere in this, love. As charming as I find your mild mannered modesty I will have none of it for this.”

Faramir had not been entirely certain what he expected but this was not it. He opened his mouth with the first obvious objection that penance should by its nature be unpleasant. He closed it again, however, realizing that Aragorn had not set him a task he would find comfortable. The thought `couldn’t I just have a beating instead’ occurred to the younger man but he bit back the words. He wasn’t sure Aragorn would understand how he meant them. He wasn’t sure he himself understood how he meant them except that Aragorn was so very strong and Faramir suspected that he would be grateful for violent touches if they could somehow make him truly worthy of all his king’s gentleness. Indeed the thought of blood rising up from his willing flesh like rubies to be strewn at the feet of his lord as the gift of his heart made the muscles in Faramir’s belly and thighs ache.

As the silence lengthened, Aragorn’s expression grew hesitant, as though he had begun to doubt the wisdom of his proposal. Faramir was not about to allow that. “All right.” He murmured. “I’ll do as you ask. I suppose it is for my own good.” In anyone else that last would have been cheeky but from Faramir, Aragorn could not be certain.

Smiling again, Aragorn was on the point of leaning forward to kiss the younger man when sounds from outside signaled the arrival of Faramir’s lieutenants. Moving away from his lover, the Captain gave permission for Gildel and Warin to enter and give the evening report.

The long procession of men, horses and baggage made an interesting spectacle. At the head of the column, roughly thirty men, all dark haired and bearded, all clad in hoods and old leather with white chalk marks on their chests held close to their mounts and clustered tightly about a heavily laden wagon and a single banner hanging limply in the hot dry air. Loosely grouped around these men were at least six different collections of people. These people mingled among one another and even permeated through the tight knot of hooded men. There was a festive air among these satellites and there was much talking, shouting and singing as the procession moved slowly forward. It was only later at night after the column had been stopped for several hours did the throng sort itself back into its six groups, the men finally returning to sleep under their own tribe’s banner. At a constant distance of fifty yards behind, more men marched. There was no holiday spirit here. Five hundred men marched in tight formation; their horses were at the back with the supplies. The steeds were given the freedom to graze and set their own pace—a freedom the men were denied. These five hundred stopped when those ahead stopped and took up the march when the others did. It was a bit of challenge to march slowly enough not to overtake the meandering people ahead but discipline was stern and the fifty yards distance neither increased nor decreased.

Lorel, Captain of the Second Division, Chieftain of the Miroven and Officer of the Eastern Empire, watched the procession with his slightly misshapen lips pressed tightly together. He had not expected the Steward’s whelp to put up any resistance. The consensus in the Capitol was that it was the elder son who would pose the greatest threat to the Empire and Great One’s Return. Even so, Captain Faramir had doomed himself with his cunning. Lorel would have been satisfied to take only the two rangers, now that he was forced to delay and travel further away from his home he meant to destroy the Gondorhim. Once their escort evaporated, and Lorel and his Lieutenants had already been paying visits to the feckless tribal leaders who had committed themselves to travel with the foreigners, all the Gondorhim would be at his mercy.

Of course, there would be no mercy. Lorel would have the common soldiers butchered. He was still considering whether or not it was worth the bother of keeping Flyn alive. The man was a worm but he had already shown himself willing to discuss his masters with nothing greater than liquor to loosen his tongue. If even greater pressure were brought to bear Lorel had no doubt the man would reveal everything he knew of the workings of Gondor. Intelligence of the Enemy was in short supply and Lorel was very tempted to break Flyn and keep him to give insight about how his countrymen were likely to respond when the war started in earnest. Lorel did not have to decide immediately. While Captain went through this ridiculous charade the Officer had nothing but time.

Captain Faramir, there was a young man with a decidedly grim future, Lorel observed pleasantly. The Officer had been quite taken off guard by the Captain. Within a few days he had had many of the tribal leaders eating from the palm of his hand. He spoke their language, a feat no barbarian should have been able to manage. He was courteous to even the most pompous windbag and, from what the Officer had observed, a very quick thinker. According to Flyn this exceedingly intelligent, self-possessed man gave his body willingly to the ranger Strider. In Lorel’s mind that could mean only one thing and the knowledge shook him with gleeful joy.

When Lorel had first received his orders to attend the Great Gathering, he racked his brain to think which of his imbecilic political masters he had offended. Sending five hundred men to ensure all the prizes were claimed by the Variags seemed like sheer waste. The Variags always took the prizes and the tournament champions. That was the way it was. Even if they were to lose one by some weird twist of circumstance, did it truly matter? He had had no choice, however, but to accept the charge, seething all the while at the squandering of the men and his own talent.

Returning to his lodging in the Capitol, Lorel had acquired a bottle of strong spirits from the landlord and retired to his room. As he entered he saw an old man seated upon his bed. His first thought was that one of numberless crazed and homeless men of the Capitol had wandered unchallenged into his room. He drew his knife to kill the man even as he planned to have the inn’s proprietor publicly flogged.

“Greetings, Lorel, son of Larif, son of Ulris the Orc.”

Lorel wanted to kill the old man, even more so because he knew his name and lineage. There was something in his voice, however, that stayed his hand. This seemed to amuse the old man who chuckled quietly to himself. Before Lorel could muster his wits sufficiently to once again threaten the crazy old man, the wizened figure on his bed rose and approached him.

“You are angry because those who consider themselves your superiors have set you a dreary task with no promise of glory or advantage, but you are mistaken. This mission will give you everything you desire if you listen to me, orcling.” From anyone else, the epithet would have had Lorel snarling and sheathing his knife in flesh, but the old man had ensnared him somehow and he had no choice but to listen.

“Gondor will send men to this tournament.” Lorel’s eyes widened but he said nothing. “The old Steward seeks the `Killing Fist’. Do not let the presence of this ancient enemy distract you. The old spider that currently spins his webs in the White Tower is of no great concern. Save your efforts for another. He may be alone or he may travel with others of his tribe. He will be a stranger and he may attempt to hide himself among the Gondorhim but such an alliance will most likely be weak and easily broken. This stranger will also seek the `Killing Fist’ but unlike Denethor he will win what he seeks by himself.” Lorel wanted to interject that it was not so easy to predict the results of the tournaments but the old man was warming to his story. He paced the small room, his staff clicking rhythmically on the floorboards never giving the Officer the chance to open his mouth.

“He will be the tournament champion. He may be disguised as a country bumpkin, a prosperous merchant, mayhap even a bard or storyteller but he will be the one you want. Do not underestimate him or those around him, however he may choose to conceal himself he will be the most dangerous creature you have ever encountered—aside from me, of course. Once the stranger reveals himself through the gauntlet you must do everything you are able to catch him and bring him here.” The old man had more to say but Lorel was finally done passively taking orders from someone who still might well be some lunatic from the gutter.

“The Variags will make generous offers to all the tournament winners. We shall procure this stranger but why is it so important? Why is the man you value so highly interested in the `Killing Fist’? Who is he? What is Denethor’s interest in this? If the `Killing Fist’ were of any real value then the Empire would never have offered to donate it as a tournament prize in the first place.” None of this made sense to Loral, Gondor was the enemy, not some juggler or whatever he was. True, a man needed skill to win a tournament but even so.

Sighing, the old man answered Lorel’s questions. He began with the story of the Great One’s battle with Isildur. He continued through the saga of the ultimate estrangement of Gondor and the line of Kings. Next he told of the rising power and ambition of the Stewards. Finally, the old man spoke of his own cunning schemes and his attempt to solve a very old mystery. Lorel felt his knees begin to shake and he just made it to his bed before collapsing. He was not certain if he believed the old man but even the idea was far beyond anything he had dreamed of.

“One of my own has been keeping secrets from me.” The old man’s voice was as compelling as ever and the Officer found himself once more drawn into the other’s words. “Much has changed. The world is not what it once was.”

The old man placed his hand gently, paternally on Lorel’s head then lifted his chin in an iron grip. The nails were long and cut at his chin but they were clean and apparently well cared for. “I find myself in search of new alliances. I would make peace with the Great Lord. Isildur’s heir will be my gift to Him, a token of my sincerity and my value to His cause. If you do my bidding in this, I will see the rewards exceed your wildest ambitions.” With those final words, Lorel’s visitor turned and left his room. Later, the Officer interrogated the innkeeper, bar maids and potboys as well as the other guests but none of them recalled seeing anything of the old man with the strange voice.

On the long journey west, Lorel wondered constantly about that night. Sometimes he found himself believing the old man’s tale and he was overcome with excitement at the prospect of the adventure ahead. On these occasions, he conjectured that the old man had paid visits to others beside himself. Was the entire expedition the old man’s idea or had he simply taken advantage of circumstances? How much true power did he hold in the Variag Empire? Lorel would gladly trade his current position for a place in the Great One’s service but he would not risk his place in the Empire because of an old man. Even if everything he had been told was true, Lorel meant to play things very carefully. There were other times, of course, when the Officer had convinced himself his strange visitor was mad or worse yet that he had been sent by one of Lorel’s rivals to draw him into some dangerous- even treasonous- activity. Still yet, there were times when the Officer believed it was all a dream or an alcohol induced hallucination.

It was not until he found the tall lean stranger twitching helplessly beneath the spiked whips of one of his patrols. The man had been in poor shape but there had been something about him that belied his common, bedraggled appearance. There had been something aloof and calculating about the fellow even as he lay gasping and bleeding at Lorel’s feet. It was as though, despite his mortal peril, the confounded man was taking notes. Assuming this to be the first test of the old man’s words the Officer had released the stranger. Lorel’s suspicions were further aroused when after he had told the man he was free to go, he had glimpsed curiosity quickly shrouded by obsequious gratitude. An ordinary man would not have cared why he was spared but the stranger had.

The next time he saw the man, Halbarad, all trace of the pathetic and pleading man was gone. In his place stood a proud, implacable hawk-like figure. The change was startling, but the true revelation had come in the man beside him. Lorel had seen the man, Strider, before in the tournament and marked him as a favorite—he had not realized then how much the ranger had been holding back—but seeing him beside Halbarad had shown the glorious truth in the old man’s words. Isildur’s heir had come to Khand. As obvious as it seemed, Lorel acknowledged that he might have remained oblivious but for the old man’s warning. Any remaining doubts he might have had were crushed by the reaction of Halbarad, Captain Faramir and Strider himself when he confronted them. Since then the mist that seemed to shroud Strider had alternately thinned to near transparency and thickened to be nearly opaque. Lately, the ranger-King’s identity had been particularly difficult to see clearly. It hardly mattered to Lorel. He had seen all he needed and he would hunt the Great One’s Enemy as far as he ran. Lorel’s Lieutenants did not understand the stakes and already they were grumbling about continuing west when it would be hard enough to find provision for all the men if they turned back now. Lorel ignored them and their grousing. They had no vision.

In one respect, the old man had been wrong. The ties between the Ranger-King and Gondor were stronger than Lorel had been led to believe. Captain Faramir would not have risked himself and his men if he had no loyalty to Strider. It was possible of course that the alliance was only between Faramir and Strider and that the Captain was acting on his own or even in defiance of Denethor. From what Flyn had said Lorel was tempted to believe that the only connection between the Ranger-King and Gondor was the connection between Strider and Faramir. Lorel decided to make use of that fact if the opportunity ever presented itself. Always when he had faced a strong adversary Lorel found it an unconquerable strategy to divide them against each other. In this case, however, his quarries were hopelessly outnumbered and he believed they would fall to him easily.

When he had them he meant to turn Faramir over to the Empire. Presenting them with the Steward’s pup would help to smooth over any feeling that he had overstepped his authority in taking his men so far west. The council leaders would fight over the Captain, of course. Some would want to execute him, others would want to torture him for information or for fun while others yet would advocate selling him back to his father. The squabbling would serve Lorel well for the Officer intended to improve his position in the world one way or another and distracting the men above him could only help. It was a good tactic but it left the dignified young Captain in the same position as raw meat thrown to a pack of jackals. Strider was of course meant for the Great One. Lorel might be ambitious but he was no fool. He would deliver the ranger without so much as a scratch if he could help it. Lorel was by no means squeamish but the horrors the ranger would then be subjected to were not something he cared to contemplate.

That left only Halbarad. Lorel believed he was entitled to his own prize from this expedition and he had settled on the ranger. There was something in Halbarad’s devotion to Strider that deeply offended Lorel. He saw the same devotion in Faramir and Strider himself seemed to just ooze concern and affection for his two comrades but those two were not destined to belong to him. Halbarad did not have Faramir’s excuse of youth nor Strider’s excuse of needing to appear to care for the people around him. It was not right that one person should love another so much. It did not jibe with Lorel’s preferred view of human nature. He would be avenged, though, even if he had to work at the ranger for long hours over weeks and months. After all, every great man was entitled to a hobby.

With a curse, Lorel realized that Faramir and the weakling tribal leaders about him had called a halt for the day. Squinting into the sky, Lorel saw that there were still hours left in the day. Why were they moving so damn slowly? If Lorel had been in Faramir’s place he might have tried to use speed to outpace the larger and therefore slower moving pursuers. Thinking that the self-sacrificing fool might try to use the frequent stops to smuggle Strider away and give him time to run before the Officer learned his prize was missing, Lorel ordered his men to keep an unrelenting watch on Strider. If they lost track of him for an instant, he would flay the skin from their backs.

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