Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 5

Faramir returned to his chambers well aware that he had been rather boring company to the king. The king’s mention of the dinner though had reminded him again of the need to ready clothes. He frowned at the thought. When he reached his chambers, he walked tiredly over to his wardrobe and began sifting through the clothes. Perhaps he could find something there. He rummaged through the neatly folded piles and came across his old uniforms. Pulling them out, he stared at them dully, his regret at losing his captaincy coming to the fore again. He had never thought that he would want to continue being a soldier but after his realisation that his father barely tolerated his presence in Minas Tirith, he found that he wanted all the more to rejoin his old unit. He had been given a month to train, but after the passage of the month had been unable to fulfil the tests required to get back into active duty. His sword arm was weak and he was unable to even hold a bow properly. The continued usage of a heavier sword had not helped him, and he had fared miserably against the arms masters who had tested him.

The failure had hurt him a great deal, and for weeks after that Denethor had heaped scorn and ridicule at him, sometimes even in front of others.

He put the uniforms away regretfully, still unwilling to give them away, and delved into the next pile. He came across a tunic Boromir had lent him before leaving on the quest. He’d forgotten about it, he realised and tried not to get drawn back into more memories. It was a rich, deep blue and of a very fine fabric. His brother had looked extremely smart in it. He spread it open and sighed. Boromir had been larger than him, and taller. It had been large for Faramir even then. Now, when he had thinned so much after his injuries it would never fit him. Besides, he didn’t think his father would like to see him in it.

At the bottom of the cupboard, he found an old outfit he remembered having worn once for a diplomatic meeting at Pelargir, years ago. Tugging it out, he heaved a sigh of relief as he spread it on the floor. It would be perfect, he decided. There was a dark green tunic in a rich, soft fabric with golden stitch work on the sleeves and collar, a white vest to wear under it and a deep black set of pants. He removed his clothes and tried on the outfit. The cloth was a little warm for the time of the year but very soft. He was grateful for that, mindful that his cuts would still be healing tomorrow and a rougher cloth might abrade them further. He looked at himself in the mirror. In the lamplight he could tell that while the fabric still looked fine, the outfit itself hung shapelessly off him, with the neck of the tunic nearly slipping off his shoulder. It was only now that he realised how much he had thinned over the last year. He could have it taken in, he decided. He’d ask the seamstress the rangers had used if she could do it.

He put the rest of the clothes back in neatly, trying not to linger over the uniforms again. He still had work to do.

When he woke the next morning, he still felt a little stiff but not as badly as he had the previous day. He removed his nightrobe and examined his body in the mirror again. There were still some large dark blue and purple marks standing out against his pale skin, but many of the smaller cuts seemed to be starting to fade. He glanced at his naked body again, noting the sharp contours of his bones showing up clearly on his pale skin. He had never been very well-built, and in comparison to Boromir, he had always come across as slight. Boromir had always exuded strength and energy, whereas Faramir had always been known as the quieter one. His father though, had always referred to him as the weaker one.

And now, he seemed to fit those words. He looked worse than he ever had with sharp bones jutting out everywhere. No wonder he needed to get his clothes altered.

The old seamstress was only too happy to oblige him. His hesitant inquiry was met with a smile and a peck on his cheek from the old woman, and much despairing clucking when she realised how much she’d need to take the clothes in. She’d sent him off with admonishments to start eating and a promise to have the clothes ready in time for the dinner.

He worked until the afternoon, and then collected the clothes from the seamstress. He was glad to find they fit well enough and hastened back to his rooms to get ready for the dinner. Unwilling to be late again, he’d asked for a bath to be prepared well ahead. He bathed hurriedly, and shaved swiftly, aware that his father would frown upon the dark bristles that stood out clearly on his pale chin, and then began to ready himself.

He pulled the outfit on, and stared at himself in the mirror worriedly. The outfit did look fine he thought, as he tugged the collar down and straightened the white shirt under the tunic. He swiftly ran a brush through his hair, letting it fall to his shoulders. His hair had grown too long, he realised, cocking his head to one side. Gathering his hair, he tied it at the back with a thin black sash. He wouldn’t need a cloak in this weather, he decided. It was quite warm.

He reached the main hall in time, and was glad to note that this time there seemed to be no censure in the queen’s eyes although she did give him an unreadable look. He quickly glanced at a mirror to assure himself he looked all right. His father glanced at him too, a short, hard, appraising look, but said nothing, and continued speaking to one of the ladies from Lossarnach. Faramir bit his lip worriedly at that, but then moved on, through the crowd.

Faramir found himself lost in the crowd again, as the wine began to be served. People had gathered in small knots and stood talking to each other. He looked around, searching for a friendly face and finally picked up a goblet of wine and walked over to the window, as he had the last time, watching everyone.

He found he was glad that there were so many more people here than on the last dinner. Apart from the councillors and their ladies, a number of the city’s prominent men and women had been invited as well, and they were all dressed in their finery. He stifled a pang of regret as he noticed flashes of black and silver or green and brown uniforms in the crowd. He moved closer to the open window. The room was stuffy and he found he felt a little sweaty under the rich fabric he was unused to wearing. He loosened the topmost binding of his tunic hoping that would make him feel a little cooler. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck and over some of the still healing cuts forcing him to wince a little. One of the councillors from Lebennin nodded at him and he nodded back and moved to speak to him, feeling almost pathetically grateful to have someone to talk to. It might be stuffier but he could tolerate it he decided.

The councillor wanted to ask him about a bowmaker for a bow he wished to gift his young son and Faramir was glad to be of help to him. The councillor appeared to share his views on practising with lighter bows and Faramir soon launched into an enthusiastic description of the lightbows the rangers had used. He had known the councillor in his days as a young ranger and it felt nice to talk to an old acquaintance again.

Aragorn watched Faramir with interest, as the Khandrim envoy continued to go on about the greenery of the Gondorian countryside when compared to the more barren Khandrim lands. The younger man stood in a corner, talking to one of the other councillors. He looked a far cry from the depressed young man in the faded tunic he had seen yesterday. He looked brighter, more composed and seemed to be speaking more confidently and animatedly.

He had noticed him enter earlier and had found himself pleasantly surprised at the sight. Perhaps he had caught him on a wrong day after all, the day before. Faramir no longer looked the dull, quiet young man in shabby clothes. He wore a dark green tunic today that brought out the warm grey of his eyes and the rich raven shades of his hair. The fine, rich fabric framed his slender figure perfectly. Faramir had none of the flabbiness that so many of the other young lords were prone towards nowadays when they had no more battles to train for.

His face seemed slightly flushed and Aragorn noted interestedly that the redness extended down under the open front of his tunic as well, the pinking skin on his chest standing out against the white of his shirt.

He wondered why he’d never noticed the younger man’s looks earlier. Faramir didn’t have Boromir’s rugged handsomeness, it was true but with the hair tied back, and his face shaven, his finer features were clear and they suited his slimmer build. He smiled slightly while talking, and the gentle curve of his lips made him suddenly look very attractive.

He watched as Faramir loosened another binding, and ran a finger along his collarbone as he talked, pale fingers resting against slick, reddened skin. Aragorn was suddenly reminded of his first sight of the younger man in the houses of healing, fevered and unconscious, writhing restlessly under the bedclothes. His bare body had been flushed all over and glistening with sweat, and when he had opened his eyes, Aragorn had been struck by the adoring warmth and trust in the grey depths. He almost smiled as he remembered that Faramir’s body had responded before his mind had, that day. He’d been only a little surprised. Some of the reactions to the black breath in combination with certain potions were known to be very intense, and Faramir was of course still a young man. In an effort to spare him the embarrassment and well aware that the discomfort would prolong Faramir’s awakening, he had provided him some relief from the discomfort, although he doubted the younger man even recollected it.

The councillor suddenly smiled and placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. Aragorn frowned as the man moved closer, and winking, whispered something in the younger man’s ears. Faramir seemed to redden a little more, and actually looked a little discomfited. The councillor’s other hand grasped Faramir’s arm lightly. He said something else and smiled broadly again. Aragorn frowned slightly, and wondered if the other man was actually bothering Faramir. The hands seemed to rest on Faramir’s body a little too long and the one on the shoulder seemed to slip a little lower, resting lightly on Faramir’s upper chest. But then the councillor moved away, leaving Faramir alone again, and Aragorn found himself relaxing.

“Thank you, Faramir. That was very helpful,” the councillor said, smiling, as he moved away, “And I must say you look fine today, and I’m sure those charming young ladies who keep glancing this way think so too. Your recovery is coming along splendidly I can see!”

Faramir gave a weak smile in response and moved back towards the shadows again, still a little flushed after hearing the councillor’s rather risqué joke about bows and swords as equipage for soldiers. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before and yet he didn’t think the councillor should have been quite so loud in a room where there were so many ladies present.

He had not noticed earlier how many young women were present there that night, a significant difference from the dinners his father used to host, where the few women invited were either the wives of the councillors or in a few instances, eligible young ladies intended to catch Boromir’s eye. He noticed now that most of the women present wore clothes made from the thin, silken fabrics that the Khandrim traders were bringing in. They were more colourful and brighter than the fabrics one got in Gondor and, he noticed, light enough to drape well, so that some of the dresses actually looked quite daring. The two young women the councillor had mentioned smiled at him, and he nodded back out of politeness, but was surprised nevertheless. He remembered what the councillor had said about his looking fine, and wondered if he’d just said it as an expression of gratitude.

He had rarely attracted the attention of any of the eligible young women, unlike Boromir who had always had them fawning over him. It had never bothered him much though that none of he women seemed as interested in him as they did in Boromir.

Aragorn looked around again, wondering where Faramir had wandered off. The dinner bell sounded just then and he found himself being pulled reluctantly towards the tables. Faramir was not at the main table, he realised, frowning as he looked over the faces. But then, he noticed with a strange satisfaction that the councillor from Lebennin who had monopolised the younger man’s attention was though, and busy in conversation with Elladan.

He looked around the other tables in between his talks with the envoy on one side and young Andreth on the other and finally spotted Faramir sitting between a portly merchant and the florid, ageing wife of the councillor from Belfalas. All three seemed more intent on their plates than on each other, and Aragorn found himself strangely satisfied by the thought. There would be time after dinner for him to speak to young Faramir, without fear of him being cornered by his dinner companions.

He caught Faramir as the younger man was leaving. It took him a while for the younger man was stopped twice on the way, on both occasions by older lords. One, a stooping, greyhaired man rested his hand on the younger man’s lower back, as he spoke to him.

“You are looking fine indeed today, lad,” his booming voice sounded out, even as the hand stayed unmoving, just above the curve of Faramir’s buttocks, “Still a little thin but fine nevertheless.”

The other, an equally ageing, overweight man, actually poked a finger at Faramir’s waist, “Still need to gain some weight, boy.”

Aragorn frowned slightly but waited for Faramir to near him. It had cooled down considerably, but Faramir seemed to have no cloak.

“Thank you for coming,” he said smiling far at the younger man, as he intercepted him by a vacant terrace. He was amused to note the surprise that sprang to Faramir’s eyes, especially as he grasped the younger man’s limp hands in his own.

“Sire,” he replied, looking very flustered.

“You look very fine indeed,” Aragorn told him, and was almost delighted to see a blush rise on the younger man’s face. He clasped the thin hands tight and rubbed the inside of the wrist with his thumb as he spoke. Faramir’s skin was soft to touch, and warm.

Faramir felt the warmth course through his body as the king’s grasp on his limp hands tightened. Elessar’s hands were strong and the grip was firm. He almost gasped aloud as the king rubbed his thumb against his skin.

“Th – thank you,” he mumbled aware that his face was flaming now. He felt uncomfortably warm all of a sudden.

If Elessar intended to say anything then, he was interrupted by the queen calling out to him. He gave Faramir’s hands a slight squeeze and immediately moved out.

Faramir returned to his chambers a short while later. It was already dark outside and chilly. It was warmer inside his room. He opened the doors to the small terrace outside and let the cool breeze waft in. Still feeling warm, he shrugged off the outer tunic and the shirt and placed it carefully away. He stood a while in the terrace, wearing only the black pants, feeling the cool air outside waft over his sweaty body.

The king’s words had him blushing still, and he rubbed his hand where the king had grasped it as he walked back into his chambers. He removed the pants and stared at himself in the mirror. The councillor was right, he was not as thin as he had been. He ran a finger along his ribs, and let his hand rove his stomach and hips. While he still felt bony it was not as bad as it had been when he had first awoken in the houses of healing. Then he had been all skin and bone, the prolonged fever having left him completely exhausted.

He lay down on his bed, and pulled the thin blanket over his bare body, and closed his eyes.

He opened his eyes. He was lying naked on icy cold ground, trembling partly from cold and partly from a strange sense of dread. He blinked and glanced around. There was darkness all around him, a deep grey fog that refused to dissipate. Instead it seemed to be settling thicker around him. Frightened, he tried to rise, but his limbs refused to obey him. A deep sense of exhaustion settled over him and he found himself slumping back to the ground as the fog seemed to envelop him, cold settling over his aching body, seeping into his naked frame, even inching between his legs. He felt strange, sick, tired, unable to move and yet there were strange sensations coursing through his body, as the cold intensified. He was sweating all over and a tightness seemed to intensify in his groin as the grey deepened around him. A part of him could feel a sense of embarrassment at the hardness that he felt. He tried to move his hands lower, seeking to give himself some measure of comfort but found he couldn’t do even that. He moaned a low guttural sound and curled into himself.

He heard him then.

“Faramir.”

He raised his aching head a little and stared in the direction of the sound. The fog seemed to have dispersed, and the cold lessened. The king stood mere steps away from him, holding out his hand, a tall, handsome figure, his face shining, eyes warm.

Faramir reached for the king’s hand, raising his naked form off the cold floor. He ached miserably all over, and his shoulder in particular pained him greatly. But as the king’s hand grasped his, a warmth coursed through his body. He moved forward, and stumbled, falling forward towards blackness. But then warmth coursed through his limbs. He was drawn into a close embrace, and picked up. He felt himself drift into unconsciousness. He felt hands rove over his tired body, taking away the aches, and was almost embarrassed when they finally reached his lower body. He felt strong, callused hands grasp his aching shaft. His body responded immediately, unused to these touches for so long. Hot, sticky fluid spilled out, coating his thighs and lower body, as he moaned loud and long. When it was over he still ached all over and yet a tingling sensation coursed through his body that made him feel so much better.

The king was still holding him close, his face near Faramir’s. Their lips met, and Faramir felt himself drawn into an overwhelming kiss. His body responded again swiftly… he lowered his hands this time, reaching for the achingly hard shaft. His fingers wrapped around it and it took but the slightest of touches, before he spilled himself again.

Faramir groaned as he woke up, and sat up kicking away the blanket. He was covered in sweat and his lower body and hand was wet and sticky. He blinked his eyes and flushed as he realised what happened, and tried to remember what dream could have caused so intense a reaction.

All he could remember was the king’s face close to his, his warm breath on his ears and neck, the strong hand clasping his shoulder, fingers resting lightly there, coming in contact with bare skin, as hands moved lower down his body… blushing, he stumbled out of the bed, feeling the wet stickiness trickle down his inner thighs and calf.

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