Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Sixteen – Tales

“May I speak with you, Faramir? I… did not wish to disturb you, while you had company…”

He felt caught, soiled even, as though he had done something wrong. Colour rose in his cheeks even as his heart sank low in his breast. Yet he found his voice was steady when he spoke.

“Of course.” He evaluated Aragorn’s light clothing a second time. “Will you walk with me? You may borrow a cloak if you wish…” He glanced in the direction of an anonymous closet, containing a small amount of items he had no room for, or did not wish to store, in his chambers: heavy cloaks and coats for bad weather and boots that were usually too muddy to be carried far across polished floors.

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you.”

Grateful for any task that gave him something else to focus on, Faramir dug out two pairs of boots and two cloaks that he deemed clean enough. “If they do not fit…” He gestured at the boots uncertainly.

“They will do just fine.” Aragorn carefully pulled them on and indeed they seemed to fit, or he chose to silently endure.

Silence grew thick around them as they readied themselves and Faramir pushed open the door. “Please.”

They made for the woods, but Faramir consciously chose another path than the one Maelir had probably run down. All around them new shoots towered high above the undergrowth and though the days and nights were still chilly, the promise of spring was palpable in the air. Faramir tried to reach out, tried to connect, but he was too nervous to maintain any connection. Still their surroundings followed their every step in great anticipation. The path widened and Aragorn walked beside him; their pace was slow.

“He is your lover?”

Swallowing, Faramir kept his eyes trained on the ground. “He used to be… and was again, last night.”

“He is beautiful.”

“He is… unafraid.”

Aragorn suddenly stopped and this time Faramir was forced to meet his eyes, but he was utterly unprepared for the bottomless grief and self-disdain he saw there; he found that he could not look away, even if he had wanted to.

“Is that what you seek, Faramir?” Aragorn asked quietly.

He searched for words, for some kind of truth. The green leaves that framed Aragorn’s hooded form offered him nothing.

“It was,” he said at last, and his words slowly dispersed in the air. “I sought – I needed – someone who was not scared… Who knew what he desired and would not hide it.” He lost control, so completely. “I always had to,” he whispered. “I always had to.”

He did not know that he had closed his eyes until he felt Aragorn’s arms hesitantly encircling him. Faramir dared not lean against him but found some comfort in the simple embrace nonetheless. He blinked away tears that threatened to fall as it was not Aragorn’s task to heal his old wounds. After a little while, he pulled back, dropping his gaze once more.

“Faramir?” Aragorn made no attempt to touch him again. “Will you hear my story?”

Faramir nodded.

They continued down the path in silence. No birds sung and no wind shifted the newborn leaves and buds. There was only glittering green and daylight which mirrored itself in yesterday’s raindrops still clinging to the leaves.

“I saw her first among the trees in Imladris…” Aragorn’s voice was fragile as he began. “So great was her beauty that I came to believe that Lúthien herself had wandered back into the world. I was twenty, overwhelmed by the new knowledge of my true heritage, and I was suddenly certain that if my dark mission failed, then at least I had met with pure light before I died.” He paused.

“But we were destined to part before we had a chance to get to know each other. For many years, for me that was the deepest of sorrows… but for Arwen I think – now – that it was not so.”

They had come to a small grove and Faramir knew barely what he was doing as he sank down upon the grass beneath a tall oak. He paid little or no attention to the softness of the ground which suggested that it had not dried up completely. Aragorn followed him and pulled his cloak around himself as he too sat down.

With a sigh, he continued, staring out into nothingness. “Rarely did I return to Imladris, and Arwen dwelt for many years in Lothlórien with her kin… Celebrían was the daughter of Galadriel,” he added almost as an afterthought.

Faramir nodded and leaned against the trunk. “Yes,” he said quietly: it was the only word he could form. The unexpected pain at hearing Aragorn speak of the love he had for another – a woman at that, though maybe he ought not to be surprised – was sharp.

“The world was continuously darkening. I sought refuge in the memory of her beauty and the love I perceived in her, but it is only now that I fully understand that love. For it changed… it grew, and yet it diminished. We found solace in each other’s company and I did not notice then that passion turned into comfort.”

Faramir closed his eyes. Aragorn’s voice drifted around him and wove a tale that he had trouble integrating. It sounded to him like an old fairytale, and yet the knowledge that Aragorn was capable of such ardent love for another stung his heart.

“The threat of Sauron’s dominion lay heavy upon us. Arwen was so pure – she should never have been assailed thusly. Then one night we crossed invisible line we had drawn, and we lay with each other, both in desperate need of any sign of life and hope.” He sighed once more, deeper and longer this time. “And indeed we were gifted with life, though never had I… planned…”

Yet again he appeared at loss for words, but in his stead, Faramir spoke as realisation dawned on him.

“Eldarion,” he whispered.

“Aye…” The word was a mere breath. “And I knew not. Not until her pregnancy was well progressed and still I was needed elsewhere.”

He fell silent and no more was heard for many long minutes in the grove. At last, Aragorn resumed his tale.

“I have always failed him… I know him not, not truly. He is my own son but to him for many years I was but a stranger, coming and going with the wind and the seasons. Now I am a King.”

Faramir opened his eyes and leaned forward, suddenly filled with urgency. “Aragorn, you must speak with him. You must tell him you love him. For you do love him, do you not?”

The other man turned to him and there was a sharp gleam in his eyes, and for a split second he was the Sovereign of the Reunited Lands. “Of course I do! How could you think otherwise?”

Immediately shrinking back, Faramir dropped his gaze. “Forgive me, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”

But Aragorn reached out for him, placing a hand on his arm. “No, forgive me, Faramir… I know you meant only well. Forgive me.”

“I know what it is like to yearn for a father’s approval…” Faramir said quietly, not able to stop the words from welling forth. “Spare your son such pain if you can.”

Aragorn’s hand gently squeezed his arm. “Denethor…”

Nodding, Faramir drew a shaky breath. “Mithrandir always said he loved me. He never proved it.”

He sat perfectly still as the hand travelled along his arm until fingers gently pushed his chin upwards. Aragorn’s grey eyes were filled with compassion, but there was a hint of anger in them too.

“What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” he said, speaking truthfully. “He saw me not, rarely spoke to me – kindly, and would not trust me or respect me. He did nothing.”

He could not tell what Aragorn was thinking but in any case he was too tired to try very hard; it seemed to him years ago that he had woken with Maelir in his arms – the young man as restless and impulsive as a butterfly. Aragorn’s jaws were clenched and there was a furrow on his brow but he said nothing for a long time. Faramir was not entirely sure how it happened, but the fingers underneath his chin lay suddenly against his cheek and then they threaded through his hair even as his head fell against Aragorn’s shoulder. He gave up his awareness of the outside world, all of his memories, and for a while he knew nothing but the rise and fall of Aragorn’ chest.

When he stirred again, he was still being held.

“My love for her is never-ending, but it has changed. I love her differently now.”

And Faramir wondered why he was so desperate for that to be true.

The afternoon chill was seeping in through his layers of clothing and Faramir knew they ought to rise. Yet he felt oddly comfortable where he was despite all that Aragorn was, and all he was himself.

“We should return,” he mumbled against the woollen cloak.

Aragorn stroked his back and pulled him even closer. “Okay?”

Faramir felt another arm encircle him and he instinctively moulded against the body so close to him. “Yes.”

There was a soft kiss planted on his hair. Then Faramir somehow slid over his thigh as Aragorn parted his legs and so he came to sit between them, his cloak disturbing his movements but not making it impossible. He fell against the broad chest behind him and accepted the renewed embrace. Tentatively, lips brushed his temple and cheek bone.

“May I?”

Aragorn’s whisper slid through him and Faramir faintly nodded in reply. A shiver ran down his spine as feather light kisses melted into his skin and blended with his blood. He could sense the fatigue in his King’s body and yet he felt so strong and his hold so secure. It was so different from Maelir’s fleeting touch that the two men might belong to different worlds. Faramir could not withhold a tiny moan as a new series of kisses were left at his temple, teasing the sensitive skin.

“Mir?”

The word sounded distinctly foreign to his ears and the confusion brought him out of his pleasant state. Aragorn, however, did not release him even though he must have noticed how he grew tense.

“It is your name…” Aragorn said calmly and softly, and managed to almost hide his surprise at the reaction.

Uneasy, Faramir tried to push aside the tumult of emotions within. “I have never…” he began in a voice he did not recognise as his own. He did not know how to continue, though, so he fell silent, bent on quenching the small voice which childishly repeated that Boromir was the jewel.

Aragorn kissed his skin yet again but said no more and Faramir relaxed, eventually drifting off, his soul mingling with the surrounding woods, running free.

When they finally made it back to the house the sun was sinking in the west and the mist was rolling into the gardens.

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