Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Thirty-Two – Plans

Faramir held one door of the pair open for Eldarion whom Aragorn gently pushed inside. The older man followed his son but spared Faramir a quick glance as he passed through, a glance full of budding joy and – for the first time since they had met again in Ithilien – hope for the future. Faramir answered it with a quick smile before he too stepped across the threshold and closed the heavy door behind him.

“It is yet too early for dinner,” he said, “but perhaps we could sit down somewhere and… talk?” If it was too bold a suggestion he was not sure, but now it was too late to take back his words anyway. If Aragorn desired more time alone with his son then surely he would say so? And if not… Faramir realised, with a nervous flicker in his stomach, that Eldarion might have some questions for him too.

Aragorn nodded slowly. “Arwen has not yet returned. She left early to confer with the rest of the Rivendell party and has been gone now for some time…”

“And she is to fetch the saplings for you, lord Faramir,” added Eldarion in a shy voice. His grey eyes still kept darting to and fro, between his father and the Steward, but he spoke to Faramir only and the latter wondered if the boy was testing the waters.

He smiled in return and tried to make it as warm as he possibly could, “That is very kind of her.”

In the odd time between afternoon and evening, the house was wrapped up in a bluish light and any shadows were still too weak to stretch too far. Soon lamps would be lit to provide a golden glow but this particular time of day held a special magic. As a child, Faramir had thought this hour frightening for it had seemed to him then that muddled shapes and forms waited for him in the dark corners of the Tower and the blue too easily transformed before his eyes into the sickly green which sometimes hovered around the topmost chamber… That closed door behind which his father did things Faramir could only imagine. And his imagination had always run wild; even now, as he had been proven these last couple of weeks, his mind conjured up images that he did not consciously desire. Though these were no terror compared to the older ones.

He continued to smile past Aragorn at Eldarion. “You need not address me by any title.”

The boy gave a small self-conscious grimace that was hard to interpret but Faramir sensed that an apology lay on the very tip of his tongue.

“Please, just a moment,” he hastened to say and walked over to the undecorated closet and deposited his high boots within and found a pair of low, softer ones which he pulled on. He dragged off his leather jerkin and hung it on a peg and then refastened his belt. It was not exactly tension that mounted in the hall but something akin to it and he tried to draw long, steady breaths. Perhaps simply spending time together all of them was indeed the key.

When he again faced his company he saw that Eldarion had wandered over to a window and Aragorn looked torn between options. Faramir silently crossed the floor and came to stand beside him. Half-turned away from them, Eldarion was a darkened silhouette against the brighter window-opening and the glass. Surprised, he felt Aragorn catch his hand and hold onto him for dear life. Faramir met his gaze and saw the hesitation in his… lover. The word, used like that when then were fully dressed and standing in his hallway, almost made him blush like a young fool. Reaching out with everything he had, Faramir let his own somewhat calmer energy encircle Aragorn and hoped it gave him strength.

Aragorn glanced over at his son. Faramir placed a light kiss on his cheek and had meant to withdraw at once, but the older man turned his head and so their lips met gently. Faramir kept his eyes open and so did Aragorn. It was a brief touch but enough to steady them both and give them some reassurance. It was a strange thing, Faramir thought, kissing in public almost, even if Eldarion stood looking out the window. So far their love had been a secret, kept wrapped up in shadows, only to be let out and explored while they were behind closed doors. Thellie at the tavern had not known Aragorn’s identity and that left only Damrod. Only he had ever seen… But at the thought of his friend, Faramir’s heart sank and he had to strive to push the fresh memory of their argument aside.

He dragged up a smile for Aragorn. “Go,” he mouthed and nodded at Eldarion where he still stood unmoving by the window.

With the bleakest hint of a smile, Aragorn released him and went to his son’s side, and for the very first time that he could recall, Faramir wished that another could read his mind. But as this would never be, he must speak aloud.

“The sitting-room adjacent to the dining hall?” he asked quietly, trying to use as few words as possible. Aragorn only nodded in silent agreement.

Faramir could do no more than to leave them then. He made his way to the kitchens to order that some wine and apple cider from last year’s harvest be sent to the sitting-room; and he ordered dinner for later while he was at it. There also he found a serving-girl whom he immediately approached.

“Has the Lady Arwen returned to the house?”

She dropped a quick curtsy. “No, sir, not that I am aware of.” She was pretty and young, the youngest daughter of his cook, no more than a child.

Faramir hesitated. Arwen was older than he could ever fathom and she had stayed alive for all these years without his aid. Even so, he felt – and probably was – responsible for her safety.

“If she is not back by nightfall,” Faramir said slowly, “please inform me. I shall be in the sitting-room next to the dining hall. And would you please light a fire there and make sure the room is proper enough to house my guests.”

“Yes, sir.” She had a nervous shimmer about her, as one eager to please and fearful of messing up. “Anything else, sir?”

Faramir gave her a gentle smile. “That would be all, thank you.”

What was she… Eleven? Twelve?

Suddenly he was struck by such a strange idea that he was sure he himself was not responsible for it. He opened his mouth to speak but quickly closed it again. Now was not the time, he decided.

“My lord?”

“No, nothing. Please see to it, Nena.” He name came to him just in time and her lips curved into a shy smile. He returned it and then made great effort not to speed through the corridor to meet up again with Aragorn and Eldarion; he longed to be back by Aragorn’s side but did not think it proper for the Steward of Gondor to run like a lovesick youngling through his own house. But his smile grew as he pictured the small glimmer of hope growing into something bigger.

The warm light of lamps drifted out of the dining hall where the table was being set in advance. The servants quickly stepped aside when he hurried through and could finally confirm that his orders had been carried out and pitchers of wine and cider, and a tray with three glasses were placed on the table near the fireplace in the adjoining room. Aragorn and his son had each chosen a low, cushioned chair and only a few feet separated them. Faramir told his heartbeat to slow down and he stepped inside and hoped his smile was relaxed.

“We shall soon have a fire,” he said as his guests both looked up at him.

Eldarion said nothing but Aragorn smiled. “The evenings are still chilly…”

“Emyn Arnen has always shielded the City from the worst raw winds from the South,” said Faramir as he chose a chair for himself and sank down.

“Are you looking for compensation, Steward?” Aragorn asked with a grin.

Faramir chuckled. “No, only stating my lord. Ithilien is ever at your service.”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows but any reply was lost when Eldarion spoke up in a hesitant voice, “Sir, how can the southern winds be raw as you say?” He fiddled with the hem of his tunic but looked at Faramir questioningly. “Are not the lands of the South warm and dry?”

“Well,” said Faramir, pleasantly surprised by the question, “in the summer yes. And the winters are usually mild there, but do not forget that Anduin runs through South Ithilien and close to the river dampness gathers and winds from the outer sea push the air inland. Now, since the weather is still undecided, we receive our dose of chill and mist.”

While he spoke, the girl, Nena, appeared in the doorway, carrying a load of wood in a basket and some blankets in another. “Sir.” Again she curtsied and then set about to build a fire.

“So, all in all, we take the hardest blow,” Faramir concluded, winking at Aragorn, but knowing that already Eldarion’s attention was diverted. The boy was avidly watching Nena’s quick hands and soon a first flame sprang up among the wood and a hint of gold glinted in the girl’s braid.

Eladrion tore his eyes away and flushed. “I am sorry, lord Faramir..?”

But Faramir only smiled and shook his head. Then called, “Nena?”

The girl scrambled to her feet. “Sir?”

For a second he thought he was going mad but then he gestured at Eldarion. “This is the Prince of Gondor,” he said, all too conscious of Aragorn’s burning gaze seeking his. “He will remain here for yet another few days and perhaps tomorrow you might show him around the house? And the stables perhaps? After breakfast?”

Nena’s eyes widened as she listened and then some colour stole across her cheeks as she turned to Eldarion. “Gladly sir,” she whispered. “My lord,” she added as she bowed her head before the Prince. Then, without raising her eyes again, she dashed out of the room and was gone.

Faramir hid a triumphant grin as he rose to pour some wine for himself and Aragorn and some cider for Eldarion. He could see the boy was puzzled but it was nothing compared to the way Aragorn was staring at him.

“It is not strong,” he said as he handed the boy his glass. “A little alcohol is added to keep it from turning bad during the winter, but not much.”

Eldarion wordlessly accepted the cider. While he still felt bold and daring, Faramir pushed his chair closer to Aragorn’s and gave him his wine. Just as he sat down, the first tapping of rain against glass mingled with the crackling of the fire.

Aragorn turned to face him fully with eyebrows raised in inquiry. Faramir shrugged and sipped his wine. In the end, Aragorn only shook his head in disbelief and sank deeper down in his chair and stretched out his legs. Faramir wished he could touch him, lean in, join their mouths together in a long kiss… thread his fingers through the dark tresses… press closer and closer and…

“Will you be coming with us to the City… Faramir?” Eldarion’s question almost disappeared in the soft singing of the rain and the fire’s hisses.

Jolted back into reality, Faramir shook his head and quenched his sigh before it left his lungs. “No, my duties lie here in Emyn Arnen. I will stay here when you leave.”

Eldarion frowned and glanced at his father. “But..?”

Faramir leaned forward a little, mindful of his glass. He tried to choose his words with care. “I will come to Minas Tirith…” the name was foreign and heavy on his tongue, “but mostly I hope that you will visit me here.” That was no satisfying explanation and he knew it well. “I left the City many years ago; I was never comfortable there… And now I have made my home here.”

He was grateful when Aragorn broke in gently, “It was I who sent my Steward to Ithilien.” He offered Faramir a bleak smile. “Well you have served the City since, and here you shall stay.”

‘Here you shall stay.’ The words echoed around the room for a few long heartbeats.

Here I shall stay.

Faramir wanted just that but he could already keenly feel the loss of Aragorn’s company if he allowed it.

“Only your woods and the Road separate us,” continued Aragorn after a little while. “We shall see each other often.”

“Will you be very unhappy?” Eldarion did not look at either of them, instead he kept his gaze trained on his cider.

“No…” Aragorn rose from his chair and placed his glass on the table. He approached his son as if he were a wild hare, ready to flee in an instant. When Eldarion did not move, Aragorn squatted at his feet and looked up into his face. “I will have you with me.”

Faramir held his breath and willed the air to still around them.

Eldarion did not meet his father’s eyes. “But Faramir…”

“The two of you share my heart,” whispered Aragorn. He lifted a hand and ran his knuckles down his son’s cheek. “I could not be unhappy with you around.”

A small movement in the doorway made Faramir look up. Leaning against the door frame, cradled by the glow of the fire and with silvery raindrops scattered in her dark hair, Arwen stood, bright eyes fixed on her son and his father. She must have felt his gaze upon her for she turned to him and Faramir saw that she was weeping soundlessly.

But she did not wipe the tears from her face, only smiled at him and whispered, “Do you have room for one more?”

And he smiled, too, and nodded.

They lingered in the hallway. After dinner they had returned to the sitting-room for a couple of hours and talked of anything and everything, all of them avoiding the more serious topics as long as Eldarion was still awake. After a while, Arwen had sent him off to bed and now the remaining three of them stood not far from Faramir’s bedroom door, oddly loath to part.

For himself, Faramir knew all too well what he wanted: Aragorn in his bed tonight, loving him with a blazing desire. He had had just enough wine to think that possible and shrug free of some of his own restraint. It was as if he could truly feel the warm blood course through the older man’s body where he stood beside him in the hallway though they did not touch at all. The beating of Aragorn’s heart was his own and this song of life was one he gladly shared in.

But despite this he enjoyed Arwen’s company and they spoke with ease now, all three of them, and that was as wonderful as it was strange.

“I shall bring him news of you, such as I can think of without betraying your secret,” she assured Aragorn and a ray of moonlight tangled in her hair and stayed there. The rain had passed on and left the sky clear and dark “But then you must tell him for I will not lie for you.” She chided him gently and somehow it seemed natural.

“I know,” said Aragorn softly. “I know.” He met Faramir’s gaze. “We will speak of it and come to a decision.”

Faramir nodded. If their relationship was not to remain a secret then it must be official. And the thought scared him and enchanted him equally.

Arwen smiled. “Legolas will love it. He always had a taste for the sweet romances.” She leaned in and kissed Aragorn’s cheek. “Write to him and I shall be there to see his reaction.” Then she kissed Faramir also. “I bid you goodnight, and leave you to the affairs of Men. Make sure to plant the saplings as soon as you can, Faramir.”

“With your blessing, my Lady.”

“As if I were a Goddess,” she shook her head. “But surely the Star Lady watches over you.”
In the darkness streaked with moonlight she seemed to glide away from them, towards her own chamber, indeed like a divine vision.

“Faramir,” Aragorn spoke in a low voice and there was caution in it. “Will you tell me why you came crying to the house earlier?”

The question seemed to pertain to a different world altogether. For a heartbeat, Faramir stared at him in confusion. Then his shoulders sank and he sighed. “Tomorrow…” He could make out lines of concern in Aragorn’s face but he ignored them. “Please?”

“But…”

Faramir grasped for one of the other man’s hands and brought it to his lips and kissed it. “I will tell you tomorrow. Stay with me tonight…”

Aragorn drew closer and the building heat in his body slipped into Faramir’s whether it was his intention or not. “Yes…”

The memory of Damrod’s harsh words only served to fuel Faramir’s determination. This was possible: he could have Aragorn and still retain his sanity, and the world would not mind and if he must he would fight to make peace with Minas Tirith also.

He dragged them towards his own chambers, firmly clasping Aragorn’s hand in his and finally shutting the door behind them. But he did not throw himself at Aragorn as he wanted to. He stood for a moment, staring at the surrounding darkness with a thousand thoughts that made no sense swirling through his mind.

“Faramir…” Aragorn mumbled, hardly above a whisper. “We need not make any final decisions yet… I had to tell Eldarion but if you do not want to…” he swallowed, “to tell…”

Frowning, Faramir turned to him. “But I want everyone to know,” he said, and it was as if something in the room sat back, draped one leg over the other and listened with mounting interest. “I would have you send word to Sam and Merry and Pippin in the Shire, to your kinsfolk in the North and to the Elves of your home and those of Eryn Lasgalen. And I would write myself to Éowyn in Dol Amroth and to Éomer in Edoras…” He sighed, feeling Aragorn’s hand tremble slightly in his own. “But the City scares me.”

Aragorn drew a fraction closer and whatever trace of moonlight that peeked inside the room was soaked up by his eyes. “Once I was the Ranger who challenged the Darkness,” he said quietly but his voice sounded rough in the night. “Now indeed you must think me weak for you have seen nothing but my fear and doubt… But,” he raised their joined hands to his lips and kissed Faramir’s knuckles, “for this I will fight. I will deal with Minas Tirith.”

Faramir regarded him for a long while as the darkness settled more firmly around them. Then he closed his eyes and exhaled, some of the tension leaving him in a smooth fall of his shoulders. “Thank you.”

Aragorn left a new kiss upon his skin.

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