Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Before we start I just want to thank you for reading this story. Judging by the feedback that I receive I have come to understand that for some this is not an easy tale to take part of. I am amazed by your insight and I am very grateful that you allow me to proceed slowly and explore that which is not found on the surface.

Chapter Nineteen – Memory

The afternoon was growing old when Faramir finally finished his work in the study. The rain was still beating down and the wind had picked up, shoving curtains of water against the walls of the house. He had found a stray quilt in a corner and wrapped it around his shivering form. The study was usually perfectly warm and comfortable, but today he felt chilled to the core.

Damrod had left after a while and Faramir could not have cared less whose boots or cloak he was wearing; the former Ranger’s pointed looks said more than any words of caution – or explicit warnings. Deep down he knew Damrod was only looking out for him, but he refused to listen. He was sure it scared them both though neither of them had said so out loud.

He sealed the last letter and put it atop the pile that had been growing steadily since after the noon meal of which Faramir, truthfully, remembered very little. It was foolish but he had somehow managed to convince himself that if he dealt with every little piece of correspondence that begged for his attention – if he finished off the export lists, if he checked Legolas’ suggestions for the fields south of Emyn Arnen and formed an opinion of his own, if he completed all the tasks he could think of – he was allowed to indulge his heart by seeing Aragorn later. If he made sure Ithilien was well cared for, he would have time to care for his own heart that, he feared, was too easily broken. Aragorn’s home was not his. It was pointless to imagine it could ever be otherwise. Even so, here Aragorn was, and he was not leaving yet. At least, the Steward was not informed of any such intentions.

He shrugged off the quilt and was about to rise when a soft knock on his door pushed him back down. At his call to enter, the door was opened and Aragorn himself was revealed in the humble torchlight filling the corridor.

“Am I disturbing you?”

Faramir shook his head and managed a smile through the pounding of his heart that rose in his ears. The older man had a pulled a thick woollen tunic over his shirt and in his hair gleamed a few drops of water.

“My lord, you did not venture outside I hope?”

Confusion spread over Aragorn’s face as he stepped inside. “No… not that I am aware of.” He closed the door almost soundlessly behind him. “Why do you ask?”

“Because…” Faramir waved awkwardly towards Aragorn’s hair, “there is water…”

The King’s gentle smile cast him completely off balance. “I washed, Faramir.” He lightly ran his fingers through his dark tresses. “Indoors.”

“Oh.” Some colour bloomed on the younger man’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Will you take a seat?”

Aragorn dropped into the chair opposite Faramir just like Damrod had done that morning. But there was nothing in him that reminded Faramir of his friend; as soon as Aragorn was seated, the smile was completely erased from his features, his shoulders dropped and his stance lost all hints of strength.

“There is something I feel I should tell you, something I perhaps should have told you earlier,” he said slowly, and after a pause he added, “You will be the first to know and I would appreciate it if you kept this knowledge to yourself.”

It was a situation too similar to the one all those years ago for Faramir to be entirely comfortable: rain was drenching the land and Aragorn was about to tell him something no one else was to know. Only this time it seemed like it was he, and he only, who would have a share in the information. An ominous feeling settled in his stomach but he could not refuse to listen so he gestured for the King to continue.

Aragorn briefly dropped his gaze to his hands that lay folded in his lap as he searched for words. Then he looked up once more. “You remember I told you that I have once before been with another man?”

Faramir was not likely to forget but he shoved aside the sting of jealousy for fear was rising in Aragorn’s eyes.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“It was…” momentarily at loss, the older man bit his lip, “just after I had been sent to ride with the Dúnedain. I was twenty, and shaken by the revelation of my true identity and I was in need of comfort. And so was he… apparently.” Aragorn ran a hand across his face as if the memories were too strong for him to maintain a distance to them. “He was much, much older… He had me one night although I had not given him leave…to…do it…”

Faramir sat up with more force than intended and the still open ink jar jumped. “He took you against your will?”

Aragorn spread his hands. “I did not say no… exactly.”

“He violated you?!” Faramir stared at the man across the desk. Any such deeds had never been performed by his Rangers as far as he knew. It made him sick to hear that Aragorn had once been the victim of that kind of terror.

“I…” Aragorn shook his head and a desperate light in his eyes replaced the fear. “I do not know, Faramir. I did not say yes, and I did not say no…” He leaned forward, a look of urgency about him. “Listen, it happened once and then never again. And he was no Ranger – I can see you are wondering. We were passing through a small village west of the Hithaeglir,¹ not too far from Imladris.”

“It does not make things better,” said Faramir with heat in his voice.

“A little better,” insisted Aragorn with a bleak smile ghosting across his lips. He sighed. “I was afraid… And when I came here and the dreams began, and I learned of your preferences, I realised I am afraid still.”

“I would never…” Faramir began but Aragorn raised a hand, begging him to stop.

“I know. I know you could never do such a thing.” The King held his gaze. “I am not telling you this to earn some pity, but because in spite of what happened I find myself attracted to you… Faramir. And I have confused you, and you deserve better than that.”

Sitting back in his chair, Faramir chose silence for a moment so that he might fully absorb the words. He was unsure of what to say, fearing that any acknowledgements would scare the other man away. For a little while the only sound heard was the unrelenting tapping of the rain against the window-glass.

“I would be lying,” he said finally and tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, “if I denied my attraction to you, sire.” He was about to swallow the rest of his confession but in the end he could not. “It is true I desire you, but… I seek not only company between the sheets…”

He was utterly unprepared for the softness that settled in Aragorn’s features and the older man spoke quietly but did not smile.

“I know not what I can give you, Faramir. What would you do with a King who not only lives in fear of many things but who also is a mere symbol and who would prefer to be like any ordinary man?” This was no jest. “If I had a choice, I would not return to the City.”

“What would you do, if you really could choose?” At the moment, he found it easier to pursue this topic rather than discuss his feelings or terrors of the past.

A small smile hovered in the corners of Aragorn’s mouth. “I would try my hand at farming maybe… Or drag dead branches through the woods… or whatever else you need help with here in Ithilien.”

His words, and perhaps also the soft – almost shy – way in which he spoke them too, held the power of prying Faramir’s heart wide open and the younger man let out a small laugh. “You would drag branches through the woods?”

“How else would you know what to burn when the time came?” Aragorn’s smile was deepening.

“And where would you live?”

Aragorn shrugged. “I could build myself a small hut somewhere… near some stream or another.”

Without really knowing what he was doing, Faramir pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. He rounded the desk and came to stand beside the other man. Looking down and meeting the grey gaze caused a tingle to speed through him. “You are welcome to come and go in my house as you please… Aragorn.”

Warm fingers tentatively wrapped around one of his hands.

“Thank you.”

Faramir smiled. “How can you be so warm?” He wanted more – wanted to pull Aragorn to his feet and hold him close, but he held still.

“I wear more clothes.” The King smiled back at him.

“Clever.”

“Occasionally…” Aragorn grew more sombre and he shook his head. “I have been far from wise concerning all of this, Faramir. I told myself at first that I could handle it – that mere dreams were not a threat to the… structures.” His voice took on a note of frustration. “You see, I have built myself a secure world… Not necessarily one that I enjoy but one that I know. But I was confused… I am confused still.” He gave a bitter laugh. “And afraid. What does that make me?”

Faramir tentatively ran his thumb over Aragorn’s knuckles. “Human?” he suggested quietly.

There was a flash of something more ancient than the past weeks’ disorder in Aragorn’s grey eyes. “I have spent my entire life being more than human,” he said and his voice shook slightly. “I do not know how to be only human.”

As he watched the warring emotions dance across Aragorn’s face, Faramir found nothing to say; words stuck in his throat and all he could do was to continue his stroking and hope it was soothing. And when Aragorn could hold it together no longer, he gathered him up in his arms as he cried.

Faramir was not entirely certain how they had ended up in his chambers but, nonetheless, here they were and he felt quite nervous about it. Aragorn was not the only one who had made sure his world was not easily disturbed. Faramir had sent for a light dinner and they had eaten in silence in the inner room that worked as a private library, a sitting-room and now as a dining hall. Maelir had been shocked to the core to learn that even this innermost sanctuary was just as tidy as the rest of the house. In an attempt to prove that ‘orderly’ was not equal to ‘boring’ Faramir had made love to him on the low sofa… The same one in which Aragorn was now seated.

The King had pushed his bowl aside but he had finished his meal, albeit without much visible enthusiasm. Faramir had trouble swallowing the last spoonfuls of soup as the silence grew so compact and heavy that his heart felt like a stone in his breast. The rain was still pounding against the window-glass and an occasional rumble from the skies heralded a dark and restless night.

On impulse, he set down his soup and moved from the chair to sit next to Aragorn on the sofa.

“This is not working,” he mumbled, more to himself than to the King but his words spun around them both for a moment or two nonetheless. He was scared to touch Aragorn, even more scared that he would never have the courage to do so and then it would all be over before he understood anything at all.

“There is not much I can tell you…” he began carefully. “I grew up in the shadow of my brother who was Gondor’s golden son, but for which he could not really be blamed – and in the even longer shadow of my father who would have beaten and whipped me had he learnt of my preferences. It became easier after I was sent to live with the Rangers… The threat of being found out diminished so far away from the City.”

He paused to glance as Aragorn’s face. It was expressionless and he sat staring into space almost as if not of word of Faramir’s touched him at all. Faramir picked up his courage again.

“You saved me from the shadows of Death and I respected you, and loved and feared you from that moment. You blessed me when you allowed me to take up residence here.” He let out an involuntary sigh. “I admit I looked forward to maybe one day fall in love and share… this…” He felt an urge to sweep his arm out in a wide circle but his hands lay lead like and heavy in his lap. “But it turned out it was not easily accomplished… Though I was no longer at court, I was still Steward and Prince and no longer some Ranger boy people could pretend they knew not the name of.”

His eyes fell on the soft, deep brown linen of the sofa. “Maelir’s appearance in my life was like an explosion. His energy and curiosity is hard-quenched, and…” he stole another glance at Aragorn’s face which still showed no emotion, “…hard to resist too. I needed his passion.”

For the first time in many long minutes Aragorn moved. He turned his grey gaze to Faramir. “And now?” His words were but a whisper.

Faramir shrugged. “Tomorrow he will love another.”

“It is that easy?”

‘No,’ he was about to say for things were never easy but Faramir was suddenly overcome by frustration at this exhibition of defeat, and he grasped the older man’s hands in his own. “Why could it not be?” He leaned forward a little. “We are free to love whomever we please, to satisfy our curiosity and see if that makes us happier. You are a free man, Aragorn.” His cheeks gained a little heat but he held his ground stubbornly. “You are bound by nothing else than your own fear.”

There was a ripple of surprise in the air but Faramir ignored it. A couple of candle flames flickered but that was all before an almost suffocating silence settled. Even though his hastily summoned courage quickly dwindled, Faramir found it impossible to let go of Aragorn’s hands.

Grey eyes met his, finally. “These words come easily to you, Faramir, and yet you raced out of my room like a rabbit at the sight of an arrowhead not a week ago.” Aragorn’s voice held a tinge of frostiness.

Faramir blinked, momentarily stunned by the reminder. His heart sunk low and his throat felt tighter. “I am sorry,” he whispered and his hands responded by falling open so that Aragorn could pull back from him.

But the King only raised one hand to his face and gentle fingertips traced his jaw line. “I do not think you have told me everything,” he said simply.

Something in his voice compelled Faramir to look straight into his eyes and the grey gleamed like shallow ponds in winter time. Faramir remembered Henneth Annûn on cold mornings, pools and puddles of water dotting the landscape after weeks of heavy raining… tributaries to the Anduin meandering through the woods. He was so lost in the shimmer that he did not notice how he drew closer little by little until his eyes closed, the grey was finally lost, and his lips brushed against Aragorn’s.

Maybe not…and yet, maybe you have…

The whispers grew confused in his mind as silken flesh met its counterpart. The first touch was soft and without pressure. His own lips slid against Aragorn’s and a shiver raced across his skin. As he pressed a little closer he registered the fullness of Aragorn’s lower lip and a swirl of warmth rose in his stomach. Fingertips caressed his cheek tentatively and he let out a long breath against Aragorn’s mouth. The rush of warmth coaxed the older man’s lips to part just a little and Faramir explored the opening with the very tip of his tongue, seeking the softness within.

Aragorn’s fingertips slid down his throat, causing Faramir’s skin to prickle and the fine hair on his neck to rise. Faramir’s hands lay motionless in Aragorn’s lap as he focused all of his attention on the kiss. As his tongue pushed cautiously into the King’s mouth, he strained to pick up any sign of unwillingness, half expected, even, to hear the other man protest, but he met with no resistance. Aragorn’s hands skimmed over his shoulders and then his shoulder blades. Faramir tasted the wet warmth and gently, gently slid his tongue alongside Aragorn’s as something even warmer blossomed in his chest. When fingers were buried in his hair, he pulled back a little and sucked on Aragorn’s lower lip but avoided to use his teeth to add to the sensation. He truly believed he could have stayed like this forever, had he not needed to breathe. With a last brush of his tongue against the soft flesh he ended the kiss.

Aragorn’s fingers were still tangled in his hair so they remained face to face. When the King’s eyes opened they were full of wonder.

“I think…” he breathed; a warm puff of air teased Faramir’s mouth.

Faramir stared into that silver softness. “You think what, my lord?” His voice was a little hoarse and he spoke quietly too, not wanting to share this moment with any curiosity impudently slipping forth from the corners.

“I think I could do that again.”

Faramir’s eyes were drawn to reddened lips and he was sure his heart melted when he saw the tiny smile that hesitantly touched them. He leaned forward the remaining inch and gently their mouths met once more. He lost the concept of time and structure as a soft sigh parted Aragorn’s lips, as hands slid down his back and pleaded for him to come closer, as he shifted and his own arms encircled a waist, and as the first tentative sweep of Aragorn’s tongue inside his own mouth overwhelmed him.

He was sure there were stars shimmering at the edges of his vision as they parted and air charitably forced itself down his lungs.

“I do not wish to let you go.”

He realised only after he had spoken that the whispered words, fuelled by some mixture of longing and awe, belonged to him. Heat crept over his cheeks but there were no traces of jest in Aragorn’s eyes when he spoke.

“Do not, please.”

A roll of thunder shook Emyn Arnen to its core.

¹ The Hithaeglir – The Misty Mountains

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