Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Twenty-Five – News

Aragorn balanced the emptied cup on his knee; he sat cross-legged on the bed, still fully dressed. Faramir had pulled on a well-worn pair of leggings but he had not changed out of his nightshirt. He was leaning back against the headboard, knees pulled up to his chest but breathing easier than he had done for what seemed to him an inconceivably long time.

“Will you have to return to the repair works soon?” Aragorn asked at last, eyes fixed on the wavering cup.

“Do you wish me gone?” Faramir revelled at the soft firelight. Not only was he warm and dry but Aragorn was still there, indeed had not even asked once if he ought to leave.

“No…” Steadying the teacup, Aragorn looked up at him and despite the sincerity in his expression, Faramir was pleased to see that he had interpreted the counter-question correctly; Faramir had spoken in jest – for the most part.

Aragorn’s lips curved into a small, shy smile. “I would not see you depart… I missed you when you were away.”

“And I missed you.” It was as close to a confession that he had the courage to come to right now.

Aragorn dropped his gaze and gave the cup a small nudge to convince it to stay upright but his smile deepened. “Good,” he mumbled.

Faramir did his best to commit the image to memory: the King of Gondor, smiling, sitting on his bed with his dark tresses tousled and the energy around him still carrying a recollection of unforced lovemaking.

“Word reached us of more rain,” he said. “That is why I came back this morning. There is no point in restoring the road temporarily if all our labour will be washed away in minutes.”

He set down his own teacup on the tray that had been brought to them; Faramir had sent for some bread and cheese as a light supper and Aragorn had stayed out of sight while the servants were present. Of course, it had been taken for granted that the food would be consumed in the antechamber and not in the bed.

“Is it possible at all to reach the City from the western lands?” A shallow frown had appeared on Aragorn’s brow.

Faramir shrugged. “Any rider would have to abandon the Road above Amon Dîn and scout for dry ground closer to the riverside. But Anduin’s water ran high when last I saw it and so there is no guarantee that the land can be crossed. Obviously, we will try our very best to facilitate any such passage.”

“What about the western side of the Road? Could one ride through Grey Wood?” Aragorn’s voice had sharpened somewhat.

Grímacing, Faramir shook his head. “Treading near Amon Dîn can be treacherous… After heavy rains the ground there transforms into a sea of small rocks and stones – they slither down from higher up – causing hooves to slip, and the Grey Wood is mostly left to itself. It is no large forest but wild enough.”

The frown deepened. “So the City is cut off?”

“Only partly…” Faramir began to feel uneasy. It was clear that this was no simple matter to Aragorn. For his part, Faramir had not really given it much thought. “I am sorry, my lord. We will do our very best to…”

But Aragorn broke in, an apologetic light in his eyes. “No, forgive me, Faramir. I had no right to interrogate you like one does a criminal.”

“I am your Steward, it is your right…”

“No, please…” Aragorn too set his cup down properly and then lifted the whole tray and set it down on the floor. He scooted a bit closer to Faramir. “When I have returned to the City I will be expecting… visitors,” he said slowly. “I would prefer it if their journey was as uncomplicated as possible.”

“Visitors?” repeated Faramir as reality stabbed him hard and a cold hand twisted his heart into something unidentifiable.

Aragorn swallowed. “I wish I could stay here…” He caught Faramir’s hand in his and kissed his knuckles. “Please do not address me by any title… To you I wish to be simply ‘Aragorn’.”

But how he could heed that request Faramir did not see. Just now, Aragorn had reminded him of exactly who he was and what duties he had. The King belonged in Minas Tirith, and Minas Tirith would never again be Faramir’s home.

“When will you return to the City?” His own voice sounded weak to his ears.

“I had thought to be back by the full of the Moon…”

The cold fear of losing the man beside him sliced through Faramir. Losing Aragorn… the fear of being alone again…

“That is in… five, six days?” he asked when he thought his voice might carry. It almost did.

“Six… I think.” A question rose in Aragorn’s eyes but it was never voiced. Instead, his other hand cupped Faramir’s cheek and a thumb brushed over the younger man’s lips. “I wish I had the courage,” he whispered, “to ask you to make love to me.”

The gentle caress of the thumb against his lips coaxed words from Faramir that he had thought he would never utter in Aragorn’s presence, even though the last few days had brought a change completely unforeseen, “You may make love to me.”

He silently prayed that the desperation he felt was not revealed in this statement akin to plea.

Aragorn shook his head. “But I would not have it so…”

The chill that was seeping through Faramir was only held at bay with the light pressure of Aragorn’s palm against his cheek.

“What happens when you are back in the City?” The question he should not have asked fell from his lips and he could not prevent it. How many times, he wondered, had a similar question been asked by a lovesick youngling, desperately searching for security?

“Then my soul will weep for the loss of your presence.”

It could have been a line of poetry, any string of words that seemed fitting; it could have been an attempt to appear true and honest while hiding lies. But in Aragorn’s eyes Faramir did not read deceit or trickery. In fact, a soft, rueful smile briefly touched the older man’s lips and his cheeks gained some colour.

“It sounds better in the Elven tongues…” he mumbled.

Completely unprepared, Faramir felt an answering smile on his own lips. He leaned in and joined his mouth with Aragorn’s. “I will miss you endlessly,” he confessed in a murmur, sliding his fingers through the dark locks.

Aragorn parted his lips to the rush of air that was Faramir’s words and the younger man slid his tongue inside the wet warmth. They traded kisses and gentle caresses; Aragorn’s hands were constantly in motion, moving up and down Faramir’s back, stroking his upper arms or his hair. Faramir explored Aragorn’s chest and gradually his hands made their way to the belt that kept the older man’s shirt in place. Aragorn did not protest as he fingered it and finally unclasped it and removed it.

They sank down together and wrapped arms around each other, seeking a comfortable position in which they could stay for a long while.

“Do not leave,” whispered Faramir. “Please stay.”

Aragorn did not reply but deepened the kiss instead.

Tuilë 45

The morning brought ominous, dark, heavy skies but no rain was falling when Faramir awoke. He lay perfectly still and listened to Aragorn’s steady breathing for some time, both willing and unwilling to wake him. In the end, he reluctantly slid out of bed, smoothed out the innumerable wrinkles in his shirt and went to order warm water.

Aragorn slept on while he bathed and dressed. It gave him time to try and come to terms with his feelings and the overall situation. In the clear light of day, it was easier to be rational and pragmatic, he admitted to that.

Aragorn was visiting him – he was a guest in Emyn Arnen and Faramir had always known that. It had been far too easy of late, however, to forego that detail and pretend that Aragorn would stay forever and that someone else – Faramir cared little who that might be – would step in and happily assume all kingly duties. The more Aragorn opened up to him, the more willing Faramir was to devote his life to get to know him further.

The problem, or one of the problems, was that Faramir had already promised himself to something else: to Ithilien. His home was here but Aragorn was bound to Minas Tirith. Still, it might not be an impossible situation, his heart argued. Minas Tirith was not Edoras or Rivendell. It was not even Pelargir. The City was only a short ride – or even walk – away. It was… just across the road…

He was standing by the window, staring out into his garden when Aragorn finally stirred.

“Morning,” smiled Faramir. The heaviness in his breast was countered by the sight of Aragorn sleepy stretches and sound of his soft sighs. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed a kiss to Aragorn’s brow. “Did you sleep well?”

“Mmm…” Aragorn tilted his head backwards to catch Faramir’s lips with his own.

In that instant, it became clear to Faramir exactly how much… life that lay hidden in Aragorn – passion and joy that had become forgotten among the turnings of time. He returned the kiss as his heart broke once more for the loss that was to be his in a few, short days.

“You smell of soap,” reflected Aragorn when the kiss had ended. His eyes were still closed.

“I washed.” He kissed Aragorn’s cheek, his temples. “But there is still water in Emyn Arnen should you wish to do the same.”

“Washing… a foreign concept…” Aragorn smiled and tangled his fingers in Faramir’s copper locks. “You are wet…”

“Unavoidable consequence,” mumbled the younger man as he rejoined their mouths and instigated a deep kiss. For a little while, the anguish was quenched.

Aragorn dragged himself up at last and blinked in the daylight. “I guess I should go… I will send for water from my own room.”

There was undeniably wisdom in that. Faramir watched as Aragorn retrieved his belt from the floor and refastened it around his waist. As he stood by the door, he looked like any man… like someone who Faramir could have encountered at the tavern, someone used to sharing another man’s bed – someone who had agreed to join him for the night. But there was one difference that meant everything: this man was in no hurry to leave his room.

Aragorn’s grey eyes wandered over Faramir’s form and they seemed to register everything. All the walls were cast down, Faramir could easily slip into the other man’s energy but he restrained himself. Instead, he let Aragorn go.

Alone again, Faramir straightened his bed enough so that it no longer looked suspiciously messed up when the maids came to change the sheets. He opened a window and let fresh air flow inside, thus erasing the last remnants of the previous day and night. He was sorting through some letters in the other room when there was a sharp knock on the door.

“My lord.”

Faramir did not employ a secretary but if anyone came close to, theoretically, filling that role, it was the man who now appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning, Níron.”

“Good morning, sir.” The man was short and completely lacked the usual proud Gondorian air. His beard was immaculately trimmed and his boots always polished, no matter the mood of the weather. “I have a bit of news for you.”

Faramir deeply appreciated the work Níron did for him. The man came to the house about twice a week and aided him in a various range of matters. Early on, when Faramir had requested permission from the King, as he knew him then, to copy some of the work housed in the library of Minas Tirith to add to his own one, he and Níron had spent quite some time together, doing just that. Or they pored over maps or letters, planned the construction of new settlements or scrutinised requests and demands from other regions.

He smiled. “Please, go on.”

“It is about the flooding, sir… A party of travellers reached Amon Dîn just after dawn but could make it no further. They made camp but were lucky for some workers arrived not three hours later to assess the damages done by the rain, and so their peril was discovered.”

Faramir nodded. It was not unexpected, after all. “Do we know their errand?”

Níron looked uncharacteristically uneasy. “Well, sir, one of the workers made it along the riverside and could gather some information. Apparently they are on their way to the City but due to the circumstances they would either have to retreat and that would ultimately take them to the Fords of Isen, or they will have to cross the River and approach the City from the east.”

“The first alternative is obviously out of the question.” There was a sudden chill in the air and it sifted through Faramir slowly. He tried to will it away but it would not work.

“Indeed,” nodded Níron. “That leaves us with the river option. Either they could cross it at Cair Andros or I suppose boats could be sent upstream and bring them here swifter. They have horses with them,” he added almost as an afterthought. “That being the reason for why they cannot just tread along the River.”

Faramir shivered as the daylight seemed to sharpen around him. “Níron…” he said, a sense of ruthless foreboding growing within, “who are these people?”

“Ah,” his advisor shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, you see, sir… They are guests of the King but since the King is currently here in Emyn Arnen…” He fell into a hesitant silence.

“Níron..?”

His advisor licked his lips. “Since the King is here, two among the party seek to enter the house of the Steward.”

The world twisted in a cruel fashion.

Faramir fought to keep his voice steady.

“What are their names?”

“Lady Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell and Prince Eldarion of Gondor, my lord.”

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