Faramir Fiction Archive

Good Morning (PG)

Written by Eora

12 April 2011 | 780 words

Title: Good Morning
Rating: PG
Warnings: Mild slash.
Disclaimer: None of these characters or places belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!

Author’s Note: A little silly something in honour of of this archive’s seventh anniversary! The drabble itself is exactly 700 words long, and there is a mention of seven in there somewhere ;) Just a little snapshot of an early morning moment; congratulations and thank you again to Iris and Minx! :)

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There was one window in the hallway leading from Merethrond that framed the great rampart perfectly and Faramir leant on the sill as he often did, looking outward at the dry, bone-bleached branches of the Tree of Men. It was an image emblazoned upon every surface; painted upon banners, woven onto tunics, beaten into armour and shield. An image of Gondor, an image of men, and an image equally beaten into Faramir’s mind so as to be forever associated with all aspects of his life. His home, his duty, his love.

“We shall plant a new one.”

Faramir turned to see his King come up beside him, resting his hands upon the stone sill as Faramir had done. He fought a smile, and almost won. Aragorn squinted down at the tree, bright in the early sun.

“Indeed?” Faramir said, interest piqued. He had grown up the in the knowledge that this dead symbol was the last of its kind, and had hoped for much of his adult life that this did not mean men were as equally doomed. He knew better, now.

Aragorn looked at him. “We shall have to go on an expedition, you and I.” He grinned. “To plant a new symbol in the spring sunlight.” His fingers crept across the stonework to cover Faramir’s own, little by little. Faramir scratched his chin with his other hand, but otherwise did not move.

“A little early to be so poetic, is it not?”

Aragorn frowned, though his irrepressible grin rather spoiled the effect. “And a good morning to you too, Faramir.”

Faramir laughed and turned to his King finally, breaking the contact between their hands only to rest his own palms lightly either side of Aragorn’s waist. The King was dressed simply this day, with no tree to be found embroidered upon his chest. Faramir felt rather over-dressed in comparison. “Good morning.” He leant closer, pressing a soft kiss against Aragorn’s throat. “Happy?”

“Yes.” Aragorn said, and Faramir laughed again. A servant scuttled past, arms laden with clean linen and eyes averted. Faramir glanced at her but Aragorn paid the girl no mind. “Tell me, Faramir, will you ever cease caring what the servants think?”

“You did not grow up here.” Faramir shrugged. “But I know no-one minds now.”

“That is so.” And Aragorn lifted his hands to Faramir’s shoulders and brought their mouths together gently. The kiss was slow and seeking, warm, tender, their tongues hot and languid. Faramir shivered. He did not think he would ever tire of this.

Aragorn drew away, only slightly, and his breath was warm on Faramir’s cheek as he spoke. “I shall not let idle gossip pull us apart. How long has it been now?”

Faramir blushed; his memory for such things had long been a source of good-natured amusement to the King. “Seven months, to the day I believe. Though I have never been sure when it officially began.” He looped his arms around Aragorn’s hips, clasping his hands together at the small of his back. “You had been giving me looks for a long time before either of us acted upon them.”

“Ah, yes.” Aragorn smiled against the younger man’s cheek. “But I do believe it was you who first looked at me with those come hither eyes…”

Faramir snorted. “Let us not quarrel over the details. Shall we agree that we both were too sultry for our own good?”

The King pushed a strand of auburn behind Faramir’s ear, eyes intent on his task. “I would not go back and change things. Would you?”

“Never.”

“Good.”

That settled, they turned back to the window, with Faramir’s arm draped loosely around Aragorn’s waist, and Aragorn himself resting his hands once again on the sill. Faramir could feel his King’s warmth radiate from beneath his clothing, and resisted the urge to run his hand upwards. Another time, another place more suited to such exploration. Perhaps with less clothing.

Aragorn looked round at him quizzically, and Faramir realised belatedly that he had been saying something while he himself was dreaming.

“Sorry?”

Aragorn laughed. “I said, would it be impudent of me to tell you I love you this early in the morning?”

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