Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Summary: In the months after the war, Aragorn and Faramir find themselves drawn to each other. But Faramir has issues that need to be resolved.
Warnings: Slash, AU (Denethor!lives)
Disclaimer: All recognizable characters and places are Tolkien’s

A/N: This is AU. Denethor lives in it. Boromir is dead but leaves behind a son. Denethor is the Steward. Faramir as of now has no title per se.

I constantly have grand plans for this fic so it seems the only way to throw in some semblance of control over the storyline is to break into a series of fics. This fic is the first of that series.

This fic is my birthday present to the lovely and amazing Iris, who truly deserves many beautiful fics and pics featuring darling Faramir. This fic, like quite a few of my other ones, would in all likelihood have stayed in my head if she hadn’t asked for it to be actually written. Thank you dear Iris, for all your encouragement:)

The first chapter is also unbetaed because for once I want it to be a bit of a surprise:) All errors are mine and mine alone.
And much thanks to Iris for betaing subsequent chapters:)

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Chapter 1

The king of Gondor resisted the urge to throw something at his councilor from Lossarnach. The man had been speaking for well close to a half hour now on the turnip harvest in the valley, spilling over into the time reserved for discussing the pressing Corsair problem in Pelargir. They would finish late yet again, and he would again get to spend less time this evening with Arwen. He glanced to his right towards his Steward who was now frowning angrily at the vocal councilor, his long fingers tightening around the handle of the wine goblet in front of him. Aragorn almost grinned inwardly as he realised his steward appeared to be of the same mind on the verbosity of the councilor. He sat back a little now. He could leave it to his Steward to deal with this issue. Denethor could quell most of the councilors with a single glance if he chose to.

It never ceased to surprise him that Denethor had accepted his claim to the throne, and more, had agreed to continue serving as his Steward. He had been most wary of the Steward’s reaction when he and the others had arrived barely in time to help the besieged city. But his arrival it seemed had also served to restore some hope in the beleaguered Steward of Gondor. Gandalf had told him later that Denethor had nearly given up, not just on his city but also on himself and his kin. With his elder son Boromir dead on the quest, his younger son, Faramir possibly dying of his battle injuries, and with no news of his grandson Andreth in Pelargir, Denethor had succumbed to despair aided also by far too frequent use of his palantìr. Gandalf had more than once told Aragorn that he had arrived just in time, to prevent the Steward burning down half the citadel taking him and his younger son along, and later in helping heal the ailing Faramir.

Prior to the final war, King and Steward had met again in many the pre-war councils, appraised each silently, and found themselves to be of accord on all matters related to Gondor. They had fought alongside at the Black Gate and on returning, Denethor had informed him of his decision to support his claim. And Aragorn had asked him to remain as Steward, and counsel and friend.

The year after the war had been hard and strenuous, as everyone had worked together to restore the city to its erstwhile glory. In all these months, neither man seemed to give the other reason to doubt those decisions. Denethor’s counsel was invaluable and sound, and Aragorn was well-liked as a ruler. Now everyone looked ahead to a peaceful and happy summer this year, and Aragorn found himself feeling more relaxed and content than he ever had. Arwen was happy too as the summer neared and he often woke to the sound of her soft singing as she opened the windows looking out onto the terraced gardens in the citadel.

He looked around the table, letting the drone of the turnip harvest speech subside into the background. It had been a while since he had spent a quiet evening with his wife and friends, he thought. Perhaps they could do that tomorrow. He, Arwen, Legolas, Gimli, Denethor, and Andreth who had returned to the city now. His lips curved a little as thought of the boy. Andreth was similar to his father in so many ways that at times Aragorn couldn’t decide whether it made him happy or sad to see Boromir reflected so clearly in that joyful, laughing face.

If there was one thing that created a pall over their contentment that was the absence of Boromir. Yet, Andreth served in some ways a reminder that life went on. The charming young lad was the only offspring of a short-lived marriage between Denethor’s eldest son and the daughter of the lord of Pelargir, who had passed on giving birth to him. Boromir had spoken of him often to Aragorn and the others in the fellowship, in proud and loving tones. Fostered for most of his childhood in Dol Amroth while Minas Tirith struggled through the wars, the boy was completely doted on by his grandfather now. It would be most enjoyable to meet the boy again.

Aragorn glanced further down the table and noticing the dark head of hair bent over a sheaf of parchment, he reminded himself that they must invite Faramir as well. On the previous occasion they had all dined together, he’d forgotten all about Faramir and not remembered until he’d seen him the next day. Denethor had not mentioned the lapse nor had Faramir himself but Aragorn had felt contrite. Faramir tended to be so quiet and soft spoken, one tended not to notice him, he had realised. Aragorn only ever heard him speak at the councils when Ithilien was under discussion, and even then, he always seemed to glance towards Denethor and on some occasions towards Aragorn, after speaking; a tense, wary glance that Aragorn could not interpret. He was unlike Boromir on Andreth in most aspects – quieter, and his countenance always solemn, sober and expressionless. Aragorn couldn’t remember ever seeing him smile, except the almost loving one that his lips had curved into in the houses of healing when he had woken to Aragorn’s ministrations.

Faramir looked up suddenly now, and his grey eyes met Aragorn’s. They were startlingly intense eyes, Aragorn realised. The king smiled slightly but the younger man seemed to pale a little. His eyes dropped and he shifted suddenly in his chair, before pausing to grimace, and sit up, his back and shoulders tensing as though in pain. The sudden movement caused some of the councilors to turn towards him. Denethor too turned, and the younger man caught the full ferocity of his frown now. Aragorn thought he looked almost like a deer cornered in the midst of a hunt. He bit his lip and stilled his movements, turning his gaze back down to the papers, his back and shoulders completely stiff and rigid now. Aragorn could see a tinge of red on his cheeks and ears.

He wondered at the younger man’s reactions, but then turned his attention back to the council as Denethor grabbed the opportunity offered by the slight distraction by imperiously suggesting they turn to the corsair problem for now. He heaved a sigh of relief, and turned his attention back to the council.

Chapter 2

Aragorn groaned silently. This would surely count as one of the worst council meetings he had sat through. First, there had been a completely unnecessary discourse on turnips, and then a long but necessary discussion on the corsairs. They had arrived at some useful decisions though. But then after that they had started discussing the taxes. It was too much for one meeting, he thought in annoyance. He could see a similar emotion reflected in Denethor’s visage.

It was to have been simple. They were to announce a slight increase in some levies for the next two months. His lords and councilors however rarely believed in simplicity. Most of them had not even read the reports or papers sent to them two days earlier so they could have all the information they needed, instead of needing it all explained to them.

While the riverland lords sought to magnify the corsair problem, seeking more than was required to tackle it, the other lords failed to comprehend the seriousness of the issue altogether.

“It is completely unnecessary,” the lord of Lebenin was stating, “We have adequate ship strength to fight the corsairs. To build more suddenly as a precaution is not required. Surely we can wait till the coffers are fuller? And were we not just last week discussing that the rebuilding effort is imposing a strain on the carpenter’s guild? Surely building new ships right now would only increase the strain upon them? “

Faramir stepped in suddenly, “We could look at an alternative to building more ships sire. You are signing a new treaty with the Haradrim. They build light boats that moved very speedily upriver. Could we not purchase some of these from them and try using them against the corsairs for now?”

“From the Haradrim?” the lord of Pelargir inquired incredulously, “You suggest we use the help of the Haradrim to fight the Corsairs. That we trust them so highly? And to use light boats instead of our larger, more powerful ships? I realise you’d hurt your arm, my lord and that keeps you out of active service, but you sound more like you hurt your head!”

Faramir flushed an ugly shade of red at that. An uncomfortable silence reigned briefly, until Aragorn decided to step in.

“That’s enough, my lords. I suggest we discuss this again on the morrow, once you have all had a chance to think more on this.”

Aragorn sighed and sat back after the last of the councilors had left. Denethor waited for the door to close before handing him a goblet of wine.

“I thought we would never get over with that,” Aragorn sighed, “I have seen more conviviality among fisherwomen!”

“Boromir used to call them old crones in his more charitable moments,” Denethor said with a small smile.

Aragorn smiled briefly in response. He could well imagine Boromir making a statement like that. Boromir would have had little patience with the long, fruitless discussions they had had today. Aragorn had also not missed the strange, almost wistful tone in the older man’s voice or the ensuing discomfort he clearly sought to hide. He changed the subject hurriedly.

“The Haradric envoy shall be here in a few months, and there is yet much to be done on the treaties.”

“The scribes have started on their work already,” Denethor said reassuringly, “Though I’m afraid there is a lot to be done by us as well. There are many of their new laws that need to be studied. And there are many of those old treaties we spoke of that can be of use.”

Aragorn nodded, “Yes that would involve a lot of work. My foster brothers have messengers arriving from Imladris. I had asked them to bring me some documents that I recollect Elrond had which could be of help.”

They spoke cursorily of other matters, and Aragorn extended his invitation to dinner.

It was as Denethor was leaving that he remembered he needed to invite Faramir too. And then recollected something else.

“Perhaps Faramir could help out with the work on the treaties?” he suggested, “that was an interesting idea he had about the light boats. He is already helping with the reports on the Ithilien reconstruction work isn’t he?”

“Yes, that might be a good idea. He has little else to do,” Denethor’s voice seemed a little hard as he spoke, “And it is about time he made himself useful, anyhow.”

Faramir made his way towards his chambers tiredly rubbing his aching shoulder. He had overdone his sword practice earlier that morning, and had strained his injured shoulder. The pain had bothered him all morning and he found himself gritting his teeth in embarrassment as he remembered the incident at the council. His sudden movement had resulted in a stabbing pain in his shoulder and it had taken all his self-control to not scream out. He had asked for hot water to be sent up earlier and he hoped that would relieve some of the pain.

The injury he had received from a Haradrim dart during the final days of the war had turned out to be worse than suspected earlier, enough to pull him out of active duty with the Rangers. He could barely use a bow. He could still wield a sword although not as well as earlier, and had decided to work on that instead.

He lowered himself into the tub, bending his knees awkwardly to fit himself into it. The water was tepid by now. The council had lasted longer than expected. He sighed and tried to stretch back and instead and think of something other than the council. He was as yet still getting used to taking his post on the council; he had rarely attended earlier, being away in Ithilien more often. Boromir had been a more regular attendee in his position as Captain General.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, planning out the rest of his day. He still had much of the paperwork on the Rangers left to do. He would need to hand those over to his successor. There was much more than he had anticipated. And there were more reports he needed to work on for the council, including a very lengthy and detailed one on the land distribution in Ithilien. They were going to start work on restoring Ithilien and Faramir had found himself volunteering to help on all the initial paperwork.

He had been glad to do so though. Ever since he’d had to resign his captaincy his days had become increasingly monotonous. The injured arm ensured he could not practice more than an hour each day, and the few friends he had had in the city were all back with their troops, leaving him with little to do but attend the councils, and spend time in the archives, reading for them. There was much the council needed to debate so soon after the war, and Faramir knew that as one of the younger, inexperienced members of the council, he would need to be well prepared for all that was to be discussed. Denethor in particular tended to be a little sarcastic with anyone who sat at the meetings without having read the papers prepared for the discussions. His irritation had been only too clear that morning. Faramir had little doubt that were he to appear ill equipped for a meeting, Denethor would not refrain from castigating him in front of the entire council. He had found that reading reports on the older councils helped too. It was how he had found notes of an older council where the Haradrim light boats had been discussed. That had not gone down well though, he thought, tiredly. But then little he suggested at the councils went down well, barring perhaps some ideas on the Ithilien restoration work, since it was of little relevance to most councillors.

Once the restoration work started, he thought, perhaps he could look at renovating his own hunting lodge there. He found he felt increasingly uncomfortable staying in his father’s house. Denethor’s few monosyllabic conversations with him were reduced to none now. He rarely even acknowledged Faramir’s presence in the room. Even at dinner, he would converse entirely with Andreth. Faramir had contemplated taking his meals alone in his own chambers, but Denethor did not approve of that either. Denethor approved of little he did these days.

He had sought his father after the Steward had returned from the war. By then, he too had been released from the healers’ care. He had been tired still and sore, and aching from the constant reminders of loss that he saw around the city, and unable to sleep. It was late into the night and his father was still at work. His father was finalizing troop allocations, he recollected, reassigning duties among the troops to help rebuild the city. It must be tiring, he’d thought. Normally Boromir would have taken care of anything to do with the troops.

“Father,” he had said softly to the older man, taking in the worn features, “I’ve brought some wine.”

“Why are you here?” Denethor asked coldly.

“I thought perhaps… you would like some wine. It is late and… and I thought perhaps if you needed help -”

“I do not require any help from you,” Denethor said, and turned back to his papers, “I have not required it earlier, nor do I now.”

“You had Boromir to help you,” Faramir replied softly, “Let me –”

“You are not Boromir,” Denethor interrupted sharply, “And you never will be. Do not seek to him replace him ever. Leave now.”

“I- I do not seek to be Boromir. Nor do I wish to replace him. I merely… I – just wanted to tell you, that I could help you his stead in aught you require.”

“In his stead? Do you truly think I would make you my heir? The heir to the Stewardship is Andreth, and I intend to ensure all know that. I let you live here, that is enough!”

“I didn’t –” Faramir started.

“Leave!” Denethor commanded.

Denethor did indeed after that often refer to Andreth as his heir. To Faramir, he referred not at all, if he could.

He had thought of living elsewhere, away from the citadel, and away from Denethor’s disapproval and annoyance. But Denethor had, sticking to his word, made all their townhouses and apartments in the city Andreth’s. All he had by way of property was the old hunting lodge in Ithilien and some lands in Dol Amroth left to him by his mother’s father. He had therefore decided instead to have the hunting lodge restored. It would at least let him get away from the city for a few days every now and then.

Initially Denethor had still spoken to him regularly, mostly to scold him. Faramir had been embarrassed at first as Denethor had often shouted at him in front of Andreth or even the servants over the tiniest of matters, criticising him over all his weaknesses, but later had come to expect it. It was all Denethor spoke to him.

Despite Denethor’s angered words that night, Faramir found he did have to help his father with his work. While the Steward had not actually requested his help, he had instead suggested often and loudly, and sometimes publicly, in the acerbic tone he reserved for the dullest of his councilors, that Faramir make himself useful in some other way now that he was of little use in the field. Faramir had refrained from pointing out that he had always offered help.

Faramir pulled himself out of his reverie, sighing tiredly and rose. The water was nearly cold now, and had done little to help his shoulder.

Aragorn found Faramir in the archives, later that evening, looking through some books. He looked surprised to see Aragorn there but then smiled a little shyly in greeting, and then turned back to the books. Aragorn noticed the tips of his ears had reddened again.

“Faramir,” he spoke pleasantly, “I was looking for you.”

Faramir turned to him, surprised, “You were looking for me, sire?” he repeated.

“Would you join us tomorrow for supper?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir stared at the king blankly, until he realised what he’d been asked.

“Supper?” he repeated again.

“Yes we’re inviting some friends over.”

“Friends?” Faramir said softly. Aragorn wondered why he was repeating each word.

“I’ve already informed your father. And I’ve asked him to bring Andreth along. The boy is old enough now,” he said smiling.

Faramir nodded at that, and after the king had left mulled over their conversation slowly. He found himself almost childishly elated as he recollected the king saying that they had chosen to invite some friends over.

Elessar was a well-liked ruler. They had spoken little in all these days, but in the little they had spoken, Faramir had found himself liking the king greatly. He was brave and intelligent and could be as good with a sword as he was with a quill. And Faramir knew he owed his life to the king’s healing. He often remembered waking to the cool sensation of the king’s soft hands over his fevered brow and chest. He had opened his eyes and found himself drawn into the intensity of the king’s gaze, and felt strangely awed and pleasant and had smiled up at the king.

And now the king considered him a friend! He found just recollecting the conversation in the archives left him feeling warm and liked inside. Even Denethor’s frowning visage at the dinner table and his curt instructions to help the scribes did not remove the pleasant feeling.

For the first time in many weeks, he finally had a full night of sleep, undisturbed by dark dreams of black riders, war cries or black waves. Instead he was mortified and surprised to find himself waking up the next morning, wet and sticky and with a pleasant lingering memory of the hazy twilight in which Elessar had spoken to him, held him and healed him.

Faramir dressed hurriedly, pulling on an old grey outfit. He had been delayed at the archives while searching for some old reports, and had not noticed the time. The council in the morning had stretched interminably, leaving everyone fractious and irritated. Faramir had decided to avoid lunching at his father’s table and had some bread and mead in the archives instead.

He entered the large room in the king’s apartments, looking around curiously. He had never seen this wing of the citadel before.

Denethor stared at him in annoyance as he entered after all the others had arrived. The queen appeared to be frowning a little too. They had started serving wine, he realised embarrassed. He noticed Andreth standing by the hearth. He looked at the younger man and felt a short catch in his throat. The boy was dressed in black and grey and white, and wore a miniature brooch shaped as the white tree around his throat. It was one Boromir had worn as young soldier and passed on to his son later.

He helped himself to some wine quietly and found himself a place by the window where he could rest his back against the wall. Around him the conversation had continued uninterrupted, and he found himself listening to snatches of talk.

“You look unwell, my lord,’” The queen said to the Steward concernedly, “What ails you?”

Faramir turned towards his father and glanced at him, taking in the tired lines in the older man’s face. He bit his lip worriedly. The Steward had been angry at the councillors in the afternoon but the weariness in his expression seemed to have some other cause.

“It is nothing. I am well, as well as a man my age may be,” his father replied softly.

“You are unhappy,” the queen replied, her voice barely carrying across to him.

“Forgive me,” Denethor said tiredly, “I am not good company some days. I grow older and find myself being wishful. But tell me, how does Eldarion fare? He grows quickly I see.”

Faramir suddenly realised he knew the cause of his father’s deep sadness. The day of Boromir’s passing on was nearing. He turned away unhappily, and watched the others around him instead, standing in small clusters, talking amongst each other.

The queen’s brothers were present, stern and tall and beautiful, so alike in looks that he could still sometimes not tell them apart. Legolas and Gimli were also there. They were talking to Elessar who glanced towards him and smiled in greeting. He smiled back in return, and decided to move forward and speak to the king. He should thank him properly for being invited after all. But the king seemed quite engrossed in his conversation and Faramir did not want to interrupt. Everyone seemed quite engrossed in their little conversations. He stayed by the window drinking his wine slowly.

They sat down at the long table to dine soon. He was seated between Gimli and Andreth. Elessar sat at the other end of the table talking to Denethor. Dinner was just as quiet for Faramir. Gimli spent the time talking solely to Legolas and by his other side Andreth barely even glanced at his uncle, beyond a nod in greeting. Instead he chatted cheerfully with Lord Elrohir about his weapons training. Denethor had earlier that month gifted him one of Boromir’s old swords and his own shield, much to his delight and pride. When they began to speak of lightbows and archery, Faramir listened in with interest and contemplated joining in their talk, particularly when he heard lord Elrohir describe the lighter elven bows they used on horseback, but found himself shying away from actually speaking. The rangers used lightbows as well, and he thought he would tell Andreth of those later. The lad seemed interested in them.

Andreth was everything Boromir was, he thought wistfully, as he listened to the younger man’s clear voice. Like his brother he could get along with anyone. He was intelligent, confident and already appeared to have the strength required in a soldier.

Faramir ate in a miserable silence, realising with increasing unhappiness that he seemed incapable of conversing with anyone at this table. Boromir would never have been so awkward and out of place. Next to him Andreth chatted. He picked at his food listlessly and helped himself to some more of the strong, sweet wine served with dinner, letting the hum of conversation wash over his tired mind. He remained lost in thought, not really listening, even when Legolas recited a particularly funny story that had everyone laughing aloud, even Denethor.

When they returned home later, Denethor smiled slightly as he wished Andreth a good night, and dropped a kiss on the boy’s forehead.

“You looked so fine and smart! And I know you enjoyed yourself. I’m very proud of you!”

He then turned to Faramir and bade him gruffly to see him in his study.

Faramir followed him into the large, draughty room, hoping it would not take long. He felt a little tired, the wine combining with his limited eating at lunch and dinner to leave him with a dull headache. The wine had relaxed him a little though, so perhaps he could sleep easier tonight. He wondered what Denethor might want and was unsurprised to hear him ask on the progress of his researches on the old trade treaties.

Faramir didn’t bother explaining that he had been working at it for barely a day. His father had little patience with excuses. He started speaking of what he had worked on after the council, and before he’d realised he was late for the king’s dinner.

“Is that all you’ve done since yesterday?” Denethor asked, frowning, “I thought I told you this was important work. Instead you leave it half-done! I expected little else from you, though! It is a good thing we have the scribes working on this as well. They have managed to do a lot more than you have.”

Faramir felt his face flush a little, but accepted the curt words without argument. Arguments would only worsen his father’s fraying temper.

“You may leave now,” Denethor said.

As Faramir turned to leave, he remembered Andreth’s conversation with Lord Elrohir.

“Father,” he broached softly as he stood at the door.

Denethor grunted in annoyance.

“I thought perhaps, since Andreth has begun his weapons training, he might find my bow useful?” he spoke hurriedly. Denethor rarely gave him an opportunity to speak, “ It is lighter than the infantry bows and he will find it easier to use, and perhaps I could help with his archery training.”

“And you wish he would grow into one as weak as you?” Denethor asked, in a sneering tone.

Faramir stared at him, and then began to explain, “Nay it is lighter yes but-”

“I would not have Andreth grow into one such as you, ever hiding away from the frontlines. As for you training him, what can you teach him? You spent your days in Ithilien so you could hide behind your men. Andreth will have his cavalry and infantry training with proper weaponry, fit for a soldier, one such as Boromir! Not a weakling such as you. You may leave now.”

The words stung him but Faramir ignored them. The slurs against his abilities and courage were Denethor’s favoured ones, even though Faramir had constantly led his men from the front in their forays in the east, and been wounded oft times in the process, enough for Boromir to suggest once that he leave the rangers.

“I know I cannot train him as Boromir would have but I heard him speak of lightbows to -,” he started.

“Quiet!” Denethor commanded, “I want to hear no more of this. Leave now.”

“But – “

“Quiet!”

He heard the slap first before he felt it. His head jerked back from the impact, sending pain shooting up his weak shoulder and neck and a sharp stinging sensation spread over the side of his face. He let out an involuntary sound, as he stared at his father in surprise through suddenly tearing eyes. He had forgotten how hard his father’s hand was. Denethor hadn’t hit him like this for some years now.

“Get out,” Denethor said furiously, “I am tired of your constant indiscipline. Ever you seek to disregard aught I say to you. I will not stand for it longer. Leave Andreth alone. I command it. I will not have him influenced by your weak and craven manner.”

He managed not to reach out and touch his aching cheek until he’d left the room. His face felt tender and painful to touch. There would be a mark, he realised bleakly. He returned to his rooms and sat awhile by the window staring dully out as night fell over the Anduin, and tried to stop his mind from replaying Denethor’s words against his fighting skills or his captaincy. His face still hurt when he lay down to sleep, his head throbbing miserably.

He sighed and curled up in his bed, ignoring the strange emptiness he felt. When he woke the next morning, his pillow was damp and his eyes felt tired and scratchy from prolonged crying.

Chapter 3

There were no meetings the next morning, so Faramir promptly got down to his work helping the scribes, unwilling to give Denethor any further opportunity to castigate him. The Steward had shown few qualms these last months in constantly referring to him as useless. He had eaten swiftly at breakfast, aided by Denethor’s silence towards him. His father had in fact not even glanced towards him, referring all through instead to some papers and talking to Andreth. Andreth had stared curiously at the mark on his cheek, and Faramir had reddened under the scrutiny.

He had left as soon as he could for the archives taking with him some bread and cheese for his luncheon. In the archives he had selected a seat near the high windows and started to work, trying hard to concentrate on the papers. He had been so listless at his sword practise that the armsmaster had been angered enough to dismiss him early. Faramir had tried but had been unable to put his mind into the practise. The previous night’s words had left him feeling unhappy and tired. It seemed no matter how much he tried his father would never accept his skills as a soldier. He might as well instead fulfil his other duties. He pored over documents all day long, choosing to avoid lunching at home again.

He pored over the documents all day, before returning in time for supper, again a tensely quiet meal, Denethor speaking only to Andreth and completely ignoring Faramir.

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. Faramir found his days full with the council meetings and with helping the scribes, and with his sword practise, aware that a report of his progress was being given to the Steward nearly daily. He felt his grip had improved immensely since the time of his injury, but his movements were still slow.

The Steward’s annoyance seemed to be only increasing as the day of Boromir’s passing neared, Faramir realised in dismay. He even snapped at him in the council twice. There was to be a short ceremony to mark the day; a ritual to honour Boromir’s memory followed by a small, customary feast among his friends and family. Both Aragorn and Denethor were to speak during the ritual and Andreth too had requested he be allowed to say something. Faramir had not been asked to do anything, and with Denethor’s increasingly angering mood, he had not wanted to ask. Besides, he had preferred to mourn privately.

“I’m glad you have offered to speak too,” the king told Andreth when the boy joined them after a council meeting that had stretched late into the evening.

Andreth had smiled, a little uncertainly, “I haven’t thought yet of what to say. I’m not sure I have words that will do justice.”

“Perhaps you could read out a poem,” Faramir suggested suddenly, “I have a volume I was reading the other day and one of the poems reminded me of Boromir…”

“I’m sure Andreth will not need to resort to someone else’s words to speak of his father,” Denethor cut in coldly.

“I didn’t mean that,’ Faramir started softly, “I though perhaps he could…”

“Andreth is perfectly capable of thinking for himself, more so that you were at his age or even for many years after that! I suggest you spend your time more productively by completing those estimates for Ithilien that the council asked you for yesterday.”

Faramir flushed, aware that the words were heard by most of the councillors still milling around. The king too glanced at them, a little startled. Faramir felt the warmth creep up his face, and returned to gathering up his papers. He pretended to shuffle them around until he was sure the council hall had cleared, before he too left.

It was best not to dwell on it, he kept telling himself, and tried instead to read through the papers he had brought with him until dinner.

At supper, Denethor again berated him, viciously lashing out at him when he admitted to not having finished the Ithilien estimates yet.

“Useless fool!” Denethor shouted, “I should have known better than to entrust any important work to you.”

“I – I have been working on it,” Faramir started to say. He hadn’t been able to complete it since he was also helping the scribes with the treaties.

“Quiet. Finish eating and return to work. I wish to see those papers on my table before you retire for the night.”

Faramir wandered tiredly into his chambers, and restarted his work on the papers. It was only after he’d finished the work that he rose and walked over to his window. It was quite chilly outside so he hugged his arms to his chest and pushed his head out a little, seeking some fresh, cool air. He shivered slightly, for he wore little other than an old tunic and trousers, the thin, well-worn fabric giving him little warmth.

He had a clear view of the citadel gardens from here, and so when he glance out he could see Andreth from the windows. The boy was sitting alone on a stone bench, staring at a disused fountain. Faramir frowned. Andreth too wore only his tunic and trousers and must feel cold. He picked up the papers and a cloak and made his way down the house towards the large doors leading into the gardens. It was quiet outside and he found the cool night air refreshing, as he made his way through the winding paths.

Aragorn found Andreth sitting alone in the citadel garden staring at the paving stones beneath his feet.

“Andreth? Why are you out this late?’ he said quietly, “It’s quite chilly here.”

“Sire,” the lad started to rise but Aragorn put out a hand to stop him.

“You seem to be lost in your thoughts. May I sit with you awhile or would you prefer to be left alone.”

“No… I mean, please don’t go. I should like to sit with you,” Andreth said, softly.

Aragorn nodded and sat by the boy, glancing at him as he did so. The young man was growing swiftly. He already looked lean and strong and was growing day by day. He came almost up to Faramir’s shoulder; Aragorn had realised and would soon probably be as tall as Denethor. He was intelligent, lively and, curious yet always spoke gently and politely to all. And he clearly took after Boromir when it came to weaponry. The boy already had a sword, and a bow, and was fast becoming proficient in the use of both from all accounts.

“Will you tell me a little about him?” he said suddenly, his still slightly thin voice breaking through Aragorn’s thoughts.

“About your father?” Aragorn asked and got a nod in return.

Faramir halted by a tree as he heard the king’s voice. Quietly he moved to one side, intending to move away but stopped as he heard Andreth’s request.

“You remind me of him,” Aragorn said suddenly and found his throat catching up as Andreth’s features lit into a small proud smile.

“I wish I’d known him longer,” he said softly, his mind wandering back to his days with Boromir, “Perhaps you should ask one who knew him better.”

Andreth shook his head, “I cannot ask grandfather for it will upset him, and uncle Faramir always starts tearing up if father’s name is mentioned.”

Aragorn thought back to the days of the fellowship and to the strong, young man he had grown to know and love. Their physical intimacy had progressed rapidly from a need for comfort to a need for intense and passionate intimacy. Boromir’s passing had left a void in Aragorn that was as yet unfilled. Their intimacy had even helped Boromir to get over his overwhelming desire to use the power of the ring to save his city. The younger man had agreed to follow his king finally, as they had left Lothlorien and had it not been for the attack by the Uruk Hai, Boromir would be hear now sitting by his young son.

“He was a beautiful human being. He cared deeply for all who were close to him, and all he held dear,” he said, thinking back to the mallorn strewn grounds upon which they had last made love, “He spoke often of you, of his beautiful, lovely son.”

Faramir found himself blinking back tears and quietly but swiftly walked out of the garden and back to the house. The raw intensity he heard in the king’s voice brought his own memories of Boromir rushing back, of an older brother who had always in his own way cared for him and aided him.

He walked slowly towards his father’s study, feeling almost glad on realising that Denethor had left. He slowly pushed the huge study door in and walking over to the table, placed the papers upon it.

Boromir’s old study was next door and he realised the connecting door was open. He walked in. Many of his brother’s things had been given away but a few still remained. The light from outside showed him the dull outline of an old pair of gauntlets. He picked them up, remembering the way his brother used to slap them on, always while striding out towards the stables, calling out for his horse. He ran his fingers over the embroidered pattern of the white tree. The leather was cool and soft under his fingers. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the sound at the door until his father spoke.

“What are you doing here?” Denethor’s voice was soft, full of grief and slurred.

He looked up almost guiltily and replaced the gauntlets on the shelf he’d found them on.

“I –” he started, but got no further, as Denethor’s step quickened.

“Answer me!” the voice was hard now and cold, “Why do you wander here like a thief in the night?”

Faramir stepped back uncertainly, reminded suddenly of other times when his father had caught him at some perceived wrongdoing.

“I – I-,” he stammered helplessly, “I merely came to – I wished to –”

The words rushed over each other in his head. How was he to tell his father that his own grief brought him here in this hour without further deepening the sorrow that was so evident in the older man.

The sorrow however, was fast being displaced by a cold anger, and before Faramir could realise it, Denethor stepped forward and slapped him hard across his face. He reacted instinctively as he always had – by cowering away as the familiar fear laced with unhappiness seared through his heart.

“You dare touch what little I have left of my son?” Denethor’s voice was full of anger now. He slapped Faramir again, his hand striking the same spot as earlier causing Faramir to moan as pain flared through his face. He rocked back on his heels, his hands reaching out to the wall nearby for support.

Denethor snorted, a contemptuous sound and struck him a third time.

Faramir felt his ears ringing. Denethor’s hand was strong as ever and combined with his own despair, it was dulling his senses. He limply sagged back against the wall.

He opened his mouth but the words would not come. Instead he gasped softly, as Denethor stood over his slumped form.

“F-forgive me,” he murmured finally, “I did not mean to –”

“Forgive you for what?” Denethor snarled furiously, “It is my folly that I asked him to leave in your stead and find myself now bereft of my son and Andreth bereft of a father. But yes, it is your folly that you try to make him like you with all your talk of words and poems and songs, and for that I forgive you naught. And it is your folly that you dare touch what belonged to my son. A folly for which I shall see you learn your lesson!”

He picked up his riding crop. Faramir stared at him in horror. The lamplight glinted dully off the sharp edge as it descended towards him. Whimpering, he ducked just in time for it to avoid his face, landing instead across his side and back, and sending pain lacing through him. The second stroke landed even as he was gasping softly. It struck his side and back again, and he cried out softly in pain, moving away and getting the third stroke across his stomach. He felt the sharp edge cut through the thin, soft cloth of his well-worn tunic. He squirmed repeatedly over the rest of the strokes as they landed across his body – his back, buttocks, stomach, thighs, cutting cloth and skin, his old tunic and trousers affording no protection – until Denethor’s hand tired, and he flung the whip away across the room, where it skittered across the stone floor.

“Go away,” he said angrily, before he left the room.

Chapter 4

Faramir rose slowly, stumbling as pain assailed him. His entire body felt on fire, and he felt tears spring to his eyes as he moved towards the door. He clutched at the heavy wood and stood still a few seconds, closing his eyes and leaning his head against the hard surface. Sharp twinges of pain laced through his entire body. He bit his lip and moved again, using the walls as a support as he made his way to his chambers slowly. Once there, he let himself fall upon the bed. He should rise and look at the cuts, he knew but he couldn’t. He still felt a little shocked at Denethor’s words and the ferocity of his actions. Denethor had always had a quick temper, especially where Faramir was concerned, but it had been many years since Denethor had let his anger out physically, usually preferring words instead. The slap to his face the earlier day had been startling but the vehemence with which Denethor had beaten him now with a riding crop left Faramir confused, and he realised bleakly, scared. He found himself breathing heavily and rapidly unable to forget the sight of the riding crop descending on his unprotected body. He flushed from the humiliation of the thought of lying there helpless, as the crop had struck repeatedly. He had done nothing to defend himself save curl up so as to protect his body, not that that had worked, for he realised he had been struck on his back, stomach and legs.

He lay there for a while, trying to ignore the pain but unable to. Age had not lessened Denethor’s strength. He had been liberal with the crop, striking Faramir at least one score times. He finally rose very slowly and removed his tunic, dismayed to note that it stuck a little to his back. He tugged at the cloth and hissed as it pulled painfully at his broken skin, and then lowered his pants, aware that his lower body had been struck too. He examined his naked body in the dim light of the lantern. The marks had begun to show up, deep and dark, for the crop had struck hard. A thin line of dark red marked out the deepest one that had cut through skin. His back, stomach, abdomen and the tops of his thighs were all covered with the ugly red marks crisscrossing over his paled skin.

He found some shrivelled up healing herbs in his cupboard and soaked them in a bowl of water. Dipping a soft cloth in it, he slowly ran it over each cut, hissing a little as the herbs stung the open skin. He mopped up the thin beads of blood that glistened on some of the cuts. He managed to take care of his stomach and parts of his back and flushed as he contorted himself a little to try and reach for his buttocks. When he’d managed to run the cloth over most of his cuts, Faramir lay down on the bed again, trying to find a comfortable position. The night air felt cool against his bare skin but the coarse blankets on his bed only added to his discomfort so he finally curled up on his side, wincing with each movement as the skin was pulled.

He tried not to think of the beating or the shame he felt, yet those were the last thoughts on his mind as he fell asleep.

He woke later than usual the next morning, unwilling at first to even rise at all. But then he remembered that the memorial service was the same day and found himself rising hurriedly, almost crying out as pain laced through his aching body. In the bright sunlight that flooded through his windows, the marks on his body looked particularly ugly, and he found himself wincing at the sight of the purpling marks. The fainter marks were beginning to show up as well, thin lines of deep red. He rose, swaying a little as his stiff limbs protested and hurried through his preparations, even though he still hurt all over. After washing up, he pulled out a set of clothes from his wardrobe quickly. The clothes he’d worn the previous day were completely ruined, littered as they were with cuts, and he had to wear on an older tunic and trousers, the cloth having softened enough over time to not further his hurts.

Once ready, he ran through the hallways and out onto the small courtyard towards the podium where the memorial service was being held. The affair was not meant to be a public one but there were still many of Boromir’s friends and men in arms invited so that there were quite some people crowded into the small space. Most of them stared at him in surprise and some in anger or disgust as he rushed in, clearly late and he flushed unhappily, cursing himself for having risen so late. All of them wore their uniforms or ceremonial attire and he felt extremely shabby in his old tunic and trousers and almost unconsciously tucked the slightly frayed sleeve end into his fist.

He had reached in time to hear Denethor start to speak. The older man glared at him in anger as he arrived and Faramir found himself shrinking back a little and breathing rapidly. He forced himself to calm down telling himself that there could be no repeat now of the previous night’s beating, and he shouldn’t be scared of that. Surely it was just the one time. His father had been angered and unhappy, that was all.

Denethor spoke only briefly, expressing pride in his son, brave and much loved. His voice was dry but Faramir accustomed to it, could make out the deep unhappiness that laced each word. Denethor then spoke of having Boromir’s legacy in Andreth, and at that bestowed a smile of such warmth and tenderness towards the boy that Faramir found himself feeling almost jealous. It would have been difficult at that moment to see in this Denethor the same man who had beaten him so badly the last night. He stiffened as he remembered the wrathful expression on Denethor’s face as the crop had fallen on him, and clenched his fists tight to force himself to forget the image.

Elessar spoke after that, soft, beautiful words about a friend and a soldier, who had always stood up for those in need. Faramir found tears prickling his eyes, as the king spoke of how Boromir had taught the hobbits to fight and had helped them walk through the more difficult stretches of terrain. Boromir had taught him to fight too, and he could well picture his larger brother, showing the small hobbits how to grip the sword or how to move.

Andreth spoke next, of a loving, kind father who had taught him to ride, hunt, fight, even sing. Faramir felt a fresh wave of tears at his words, as he stared at the young man standing up and speaking in such a quietly moving voice.

A few others spoke after that – Boromir’s friends in arms, and with each one Faramir felt his heart grow heavier. He truly missed Boromir and the support he’d given him. Boromir had defended him countless times to their father, countering Denethor’s wrath with a calm, even-tempered voice, often refuting Denethor’s allegations of Faramir’s incompetence with clear facts. And although Boromir had not been able to prevent his being beaten in his younger days he had always been there to comfort him. There had even been a time when Boromir had clearly overridden their father’s instructions and ridden out to Ithilien to bring a fevered and unconscious Faramir back to Minas Tirith to recuperate from injuries after a skirmish with Orcs. Boromir had even stayed back after that for nearly a week, as Faramir’s health had worsened before improving due to the movement from Ithilien to Minas Tirith. Had Boromir been here, Faramir would not spend each day being openly put down by his father or hence scorned by the other councillors. Or even if he did, he would have had his brother to restore some of his confidence.

Nor would he be sitting here, in pain and miserable.

By the time the service ended, Faramir was feeling miserable. The lack of food all morning, combined with the heaviness of heart left him with a pounding headache.

It was only as they dispersed that Faramir realised they would be having some of the guests here over for an early luncheon. He lingered back a little wondering if he should lunch alone as he often did, but then his father might not like that, he thought and made for the great hall instead. His movements were slow and sluggish and so the table was filled and they were ready to start serving by the time he reached his place. There were some fifteen guests on the long table, most of them other lords or captains.

At their own side of the table, he realised in dismay, sat the king and the queen, and the queen’s elven brothers. He tugged self-consciously at the collar of the old tunic he wore. The queen glanced up at him, a little coldly he thought, as he slipped into his chair.

“You were late,” Denethor said coldly, without preamble.

“Forgive me, I-”

Denethor waved a hand dismissively and nodded to the servants to start serving the food.

Faramir flushed uncomfortably and sat quickly on his chair, wincing a little as the still raw wounds on his buttocks came in contact with the hard surface. He squirmed a little and immediately tried to stop himself as he noticed the queen give him a curious glance.

“If you can’t eat without fidgeting like a child, perhaps you should have your meals in the nursery.” Denethor said coldly.

Faramir felt his face go hot as he flushed even deeper. Somewhere down the table someone smirked. He felt his appetite begin to slip away as a sickness settled in his stomach. He found himself wondering what else Denethor might say; aware that his father would have few qualms about belittling him in public. What if he spoke of beating Faramir, and told the others of how he had thrashed his grown son as one would perhaps a slave. As though on cue, his back flared again, as if in reminder of the beating he’d received.

Dimly through a fog of pain, he realised the queen was speaking of a supper she planned to hold on the morrow to welcome the Khandrim envoy.

“It need not be on as large a scale as what we will need for the Haradric envoy,” she saw saying, “But it can be sizeable nevertheless, I feel. I’ve asked for the kitchens to prepare a small feast, and maybe we can have a little entertainment, some dancing perhaps.”

“All the councillors will be present of course and their ladies,” she said and as her gaze fell on Faramir, she continued in a slightly frigid tone, “And I think it is only correct we wear ceremonial attire, and not everyday clothes which are not meant for special occasions.”

Faramir looked away dully.

Denethor’s call after the meal was not unexpected. He walked into his father’s study with trepidation and stood unmoving some distance away from the table. His eyes moved towards the wall where Denethor’s riding whips hung.

“You were late for the service,” Denethor raged almost as soon as he entered the room, “And not just that, you chose to dress inappropriately! How could you walk in there in these awful clothes?”

“Father, I-,” he’d meant to apologise for being late but the mention of the clothes threw him back. They were his everyday clothes true and a little old, but …

“Quiet! You are well aware that one cannot attend such occasions dressed in rags like these. Do you care so little for the memory of your brother that you cannot be bothered to wear your ceremonial attire?”

“I have no ceremonial attire,” he managed to slip in, unable to keep a slight tremor out of his voice.

Denethor stepped forward suddenly, and he found himself stepping back, swiftly, far too swiftly for his body’s liking. Pain laced through his back, but he ignored it as his father’s angered eyes bore down on him.

“I have told you before that I will not stand for your speaking to me like this while you stay under my roof,” Denethor said through gritted teeth, “If you have no ceremonial attire, get some! And you were ridiculously late for the ceremony. The servants tell me you overslept! On such an important occasion! Must you have the whole world know how little you care for Boromir’s memory?”

“I don’t –,”

“Silence! Your behaviour is inexcusable!”

Faramir stared away, down at the floor, feeling even more miserable. He wanted desperately to sit down a while and rest his aching body, but Denethor was only getting angrier and he found his eyes edging nervously towards the whips that hung on the wall.

“And on top of all this, there are errors in your work,” Denethor said, his voice full of anger now. He walked over to his desk and picking up the sheaf of papers Faramir had left on his table, threw them at his younger son’s face. Faramir rocked back on his heels as the papers floated to the floor around him, causing more pain to lace through his body. He bit back the whimper that arose in his throat and stared at Denethor in surprise. He had checked his work before leaving it on the table. It was what had taken him so long yesterday.

“You have overestimated the figures greatly,” Denethor said, “I have had to have two scribes work on it all morning to undo what you have done because you were too lazy to rise by then! Do you know how much time has been wasted by your incompetence?”

He had overestimated the figures a little and left a note explaining why he did so. Until the work in Minas Tirith was completed there was no telling how much of the raw material supplies would be available to start a reconstruction in Ithilien. They might need to buy materials from their neighbours.

He tried nervously to explain, “I left a -,”

Denethor leaned forward and slammed his palms on the table, “That’s quite enough from you. I suggest you get back to work on the Haradrim treaties. I hope at least there you will make fewer errors. There is little thinking required!”

“I don’t know what to do with you!” Denethor fumed, a look of frustration on his face, “You are incapable of soldiering and now you prove yourself incapable as a councillor too! You truly are useless! You may leave now. I am sick of the sight of you.” He sat back down at his desk and began going through his papers.

Faramir bit his lip unhappily, unsure what to defend himself against. It seemed no matter what he did, his father was never going to be satisfied, nor would he give him a chance to defend himself

“What are you waiting for?” Denethor asked

“I-,” he started, wishing to put some sort of defence forward, only to be interrupted again.

“I asked you to leave, and I expect you to do as I ask you if you wish to live under my roof. I disciplined you yesterday hoping it would have some effect,” Denethor said coldly, “If it has not I will not hesitate to discipline you again. If you do not wish to be beaten again, leave me and get back to your work.”

Faramir walked out slowly, a leaden feeling settling in his stomach at Denethor’s words.

He returned to his chambers and sat down heavily on his bed. The papers and books on the Haradrim treaties lay on his table but he made no move towards them. He removed his boots and lay exhaustedly on his bed. He lay there a while trying not to think of anything. He tried to sleep but his mind was too full of thoughts. He tried not to think of his father any more, and tried to think of what he might need from the archives instead. The thought of working on the treaties though began to give him a headache as he fretted over his father’s remarks on his work. He should get back to work, he thought worriedly, the day was nearly at an end and he’d done nothing.

He sighed heavily and rose, a little unsteadily, wincing as the movement pulled at his cuts. He picked up the papers on his desk and sat gingerly on the chair, after pacing a pillow on it. He shuffled through the papers, staring blankly at the words for a while. Shifting a little to alleviate his discomfort he got down to his work. He found himself working slowly, sometimes having to read over a passage twice to understand it. His back and stomach continued to pain him a little so that he had to keep shifting his position.

The dinner gong brought him out of his thoughts with a start and he sat up surprised at how much time had passed. He’d done very little in all this while, he realised desperately. He bit his lip and stared out of his window. He didn’t think he could face Denethor again today. His father would realise he hadn’t accomplished much all day. He would berate him again he was sure of that. His hand trembled slightly at the thought, and he placed his quill down. He wouldn’t dine with his father tonight, he decided.

Instead, he decided to take a stroll in the gardens before getting back to work. Just the thought of supper with his father was making him tense.

He walked around the gardens a bit and then looked for a place where he could sit and rest his back awhile. The cool, mildly scented air of the gardens did help him feel better, but he knew he needed to get back to work shortly. There was the dinner for the Khandrim envoy too, on the morrow… he remembered about the clothes and stopped worriedly.

He shook his head mirthlessly. Of all the things he needed to worry over now, he had clothes to add to the list. As a ranger, that had been his least concern. He’d invariably been in uniform, and even for any occasion he had had his dress uniform. Of course, he couldn’t wear that now that he was no longer a captain. He sat back wondering what to do.

Denethor wouldn’t stand for him not being attired properly now. He wondered if he could avoid the dinner but decided not to risk his father’s anger again. He bit his lip and looked for a place where he could sit and rest his back awhile.

Ceremonial clothes were expensive, and especially now after the war for the trade of richer fabrics and threads from the Khand and Rhun was yet to return to normalcy. He didn’t think he could afford them right now. With all the family assets in Andreth’s name, he had little by way of finances and the thought of delving into those limited funds to buy clothes, made him feel all the more fretful. He needed that money so he could move to Ithilien, away from his father’s house.

His financial constraints were another worry he’d prefer to avoid thinking of and yet another fact that Denethor kept taunting him with. There was little he could do. As the Steward’s son he had not even drawn the pay that the other officers or soldiers would have, nor did he get the pension the other wounded had received. The land his mother had left him in Dol Amroth was all he had which yielded him a small income, that he had estimated would be just about enough for him to rebuild the house in Ithilien and live there reasonably.

Denethor had repeatedly made it abundantly clear that all assets were Andreth’s, and that he would provide nothing for Faramir save basic necessities. It had become clearest when Faramir had ordered for a new sword a few weeks after he’d restarted his arms practise. He had still been weak then from his wound for the Haradrim dart, although not poisoned, had contained potions that had induced fevers and weakness for weeks, and the recovery had taken a great deal out of him. When he had resumed his practice with his usual sword, the wound as well as his ill-health had made it difficult for him to handle the sword. Even in his healthier days, it had felt a little heavy but he’d tolerated it, since he used the bow more.

After a few weeks of his struggling with the heavy sword, the arms master had suggested he get a lighter weapon, at least until he recovered. He’d agreed with the assessment and had ordered a newer, lighter sword from the armourers. Faramir had been puzzled at the hard note in his father’s voice when he’d asked him to meet him in his study that evening. Once there, Denethor had handed him the note from the armourers.

“What is this?” he asked coldly.

Faramir glanced at the note and on reading it, had explained, “I wished to order a new sword,” he said simply, “They have some new lighter ones, with the lighter handles like the elves use and Master –,”

“Is your old sword damaged?” Denethor interrupted.

“No, it is quite well,” Faramir said, “But -,”

“Then why do you wish to purchase a new one?” Denethor interrupted again, his voice hard as stone now, “You are as good as no longer a soldier and you wish instead for pretty weapons?”

Faramir stared back at him in puzzlement, suddenly wary of his father’s tone and words.

“Father, I-,” he started.

“Quiet! You may purchase all you like as long as you do so from your finances. What made you ask the armourers to send this note to me?”

Faramir stared at him in surprise, unsure why the talk of finances had come up now.

“Don’t look so surprised!” Denethor fumed, “I have already declared Andreth my heir and by all rights, this entire inheritance is his. I will not have you throw Andreth’s inheritance away on such frivolities as a new weapon for you! That you live here under this roof and are fed and clothed should be enough for you!”

The words still hurt even after all these weeks, and ever since then Faramir had decided to leave for Ithilien as soon as could. Unfortunately though, for now he was still in Minas Tirith.

Aragorn was taking his customary evening stroll through the gardens when he came across Faramir sitting quietly by a dried fountain. The younger man was sitting on a small bench and leaning his head against the trunk of a large tree.

He stared curiously at the younger man. Boromir had spoken of Faramir nearly as much as of Andreth, with as much love and pride. He’d told them of a friendly, kind, sensible young man who was scholar as well as warrior. Aragorn wasn’t entirely sure he could see that man in Faramir though.

When Aragorn had first seen him, in the houses of healing struck by a Haradrim dart and ailing under the influence of the Black Breath, he had wondered at how the brothers looked similar yet dissimilar. Then, the fine features of the younger son were marked with much despair and unhappiness. Watching Faramir now, he realised they still were and found himself wondering why. True he had faced loss but hadn’t they all? And yet while others were working hard to regain some measure of happiness in their lives, Faramir only ever seemed to even more morose. Even one as young as Andreth was learning to live his life without his father.

Faramir looked up then and noticed him. He sat up, biting his lip as he did so.

“Sire,” he said, standing up slowly.

“Faramir,” Aragorn responded, nodding at him.

They stood there a few seconds, and then Faramir spoke, fumbling awkwardly through the words.

“I – I was just out for some air – some fresh air… it gets stuffy inside,” he said aware that he was beginning to ramble.

“It’s a fine evening,” Aragorn said smiling, “I was going to walk along this path. Would you like to join me?”

“Of – of course,” Faramir said, hesitating only the slightest bit. He didn’t feel much up to taking another stroll. His back and legs had been screaming for rest after the round he’d taken of the garden earlier, and foregoing dinner left him with a mild headache. But he couldn’t refuse his king could he. He already felt a fool for rambling on unnecessarily. He had never been so awkward in his speech, words had in fact been his one area of comfort, enough for even Denethor who had at times let him accompany their envoys in diplomatic meetings. Of late though, he though morosely as he fell into step with the king, he seemed to be becoming incompetent at everything just as his father had said.

Aragorn found himself wondering about the Steward’s sons, as he watched Faramir walk dully and slowly by his side.

Boromir had been an energetic, intelligent man, charming, passionate, and at times recklessly so. When he spoke his voice carried his passion for his beliefs. Aragorn could still remember the intense, confident voice that would carry across the halls of Imladris when they first met. He remembered too the strong, well-built, young man who helped the hobbits climb and the feel of those strong, firm muscles under his arm as they had thrust against each other. He’d grown to love Boromir.

Faramir on the other hand was slender, almost to the point of thinness. He looked weary now as he often did, his young face creased in worry, dark circles ringing his dull eyes, and strands of silver already beginning to show up in his raven hair. He was nothing like Boromir, Aragorn decided. When he spoke, his voice was always soft and his tone at most times seemed diffident and at other times almost too anxious to please.

Where Boromir would have inspired another, Faramir barely even attracted anyone’s attention. Aragorn shook his head at the stark differences.

They had walked along quietly all this while, so Aragorn racked his brain for something he could discuss with the younger man. He knew nothing of his interests he realised. He did know he was something of a scholar and liked to read but he knew nothing of what he liked to read.

“How does your shoulder fare now?” he asked finally, after realising there was nothing else he knew about the other man.

“Quite well, Sire. Thank you for asking.” Faramir replied in a rather woodenly formal tone, Aragorn thought. He had been rather distraught at having to resign his captaincy, he recollected now. And Denethor had been unrepentant about making him do so, even going so far as to make some extremely pointed remarks about the younger man’s abilities on the field. He suddenly remembered the stricken look on the young man’s face when he’d been informed of the decision.

“You are continuing your weapons training, I believe,” he said, trying to continue the conversation.

“I – I have been practising with the sword,” Faramir said, “The master says I am improving a little.” The master had said he was improving far too slowly. He would need to go tomorrow, and he wondered how he would fight when he hurt so much everywhere. The master would surely get back to Denethor about that he realised worriedly. He hoped his father wouldn’t choose to complain on that as well, and stared unhappily at the stones in their path as he continued walking.

“Oh, that’s good,’ Aragorn said, for want of anything else. He didn’t see that it made much difference, when Faramir’s commission had been withdrawn.

He glanced sideways at the morose profile of the younger man, at the hunched shoulders and the bowed head, and almost found himself wondering how this insipid young man could ever have captained the rangers with their need for quick thinking, swiftness and agility. Had he changed so much in the war that he could no longer see a captain of men, in him?

Perhaps he was being unfair; Faramir might have had a tiring day. And yet, the younger man, he decided was clearly unhappy enough for it to affect his entire disposition. Perhaps it was the memorial service.

Faramir was beginning to feel tense in the silence that ensued. He would normally have been happy to walk along quietly, just revelling in the king’s company, but today the silence felt unnerving. He could sense he should say something that his behaviour did not meet with the king’s approval. He wondered uncomfortably if he should talk of something and realised he had no idea what to speak of. Had he become so incapable of being around others, he wondered bitterly.

“Well,” the king said heavily as they ended their circuit of the gardens, “We’ll see you at the dinner then.”

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.

Chapter 6

Aragorn glanced towards his sleeping wife. She had pulled the covers up leaving only her shoulders visible, pale, creamy and smooth, but for the light mark under her collarbone where Aragorn had kissed her last night. He looked out of the window towards the city, pale and grey under the still lightening dawn sky. He had risen early and as he felt the faint breeze fall on his face, he realised he was unlikely to return to sleep. Pulling on a robe, he walked into the terrace outside his room and gazed into the gardens below. The dawn mist was beginning to clear, revealing the layers of the city slowly. He suddenly found himself remembering Boromir speaking to him of the city, his voice filled with love and longing. His thoughts wandering to Faramir, to the sight of the younger man the evening before, his lean face animated, a far sight from the usually tense and drawn disposition he presented in council meetings.

Although that perhaps was justified, he mused, as he thought of the day ahead. There was to be another council meeting today, thankfully the last for a few days for they would not reconvene for another week yet, and he hoped to get much of his work done in that time. Today’s meeting would be just as acrimonious as the previous ones, and Faramir was unlikely to derive any enjoyment from this one either, as they would discuss the Ithilien restoration as well today. Much as he was loath to admit, it seemed clear that his councillors were unlikely to go by anything young Faramir had to say on the matter. The younger man had on previous occasions presented records, and made many points and suggestions all of which had been shot down with thinly veiled contempt. Aragorn had studied the papers himself and found much substance in all that Faramir had said.

He was not unaware of the tensions that seemed to exits between the Steward and his son or even how they seemed oft times to spill over into his council meetings or how they reflected in the attitude of the other councillors towards Faramir.

He had been intending to ride into Ithilien himself and study the lay of the land. He wondered if Faramir should accompany him. Perhaps, he should, he decided. He would like to spend more time with Faramir, and perhaps a journey together would help the younger man overcome his shyness. Faramir’s brooding nature seemed at odds with everyone else’s optimism.

But seeing Faramir smiling at the dinner last night had in some way reassured Aragorn that the other man had a lighter side to his nature as well, and would be a good friend to have. The war had affected everyone, and Faramir was among those more affected than others, having fought long under the influence of the black breath in Ithilien. He would clearly need to be drawn out of whatever misery he felt, and Aragorn felt some responsibility for that. Denethor’s own taciturn nature would clearly not help, and Andreth while a cheerful and healthy lad was still too young to understand.

As he drew away from the window and began to ready himself for the day, he found his thoughts lingering on Faramir, of the lean frame, and the smiling face. The brothers were unalike, and yet perhaps Faramir was not as much the lesser one as others sought to make him out to be. Perhaps he should do something about the young man. He had assured Boromir that he would care for his loved ones, and Boromir’s memories were still fresh enough in his heart to cause an ache whenever he thought of what they had shared.

He mentioned his plan of visiting Ithilien to Denethor later that day, as they ate a small meal after the council meeting. The council had been as unfruitful as he had expected, and the only reason there were no prolonged debates was that Faramir had volunteered no suggestions. He had listened quietly, his countenance clearly uncomfortable at some of the more outrageous points but said nothing, and the meeting had again ended with no decision taken on Ithilien, as usual.

Aragorn also mooted his idea of getting Faramir to accompany him. The Steward frowned as he listened but finally nodded.

“He may be of some help to you, he has been there long enough,” he agreed, almost reluctantly. Aragorn grimaced a little as he heard the Steward’s words and the near contempt of his tone, but said nothing.

“I’ll send him a message asking him to see me,” he said instead.

“He is probably in the archives,” Denethor told him.

Faramir was still in the archives, working on the Haradric treaties, when the messenger from the king’s office found him later. He had left some notes with his father after the council meeting and then gone to the archives immediately. He had ended up spending quite a while fretting over the morning council at first. He knew now for sure that any suggestion he made would be disregarded, particularly when it came to Ithilien. None of the other lords cared greatly for the restoration work, seeing the land as no more than wild, overgrown forest that no longer held any strategic importance. None of them cared as he did for the history of the land, or the traditions that had once been followed there. He had once worked on detailed restoration plans but had over time realised that he should say little on the matter at least for now. And that morning, despite the constant baits that some of the councillors seemed to deliberately throw in his way, he had stayed silent, not even objecting when one of them had obliquely suggested that the monies intended for the restoration would probably be used to restore the fortunes of some who were familiar with the land. He was however glad that there were to be no more councils for a week at least.

He blinked now as he received the message, and bit his lip in worry, wondering what could be so urgent. He gathered together his papers, and rose, brushing down his clothes nervously. As he followed the messenger swiftly, he tried to recollect if he might have done anything in the council that may have angered the king. Or had he perhaps done something during the dinner the previous night. Yet, the king had seemed pleased while speaking to him.

He continued worrying his lip, as he entered the king’s study, suddenly feeling even more nervous as he realised that his father was there too. He wondered if they had called him for the notes he had left on his father’s table the previous night. He had not spoken to his father at the dinner for the older man had seemed busy in conversation with Lady Idril from Lossarnach, or he would have explained what he had left. There had not been much, but he had found some interesting sidenotes on Haradric practices on hospitality and had included those.

Elessar and Denethor were seated at the king’s desk when he entered, bent over a large map. They looked up as Faramir entered the room, shuffling in worriedly.

“Faramir,” Denethor said, his voice brisk with irritation.

“Sire,” Faramir murmured softly, “Sir,” he mumbled to his father, wondering why he was asked to meet them together.

Elessar nodded smilingly at him but it did little to lessen the anxiety that clutched at Faramir’s heart.

“I – I have brought some notes for the treaties,” he stuttered hurriedly, wondering if it was his delays on that which had caused them to summon him.

“Have you anything useful for us?” Denethor interrupted coldly, “Perhaps they like to eat on plates that are painted a particular colour?” he demanded his voice still coloured with annoyance.

Faramir coloured a little. His notes had mentioned that a normal Haradric practise was to partake of a light meal before entering a discussion, usually consisting of herbal tea, crisp thin breads and anything sweet to taste, to assure the visitor that he was welcomed. He had added a few more such anecdotes too including one that a good host would always invite his guest to visit his gardens, for in the arid lands of the south, gardens were coveted. He had thought these could be of help, for they had interested him greatly. Some of these mores had interesting histories.

“Some of those could be of use, my lord Steward,” the king said in a soothing tone, “It would not do well to offend a prince of another realm by indicating to him that he is an unwelcome guest.”

Denethor shook his head gruffly, but said nothing.

“I shall not detain you for long, your father tells me you are still at work on the treaties,” the king said reassuringly.

Faramir nodded silently, unsure of what to say

“I should like to ride to Ithilien in a few days’ time, and I would like you to accompany me,” the king said.

Faramir stared at him surprised.

“Well,” Elessar continued, “Will you be able to accompany me?”

“He will,” Denethor said, “He has little to do here.”

Faramir started at that, before replying, “I – will, my lord,” he mumbled softly.

“Very well,” Elessar replied smiling, “I have charted out the routes I wish to take, so all you will need to do is pack whatever you require for your journey. We shall leave in two days’ time, at daybreak and return in a day or two.”

“If I may leave now then, Aragorn, I shall collect from Faramir all else that he has done on the treaties so far,” Denethor spoke, rising.

He and his father walked back to their house in silence, the only sounds the echoes of their feet on the stone floor.

“You may bring for me what you have done this far,” Denethor said coldly, “And work on the rest of it ere you leave.”

He did as he was bid silently, but not without trepidation. Returning to his chambers, he packed for his journey swiftly, long conditioned to leaving in a hurry with no more than a satchel. Once done, he returned to work well aware that he would now be further delayed for this journey would surely take them some days to return. He slept late and sparingly that night, having liberally applied salves over his back and lower body. The cuts were healing quite rapidly now, and for that little he was glad. The next morning he rose early, ate a hurried meal and worked through the day, stopping briefly only for his meals and later to check on all the departure preparations.

He checked that the horses had been readied at the stables, and met with the troop that was to escort them, and then checked the supplies they were carrying twice over. Elessar and his father too seemed busy for he saw little of the two of them. He slept sparingly that night as well, waking well before the first fingers of dawn swept over the sky.

It was still a little dark when he neared the courtyard, carrying no more than his own satchel, containing some clothes, a blanket, maps and some supplies. Someone stood in the alcove at the edge of the corridor. The king and the queen, he realised, and felt himself flushing as his eyes were drawn towards them. They stood close, melding into each other almost as one, as they shared a long and tender kiss. He slipped silently behind a column and watched as the queen’s slender, pale hands slipped under the king’s tunic, raising it to reveal the hard, browned skin of his side. He felt a strange, almost queasy sensation in the pit of his stomach as the long fingers stroked the king’s side and back, and the king’s hand shifted up from the queen’s waist to her shoulder, slipping her thin robe off her shoulder. Their lips came apart and the queen’s soft gasps though no more than whispers still seemed to resound in his ears, as he saw the king’s mouth slide down from her lips to her jaw, then her throat and collarbone.

A faint trumpet call sounded from the stables, loud enough to recall Faramir to awareness. He blushed furiously as he realised that he had invaded the king’s privacy. He moved back, away from the two as they came apart, but still stayed in each other’s arms. Silently he walked away, out of that hallway and took another passage out to the courtyard. He wrapped his arms around himself as he walked swiftly, suddenly feeling cold. He tried not to guess why the sight of the king and queen’s intimacy left him feeling almost disturbed, and even a little distressed.

The horses stood ready to leave out in the courtyard and there were quite a few people milling around, including his father, Andreth, young Prince Eldarion and some of the councillors who still remained. The king and queen emerged through another doorway. The king was donning his cloak as he walked and a wide smile graced his face as he spoke to the queen. Her long, silken hair hung loose around her shoulders, and while the robes had been straightened, Faramir could see the reddening marks left by the king’s lips on the pale skin above the swell of her breasts. He walked towards the horse selected for him, and fumbled with the saddlebags, as the king brushed away a strand of her from the queen’s face and pressed a chaste kiss on her forehead, before turning to the others.

The king then spoke briefly to his father, their voices too soft for Faramir to glean what they said, but it seemed not to involve him and for that he felt almost grateful. As the king spoke to Prince Eldarion, Faramir looked towards Denethor, who now stood talking to lady Idril and wondered briefly whether he ought to speak to him. It shamed him that just the thought of speaking to his father could now induce such fear, and so he made to move towards him. The Steward glanced at him, gave him a short, curt nod, and returned to his conversation with Lady Idril.

Faramir halted and returning to his horse, climbed on. It was no easy task with his shoulder still weak, but he could manage it alone nevertheless and for that at least he felt grateful. He waited as the king and the escort completed their farewells, his restlessness growing as the early morning chill dampened the air.

They finally left just as dawn broke over the city; he, the king and an escort of seven, making their way slowly down the winding city roads out onto the plains where they broke into a fast canter.

Their journey to Ithilien was quiet. Elessar and the captain of the escort, Ardahil rode at the helm. Ardahil was from the northern rangers and the two were soon deep in conversation over places that Faramir had only ever heard of and knew naught of. He fell back, feeling a little miserable as he watched the king ride ahead of him, his strong straight-backed frame noble as ever. However, he soon found he had other worries to contend with. He had not been riding since he had fallen off his mount at the battle on the Pelennor, and now he found that his weakened shoulder affected his riding ability as well, for his shoulders and back began stiffening shortly after they crossed the Pelennor, the back more so, for although healed by now, the newly acquired scars from his father’s whip still pulled at the skin a little. He tried to assuage it by adjusting his movements as inconspicuously as possible, glad that at least the cuts on his buttocks and thighs had healed by now, but a throbbing ache continued to assail his shoulders and back. They crossed the Anduin north of the city where the river narrowed and entered lands that were wilder, which slowed them down. He was glad when they halted for the noon meal by a small stream, short though their stop was. They stopped just enough to let the horses cool down in the water and for a hurried meal of soft bread and fruits. Faramir discreetly tried to massage his shoulder a little withdrawing away from the others as they sat around the meal. Many in the escort were also from the northern rangers and the king spent much of the meal laughing with them over old incidents.

Faramir’s fingers felt numb from holding the reins and there was little he could do to alleviate the pain in his upper body so he finally washed his face and neck in the cold water of the stream, hoping that would provide some relief. He had some herbs that he could rub over the injured area in his saddlebag but that would take him time to apply, so he decided to wait until they camped for the night, to use those. He was still hurting when they mounted their horses again. He said nothing well aware that the smallest of words would return to Denethor’s ears, and he could not afford to be seen as complaining or weak in front of the king. His injury from the Haradrim dart was many months old now and if he had yet to recover from it, it was his own doing. His father spoke no untruths when he called him a weakling, he thought miserably. Men with worse injuries were hale and hearty again, while he still lingered in pain and fatigue. He found too that he wished desperately that the king should not see him for the weakling he was. It did not occur to him that the black breath combined with the injury had caused in him ailments worse than those faced by most others in the war, for he was more used to finding faults in himself above all others.

They were entering Ithilien, and there had been a time when just that would have raised his spirits considerably. But the afternoon ride was hard on him, and he tried desperately to take his mind off the dull ache that would not lessen no matter how much he shifted in his saddle. Ahead of and behind him, the other riders moved smoothly, laughing and talking softly, enjoying the fresh air of the forest land.

Aragorn was happy. He had been a ranger so long, he had not realised how much the freedom of the outdoors had become a part of his very being. In the days after the war, his kingship duties and his reunion with Arwen had kept him busy, and it was only now as they had all settled into a routine, that he had begun once again to ache for the feel of the crisp outdoor air on his face, the feel of grass on his bare hands and feet. He was glad too that the northern rangers formed most of his escort. While many of the Dunedain had returned to the lands in the Arnor, some among the younger ones had eagerly expressed a desire to remain in Minas Tirith and explore the lands of the south. Spending time like this with them reminded him of a time that had been harder yet just as fruitful and fulfilling. He knew he could never return to such times again but occasions like this transported him back to fonder memories of the old days. Ithilien too was a fair land, its green but wild beauty not unlike that of the northern lands.

He could see now why talking of this land made Faramir’s eyes light up, and his voice nearly crack in his desperation to convince the other councillors of its worth. He frowned as he realised Faramir had fallen back, and recollected guiltily that for most of the ride so far, the younger man had not been by him, nor had he used this opportunity to get to know him better. Of course, he would need him by his side on the morrow once they were well inside Ithilien, but this now would be the best time to speak to him of matters other than duty. As Ardahil continued conversing with the other ranger riding by them, Aragorn dropped back until he was riding abreast with Faramir. The younger man stared at him in surprise. He smiled at him.

“I am glad we rode out today,” Aragorn said cheerfully, “The weather is holding up very well!”

“Yes, sire,” was all Faramir said.

They rode together in silence for a while until Aragorn spoke again.

“We are not far from the shelter where we will spend the night are we?”

“Nay, Sire. We shall reach in another two hours,” Faramir replied. He had checked earlier on where the halts were planned and had been satisfied with the plans. The shelter for that night was large, dry one.

Aragorn glanced towards the younger man as they rode on, again struck by how similar yet how dissimilar he was to Boromir. There were some physical similarities but Faramir’s stature was smaller. He had noticed that in the houses of healing. As he had examined Faramir, he had looked at the thin, bony frame, and recollected Boromir’s contrasting build. The Steward’s elder son had been taller and broader, his body firm and muscled. He tried not to quell the sadness that filled his heart as he thought of Boromir, and tried not to remember their moments together and the intimacy and passion they had shared in their few short months together.

He gripped his reins tightly, willing himself to let go of the memories, and to concentrate instead on what was left to him. He forced himself to get back to his conversation with Faramir.

He knew so little of Faramir, of what he did when he was not working on treaties or papers, of what he liked to read or what moved him. Or even, he wondered suddenly, whether he had a lover? There was no lady he was betrothed to, of that Aragorn was assured, but he was aware that Boromir had had other lovers. Surely Faramir would too. He thought suddenly of the night of the dinner and the hungry look in the old lord’s eyes as he’d leaned over Faramir.

“The dinner with the Khandrim delegate went very well,” he said finally, “I think we can expect the Haradrim visit to pass of fairly well too. I am grateful to have your help on the treaties.”

Faramir look of astonishment was almost comical.

“I was glad to see you at the dinner,” Aragorn continued doggedly, “We do not see as much of you as we would like.”

Faramir struggled wildly for a response to that, berating himself for constantly being tongue-tied in front of the king, but days of worry and overwork coupled with the long ride, and the pain were beginning to take their toll on him. He tugged nervously at the ties of his cloak instead, before finally murmuring a response.

“It was a fine dinner, Sire, and it was most kind of you and the lady queen to invite me. And – and all the guests seemed happy.”

“I am glad,’ Aragorn replied, “For it was a large gathering and I have been unused to those for many years. Not since my younger days in Elrond’s halls have I had to play host for so many. You must of course be used to many such, for I am told the feasts in the citadel were large.”

“Earlier they were, I too have been told, but not for many years now,” Faramir replied quietly, “For the times seemed dark and few were of the heart to celebrate. We would have harvest feasts, and those Boromir would mostly host.”

Aragorn did not miss the slight catch in the younger man’s voice. Faramir continued surprisingly, his voice a little hoarse now.

“He liked the dances and the music in those. There were times when he would dance the entire night and still be ready for duty the next morning. And he danced very well.”

“That I can well imagine,” Aragorn said smiling, for he too had seen Boromir dance in the elven halls and had been much moved by the enthusiasm and grace of the younger man, “He had many a lady in Elrond’s halls desirous of dancing with him.”

“Boromir was well-liked among the women,” Faramir agreed quietly, “All the women would clamour to dance with him, even the matrons for they swore he made them feel young again.”

“And many among the men too I suspect,” Aragorn said lightly, for Boromir had spoken to him of female and male lovers in his past.

Faramir nodded.

“And what of you,” Aragorn continued lightly, “Is there no young lady who has caught your eye?”

“No,” Faramir said quietly. His posture suddenly seemed very upright and his eyes were focussed straight ahead.

“Or a young lad, perhaps?” Aragorn persisted, unsure suddenly how such matters were seen in Gondor.

“No,” Faramir said shortly, his back very rigid, and his voice sounding strained.

Aragorn sighed silently, aware that their conversation had now been affected. Again, here Faramir was different from his brother. Boromir would have been open about his life, keeping no secrets. Talk such as this would have been the subject of an evening meal away from the young hobbits, coupled with an anecdote or two. And yet, he recollected now that as he had watched Faramir writhing under the influence of the fever in the houses of healing, and without thought, aided his flushed body aroused by the influence of the fever and the potions the healers had forced into him, he had seen in the arch of his body and in his soundless words, a passion as unlimited as Boromir’s. It was only now that the tiny little thought that had occurred to him then, made itself felt insistently in his mind, and he wondered what manner of a lover Faramir would make. The eager, aching need in the slight body, when he had wrapped his hands around the hard shaft, and the silent cries that gave way to a very loud, lustful moan contradicted greatly with the sombre, stern outward visage and that very thought caused a fluttering sensation in Aragorn’s lower belly.

He sat up straight too at that, flushing a little as his thoughts manifested themselves more clearly now, leaving him feeling confused.

They spoke no more of these matters now. Instead he asked Faramir of the land they rode through, of the terrain and the soil, and was gladdened that in such at least the younger man spoke freely although still his voice lacked the friendliness and conviviality that Boromir’s would have had.

They reached the shelter while there was still light and after seeing to their horses, began to prepare camp. Some of the soldiers set to making a fire near the shelter, while a few of the others set out to catch some fresh fish from the stream nearby, a little way up from their camp. Aragorn stayed back as did Faramir. The king had learnt much in the last few hours of the journey, all about Ithilien, and little about Faramir.

He watched now as the younger man who was still seeing to his horse, led the animal downstream to wash and brush it down. He continued watching through the trees, appreciating the care that was being lavished on the mount. Once Faramir had finished with the animal, he knelt down and washed his face and neck in the cold water. He then looked around furtively and then removed his tunic and vest, baring himself to the waist. He pulled out some herbs from a small pouch he had placed on a rock nearby and seated himself under cover of a thick bush. Aragorn leaned forward a little, pursing his lips as he watched.

Faramir’s movements had seemed slow and almost stiff as they had set up camp. Now, he rubbed the herbs between his palms, fumbling and dropping them twice, before finally gripping his shoulders and twisting himself as he tried to rub his back and shoulder blades with the herbs. Aragorn rose swiftly, and strode up to the young man, aware now that the stiff demeanour was at least in some part due to physical hurt.

“It is your shoulder, is it not?” he demanded, causing Faramir to start at his sudden approach.

The younger man grimaced unconsciously from the sudden movement and scrambled up. His face flamed and he looked away from Aragorn, before speaking.

“Nay.”

“Your shoulder is as yet healing, is it not?” Aragorn repeated, absently noticing the harsh redness of the large scar left by the dart standing out amongst older, smaller marks and scars on the pale skin of Faramir’s bare torso, “I should have thought of that before making you ride for so long. Where else does it hurt? It must have affected your back as well. Let me see,” he offered.

Faramir however backed away, his expression a mix of shame and fear, “It is naught,” he said insistently, “I am riding after long; that is all. I shall be fine.”

“Faramir,” Aragorn said patiently, and reached out to grasp the younger man’s shoulder. The skin was soft under his fingers for the fleeting moment that Faramir stood there, for the younger man jerked away almost immediately.

“I am fine,” Faramir repeated.

Aragorn bit his lip to refrain from shouting. It was clear to him that Faramir was in pain, for his entire posture was stiff, but the younger man seemed too stubborn to acknowledge it. A cool wind blew in from the river and Faramir shivered, realising suddenly that he had no tunic on. He flushed and wrapped his arms around his naked chest.

Aragorn found himself irrationally irritated by that gesture. There was no call for the younger to act as a blushing maiden, but he held back his temper. Bending, he picked up the younger man’s tunic and vest and handed them to him.

“You may come to me, if you would like my help. I have no salves for such aches but you seem to have the herbs and I can help you massage them. If you would prefer not to have my help, very well, but remember that if the pain worsens you will slow us all down.” It was perhaps a little brutal of him, but he hoped the thought of affecting others would force Faramir to come to him.

He had miscalculated however for Faramir’s eyes suddenly seemed shuttered and distant, as he pulled on the tunic, fingers fumbling with the ties. As Aragorn turned to return to the camp, he heard him say firmly and in a slightly loud voice, “I will not slow the rest of you.”

Faramir returned to the camp with him, leading his horse to the clearing where the other mounts stood, and then returned to sit by the fire. Aragorn said nothing but watched him covertly through the evening. To an unaware eye, Faramir would have betrayed no signs of pain or discomfort as he helped the rangers prepare supper and lay beds in the shelter, although Aragorn could see better, but he said nothing. They spent a quiet night in the shelter. It was large and dry and allowed enough space for a man to sleep comfortably, equipped as they were with bedding and blankets.

Aragorn lay where he could observe Faramir, and as night fell over the land, kept an eye on the dim outline of the younger man that was visible in the starlight from the windows. Faramir seemed to be awake or long, and shifted often, as though seeking a comfortable position to lie in. At times he turned his face towards Aragorn, pale and drawn, eyes closed, but not sleeping, for his breathing remained tensed.

Aragorn found himself tiring soon for the ride had indeed been long, and he soon gave in to sleep aware though that Faramir still lay awake.

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.

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?”

Chapter 9

Faramir stared at the king, and then nodded belatedly.

“Y-yes, certainly,” he stuttered, “I-in the council room?”

“No, you may come to my study. The council starts at nine, so perhaps a quarter to the hour?” the king suggested.

“Estel!” the queen’s voice sounded out again, impatient this time.

The king turned away even as Faramir stuttered his agreement.

“It is our last night together for a month,” the queen’s mellifluous tones reached his ears quite clearly. “I wish you would not waste time over insignificant matters.”

Faramir returned to his rooms in a daze, his mind jumbled with a riot of thoughts. He kept repeating Elessar’s words in his mind, but all that stood out was the king wanted to meet him alone tomorrow! He couldn’t hold back the excitement that this thought caused, although he did find himself worrying at the same time.

What if the king had merely called him to speak of his report on Ithilien.
Denethor had said he had passed it onto the king. After all, he seemed to have quite forgotten the one night they’d shared. Even though he’d said they may share such a night again. But then, Faramir reminded himself, he had said too that he knew not when.

Faramir sighed, as he continued pacing up and down his small room, trying to prevent himself from thinking further on this. He should go to sleep now, he told himself, and wake up early and meet the king. That was all. He would have his answers then. He walked out onto the small balcony hoping the fresh air would help. He looked down at the gardens spread below. He could see the lights from the queen’s party from here and hear the faint strains of the lilting sounds of elven music.

He leaned against the wall, listening to the calm and soothing sounds, letting his mind wander away with the music. It took him back to his days in Ithilien, the gentle sounds reminiscent of wild brooks, the soft breeze through the trees, distant bird songs, the fresh, calming fragrances of the outdoors. He sank down to the floor, and closed his eyes, thinking of the rare but treasured moments of calm he had had in those days… of lying on the warm grass of a clearing with the sun filtering through the leaves, bathing in a hot spring hidden in a glade, walking through meadows filled with fragrant flowers.

How nice it would have been if he could have had the time to show Elessar those little treasured nooks, he thought drowsily. The music continued to wash over his tired senses as he curled into the floor, dreaming of Elessar’s naked body, hardened planes gleaming in the afternoon sun, covering his in the meadow of flowers.

Faramir came awake at dawn and groaned. The floor was hard and cold and damp and he had been lying in an awkward position. He stared around in confusion and then groaned again as he realised that he’d spent the night on the floor of his balcony, and he thought ruefully, as he glanced down at his clothes, he’d dreamt of Elesser again. At the thought of the king, he sat up suddenly remembering the summons, and then cried out as his stiff muscles protested. He grunted, and rose off the floor with difficulty.

Faramir hesitated at the door to the king’s study. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the hurried bath he’d managed, and smoothened down the fabric of his tunic. He felt strangely nervous as he knocked.

“Enter!” the king’s voice sounded curt, as Faramir pushed the door open.

The king’s study was a large, but comfortable looking room, furnished with a table, large cushioned chairs, and a huge grate with a pile of rugs and furs spread in front of it. A huge window, overlooking the courtyard below framed most of one wall. Elessar stood by the window, adjusting the sleeves of his long formal robes.

“You’re early. Sit,” he said smiling, “Would you like some breakfast?”

Faramir hadn’t eaten in the morning but he felt far too nervous right now.

“No, thank you Sire,” he said softly.

The king looked more handsome than ever this morning, standing in the sunlight. He wore deep blue robes, embellished only with very subtle golden thread work at the edges. Faramir found his eyes drawn towards the open bindings, displaying the tanned, hard chest underneath. He noticed a mark rather like a bite under the collarbone. The queen’s remarks from the previous night returned to him and he felt his face flush.

The king sat across the table from Faramir and began glancing through some papers.

“Are you sure? I’ve asked for some for myself.”

Faramir chanced a look at the king’s face. It seemed to him that the king’s lips seemed just that little bit more swollen and reddened.

“I read your report on Ithilien,” the king said.

Faramir blinked and dragged his eyes away from the tempting lips, as he finally caught what was being was said. The Ithilien report, of course, he thought. His fingers were trembling, he realised and clasped his hands together under the table. He shouldn’t react like this, he chided himself; he had expected it. He knew he had been wrong to come in with any other expectation. That one night in Ithilien must have been a strange night, perhaps a result of the air or perhaps… he felt himself tremble a little.

The king continued speaking, “And I spoke to Denethor of it as well. But since we travelled together I thought I may as well discuss it with you directly.”

Faramir clasped his hands tighter. He felt his neck and face heating up, as he stared at the notes the king was going through. The maps he’d marked out were there too. He had made the changes Denethor had suggested. But he’d also left in his additional notes, the ones that Denethor had raged at him over – the details on the soil consistency, the tree cover density and the river width and current with the relevant maps; aspects that he thought could come in useful when the work on roads and bridges would start. He wondered if he should say something about that – explain why he’d added in all those details, but his voice seemed to be caught in his throat.

“It is very well done,” the king said.

Faramir blinked again.

“There is much in it that I think will be very useful when we begin the resettlement.”

“Oh,” Faramir managed to say and then winced as he realised how shrill his voice sounded in its nervousness. His confused and tired mind was still trying to process the fact that he was not being criticised for those details after all.

The king looked up, a gentle and warm smile playing across his face. Faramir flushed, and bit his lip.

“I wondered if you could help further there,” Elessar said, “I have some of the other reports from the journey here. And I think it would be useful if you could go through them. You might have some more inputs on the suggestions that are given.”

“Y-yes, certainly,” Faramir said, a little surprised. It was not often that he was asked for suggestions, and in the last few months, almost never.

“There is this section for example,” the king said, reaching out for another set of papers, “There are some recommendations on aligning the construction to the troop requirements,” he passed across a few sheets to Faramir, “What do you think?”

Faramir took the papers. There was a map attached. He was familiar with the area marked out. He sat back a little and started reading.

Aragorn watched the younger man sitting across him, reading the sheet diligently, his forehead furrowing as he kept glancing at the map for reference. He wondered why he’d seemed so tense earlier. His thoughts wandered back to the conversation he’d had with Denethor the previous day on these reports.

“I have been going through Faramir’s report on Ithilien,” he had started, when they had sat down over wine after the council meeting, “And I must say I’m quite surprised.”

Denethor had sighed, “I expect it is not quite up to the mark. Forgive me. I have told him what is needed. But you know how he is. He is increasingly becoming shoddy in his work and insolent and disrespectful in his behaviour!
I would much rather go by Ardahil’s report. It is likely to be far more useful and precise. You know I felt Faramir would be of little use on your journey.”

Aragorn had been struck by the vehemence of the steward’s remarks. He had some idea by now that Denethor and Faramir had a somewhat strained relationship. But the near contempt in Denethor’s tone left him a little shocked.
He started to allay the older man’s concerns and assure him that Faramir had in fact given a very good report.

But Denethor had continued, “I shall speak to him again. However, I expect little improvement.”

“Oh no!” Aragorn managed to interpose, “No, indeed. There is no need to fear… I meant to tell you that the report is quite good, and I feel it would be extremely useful to resettlement council.”

“Oh!” Denethor said the surprise evident on his face, “That is good to hear.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as he studied the goblet in his hand.

“You are worried about him” Aragorn said gently, as he took in the Steward’s slumped posture.

Denethor started, and then spoken slowly. “Forgive me for speaking so. It is merely that… well… were Boromir here, he would have been such a great help.
And for Andreth too. He needs someone younger than I. But Faramir is lost in his own devices all the time.”

Aragorn had nodded understandingly.

He wondered a little about the Steward’s family as he watched Faramir place the papers on the table. But he knew too that it often took families months to recover from loss and grieving.

“Well?” he asked.

Faramir looked a little nervous, “It’s a very good report,” he said, “And a very sound suggestion.”

Aragorn waited. Faramir shifted uncomfortably and bit his lip again. And then spoke rather hesitantly.

“I – I think though, perhaps… the road route suggested here… it is excellent of course. Very strategic. And useful for the traders as well.”

He paused and glanced up.

The king nodded to him to continue.

“The valley here,” he said hurriedly, “It is prone to flooding, we would need to keep it at a higher level. And – and the bridge suggested on this stream here, perhaps we could move it a little further downstream where it diverges… it is safer and not too much of a detour…”

“That is an excellent thought,” Aragorn said approvingly. Faramir’s eyes darted towards him,, and the king was struck by the mix of surprise and gratification that he could see on the younger man’s face.

“The resettlement committee convenes in a fortnight,” Aragorn said, “And I would like for them to have a very clear idea of what is needed and the expenditure this will demand. Would you be willing to assist me in keeping that ready for them. I’m afraid it will mean a lot of work, and I shall need a lot of your time –”

“Y-yes,” Faramir interrupted, and winced inwardly as he realised what an inadequate reply he was going. He felt a fluttering sensation in his chest as the words rang in his ears… assisting the king… a lot of his time…

“I – I mean, I would be honoured, Sire,” he said softly.

“Excellent,” Aragorn said approvingly, and rose, “I must get ready for the council now. Can we begin from this afternoon, once the council is over?”

“Yes,” Faramir said again, rising hastily with the king, trying not to let the excitement show in his voice. Today after the council, he would be the one with the king.

“I am most grateful to you for this Faramir,” Aragorn said, “I know you have other duties, but I feel with all your experience in Ithilien, you are the best person to aid me in this.”

“I am honoured,” Faramir repeated as he left.

He walked out of the king’s study, down the long corridor that would lead him to the meeting, feeling rather lightheaded but happy. He couldn’t wait for the evening. The council that day seemed to him to drag on interminably, but he bore up with it, ignoring the customary bickering and a few barbs thrown his way by Denethor and some of the others.

He joined the king in his study after a late noon meal. Elessar sat sprawled on a large chair reading through a sheaf of papers when he entered. He looked up and smiled, waving Faramir to a chair nearby.

Faramir stiffened as the king leaned close to him and explained what needed to be done, his gentle, clear voice sounding musical to Faramir’s ears. He could smell the mixed fragrances of heather, pipeweed and musk; they seemed to travel straight through his nose to his groin. And the long fingers that ran over the written sheets and traced points on the map – he wished they would trace such lines on his bare skin instead.

Biting his lip he tried to clear his mind of such thoughts and so he could concentrate on what he was to do. It was difficult but he realised soon that the king really cared that the committee should get accurate and detailed information. His own love for Ithilien came to the fore and he quickly picked up what was required. They worked through the afternoon, referencing maps and notes; jotting down points that Faramir thought might find mention in older records or journals. For the most part they worked in a quiet, comfortable silence.

As the late afternoon light dimmed, the servants came in with a pitcher of wine and a basket of fruits, and lit the lanterns and the fire in the grate.
After they left, Elessar rose and stretched, bending his tall, lean muscles back.

“It is getting cold,” he remarked, “Come join me for some warm wine by the grate.”

Faramir obeyed and took the proffered goblet of wine. He tried not to remember the last occasion they had had wine by the firelight. The liquor still tasted acrid in his mouth and he still found it unpleasant but said nothing.

“I am glad we have accomplished so much today,” the king said pleasantly, “I think we might finish with this well before I thought we could. Merely a few days more perhaps. Your help has been invaluable!”

A few more days, Faramir thought bleakly. “You are very kind,” he said softly.

Looking up at the king, he thought he looked even more beautiful in the lamplight, his sun-bronzed skin gleaming a golden hue, the grey eyes glittering tawny and enchanting. The king had removed his ceremonial robes, and wore only his tunic and trousers. He had undone the topmost bindings of the tunic as he stood in front of the fire. Faramir stared at the small portion of golden skin visible under the dark blue fabric.

He would like to lick that, he thought dreamily, and sipped some more of the wine.

A few more days, he thought again… the king had not been displeased the last time… perhaps…

He moved forward swiftly, towards Elessar, rising on his toes, bringing his lips to the king’s. He felt his lips brush the king’s jaw, coarse bristles imparting a tingling sensation, instead of the soft lips and the wet heat of the mouth he had sought.

And then he realised that the king had moved, and was even now moving back, his hands stretched forward to hold Faramir back.

He stared up in shock, his lips still pursed. Elessar was staring at him, his expression strangely inscrutable, his palms resting on Faramir’s shoulders.

Whatever had he done!

“F-forgive me,” he gasped out.

“No,” Elessar said moving forward, “There is nothing to forgive.”

“I thought – you said – I hoped,” Faramir continued babbling, unsure of what to say. He’d hoped after their night in Ithilien that this action would not be seen as untoward. Forward perhaps, but surely not unpleasant? And yet there was nothing in the king’s face to indicate that he welcomed this move.
He found himself gasping softly for breath. His hands flew to his face as shame flooded through him.

“Forgive me,” he repeated, “I should not have. It will not be remiss of you to declare me unwelcome in your presence. I shall leave now,” he continued blurting out the words, through the cover of his hands.

“Faramir! Hush!”

Elessar grasped Faramir’s hands, pulling them away. “Look at me,” he commanded.

Faramir raised his downcast eyes. The king’s grey eyes seemed warm and friendly, his expression bemused rather than angry. His touch on Faramir’s wrists was warm and soothing as ever.

“You startled me, that is all,” he said gently.

“Oh.”

“Your touch was not – unwelcome.”

“I hoped we could … continue … w-what we started at Ithilien,” Faramir stammered, wincing at his sudden shyness.

“As did I,” the king responded agreeably, “And I am most glad to find you of similar mind, even after a fortnight and more. I hoped your passion had not been for just that night, ignited merely by closeness.”

“We will … lie together again then?” Faramir blushed as he spoke. Matters of the bedchamber were not meant to be discussed in a study!

“I see no reason why we should not. I should be most glad of the opportunity to enjoy more trysts with you. Especially now that our work has lightened and Arwen too is away.”

Faramir tried not to let any expression show on his face at that last line.
He had been with other betrothed men, a substitute for their absent companions, a few hurried couplings under the cover of a private tent or even a few bushes.

He would willingly lie with Elessar again, even if only this once. He swallowed visibly and leaned forward again.

Elessar’s hands tightened around his wrists, and he pulled him closer. He ran his gaze over the younger man’s slender frame, before releasing his hands.

Faramir reached for the king’s tunics to open the bindings… he wanted so much to run his hands over the bare patch of skin. Elessar gently tugged his hands downwards however to the waistband of his pants.

“Touch me,” he said quietly.

Faramir immediately knelt down, excitement coursing through him. He undid the bindings, fumbling in his hurry. He could see the swell of the fabric between the king’s legs. Finally the ties came undone. He pulled the pants down, revealing the swollen length nestled in a thick patch of black curls.

He reached for the hardening length, looking closely at it; it had been too dark the other night. The king was large, endowed with length and girth both, and Faramir felt his own arousal stiffen some more as he wrapped his fingers around the thickness. It seemed near impossible that he had had this inside him merely weeks ago! It was no wonder he had felt so completely filled, he thought, pleasure tingling through his body at the memory.

He ran his fingers over the entire length, stroking, pressing down his knuckles gently, lightly raking his nails on the soft folds of skin. Some of his other bedmates had liked that, he remembered.

The king too seemed to like it, for he let out a soft sound. His eyes were closed and he had put a hand out onto the mantelpiece of the hearth for balance.
“Perhaps we should move to the bedchamber,” he mumbled.

Tiny, beads of semen glistened at the tip of his penis. Faramir swiped one with his finger and licked it. Elessar let out a louder noise this time.

“That is not needed. We could use the table,” Faramir suggested, and then blushed as the king let out a strange sound, much like a strangled moan.

“I should like that I think,” the king replied in a hoarse voice in response to Faramir’s look of inquiry, “I should like very much to see you bent over the table… . it will be worth tidying it just for that… what a shock people would have when they walk in…”

Faramir blushed even deeper then, shocked at the word. He was about to protest saying that Aragorn could surely not mean he would let anyone see them, when a loud gong sounded through the citadel. He jumped slightly, his hands loosening from around the king’s shaft.

“Don’ t worry… that is just to warn us that dinner will be ready in a half hour,” Elessar said smiling, “Oh! … Oh dear!”

Faramir let go and rose as he heard the note of desperation in the king’s voice.

“Sire,” he said anxiously, “Is aught the matter?”

“Nay, I forgot,” Elessar groaned, and pulled up his pants, “I am promised to dinner tonight with some of the council. Your father will be reaching my rooms shortly, to accompany me to the dining chamber.”

“Oh,” Faramir said rather bleakly, and then composed his features again, “P-perhaps we can continue later.”

“Not tonight,” Elessar grunted, “Iriel is there and he can talk till the sun rises tomorrow!” He looked down pointedly at his lower body, his erect shaft clearly outlined against the fabric of the loosened pants. He sighed and moved, not without difficulty, “I’ll go take care of that in my chambers. It will delay me, but that is all right I suppose. I shall see you tomorrow Faramir.”

“P-perhaps, I could help take care of that?” Faramir suggested.

Elessar frowned.

“We do not have the time.”

“It will take less time, if I do it for you with – with my mouth,” Faramir mumbled, wondering if the wine had gone to his head. He had never spoken before of these things, even the technique of what to do.

He got down to his knees again swiftly and reached for the king’s erection, gently tugging it out of his trousers and wrapping his fingers around it.

Aragorn moaned as his swollen, painful shaft was freed, and then again as it was grasped in the same gentle but knowing grip. Faramir’s fingers moved skilfully up and down, more rapidly this time and Aragorn found himself slipping into a blissfully happy state.

Faramir stared almost dreamily at the king’s shaft hardening under the ministrations of his fingers. He bent his head closer and stuck out his tongue.

A wet sensation at the tip of his aching arousal had Aragorn thrusting up eagerly. The younger man’s tongue played on his tip, dipping into him, inching through the tiny slit, seemingly licking him inside! And then the tongue withdrew but the mouth opened wider to take him in; pink lips went further and further down, even as the fingers and nails continued running over his length, slipping down to play with his balls, gently scratching the tender skin that led to his hole. .

Faramir continued to suck at the king’s substantial erection. It had been many months since he had done this with another man, and he found it a little difficult at first as the hardness filled his mouth. His jaw and throat hurt as his mouth stretched to accommodate the girth and length, but he soon found himself responding with practised ease. He took a deep breath and continued working his tongue down the thick shaft, humming softly as it hit the back of his throat.

Aragorn stretched his legs further apart, and leaned back against the wall, placing his palms against the wall behind him for support. He watched Faramir’s bowed frame through lidded eyes, as he took him in completely the convulsive motions of the younger man’s throat arousing him even more. He gazed dreamily at the dark head, the beads of sweat on the pale forehead, the sharply defined nose brushing the curly tendrils of hair. His sharp ears took in the soft moans emanating from Faramir’s throat, it enticed him to know that he was the cause of that seductive sound,

He felt the tightness in his groin, and knew he should warn Faramir.

“You can pull out,” he grunted, “I’m going to –”

Faramir’s mouth seemed to clamp down harder around him, sheathing him completely. He felt himself release. Waves of pleasure continued to course through him as he realised Faramir was not moving away, continuing to suck at him.

Some minutes later, Aragorn sat back on the floor, his tunic in disarray and his pants lying loosely at his groin, his shaft limp and limbs loose.
Faramir rose unsteadily, and gave him an uncertain smile. Aragorn glanced at the younger man’s face. A sheen of sweat coated the pale forehead, and the grey eyes seemed glassy. White fluid trickled out of his mouth, and flecks of white coated his hair, face, tunic, neck and throat, sending a strange thrill through Aragorn’s body. Faramir had swallowed most of his release!

“You were right,” Aragorn murmured, “That was quick. But most satisfying.”

He had been with other men, but never had he experienced such a swift yet completely fulfilling and intense encounter. Faramir had had much practice, he thought suddenly. It was well known, although he had noticed not much mentioned, that the younger man had little interest in women. The soldiers he had lain with earlier, even Boromir, so close to him and loved greatly by him, sought little but a temporary relief, and they just as himself, would have sufficed with a few licks and their hands.

His gaze strayed downwards to Faramir’s groin, and the evident strain there.

“Thank you,” the younger man was saying. Aragorn moved forward slowly, forcing his reluctantly loose limbs to action , although he felt quite wonderful, and swiftly grasped Faramir’s arm.

Faramir gasped at the touch. The smell of heather, pipewood and musk intermingled with sex filled his nose. Elessar’s lips were close to his and he craved their feel. But his face was soaked with sweat, he knew and soiled.

He gasped again as the king reached for his pants.

“Let me help you,” Elessar said roughly in his ear. He thrust his hand through the loosened waistband, and grasped the thickness.

He nodded mutely, desperately and pushed into the touch of the long and elegant fingers, still marked by the roughness of constant sword handling.

Aragorn didn’t suppose he could move as elegantly as Faramir had done. His fingers had merely curled around the hardness, however, when Faramir let out a keening sound and released himself. He felt the warm sticky fluid spurt on to his hand, and looked up in surprise. That hadn’t taken much effort, he thought wryly.

Faramir evidently thought so too for his face turned a dull red and he mumbled a soft apology..

“Well,” Aragorn said, as he quickly washed up in the antechamber adjoining his study, “That was – nice.” He had decided to wash up and change here, and encouraged Faramir to do the same.

“Thank you,” he added after a pause. He felt quite wonderful and energised, “Perhaps… the next time we could indeed bend you over my table.”

Faramir blushed again, as he quietly wiped at his own face and chest with a wet cloth. He turned away from the king to wipe his groin and Aragorn found himself smirking in amusement. Surely Faramir realised he had seen all there was to be seen of him! And that even now his pants had slipped low enough to provide him an enticing view of his buttocks. The sight brought back the memory of their night in Ithilien and he couldn’t help but remember the tight heat of the younger man’s channel around his shaft.

“Or we could use my bedchambers,” he murmured.

“Oh no!” Faramir said, quite horrified, turning around, and clutching at the wet towel and his pants to keep them up.

“No?” Aragorn queried, in muffled accents as he pulled off his tunic. He rubbed his torso briskly and watched with satisfaction as Faramir stared at his bare chest with obvious interest. He deliberately slowed down his movements teasingly.

“The servants know the queen is away!” Faramir said in horrified accents, trying not to get distracted by the sight of the king’s fingers resting over his nipple. Desperately he burst out, “They would know you had someone else there!”

“Surely I am allowed a paramour or two too,” Aragorn said in a tone of mock injury.

It was a little vicious of him, he supposed but he found Gondor highly prudish, and Faramir for such a young man seemed to be full of the most ridiculous notions of propriety. He had pulled on his pants properly now, and much to Aragorn’s bemusement, was checking over the study to see if there were any signs of their coupling, wiping away the specks of white fluid on the floor where they had been standing.

“I know for one Lord Iriel has at least three ladies who favour him with their attentions!” Aragorn called out as he picked up a fresh tunic from the wardrobe in his study.

“Well, perhaps,” Faramir conceded, wiping at the spots on the wall.

“Do you not think they would find it acceptable if they were to know you had lain with me?”

“Oh no!” Faramir said. His voice turned a little shrill and he began to wring the wet cloth in his hands as he continued a little desperately, “And you must never mention this to anyone. It is not approved in Gondor for men to sleep with other men.”

“But that’s silly. I know of many men here who sleep with other men.”

“Yes, but –”

Faramir had meant to say it was merely for pleasure, as a flirtatious interlude… but he realised just in time that this could be no more than that for the king. Whatever his feelings were, and he was terrified at the thought of delving deeper into those, he was well aware that they would be unreciprocated by a king who was happily married to a beautiful elven lady and had fathered with her a delightful child. And, added his persistently painful mind, had declared not so long ago that he had been uncommonly fond of Boromir.

“But it is still frowned upon,” he responded lamely, “And they do not talk of such things publicly.”

There would be no long relaxing trysts here filled with the tender lovemaking he had read of in books. This would be an affair like all his others, full of short, quick, furtive meetings in obscure hidden corners.

“I see,” the king responded slowly.

“If we are to have another tryst,” he plunged on desperately, trying not to let it out that this was the foremost question in his head, “We should be careful, the servants do not get to know what we do.”

“Very well,” Elessar said calmly, “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon then. The servants have instructions never to enter the study without my leave, so we will not be interrupted. I look forward to continuing what we have started… or rather started again!”

Chapter 10

Note: This is much delayed, years really. I’m truly, truly sorry. I was stuck, and distracted by RL, and a fic that had a similar theme, and couldn’t get myself unstuck. Thank you all ever so much for reading on! You’ve all been so lovely and supportive. big, huge hugs I hope to somehow trundle to a finish soon

Faramir spent a pleasant evening after that. He supped alone, as Andreth had accompanied Denethor to dinner at the king’s chambers. After eating, he sat by the fire in his room a while. He’d changed into his nightshirt but wasn’t ready to sleep yet.

The king was everything he had thought him to be, everything he dreamed of. If only the council dinner had not been planned; they could have perhaps spent more time together.

He quelled the uneasy thought of how differently Elessar viewed their…situation. To the king, it would be no more than a tryst. He must also think of it as no more. After all, he reminded himself, Elessar was king, and a married man. Besides, while Faramir lived in Minas Tirith, he could expect naught else from any other man. Even if Elessar was unlike any other man Faramir had known.

He felt his breath quicken as his thoughts wandered back to all that had transpired in the king’s study. He stared down at his hands, remembering how they had looked wrapped around the large, engorged penis. He felt a warm flush cover his face and throat as he thought of how beautiful it had looked and how firm it felt. And he remembered too the touch of Elessar’s fingers on his erection. He found himself hardening at just the thought of those long fingers, the skin rough with calluses that had scraped against his sensitive skin and sent tingles along his back. He wondered how they would feel on his nipples. He undid his tunic and slid his fingers over the small brown nub on the left side of his chest, pinching lightly, as he often did when seeking to pleasure himself. Now though, his fingers felt very different, short and stubby and unexciting. He scraped a nail in circular motions over the tiny surface trying to simulate the rough sensation of Elessar’s fingers. He watched the small mound peak and sighed pleasurably as his penis twitched. He moved on to his right nipple, and then raked his nails down over his lower belly down to his hardening shaft. He came quietly spilling into his fingers, blushing a little as he realised that he’d had managed to release again so soon after his encounter with Elessar.

He cleaned himself and lay in bed, feeling much more relaxed and pleased than he had in many nights now. When he slept that night he dreamt of the king’s bed and of himself lying in it completely naked, silk sheets soft against his bare skin while Elessar made love to him, slowly and pleasurably, all night long, all the way from sundown till sunrise.

Faramir woke the next morning feeling strangely elated, even though his sheets were damp and sticky. His dreams had left him with a pleasant buzz and full of a happy sensation. He found himself waiting eagerly for the afternoon. At breakfast he almost hummed. Denethor glared at him, but even that was not enough to quell Faramir’s happiness. He went through his arms practise diligently and his paperwork rapidly. He lunched alone, wolfing down bread and soup. He felt a little too excited to eat much.

“You did come. Good! Do you want some mulled wine?”

Elessar was actually waiting for him, Faramir realised and felt a thrill go through him, and almost squeaked a yes in response, blushing at the way his throat betrayed him. The king looked lovely as ever, his eyes bright and smiling, and he smelt of fresh mint and lavender soap.

“We need to look at the maps for South Ithilien,” Elessar said. And Faramir felt a cold ball of unhappiness settle in his stomach. He forced his gaping mouth to close as Elessar smiled pleasantly at him.

Aragorn grinned. He knew Faramir was anticipating their other activities this afternoon as much as he was. But he couldn’t help wanting to play this little prank when Faramir had walked in his expression so full of restrained anticipation and that light blush that went all the way down his neck. He held out the goblet of warm wine.

Faramir looked so confused right now. As he took the goblet. He even seemed to have paled a little. And the effort he was making to regain his composure and bring back that sedate sober look, made him look more like a stuffed frog than anything else. Oh dear, Aragorn thought, he was spending too much time with foster brothers. Poor Faramir. The younger man stood in front of him, straight-backed and formal now.

“Of course, sire,” he said, his voice just slightly higher pitched.

“After we finish with what we began yesterday, of course,” Aragorn said, finally taking pity on the other man.

It took Faramir a few seconds to register what he said, and even then he seemed a little unsure. The blush returned, redder than earlier. He made to step forward and then paused.

Faramir wasn’t really sure if he and the king were thinking of the same thing. He bit his lip. What is the king was still talking of maps? They had after all been through maps yesterday as well, before… he swallowed uncertainly.

“Come,” the king said cheerfully and grasped his arm. “I’ve had the smaller chamber prepared for us. So you needn’t fear interruptions.”

Faramir stared at the king’s smiling face. A part of his body proclaimed that that beautiful, wide smile made the king look far, far more handsome, and those lips on Faramir’s would probably reduce him to a quivering mess. The other part was still desperately trying to process what the king wanted.

Aragorn finally decided to resolve the confusion.

“You don’t mind if we leave the maps for later, do you?” he asked and reaching cupped Faramir’s buttock through his pants. The younger man blushed again. “And fuck instead,” Aragorn deliberately used the word, knowing that the prude Gondorians frowned upon it. Faramir blushed even deeper.

“N-no,” Faramir said, realising finally that the king had just been having a little fun, “I mean – I don’t mind.” He thought he must clarify the point, just in case.

Elessar pulled Faramir into the small private chamber adjoining the study, his fingers clasped tight around Faramir’s arm. The fireplace had been made up, a large cushioned chair had been pulled in front of it, and rugs and cushions had been piled up on the floor. He nudged Faramir towards the rugs. A bottle of scented lebethron oil lay on a table beside, alongside a jug filled with more mulled wine. They placed their goblets near it. Through the open window the scent of wild roses floated in.

“I – I could – any time you -,” Faramir found himself stammering and then felt the words dry up as Elessar removed his heavy ceremonial robes. He wore a thin tunic under it, and Faramir felt his mouth go dry as he noticed the outlines of the king’s well-muscled torso under it. His nipples were brown and a line of dark hair ran down to his navel. Faramir wanted to rip that tunic off and run his tongue all over the solid flesh.

“We should have done this last night,” Elessar murmured as he knelt on the rugs and undid the bindings on his pants, “I was so distracted all through dinner, just wishing I hadn’t had to be there!”

And he had. He’d found his thoughts constantly dwelling on the visions of Faramir’s mouth wrapped around him, the sensation of being so completely pleasured, for there was no other way to described how he felt after that. He’d had to force himself to not think of how it might feel to have Faramir’s tightness encased around him again. That night in Ithilien seemed so long ago now!

“Oh?” Faramir said, his own fingers fumbling with the ties of his pants. He managed to lower them though, his eyes distractedly wandering all over Elessar’s beautiful body instead. He had still kept his tunic on and just lowered his trousers, his semi-erect penis jutting out.

“Yes, I wished we’d continued,” Elessar said, his voice hoarse as he poured some scented oil over his hands, and took his shaft in his hands, “I – wished I’d been inside you,” he said, and felt almost surprised at such an open admission.

Faramir blinked and moved forward, almost tripping over his lowered pants. Stepping out of them he scrambled forward.

“L-let me,” he said aching to feel that hardness on his fingers in his mouth, deep inside him. He quickly coated his fingers with the oil, and ran his hands lightly and hurriedly over the king’s shaft feeling it harden rapidly as he kneaded it gently, Elessar moaning appreciatively along, his strong thighs trembling just slightly, and his oil slicked hands gripping the rugs behind him. Faramir wished those hands were touching him instead.

“I – desired that too,” Faramir said, feeling himself redden further, as he recollected his dreams, and the way in those dream the king had taken him again and again, gently and lovingly on silken sheets, his fingers and mouth covering every inch of Faramir’s body outside while he filled him completely inside, leaving him completely undone.

Elessar was completely erect now, his long thick shaft glistening golden in the light of the later afternoon soon and the flickering flames in the fireplace. Drops of semen glistened at the tip. Faramir stared at it and swallowed. His groin and nipples felt tight. His shaft was half-hard, bumping against his thigh.

“You have the cleverest fingers,” Elessar murmured, as Faramir slid his fingers off, and sat back. He wanted to remove his tunic and feel Elessar’s hands on him.

Elessar gently nudged him down, turning him over onto his stomach on a cushion so that Faramir’s rear was raised.

Aragorn stared down at the younger man lying sprawled on the rugs below him. He had taken his pants off completely. His legs were pale from too much time spent inside and on the skinny side, the muscle tone still not returned after his convalescence. He wore a blue tunic that ended just over his rear. Aragorn pushed it up revealing the pale, rounded globes. He rested his sun browned hands against their softness. As his hands cupped Faramir’s buttocks, the younger man moaned, sounding almost relieved and immediately parted his legs.

“Pl-please,” Faramir mumbled as he felt Elessar’s hands slide between his buttocks. The rugs were rough under his knees and hands.

“Please what?” the king sounded a little amused though hoarse. His fingers were still hovering between the rounded cheeks, not dipping further inside

“In – in me,” Faramir said, shocked at how crude he might be sounding, but his groin ached at the thought of the king’s erect shaft so close by. He made to move, but the king placed a hand on the small of his back and he almost whined.

Aragorn nudged Faramir’s buttocks apart, exposing the tiny entrance and slid a finger in. The younger man was so tight, and he couldn’t wait to feel that tightness around his full shaft. Faramir gasped softly and twitched a bit as he adjusted to the intrusion. Aragorn slid another finger inside and stretched.

The king’s finger slid inside, stretching Faramir. It stung, and a little of the tightness in Faramir’s stomach went away. Another slender digit slid in, scissoring through his tight passage. He shifted trying to accommodate them, wishing the king had used a little more oil on his fingers. And then suddenly a probing finger bent slightly and brushed him deep inside and he forgot everything as he let out a guttural sound. His groin tightened again, and he moaned desperately.

“Faramir?” Elessar stilled, his tone questioning as Faramir grasped at the rug.

“M-more, please?” Faramir almost begged.

The fingers slid out, leaving him feeling empty, and then to his relief, he felt the wet tip of Elessar’s shaft against his entrance.

Aragorn pushed in eagerly grasping the younger man’s hips. Faramir moaned aloud as his passage was filled. Aragorn smiled. The younger man wasn’t exactly quiet, and some of his sounds were quite odd, like the strange grunt he let out now.

The king’s fingers dug into the soft skin above his hips, and Faramir let out a garbled sound as he gave into the whirl of sensations all around him. The large shaft inside him, thrusting closer and closer to that tingling place inside him, the oil softened fingers digging into his soft flesh, his own hard penis pressing into the cushion under him. The silken threads embroidered in some floral pattern that Faramir had barely noticed brushed against his sensitised skin. The rough texture of his tunic shifted against his chest as he moved with Elessar’s regular rapid thrusts. He slid a hand under his body and moved his tunic up, tugging the bindings open, and sliding forward so that the rough wool of the rugs came into contact with his partly bared torso. He felt something catch against his left nipple scraping the peaked mound and let out another whimper. He scraped his nails over his other nipple roughly, and dragged his hand down to his aching shaft.

And then as Elessar thrust in deeper, hitting him at just the right spot and for a while all Faramir could feel an overwhelming sense of pleasure. He tightened himself around the king. Elessar let out a surprised grunt, a sound so erotic that Faramir thought he could come just from that. And then his passage filled with the hot, sticky spurts of Elessar’s release. Faramir tugged at his aching shaft and felt his own release spill onto the cushion and his fingers.

Aragorn took a deep breath and slumped down over Faramir as his shaft finally went limp, still inside the younger man’s passage. Faramir sighed. Aragorn shifted, pulling out of him. Faramir let out a soft, sighing sound. Aragorn sat up, and stared bemusedly at the younger man, with the legs spread apart, streaked with trails of white stickiness that trickled out of him onto the cushions and rugs. His tunic had ridden up revealing his lower back and the sharp bones of hips as he shifted.

The younger man turned slowly over onto his back. His face glistened with sweat, his eyes were half-lidded and his hair in disarray. His tunic had come half undone revealing his thin chest, as pale as the rest of his body but marked with pink indentations from the rug. One streak extended to his nipple, a small brown mound. Aragorn realised a little guiltily that he’d forgotten about the younger man’s pleasure but clearly Faramir had taken care of himself. His lower belly and the front of his thighs were streaked with his own release; his spent shaft lay limply against his thigh.

Aragorn rose slowly, and tied up his pants. He picked up the wine goblets and poured out some wine for both of them. It was still warm, he noted with surprise. The sun was still high outside. He hadn’t realised how quickly they were done.

Faramir was rising now, slowly and unsteadily. He looked a little dazed but pleased. He bent to pick up his trousers, giving Aragorn a delightful view of his rear. Much as Aragorn expected, Faramir wanted to wash up before joining him for wine. He came back, looking damp, but much happier than Aragorn had seen him in a long time.

They finished the work on South Ithilien maps quickly. Aragorn sat back with a sigh of relief and pulled out his pipe.

“That’s all for today,” he said firmly.

“Tomorrow…” Faramir asked a little uncertainly. He hoped Elessar too had enjoyed their coupling today.

“Tomorrow, the council meets after the noon meal. We will not have time to meet on Ithilien,” Aragorn said thoughtfully.

“Oh,” Faramir said, and tried not to let his disappointment show. Of course, they could not meet each day and lie together each day. He needed to remember, this was no more than a mere diversion for the king.

“But we could meet after the council meeting,” Elessar suggested, smiling at Faramir.

“Oh,” Faramir said.

“Just to fuck,” Elessar said grinning, and Faramir reddened, “And then you could stay for supper. It will help you build an appetite perhaps.”

Faramir wished the king would ask him to stay back today, so they could – lie together again. His rear felt a little sore, but the thought of lying with the king, being – in his word, fucked – by him again thrilled him nevertheless.

“And since there are no maps, we could use the table,” he said trying to contain his embarrassing flush.

Elessar raised an eyebrow at that, “I should like that,” he said, “If the council gets too boring tomorrow, perhaps I will think of that – fucking you while you lean over the table. Perhaps you could wear your robes tomorrow. Just the robes. It might make our work easier.”

Faramir let out a slight squeak at that.

“Rest well,” Elessar said softly, when he was leaving, “You look tired.”

“But it is a nice tiredness,” Faramir told him, though he had to bite back a yawn. He supped in his chambers and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

As it turned out quite unfortunately, the council meeting the next day was delayed due to Iriel’s late arrival, and then stretched late into the evening. Incursions were reported on the Rhunic borders and the matter needed much discussion. Aragorn strictly banished all thoughts of the younger man and got into the discussions.

Faramir had changed into his robes in the late afternoon, as he awaited a note from the king to come over. He’d had a bath using fragrant oils and scrubs so he too would smell as pleasant as Elessar did, when he wasn’t smoking pipeweed. And he’d taken some of the lavender oil onto his fingers and coated himself with it. He still felt a little sore and he’d realised that Elessar was unused to slower lovemaking. And then he’d reminded himself that they were not making love.

A note came later in the evening to say the council would stretch longer; they could meet later. The council stretched into supper. The lavender oil was beginning to feel sticky and Faramir felt more than a little odd in just the soft robes and nothing else.

He sighed as he read the second note that arrived just as Andreth informed the servants that Denethor would not arrive for supper.

Elessar regretted that they could not meet today.

Faramir changed out of his robes, cleansed the oil off him and joined Andreth for supper. It was a quiet awkward meal, as Faramir realised that he and the younger man barely had anything to converse of. He tried, asking politely about lessons, and receiving short, but equally polite responses.

Supper was over very quickly and both men retired early. Faramir wandered restlessly around the house for a while. After a while he returned to his rooms, and decided to read in bed instead, an old text from Anorien on political strategy. He could barely finish a page before he found himself rising.

He retrieved an old worn book from the depths of a trunk. He had been given the book once by a young Khandrim minstrel he had met in Pelargir. They had met when Faramir had used a few days’ furlough to visit the ruins of an old castle there. The minstrel had been comely, and charming, and had taught Faramir much, and not just Khandrim romantic poetry. The book itself was a collection of illustrated songs. Faramir had understood that they were romantic songs about male lovers but on later going through the poems and illustrations realised that they were of a more erotic and instructive nature. He had in the past often leafed through the book and wished he could have a lover whom he could practise some of the more exciting illustrations. He’d tried some, including one where he’d let himself be tied down. That had been interesting. He turned some more pages till he reached the illustration where the table was used. He ran his fingers over it.

He moved over to his table, and leaned against it. He pushed himself up so that he was sitting at the edge of the table. Moving further up, he raised his nightshirt and parted his legs, folding them so that his heels rested at the edge of the table, exposing his groin and buttocks. His hands rested behind him for balance. He imagined Elessar, standing between his legs, his hardened length pressing between his buttocks, his fingers playing with his sensitive fingers, his mouth dipping down to tongue at Faramir’s navel.

He felt his breath quicken. His groin tightened and involuntarily one hand moved to clutch his own hardness.

They tried the table two days later when the incursions had been curtailed, and Elessar was finally free to meet him. They’d spent an hour on the Ithilien work first though, the scribes needed the notes.

Elessar had made him lean over the table and lowered his trousers to his thighs. The carved edge of the table pressed against his bare belly. He had leant over it, and Elessar had entered him swiftly. They had come all over the table, and Faramir had been very glad they had removed all the papers from it.

It soon fell into a comfortable pattern. Faramir would join Elessar in the afternoon, they would work for a while, and then quickly spend some time in the smaller chamber. It would usually be quick and rushed coupling, with both men barely undoing their clothes.

He’d tried other things, but Elessar reacted largely with bemusement, and Faramir would be forced to recollect each time that the king much like other soldiers would see another man differently. He had explored the king’s chest once, with his hands but when he’d tried to use his mouth on the king’s nipples, the older man had moved away discomfited. And he didn’t seem to want to explore Faramir’s body either.

“I am unused to such intimacy with men,” he’d admitted, when Faramir had once undone his shirt and stammered out a request for Elessar to touch him.

Aragorn stared at Faramir’s brown nipples on his pale flat chest and thought of Arwen’s beautifully rounded pert breasts, and the pale pink nipples, just the colour of the wild roses outside their window, her flat, smooth stomach, and the round navel. He had spent hours exploring those with his hands and tongue. The curves moulded around his fingers perfectly, so unlike the awkward feel of sharp bone and muscle tones in a male frame.

Faramir therefore, fell in with Elessar’s pattern, willing to acquiesce to anything that gave him at least these few moments with the king. He found that that precious bit of time in a day when the king lay with him, left him far better suited to face the world than anything else did. With the thought of spending time with Elessar in his heart, he could tolerate Denethor’s increasingly frequent outburst, Andreth’s indifference, the rudeness and scorn of various councillors, and his own worries for himself.

It was some days later that Faramir realised the queen would be returning soon.

TBC…

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