Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 7

Faramir slept sparingly, discomfited by his encounter with the king. He kept thinking back too, to the fleeting touch of the king’s fingers on his bare shoulder. He held to that, as the despair of their conversation returned to him. As he had feared, the king had seen his weakness, and worse still had reminded him of how his own failures constantly impacted those around him. But he could truly not help his behaviour with Elessar. If the king would have seen the scars on his back… he did not even want to think of such a situation. How would he explain such injuries? What sort of a captain of men would the king think him, if he saw such injuries on his back? They could not pass for battle injuries, nor would he even try to do so. Only a coward would surely have such marks on his back, turning his back to the enemy. He felt his face redden from humiliation as he thought of his injuries, to be thrashed so by his own father as though he were still a child.

Denethor would surely get to hear of this though and that would only give him more reason to berate Faramir further. He curled into himself, as he remembered that they would be back in Minas Tirith in two days. He had tried not to think of it but deep inside he had hoped to exceed the expectations that the king must have from him on this journey, so far as to truly impress his king. The more he thought of it the more it mattered to him what his king thought of him. Denethor could think what he would of him, as long as the king did not. Yet, all he seemed to do was put himself down in front of his king.

He had realised that in a way Aragorn too held Boromir as the standard for his interactions with him, much as Denethor did, for it was Boromir with whom the king would have had the closest interaction. And, he suspected, feeling himself flush a little, that there had been some intimacy in their dealings, an intimacy that he did not like to think about, one that he knew was only to be expected.

Boromir was ever the attractive one. And judging by some of the reactions the king betrayed, Boromir would have won him over too, much as he did all he met. He recalled the conversation on Boromir’s lovers and felt further mortified at his reaction to Aragorn queries on himself. They were after all natural questions. He was no longer a lad and it was but expected that his marital prospects would be the subject of talk.

But he had truly not wished to speak of the subject. He felt his thoughts turn bitter as he pondered on it. Long, lonely nights with none to turn to but himself, had left him almost irritable on the issue.

Of course, many had caught his eye. There was little he could do about it though. The freedoms Boromir had been allowed as the elder and the heir had not been accorded to Faramir. It was even known to those close to Denethor that the Steward had not just been lucky that Faramir had not fathered any children, or had a train of lovers. It was ever Boromir who received the frequent liaisons with courtesans and the proposals from fathers of eligible maidens.

Faramir on the other hand had early on, in his younger days still half-lad, half-man been told distinctly in an interview that left him feeling utterly humiliated, to avoid consorting with just any maiden and to seek to assuage any needs he had through any trained courtesan who would be willing to come to his bed. Denethor would not brook any threat to the line of succession. Even after Boromir had borne a son who would be next in line for the Stewardship, Faramir’s liaisons with women were viewed with suspicion. Denethor had continued to indicate that he would tolerate no opposition to Andreth.

His affairs with other men he kept discreet, as was the custom in Gondor. It was not difficult to do so, for they were as few and short-lived as his affairs with women. His position as the younger son and a less favoured one at that ensured that there were few now who sought him out. There had been more than a few, who had tried in the past to get close to him, but as he would later realise on each occasion, it had never been for himself. On most occasions he had been used by other women and men to either get favours from Denethor or worse, to get closer to Boromir. He would believe them true in heart, falling into the trap of honeyed words and gentle touches, eagerly seeking any attention they bestowed on him, only to be pushed away once the truth of his situation with his father came out, or once they managed to get closer to Boromir. Not all his previous bedmates had borne well the knowledge of their efforts being in vain and their new awareness of his status in Denethor’s eyes only emboldened them into reacting against him in anger, or even at times with violence. This in turn had soon made him increasingly reluctant to get too close to anyone.

It shamed him at times to think of how often he had been misled so, letting his desires rule over his head, only to come out of it aching not just in his heart from the humiliation of learning that he had been used again, but even physically as well.

He felt the usual emptiness take root within him, as he drifted off into an uneasy sleep, his body still aching from the day’s exertions and his mind full of unhappy thoughts.

They woke to an overcast sky the next morning. Faramir thought rather morosely that the grey gloominess matched his own unhappy mood. He hoped it would not rain. Ithilien in the rains had always been a harrowing experience for the rangers bogged down by slippery, wet mud, fallen branches, and constantly having to wade through new rivulets.

The plan was to leave early, after a hurried meal of bread and dried meat, towards the areas Aragorn wished to cover. Faramir was glad that the king stayed away from him during the meal.

They set off through a large valley that could hold a fair sized settlement, and was well irrigated by a number of streams as well as a lake. Aragorn rode by him briefly during this time, asking him about the course of the streams and their seasonality. He found himself answering unthinkingly, glad to be able to speak of something so familiar and yet not incriminating or personal.

Faramir’s back and shoulders still ached but he ignored it as he pointed out various things to the king. There could be no better opportunity for him to push for the plans to restore Ithilien. He pointed out the possible settlement areas, the pasture lands, the rolling hillsides and flatlands where the rich, fertile soil could be used to raise enough crops to sustain the community. He even showed the trade roads.

It was a long, tiring day as they wove in and out of trees, through large, rolling meadows, up steep rises, stopping only for a brief lunch. From the top of a high cliff, Faramir pointed out the silvery road to the East, and the areas along it that could be developed, should the road trade with Harad be initiated. Aragorn and the other rangers listened to him carefully, interjecting with questions where necessary, as they tried to understand the lay of the land. Faramir spoke in quiet tones, wary at first but growing more confident and passionate as the day progressed.

The rains started in the evening as they descended the high cliff from the other side, to their camp for the night. They were to spend the night at a ranger shelter in the northern part of the forest, not far from the river bank. The building had lately been restored by the soldiers stationed at Cair Andros, for their use. From there Minas Tirith would fall barely a few hours’ ride away the next morning, and so they decided to continue through the rain, munching their supper of waybread and fruits as they rode along. It was a long route although not a very steep one, so they were able to descend without incident even though the trail was slippery. However, the incessant rain ensured that they were all fairly wet and quite cold when they reached the shelter.

The shelter was thankfully a solidly built, dry one; a stone hut tucked under a small rock overhang, protected from outside view as well as the elements by not just the rock but the surrounding trees and bushes. It consisted of a large room where the rangers could rest and a smaller small enclosure for the captain, separated from the other room by a wooden door.

Faramir had fallen back on the downward trail, and so had taken it on himself to bring up the rear. By the time he reached the entrance to the shelter, wet and shivering, most of the men had already settled in, lanterns had been lit and a wood fire begun in the large grate. Bedrolls had been spread out across the floor, near the fire. Outside, the rain continued, dripping down Faramir’s hood, into his clothes.

At the entrance, Ardahil was frowning a little as he spoke to the king, both men cradling cups of mulled wine in their hands, “It is not as large as we thought it would be,” he was saying, “But it is no matter. We have had less in the old days,” he said smiling broadly.

The king was smiling too as he shrugged off his water-sodden cloak, one-handed, “Aye,” he agreed.

“We will sleep in the outside room,” Ardahil continued, “There is enough space for us. You will have the other room of course, my lord, and perhaps Lord Faramir too, if you do not mind. There is a hearth there as well, should you need a fire later.”

“I shall sleep in the outside room as well,” Faramir blurted out, “The king must have the other room.”

The older ranger frowned again, “There will be just enough space for my men here, Lord Faramir,” he said in the tone of forced patience that Faramir often found the northerners using with him, when they forgot his past as an Ithilien ranger and remembered only his position as Steward’s son.

“I am aware of exactly how much space there is here,” he snapped out.

“Then you will be aware that it is just about adequate for the escort,” Aragorn interrupted, his tone gentle but firm, “You and I will sleep in the other room,” He spread his cloak over his arm and walked into the hut.

It was a tone that brooked no opposition, not unlike Denethor’s, Faramir realised unhappily.

“It is best we sleep early, Ardahil,” Aragorn continued, “We have had a long day and I for one am eager for an early start on the morrow. Come, Faramir,” he called, and then smirked, “Do not worry. I do not eat callow young lads such as you. Warm wine is enough for me on nights such as these.”

Faramir flushed at that, especially when he heard Ardahil hold back a laugh, but followed his king in, hurriedly grabbing the cup of warmed wine that one of the guards offered him. The men had already begun to dim the lanterns, tired from the exertions of the day. Faramir crossed quietly over to the smaller room, following the king.

He placed his saddlebags and the wine on the floor, and looked around. There were some changes since his time; the windows had been shuttered and the hearth had been enlarged to accommodate a larger fire, and a huge bed piled with rugs for cushioning had been placed in the middle. The king sat there, removing his boots, sipping slowly at the mulled wine.

Someone had place a large pile of kindling next to the hearth. The sight of it reminded Faramir that he continued to have his wet clothes on. He removed his soaked cloak and placed it on the floor to dry. He pulled his blanket out of his bag. Through the closed door and windows, the faint voices of sleepy men mingled with the sound of the rain outside.

He wished desperately that he were in the outer room, and not in such close proximity to the king, not when he was repeatedly so awkward and unsure around the man. Finding himself in an enclosed space, so close to the king, brought back to him thoughts that he tried usually to suppress.

“Faramir?” Elessar’s voice shook him out of his morose reverie.

He looked up dully, still clutching the blanket and stared around the drab room tiredly, wondering where he could spread the bedding.

“We could share the bed,” Aragorn suggested, as he noticed the younger man stare around the room, “And before you protest, it is certainly large enough for both of us. Why don’t you light the fire?”

Faramir nodded quietly, too exhausted by now to say anything and well aware that the king would override anything he said. He placed the blanket on one side of the bed, trying not to shiver as the wetness began to seep through his clothes. He moved towards the small hearth and began piling up the kindling in it, his hands shaking miserably from the cold.

“Let me do that, you drink your wine,” Elessar said impatiently after a while, as Faramir struggled with the flint, his fingers almost numb.

Faramir moved away quietly, without protest. Elessar gulped down his wine and moved towards the hearth. Faramir watched he swiftly and efficiently built up a fire. The room was soon filled with the warm glow, but Faramir found he was still cold for his clothes were still wet. He sipped at the wine slowly, and tried to keep back a grimace. It was too strong for his taste, especially after such a light supper. Ever since he had been injured, he had found he had little head for wine, whether due to the various medicinal herbs he had to take or because of the poisons that had coated the arrowhead that hit him, he was unsure. He shivered lightly as Elessar rose and shut the door.

“Perhaps you should get out of your wet clothes,” the king suggested patiently.

Faramir nodded, flustered by his own sluggishness, and moved towards his bags, in the far corner of the room. Kneeling down, he peeled his wet clothes off slowly and painfully. Although the cuts on his back had healed the skin still pulled a little. He struggled out of the tunic, and picking up his blanket, wrapped it around his bare skin swiftly, feeling intensely shy at the presence of the king in the same room. The fabric was rough and coarse against his skin and the stray pieces of straw stuck on it chafed at his sore back but he ignored the sensation, and after removing his pants, swiftly pulled on a nightshirt and dry pants over his still wet skin. He gathered the wet clothes and spread them over the floor, before rising and turning to retrieve his wine.

The king had removed his clothes too and stood completely naked, bent over to pick up the wet garments. Faramir stared at the older man’s body, all taut muscle and sinew, firm, hard lines. His gaze travelled up the strong, long legs to the taut buttocks, and he felt his mouth go dry as he stared. Aragorn turned then, giving Faramir a glimpse of his front; the flat stomach giving way to a dark mass of hair between his legs, and a pale pink length of flesh. Faramir averted his eyes swiftly, and reddening a little, sipped at his wine hurriedly, ignoring the acrid sensation it left in his throat as he gulped it all down.

Aragorn gathered up his blanket gracefully and wrapped it around himself. Noticing Faramir wore a fresh set of nightclothes, he felt suddenly discomfited to be naked under the blanket. There was little he could do however, so he shrugged and slipped into his side of the bed.

“Sleep well,” he said quietly, and blew out the lamp. Faramir mumbled a response that he could not hear.

Aragorn closed his eyes, suddenly struck by a memory of a cold, rainy night such as this on the quest, in a shelter that was far more ramshackle, on a much narrower bed, he and Boromir wrapped around each other, warmed by the sensation of bare skin on bare skin, and the fieriness coursing through their bodies as they thrust against each other. He almost rolled over towards the other man on the bed, before recollecting that it was Faramir who lay there and not Boromir. He stared at the slender figure huddled under the blankets for a few seconds, and quelled the urge to touch him, and pull him close. That was Faramir, he told himself and deliberately ignored the spark of interest that he felt towards the other man. It was only the proximity, or perhaps the wine, he should not have had so much of it, he told himself, and tried not to think back to the picture of a naked, aroused Faramir writhing in the houses of healing. Biting his lip he turned away.

Faramir quietly pulled the blanket tight around himself and inched over to the farthest edge of the bed. Despite the pile of rugs used for cushioning, the bed was hard and uncomfortable, much like the beds he had been used to in his ranger days. The wine left him with a heady yet sluggish feeling. He felt a strange tension running through him, well aware that it was the proximity to the king that caused it. He knew he felt something towards the man, but they were not feelings he wanted to think about. He curled up and closed his eyes, trying desperately to not envision the king’s naked frame as he had seen mere minutes earlier, the taut stomach, and the drops of water glistening in his nave. He was intensely aware that the man lay so close to him, completely naked, that he need only reach out his hand to touch his bare skin.

He whimpered very softly as he felt a tightness in his lower belly and his hands moved of their own accord to loosen the ties of his pants. He managed to stop himself by biting into the soft part of his thumb hard, trying to push back his feelings, and finally fell into a fitful sleep, his head heavy from the wine.

He heard the soft moan later in the night, and found himself moving on instinct towards the larger frame out of sheer alarm and worry.

“Sire,” he called out softly.

Aragorn moaned again and moved in his sleep, turning towards Faramir. He reached out a hand towards Faramir’s hip and pulled the surprised younger man closer. His other hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of the younger man’s already loosened pants.

Faramir gasped silently as the large, rough, callused fingers came in contact with the bare skin on his stomach. The hands slipped lower, pulling his pants down as they traversed over his lower belly, ghosting over his suddenly tight groin. The pants slipped down his legs, over his buttocks, reaching his trembling thighs. He sighed softly as his aching member was exposed to the cool air of the chamber.

Their faces were close, and he could feel Elessar’s warm breath against his cheek and neck. Mingled scents of fruit wine, heather and pipeweed teased his senses. The king’s lips were at his ear, as his hands moved up to his lower back, under his tunic, just above the swell of his buttocks, cupping them.

He felt Elessar’s lips on his and reciprocated immediately, letting the king kiss him. He felt the tongue slide in between his teeth and explore the inside of his mouth. A finger slipped into the crack between his buttocks, lightly scratching the soft, sensitive skin. He moaned loudly at the sensation that he had not felt in so long, a low throaty sound, and bucked up against the taller figure, clutching at the king’s arms as Elessar’s single touch seemed to course through his entire frame.

The king’s eyes flew open at the sound.

“Faramir!” he said, and his grey eyes filled with shock, as he moved away rapidly. Faramir felt himself being pushed away, even as he took in the obvious astonishment on the king’s face, realising with dismay that he had not been the intended recipient of the king’s embrace.

“Faramir,” Aragorn repeated in shock, grabbing at a blanket and wrapping it around his naked frame, “I thought, I thought…”

Faramir scrambled off the bed, strangled gasping sobs emanating from his throat, as he grabbed at his pants with one hand and his blanket with the other.

“Forgive me,” he choked out, his slender frame shaking, as he pulled his pants up and tried to bind them, “I – I’ll sleep outside.”

Aragorn moved swiftly off the bed and reached for him, grabbing the thin frame and holding him in place, “Outside where?”

“I – I – forgive me, I should not have,”

“There is naught to forgive,” Aragorn said, still clutching the younger man hard, “If there is any who should ask it, ‘tis I. I – I – my mind was elsewhere…”

“I – I should have awoken you,” Faramir almost babbled, trying to move away again only to get his legs tangled in his blanket.

Aragorn pulled him closer at that, “And yet you didn’t,” he said almost gently, taking in Faramir’s dishevelled state, the loosened pants not hiding the still aroused state of the younger man, “For I deem you wanted it as much, nay perhaps more than I have found myself thinking of it.”

Faramir shook his head unhappily, and winced as the wine induced heaviness made itself felt.

“Lie with me,” Aragorn said suddenly, uttering the words hurriedly, “You desire it, I can tell. And I fear so do I.”

They were words Faramir ached to hear. And yet, he held back. He shouldn’t, he thought desperately. Elessar was happily married. He groaned as the king inched closer, and the heady aroma of heather mingled with pipeweed drifted back to him.

He’d felt something inside of him the moment he had woken to Elessar’s ministrations in the houses of healing. He’d opened his eyes to the king’s face and had felt immediately that this was one man for whom he would do anything he was asked. It was a feeling that had only intensified over time. He found a strange yearning in his heart when he thought of his king.

“No,” he murmured, half-heartedly, although his hands rose to touch the king’s face, fingers running over a stubbled cheek.

Aragorn stared into the flushed face of the younger man, the want clearly written in the leaden eyes and the obvious arousal. His own hardness ached, and he knew he wanted this as much as Faramir did, though it had taken him far longer to realise it. He slipped a hand around Faramir’s neck.

The younger man looked anguished and turned away from the king.

“Faramir,” Aragorn said softly, and gently but firmly turned him back, reaching for his face, running his hands down the thin cheekbones, pushing away the tunic.

Aragorn’s fingers moving gently over him were more than Faramir could bear. He turned and hurriedly covered the king’s mouth with his own. His movements felt clumsy and awkward, but, he realised suddenly, Elessar wasn’t resisting. He was returning the kiss, firmly, swiftly pushing his tongue back against Faramir’s exploring his mouth quite thoroughly.

Elessar’s hands were running over Faramir’s body, pushing under his tunic, sending off sparks of desire through the younger man. He hadn’t been touched like this in such a long while, strong fingers digging into his skin, lightly pinching, and his aching body responded immediately. He flushed in embarrassment as his hardening member bumped against the king’s hip causing the older man to glance down and smile. Hands slipped into his pants and roved his groin and backside and he almost groaned.

“Please…” He moaned, unable to say what he needed, just knowing that he needed something. He felt the king nudge him towards the bed. His legs buckled as the backs of his knees came in contact with the bed, and he fell back against the mass of rugs, gasping softly.

“Too many clothes,” Elessar murmured.

Faramir felt hands on the loosened ties of his pants and moved to help. Fingers fumbling they managed to lower the pants below his knees. The king slipped off the blanket he had wrapped around himself and even through his aching need, Faramir couldn’t help but wonder how graceful the older man was in his movements. The king was very well endowed he realised, unable to prevent a blush as he stared at erect shaft. He glanced down at his own body, flushing.

“Please,” he murmured again.

“What is it you wish me to do?” the king said softly, pushing up his tunic, and running his hands over his chest. He ran his fingers around the sensitised nipples and Faramir gasped again, as they were held and kneaded into hardness. He arched his back up into the lightly pinching hands.

“T-take me, please,” he murmured, desperately.

Need dripped from the younger man’s voice. Aragorn did not hesitate. He made Faramir roll onto his stomach, laying him down against the rugs and nudged his legs apart swiftly. He placed his hands on Faramir’s bare buttocks and parted them as Faramir moaned. The sight of the tiny, pink puckered opening above the quivering legs drove all doubts out of Aragorn’s mind. Faramir moved, rising against Aragorn’s hands, and the king felt the blood rush to his lower body.

The rugs and the wooden bed beneath were rough and cold against Faramir’s chest and stomach but he ignored the discomfort, as the king leaned over him and pushed a spit-slicked finger into him, breaching his tightness in a swift motion. He winced as the large, long finger pushed further through his resisting body. It had been long, and he had to force himself to relax as he took the finger in, deep. He breathed heavily, moaning partly from pain and partly from want. A second finger entered him soon, scissoring into him, and then another, almost too swiftly, stretching him painfully. He gritted his teeth to prevent a groan from escaping, as a burning sensation travelled through his lower back.

It had been so long since he had lain with another and been taken that it hurt almost unbearably and yet he ached for it. Breathing heavily, he stretched his legs wider, angling his hips, aching with the need to feel more inside him. His groin ached unbearably with need, and he finally moaned aloud.

Aragorn pulled his fingers out of the tight channel in one swift movement, to another despairing moan from Faramir. He positioned his erect shaft at the quivering opening. Grabbing Faramir’s hips, he entered him swiftly, pushing through the barely stretched tightness.

Faramir bit back a cry as the thick hardness pushed into him, but found himself responding to the hurried thrusts, ignoring the pain caused by the sudden stretching. He forced himself to breathe slowly, as the king continued to push through relentlessly, his hands gripping the soft skin of Faramir’s lower belly, hard. He could hear the king’s panting breaths in his ear. And then Elessar struck the right spot, and Faramir suddenly found himself keening loudly and forgetting himself to the pleasure he hadn’t experienced for so long now. He scrabbled at the rugs beneath him, trying to maintain his balance as a wave of pleasure coursed through him and arched his back, pushing back to meet the king’s thrusts moaning as the king struck again and again at the same spot deep inside him, pulling out and pushing back in repeatedly, in rapid succession. Faramir’s own groin felt unbearably tight and he let go of his grip to reach for the tightness. It seemed a mere touch was all it took as his own release spurted out, even as Elessar came inside him, filling him with the warm stickiness of his release, easing his aches. He let out a long drawn moan and fell down onto the rugs, the king still inside him. Elessar collapsed atop him and he found himself gasping slightly as the weight of the larger man pressed down on him.

The king moved after a few seconds, pulling out of him gently. He hissed slightly nevertheless and found himself groaning at the empty feeling. He felt exhausted but quite pleasantly so. His lower body was sore and sticky but he found that did not bother him much.

“Well,” the king breathed heavily, and moved off him.

Faramir sighed and rolled over onto his back, feeling almost giddy with happiness. He felt a twinge of pain run through his lower back, and the combined stickiness of his and Elessar’s release coated his buttocks and the insides of his legs, and his pants still lay around his knees but he ignored it all. He lay back there on the hard bed, panting softly. Elessar lay stretched out by his side, breathing heavily. He felt his leaden eyelids close, a sudden bout of tiredness overtaking his excited mind.

Aragorn watched the younger man drift off to sleep, his half-naked frame twisted around the bedclothes. His pants remained at his knees, the legs, buttocks, and stomach were still covered with streaks of white. He cleaned himself cursorily and then stayed awake, as his thoughts strayed to other nights such as this, with another, and even to Minas Tirith and Arwen. He thought back to Boromir again and tried not draw comparisons, reminding himself that the man lying beside him, although similar in looks to his previous lover, was most unlike him in behaviour. He tried not remember the almost loving way he and Boromir would wrestle each other into bed, and how well they melded into each other’s arms, or how different the thin, slender, needy frame of the younger felt from the hardened muscles and sinews of the elder.

After a while, he rose, sighing and opened the windows. The rain had stopped outside, and dawn was breaking out over the eastern sky.

Faramir came awake at the sound of the shutters opening, his movements slow and confused as the bedclothes and his pants twisted around him. His sleep had been short but dreamless and peaceful, and he woke feeling far better than he had in a very long time. He rose slowly, as memories from a few hours prior filtered back into his head, leaving him with a warm, pleasant feeling around his chest. He felt his body twinge in various places, and felt too the cold air on his naked groin and the dried release still stuck to his skin. But he still felt very well. He looked expectantly at the king, but Elessar was sitting with his hands around his knees staring at the open window. Faramir raised himself, ignoring the pain shooting through his sore lower body. He sat up in bed and pulled up his pants, blushing a little as he did so, glad that no one had entered the room as yet and found him in this state. As he thought so, he suddenly recollected the healing welts on his back and almost gasped aloud. Breathing slowly, he realised, the king could not have seen the more prominent scars on his back for the tunic had stayed on all night. He looked towards Elessar again.

He wanted to say so much. He’d always loved the king, he realised. Ever since he’d opened his eyes to look into the warmth of the king’s gaze, and felt the healing touch of his hands. He’d responded to his heart he realised.

Elessar looked up at him as he moved. “We should leave once the sun is up,” he said.

“Sire,” he said softly, aching to say more and suddenly realising that it was unlikely more would be said on what had happened last night.

“I-” he started helplessly.

“You wish to speak of last night,” the king said almost dispassionately.

Faramir looked up at him, worried by the bland tone, the warm and pleasant feeling beginning to dissipate now, replaced instead by a tightness around his chest.

“I should let you know first though, that I shared a fondness with Boromir that went far beyond that of friends,” the king said simply.

“Oh,” Faramir said softly, as he intertwined the corner of the blanket between his fingers.

The king loved Boromir and found Faramir inadequate.

“It has been difficult for me to forget him, and perhaps I do not really wish to. I do not know, but I do find that I have a fondness for you.”

Faramir held his breath, unsure of where this conversation headed. Would this one night be all he could have of this man whom he knew he loved? He wasn’t sure how he would react to that, and found himself holding back tears.

“I am glad for what we shared last night. I cannot have the relationship with you that I have had with others in the past,” the king said gently, “I have Arwen to consider now.”

Faramir listened dully to the words, familiar in their intent to much he had heard over the years. And how could he have forgotten the queen? What use would Elessar have for one like him.

Elessar moved closer and Faramir tried to shy away but found he couldn’t, seeking instead to move closer to the other man, afraid that this would be the last he would have of such nearness. The king reached out to touch Faramir’s cheek, the fingers soft and gentle, “But I do hope to share what we shared last night again, although I know not when. I cannot give you more than this, if you will have it,” he said, “Will you?”

“Yes,” Faramir breathed out immediately, leaning gratefully into the touch. If he could have even as little as this mere touch even once in a month he would be glad.

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