Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 8

They left early, as soon as the sun was up, as Elessar had desired. Ardahil and his men had taken little time to ready their things. Faramir too had hurriedly pulled on his still damp clothes. The ride back was a long and quiet one. The rain had stopped but the sky remained somewhat overcast and gloomy.

Faramir was sore all over. His shoulders and back hurt from the exertion and much to his mortification, his lower body too ached greatly. He shifted himself every now and then, trying to keep his mind off the soreness he felt between his buttocks. He tried too to not think of all that had transpired the night before. Just the thought of the king touching him so intimately caused a heat in his lower belly that he barely managed to control.

He decided to concentrate on the trail instead. It had been a while since his last trip to Ithilien. He had hardly come here after the war, and despite the overcast sky, he felt a little lighter here among the dense woods and rolling meadows where he had spent much of his adult life.

Elessar rode alongside Ardahil through most of the journey, and Faramir was left to ride alone. The overnight rain had left the trails slushy and wet and often in places they were forced to slow down. They stopped for a hurried meal later in the morning and then again in the afternoon. Ardahil hurried them along, unwilling to allow anyone to tarry longer than necessary. Faramir could sense the scowl the older man was bestowing on him, when he rose a little sluggishly after the noon meal.

There was little he could do though; the soreness he felt had only worsened after riding all morning and the thought of another long stretch on horseback had him nearly groaning. Ardahil continued to lead the way, getting increasingly irritated as the soggy trails hampered their progress.
He cut short their halts, ensuring just enough time for the horses to rest.

As the evening neared, Faramir tried to suggest a new trail to him that he knew would be shorter. Ardahil however ignored him. Hurting still, Faramir did not press the point further. When they were still some distance away from the city, late in the evening, he finally pulled up alongside the captain.

“There is a small meadow a little away, by a stream, where we could stop to eat,” he said. He was feeling quite hungry, and the longer halt would give him sometime to recover.

“No more halts,” Ardahil growled, “I would instead desire we go faster. We are nearly at the end of the woods, are we not?”

“But we’ve been ridden without a stop since-”

“Lord Faramir, it is getting dark, and some of my men have wives to return to!” Ardahil gritted out.

“I know a shorter route,” Faramir tried.

“I will not risk taking the king on an unknown trail.”

“It is not an unknown-”

“It is best my lord, that you leave these matters to us. Nothing for you to worry yourself over. Once we are back in Minas Tirith, you may have all the rest you desire.”

Faramir flushed. “I have been a ranger too. I am just as aware of-”

“Lord Faramir, is aught the matter?” the king’s voice was low, but cold.

Faramir stiffened at the distant tone, so different from the husky softness of the previous night, but replied nevertheless. “Sire, no. I – I – merely- suggested changing our route-”

Ardahil cut in sharply. “I was just telling Lord Faramir that if we wish to return to Minas Tirith tonight, we should perhaps stick to a familiar route.”

“I would agree with Ardahil,” Elessar said, frowning up at the sky, “The men are familiar with this route and would ride swifter along this than a new one, short as it may be. Let us move on now!” He spurred his horse ahead as he spoke. Faramir stared after his retreating back, as Ardahil too nudged his horse forward.

He moved quietly back to his position at the rear.

It was late when they finally reached Minas Tirith, tired, hungry and damp from the drizzle that had started as soon as they had crossed the Anduin.
Wet mud and dense undergrowth had hampered their progress, as the sun began to set. The escort rode along with them till the guardhouse. Faramir, Elessar and Ardahil rode on to the citadel stables.

Upon reaching here, the king slid off his horse and handed the reins to a stable boy and stretched himself. Faramir watched the graceful movement of the muscles with fascination. Even after hours on the saddle, the king’s movements were spry and elegant as ever.

“Ahhh… a hot bath, and then bed,” Ardahil groaned, as he too dismounted, “I fear, milord, I grow old!”

“Indeed,” the king said smiling, “It has been a long day! Do get some rest.
I too am grateful I have no councils tomorrow.”

Faramir slid tiredly off his horse as the other two men conversed. He landed noisily, his movements awkward as cramped muscles protested. The two men turned towards him in surprise, as he clung to his saddle for the support his shaky legs were unable to provide, and he cursed himself again for his inadequacies.

Ardahil threw a scornful glance at him, one that Faramir had become increasingly used to that day, before bowing to the king, “I shall bring the reports to you tomorrow then, sire.”

Elessar turned towards Faramir.

Faramir glanced up at the king, still leaning heavily against the horse for support, breathing unevenly.

“Thank you for your help,” Elessar said, and turning, walked away.

The sharp striking of his boots against the cobbled stones rung through the quiet of the night. Faramir stared after him blankly. After a while, he realised he was still leaning against the horse. The patient animal had finally started whickering. He let go of the stirrups he had clasped and shook his head. Surely he had not expected the king to stay back. They had talked of this after all.

He sighed tiredly and heaved himself away. He led the horse into its stall.
He removed his saddlebags, finding them suddenly heavier and then spent some time settling in the horse, his movements sluggish and tired. When he finally returned to the Steward’s apartments, he found the household had turned in for the night. A sleepy guard let him in.

He made his way over to the kitchens hoping to catch the staff there before they went to sleep, but found it empty. He took an apple from a fruit basket instead, and hoped that would suffice. He chewed it slowly on the way back to his room.

Back in his chambers, he sighed heavily as he removed his boots and sank onto his bed, still in his damp riding clothes. A hot bath would be nice, he thought, recollecting Ardahil’s words. For the briefest of moments, he thought of a hot bath and the king. Well, he wouldn’t get either, right now.
If he were to wake the servants for what his father would surely term a luxury, his father would surely get to hear of it. He didn’t think he could afford to give him further cause for disapproval.

Although considering he’d stayed away for all of two days, surely Denethor would be happier, he thought drily.

He lay down tiredly, thinking back to the two days, wondering at all that happened. He thought back to the previous night. Had it actually happened, he wondered, that he had been with the king. Of course it had, he told himself. And yet today, it had been almost as if nothing had happened between them. He felt himself helplessly thinking back to the harshness in the king’s voice earlier, and the stony farewell at the stables. But that was what he would have to expect, he thought desperately. The king was married.

And even if he wasn’t, he had loved Boromir.

He fell asleep picturing the king’s handsome naked frame next to his, trying to remember the feel of the man inside him.

Faramir woke early the next morning, sore from his various hurts and cold in his damp riding garb. Groaning, he rose and went in search of a servant to call for hot water.

Aragorn awoke with the sun, as was his wont. Next to him Arwen lay sleeping, the ivory of her flawless skin almost melding into the satin whiteness of the sheets. He moved closer to her, gently wrapping his arms around her softness, reaching for her. She sighed pleasurably as his hands ran along her naked frame but stayed sleeping.

Aragorn rose and wrapping his robe around him, walked into the open terrace outside his room. A few weak rays of sunshine filtered valiantly through the overcast sky. Aragorn leaned against the parapet and stared down into the city. He found himself thinking of Faramir. If they hadn’t arrived so late last night, he would have invited him to his study for a glass of wine. The younger man had looked exhausted. Perhaps it was for the better. Aragorn was not sure what they would have spoken about.

It was relieving though, that Faramir too preferred to treat any relationship they may have in the same manner as he sought to. They would meet on occasion. That would be adequate, he thought, even though he found himself hardening as he remembered the tight heat that had surrounded his length.

He heard Arwen’s soft, musical voice call out to him, and returned to his room.

Faramir slid carefully onto the hard wooden chair at the breakfast table later that morning. To his utter mortification, the soreness in his lower body persisted, as if to remind him constantly of the very matter that weighed so heavily in his mind.

Surely though, Denethor would be in a better mood. After all he had been out of his sight for two entire days, he thought, as he helped himself o a generous portion of bread. He was extremely hungry now, having eaten nothing other than the apple since the previous afternoon. However, there was no trace of anything but coldness in Denethor’s voice, as he informed him that he wished to see his previously assigned work on the Haradric treaties as well as a report on the areas visited in Ithilien.

“You have spent ample time picnicking in the woods. I suggest you get back to work now.”

This was followed by a few caustic barbs about the amount of breakfast he was eating and his good fortune in having had two days of leisurely riding in the woods, while others had worked hard. Faramir said nothing, although he did stop eating after that.

He may have found his deepest desires fulfilled two nights ago but little had changed otherwise, he realised almost bleakly.

The day passed slowly, as he returned to his usual work. He redid some work on the Haradric treaties that his father had declared sloppy. Then he met with the chief scribe who allotted a set of treaties on trade levies for him to research. He wandered through the archives looking for reference texts, wondering idly if he might not bump into the king. He recollected Elessar mentioning that he had no councils today. Perhaps he might come to the archives. He stayed there till evening, working distractedly, looking up at every small sound, seeking the king in everyone who entered the reading area. He finally returned to the Steward’s houses barely in time for dinner, and finally made it to bed, tired and dispirited.

He fell into a restless sleep, his head swirling with thoughts of the king.
He hoped Elessar would desire to be with him soon. Perhaps, the next night, he wondered. Perhaps after the council, Elessar would take him aside and inform him of their next tryst. He would lean up and kiss the king in agreement, let his tongue wander through the delightful caverns of the king’s mouth, even as the bristles on his chin would tease Faramir’s skin.
He would move his mouth down that wonderfully strong frame, over the hardened muscles of his chest and stomach, through the thickening line of dark hair down to his splendid erect member. He would take the king in his mouth this time, working his tongue up and down the hardness before taking it in completely. He had pleased other lovers greatly by doing so.

He woke early the next morning, his sheets in disarray and his hands clasping his sticky, limp member, from a dream of which all he could recollect was that he had been naked, and the king had been present. To his embarrassment his release coated his lower body in large white streaks.

He rose and readied himself for his sword practice, still shaky from the intensity of his feelings. Despite the feelings he had for the king, he had not imagined that actually having been intimate with him would release such a maelstrom of sensations inside him.

He managed to get through his training with no more than the usual criticisms from the armsmaster. His muscles still hurt from the riding and his movements were slow but his usually good footwork and inherent skill kept him from performing too poorly.

The council that day began soon after breakfast. Faramir sat through the discussions on levies on dwarven ales, with mounting impatience. He tried to keep from stealing frequent glances at the king. Elessar’s handsome face was as usual in a council, impassive and full of concentration. Their glances did meet over the quick luncheon meal that was served in the council room, but the king’s expression stayed inscrutable. Faramir though had flushed deeply.

They finished late in the evening. Faramir deliberately gathered his papers together extremely slowly, waiting for the other councillors to leave. As he arranged the last few papers, he heard the king’s voice, soft yet urgent.

“Would you stay behind a while?”

He looked up happily, only to realise that the king was speaking to Lord Caleth, the councillor from Lossarnach.

“The Steward and I wish to hear your views on the Rhunic cropping practices that our envoy has written to us of. Perhaps you could dine with us after that. The queen is very fond of the vales of Lossarnach and shall be delighted to hear your tales of them.”

Elessar was facing away from him. Faramir continued to stand there, fiddling with his papers, willing the king to turn and at least glance at him.
Denethor strode towards him, blocking his view of the king and Faramir felt a wave of panic assail him. Had his father noticed that his attention was more on the king than on the council?

“Have your report on the Ithilien visit ready tomorrow,” Denethor said sharply, “The council will discuss the king’s visit later this week.”

“Yes, father,” he said quietly. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the king walking away with Caleth.

Elessar stopped suddenly and turned. Faramir felt his mouth go dry.

“Denethor! Caleth tells me his lady mother, could be persuaded to join us for supper. Would you join us too? We shall make a fine meal of it!”

“Certainly,” Denethor said, “And yes, Caleth, you must indeed persuade Lady Idril to join us.” He walked away to join the king. The three men strode out of the council chamber, talking amongst themselves.

Faramir slipped away, his face and neck warm as he flushed. He felt strange and embarrassed. He returned to find an early cold supper laid out on the table. He would be eating alone, he was informed. Denethor had sent Andreth a message calling him to dinner in the king’s chambers.

He picked at his supper moodily. He should be used to being ignored, he thought, as he finished and made his way towards his room, morosely. He began working on the report on Ithilien, and found his frame of mind improving somewhat, as he methodically began listing down his findings and assessments of the places they had passed through. Their return may have been impacted by rain, but that could be useful in pointing out the need for new roads to the forest lands.

He worked through a large part of the night and left the report, along with one of the reports for the Haradric treaties in his father’s study early the next morning. Denethor seemed in a very good frame of mind at breakfast. He ignored Faramir completely but talked cheerfully with Andreth, about something which Faramir guessed might be related to their banquet the prior night. He noted curiously that much of his father’s conversation seemed to centre on Lady Idril. Well, as far as his father stayed in so fine a mood, he thought.

Denethor summoned him later that morning. Faramir knew at a glance that the cheerfulness of the morning was gone and he was in for more admonishment. He chewed at his lower lip worriedly, as Denethor rose, a sheaf of papers in his hands.

“Look at Ardahil’s report and look at yours,” he raged, “His report is concise and relevant. Yours is shoddy! You have gone into unnecessary details on the consistency of the mud!”

He listened silently, as Denethor continued. Ardahil’s report was apparently more concise and more relevant. He tried to point out that their reasons for the visit had been different but Denethor would not let him get a word in edgewise.

“You were sent on this journey to do something useful!” Denethor continued, advancing towards him, even as Faramir backed away a little, “That is why I let you discontinue your work on the Haradric treaties for those two days!
What you have given me so far on the treaties is of no use either. There is nothing here on the river trading rights that were discussed earlier between Harad and the southern lands. We could use that as a framework for our new treaties!” Denethor said tossing Faramir’s notes at him.

“But the scribes were to cover that portion,” Faramir said softly, “I was to cover the portion on –”

The slap that interrupted was not entirely unexpected, but Faramir gasped nevertheless at the impact, and almost immediately moved backwards, even as his glance flew towards a large decorative whip hung on the wall. He almost fled from the room right then.

“Enough!” Denethor snapped out, “I have no use for your excuses any longer.
You will redo both these reports for me. Leave now.”

Faramir took the reports, his hands shaking a little, and then fled to the archives. Once inside, he sank into one of the benches in a reading room by the gardens, and stared blankly at the reports for a while.

After a while, he picked up the Ithilien report and began leafing through it. His father was most displeased with him. He would redo his work, he told himself shakily. He would work really hard, for longer hours, and with more effort, so that he could please his father. He stayed inside all day, even foregoing the luncheon meal.

When he finally left the archives, the clouds that had hung over the city had cleared somewhat though the sun had begun to sink. He made his way through the gardens walking through the shaded pathways that skirted the new lawns neatly landscaped by the queen.

He heard them before he saw them; the queen’s lilting laughter mingled with the deeper, masculine tones of the king. He lingered behind a tall bush, watching them as they walked together along the walkway by the citadel walls, their tone light and cheerful. They turned around at the end of the walkway, and Faramir slipped behind a tree as the queen seemed to incline her head in his direction. They continued walking down, the king with his arm wrapped around the queen’s shoulders. As Faramir watched furtively, the conversation grew hushed, they stopped walking and stood by the walls.
Elessar pulled the queen close and bent down to kiss her on her lips.
Faramir watched mutely as the kiss deepened and then Elessar’s hands moved off the queen’s shoulders, one down her back and the other onto her bosom, the fingers inching under her bodice. As the queen’s arms wrapped around the king, and a low, intense moan was let out by one of them, Faramir walked swiftly away, back the way he had come.

Dinner was a tiring affair. He picked at his food, trying not to remember the sight of the king almost entwined around his queen. Denethor and Andreth ignored him again, and for once he too paid little attention to their talk.

He went to sleep, with his mind full of images of the king. Only this time, it was he Elessar was kissing, the bristled jaw rubbed against Faramir’s chin and neck, and the long fingers danced over Faramir’s naked body, roving all over his body, over his chest, his nipples, his buttocks, his stomach, wrapping around his swollen, aching shaft. When he woke the next morning, he found he had soiled his sheets again, and groaned.

The next few days passed much the same way. Each day Faramir attended council meetings and worked on the reports his father or the chief scribe demanded and each night he fell asleep with thoughts of the king swirling in his head. He watched the king as discreetly as he could; seeking for just a sign that he noticed him more. He would arrive for council early and leave late, intent on providing every possible opportunity to the king. The king instead seemed to notice him less. He would arrive at council with Denethor and leave with some council member or the other, apart from Faramir. Each morning, Faramir would experience an intense nervousness as he would anticipate a summons each day, only to wind up each evening feel deflated and disappointed.

A week passed by since their return. As the next week began, Faramir found himself turning all the more apprehensive, wondering if the king had perhaps merely been kind in offering to see him again. He found himself thinking back to their last conversation in the shelter over and over again. He wandered aimlessly through the citadel hoping to glimpse the king. He stumbled through sword practise, angering the armmaster, and then annoyed Denethor by giving him the wrong report to go through. It resulted in further berating, and a slap.

Another week passed too. The queen held a dinner banquet at the end of the week, just before she was to journey to the golden wood for a month. Faramir was not invited. The beautifully written invitation came addressed specifically to Denethor and Andreth. Faramir had another lonely and silent cold supper that night. Denethor had given many of the kitchen staff the evening off.

After supper, he set out for a stroll in the gardens. He walked slowly and for long, trying not to think of anything at all, massaging his injured shoulder gently as he did so. The armsmaster had been put him through a strenuous session that morning, angered by the way his concentration kept slipping.

“Faramir!”

He felt his mouth go dry as he recognised the king’s voice, calling out his name, just as in his dreams. The strong, clear voice. He was near the king’s houses, he realised. The queen had used an open terrace and the garden beyond it for her banquet, and he had nearly wandered in, uninvited. He shrank back into the trees.

“Faramir,” the king said again and began walking up the garden path and the trees towards him. He turned slowly and stared back at the king, drinking in the sight of him at such nearness, taking in the fluid, graceful manner in which he moved.

“Sire,” he managed to almost squeak out before his throat closed in again.

“I wanted to tell you -,” the king began, only to be interrupted.

“Estel, there you are!” The queen was walking across the lawn, her skirts lifted above the wet grass, “Some of our guests are ready to leave.”

She came to a halt when she saw Faramir. The younger man shifted uncomfortably as she subjected him to a hard, appraising glance.

“F-forgive me,” Faramir stammered, “I stumbled into these gardens in error.
I was merely walking through the gardens and lost track of my route.”

The queen turned away, towards the king. “Do come Estel,” she told him, and turning around walked away.

The king stared after her, before turning to glance at Faramir. “I will continue our conversation on the morrow. Perhaps if you were to arrive for council earlier than usual?”

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