Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Author: Geale
Title: Mist
Rating: R
Pairing: Faramir & Aragorn
Summary: Seven years after the War, all was well in Ithilien, but all was also the same. And so change was called for and Faramir sees his world changing. But when dreams and desire mingle, what is left of reality?
Warning: Slash & Angst
Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: Though dealing with Men, I have used the Elvish calendar, the Reckoning of Rivendell, to date the events of this tale. This seemed to me the only option since the Stewards’ Reckoning only survived until the end of the Third Age which ends with the departure of the Ring-bearers in III 3021, and this tale begins some five years later. Hence the Quenya names for the months/seasons.

You know by now that when it comes to Faramir’s appearance, I prefer the movie version of him with copper hair and blue eyes. The same goes for Boromir. I’m stating this clearly here so I won’t confuse you in a while!

All text in italics is supposed to be in italics. All photos are my own so please respect that and do not copy without permission!

After the War of the Ring Faramir was given the title Prince of Ithilien and went to dwell in the hills of Emyn Arnen, west of Minas Tirith. No individual settlements are ever described or named there so I have taken some liberties when creating his house and household. I have also made Faramir slightly younger than he is in canon. Around thirty years old – which means he was around twenty-three at the time of the War.

Now, I recommend the reader to, whilst reading this story, keep in mind that it is said that Faramir – much like his father – is longsighted and perhaps has the ability to see what is not always seen, and perceive that which is not always perceived by others. The interpretation of this fact is, however, entirely my own.

Welcome.

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Prologue

The Kingdom of Gondor,

Tuilë 6, IV 5

A mist lay over Ithilien. A strange mist it was, weaving around the trees, sifting over the surfaces of small lakes and ponds, and reclining upon the grass. Yet it was continuously moving. It let go of sticks and stones, flowing forth, but was always replaced by more. It crawled across the fields and through the groves; it slid down slopes and treaded every hidden path through the undergrowth, unseen or unknown to man and beast. Purposefully it embedded the world in a milky fog, tenderly but persistently. Calmly.

Yes, it was strange mist. Unusual and unexpected. No one who saw that mist – or passed through it on a hazardous journey – could explain it. Indeed, not many of those who laid eyes on it wished to speak of it, and so a compact silence blended with it and strengthened it further. To Ithilien it had come, and there it had decided to stay.

Night fell and the pale crescent of the newborn Moon rose high above Ephel Dúath, for many long years hiding the Plateau of Gorgoroth and the black Sea of Núrnen. Seven years had passed, but still a tingle of fear chased down the spines of those who turned their eyes to the haunted lands behind the Mountains. Even the mist would stay away from these dark places but, of course, it had no business there. So it was only natural that it stayed in Ithilien, beneath the Moon – in the land which carried his name.

He rolled onto his back in the hazy moonlight. White sheets, white glow, white release coating warm skin.

‘So?’

‘Fine. You?’

‘Yea.’

Whatever. The last time – it must be. He had to make it so.

No curtains covered the windows and it was as much night in here as it was outside. Mist rolled into the gardens and settled down with a long sigh. Somehow he knew it came from the North, but its intention he could not determine. He welcomed it, though, as it served to emphasise the change he hoped he willed to take place. A new world was building before his eyes. He told himself he was ready.

His companion shifted behind him. Legs swung over the edge, feet meeting the floor, hands ignoring tunics and robes. He dragged his eyes away from the garden and threw a glance over his shoulder.

“So?”

He shrugged, sort of. “Yea.”

A grin and a mocking wink.

He watched as his lover leisurely sauntered towards the doors, his naked backside fleeing the moonlight that fell in through the window-glass. Long legs, muscles playing underneath smooth skin, wild hair. He knew he looked good.

Without hesitation his lover opened the doors and steeped into the hallway. Unabashed. Never shielding himself.

He turned his gaze back to the gardens when the door clicked and he was left alone.

The last time.

A single candle was burning. The flame did not even flicker. He did not know for how long he had been staring into it.

As if it could solve his problems.

Even this light would die sometime this night – when he had given up once more.

The night was dark despite the season. It was as if someone had draped a heavy cloak over them, toying with the limits of time. He wondered if the night was the same in every place in Middle-earth.

As he sat and stared, the flame again transformed. It split in two, reshaping and transforming, becoming a pair of shining grey orbs. Eyes looked back at him, silently pleading – for the hundredth time begging to be told some unknown truth.

He was meant to explain.

And for the thousandth time he saw the sorrow and the pain that he was causing.

‘Forgive me.’

If there was something he knew, it was that those words never helped if they did not follow an honest confession.

He pinched the candle flame and thus killed it.

The room lay in darkness.

Chapter One – Introduction

The mornings were still chilly. In the early hours of dawn, a whitish daylight sifted through the trees and climbed up the hills of Emyn Arnen; it made the dewdrops glisten and embraced cold, tiny buds and naked roots and stems. Gradually, as Anor rose in the East, the light grew milder, more golden, until it matched the sun’s rays perfectly and the unison was complete. The soil that lay hidden beneath long, half withered grass and the weight of last autumn’s fallen leaves was wet after the long winter, soaked through with the water that had once been swirling snow. Few clouds had graced the skies over central Ithilien for the past weeks and because of this the land was steadily drying up. Steadily but slowly, for this land did no one else’s bidding – it was its own master, and few were those who were allowed to reshape it.

But reshape it did, and already fresh green grass could be sighted by those who were meant to.

Emyn Arnen, central Ithilien

Tuilë 28, IV 5

Unseen by any other eyes than perhaps those of beings usually ignored or long forgotten, Faramir wound his way through the undergrowth. The morning was bright and clear, and already the promising warmth of a fine spring day was fingering the air. He had not risen very early – a small indulgence he reckoned he deserved – but was now washed and dressed, heading for a small grove not far from his house. All around him, spread out in a wide circle that encompassed nearly all of Emyn Arnen were his people, already hard at work. Many of them were former Rangers, some former citizens of Minas Tirith across Anduin, and others had come from other lands to join them.

His people. The mere thought disturbed him slightly, insinuating that he was somehow their leader in these times of peace and prosperity. It had been different during the War and the years preceding it when he had been a Steward’s son and Captain of the Rangers. That was more… normal. These days, the free folk of Gondor hardly needed any other leader besides the King. Yet he had realised after some time that the people of Ithilien indeed looked upon him as Captain still, and apparently he had no say in the matter.

A quiet but sparkling laughter rang out from behind a young birch-tree, causing Faramir to smile reluctantly. He shot a glance to his right but saw nothing out of the ordinary and thus continued to walk. His smile grew and he shook his head, knowing well that his ponderings were useless for things were not going to change this spring – and not the next, and probably not the one after that either.

His heart felt strangely light in his breast and as he approached the grove, it opened up completely to welcome the new life that stirred in the woods. The small clearing needed to be tended to. Dry leaves covered the ground and young – very young – saplings were eagerly reaching for the sky. He would need to shorten some of their slender branches to encourage the aspiring trees to become more broad than tall…

‘Broad?’

He raised his eyebrows, questioning the doubtful tone. Yes, it would further hide the grove from unwanted intruders and let him work in peace.

He detected a huff in the atmosphere around him, but he only gave a wry smile. After all, he was the one with the knife.

Faramir sank down to his knees in front of a stone, about five inches high and with a flat surface. Both of his hands could easily cover it and its colour was a dusty grey. He placed his palm against it, and slowly exhaled, searching for any sign of living energy. The stone’s surface was still ice cold and would remain so until the sun’s rays hit it and the air grew warmer. Faramir withdrew his hand and produced a small sewing needle he had fastened in his cloak before leaving the house. With naturalness he pricked his left forefinger and forced a heavy drop of dark red blood to form on his skin. Then, without hesitation, he smeared the blood onto the stone, once again a little surprised by the stickiness of the liquid so full of life force. He watched as it quickly dried, silently wording his prayer for the lands that he was set to govern.

He would have to cut down trees, disturb the way the branches interwove, tear at stubborn roots and burn shrivelled leaves. As he would rob the lands of some of their own treasures, he hoped his offering would be accepted in return.

The blood-offering, the ultimate gift. The first of the season.

For seemingly no reason at all he suddenly smiled.

It was done.

Smoke rose towards the clear blue sky and added a spicy scent to the fresh spring air. How many wood-fires that were burning in Emyn Arnen this day, Faramir could not say, but during the next three weeks, flames would be licking wood from morning till sundown. This was the burning season, the days of fire and the time of year when all remnants of last year’s greenery were transformed into ashes. It was also an excellent way of keeping the wildest growth at bay; it might seem cruel to burn the tall grass and thorny wild roses, but the truth was that if they did nothing, the roses would tangle in the grass and so create an impenetrable barrier, making it quite impossible to tend to the lands properly in the long run.

Faramir gave his own smoking fire a shove of his booted foot. The additional air that immediately seeped in amongst the ashes and embers gave the fire some new inspiration and soon the driest leaves were assaulted by the flames. From an enormous pile beside him, he reached for a new armful of twigs and twisted birch stems, throwing them onto the fire. Pleased, he watched as the fire greedily devoured them and crackled cheerfully. This was what he was meant to be doing. He lifted his gaze to his surroundings. This was his place in Middle-earth, this was where he belonged.

His house, large but not overly so – and certainly not a work of ostentation – was visible through the trees; he was more or less working in his own gardens, except that the ‘gardens’ in this case somewhat resembled a forest. Last year he had travelled further south and stayed there for two weeks, but this time he was forced to stay close to home.

Probably it was a good thing. Visitors usually raised an eyebrow when they spotted these wild parts of his grounds, silently wondering how it was possible to leave a patch so close to the main house in such a state – when the rest was so well tended to. If they did not ask, Faramir did not explain. And, to tell the truth, sometimes he did not explain even if they asked.

The fire was calming down and so he added more leaves from another pile. He had worked hard during the past week, gathering together much of what was meant to be burned. There was always more of course, but one had to begin somewhere. This year they were lucky as no rain had drenched the lands and therefore the fuel was dry.

The flames sprang up again and Faramir settled in for a long ride. This was only the first day of many and he hoped that the request in the letter he had received over two weeks ago would not disrupt the routine. He had agreed of course and sent word back to Minas Tirith at once. It did not do to object.

His thoughts were interrupted as a rustling sound was heard. A few moments later, Damrod stepped out from behind a tall fir-tree and greeted him with a bright smile.

“All well?”

Faramir grinned. “Have you come to make sure I do not set the house on fire?”

His friend glanced suspiciously at him. He was clad in high boots and a thick woollen tunic of a green shade so dark that it looked almost black. His hair was longer now and tied back with a strip of leather; these days he even shaved regularly. “I’m sure hoping you will not!” “I might still have a bundle or two in there that is mine, you know.”

“Hah!” cried Faramir. “My friend, I find it very hard to believe that you are truly concerned about your belongings these days…”

The smile that was still painted across Damrod’s features turned more blissful and distinctly sappy. “She’s perfectly lovely,” he said dreamily. “Did I show you the letter she sent me?”

Faramir rolled his eyes. He had known Damrod for nearly twenty years so undoubtedly it was his right. However, he could not help but smile at his friend’s infatuation with the young woman he had met not two moons ago.

“Yes, you did. But I am afraid I cannot decide whether it is sweet or mad that you should write each other when you live but a half-hour apart. The roads are good and you could ride to her father’s house in no time at all, I am sure.”

Damrod was not the least dismayed by his words, he only waved a hand dismissively in Faramir’s direction. “You wouldn’t know what ‘tis to be loved by such a lovely maiden.”

Faramir nearly burst out laughing. “No indeed, I would not!” He shook his head animatedly. “I shall leave it to you to explore such wonders.”

His friend winked at him but then seemed to rouse himself. “Well. In any case I’m not here to ensure you are not setting your own house aflame. It’s nearing noon and I’m come to relieve you.”

“Right.” Faramir nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “‘Tis best I get ready.”

Damrod reached for a straight, smooth branch Faramir used for prodding the fire. He gave the smoking pile a light shove and had it going once more.

“What do you reckon it’ll be like?” he asked thoughtfully. “You know… considering the rumours…”

“Honestly, I know not.” Faramir picked up a handful of dry leaves and offered them to the flames. “We shall have to wait and see, I suppose. But I never gave much for gossip.”

“Yea.”

They stood in silence for a while, letting the birdsong and the wheezing of the fire fill the air.

“Oh, well,” said Faramir at last. “I am off now. I shall see you later.”

“Good luck!” Damrod gave him an encouraging smile. “Don’t forget to wash!”

“Mind the house!” Faramir called over his shoulder as he strode away.

He was more unwilling to leave than he wanted to admit, even to himself. He dove underneath a low-hanging branch, coming closer, and knowing far too well that he would much rather have stayed by the fire.

Twenty minutes later he was standing by the gate, watching the company of riders drawing nearer. He drew a long deep breath and squared his shoulders. While in the woods it was so easy to forget that this was part of his duties too.

Note:

Tuilë – the Elvish season that lay between modern 29 March and 21 May.

Chapter Two – Visitors

The company was not a large one. No more than five riders were approaching him and their horses were not laden with much luggage. Faramir had alerted the stable boys and they were fidgeting nervously behind him, never before having been asked to attend such dignified guests. Or ‘guest’, more likely by the look of it.

His gaze wandered and settled on the oak by the gate. It was an old tree with plenty of dead branches that had refused to fall to the ground even when the harshest winter winds were blowing. Despite its somewhat miserable appearance the oak proudly towered above the gate, faithfully fulfilling its duty as guardian.

Faramir sent it a small smile and silently vowed to remember to care for it better. A patch of sunlight found its way into the branches as settled there and to Faramir it seemed like the extra weight was enough for suddenly a few twigs loosened their grip and fell gently to the ground. With a sigh the oak let go and the message was not lost on Faramir.

The first rider reined in his horse, a brown mare, before the gate and easily slid to the ground. It was a middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes that had seen too many treacheries to trust another living being at once. He surveyed Faramir for a moment or two before he spoke in a voice completely owned by authority.

“King Elessar seeks to enter the house of the Steward of Gondor.”

Faramir could not help it if his eyes strayed to the King himself, now in plain view atop his own horse. He had not seen Aragorn for nearly two years but if the man had not changed fundamentally this ridiculous display of protocol would bother him as much as it did Faramir.

But by what he saw and sensed Faramir was slightly taken aback. There were creases of worry lining the King’s forehead and though his hair was still as dark as ever and his shoulders broad and strong, there was a despondency in his features that was entirely new to Faramir. His eyes were downcast, and his face almost ashen. Faramir would have frowned if he had not been watched by the other riders who were now filling the courtyard.

“You are welcome.” He addressed what he supposed was the herald. “Leave your horses here and they shall be seen to. Then you shall be shown to your rooms and there you may refresh yourselves.”

The herald gave him another intense stare and for a second or two, Faramir was sure he would draw his sword, but then he nodded and turned to the King. Aragorn was speaking in hushed tones to his horse that Faramir immediately recognised as Roheryn, the same beast that Aragorn had used in the War. Only when the herald approached him did he look up and Faramir was once again struck by the exhaustion that flowed from Aragorn’s form. He stood perfectly still and waited.

A faint breeze stole across the courtyard as Aragorn left his horse’s side and started to walk towards Faramir. The air shifted a bit around him and the clear sunlight suddenly seemed less brilliant as he remembered the mist that for many nights now had invaded Ithilien. He hoped Damrod was doing a good job over by the fire or some of that mist would undoubtedly wet the grass and make it more difficult for him to persuade the flames to consume it.

“My lord.” He bowed to Aragorn who now stepped up to him.

“Faramir.” The King’s voice was low, lacking in mirth and strength. “I am afraid I have come to abuse your hospitality.”

His herald was standing right behind him, still with his eyes trained on Faramir.

“You are welcome,” repeated Faramir as he could not think of much else to say. It was rare these days that he was looked at with such suspicion and it was most uncomfortable. If he was not careful it could bring back memories he had successfully evaded for the past five or six years. “The house of the Steward is always open to the King of Gondor.” He tried a smile and was happy to note that his head was not hewn for it.

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you.”

They strode to the house in silence. Faramir led the way and Aragorn followed him without hesitancy; all the while the shadow of the herald was looming over them both. They walked up the short flight of stairs leading to the double doors that made up the entrance. The sun was warming the stone steps and a random thought crossed Faramir’s mind. Someday, when all was back to normal and the weather was warmer he would not mind having lunch on those very steps. There was no point in eating indoors when one could enjoy the sunshine.

“The house is not very large,” he found himself saying when they were inside the entrance hall.

Curtains and rugs were washed and through the windows streamed the sunlight. Faramir had made sure that his home in no way resembled the White Tower and his father’s halls as he remembered them. Where the walls of the Tower consisted of stone, Faramir had chosen wooden panels, and if Denethor’s chambers had been eerily empty, his son had carefully chosen fabrics and tapestries that gave the rooms a warmer tone.

He turned to Aragorn with mixed feelings. He was proud of what he had created, but he also understood that it was not the ideal residence for a King. Still, it was his home and he was no King – and he was happy here.

Aragorn was studying the wooden panels with some interest. “I recognise this…”

“From Edoras,” Faramir smiled. “I was telling Éomer of my plans and a few months later he sent me a set of panels. The same carvings can be found randomly throughout the house. I decided to not group them together.”

“They are beautiful.” Aragorn turned to him and Faramir spotted the thin veil that lay over the grey eyes, hindering any sparkle from breaking through.

He was well aware of the herald standing grim and silent beside them. He was also well aware of the peculiar power that Aragorn’s gaze carried, be it veiled or not. And he was all too well aware of the thrill that sped through him whilst being held by that gaze.

Very briefly, he was tempted to acknowledge it too much, but managed to quench that desire almost at once. Aragorn had always been handsome and Faramir admitted – at least to himself – that at times he had felt drawn to him. He held much love for the King, but so much of that love was rooted in respect that he was not sure it could be called love at all.

Giving himself a mental shake, Faramir smiled. “I will show you to your room, my lord.”

The herald, finally introduced to Faramir as Beriand, followed them closely, making absolute sure he knew which room the King would use during his visit. His grim presence was deeply unnerving and Faramir rather nervously opened the door to Aragorn’s bedchamber, grateful that he had inspected the cleaning himself that morning.

A large bed with an intricately embroidered bedspread took up most of the space, but was accompanied by a bedside table and a closet. Faramir had considered trying to squeeze in a desk too, but had given up on the idea when he realised that was impossible. However, he hoped the newly finished adjacent bath chamber made up for this.

Aragorn surveyed his temporary lodgings and to Faramir’s relief his face softened noticeably.

“This is perfect,” he said simply, still in that low voice. “Beriand, you may leave us now.”

The herald looked like would rather stay exactly where he was, but he bowed and silently edged towards the door.

“Shall I accompany you?” His voice sounded more strained than he would have liked, but Faramir could not help it.

Beriand’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I remember the way back,” he stated and then said no more.

Faramir watched him leave and with a sinking feeling wondered how all this was going to work out.

“Worry not.”

Aragorn had sunk down upon the bed and his cloak lay by his side. His tunic and breeches were well-worn and his boots dusty. “He is protective… A fine guard. But generally very distrustful. My men will not be staying, though.”

Surprised, Faramir frowned, but was given no time to ask questions, for Aragorn spoke again:

“Forgive me, Faramir if that was still your impression. The matter was settled during our ride hither. I hope it does not cause you too much trouble?”

Faramir shook his head. Truly, this seemed easier, and at least no Beriand would watch his every step. “The rooms were cleaned,” he smiled. “That was just as well, I suppose.” Then his curiosity got the better of him. “My lord, are you alright?”

A frail half-smile briefly crossed Aragorn’s lips. “I am in need of some rest,” he confessed, which in itself was unusual since the King of Gondor rarely displayed his own weaknesses. “I hope to find it here.”

“I am sure you will,” said Faramir, forbidding himself to ask any further questions. It was not his place to question the King and if Aragorn wished to tell him he would do so when he deemed the time was right. “I’ll leave you now so you may settle in.”

Aragorn nodded slowly but then caught Faramir’s gaze. Grey eyes held him, in a strange way let him know he was seen, that what he had done was appreciated.

Open.

Faramir opened up once more, tentatively exploring the air between them. He held his breath and sensed tension that was more comfortable than uncomfortable; the energy that he found now surrounding them did not disturb him and he was content.

He drew a long breath and smiled. “I hope your stay in Emyn Arnen will be pleasant, my lord.”

Aragorn did not move and his voice wafted through the room in the form of a whisper. “Thank you, Faramir.”

And so it began.

Chapter Three – Decisions

The afternoon hours passed swiftly by. Faramir spent them by the fire which Damrod had expertly tended to, but abandoned when his friend returned from the house. His questioning was all in vain and he muttered displeased when Faramir refused to give away any details concerning the King. In the end he had given up and left to seek out Mablung who had his own fire going near a small stream, east of Faramir’s dwelling.

After that, he worked in silence, regularly adding fuel to the flames and watching them devour it with haste. His hands were dirty, covered in dust, and his clothes were soiled. Sweat trickled down his brow and he knew from experience that his hair would smell of burning wood even after he washed it. It was all part of the work, and he could in no way dislike it.

His thoughts drifted easily. To his friends in Ithilien and in other places. Telling Aragorn about Éomer’s generous gift earlier made him realise that he had not seen Rohan’s young King since they both visited Minas Tirith at the same time, three years ago. For Eldarion’s birthday.

Faramir absentmindedly poked the fire with the branch. The embers were cooling down and the day was waning. He decided to not add any more to the fire since evening fell quickly and he liked to see what he was doing. Also, he did not need a supposedly dead fire that suddenly sprang to life in the middle of the night and indeed did burn down his home.

Eldarion.

The image of Aragorn’s son rose before his eyes. He had been ten years at the time, but already thoughtful and serious. Faramir had thought him grave, but knew only too well that he himself had been much like him as a child. Eldarion was a near perfect copy of his father with dark hair and grey eyes. At first sight he looked like any other child, but when he spoke and moved, it was clear – at least to Faramir – that his ancestry had left obvious traces in him. It was also evident that the child did not know how to handle this at all.

All of this troubled Faramir for he knew what not fitting in meant. He shared his worries with Legolas, who at that time spent more time in the City than he did nowadays, and who confirmed that Eldarion was less at ease than he should be. Speaking to Aragorn about it, though, would be a precarious project.

Yes, it troubled Faramir then but upon returning to Emyn Arnen he had quickly forgotten, and one year later when he visited Minas Tirith, Eldarion had not been there.

Now Aragorn had come to visit him and Faramir had somehow expected that he would bring his son with him. But it was not so and Faramir dared not ask him about it.

The smoke that rose from the dying fire gradually thinned. A bluish hue settled about him and announced that today’s work ought to be over, lest he wished to continue in darkness. Faramir slipped on a pair of thick leather gloves and lifted the top layer of unharmed grass from the smoking pile. The embers still crackled once in a while but were falling apart and turning into ashes. He used the branch to scatter the remnants of the fire around his work place, effectively cooling the embers even further. When he was done, he left the branch leaning against a young birch, and then made for the house.

The first stars appeared in the sky and the temperature dropped significantly as he walked the short way back. All around him was the changing world; creatures of day made ready to retire, leaving the woods for the beings of night.

He glanced back once or twice, noticing how the now familiar mist rose from the ground as if it had lain sleeping there all day, and now reclaimed his gardens. There was peacefulness in the air spiced with a little curiosity.

Yes, he was thankful. Work had flowed smoothly indeed.

‘Good.’

He knew they were pleased with him, and how they relayed on him. And that he relayed on them. They worked well together.

Warm lights flickering in the windows welcomed him as he wandered up the stairs to the double doors. He pulled off his gloves and was about to enter when a soft voice to his left claimed his attention.

The balcony that encircled the entire house was a humble one but vines liked it and happily clung to the arcs of neatly interwoven, slender branches that had been placed there for just that purpose. Together with the vines they created a roof of greenery that, in summer shielded one from the sun, and in winter from most of the snow. At night you could easily escape the moonlight by standing underneath it.

“Happy?”

Faramir slowly turned. A pair of brown eyes was observing him from the shadows. He swallowed and hoped it passed unnoticed.

“Yes.”

“You know what I mean.”

He steeled himself, willing the determination he had known three weeks ago to well up within him again. “We have spoken of this already,” he said but found that the strength in his voice was dulled by the growing darkness. His words sifted around them for a short moment before they dissipated in the night.

“We have. But I wish to do it again.”

Maelir emerged from the shadows, and his coal black hair caught some of the starlight and glistened. He was simply dressed, but his white shirt was spotless and his dark leggings and polished boots looked new. “I wish to do it again,” he repeated in soft tones as he stepped up to Faramir. There was no mistaking the determined light in his eyes.

“I cannot.” Faramir said in earnest, wishing he could offer a better explanation than the ones he had already tried. “I simply cannot.”

“Why?” Maelir drew a deep breath. “You smell of fire.” A small smile played in the corners of his lips. “And the woods.”

The woods. The woods that were part of the problem… Faramir dropped his gaze to hide the fact that he had some difficulty looking at the younger man. The very young man.

Maelir came from the City and he would turn twenty-one this winter. This alone might have been cause enough to end their liaison, but there were other reasons far more important – issues that Maelir would not understand but were crucial to Faramir.

“Faramir…” Mealir’s voice turned low and seductive. “Forget your own stubbornness and join me now, will you not?”

Issues such as love.

Fairly early on, Faramir had learnt that hiding love was simply easier than displaying it. But before that, he also had wandered through the halls of the Tower with a blissful smile and unseeing eyes. It was, however, after he had learnt of his father’s abhorrence of men who lay with other men that he had closed down and tried to disappear from view. Denethor’s words on the matter had been few, but the message clear enough, and the threats even worse. When all had been ‘cleared up’ according to his father, Denethor had simply decided to ignore his youngest son’s emotional life altogether.

But Faramir could not live without love, so quietly and discreetly he had sought it where he was let known he was welcome. Relationships had been brief, mostly enjoyable – it was true – and educating. Then the times changed and as evil brooded in the East, not many dared to commit themselves to another. Relationships became even briefer, devoid of real emotion and probably more devastating than nourishing. And, well, after the War it was simply difficult.

Maelir tried again. “Come now, Faramir… This is silly. Take me to bed instead.”

Before temptation won him over, Faramir shook his head and gently placed his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “No,” he said gently. “I will not. Seek pleasure elsewhere.”

Mealir was different. He never hid his preferences from anyone and would have no trouble finding a new lover. He was beautiful, free spirited and carefree. But he would never understand Faramir and would never be loved by him. Just like his affection would never be enough for Faramir.

Maelir opened his mouth, perhaps meaning to protest, but he closed it again and stayed silent. Faramir let go of him and smiled. “There is bound to be drinking in the tavern tonight. If I were you I would go there.”

“You will not join me? For some ale only?” His former lover was smiling again, too untried by life to be severely hurt.

“No. I shall be boring and stay here.”

Maelir raised an eyebrow but thankfully he said nothing. Instead he lightly kissed Faramir’s brow, sped down the stairs and was swallowed up by the night.

Faramir reached for the doors but knowledge flickered through him instantly.

‘Like you do every night…’

He let out a heavy sigh. Yes, like he did every night.

Chapter Four – Sleep

He was standing by a small forest pool. It was dark and deep, and no ripples disturbed the smooth surface. Around him were thick fir-trees and beyond them was darkness.

He was alone, save for the presence that hovered unseen beside him, sometimes disappearing but always returning. The grass beneath his feet was thick and green.

Slowly the presence beside him began to form into a more physical shape but Faramir could not make out its features. He thought he saw fair hair which made him think of his brother, and he lifted a hand to the forehead, touching his brow.

Every time he brushed the hair aside, a dark strand fell down to gently caress his fingers.

He left the pool and walked out into a garden. Far away to his left was a stone bench, gleaming white in the silvery light of the Moon that hung low in the sky somewhere.

White glow.

White stone.

Faramir meant to reach the bench but something pulled him in another direction. A large willow was sweeping the grass with its heavy crown of boughs and leaves. He rested against its trunk, shielded from view and secure.

Hands were stroking his sides. Exploring him. Making him shiver against the bark. He closed his eyes but still saw the gardens and the fire that was burning by the pool.

Soft lips pressed a kiss to his neck and warmth flooded through him. Desire rose so quickly in his body that he wondered if he knew it not always. The hands were still stroking, touching…

They swept over his naked skin, awakening him. He moaned aloud, giving into lust and feeling himself swelling.

The stone bench was cold but he lay down upon it eagerly and willingly. He was open.

Kisses were bestowed upon him and they left a tingling trail behind. He raised his hips and was rewarded with more gentle stroking. His manhood was pounding where it lay heavily on his belly and he yearned for more.

To be filled. To fill.

Faramir arched upwards into his lover’s embrace. The warm body above welcomed him, but then it dissolved though the caresses continued.

He knew the second he came, too fast but unable to hold back. His body was shaking with such force that the bark threatened to dig its way into his over sensitised skin. He clung to the tree helplessly, succumbing to pleasure fully. His release glistened in the moonlight, and he rolled over.

Amidst softness he felt a relentless pounding, and dazedly he reached down to brush a hand against his groin. He was warm. Warm and hard. With no awareness of the world around him, he began stroking himself, loosely trying to surface. He slid his fingers up and down his swollen length, his mind too far astray to consider it in depth.

He knew his sensitive spots, knew how to pull back the skin in the motion that gave him the most pleasure. He arched upwards slightly as his thumb brushed against the slit at the tip and he was enveloped by his own soft moan that spilled from his lips.

A sheen of sweat graced his brow as he strove to climax. Hazy memories filled his mind but he could not tell them apart or name them. Small silver stars invaded his vision and he increased his speed. A burning sensation that was both blissful and unbearable was building low in his belly and the first drops of his essence wet his fingers. Once more he brushed against the slit and felt a tidal wave of lust wash over him. He came to the sound of his own cry that resonated in the air around him.

Slow was the process of waking up. Deep sleep was reluctant to let him go but eventually he surfaced and opened his eyes. He lay in his bed, on his stomach, and his sheets were twisted and damp.

Sweat covered his body and his shirt had ridden up above his waist. With something akin to surprise mingled with humiliation he realised he had spilt himself while sleeping. His skin was sticky and sensitive.

Confused he rolled onto his back, silently telling himself it was not so strange. But it somehow made him feel uncomfortable, reminding him of his younger days when desire was not restrained by logic.

He cast a glance out the window. It was not yet dawn and mist lay heavily upon the grass.

Faramir tried to go back to sleep.

Tuilë 29

Anor had risen above the treetops when he finally made it into the dining hall. Though he had bathed, Faramir imagined he could still feel the sweat clinging to his body and it upset him. Unable to figure out the reason for this uneasiness of his body’s doings – and possibly the longing that was the root of the problem – he tried to shake off the feeling as best he could, resolving to focus on breakfast to begin with and today’s work after that.

He usually ate alone if no one was staying with him. Damrod was busy with the piece of land he had acquired during winter’s final days, and Mablung seldom stayed away from his home after he married. Maelir would not share any more breakfasts with him.

He was so used to this by now that when Aragorn appeared in the doorway, he nearly dropped his teacup.

“Faramir.” Aragorn greeted him with a smile. He looked more rested and his cheeks had gained some colour. Yet there was a wavering uncertainty in his voice as he spoke, as if his confidence had fled him and left him in doubts of his own person. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No, of course not!” He firmly set down his cup and got to his feet. “I was… I am used to being alone, that is all.”

“You need not rise for me,” said Aragorn as he stepped into the room. “Please, Faramir, do sit down.”

He sat down.

The King was casually dressed in a simple green tunic and leggings. The deep green shade suited him well, Faramir found himself thinking as he watched Aragorn approach the table. His wavy, dark hair was still a bit damp, looking like it had recently been washed.

“Have you eaten?” He would not have asked if Aragorn’s hair did not imply that he too had woken up late.

“I have not,” said his guest. “It seems I was tired enough to sleep until now,” he added after a pause, confirming Faramir’s theory.

“Yea,” he nodded but found no other words. It was obvious that he was having breakfast which in turn made it clear that he had not risen at dawn.

He found a servant instead and ordered him to bring the King what he desired – a request that proved to be very modest when uttered.

Silence enfolded them as they waited. Faramir felt uneasy continuing with his meal when Aragorn still expected his.

Had it always been this difficult? In the Houses of Healing Aragorn had saved him from the promise of a certain death and immediately Faramir had felt a connection to him. He had promised to serve the future King, and when the King came into his own, he promised to serve him as such. They spoke of many things then: of Boromir and of Denethor’s death by his own hand. If Aragorn was surprised at seeing the lack of deep emotion in Faramir he did not show it and he asked no questions. They spoke of the future and of matters of state. Seldom or never did they mention their own hopes or dreams. Conversation tended to stay within strict, but unmentioned, boundaries.

Faramir spoke to Éowyn instead and she became his rock. She too had seen much grief and despair despite her young age, and they found plenty of common ground. For many weeks they had talked about everything and anything they could think of and they took comfort in each other. With burning cheeks Faramir silently admitted his attraction to his own sex, refusing to look at her as he spoke. Then he felt slender arms embracing him and a chaste kiss pressed to his cheek.

‘I shall not have to worry that you are falling for me then,” she had smiled.

Then it was her turn to admit that maybe, just maybe, she found Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, ‘agreeable’, and her cheeks flushed as brightly as Faramir’s had done only moments earlier.

The memory always made him smile. It did so also this time and Aragorn looked curiously at him from his place
across the table.

“What lightens your heart so, if I may ask?”

Faramir shook his head. “Memories,” he sighed.

“And then they make you sigh?” said Aragorn, raising his eyebrows.

Faramir laughed softly. “Fond memories,” he clarified. “Of days when things were simpler.”

“Be careful, Faramir. You are young yet. Do not let the hands of melancholy grasp you before you turn at least seventy.”

He looked up just in time to see a shadow pass over Aragorn’s face. It disappeared quickly, as if it had never existed at all, but he was sure it had been there. He nodded. “I will try to heed your words, my lord.”

Silence stretched between them again after that and it was not broken by the arrival of Aragorn’s breakfast.

My lovelies, I know you have been waiting but now the time has come: the infamous armchairs are back ;)

Chapter Five – Conversation

The day passed by – literally – in a reluctant cloud of smoke. The mist had lingered long into the hours of day and the dew was slow to dry and leave the grass to be heated by Anor’s weak light. Dismayed and weary, Faramir sighed at the smoking pile of twigs and leaves that he was trying to set on fire, knowing very well that the clouds looming in the western sky did not bring good news. He gave his smoking load a shove, but his boot only came away more soiled and no flames sprang up.

‘Come now..!’ He glanced around, more or less beseeching, but there was only a faint disinterest floating about.

He gave up when the first drops of rain, carried by a chill wind, fell to the trampled grass and efficiently killed all remnants of glowing embers. The weather changed quickly after that: the skies darkened and the falling raindrops grew heavier. Faramir, who had dressed with the previous days’ sunshine in mind, pulled his hood over his head and retreated.

The ground was greedily drinking of the rain in a way that seemed very strange considering the many inches of snow that had fallen last winter. Now and then, laughter echoed among the trees but Faramir heeded it not as he rushed towards the house. Rejoicing at this sudden change was not his greatest priority as his boots sunk down in the soft soil that was transforming into mud. His hands grew cold instantly and the winds threw themselves at him most callously.

The race to shelter was a short one, though. But no more had he stepped inside before a roll of thunder drowned out the singing of the rain.

He toed off his boots and left them by the doors. His light cloak was soaked through and he left that one too by the entrance to dry. He was not one to leave his belongings scattered about his house – he knew he could be orderly beyond reason – but carrying a dripping cloak all the way to his chambers would do the floors no good. Raking a hand through his hair, he went in search of a basin of warm water.

It became difficult to tell the time. Afternoon blended with early evening slowly but gradually. The house was quiet.

There were many questions that Faramir could ask himself as he sat staring into the fire in the small sitting-room next to the dining hall. And not only could he ask what his heart was silently dwelling on, but here also was the chance to pose questions to the world around him – to any powers willing to listen and give advice.

He sat perfectly still, in front of the fire. Ironic really, considering his fruitless attempts at starting one in the woods before. The rain fell incessantly and persistently.

Issues such as power.

What powers did a neglected son of a cunning man possess?

Faramir knew more about his father than Denethor would have wanted. During those days of oppression and Darkness, the people of the White City saw the strange lights that at times glowed within the Steward’s walls, coming from some remote chamber, high up in the Tower. It was not the light of hope that glimmered, indeed not. It filled the hearts of many with an eerie feeling of discomfort and dread.

Faramir knew it – he had seen it, felt it.

He could not tell what caused that light, only that it etched lines into his father’s face and made him suspicious and mistrustful, capricious and dangerous. It made him powerful – and those around him weaker.

His own power was nothing to his father’s. It did not transform his eyes into shining orbs of ice cold steel, and his influence over other people did not increase, even though it mingled with his blood just as perfectly as his father’s did in him.

Maybe if he had been similar to Denethor, he would have been loved.

The irony was of course plainly visible. Boromir, the adored first born, knew naught of these things. He was a warrior through and through, a man who better understood the ways of the dancing sword than those of the meddling mind. Still Faramir loved him, and his passing had grieved him for Boromir was a man of worth, and a proud citizen of Gondor.

Gondor, who cried for her lost son for many nights and the rain wet the white stone of the Tower.

Faramir did not turn to his father then, knowing that he would be met with disdain. And he knew it should not be so, but a part of him blamed Boromir for being so cherished and precious.

His power never suggested that he should avenge his own childhood, and it never sought to challenge Denethor. It simply waited for the time when Faramir could succumb to it and in doing so, grow stronger. That time had come some five years ago and now he was here, happier but still without the love he admitted he longed for. Love for another man, that was, as much of his love was already given to those that were unseen.

His musings so enchanted him that he did not notice he was no longer alone. The call of a low voice brought him out of his musings and confused he looked up.

“Faramir?” Aragorn was standing by his chair and there was a softness in his features that was new. “Forgive me, I seem to interrupt you always.”

Faramir shook his head, letting images of old flee his mind. “No,” he said slowly as another wave of rain crashed against the window-glass. “You are not interrupting.”

A soft smile crossed Aragorn’s features. “You were deep in thought, I could see that, but I confess to being a little lonely… And I thought perhaps you could offer me some company.”

He still spoke with such care, choosing his words well and keeping his voice down. Faramir could not remember when, or if, he had ever seen him like this, ever before. He suddenly felt words coming to him that he had not found appropriate to utter yesterday.

“My lord, I am not asking you to tell me the purpose of your visit, but I would be grateful to know to which extent you wish to be left alone.”

Aragorn’s smile faltered a little and his shoulders dropped. “I am sorry…” He glanced at the armchair beside Faramir’s. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Sinking down into his seat, Aragorn sighed. “I should have dealt with this smoother, I know that. I wished to come away from the City for many reasons… I am not sure I am suited well for kingship, but I will not burden you with this.” He paused and met Faramir’s gaze, and there was earnestness in that look. “I miss the woodlands and… I find that there are few whose company I enjoy in Minas Tirith. Do not misunderstand me, Faramir, for you are a son of that place, but its walls hold not much…”

“Warmth,” concluded Faramir, giving a small smile. “You may say whatever you wish, Aragorn.”

Perhaps he would have taken it back, but the usage of Aragorn’s real name instead of any title seemed to please him. Faramir bit back the excuse that was to immediately follow the slip.

“It is long now since I left Minas Tirith for Ithilien. I love the people but not the city they dwell in,” he said instead, searching Aragorn’s face for any delayed disapproval.

The other man, however, displayed none of this. He nodded thoughtfully, his dark hair catching the light of the fire and gleaming in the dark evening. Faramir idly wondered if it was soft to the touch, only partly aware that that was probably not a proper thought.

When Aragorn spoke next, he did it with even more care. “I knew not you lived alone…”

There was an underlying question in his words and Faramir hesitated, unsure of how much to tell. “Yes,” he said. “For some time Damrod – you may remember him from the War – dwelt here as well, aiding in the work and such, but now he has found both a home and a woman to love and so I am by myself.”

“A Ranger was he not?” Aragorn queried and Faramir confirmed it with a nod.

Inevitably though, Faramir’s words would lead Aragorn to wonder at something else, but he could not have spoken differently and remained faithful to the truth.

Aragorn smiled suddenly. It was not the bright smile Faramir knew from years before, but a more sombre version, almost bordering on apologetic.

“And you, Faramir? You have a beautiful home but have found no woman to love?”

He made it sound so very strange and Faramir shifted uncomfortably; he had devoted much time to his house, creating that which he had missed during his childhood. Love came not as easily.

There was a choice before him now. Drawing a deep breath, he felt again the exhaustion that was the result of hiding one’s true identity settling on his shoulders. At some point enough was enough, surely?

“No, and it is highly unlikely I ever will,” he said, looking into the fire. “In fact, I can safely say that will never happen.”

He waited. Aragorn did not reply at once and he refused to speculate as to why.

“You are telling me that you fall not for women.” It was a statement spoken softly, not a question.

Faramir nodded. “It is so. I prefer men as partners, lovers…” His cheeks warmed slightly at the last word.

“Exclusively?”

He forced himself to look at Aragorn. The King was regarding him calmly and he appeared neither angry nor disgusted.

“Yea, exclusively,” he said, still nervous but feeling lighter and a bit proud of himself too for not telling any of the lies that so easily slipped from his lips by habit.

“I see.” Aragorn’s grey eyes did not leave him and they held him kindly almost. “I did not mean to pry Faramir, I am sorry.”

At this, the younger man could not help but smile. “You must stop apologising constantly, my lord.”

He was met with such a surprising sound that he was truly shocked. Aragorn’s laughter was warm and genuine.

“Perhaps you are right. Listen, by coming here I did not mean to intrude too much upon your privacy, Faramir, but I mean what I said earlier: I seek some company and though I crave some time alone also, I should very much like to spend time with you.”

And so for the first time since he received Aragorn’s letter, Faramir felt at ease with the situation. “You are most welcome, Aragorn.”

Chapter Six – Visions

The rain continued to fall as the last daylight faded into the dripping woods and was replaced by a heavy dusk. Faramir rose at times to stir the fire or add more wood to the flames, but most of the time he and Aragorn sat in silence, only occasionally wording some random thought that crossed their minds. When he deemed it was late enough, Faramir sent for a light dinner and wine. Somehow, in that stillness, he thought he had understood that Aragorn had no great desire of leaving – or take dinner in a more stylish way. Nevertheless, he made sure.

“That would be alright with you, my lord?”

Aragorn stirred in his chair, and his eyes which had nearly drifted shut focused on Faramir. “Yes, perfectly fine,” he smiled. “I like this room very much… It reminds me of the Hall of Fire in Imladris.” His gaze grew distant for a moment but then he seemed to pull himself together. “I am glad to have found it, even if it is but for a little while.”

Not knowing exactly which words to choose, Faramir hesitated before speaking. “I have never been to the Elven realms, but I am honoured that you find a likeness between this room and one in your childhood home.”

Aragorn’s head dropped back against the back of his chair, but his eyes stayed fixed on Faramir’s face. “Would you like to see Rivendell, Faramir?” His question was tentative, not spoken with too much confidence. “We could travel there after the summer. My brothers… would surely welcome us both.”

It was an offer that made Faramir partially overwhelmed and partially nervous. Also, a certain question was burning in his mind, but he forbade himself to utter it. “I confess I have long wished to journey thither…” he said slowly and cautiously. “But I would not intrude…”

“You would do no such thing,” said Aragorn with more self-assurance as if Faramir’s willingness were the approval he needed. “You are welcome there as my Steward, if nothing else. You have met both Elladan and Elrohir and they think highly of you.”

This was nothing that served to make Faramir less nervous, but he forced a smile to his lips and inclined his head. “I would love to see Rivendell.”

“Perhaps…” Aragorn hesitated. “I could… I could settle some things while there.” His energy changed at that, flowing inwards instead, and Faramir bit his tongue to keep it from betraying his stern will.

The King’s gaze dropped and he sighed. If it was the fire that failed or the growing darkness of evening that caused a new veil to draw across his features, Faramir knew not, but suddenly Aragorn seemed older and wearier.

He leaned forward a little, chastening himself while doing so, and sought to connect with Aragorn. “You business there is your own,” he said softly and the rain outside fell gentler to not drown out his voice.

Aragorn closed his eyes and relaxed a little. His hand was resting on the armrest and in the dull light, the Ring of Barahir glinted invitingly. Faramir could not help that his eyes were drawn to it. Once that piece of jewellery had symbolised a promise and now it was hope manifested and secured. If indeed hope was secured; looking at Aragorn in this moment would suggest otherwise. Still Faramir could not draw his eyes away from the ring and as he watched it, the flames in the fire-placed seemed to dance in a far-off distance and the room slowly dissolved. A silvery glow seeped from the ring and seemed to crawl towards Faramir. He squinted at it, staring as it slid through the air that stood between their chairs and landed on his own armrest.

His breathing grew shallower as he watched and the world dimmed around him. He was aware only of the silver light that lingered for a moment on the fabric and then brushed against his own hand, sending a ripple across his skin.

It fingered his hand gently, curiously. Mesmerised, Faramir let it slip through his fingers and steal across his palm. He did not move but simply waited to see where this would take him.

It came not as a surprise to him when Aragorn’s hand slowly reached out for his own and gingerly closed the distance between them.

Faramir let himself be held; dazed he felt Aragorn’s skin meet his own and fingertips draw small circles upon it. Aragorn’s hand sent a wave of warmth washing over him and it left him calm and peaceful. Thus Aragorn held him while the silver light surrounded both their hands, continuously flowing forth from the ring.

He saw his own skin mingle with Aragorn’s, visible beneath the haze of silver that lay over it. Yet Aragorn’s touch grounded him and he was not let go, in more ways than one. He was connected, open.

A sudden noise from the doorway behind him broke through his dizzied state of mind and Faramir unwillingly looked up. A servant had entered with their dinner.

Aragorn was standing by the window, deep in thought.

Faramir could see for himself how the rain had ceased to fall, and how the mist rose from the grass to meet the night.

“Thank you.”

Faramir looked up from his wine-glass and met Aragorn’s grey eyes. His guest seemed more at ease now and dinner had been a fairly comfortable affair despite the long silences. Faramir, in desperate need of saying something had asked for news from Minas Tirith but he suspected it was rather obvious he cared not much for it in the end.

Occasionally the Ring of Barahir gleamed in the firelight and Faramir felt his skin tingle.

That which was not, marked him and he was lost in it.

Aragorn smiled.

“I am sorry, my lord?”

“Thank you, Faramir,” repeated Aragorn. “I needed this very much.”

He nodded as Aragorn rose from his seat and glanced towards the door. “I should leave you now to find some sleep.”

“Let me escort you,” Faramir found himself saying. “My chambers are not far from your room,” he added quickly, setting his glass down on the small table that had been produced for them.

Aragorn said nothing but waited for him to rise and together they left the sitting-room.

The spring nights up until now had been clear and since the days grew longer, by habit the hallways were only dimly lit. A bluish light floated through the window-glass and filled the open spaces. Clouds hindered the stars from shining down upon the gardens and no moon could be seen either.

“Your house is quiet,” said Aragorn as they walked along a corridor, only inches apart but not touching.

“I never knew…” Faramir tried to consider this. “Perhaps it is so. I like it this way.”

“I am not complaining,” Aragorn assured him quickly. “It is peaceful… Different form the Tower.”

“It was my intention.” The words slipped out of him before he knew it but there they were: floating in the air before them, too late to take back.

“I understand you.”

Faramir frowned, but kept his gaze trained on the row of windows they were passing by. “You do?”

“Yes,” said Aragorn simply.

Perhaps it was nearing midnight. There was not even expectancy in the air; Faramir could only sense the lack of presence and that would have unsettled him had he been entirely focused on his surroundings. As it was though, he was not, for Aragorn’s presence was far too tangible to be ignored.

They turned left into a new hallway and soon they stood outside Aragorn’s door upon which shadows played and formed a complex pattern. They came to an inevitable stop and Faramir was sure he felt his feet sinking down into the floor. He knew Aragorn was watching him and he slowly raised his eyes to meet those of his King.

They appeared darker in the shadows but there was also brightness in them, coming from a source deep down in the grey. That glow had encouraged hundreds of warriors and repelled much darkness. It was a light to be drawn to and Faramir felt himself sway before it.

“Faramir…” Aragorn’s low voice was nearly swallowed up by the night. “I…” He drew a long breath but no other words came and he exhaled, his eyes not revealing his thoughts.

Faramir watched as the blue shifted around them as the clouds in the sky were caressed by some wind. He knew not what he wanted, and he could not read Aragorn’s mind. He should leave, but was unable to.

He tried to breathe evenly. His heart’s beating was undetectable and again came to him the sensation of Aragorn’s hand holding his, shrouded in a silvery haze. Unconsciously he lifted his hand to his face and ran his fingers along his chin and lower lip, as if only another part of his body could confirm the impossible knowledge his skin held.

And Aragorn was still watching him, with his lips slightly parted and his eyes melting into shadow but for the light that was in them.

Silently Faramir turned from the door and began walking down the hallway.

Somehow he knew the mist came from the North, but its intention he could not determine.

Sorry! I’ve been away on holiday. I hope you’re all still patiently waiting, for, you see, at least one of these men is finally getting a bit creative!

Chapter Seven – Ideas

He knew when the door slid open behind him. The movement was so precise, so perfect, that it worried him not at all. He lay waiting in anticipation, and he heard the rush of silk as it slid from shoulders down to the floor.

The waiting in itself was arousing; he knew he was sought out, chosen above all others and this knowledge his heart cherished as his body prepared.

The bed dipped as he was joined by another, the one who desired him and would come to him on a night such as this one. Yes, he was desired, but he knew he himself wielded a mighty weapon. He never spoke of this, but it was so.

Strong hands held him and slid down his side and stomach. He wore nothing, nor did his visitor. Soft kisses were left on his neck, his cheek, and they melted into his skin.

His lover was already aroused; no doubt he had spent time in his own bed, visualising what he would do now, pleasuring himself as images of his younger partner flooded his mind.

Faramir knew this as it was what he did himself.

He swayed backwards and he earned himself and decisive stroke of a determined hand. His length pounded in his lover’s grasp and he exhaled deeply. His muscles were relaxed and he was filled without hesitation. Little by little, his lover pushed inside, his blunt head sliding into the heat. Faramir lay still, not pushing. He thoroughly enjoyed the sensation of being so completed by another.

When his lover had sheathed himself almost fully within, Faramir surprised him by rolling onto his stomach, taking the other man with him. He lay on top of Faramir, his weight a welcome burden, but it took them both some time to adjust. Then Faramir felt his lover’s arousal begin to push into him, even deeper now, and he lost his breaths to the black night, swelling further in response.

He was pressed into the mattress mercilessly, time and time again, but this also he cherished. He would soon reach his peak, but his lover would continue nonetheless. He threw his head to the side to catch some air as the slick shaft was buried in his body once more. It hit his sensitive spot without hesitation, and Faramir climaxed suddenly, crying out words he knew made little sense.

He lay spent as his body still accepted his lover’s thrusts. A hand came up to brush the hair out of his face and kisses were left on his cheeks in an unchecked commotion. The moment hot release coated the insides of his channel, Aragorn drove his tongue into Faramir’s mouth.

Tuilë 30

Hundreds of silvery droplets of water covered the table top. The surface was in severe danger of drowning but Faramir could not care less. He threw his hands into the basin and ruthlessly scooped up a new handful of water and splattered it onto his face. His shirt was drenched but this did not bother him either. And if this was not enough, he could always step outside into the pouring rain.

The morning was not a bright one, and it was not old. A crash of thunder had woken him a half-hour ago but Faramir grimly suspected that the telltale heaviness in his groin would have done so anyway, no matter the way of the weather.

It was idiocy – plain madness – but he imagined he walked with some difficulty, so vivid had his dream been. If he did not watch his too creative mind, he would soon claim he was pregnant as well.

Faramir lashed out at the basin once again and the floor glumly accepted the extensive dose of water it received.

Whatever was the reason for this? Faramir rested his hands on the table and surrendered to miserable pondering. He was not falling for Aragorn no matter what his mind conjured up when he was not in control of it.

It was now some time since Faramir decided he ought to stop considering himself less worthy of things other people deemed completely normal and natural. No, it had not been easy at first, but in the end – if he wanted to lead a healthy life – he had realised this was his only option.

However, this fact did not mean that life could not be complicated – and bringing other people into it was always complicated. Faramir had made some decisions and they were important.

A King for a lover?

Faramir left the basin in peace and pulled off his shirt. Scars still ‘adorned’ his skin, to use his father’s old expression, but they were inevitably fading. He had built some more muscles in the woods, but undoubtedly that was also connected to him eating properly these days. ‘Properly’ according to him, that was. Damrod was of another opinion still.

Clothes were an obvious requirement but Faramir paid no more attention to what he dressed in than what was absolutely necessary. He was not going to impress the rain at any rate. He chose a heavy pair of boots and was about to reach for the doorknob when he caught his own image in the looking-glass.

Issues such as choices.

He was born in the White City and had lived there for years that now seemed even longer than they had when he was still his father’s son and the little brother of someone who was already great man, or at least close to becoming one.

Stone. Everywhere there was stone. People spoke of the glory of Minas Tirith, but Faramir saw none of it. In his younger days, his brother would climb to the top of the Tower of Guard, and in ecstasy throw out his arms and laugh the wind in his face. When Boromir grew older he became more solemn and though he still climbed the Tower, nowhere to be seen was his remarkable joy of youth. And the stone weighed down Faramir’s shoulders and his heart.

Then he met with the wild lands of Ithilien and that very heart was lost, if not wholly than partially. The woods, rivers and clearings spoke to him in a way that was entirely new to him, and gradually this connection between man and wilderness intensified and was finally cemented as his blood from an orc-inflicted wound for the first time seeped into the earth. From that day, Faramir was bound to Ithilien as the land depended on him.

Few people – and not many knew in the first place – understood this, and fewer still were the ones who would accept and approve. Maelir knew none of it and perhaps that was the main reason for why Faramir had chased him from his bed. No, Faramir could not live without love but his vows were to his land and not to another human. If he never found a life partner, at least he had fulfilled his destiny as Guardian, Keeper and Protector. It was only one of many choices he had made, but it was the most important.

He let out a small sigh and left his bedroom.

But indeed the ways of the Gods are strange, reflected Faramir later that afternoon when the rain fell softly like snow on no wind and made the green leaves glisten of life. It was no use even trying to light a fire, but he had built a minor mountain of old branches and smaller twigs and stems, waiting to be set aflame.

He had worked himself first into a rage of an unknown kind that was over almost before it had ignited. The reason for it awakening within he knew not, but then he did not search for its source either, stubbornly ignoring any suggestions regarding dreams that his mind graciously provided him with. Then tiredness had taken over but he had swiftly dispelled that from his body. Now determination had slid into his mind and he turned over a new idea in his head, inspecting it from every angle he could think of.

He tried to deny that he had already made up his mind, but knew it was futile even though the consequences of this latest decision of his were unknown. Still, this was why he finished his work earlier than usual, returned to his rooms to bathe and change, and then, a little later, stood in front of a door and drawing a strengthening breath, lifted his hand and knocked.

“Enter.”

A small grin briefly swept over Faramir’s face at the tone used. Years of training certainly could change you, he thought sardonically. His father would have approved, no doubt.

He pushed open the door gently and was met with a rather rare sight that caused him to blink uncertainly. The King of Gondor lay, barefooted and dressed only in leggings and a thin shirt, diagonally on the bed, reading what looked like an unusually dull book, judging by its dust coloured pages. What was more, he lay on his back with his feet at the headboard so that when Faramir stepped inside the room, he only tipped his head back further and smiled in a peculiar upside-down sort of way.

“Faramir.”

“My lord…”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, downwards.

“I am interrupting you?” Faramir queried, more affected by this sight than maybe he would have liked.

“On the contrary,” said Aragorn, still smiling. “You are my saviour it seems.” He dropped the heavy volume on the bed beside him. “It is my own so when I say it is mind-numbing I will not insult your library.”

“Then I will not allow you to secretly leave it there before you return to the City.” To his own surprise, Faramir found himself laughing as Aragorn threw him a mischievous glance. Somehow it lightened his heart to see the King so at ease and relaxed. Also it was a good omen.

“Ah, but you cannot constantly keep watch,” said Aragorn. “You shall never know what happened.” Self-assured he patted the book. “So my friend, what brings you here? And how can you be so dry when I am sure I saw you heading out this morning?”

It was silly, but Faramir found the idea of Aragorn taking notice of his actions a pleasant one. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“I come with a proposition,” he said, searching the older man’s face for any reaction. “It may involve some rain, but I am sure you will survive it.”

Aragorn showed no sign of anything, he only listened and continued to watch from his position on the bed.

Faramir drew another breath. “There is a tavern down in the village. It will be full of upset workers cursing the rain and the singing is nothing to brag about, but the food is warm and the ale is brewed with devotion I hear.” He fell silent, unsure now of how to continue.

“You ‘hear’?” Another smile, gentler this time, was painted across Aragorn’s features.

“I do not come there very often,” Faramir shrugged, suddenly remembering with perfect clarity all the times he had chosen to stay at home instead.

“But you are going there tonight?”

“I am,” Faramir said slowly. “And I would enjoy some company… Would you come with me? My lord,” he added partly out of habit and partly because he felt he needed a proper ending to his request.

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment until he nodded in an awkward way against the covers. “Yes,” he said before he sat up and ran a hand through his dark hair, smoothing it down.

Faramir saw the muscles playing beneath the shirt as Aragorn reached for a discarded tunic. It was nothing he had never seen before, but a shadow of the former heaviness in his body came back to him and images from his dream glittered at the edges of his conscience.

And he acknowledged this and did nothing to chase it away.

Chapter Eight – Desires

Aragorn was surviving, but both he and Faramir were ending up at least partly drenched. The roads were generally good, but here and there the rain had battered them hard and reduced them to large pools of mud, and as the rain kept on falling from above, there was only one possible outcome.

“Valar!” cried Aragorn at last when he for the third time slid into a new puddle that painted his black boots a not very charming brown.

“I…” Faramir took a step to the right, trying to not trip over a fallen branch and simultaneously avoiding Aragorn’s puddle, “… somehow doubt that…” he picked his way forward carefully in the growing dusk, “… calling the Gods… Damn!” He bent down and groaned.

“What was that?” If there was a teasing note in Aragorn’s voice, Faramir chose to ignore it.

“More mud,” he grumbled and was pleased to hear Aragorn unexpectedly chuckling to his left.

“So tell me, Faramir,” said Aragorn a few minutes later when they had made it past the misery that supposedly was a part of the road, “how much longer?”

Faramir looked up. He pointed. “Just around the bend. You can actually see the lights through the trees.”

“Ah, yes!” Aragorn nodded. “Think not that I have not appreciated this walk, but, well, one cannot walk forever.”

Faramir felt a sudden childish urge to scoop up some of that mud and throw it at his King as if he were his brother or friend – or even lover, but he restrained himself and settled for a smile. “We have the walk back to look forward to as well,” he said.

“Should I live to tell the tale, it will be recorded and stored in your library.”

Faramir made no answer to this, but he felt lighter as they approached the heavy, wooden tavern door. This profound change in Aragorn appealed to him very much though he did not know its origin. Maybe the way in which they were conversing and interacting would cause other ideas to well up in his mind – he was no fool and he knew the signs – but somehow he was not in the mood for repelling such thoughts.

He paused for a moment with his hand outstretched, palm against the wood, meaning to push open the door and provide both him and Aragorn with much needed shelter from the constant downpour. Looking at it from this angle – if it indeed was a new one – he had never truly quenched any desires. Yes, he had postponed certain things, he had suppressed a few ideas and wishes, but in the end he had achieved and accomplished more than he, during his childhood years, had ever imagined possible. He had hidden from view, exploring his passion in the depths of night, or far away on some journey that allowed him respite from his father’s piercing gaze, and perhaps that was cowardly, but he had done it. He had learnt a lot this way, and only occasionally, in the bleak hours of dawn, did bitterness taunt him and toy with images of him also stealing kisses and flirting within the ever-watching walls of the Citadel. But no, that had been his brother’s privilege.

“Faramir?” Aragorn was watching him with a questioning expression. Around them night was falling and the torches sizzled in the rain. They cast some light on Aragorn’s face but faint shadows played there too as his hood held most of the light at bay. “Do you need some help?”

Without further ado, Aragorn covered Faramir’s hand with his own and then gently pushed. During one glorious moment Faramir was trapped between the door and Aragorn and he knew only two things: the first was that the wood was soaked through and cold to the touch, and the second was that Aragorn also was soaked through, but that he minded not that touch at all.

They were met with the type of welcoming clamour that seem to, in certain blessed taverns, inhabit the very wood they are built of. It is a warm, heartfelt greeting that at once ensures you that you are safe and that you may stay for as long as you wish – if there is enough silver in your pocket. If not, then you may at the very least leave with a full stomach and fond memories of good conversation.

Faramir pushed his hood back and in the crowd he spotted at least three of his former Rangers at one table. Wax candles and a roaring fire in the hearth supplied the folk with warmth and light, and drenched cloaks hung steaming across benches and a few larger chairs. Together with these, long tables took up most of the space. Some were pushed together, easing conversation for larger parties, and some stood by themselves, signalling – as long as you were sober enough to pay attention – that other people wished to be seated with no strangers.

They made for the back by unspoken agreement. Aragorn let his hood fall further forward and so his face was nearly completely hidden from view. Faramir’s appearance was probably better known in this place, but there was no reason for why the King of Gondor should announce his presence.

The scent of roasted meat and spices hung low in the stuffy air, tantalisingly mixed with that of ale. Faramir chose one of the few smaller tables that was placed near the wall and simply dropped down on a bench unceremoniously. He watched Aragorn do the same, but opposite him and they both ended up facing each other in the glow of yet another candle.

He meant to say something, but was hindered by the peculiar gleam in the dark eyes that gazed out at him from beneath the woollen hood. Like this, Aragorn seemed almost a ghost to him, some kind of phantom, shrouded in dark mystery. Faramir swallowed, uneasy, as the exaggerated drama of his own thought nearly made him blush.

Aragorn nodded slowly. “This was a good idea.”

“It is alright, then?” Faramir heard himself asking and was pleased that at least his voice did not waver.

An odd smile swept across Aragorn’s lips. Faramir felt sure he had never seen one quite like it, and in a flash he grasped something of what Aragorn must have been when he was solely a Ranger – not an aspiring King, not even a potential one, if such a time had ever been.

“Perfect,” was all that Aragorn said.

Somewhere along the way Faramir had lost some of his control and he knew it. He could not be more sober and already desire was gaining on rational thought. Random images from last night’s dream, and maybe other dreams, rushed through his mind and though they did not stay with him, they left him marked and… expectant?

“Faramir!”

The loud call momentarily drowned out the rest of the noise, and two seconds later a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

“Faramir, my friend!” Damrod was grinning down at him, eyes suspiciously bright. “This ‘s indeed a surprise! I had…” he leaned down and his grin was replaced by a most serious stare that would soon give way to some more of that alcohol-induced grinning, “… had given up hope, Faramir.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “All them nights alone,” he grieved, not bothering to clarify whether he spoke of himself or of Faramir, though it was rather obvious. “Alone… But now!” He straightened and briefly his grip on Faramir’s shoulder tightened. “Now you’re here!” He was back to grinning.

Faramir smiled wryly up at him. “Always perceptive, my friend.”

“Always,” agreed Damrod, trying a serious look that he soon rejected. He stood for a moment, staring at Faramir and then he frowned. “I should tell you, though…” He swayed forward a little, but kept his balance. “That others are also here,” he finished with a conspiratorial wink.

“Others?”

“Yea, y’ know… others.” Damrod fixed him with his stare as if meaning to convey his message silently.

Faramir waited patiently.

“He’s o’er there. Talkin’ to someone… I could not see to whom.” Waving a hand in an unspecified direction, Damrod made a face. “You ‘ad best not see it. Or do so, if you ‘avn’t changed your mind.” He frowned once more and blinked. “Y’ ended things with him, you said?”

“Yes… yes.” Faramir swallowed hard as a little heat crept into his cheeks. An awkward feeling settled low in his stomach and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “He has no obligations towards me… He may see whoever he fancies.” It was only when this feeling was properly in place and these words were spoken that he understood that his uneasiness had less to do with Maelir than the man currently sharing his table.

He chanced a glance at Aragorn – and now he did blush fully. The King’s eyes were on him, seeking answers to these new riddles.

“It is over,” he finished lamely, wondering why on earth he was speaking more to Aragorn than Damrod, or even himself.

Towering above him, Damrod nodded decisively. “Well, I just thought you should know!” he declared quite clearly and gave Faramir’s shoulder an encouraging slap. “But I see you ‘ave company…” He turned his interest to the stranger Faramir had brought with him.

Aragorn pushed his hood back a few inches and the candlelight sought its opportunity: its warm glow drifted across Aragorn’s features and Faramir felt something else inside him giving in.

“Damrod,” he began uncertainly, “this is…”

“Oh.”

Faramir looked up at his friend. Damrod’s eyes had widened considerably and he was staring at Aragorn like he was being offered a sight of the Valar.

“Oh,” he repeated and managed a slight bow. “I see.”

Aragorn cleared his throat. “Damrod the Ranger, trusted friend of the Steward of Gondor?” He spoke in a low voice, clear enough to be heard but only so by those addressed.

Damrod nodded numbly, his lips pressed together tightly and his face took on a whitish hue.

“I am pleased to meet you.” Aragorn inclined his head and then leaned back a little. “Will you not join us?”

“It…” said Damrod, “I’m sure you have… matters to discuss, y’ know. I’ll…” he patted Faramir’s shoulder. “Be off, yea.” He nodded once to Aragorn and with an expression of wonder transforming into panic, he dashed from their table.

A breath that Faramir apparently had been holding escaped him and made the candle flame flutter.

“I…” he said, not knowing precisely why he was feeling mortified.

“Faramir.”

He looked up. Aragorn was watching him with an amused expression and kindness in his eyes.

“Whatever you were going to say, please forget it. It is long since I was in any tavern, breathing air that contains life and being spoken to with little formality. Please?”

Faramir nodded slowly. He dismissed his thoughts of doom and straightened in his seat. “Ale?”

“Please,” repeated Aragorn with a broad smile.

As the night progressed the singing commenced and Faramir was proven right. There were the usual songs of maidens catching the eyes of a brave, but – as judged by her father – unworthy man, which ultimately ended with at least one of them, preferably all three, lying dead on the ground by morning. Then there were the songs of war, about victories and celebration, and about returning home – songs that praised ancestry and the land that had raised you. But though these were sung without much elegance, they were sung with passionate, ardent love.

They had shared a large plate laden with meat, cheese, roasted vegetables and some type of smoked fish that Aragorn had quickly discovered pleased Faramir the most. The Steward had tried to object, but Aragorn was quite determined and so the food was divided between them with some fuss but in the end, satisfactorily.

Faramir’s eyes strayed often to Aragorn’s face and though he was well aware of it, he could not stop himself from looking. After his third jug of ale he found it more difficult to name the type of energy that was seeping from his companion’s form.

They did not speak very much and this had troubled him at first, but after a while the silence had grown more comfortable he thought. It was odd, he reflected, how much more confident he was in his own home. Coming here meant stepping out into the world again and more or less into unknown territory. He tried to reach out for something to hold on to, but he was only met with the bustling and buzzing of the crowd. It made him uncertain, and his surroundings seemed to shift around him.

Outside, behind the heavy curtain of clouds, the sliver of the waning moon would ride low in the heavens. Its silvery light would not be of much help to any wanderers even if the sky were clear. These days, all that embraced Emyn Arnen at night was mist.

A lazy mist that embedded the woods in a treacherous softness. It spread over the fields and floated through the meadows, and yet it did more than so: it wrapped itself around Faramir’s senses and sought out his dreams. It told him he was safe – calmness was its first gift – but then it stirred something inside him that was not calm at all. But when he awoke, all was but a dream.

He lifted his head and met Aragorn’s searching gaze. The King rose to stand and it seemed so natural that Faramir followed him, dropping coins that glimmered of silver in the candlelight.

There were people in their way, laughing, dancing, but Aragorn skilfully wove his way around them. Faramir was one step behind and though he knew his feet touched the floor, he was dazed. By the door, just before he stepped through, he spotted Maelir and caught his eye. The young man began smiling in the way he always did when he wanted something; it was a smile that started with a delicate twist of his head and steadily grew into a brilliant show of passion. Faramir lessened his pace as he was captured by that initial spark Maelir sent forth.

It took him one second to hesitate and one to choose, and Faramir followed Aragorn into the night.

The air was cold and heavy with wetness. The torches were still burning but no rain assaulted them now. Compact silence hit Faramir like the blow of a blade after the rowdy singing inside. He heard the door close behind him and took another step, but he had done no more than that before Aragorn turned and with a calculated move, spun them both around and away from the light and into shadow.

Faramir was pushed against the tavern wall and felt air rush out of his lungs as Aragorn’s mouth descended on his and claimed him in a scorching kiss. Desperate lips pressed against his own and he greedily tasted them. He pulled Aragorn closer and hands frantically tugged at his clothing. Faramir opened his mouth almost at once and for a second the onslaught of Aragorn’s tongue was more than he could handle. He was burning in the cold night, sure that he was losing his sanity as Aragorn’s hands finally gave up their attempt to find skin and instead went straight for his groin.

Surprised, Faramir bucked and caused Aragorn to growl deep in his throat. The older man fell against him, his hand trapped between them, and Faramir used the moment to drive his tongue deep into Aragorn’s mouth. He tasted meat and ale, and none of the pipe-weed that Rangers seemed to crave. His head swam as Aragorn scraped his teeth against his bottom lip and performed a swirl of his own tongue, setting Faramir’s fleeing senses aflame. With a gasp he ended the kiss and air rushed inside his lungs once more.

As his head cleared, he no longer felt Aragorn against him, and no more did he stand pressed against the wall; he blinked in the darkness. A couple of feet away, stood the King, his hood concealing more than the night ever could – all but the gleam in his eyes that were fixed on Faramir.

Steadily, the mist crawled across the trampled grass.

Chapter Nine – Knowledge

Tuilë 31

That night Faramir had no dreams. He awoke to vague memories chasing each other across his mind, but he had had no dreams. The morning light filtered through his drawn curtains but he felt heavy and lost in the softness of lingering sleep. Faramir sighed and let go of the waking world.

But dreams or no dreams, sleep would not have him once more and so he lay somewhere in between, sometimes imagining he could taste Aragorn’s lips on his own. And when he shifted and felt the mattress rub against him, he thought he could feel Aragorn’s hand against his flesh – as if it had really happened, as if he could know for sure. As if he desired nothing else.

The walls of his bedchamber were painted in a whitish tone against which the sunlight melted and allowed the room to almost shimmer, thus this room contrasted starkly against the more colourful chambers in the rest of the house. Fabrics of soft browns and greens accompanied the white and though Faramir would never word such an idea aloud, he liked to think of his bedchamber as a small sanctuary, maybe even elvish in kind – if he were to believe the tales that wide-eyed Hobbits told.

During many years, Mithrandir the Istar’s visits to Minas Tirith had been the only joyous occasions he had to look forward to. Mithrandir was one of few – if not the only one – who dared oppose the grim Denethor whose tongue and mind grew more twisted which each passing moon. It was Mithrandir who had introduced Faramir to the ancient lore, taught him some basic Sindarin, and had awakened in him the possibility of living a different life. And then, late at night when he lay in his bed and Ithil, afraid of angering the mighty Steward of Gondor, dared not spill his light over the cold stone floors, Faramir had silently vowed that if he should ever have a house of his own, neither Moon, nor Sun, would ever be shunned from it.

Now, as he lay where he lay, Faramir could not help but remember the question that Aragorn had asked him a couple of days ago – of course he would like to see Rivendell. He had never dared to ask Aragorn any of the questions he harboured, he had never quite managed to summon the courage he needed to admit that he would love to hear more of Aragorn’s legendary childhood home.

But courage was one thing and knowledge was another… even though no one – although they imagined they did – knew..?

Faramir rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. He recalled his own surprise at learning the truth – which he had done from Aragorn himself.

It had been a confusing night, as all nights seemed to be in the aftermath of the War. Faramir was not wholly recovered yet from the influence of the Black Breath, but he had left the Houses of Healing and despite his weariness he was still poring over some document of some kind. The skies were cracking open with the flares of lightning, and the rain came down so heavily that had the battles still continued, most armies would simply have been washed away. The level of activity within the walls of the Tower was maddeningly high. One did not need to be a cynic to suspect that the organisation was less than perfect, but at least people were eager to help.

Faramir had been torn from his reading when Aragorn entered the study with slumped shoulders and eyes that had not closed in sleep for many, many hours.

“There is something I must tell you, Faramir,” he said as he lowered himself into a simple chair opposite his newly appointed Steward. “This knowledge is no secret but it is not spoken of either. However, I would prefer it if you would keep it to yourself for the time being.”

Faramir nodded, saying nothing, still unsure of how to speak to this man whom he had bade the Valar to protect, years before he knew of his actual existence. The low-burning fire cast an eerie light across the King’s face.

‘His legacy must seem a heavy burden tonight,’ reflected Faramir, only seconds before he learnt how truly correct he was.

“You should know I have a son,” said Aragorn simply. “Eldarion.”

He must have seen the surprise flash across Faramir’s face for he nodded. “‘Of the Eldar’… He was born in Imla… in Rivendell, six years ago.”

“And… who..?” Faramir hesitated. He was not sure if it was his place to ask, and yet in its bizarre way, it was matters of state that Aragorn wanted to discuss.

“Arwen, daughter of Elrond Peredhil.” There was a hint of defeat in his voice. “She will remain in Rivendell. As will my son, for now.”

Faramir must fight hard in order to not search Aragorn’s eyes too deeply. His only role was an advisory one: he was to co-govern with the King, he reminded himself, for as long as the King should wish it. But he was unprepared for this. Aragorn was newly crowned and though perhaps someone somewhere had begun considering marriage and heirs, and consequently securing the bloodline of Isildur, he had to admit to not spending one single thought on this subject.

“I see,” he said slowly. “But you, my lord, mean to bring him to Minas Tirith and foster him here?”

Aragorn remained silent and his gaze fell as his thoughts turned inward. Eventually he looked up. “He is my son and, by the grace of the Valar – if that it can be called – he will be King… He is six years old, he knows nothing of this yet. He knows only his home.”

He knows nothing of terror or death.

Thunder shook the walls of the Tower and Faramir understood that he would learn nothing more that night, if ever. He allowed himself to finger the energy that should be nourishing Aragorn’s being, but discovered that its source was nearly depleted. Nothing except for stern will kept another from slipping inside Aragorn’s personal space. Faramir withdrew.

“I will add this fact to the records but nothing more,” he assured the King. Casting a glance through the trembling window-glass he gave a half-smile. “If I may be so bold as to advise you, my lord, I would tell you to take some rest. No more can be done tonight.”

Aragorn stood; his well-worn coat probably shielded him better than he knew himself. “Follow your own advise, Steward Faramir.” A weak smile may, or may not, have ghosted across his lips. “Thank you.”

He left.

The insistent rain that had washed every leaf and twig in Emyn Arnen clean had ceased to fall. Faramir’s boots sank down deep in the mud and he shed his cloak and threw it over his shoulder instead, as it was no use to him when all it did was to gather up the thousands of drops of water that clung to the greenery. The woods had practically exploded in a brilliant firework of greens.

There was a joyous singing all about him; beings unseen eagerly celebrated the living energy in nature where they dwelt. Faramir smiled despite himself as he crossed a small meadow in a hopeless search for any dry wood that would serve him well by the fire. It was a fruitless endeavour most likely, but he enjoyed the walk and the freshness in the air that filled his lungs with new inspiration. The previous night’s blurred ending had no influence over him here.

‘All well?’

A young breeze filtered through the trees and rattled the leaves. Faramir briefly closed his eyes and felt again the connection he had to this place. Rooted he was – much like the oaks and birches, alders and elms.

All well.

Faramir let his thoughts stray as he picked his way through the undergrowth. The grass was high in some places and it brushed against his breeches, drowning them further in rainwater. He let his hands travel over the rough bark of the oaks and he knew they appreciated it and drew comfort from his presence, just like he depended on them to support him. The day would be a long one, but Faramir did not mind. Staying here, where he was safe, in the drenched wood, was more tempting than returning to the house – perhaps more tempting than it should be.

Water…

There had been water last night too… deep, dark pools mirroring the equally dark skies. And the mist lingered between the trees, wrapped against proud stems and weak saplings.

Like liquid… dark waters, were Aragorn’s eyes in the torchlight, and they said nothing.

And Faramir simply did not know.

Shaking his head to clear it, he suspected that was a fruitless endeavour too.

Many hours later he decided to finish his work. An early dusk was sweeping in over the land and it grew steadily chillier. He spread the ashes of his fire and created a wide smoking circle, listening to the final crackles of the embers. As the daylight faded the scene changed and the shadows came creeping forth. As if answering some secret signal, the mist rose from the grass and blended with the evening. Faramir stood still for many long minutes, watching it and sensing the promise that wafted through the silence.

He knew not what this promise consisted of, but he but found himself loosely wondering where Aragorn was, a question he had tried to evade all day. With a sigh, Faramir submitted and closed his eyes.

A new wave of rain had softly fallen around them as they walked back in silence… only water, silence and mist. And a longing born out of something that could just as well have been but a vision or a dream.

Now Faramir performed an act of a similar kind: he returned to the house, washed and ate – all in silence and with his thoughts far away. The sky darkened and some of the clouds drew away and so the glimmering stars were allowed to once more sail over Ithilien.

And so, finally, Faramir was standing by his window, watching the rising crescent moon shoulder the rule that Anor left behind as she sank behind the trees. His white tunic reflected the moonlight and seemed to call to it, just as his soul soared somewhere over his lands.

He let go.

When the discrete knock on the door came, he already knew its purpose. He half-turned towards the door and nodded even before the servant had spoken.

“The King wishes to speak with you, my lord.”

He is in his chamber.

Faramir watched another star light up the night.

He left.

Ready?

Chapter Ten – Release

The corridor lay in darkness. Only a weak silvery light slid across the floor as the waning moon that was now but the slimmest crescent glanced in through the windows. Faramir walked slowly and yet he stood before Aragorn’s closed door sooner than perhaps he had wished. Or maybe he was simply afraid, deep down, not really knowing what the energy speeding through the night air actually wanted with him.

Standing before that door, he ran his palm over the polished wood thoughtfully. It seemed to him now that a previously underlying tension rose from its depths somewhere around him and caught him in an embrace that before had been anticipation but now bordered on nervousness. If he reached out, all he got was his own anxiety swimming around him as if mirroring itself in his own form. Few would guide him now, of this he was quite certain, and so, without postponing, he knocked.

The night greedily drank the noise down and ever so quickly Faramir was left in that pool of complete silence and faint moonlight. Time was slowly turning. It lazed about him in no hurry, teasingly enjoying the dance of the immortals as Faramir perceived it. There exists no such accomplished lover as time, faithful and willing, ever-present, and yet untouchable and impossible to conquer; no one will ever make you yearn, hope and despair such as time does and will do.

Faramir stood in the midst of this, waiting.

When Aragorn called him to enter, he guardedly pushed open the door and stepped inside.

The King was standing by the window, a tall dark shape against the moonlight, with his back to Faramir. No other light was lit in the room – no candles, no lamps – and the long robe that Aragorn wore hid most of his body’s shapes except for his broad shoulders and the hair that gently fell to his shoulders. Without turning around, Faramir shut the door behind him.

My lord.

The night would be a dark one and perhaps dawn would delay, leaving them in this state where thought and instincts grew muddled. Faramir must at first strain to hear when Aragorn softly spoke.

“I have had dreams of late…” he said quietly, and in his voice was a note of wonder but also of defeat ill paired with agony. He still did not move.

“I have had dreams I cannot explain, but I am wishing…”

He began turning and Faramir who could not avert his gaze, watched him while his breathing grew shallower. The moonlight fell upon Aragorn’s hair and no breeze could have moved slower than he did in this moment. As he turned, his robe fell away and Faramir saw naked skin, dully illuminated.

“I am wishing…” Aragorn’s voice lost all strength and yet he continued speaking as he would soon face Faramir fully. “That you would help me.”

With these last words he stopped moving and Faramir was first struck by the raw pain and confusion that desperately shimmered in Aragorn’s grey eyes. Then his gaze was helplessly drawn downwards, past the pale skin of Aragorn’s chest, past his belly and his hips, for in this moment, nothing else claimed his attention but the risen flesh, arching out from Aragorn’s body.

A slow and dull pounding rose within Faramir as the need that flowed from Aragorn’s form finally reached him. He deliberately drew a deeper breath to keep himself grounded, but still the sight affected him and he sensed the night close in on them. And somehow he knew it was too late – far too late – to choose, or wish for, a different path and perhaps, a different fate.

Aragorn said no more as Faramir began crossing the floor, coming closer, moving through the weak white glow that filled the room. Gondor’s Steward said nothing either when he came to stand face to face with his King. Aragorn was breathing softly but this illusion was not powerful enough to hide the torment of his soul. His will was strong though, and kept away the wild panic that threatened to burst forward, but this display of calmness was fragile and would shatter in an instant were it to be challenged.

The last thing Faramir read in his eyes before he sank to his knees before Aragorn was the plea.

He lost some sense of the world as he placed a first kiss on the warm skin of Aragorn’s belly. The older man quivered slightly as Faramir inhaled his scent, keeping his lips near his body, but not touching. He placed a second kiss below the first one, slowly making his way downwards. Faramir knew not well what he was doing, or rather what he was causing, as he marked Aragorn’s skin with his mouth; he held the capacity to fully please a lover, but this was no ordinary man or occasion.

His stubbly chin brushed against Aragorn’s risen member and a sigh sped out into the room, and in Faramir’s mind it echoed all around them for many long moments. He brought his hand up and gingerly encircled the base of Aragorn’s length with careful fingers, watching as the skin darkened a bit further. Softly, longing to taste, Faramir accepted the King’s arousal into his mouth. A long moan, low and anguished, tinged with both fear and joy, washed through him. The pounding in his own body sped up a little and a warm ripple of satisfaction caught hold of him. Faramir let his tongue slide against Aragorn’s erection as his hand held it out to him. He placed another kiss at the tip of the member and used his lips to pull back the skin that hid the head. Generously he laved at it, scraping his teeth against the sensitive skin just a little to intensify the feeling. Aragorn was breathing hard. Small tremors were rushing through him and he shivered in the moonlight. In an attempt to soothe him, make him accept more of this desire that he so clearly fought, Faramir made a humming sound, showing Aragorn that he too liked this, and that they both were allowed to enjoy it.

The King’s hands landed hesitantly on his shoulders but they immediately retracted as Faramir withdrew his mouth for a second, letting the night air cool the burning skin a little, before taking it all in his mouth again. A sharp intake of breath from above set his mind swirling and he repeated the action, causing Aragorn to groan. For the very first time, Aragorn thrust forward, albeit so little that Faramir could not be sure it had happened at all.

His own desire was mounting quickly and he felt his own erection beginning to stretch the material of his leggings. Almost unconsciously, his other hand found its way there and he pressed down a little upon it. If it was this, or something else, that made Aragorn thrust into his mouth a second time, and a bit more forcefully now, he could not tell.

When the shaking of Aragorn’s body intensified, Faramir made sure he kept his mouth firmly around the quivering shaft. He sucked harder and his tongue constantly moved against the skin. He had no further warning before Aragorn emptied himself with a last, desperate moan that he quenched nearly at once though it was still building in his body. He was trembling violently and as Faramir struggled to swallow, he also tried to comfort, holding Aragorn as close as possible, his arms encircling his hips and thighs.

Aragorn’s length would not slacken at once but Faramir let it slip from his lips and rose unsteadily to his feet. His own body was screaming for attention but the man in front of him needed him too. Banishing all rising doubts, Faramir wrapped his arms around Aragorn and let him collapse against him as his sobs wrecked his frame.

A few words that Faramir did not understand wove themselves into Aragorn’s crying. All Faramir could do was to run his hands down the older man’s back and stay where he was. Gradually, a fragile peace settled around them, but he knew fear still lurked in the corners and had only retreated for the time being.

His hips and groin were pressed against Aragorn and desire did not leave him. Though his tunic was being wetted by tears, his blood was blistering his veins. As Aragorn’s crying ended and he straightened somewhat, Faramir knew he ought to leave and find release.

He intended to say something but when Aragorn drew back and his tear streaked face, dimly lit by a silvery light, was before him, he found no words. The King looked straight at him and there were no longer any defenses in place.

“Please…” Aragorn’s whisper hit him hard.

Faramir briefly closed his eyes. When he opened them again, all willpower left him. He nodded.

Aragorn’s shoulders dropped as if he no longer could hold himself upright. As Faramir followed him to the bed, no thoughts entered his mind. He dropped his clothes unceremoniously on the floor and joined Aragorn underneath the covers. Extreme tiredness hung around him but as Aragorn moved closer and his skin met Faramir’s he lost all ability to hold back.

Closing his eyes, he quickly licked his palm, and then sought out his still hard length and began pumping it. He was vaguely aware of how Aragorn pulled back the covers and in silence watched him. He pushed into his own hand, succumbing to pleasure, and he knew eyes followed his movements. Through him pushed Aragorn’s fear, mingled with curiosity and this fueled his desire further. To the sound of his own moans, barely repressed in the otherwise complete silence of the night, Faramir spread the first liquid that spilled from the tip of his length over himself, slicking his hand and further easing the friction. When he came, he arched upwards and had just enough sense left to cover himself and not send his creamy essence all over the bed.

Long after this, he lay panting while the world spun at an astonishing speed. When his chest stopped heaving and silence grew around him once more, Faramir let his head fall to the side and slowly opened his eyes. Exhaustion crashed down upon him in the same moment and as the waning moon cast its last shreds of failing light in through the window, he thought a hazy image of Aragorn’s face appeared before him. There were no lines or contours, but the glow in his eyes bore straight into Faramir’s heart. Then the vision shifted and as sleep mercilessly claimed him, Faramir’s last conscious thought was that it resembled storm clouds sweeping across a dark sky, or shimmering mist rolling into the gardens.

Chapter Eleven – Reality

Tuilë 32

Sleep was heavy, deep and intoxicating. Faramir drifted through it greedily, craving and needing more. Every time his body moved on its own accord, shifting an arm, turning his head, he fought the sensation of waking up. He would surrender himself to the oblivion that held him loyally – for the time being. When daylight finally beat strongly enough against his skin and sifted through his eyelashes, he resurfaced with such a sharp sting of sorrow that he was sure more was at stake here than just his dreams that were already but blurred visions.

He lay with his eyes closed still as his dreams gave way to other images that mockingly drifted to and fro, supplying him with hints and whispers:

The King, desperate and desirous, silently begging him to relive some of the unnamed pain that hid deep within. His hands on Faramir’s shoulders, his tears wetting Faramir’s tunic… his gaze on Faramir when his own lust defeated him. Aragorn and Faramir.

Suddenly both frightened and ashamed, the young man repelled these images and feebly flung out an arm as if to ward them off. He did not look to see where his hand landed, but as it descended, it brushed against warm skin.

While fear laced its icy fingers around his heart and ruthlessly dragged it down through his body, Faramir tasted the salty tang of Aragorn’s release on his tongue.

It took another moment before he opened his eyes, but when he did, he saw Aragorn beside him in the bed, a foot or two away, still sleeping.

He lay on his side, his upper arm bent inwards at the elbow with the hand placed near his heart. His face was almost hidden by the dark strands of hair that fell across it. It did not look like the confident pose of a strong man – if Kings were known to sleep in a special manner – and it did not look restful. The hand was lying too close to his chest and there was no peace in the way Aragorn’s chin was angled inward, as if he were protecting himself from onslaught. He barely breathed, or at least he made no sound doing so.

Faramir’s hand had brushed Aragorn’s upper arm before it fell to the sheets and he now quickly withdrew it. As carefully as possible, he pushed away the covers from himself and sat up with a feeling that he never before had been so completely naked. Throwing a frantic glance at Aragorn, he prayed the older man would not wake up, and then he slipped out of the bed.

His discarded clothes he found in a heap on the floor and with an urgent need to cover himself, he immediately reached for his leggings. He was about to lace them up when Aragorn stirred in the bed, causing some of his hair to fall away from his face.

Any prayers were now come too late and Faramir watched, frozen on the spot, as the King opened his eyes and how a look of confusion and disbelief washed over his features.

Faramir could live with both confusion and disbelief, but as that expression turned into one of shock and then panic, he felt fear once more. It seemed like ages before Aragorn’s gaze finally fell upon him.

“Faramir?” his voice was throaty, as if his crying had continued all through the night.

He received no response for Faramir was capable of none. New images taunted him: Aragorn’s erection arching out before him – the last thing he saw before he closed his eyes and took it in his mouth. The tall, dark shape of his King turning, turning, turning around in the moonlight. The way his robe fell – away. Skin that glistened of sweat and tears, that accepted all that salty liquid and absorbed it, just like Faramir drank down Aragorn’s essence as it hit the back of his throat.

“Faramir?” Aragorn was sitting up. There were dark circles under his eyes and he was reaching out with a hand. “I cannot…”

As his voice failed him, Faramir grabbed his tunic from the floor and burst through the door.

Dark clouds hung low in the sky as Faramir spitefully dropped an armful of damp leaves on the already smoking fire. The embers sighed heavily under the new load and some of the flames died down. With anger riding him, he reached for the long branch and gave the fire a savage shove. Far above him, some bird gave a shrill cry and leaped from its nest into the sky. He knew not what time it was or for how long he had worked. He tasted Aragorn in his mouth, and his hands, now covered in dirt, still felt the quivers in the body they had held, and in his ears were low moans and sobs.

Faramir swore under his breath and attacked the smoking pile anew. They were hiding from him now, having retreated into the woods when they perceived his ire. No one had dared to greet him but they remained watchful and vigilant.

He knew his anger would only take him so far, and that if he projected it onto the land instead of dealing with whatever mundane problems he had – which they would never understand anyway – a new offering was needed. In this moment, Faramir could not care less.

When flames refused to spring up again, he slung out a curse and slammed his branch into a nearby young birch. There was a moment of complete silence in the woods surrounding him and then a hiss rippled through the trees. Faramir dropped the branch even as he sunk down upon the ground and weariness instantly replaced his wrath. If he cried, he did not know.

He sat for some time in the crushed grass, capable of only watching the smoke rising towards the clouds. A light rain began to fall but he did not move. Somewhere, in the heart of the fire, the embers cooled and there were no crackles and no wheezing of the wood. Then there was no more smoke either.

Issues such as rejection.

His father of course. Naturally. Boromir? Perhaps.

Faramir had opted to go to Rivendell in his brother’s stead but Denethor had point blank refused to see that happen. In the presence of both his sons, he had raged about the Elves, their declining culture, their innumerable weaknesses and their hatred for Men. With a dangerous light in his eyes, he had then lowered his voice and, striding towards his sons, whispered that it was now Gondor’s – Gondor’s! – time to rise. Thorondir’s heirs could, free of any elvish magic that devoured the soul, govern as Kings, and no one would think twice about it being a line of Stewards. That would soon be forgotten, if only Boromir the proud and the valiant made this dormant but awakening power known in Rivendell, to the half-elf that thought he still had any authority left.

A bitter sorrow had risen in Faramir then, as he had listened to his father’s words. Thorondir, son Belecthor II, had seen the White Tree of Minas Tirith die as his father passed, but could do nothing except leave it be in hopes that one day the King would return and bring with him new life.

Boromir said nothing. Stern and tall he listened as Denethor unfolded before them his plans for the future. The eldest son would bring his message to Rivendell, return with glory and govern together with his father. Faramir would be sent away, on various missions in Ithilien, to learn whatever was to learn for one who would never get to touch the throne or the Winged Crown. And Faramir wanted neither, but when Boromir nodded in silent acceptance, his heart was smashed into pieces.

Later, his brother spoke to him earnestly in an effort to convince him that they both – the two of them – would see this done together, and that Boromir could never abandon him. Alas, this rejection in front of their father had already caused too much damage and not much pain left him. Faramir watched as his brother rode off and then chided himself, vowing to think better of him for travellers needed much well-wishing in those days, and now he was glad for it as he had never seen Boromir alive again.

Dusk crept forward and circled Faramir where he sat slumped in the grass. The rain had ceased to fall but even so, the air grew moister as the mist rose above the undergrowth. He watched it tangle in the wild roses that grew some feet away and fleetingly he toyed with the idea of staying here all night. The land was silent in waiting. The energy of the young birch beside him had seeped inward and Faramir would not touch it.

A sense of numbness had settled in him long ago and as he gracelessly tried to rise his legs only obeyed him after a while. Three dark nights without a moon stretched out before them and that now seemed to him an eternity. Ithilien was never wholly content when it could not see its Lord.

The initial bluish glow of night was swiftly conquered by a more sombre, greyish light as Faramir slowly made his way back to the house. He felt defeated and worn out, his hair smelled of smoke and it was not that usual spicy scent which burning fire-wood normally soaked him in.

If he had known, would he have refused Aragorn? If he had been but one step ahead of himself.

Not for the first time, Faramir wondered if he actually had a connection to reality, at all.

Chapter Twelve – Breakdown

Tuilë 33

Éowyn’s dress glowed a perfect, shining white as she walked beside him; the thin fabric seemed almost intent on wrapping around his legs as they slowly crossed the Court of the Fountain in the midday sunlight. She was laughing gaily and he smiled at her before turning his eyes to the great oak that stood in the centre of the court. Greens leaves adorned the branches that in one moment appeared a brownish-grey, and in another, gleamed as white as Éowyn herself.

Their stroll across the Court was brutally interrupted by a hiss and flames sprung up beside Faramir with such force that he must throw himself aside. He heard his father’s desperate cry as the fire licked his skin. Denethor’s hands, claw-like in the wild blaze of the fire, reached out for him and failing to evade him, Faramir felt his father’s nails dig into his arm as he frantically clang to him.

“Boromir…” Denethor pleaded, “my sweetest son…” The fire was swallowing him whole and his eyes were shining madly. “Boromir!”

Faramir thrust his father away from him and the whirlwind of fire was suddenly gone. He was standing in front of the tree and from behind it a very tall man stepped out. The water of the Fountain lapped around Aragorn’s bare feet but he remained solemn and grave. Beside him stood Éowyn, proud, and with her white dress stretching across her rounded belly. Faramir watched how Aragorn lifted a hand and gently laid it there, protecting the life that grew within. Éowyn’s hair was dark, coal black, and it fell in gentle waves down to her waist. Faramir felt a heavy sorrow settle in his breast.

“Damrod?” Faramir stepped into the dining hall, still with bits and pieces of his dream chasing each other across his mind. The sky was covered by a compact, white blanket of clouds and a cold, sharp daylight had replaced the night.

“Hey!” His friend was seated at the table, eagerly investigating the contents of various pots and cup. He lifted a lid and nodded, seemingly content. “Eggs?”

“No?” Crossing the floor, Faramir dropped into a chair opposite Damrod. He found it difficult fighting a smile as the examination continued most enthusiastically before him. “You had no breakfast in your own kitchen?”

Damrod briefly looked up from a steaming pot of tea. “Sure I did.” He sounded only slightly offended. “But none as good as yours, my friend. An’ not half as much!” Almost reverently, he poured two cups of tea and pushed one towards Faramir. Then he picked up a knife and proceeded to slice some bread. “Also,” he said as a look of embarrassment settled itself on his face, “I came to apologise, you know. For the other night.”

Faramir shook his head as he claimed one of the slices for himself. “Think no more on it.”

“Cheese?”

With an insistent look, Damrod urged him to fill his plate. Faramir accepted some of the fruit and a small bowl of a vegetable soup Damrod apparently had convinced the cooks to make.

“When did you arrive?” he asked, more and more intrigued as he dipped his bread into the soup.

“Oh, not too early,” Damrod shrugged. “So you sure all’s well?”

“Yea,” Faramir nodded, “despite the fact that you are securing peace by offering me my own food in my own home.” He grinned.

Damrod raised an eyebrow and there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Seems to work.” He reached for a small jug proving to contain some type of jam. Carefully, he coated a chunk of bread with it and inspected the result with an approving smile. “So,” he said, “how’s the King?”

Faramir nearly choked on his tea. “What?”

“The King,” repeated Damrod before he took a bite. He chewed slowly while he frowned.

“Well, I think,” said Faramir, not sure Aragorn was well at all, but not the least inclined to speak of him.

“You aren’t keepin’ an eye on him?”

Producing a shrug, Faramir set his cup down. “He is the King…” It was hardly an explanation but it was all he could manage.

“That,” Damrod nodded, “he is.” He leaned forward suddenly and lowered his voice. “So, have you found out anything, then?” he asked between bites.

“And what ought I to ‘find out’?” Dropping his gaze, Faramir concentrated on stirring his soup.

His friend, evidently not impressed by this display of ignorance and disinterest, gave a long sigh. “You know well what I speak of,” he said and then continued in a more conspiratorial manner. “We were all there – we all saw them.”

Faramir felt the demanding gaze trained on him and so he lifted his head to meet it. Damrod was suggestively waving a piece of bread before him. “We saw the whole party, remember? I’m telling you ‘twas a strange sight indeed! Stranger even than when we stumbled upon the Periain in the woods you know… But in strange times, strange tales will be told, I suppose.”

He fell silent for a moment or two and Faramir uneasily shifted in his chair. He could plainly see where this conversation was headed but he was not the least tempted to speculate about the royal affairs of Minas Tirith.

“Anyhow,” continued Damrod, “the whole host of them, riding into the City… All bright and gleaming, and such. And we all saw the boy. And…” he lowered his voice even further, “we all saw the Lady.“

Faramir nodded as an image of the slender, and very beautiful, daughter of Elrond rose in his mind. Her pride was of another kind than Éowyn’s and she spoke not much as far as Faramir could see – or hear. She had ridden in the company of her brothers with Eldarion beside her.

“True,” he said simply.

Damrod raised his eyebrows. “So? We all saw the elven Lady who would be Queen, but it’s been six years and still there’s no Queen on the throne in the Tower.” He popped the bread into his mouth.

Taking a sip of his soup, Faramir could only agree. Perhaps if Eldarion’s identity had been kept hidden – and if people failed to see the resemblance – then no one would have wondered, but the child had been brought to Aragorn who greeted him as his son. Arwen Undómiel was therefore expected to be crowned any day and though some regarded her with suspicion, the citizens unconsciously prepared for it, and even perhaps for a wedding. Faramir, as newly appointed Steward, should have been informed. He should have been formally introduced to his future Queen, and he awaited this and dearly hoped he would like her. He found himself pondering and loosely planning the upcoming ceremony as all was pointing in that direction – except it never happened.

When the elves departed, Eldarion went with them and suddenly that was the end of that, and it all seemed like a dream or an odd piece of history that somehow lay outside reality. Tongues in the market were idle, and the City overflowed with rumours. Faramir had never asked Aragorn.

“I take it you don’t know anything more?” Damrod was pouring them both some more tea.

“No,” said Faramir, rousing himself enough to resume the battle with his breakfast. “Why are you so curious?”

Damrod flashed him a grin and leaned back in his chair. “It’s not me who’s housing a King!”

“Forget it,” said Faramir, “I, at least, am Steward. It really is nothing you should care about.”

Damrod’s grin only grew. “I am not Steward, no, so I am allowed to speculate.” He shoved the plate of eggs closer to Faramir. “Eat.”

The sun refused to break open the compact blanket of clouds that covered the sky. Faramir worked without inspiration and so did his fire. The woods were silent and unwilling to speak with him. The rage that had caused Faramir to scar the young birch had deeply disturbed the confidence they had for him. They would not prevent him from doing his job, but they would not aid him either.

Damrod had stayed for several hours, making sure he earned himself a large portion of the noon meal, and Faramir was pleased to have him around. When he married, which he probably would though his chosen lady’s father appeared to enjoy prolonging the courting process, Faramir suspected he would come less often.

A few times, Faramir had tried to picture himself as a married man, or even a father, but the fantasy immediately failed when he struggled to imagine what it would be like sleeping with a woman. He had known men – men his own father would have greatly despised – who swore that to lie down with a woman was a horror… But then, and this he knew all too well, there were men who would rather cut their throats than to lie with another man. Sometimes he wondered if women were the same, and if there were women who also preferred their own sex.

The house was quiet and some type of peace was drifting through it when Faramir stepped inside and shed his cloak and boots by the door. Aimlessly he wandered through the rooms, for the first time actually reflecting on the silence that seemed to inhabit the walls and furniture. And for the first time ever, he found it somewhat sad.

He came to stand by the large table in the dining hall. It was now cleared and showed no traces of either breakfast or noon meal. He ran his palm slowly across the smooth wooden surface as the daylight began to fade. He knew not what he wanted.

From an unknown source within, grief sprang up, and tears dimmed his vision. He let them fall as unwanted knowledge came to him: for such a long time it seemed, had he been convinced that this house, the silence it provided him with, and the connection he had to the land was enough, and that he really needed no more. He truly believed that he was happy and that by being strong and focusing on what needed to be done was good enough. If he were blessed with the good friendships of Damrod and Mablung, then that was a welcome gift. He rejoiced when they were happy, and he watched Mablung’s family life from a distance, telling himself not to be envious for he had no reason to be, and so he never was.

But tonight this house, no matter how much he loved it, was very, very quiet. And the night would be a dark one.

He gave a small sigh and self-consciously wiped away the tears from his eyes. Still he did not move but stood by the table as the mist swept over the grass and evening fell. He felt at loss and yet he could do nothing. Tears began to fall once more and his heart felt large and heavy in his breast. If it was this openness that so unexpectedly had grasped him, or if it was the will of the Gods that determined what happened next he could not say, but he jumped when he thought he spotted a shadow in the doorway.

Quickly running the back of his hand over his cheeks, his pulse began to race when Aragorn cautiously stepped inside the dining hall. The darkness hovered around him and he looked pale. Faramir swallowed down his emotions without much success. The foolish idea of running away suggested itself to him but he was unable to move. He felt beaten and worn out and could do nothing but stare as Aragorn slowly approached.

Dark shadows played in the corners and the blue shade of nightfall stretched out across the floor. The King kept his gaze trained on Faramir who could not understand his expression. He seemed so calm and it made the floor sway under his feet. Deeply embarrassed, Faramir felt new tears sting his eyes. When Aragorn came to stand before him, he was forced to turn and the edge of the table nudged his backside. The older man’s eyes shimmered in the darkness and Faramir felt all remaining energy seep out of him.

His last hope of staying strong died when Aragorn’s face was touched by a wave of gentleness. “I am sorry.”

Faramir slumped against the table and the tears ran down his face unchecked. His father’s words and Boromir’s silence mingled with the strong force of rejection.

“I am sorry,” whispered Aragorn and he lifted a hand to Faramir’s temple and brushed away a stray strand of hair. “I am sorry.”

This was a touch that Faramir could not handle and yet his entire being screamed for more. He shrank away from Aragorn’s hand but his breathing grew erratic and the first true sob shook his frame. Burning pain pierced his heart when he realised Aragorn would not go away. His fingers brushed his temple a second time and this time they did not leave. They gently began tracing a line down his cheek, spreading the moisture that wet Faramir’s beard. Aragorn’s eyes were still so gentle and that more than anything made Faramir’s vision hazy.

He leaned against the table for support, not able to trust his legs any longer. Sorrow welled up in a way he had never before known and Faramir could not stop it. His sobs filled the room and he wished he could be someplace else, someplace where he could be alone. But he was not alone and Aragorn would not disappear.

“Faramir,” sighed Aragorn and his name floated out into the dining hall, turning into an apology of some sorts. Arms wrapped around him and Aragorn held him loosely, obviously unsure of how to deal with his reaction.

Faramir, however, could produce no resistance. He melted into Aragorn’s embrace and was dazedly surprised at the sensation of comfort that he discovered there. For a little while, he felt secure and he closed his eyes.

We pick up exactly where we left off, in the dining hall.

Chapter Thirteen – Fear

Aragorn was stroking his hair. Faramir’s tears were drying up but he refused to break the silence and confront whatever reality he was living. Wrapped up in Aragorn’s embrace he was momentarily able to pretend that he knew naught of any other existence. He could not say for how long they had been standing there, but he was very conscious of the magic the King wielded, the energy that surrounded him, and its potential. His head cleared a little and this must have made him tense for Aragorn’s soft stroking stopped and he carefully withdrew. In the chilly night air the shadows stirred once more and Faramir blinked and shivered.

He reluctantly lifted his gaze to Aragorn’s face and was surprised by what he saw. The King’s eyes were bright, unusually so, and he looked troubled but still so very calm. Faramir knew he was staring but he could do nothing else for in this moment Aragorn was simply beautiful. Numbness spread through him and he swallowed hard. His own eyes were stinging.

Aragorn almost smiled as his fingertips brushed against Faramir’s forehead. “Dusty,” he whispered. “You smell of smoke.”

Faramir watched his lips form the words. Instinctively he licked his own ones and he tasted the salt of his tears on them, a heavy weight he thought might be enough to anchor him in reality. But when Aragorn’s face drew closer he could not tell if it was a trick of the night or not. His breathing grew shallow and nervousness gave birth to a rush of nausea within. Aragorn’s bright eyes were wide and his lips parted slightly. His warm breath swept over Faramir’s face in gentle waves and for a moment, blurry memories touched the edges of his awareness: late nights in some hideaway, other shadows playing on soft skin, arms slung across a chest, the soft breathing of the sleeping, air rushing out of lungs as peaks were reached and there was no holding back… Then Aragorn’s face was once more before him and his body felt heavy and he could not move. Indeed, all he could do was to watch with building apprehension until he could see no more than the light in Aragorn’s gaze, and then he closed his eyes as lips touched his own. His eyes drifted shut.

Warily, Aragorn pressed against him, unhurriedly exploring him. His hands came up to Faramir’s face and cradled it before they began caressing him. Fingers slowly swept across his forehead, touching his brow. They brushed against his cheeks and trailed down his jaw line. They sought out his ears and combed through his hair, tenderly massaged his neck and then wandered all the way up to his eyebrows. All the while, his lips simply rested against Faramir’s, unmoving.

Falling, falling, endlessly falling, Faramir stood in silent acceptance as Aragorn’s fingers left tingling trails all over his skin. How could he not have welcomed the touch though he knew not what strength was left in him? When he could take no more, he would indeed fall. But it did not happen, and then he felt the coolness of the Ring of Barahir brush his chin.

The hands travelled down his throat, only applying the gentlest of pressures. Faramir’s pulse was slowing down until his heart was beating no more, he was sure. The King did not break the contact. Instead, his hands moved upwards again and it seemed to Faramir that white light, white glow, seeped from them into his body. He trembled at the touch when Aragorn traced patterns across his cheeks, moving closer to their joined mouths. When the fingertips stroked the corner of his mouth, adding some strange presence to the kiss, Faramir swayed. He knew no longer if he breathed as Aragorn’s fingertips explored the kiss from outside. He was lightheaded and as Aragorn’s fingers finally left their mouths and brushed against his forehead once more, he thought he would faint. But then, as if sealing the kiss before ending it, Aragorn pressed his fingers to Faramir’s brow and perhaps he whispered something against Faramir’s mouth for he could feel the flow of warmth, and then he withdrew. Faramir was left with an overwhelming sensation of loneliness.

A shiver slithered down his spine and he was breathing again. Like this, with his eyes closed, it was easier to remain in the moment, but it would be but an illusion. Slowly opening his eyes, the air shifted around him and he grew unsure of what had just transpired between them. Fearing all which had a name, and all that did not, he looked up at Aragorn.

The older man was standing several feet away. Still facing Faramir he was, but his whole form seemed frozen as if a kiss would leave no traces in him. His expression was gentle still but he did not meet Faramir’s gaze; in his eyes were a distant light. It seemed like he was gradually melting into the night, that they both were and in some way or another became ghosts, phantoms… shadows themselves. Time was no more.

When Faramir finally spoke, his voice drifted softly out into the room and mingled with the shadows.

“Did you… was there..?”

Ever so slowly, Aragorn raised his eyes to meet Faramir’s. In them, wonder was touched by fear.

“Does it matter?” It was scarcely a whisper. “Does it matter, Faramir?”

“I know not.” Truth seemed weightless, a fragment of fantasy.

The first signs of life flickered in Aragorn’s eyes and he took a few steps closer. “Do you know this?” He did not touch.

“What feeling, my lord?”

A hint of urgency slipped into Aragorn’s voice. “I cannot name the power that urges me to kiss you.”

With his heart sinking low in his breast, Faramir shook his head. “No,” he managed. “I could not say.”

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed and he searched Faramir’s face. “I hurt you. I do not wish to do so…”

He should say something but he could form no words. Disappointment washed over him in steady waves for there was so much reluctance in Aragorn… So much unwillingness and so little comfort now.

“I hurt you so deeply.”

Visibly hesitating, Aragorn lifted his hands and his fingertips ran down Faramir’s cheeks, causing new tears to sting in the younger man’s eyes. “Yet, I cannot…” He leaned in closer and Faramir let him, having no energy left to fight him. “Why is this, Faramir? Why is this?”

Desperately, Aragorn pulled him closer and, starved, Faramir pressed his lips against the willing mouth. His own arms encircled the King’s waist and he met with no resistance. The kiss deepened as he parted his lips and Aragorn’s tongue tasted his. Utterly scared that it would end too soon, or that it would twist into a mere dream, Faramir tugged the King closer and the first rush of desire claimed him. He could feel the tremor that rushed through Aragorn simultaneously and he prayed it was due to passion and not fear. However, Aragorn tensed and broke the kiss, his breathing ragged.

“What is this?” He sounded much less calm now as distress clearly wove itself into him. He leaned his forehead against Faramir’s and his hands ran down the younger man’s back in an unsteady rhythm. He pressed a kiss that was no more than a tremble to the corner of Faramir’s mouth and then sought out his neck by dragging his lips against the stubbly cheek to explore the soft skin behind his ear. His breathing came in short gasps and Faramir shivered against him, reflexively tugging on his tunic. “Why do I desire you so?” Aragorn mumbled but his never-idle hands kept up their stroking. “It is so long since I lay with a man.”

An unexpected jealousy spiced with great surprise stabbed Faramir hard and he must fight to try to quench it. “You have done that?” he asked hoarsely, unable to look at Aragorn and equally unable to completely hide his feelings.

Aragorn pulled back but his hands secured Faramir’s arms around his waist, forbidding them to leave. “I was a Ranger… It was many, many years ago. You were not even born.” Despite everything, his eyes still shone.

Faramir nodded numbly, trying to pretend that he accepted this.

“Faramir.”

He met Aragorn’s gaze. The older man was eyeing him intently and had spoken sternly but his anxiousness betrayed him.

“Faramir…” Aragorn sighed once more but the ghost of a smile touched his lips. He pulled Faramir close and drew a deep breath. “You still smell of smoke.”

Faramir clung to Aragorn more fervently then he would ever have thought possible, or – only hours ago – allowed himself to do. Hands were once more sweeping over his back, stumbling over his tunic and he gave himself over to the feeling of been so utterly explored.

“I watched you last night,” Aragorn said gruffly, leaving a rough kiss at his temple. “You were so beautiful.” His hands came down to Faramir’s lower back and they pressed down softly. “Say something, Faramir… Please say something.”

A thousand words – mostly innocent lies and excuses – rushed into his mind. Words that would not bind Aragorn to him, words that would leave the King happier but himself more miserable… Words that would bring him more of that loneliness.

“I want you,” he whispered into the room. “I dream of you.”

Aragorn’s embrace tightened and for a second the silence grew so heavy that it became hard to breathe.

“Lie back.”

Confused, Faramir did nothing.

“Please Faramir… Before I lose my confidence.”

Aragorn released him and Faramir simply stared at him. The younger man was still slumped against the table but he could not believe what Aragorn was proposing. He looked questioningly at the King into whose eyes a new gleam had slipped. He opened his mouth to speak but Aragorn placed a shaky finger against his lips.

“Lie back,” he whispered.

Swallowing uneasily, Faramir slid onto the table and lay down. Trepidation and expectation stirred within as he realised just how… accessible he had become. Still, the mere thought of Aragorn’s hands racing across his body when displayed like this had his heart beating gloriously fast.

Aragorn was watching him with an expression that mirrored Faramir’s own feelings very well. He parted his legs and so invited Aragorn to come closer. He could see the doubt that rose in his mind, could detect the fear from the night before. Aragorn drew a deep breath but then stepped forward, placing himself between Faramir’s thighs at the edge of the table.

“This scares me so much,” he admitted in a low voice. “So much.”

With that, he began caressing. Looking up at him from his position on the table, Faramir was struck by the acute importance of guarding his heart from opening up too much. As Aragorn’s hands travelled up his sides, stroked his chest and shoulders, he realised how dangerously close he was to crossing a border that he should not even know of. Aragorn was King, he belonged in Minas Tirith – Faramir was bound to Emyn Arnen. Yet, when questing fingers found their way underneath his tunic and met with his skin and he arched upwards at the pleasant touch, he dizzily thought that there had to be some way… That they could sort that out, if Aragorn only continued to touch him.

Aragorn’s hands chased away all other thoughts as they skimmed across his belly and pushed the material up towards his chest. The older man leaned down and pressed a kiss to his skin, adding a second and a third. A dull pounding settled low in his stomach and Faramir writhed on the table. His hands desired nothing more than to push Aragorn’s head lower, towards his groin, and he fought this urge fervently. The kisses melted into his body and his breathing deepened. Aragorn dragged his lips across his skin, his beard scraping against it and sending sparks flying through Faramir. Involuntarily, he pushed his hips upwards and it was only afterwards that he realised the implication of this action. Aragorn abruptly stilled his movements and in the surrounding darkness, something very painful awoke. Panicking, Faramir forced his body to comply with his will.

“I am sorry…” he breathed even as his skin burned from desire.

Aragorn dropped his head onto Faramir’s chest. “No… No, please…” His hands hesitantly stroked Faramir’s sides. “Of course you would…” His voice wavered in the night. “I meant to pleasure you. I mean to… I just…” He swallowed and did not continue.

An immense pang of disappointment nearly made Faramir choke but he made an effort to rise and Aragorn lifted his head and straightened. His expression clearly proved the relief he must be feeling at not having to go through with his self-appointed task. Faramir pushed down the tunic and tried to appear undisturbed. Silence once more enfolded them as he slid off the table and forced his legs to carry him. Desire died down and he was left eerily empty. Aragorn allowed him the space he needed, his energy seeping back into him. He stepped back from Faramir and dropped his gaze.

The gardens lay in darkness and not even the mist was visible. He commanded his body to move and he drew away from Aragorn, making for the doorway as exhaustion crashed down on him.

“Share my bed tonight.” Aragorn’s plea was weak. “Just sleep…”

Faramir stopped and half turned towards the King. He stood in the shadows, defeated and wary.

Slowly Faramir shook his head. “No… I cannot.”

He closed his heart and left the dining hall, as a very real pain once more embraced him.

Chapter Fourteen – Reunion

There was only moonlight, only white glow… all around him…

It held him close, continuously flowing forth… coming closer…coming so close… And then another was coming closer, turning round, turning,
and desire was coiling around his senses.

Only moonlight… clad in white glow, coming closer. There was naked skin, and there was touch. He welcomed the touch, longing to taste, and
there was moonlight…

He was open, so open. And he was joined where he lay in the sea of white, white glow… Lust flowing forth, fingers filled him, lust in his
mouth… longing to kiss and to gently caress.

Turning around, white glow dancing – there was but whiteness and skin. Succumbing to pleasure, he was turning, turning around, coming closer.
He felt skin… meet his own, skin meet his own… touching his brow, a tongue in his mouth. He was open.

Open, so open… White glow, flowing forth… playing on soft skin, longing to touch and the moonlight was exploring him, touching his brow…
dancing, turning…

He welcomed the touch, succumbing to pleasure, longing to taste, to be filled, to gently caress… and it was so. He was breached, muscles
relaxed and he welcomed the touch, flowing forth in the white glow.

His essence was flowing forth, like white glow on naked skin. Longing to taste, he was turning around, longing to taste, seeking a mouth, and
there was only moonlight.

Tuilë 37

Three dark days, during which the Moon was not seen, passed. Faramir slept fitfully, woke early in the bleak hours of dawn, and shivered in the chill that seemed to seep down into Emyn Arnen from the eastern mountains; the land was restless with its glowing white lord missing from the heavens. Faramir spent fewer hours in the woods and more inside behind his desk. There was correspondence that needed his attention: various requests from merchants further south along the Anduin, a dépêche from Minas Tirith and two letters from Éomer that mostly concerned trade, horses and a not so subtly phrased demand that Faramir inform him whether or not his sister was truly as happy as she claimed. There was a letter from Éowyn herself in the pile but he lay that aside to read later.

He did not see Aragorn. Sometimes he even wondered if the King ate at all or desired daylight and fresh air. But he was not to judge for he exhaled in relief when he entered a room and found it empty, and he was grateful for every hour of sleep that was untouched by dreams or images of the King. When he awoke, he convinced himself he remembered no details, and the mist lay heavily upon the grass each night.

His heart remained closed, he thought – so closed that not even the nimble fingers of the curiosity that restlessly swirled in the corners could pry it open. His heart, closed and cold, grew heavier and heavier with each passing hour but he thought, too, that he cared very little. Which was a lie, but at least that one stung less than the fear that ruled the King and which Faramir could not face.

Now the afternoon hours were floating by as he sat staring at the door. He felt oddly saddened by Éomer’s letters. The King of Rohan was proud and strong – and very, very male in a sense that Faramir had never fully grasped. Boromir had shared some of his traits: both were reluctant to admit to any weaknesses and any stronger emotions in a man not provoked by battle were better off stored away. Women could be expressive and capricious – indeed it was charming if they were – but a man’s disposition was expected to be entirely different. Consequently, Éomer’s letters were relatively short and to the point; he wasted little time inquiring about Faramir’s situation or reflections.

Still they were good friends. Lothíriel, wife of Éomer, was pregnant with their first child and there was bound to be a great feast in Edoras following the birth. They were all already, albeit unofficially, invited; by the grace of the Valar, Lothíriel would give birth to a healthy child, followed by many more. That would give life to the Golden Hall.

Faramir let the letter fall silently from his hand. ‘All‘… That meant himself, Legolas and Gimli of the Dwarves… and Aragorn, and the Hobbits maybe. The remnants of the Fellowship that he himself had never been a part of. Hobbit wives and children maybe… He had more in common with them in that respect.

There would be drinking… and more drinking. Legolas would not eagerly participate of course but he was so much better at being… not… affected by others’ opinion of him. And Éowyn was a married woman these days and though she teased him about it, she was conscious of Amrothos’ faint, but existent, jealous streak.

He could not keep from smiling, however, at the memory of Éowyn’s first meeting with one of Imrahil’s younger sons. She had claimed the father to be handsome but when she laid eyes upon Amrothos she saw all that was in Imrahil but in a younger version. Faramir had teased her endlessly that summer, but true to her nature, she had gained what she desired and he did, contrary to Éomer, believe that she was truly happy.

Still, though, this did nothing to change the nature of the celebrations to come: Edoras, beautiful and golden, was a place for men.

Not really knowing why, Faramir pushed back his chair and stood. Securely wrapped in his cloak, he wandered through the corridors, trying not to think, trying not to feel. And when the entrance doors closed behind him, the early evening breeze rose to meet him, he sank down upon the stone steps and closed his eyes.

The voice was soft as if not to disturb the stillness. “Faramir?”

When he opened his eyes again, the shadows lay stretched out upon the ground and the tiny sliver of the newborn moon was tentatively fingering the darkening sky in the east. There was growing confidence now in Ithilien as leaves and grass was once more touched by moonlight. The wind gave a long sigh and then silence settled down again.

Maelir was standing before him with a frown and worry hovering about his slim form.

“Are you alright?”

There was so little energy left. Faramir felt focus slipping away into the dusk and he barely recognised his own voice when he spoke, “Yes…”

Maelir tentatively moved forwards and when Faramir did not object he smoothly climbed the stairs and dove into the shadows provided by the vines above. An unexpected smile tugged at Faramir’s lips.

“You have made no peace with the moonlight yet?”

The smile was returned, albeit with a hint of embarrassment attached to it. “Nah…” Maelir dropped down beside him and tilted his dark head to the side. “How are you?” He seemed to hesitate but then continued. “I was surprised to see you at the tavern that night…”

Faramir nodded slowly. Perhaps it would have been better had he never acted on that idea at all. He could not see now that it had given him anything to be joyful for. “I was… I had a guest, from Minas Tirith,” he said, thus evading the question and hoping that Maelir would be content with the answer.

“So I guessed.” If there was an implicit accusation in Maelir’s choice of words and tone of voice it was not apparent. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. “But it was good… Good that you…” He faltered, lacking the right words to not come off as patronising.

“Left the house?”

The young man flashed a grin. “Yes. Good for you, Faramir.” Large brown eyes travelled all over the older man’s hunched form. “So how are you?”

“I am fine,” Faramir said, hearing himself how false that assertion rang, given his current position on the cold stone steps.

“And if you were to tell the truth?”

“Then…” Faramir sighed as a stronger wind pushed a cloud towards the west and revealed the first stars in the sky. “I… know not.”

“Faramir.” Maelir shook his head gravely. “I nearly drowned on my way over here – all this mist was intent on killing me, I am sure, and so I think I deserve some honesty.”

“Oh… I had not even realised…” Pulling himself together, Faramir squinted in the failing light. “I have grown so used to it I did not even notice it.”

“Well I sure did,” shuddered Maelir. “This so-called spring has not impressed me yet.” He hugged his knees and offered yet another grin, more teasing this one. “But then, I am not the one who must spend his days in the woods, burning stuff.”

Faramir found himself smiling too. “No you are not, so I wish to hear no complaints.” He frowned as he, by habit, ran his eyes over his companion’s slim shoulders and long legs. “That is a light cloak you are wearing, are you cold?”

Maelir opened his mouth to reply but no words came. He bit his lip.

Faramir raised his eyebrows.

A familiar gleam slipped into Maelir’s soft brown gaze, but he spoke with care. “Are you offering some warmth?”

Was he?

The crescent moon was rising in the east and the evening chill gradually grew sharper. Maelir released his knees and edged a little closer, moving into Faramir’s personal space.

“Who shares your bed, Faramir? Who has dimmed the light in your eyes?” He lifted a hand and brushed a few strands of hair from a furrowed brow.

Suddenly not able to fight anymore, all remnants of energy fled him. Faramir felt his shoulders slump and he knew not who acted first: his head landed on Maelir’s shoulder and arms encircled him and brought him close. He recognised the scent, the feel, the movements… Young hands stroked his back, just like another pair of hands had done among other shadows; these hands knew not the weight of a sword, they had never been covered in the blackened blood of both friend and foe. These hands were not… Aragorn’s.

Aragorn smiled, eyes shining as he cupped Faramir’s face and placed a new kiss on his lips. The Ring of Barahir was glowing, eagerly challenging the moonlight that spilled through the open window, flowing forth into the bedchamber; the summer night was warm. Sweet laughter swirled around them as Faramir wound his legs around Aragorn’s waist.

‘I had this dream…’ he mumbled against the soft lips.

Aragorn stretched out on top of him and his smile would only grow. ‘Oh? Show me then,’ he suggested.

They shared a lazy kiss as hands pushed fabric aside.

‘Show me… Show me, love…’

With a jerk, Faramir was brutally brought back to his own body and immediately hit by the cold. It was not Aragorn’s taste that lingered on his lips. Maelir had tensed and uncertainty drew across his face.

“Faramir…” He licked his lips quickly. “I did not mean to… I know you said before that…”

Faramir shook his head, trying again to banish the images that could be nothing but non-truths that would never be. “No, no… It is not your fault. I should not have…”

What should he not have done? When there was no reason and no logic to be had, what difference did anything make?

“Taken advantage of me?” Maelir’s confidence returned as he identified the familiar guilt. He even produced a smile. “I am here by my own free will… You need not tell me, you know.” His fingers were trailing down Faramir’s back again, a bit more eagerly this time. “Just do it – take advantage of my presence. I will accuse you of nothing.”

His resolve wavering, Faramir looked straight into what was supposed to be his former lover’s eyes. “It is not fair.”

But Maelir only shrugged, carefree, light-hearted. “That is your opinion, not mine.”

So Faramir, in desperate need of solutions, stood and extended a hand to him. “Come then. Let us go inside. Let us find you some more shadows to hide amongst.”

But everywhere there was only moonlight.

Chapter Fifteen – Confusion

Tuilë 38

There was laughter again. There was laughter as quick fingers pulled out a discarded shirt from underneath the bed where it had haphazardly ended up the night before. There was laughter as courage cast the curtains aside and let whitish daylight flood the bedroom.

“No rain!” Maelir cried as he beheld the world that seemed to lie at his feet, even if it was only a small part of it, namely Faramir’s gardens. “But by Manwë‘s beard it is late I think!”

Faramir rolled over, pulling at the blankets and keeping himself covered from the waist down. Where this sudden rise of modesty came from he knew not but he responded to the compulsion nonetheless. “Manwë has no beard…”

Maelir spun around. His black hair was one magnificent mess and he had bothered with no clothes even though he was loosely holding his shirt in one hand. “Have you ever seen him?”

There was so much light. So much self-assured glory all around that emotions grew tangled and confused. Maelir’s eagerness triggered a small smile and yet there was something building in Faramir’s breast, something shadowy that ached. He met Maelir’s glittering eyes. “No…”

“Then how do you know?”

“Because I imagine the Valar being more similar to the Elves in appearance and form.”

He rubbed his eyes and yearned for the shadows he had never particularly liked – indeed had run from when he could. But across the walls there were but brilliant patches of light and streaks of brightness intertwined. There was nothing left of last night – when he had succumbed not to reason and nor to desire, but to power of another kind, something to hold on to when the world spiralled out of control. In this morning, there were no explanations to cling to.

Maelir dropped his shirt on the bed but looked at Faramir with some interest. “There are no bearded elves?”

Old tales were long gone from his memory in this moment. “None, save for one I think…If I remember the lore correctly.” He ran a hand through his hair as his hands needed to do something. “I am not entirely sure, to be honest.” His copper locks smelled of frenzied lovemaking – the kind you immerse yourself in while trying to forget your own heart. He swallowed down a sudden rise of revolting self-loathing.

“So, see?” Maelir prompted. “I could be right, in other words.”

Faramir attempted a wry smile. “As unlikely as I believe it to be, I suppose you could be, yes.”

Triumphantly the young man grinned. Then he half turned towards the bathing chamber. “Can I wash here, Faramir? Or will you send me off into the world with dried sweat and… well…” He cast a glance downwards, and smirked.

“Wash!”

Faramir waved a hand in the same direction and Maelir was once more laughing as he half heartedly pulled on his clothes and went to find someone who could heat some water for him.

When the door closed behind him the energy sank towards the floor. Gradually the morning settled more firmly and the daylight secured its hold on the bedchamber completely. There was always laughter when Maelir was around, Faramir knew that, but it was of a careless nature. Or not careless maybe, but… unreliable? Non-committing?

Not that Faramir wished for anything else, really. He had never meant to bind with the younger man in any truly serious fashion and so he ought to be content. A moment’s pleasure, another night not spent alone, some life… But in the end there would be nothing tangible to hold on to and that was a burden heavier than many others.

Chiding himself, Faramir rolled back onto his stomach and closed his eyes to the world. Compared to the fates of many others in Middle-earth he was a lucky man. But even after thirty years did he not know exactly what was expected of him and too often did his world drift into another… Maybe he wanted too much… though he hoped and wished it was not so.

And he wished for anything that might chase the innate numbness in his heart away.

Dark tresses filled his hands. He whimpered when the initial burn assaulted him but the immediate pleasure that washed through him was more than enough to conquer any pain. He was pressed deep down into the mattress but lifted his hips, more than eager to be filled. The bedchamber was drowning in the sounds of ragged breathing and heated skin was bathing in sweat. A thousand rays of sunlight made pearls of sweat glisten and the temperature was wildly rising. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, succumbing to pleasure and letting the rest of the world dissolve around him. His lover’s hands erratically stroked his skin wherever they could reach – when they were not busy supporting them and keeping them stable in this frenzied joining of bodies.

The oil had slicked his passage and was easing the intrusion but Faramir would have managed without it – that was how deeply he needed this. In vain he had fought the desire to let this man have him so completely, but maybe it was because of this that the pleasure was now great beyond understanding. He cried out in surprise as he suddenly exploded, his aching flesh rubbing against the sheets. Hands were stroking him everywhere as his lover slid in and out of him at a merciless pace. Faramir thanked the Gods he was there in the moment for it was willingly that he opened himself up to this man… his lover… he was open…

…open for Aragorn…

Aragorn, Aragorn, Aragorn…

“Faramir!”

The call woke him up, and reality struck him down forcefully. He jerked to the sound of the voice and the shining world swam around him.

“Faramir, are you alright?”

Maelir was emerging from the bathing chamber with a linen towel wrapped around his slim hips and his hair dripping wet. Faramir blinked at him in confusion as the sensation of Aragorn thrusting into him refused to let him go. His flesh was swollen and he was hard and aching, and he scrambled onto his side, pulling at the blankets and securing them around his hips.

“You cried out… Are you unwell?”

Maelir made an attempt to sit down on the bed, but Faramir frantically shook his head against the pillow. “Fine… fine. I had a… bad dream, ‘tis all.”

The young man frowned. “I like it not when you dream. Are you quite sure you are alright? You look flushed.”

“Fine,” he repeated through the throbbing of his body and the pounding in his head.

Maelir gave him one last dubious look before he muttered something inaudible and to Faramir’s extreme relief returned to the bathing chamber.

He held his breath for a few agonisingly long moments until he finally heard Maelir close the door, and then he took himself in hand and, filled with shame, brought himself to completion, biting his tongue hard as he came to not make a single sound. If there was any pleasure to be gained from such a disgraceful act, Faramir did not know it.

It was nearing noon when they left the dining hall together and wandered towards the entrance hall. Still plagued by his dream and with images tumbling over themselves in his mind, Faramir did not speak much but it mattered not since Maelir was in a bright mood and did most of the talking himself, having seemingly forgotten the earlier incident.

No, he had never liked it when Faramir dreamed but he was quick to cast off any troubles that came his way. His solution to this particular problem was to simply forget or at least pretend it never happened. Dreams were for Maelir strictly nothing more than capricious twists of fantasy that could easily be chased off by revealing to them some daylight, thus unmasking them.

“I have kept you from your work,” Maelir admonished himself now. His black hair was glistening in the rare hints of sunlight that fell in through the window-glass and he had casually slung his cloak over a shoulder. He did not look rueful in the slightest.

Faramir shrugged. “I have time enough to work later. Worry not.” It was tradition by now: Maelir offered an apology – or several, depending on the time he had spent in the house – and Faramir assured him all was well.

“You will have a nice day in the woods, I think. And I will have a pleasant walk back.” The younger man glanced out through the windows. “I hear the fires are still lit near the village. Have you much left to do?”

“The rain has not helped,” admitted Faramir. “But I shall be fine.” He tried a smile but faltered.

Maelir’s presence was so… palpable. He was so alive, so curious and so animated. Yet his company was demanding and in this moment, Faramir felt utterly incapable of matching his excitement.

There was nothing in the corners. No invisible eyes or ears spread the gossip through the hallways; instead the silence enfolded them heavily, and since it was so, Faramir’s silent gratitude fell unnoticed to the floor. They came to a stop by the double doors leading out into the gardens. Maelir gave a brilliant smile but somehow managed to add some shyness to it.

“You do not regret what happened yestereve?”

Faramir met his brown eyes and though his heart suggested something else, he shook his head. “No,” he said. He drew a deep breath, “But…”

“Hush.” Maelir lifted a finger and placed it against his lips. “I know what you wish to say: that it must not happen again.” His smile softened. “And you wish for me to forgive you for using me… but I already said I will not accuse you of such a thing.”

Faramir sighed as the finger slipped from his lips and Maelir caressed his cheek.

“In fact,” he continued, “I wish for you to do it again…” Leaning in, he placed a light kiss on Faramir’s lips. “If you change your mind…” He drew back and there was a suggestive glow in his gaze. “Or if you ever make up your mind…”

Taking a small step back, Faramir put some space between them. “I cannot…”

Maelir regarded him thoughtfully. “If I had been older?” he asked softly.

Had you been different.

This time he managed a smile. “Nay, you are as you should be.” He reached out for the doorknob. “Go now, and conquer the world with your charm.”

Maelir’s laughter rang out in the hall. “Oh, believe me I shall!” He dove forward a left a last kiss on Faramir’s cheek before he swept through the open door.

Faramir leaned against the wood as he watched the slim figure elegantly speed down the stone steps. The cloak flowed behind him as he moved over the grass, but before he was swallowed up by the trees, Maelir spun around.

“You are lovely, Faramir!” he called and his words cascaded into the air and carried all the way to where the older man was standing. Then he was gone.

Unable to quench a laugh despite himself, Faramir shook his head and gently closed the door; in the next moment, silence was all around him once more.

He should pull on his boots and coat and continue his work in the woods but instead he fell against the door, devoid of all determination. So immersed in his thoughts he was that he noticed not that he was no longer alone. A polite cough broke through his ponderings and startled he looked up, only to meet the grey gaze of Aragorn.

“My lord…”

The King was pale and he looked tired: there were greyish shadows under his eyes and there was little passion in the way he carried himself. He was dressed in a simple tunic and leggings, and immediately Faramir was struck by how thin he was. There was something in the way Aragorn was looking at him that was enough to tear Faramir’s heart into pieces.

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

The pain in Aragorn’s voice was badly hidden.

Note on bearded elves: Cirdan the Shipwright is described in RotK (book VI, chapter IX) as having a long, grey beard. I know there is an ongoing debate on facial hair among the Elves, but I imagine that, in his current state, Faramir is not very concerned with it.

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.

Chapter Seventeen – Longing

“Will you dine with me?”

They had stored away cloaks and boots, and Faramir found he was loath to let go now – whether it was of any company generally, or of Aragorn specifically, he told himself he could not say for sure, but he did not wish to be alone.

Aragorn looked up at him and the hint of a smile ghosted across his features. “I thought you never ate, Faramir.”

“As often as you, my lord.” It was as courageous as it was inappropriate. Then again, they had probably crossed that line once or twice before and there was no denying that the King was thinner now than upon his arrival.

Aragorn looked perplexed for a moment but then he inclined his head. “Something simple, please.”

In the face of such open self-negligence and lack of spirit Faramir grew bolder, wondering if this was how Damrod had always felt around him. He went to order dinner and discreetly suggested that no one would complain if there was some extra cream added to the soup. He sent for wine too, nothing too heavy and rich, but something that would ease conversation just a little, hopefully. In the end, they were served not only soup and wine, but bread and meat too, some fruit and nuts, and finally a steaming pot of tea. Aragorn raised an eyebrow, but he ate.

“I had news from Éomer,” said Faramir when silence threatened to settle between them once and for all. “Lothiriel is with child.” Only when his lips closed around the words did he realise that the subject might be sensitive.

But Aragorn nodded. “Yes, so I heard.” He suddenly smiled. “The King of Rohan shall be proud like never before.”

Grateful for the tea, Faramir wrapped his fingers around the warm cup and leaned back in his chair. “He will be quite impossible to deal with.”

“Quite.” Aragorn agreed. “I presume he has already invited you to the feast?”

“In the most official unofficial way,” said Faramir while trying to ignore the lingering dread that invitation had brought.

“We could travel thither together?”

Before Faramir had a chance to reply, Aragorn continued with a small sigh. “The Council is proving adept at running Gondor… In all honesty, sometimes I wonder what my role truly is.”

Faramir frowned. He had not expected this turn in their conversation. “But you are King…”

Aragorn leaned forward. “Tell me, Faramir, what does a King do? What can I do that the Steward’s initiated advisors are not capable of?”

“You are the symbol of the Reunited Lands,” Faramir said helplessly, hearing himself that he sounded far from convincing. “You are the manifestation of the hope that we harboured for so long.”

“And what does a symbol do?” Aragorn shook his head. “I would roam the lands again… Live like you do, Faramir, be in touch with nature once more.”

“My office is merely of a ceremonial nature,” said Faramir as his cheeks gained a little heat. “Even with my duties I could be any man…”

Aragorn gave a weak smile and there was a distant longing in his grey eyes. “That is my point,” he said softly. “I too would choose to be ‘any man’, were I given the option.”

Faramir’s gaze dropped to the smooth wood of the table as a couple of servants entered to light some more candles and stir the fire. It was odd to hear the man he had loved as King from the moment he saw him in the Houses of Healing speak of his destiny with such dislike. When the reign of the Stewards finally had come to an end, and his father’s life was taken by the savage flames that Faramir could not wholly condemn, he had trusted the King to be strong, determined and, well, if not happy then at least content. Never had it occurred to him that the man who claimed the crown, would have qualms and doubts of his own.

The wood was gleaming in the flickering candlelight and it was hard not to be drawn back in time, to that dark night when he had lain down before Aragorn and watched fear dig its claws into him. Despite the anguish that tinted the memories, he knew that under different circumstances he would have found the idea – and would still find it – incredibly arousing. As his thoughts strayed, his eyes drifted to Aragorn’s hand holding a cup, and the silver of his ring seemed to lazily stretch and blend with the candlelight.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s voice was even softer than before.

I would be any man…

“Have I upset you?”

Would you have me?

The King reached out for him, palm sliding across the table.

“Faramir?”

Lovingly whispered.

“Faramir?”

A name murmured in wonder…

“Faramir?”

…cried out in passion.

Jerking back, Faramir blinked. Aragorn was pouring tea into his own cup, his two hands busy.

“Would you like some more?”

The night skies had clouded over and so there was no moonlight sliding through the hallways. They left the dining room slowly, almost reluctantly – or so it felt to Faramir. He chanced a glance at Aragorn who walked silently by his side and even stronger became the urge to say something.

“Whither did today disappear?” he asked finally and the night air eagerly fingered his words. There was curiosity swarming around them, and Faramir repressed an urge to shoo it away, back into the corners where he would prefer it stayed. Somehow, he wanted to be completely alone with Aragorn.

The King gave a soft chuckle, a sound which was almost new to Faramir and which he suddenly treasured very deeply.

“I could not say. You have too few hours in Ithilien.” Aragorn smiled.

Faramir smiled in return and his gaze lingered on the tiny glow of amusement in Aragorn’s eyes.

“Perhaps the King could issue a decree and provide us with some more?”

“Perhaps…” Aragorn nodded and he was still smiling. “I will consult him when I have returned to the City.”

With the mentioning of Minas Tirith an unwanted shadow drew upon them and a small sigh escaped Aragorn. His shoulders seemed to slump and his head bowed; his eyes traced the floorboards. Faramir must keep himself in check lest he should do something inappropriate; a longing steadily grew in his heart and he wished he could drape an arm around those shoulders and pull Aragorn closer for comfort.

The door leading to the King’s room loomed ahead of them and time ran out entirely. Their pace slowed even further and Faramir dared not lift his gaze to his companion’s face. When they came to a final stop, he could not form any words at all.

They stood face to face and Aragorn had his back to the door.

“Faramir?” He spoke so very softly.

Gentle fingers lifted his chin and with difficulty Faramir kept his eyes trained on the floor. Then he must focus on Aragorn’s shirt, and he thought he might do this, but in the end he was forced to look straight into Aragorn’s face. The hold on his composure became more difficult to maintain as a thumb brushed the skin just below his lower lip.

In Aragorn’s grey eyes the humble glow from before still lingered. He appeared to be concentrating hard and there was little else than this to be read in his features. A mixture of fear and exhilaration rose within Faramir as he noted the absence of alarm in the grey; it would not take much for him to abandon his position and give in.

“Yes?” he breathed in response.

For a moment, Aragorn looked confused but then his mouth curved in a small smile. His thumb stroked Faramir’s lower lip once, and then once more. Faramir stood as if frozen before him, only barely conscious of the wood beneath his feet and the breath that the hallway was holding. Aragorn drew a little closer still and then, before Faramir could chastise himself, their lips were touching.

He melted into Aragorn’s loose embrace that was tentative and hesitant. Arms uncertainly wound themselves around his waist and he reciprocated carefully, lifting his own arms to Aragorn’s shoulders, holding him close. A small gasp maybe, left the older man’s lips and it made Faramir open up just a little, though he dazedly knew that he might be pushing it too far. But Aragorn did not pull away and Faramir grew bolder. With the tip of his tongue he tasted the soft flesh meeting his and when he was not hindered, he pushed on, delving deeper inside. A tug on his waist encouraged him further and blood began pounding in his ears as he kissed Aragorn deeply, not minding at all that the other man stayed almost immobile and let him explore freely. He brushed against Aragorn’s own tongue and a shred of a prayer left him: if one day Aragorn would kiss him back in a similar fashion, he would be forever happy.

He forced himself to end the kiss before he honestly wanted to. The threat of arousal was hinting at him, and he needed to breathe to calm down or he would indeed scare Aragorn away. Leaving a final soft kiss upon Aragorn’s lips he pulled back and drew a deep breath.

He knew not what to expect but it was not warm hands stroking his back, urging him to fall against a strong chest. With desire still hovering at the very edges of his awareness, Faramir rested his head against Aragorn’s shoulder, nose almost touching his neck, while the King threaded his fingers through his copper locks and then gently let them travel down his spine and up again. His own arms had fallen to encircle Aragorn’s waist, mirroring the way he had himself been held. A hot craving coiled deep down in his body but he stayed still, letting the other man set the pace, afraid to do anything else.

Then Aragorn kissed his temple and cheek bone, and one of his hands came up to cradle his head. More kisses melted into his skin and his hair and Faramir shivered.

Aragorn’s voice was no more than a thread in the air that shimmered around them. “I know you would want more…” Though there was no distance between them, he hugged Faramir even closer. “I am sorry, maybe tonight I should sleep alone.”

The disappointment washed through Faramir ruthlessly but he tried not to show it. Instead he nodded numbly, and began to extricate himself from the embrace. Aragorn’s hands stopped him as they caught him by his shoulders.

“I care no more for any reasons,” Aragorn whispered but there was urgency in his voice. “You are so beautiful…” His fingers brushed Faramir’s cheeks, his forehead, mapped the curve of his lips and the arcs of his eyebrows. They left a trail of fire in the younger man. “I would let you show me…” Aragorn dropped his gaze to the floor and exhaled slowly. His hands skimmed down Faramir’s chest. “But tonight, I am not sure I could…”

Faramir nodded, silently telling himself that there was reason in this. “I understand,” he said quietly, not sure he agreed with his own words. He took a step back and tried to smile. “It is wise… to wait, maybe.”

Aragorn raised his eyes to his face, and he shook his head. There was a peculiar light in the grey even though he appeared both defeated and afraid. “Do not make up lies to please me, Faramir,” he said and in a flash he was a ruler once more. Then the moment was gone.

Faramir did not know what caused it but courage caught hold of him. “I would have you, my lord. I cannot deny that.”

The light in Aragorn’s eyes grew stronger but he moved not. Faramir bowed his head and then retreated, finally turning away from the King, making for his own chambers. An insistent tingling teased his lips and his heart was screaming at him to turn back, but he would not force himself on someone who was not yet ready.

A crack in the clouds allowed for a ray of moonlight to spill across the wooden floor and panels, and at once the eager whispering around him increased. Faramir had no time to react before hands spun him around and warm lips were pressed against his own. Breathlessly he returned the feverish kiss while his hands found their way underneath Aragorn’s shirt. When he found warm skin, he involuntarily gave a small moan which caused a tremble to rush through the man pressed against him. With his head spinning, Faramir sucked on Aragorn’s tongue and he absolutely refused to let go. Tiny silver stars pierced the darkness and there was little air left in his lungs. Aragorn’s hips gave a small thrust and Faramir’s balance was completely shattered when he discovered the hardness brushing his thigh. He swallowed Aragorn’s moan and before he knew it, he pulled away to breathe.

A chill immediately enveloped him and, panting heavily, he threw his eyes open. The corridor lay dark and quiet; he was all alone.

Chapter Eighteen – Interruption

Tuilë 39

Rain was once more assaulting Emyn Arnen when Faramir awoke. He washed and dressed, paying little attention to his actions while he tried to sort out the events of last night. He told himself that if he could still feel Aragorn’s lips upon his own it was no illusion. But then again, how many times after a vision had he not had some kind of physical reaction? When the dream-vision showing him Boromir’s fall at the cruel hands of the Uruk-hai, he had been bathing in sweat and shivered in terror. Damrod and Mablung had stubbornly stayed with him long afterwards, guarding the stone chambers of Henneth Annûn and soothing him even though the Rangers knew naught of what Faramir had seen.

While anxious to speak with the King, Faramir was also afraid to learn the truth. The urgency twining around his body worried him and lent him a healthy dose of reality. It was probably deeply unwise to long so for such a man and yet there was very little he could do about it. Even though he knew it was highly unlikely that Aragorn would ever see him as anything more than a faithful Steward, or maybe as an instrument to relieve some kind of sexual tension, Faramir had to admit to himself that in his dreams, his lover’s eyes were grey, and dark, tousled locks framed a well-known face.

Upon entering the dining hall his eyes immediately landed on the King who was seated at the table, going through a small stack of letters. There was a steaming pot of tea in front of him and some bread and cheese, all of it untouched. For a second or two, during which fear suddenly bubbled up within, Faramir considered turning back before he was spotted but it was already too late. Aragorn looked up from his reading and a small smile shyly caught his lips, making him seem years younger.

“Faramir.”

“Good morning, my lord.” Faramir gave a nod that he hoped could be interpreted as a type of bow of respect should some servant happen to appear.

Aragorn’s smile deepened somewhat. “Did you sleep well?”

Swallowing, Faramir crossed the floor. “I did,” he said with caution, not able to stop himself from reaching out to touch Aragorn’s energy. He detected a shimmer of anticipation and maybe a hint of nervousness. Taking a deep breath, he pulled out the chair next to the older man. However, he waited to speak until he sat down. Aragorn’s eyes followed his movements, his letters seemingly long forgotten.

“I must ask you,” Faramir began uncertainly in a low voice. “If we, last night… If you let me kiss you… in the hallway?” Colour rose in his cheeks even before he managed to finish the sentence: he must sound like a madman, at the very least.

Surprise briefly crossed Aragorn’s features but it was soon replaced by some other type of emotion that was harder to name.

“I beg your pardon, Faramir, if I…upset you. I did not mean to.” The smile had faltered.

“No, no!” said Faramir with more urgency than planned. Self-consciously he shook his head. “You did not. You have not. It was just that I…” He sighed. “I am having some difficulties telling dreams and reality apart as of late.”

“You dream of me?” Aragorn tilted his head to the side, his grey eyes scanning Faramir’s face.

“Aye, I do,” admitted Faramir quietly, the admission slipping out of him easier than he would have thought. “But it was my hope that yesterday’s events were not mere visions.”

“You left me at my door,” said Aragorn, nodding softly. “After I had claimed I wished to spend the night alone…”

Faramir searched the King’s face. “Nothing more?”

“Nothing more,” confirmed Aragorn.

Faramir nodded, unable to find anything additional to say. It was something, just not nearly enough.

“But,” the King said after a pause, “I think I was wrong…” His voice trailed off but silence would not settle completely.

“Wrong, sire?”

“To say I wished to sleep alone.”

Faramir raised his eyes to Aragorn’s face. There was so much worry there and so much fear, and only the smallest amount of happiness.

“Truly?” It was the only word that would come across his lips.

The older man gave a quick small smile but it was bleak. “Aye.”

Maybe he would have dropped his gaze if Faramir had not stared so intently at him. “You said, that night, that you had dreamt of me – like I dream of you…” he said slowly, thinking more aloud than actually addressing Aragorn. “Is this not strange?”

His ponderings drew an unforeseen laugh from the King and the tension dissolved. “I know not… I have seen much strangeness in my days. But Faramir,” his voice took on a more serious note, “I am telling you the truth. I should not have rejected you last night.” His eyes added something else – something more, but this plea remained unspoken.

Faramir’s heart felt oddly large in his breast and he did not breathe as he listened.

“I confess I would not have known what to do, and I am no less certain this morning,” continued Aragorn and even his cheeks gained some more colour. “And it scares me, but I do desire you.”

The confession hung between them for many long moments during which Faramir debated with himself. Finally, he leaned in a little, half expecting Aragorn to turn away. When he did not, he pressed a gentle kiss to the lips before him. “I will remember that,” he mumbled.

When he once more laid eyes on the King, he did not come to treasure the kiss, but the evident lack of dread and unease that before had held him in such a fierce grip. Smiling just a little, Faramir dared to bring one of his hands to rest upon one of Aragorn’s knees while the other reached for a teacup and the pot.

“Tea?”

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you.”

They broke their fast together and without speaking, but Faramir could put no price on the way Aragorn caught his hand and brought it back to his lap when he had finished cutting the cheese. They were sharing the same energy and to him they sat too close to each other to not notice this.

Sometime later the servants – upon noticing that breakfast would be a prolonged affair this morning – had brought a new pot of tea, and Faramir accepted the steaming cup and rose from his seat to wander over to the window. The rain was still falling heavily and hundreds of rivulets created a complex pattern on the glass. He did not have much of a choice today – as he could do no good in the woods he would have to be content in his study.

Tentatively, arms encircled his waist and he checked his reaction just in time; without moving he accepted the embrace, more happily than the other man could ever have known. Aragorn stepped up close to him and carefully rested his cheek against Faramir’s shoulder. In silence they stood as Faramir sipped his tea and Aragorn’s breaths slipped through the strands of hair and sent pleasant shivers across his skin.

“What will you do today?” Aragorn asked in a low voice, which Faramir, with a light heart, noticed was not such due to insecurity but to intimacy.

“Answer some letters…” Faramir answered him. “And complete a list of goods that need to be shipped off… and decide what Emyn Arnen should import. Every change of season brings requests from outer regions, as well as from my own people.”

“Need you anything from the City?”

Except for her King?

Faramir produced a smile not nearly bright enough to chase the bitter tang it left upon his lips away. “No, we will manage on our own, I think.”

They had always done so before, and though his heart may hold a differing opinion, the facts were against him.

Aragorn nodded against his shoulder and said no more.

Faramir fed on his presence like a starving man. He did not want to take too much for himself, but he allowed Aragorn’s energy to melt into his own body, warm him, hold him. He smiled when his thoughts completed their circle:

“But we did share one kiss, yesterday.”

He could not see Aragorn’s face but was sure he detected at least a shred of affection in his voice:

“We did.”

The rain was continuously falling and the sky was a compact grey. They had been watching it for a little while, each in deep thought, when a loud call from the doorway made them both start.

“Some of that lovely apple pie, darling!”

Because of the teacup and the comfortable position, Aragorn could not quickly draw back and this was reason enough for Damrod’s eyebrows to shoot towards the ceiling, and for his dazzling grin to somewhat subside.

Wide-eyed he quickly took a step inside and slammed the door shut behind him.

“By the Gods, Faramir!” he exclaimed, still staring. “You should be lucky ‘twas only me!”

Plain surprise at seeing his friend and relief that it had, indeed, been only him and no one else mingled with an overwhelming sense of loss as Aragorn stepped away from him. Faramir felt the beautiful energy withdraw and a chill seemed to filter through the window-glass and settle in his bones.

“What brings you here?” he queried unsteadily, noticing that Damrod was not half as wet as he should have been. “Is that my tunic?”

With a well-known, brilliant grin in place, his old friend winked at him. “Found it in the closet by the door. You wouldn’t believe the state I was in when I got here.” His gaze travelled from Faramir to Aragorn and to the window. “Or maybe you would.” He spread his hands. “Sorry to interrupt anything – I just wanted to see you were doing well, you know.”

Faramir swallowed down more disappointment as Aragorn took a few more steps back.

“All is well,” he said, wondering if he were good enough to convince himself. “I take it you are joining us for breakfast?”

He had no wish of chasing his friend away but all he wanted was for Aragorn told him again, and that thought scared him more than anything: it felt like years ago that he had been dependent on someone else to provide him with security.

Damrod was looking less than certain. “‘Tis a good long while ago I saw you eating this late in the morning.” Too late did he hear the underlying implication and he had the sense to blush. “Not saying, of course…” He nodded towards the King. “Beg your pardon, my lord.”

In the corner of his eye Faramir saw how Aragorn raised a hand as if he were sweeping the issue aside. “I will leave you to talk,” he said.

Damrod’s gaze flickered from one man to the other and Faramir easily felt his curiosity that was barely held at bay. This was probably the reason for why he did not object when Aragorn announced his intentions.

There was a sharp knock on the door and then it opened.

“Ah!” exclaimed Damrod as he spotted the lid-covered pot the girl was carrying. “Brilliant!”

While his friend busied himself with examining the arrival of what Faramir supposed was apple pie, he chanced a glance at Aragorn. Grey eyes settled on his face and a small smile full of regret was offered him. Faramir must fight the instinct to reach out and touch.

“I have some letters to write myself,” said Aragorn quietly. “But I would like to see you later, if you could spare…”

“I want to see you.” The words tumbled out of Faramir before the older man had finished his sentence. “I want to see you very much,” he added, choosing in that moment to ignore what was happening around him, but he spoke in a low voice, too.

He drew a deep breath and forced his shoulders back. Some clean cutlery was being brought to them and Damrod had charmed the servants into bringing him a teacup and a plate as well.

Aragorn’s smile was answer enough. When he left the dining hall, his hand brushed against Faramir’s and the heart of the Steward of Gondor took a leap for the heavens.

But the door swung close with an eerie finality and a harsher and brighter light swept him up.

“So,” said Damrod when they were alone. “Care to tell me what that was all about?”

Faramir sighed at this new reality and sank down in his chair. “I hardly know myself.”

With eyes narrowing, Damrod claimed the chair opposite his and leaned across the polished surface. “You telling me that you’re doing something with him? Faramir?”

“I’m not… doing anything,” he said as he raked a hand helplessly through his hair. At least it was almost true. “I know not what is happening. He is…”

“He is the King, I’ll tell you!” Damrod kept his voice down but his hiss was perfectly audible. “Is he forcing you?”

“No!” The impact of his hand slamming the table took them both by surprise. Faramir felt reason slipping away. “You cannot tell a soul. Not the lady you are courting – not even Mablung. No one should have seen that.”

Damrod shook his head but his keen eyes were fixed on Faramir. “You know I’ll keep quiet, but tell me this: do you know what you’re doing? Maelir’s spreading the word you know… Says he shared your bed two nights ago.”

Faramir dropped his head into his arms, leaning forward on the table. “He did.”

“Gods…” He heard the frustration in Damrod’s voice. “These waters are too deep for either of us, that’s what they are. Don’t get involved with the King. There must be other men. Faramir?”

But there were no other men…

“Yea?”

“Don’t go there.”

But he would.

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

Chapter Twenty – Trust

Faramir stared at the mess of dark tresses that spilled over his chest. Mesmerised by them, he had to sternly tell his heart to not beat so madly. By some unspoken agreement they had moved over to the bed when the shadows had begun stretching and the last remnants of daylight had failed to pretend it was still too early for such choices. Faramir still wore his shirt, of course, and so did Aragorn; they had kicked off their boots but that was all. But right now it was – almost – enough for Faramir to have the other man’s head resting on his chest and his own arms wound around him. He had desired closeness and had been granted it – it was not fitting to wish for more so soon.

The small fire would soon need tending to and Faramir feared the moment when he would have to rise and let go. The raging winds, dark skies and pouring rain made it hard to tell the time: sunset had been fear and longing entwined, lost in its own essence, whereas night was calmer, steadily waxing, but impossible to melt into as dark, tousled locks spread out against well-worn linen. Aragorn’s breathing had evened out after a while and the King slept peacefully in his arms.

The golden glow of the fire skated across the dark strands of hair and some more wood crumbled in the heat in the hearth. With a heavy sigh, Faramir stroked the arm that encircled his waist.

“Aragorn?”

Love?

He swallowed and pushed back some of the hair that had fallen into the King’s face. “Aragorn…”

The older man gave a small groan and Faramir must ignore that too lest he should find himself far too affected by the circumstances than was appropriate. He needed not any powers providing him with suggestions and Aragorn’s body was already warm where it lay, moulded against his.

“Some more wood for the fire,” he mumbled as Aragorn shifted and pressed closer to him.

A dull aching burst through his defences and a new wave of rain pounded the windows.

But Aragorn obediently slid off him as he attempted to sit up. Before he knew what he was doing, Faramir bent down and placed a quick kiss on his forehead.

“Do not leave,” he whispered as he unsteadily rose to his feet.

He dared not look at the form on the bed as he fed more wood to the fire, drew the curtains shut and extinguished the few remaining lit candles. The room closed in on itself and the air grew heavier to breathe. Undecided, Faramir fingered his belt but in the end removed it; Aragorn’s soft breathing sifted out to him but he firmly quenched all his expectations. He bid a silent goodnight to the land he was set to protect and then approached the bed, his bare feet grateful for the rug.

The bed was large enough to allow them to sleep far apart and still be comfortable.

“My lord,” his croaked whisper bounced off the walls. He knelt on the edge. “We need to… the covers…”

Aragorn raised his head. His face was softened by sleep and the firelight held him in a warm embrace. He sat up slowly as if he did not truly trust his own body. While Faramir’s hands tugged and lifted, his eyes would not leave the King. Aragorn was not looking at him directly but for that he was grateful. Faramir’s heart picked up an unsteady rhythm as he realised there was nothing more for him to do but to lie down. He edged onto the bed cautiously but the other man did not flee.

“Faramir,” there was something in Aragorn’s voice that compelled the younger man to meet his eyes, “please take off your shirt.”

His throat suddenly gone dry, Faramir stared straight into the grey. The firelight gave it an even warmer glow but he numbly registered that was not really necessary: Aragorn was watching him with so much softness that it would have made tears sting his eyes had he not been so nervous.

“Please.”

His fingers trembled as he lifted the hem and pulled his shirt over his head. He hardly dared to breathe as Aragorn’s eyes swept over his bare chest. Frozen on the spot, Faramir stared as the older man mirrored his hesitant action and shed his own shirt.

Aragorn was thinner than Faramir remembered him from the days after the war. He had only seen the King bare-chested on a handful occasions but never had he felt like he did now. The muscles were still there, his chest was still dusted by that dark hair but his skin was pale even in the helpful glow of the fire. He saw his own hand reaching out and then his fingertips were trailing over unshielded skin and brushing against the exposed planes of Aragorn’s stomach.

He parted his lips to draw breath, to maybe say something, but he had no time before Aragorn’s lips crashed against his and the force of a desperate kiss almost knocked him over. Hands were mapping his shoulder blades and fingers dug into the small of his back as Aragorn’s tongue pushed into his mouth. When kneeling soon became impossible, Faramir dragged the other man down onto the mattress, eagerly kissing and stroking every little inch of naked skin he could find. He knew not if it was thunder or his own heartbeat that rang in his ears but when the ache in his body intensified and the instinctive push of his hips did not chase Aragorn away he dazedly decided that he would let Emyn Arnen drown if only Aragorn stayed where he was.

He left open-mouthed kisses along the older man’s neck and felt palms dragging up his sides. Aragorn lay partly on top of him now with one of his thighs pressing against Faramir’s groin and the heat grew close to unbearable. Faramir’s teeth grazed the tender skin just below the King’s ear and drew a long moan from him. His world swam when Aragorn pushed against him, his arousal evident. Faramir sought out his mouth again and heavy breathing was momentarily interfered with as he tasted his King once more.

Aragorn’s fingers tangled in his hair and held him so close that it was almost painful. The plea that pushed inside Faramir was enough to fuel his courage and unchecked his hand flew to the lacings of his leggings. Aragorn’s tongue was slick against his own and they simultaneously shifted, giving Faramir some space to work with. He quickly tore open his own lacings, hissing as the stormy night air touched his arousal. Aragorn moved against him, but his hands stayed in Faramir’s hair.

Riding the current of desire unleashed and unable to hold back, Faramir twisted backwards and reached for the drawer in the bedside table. In his awkward position it took him a little while to find the oil but Aragorn stayed and that was all that mattered. The windows shook as rain assailed them but Aragorn’s skin was hot against his and Faramir dropped the corked vial on the bed and kissed him deeply.

“Please, let me,” he begged before some harsh reality of any kind broke through.

For the first time in many minutes did their eyes meet and Faramir felt almost nauseous. It was too easy to spot the immense fear that was barely held back by the shimmering lust so he reached out with all his being and tried to hold Aragorn as close as he might. There were so many conflicting emotions in the older man that they were uncountable, but he told himself he could sense hope and trust too. Aragorn nodded and the stubble on his chin rasped against Faramir’s shoulder.

The younger man closed his eyes and stroked Aragorn’s hip, his breathing picking up speed again now that he was given permission. Aragorn buried his face in the crook of his neck as Faramir’s fingers slipped lower towards the bulge in his leggings. Tracing a pattern on the strained fabric, Faramir drank down the small gasps that washed over his skin. As he began exploring the laces a kiss was pressed to his neck and he smiled.

It seemed like a year passed before the fabric fell away under his fingers and then he wished for some more time still. He tried not to tremble as he picked up the oil and managed to coat his palm. His own arousal twitched at the thought of touching Aragorn so intimately but the King lay mute beside him now, the apprehension mounting quickly in the room.

“Tell me…” he rasped out, trying to hold back for Aragorn sake.

All air left him as Aragorn hugged him closer and lifted his head, and he was so drained of confidence his eyes looked almost hollow. “Destroy the fear, Faramir,” he whispered, “kill it.”

For a moment Faramir could not move. Then he nodded faintly. “Kiss me.”

Something flashed across the other man’s face and then lips were pressed against his.

Refusing to think, and to the sound of the beating rain, Faramir encircled Aragorn’s hard flesh with an oil slicked hand and gently began to stroke. The older man froze, and so did the kiss, and the world turned upside down.

Faramir pushed through the thick fog, through the mist that invaded the room. Aragorn was warm and hard and heavy in his hand and he admitted to himself that he wanted this man more than he had ever wanted anyone before. The King did not respond to his initial strokes; Faramir felt the defences slam into place but he fought these too. With a twist of his fingers, with a tug, sliding his thumb over the slit, with some coaxing, his heart broke into pieces along with Aragorn’s as the first whimper touched the air.

Faramir kissed him over and over. He ignored his own aching flesh as he slid his hand up and down Aragorn’s swollen length. The moment the other man gave in, he silently rejoiced and deepened an already thorough kiss. Aragorn yielded under his ministrations with a drawn-out moan and Faramir increased the force of his strokes but not the pace. Then boldness came upon him and he ended the kiss by a final sweep of his tongue.

“Come closer,” he suggested and made a fairly successful attempt to shift partially onto his side.

He felt the tremors that chased each other through Aragorn’s body but he bit his lip and gambled. The feel of his hand finally encircling his own erection was a relief but it was not what he was after. He held his breath as he took Aragorn in his hand too, stroking them simultaneously with more audacity than he knew he possessed. Aragorn gasped and squeezed his eyes firmly shut. His arm tightened its hold on Faramir’s waist and his breathing grew ragged. Faramir saw stars in the darkness even as the firelight waned. His own flesh slid along Aragorn’s, trapped by his hand and the heat that spread in his body made his legs tingle. Without any warning Aragorn suddenly gave a pained cry and momentarily tensed before he climaxed with his seed spraying over Faramir’s hand.

He shook uncontrollably against the younger man who let him slip from his fingers and with a few well-known twists quickly brought himself over the edge too. His own climax, Faramir reflected as soon as the world stopped spinning and the immediate heat was washed away by a pleasant sensation of numbness, was perhaps not the most amazing one he had experienced, but his heart and soul were blasted completely open with the presence of Aragorn in his bed.

The King held onto him like they were adrift on a stormy sea. Faramir buried his nose in the dark tresses and breathed in the scent of frenzied love-making, shame and terror. But there were other scents beneath these and he filled his senses with what he hoped was pure Aragorn, not assaulted by shadow. The pace of their breathing gradually slowed and the chill of the evening swept back into the room.

There was activity in the corners, by the windows and near the fireplace where the dying fire now crackled audibly in a last display of passion. Faramir mentally shoved at the – for the moment – unwelcome company and did his best to ignore the snickers floating out to him.

He ran a hand down Aragorn’s back. The other man was not asleep, that much he could tell from the sound of his breathing.

“Cold?” he whispered.

Aragorn’s grip on him loosened a little and Faramir found himself looking into grey eyes. There were so many questions in them that Faramir momentarily felt overwhelmed.

“Stay,” he said and thus answered what he perceived was the first one. “Stay for as long as you wish.” Maybe that was the second.

Aragorn’s arms fell away as Faramir gingerly sat up and reached for the covers. He swallowed as he caught the next question in the grey gaze, wondering how many times his own eyes had held the same one. “Hold me again?” he suggested gently.

The smallest of smiles curved Aragorn’s lips and his arm came around Faramir’s waist once more. “I am still scared,” the King admitted while his cheeks gained some heat in the dark night, “but you are…” he visibly hesitated, weighing words. “This was…”

As he lost his words to the night, Faramir kissed his forehead and felt the dull ache rising anew. “I care greatly about you, Aragorn,” he sighed, somehow knowing that would end the conversation.

He lay awake and listened to the other man’s breathing grow softer and softer. Skin that he had never touched before lay pressed against his own. His heart was open wide and yet it hurt.

You love him.

Faramir stared into darkness.

Chapter Twenty-One – More

Tuilë 40

He first registered the half-hearted tapping of rain against the windows, then he felt the warm body pressed against his own. Faramir’s eyes flew open but all he could see in the bleak too-early morning light was a curtain. He had rolled onto his side with Aragorn curled around him and the solid warmth of his body felt fundamentally different than Maelir’s restless limbs. Faramir gently turned with equal amounts of hope and alarm rising and warring in his mind.

With what sounded to Faramir almost as a purr, Aragorn – consciously or unconsciously – shifted to let him find a new position. Some of his dark hair fell into his face and Faramir brushed it away, more by instinct than anything else. It was probably his own imagination but he thought the ever-present dark circles under the other man’s eyes were slightly lighter. However, he dared not place a kiss on Aragorn’s cheek so he lay back down and tried to go back to sleep. It took a while, but finally he drifted off and dreamed dreams doomed to be forgotten.

The second time Faramir awoke that morning he did so because his body was responding to touch. A shiver was lazily crawling across his skin, then another and then one more. He blinked and tried to focus, head heavy and eyelids even more so.

“Hey…” The quiet greeting seeped straight into his heart.

Aragorn’s face came into view: tousled dark wavy hair, grey eyes that bore the same colour as the rain, full lips curved into a hesitant smile and cheeks and chin covered in stubble more than just one day old. His fingertips were running up and down Faramir’s arm.

“Morning,” he mumbled, pushing his sleep-induced mind into somewhat clear thinking. His eyes wandered over the skin visible: that of Aragorn’s shoulders and neck. He knew how it tasted, how it felt and abruptly he missed it.

“Do you regret, last night?” he asked before he had fully made up his mind.

Aragorn dropped his gaze to the covers Faramir had pulled up to his chin in his sleep and his caresses stopped briefly. He shook his head, “No… and you?”

“No.” Faramir said quickly, relief washing over him. “I do not.”

The weak smile on Aragorn’s lips returned and deepened a little. “I am glad.” Cautiously, his fingertips resumed their previous action. “Very glad.”

Faramir offered a smile of his own and drawn to those lips as he was, edged a little closer. He meant to ask but his instincts were quicker than his mind and he leaned in and joined their mouths in a chaste kiss. Yet again, Aragorn grew motionless for a second or two but then he opened up a little. Faramir accepted the invitation eagerly and dipped his tongue tip into the warm heat. The fingertips continued to run up and down his arm as he tried to keep the kiss as shallow and non-demanding as possible. When he pulled back, Aragorn placed a small kiss on his lips in return.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?” Faramir retreated to give him some space. His stomach twisted as he watched the emotion rise in Aragorn’s eyes.

“For being patient…”

He swallowed down the nervousness to be able to speak. “What am I waiting for, Aragorn?”

A faint blush stole across the King’s cheeks. “For more?”

“I would never–”

“No,” Aragorn agreed, nodding slowly, almost thoughtfully. “I know you would never expect more because you are not like that.” He gave a crooked half-smile. “But maybe I want to give you more?”

Faramir stared at him for a long moment as the rain tapped against the windows behind the curtains. “You do?”

The King – his King, the Sovereign of the Reunited Lands – bit his lip. “I do.”

“But…” He frowned. The room was empty save for Aragorn and himself; he detected no other presences. He grew suddenly very aware of how utterly undressed he was – and that Aragorn was in the same state.

“If that is against your wishes now..?” A worried glimmer flickered in Aragorn’ grey gaze.

To his own surprise, Faramir found himself laughing out loud. Even though Aragorn might not be able to sense it, some of the lingering tension dissolved and the energy floated more freely around the room, and the air grew lighter and sweeter to breathe.

“No,” smiled Faramir, “it is not.” A sense of bubbly happiness, one he might normally have ascribed to children, awakened in his stomach. He caught Aragorn’s hand and kissed his knuckles. “Not at all.”

Aragorn shook his head. “You know I am not very experienced… at all. And you know of… my past.” He suddenly smiled despite that dark memory rising. “But I can be no worse than awful, and then I can only improve…”

Kissing his knuckles again, Faramir let his lips linger upon the soft skin. “I enjoyed last night…” he said, turning the hand around and pressing a kiss to the inside of Aragorn’s wrist.

“I was crying on your shoulder – literally,” mumbled Aragorn and Faramir heard the embarrassment in his voice.

Faramir lifted his gaze and met that of the other man. “You were letting go…”

Easing himself down on his back beside the younger man, Aragorn sighed. “Was that how it was for you – were you equally tormented?”

The past rushed back to him, inevitably, brutally. “No,” Faramir shook his head against the pillow. “I was terrified of discovery… But then, those who would bed me knew that Denethor would not look kindly upon them either. It was potential outsiders and onlookers who were feared.” He lay silent for a while. “I was never abused… I guess I could have been but I tried to be careful.”

“And your father?”

“Maybe he suspected, but he never had any proof.” Faramir let go of Aragorn’s hand, maybe to give him some space – maybe to give himself some, but the older man grasped his in a reversed hold instead. “He let me know what he thought of men who slept with other men, though. More than once.”

“Did Boromir know?”

That too was a question that felt as ancient as the lands that cradled him. “I do not know,” Faramir admitted. “I never told him outright and he never spoke his own mind… In the eyes of our father I was already lesser than Boromir’s shadow and I feared to discover that he shared the same opinion.”

“Is that the prevailing view in Minas Tirith still, do you know?” asked Aragorn after a while.

“In the whole of Gondor, I presume,” said Faramir quietly. “It is my guess that not much has changed… In Emyn Arnen few would reveal their disgust, if they nourish it, for I guess my ways are known to most… But elsewhere… Deep-rooted beliefs and prejudices will not vanish solely with the beginning of a new rule.” He managed a weak smile at Aragorn. “Not even yours, my lord.”

A thoughtful look had settled in Aragorn’s features. “It should not be so…”

But before he could respond there was a knock at the door. “Lord Faramir!”

Aragorn tensed where he lay and his eyes widened, but Faramir placed a gentle hand on his chest. “No one enters without my leave.” He felt Aragorn relax somewhat. “Yes?” he called out.

“Morning, sir! There is warm water in the bathing chamber.”

He called out his thanks and listened to the sound of footsteps disappearing down the hallway. Conflicting emotions quickly rose in his breast. He withdrew his hand from Aragorn’s chest and tried to breathe evenly.

“Do they…?” The confusion in Aragorn’s voice betrayed him and Faramir did not need to look at his face to confirm it.

Faramir licked his lips, searching for words. “Usually I send for water myself, depending on when I wake up, but…” he hesitated, “sometimes they prepare it in advance. Usually when someone has… slept over the night before. That is – the other morning we needed to wash…” His cheeks burned.

The following silence crept under his skin and made him twitch in discomfort.

“When someone has shared your bed?” Aragorn concluded quietly.

“They got used to it…” Faramir swallowed. “Maelir never liked to hide. It became easier to bring water here than to have him…” Numerous images of his young lover striding to the bathing chamber dressed in only his confidence flooded Faramir’s mind but there was nothing erotic about them now. “And since he was here again a few nights ago…” he finished lamely.

Raindrops upon window-glass was the only thing heard for a good long while.

“I see,” Aragorn said finally.

Faramir snapped out of his miserable ponderings. “What?”

The King was not smiling but there was an almost rueful light in his eyes when Faramir finally dared to look at him.

“I meant not to sound as if I judge you, Faramir. And you need not explain and excuse yourself. Should I demand that, then I am no better than your father.” He lifted a hand and shyly traced the younger man’s cheekbone. “Forgive me, it is just that… I do not like the idea of you sharing your bed with someone else.”

Faramir watched him in growing surprise. His cheek was tingling. “My lord?”

But Aragorn seemed not to hear him. “And I have absolutely no right to say so… I, who can hardly give you what you seek.”

“Aragorn?”

The older man blinked at him. Then he closed his eyes. “I am sorry.”

“What are you saying?” Faramir pushed himself up on his elbows and stared at him.

Aragorn opened his eyes and his smile was feeble and completely without self-assurance. “I am saying, Faramir, that despite my fears I want you and there is nothing in the thought of you with someone else that gives me pleasure.”

The words reached Faramir in a mess. He sorted through them, tried to arrange them differently but had no success for the only thing he could make them imply was something he did not dare to even think about.

Aragorn traced his jaw line with his index finger and then fastened a few stray copper strands behind his ear. “I have no right to lay a claim on your bed and I should definitely not lay a…” he stopped himself from continuing and the sentence was left hanging unfinished between them.

The world spun as Faramir felt an urgency of the wildest kind grip him. He hardly knew where to begin but in the end he simply dove forward and pressed his lips against Aragorn’s in a fierce kiss. “Please do, my lord,” he breathed against the soft flesh, “please do.”

This time it was he who surrendered. Aragorn’s tongue pushed inside his mouth to mark and possess. Faramir melted against him, his skin heating up a little more with every swirl and every nibble. Aragorn pushed himself off the mattress and they rolled over; the King almost straddled him now and Faramir’s flesh stirred. The warmth of Aragorn’s body seeped into his own and he groaned as something – arm, thigh, whatever it was – brushed against his awakening length. Aragorn left his lips and trailed kisses down his throat, his beard scraping against the tender skin. Faramir wanted to push him further down, wanted to stretch and push inside, wanted to be taken in turn but he would not, could not, rush it.

He felt Aragorn’s mouth on his chest as it sought out one of his nipples. The King took the hardened pebble in his mouth and gently sucked but Faramir buried his fingers in his hair and managed to catch his attention.

With an embarrassed shrug against the sheets he confessed, “I have never been very sensitive there…”

Contrary to what he might have expected, Aragorn flashed him a mostly steady grin after a second or two. “Shame, I do know that technique…”

Laughing, Faramir would have pulled him up to kiss him once more but Aragorn slid down his body and the distance between their mouths grew. With eyes widening, Faramir watched as kisses were scattered all over his upper body. Aragorn was still hesitant, it was evident enough, but he fought his fear bravely and soon his lips were drawing very close to Faramir’s groin. The sight in itself made Faramir painfully hard and there was no way of hiding it now. He tried not to squirm but it grew more and more difficult as Aragorn kissed first one of his hips and then dipped his tongue tip into his navel.

“Faramir…” Aragorn wore a rueful expression, “would it be alright if I did not… taste you right now?”

Faramir decided to focus on the promise woven into the words instead of on the initial disappointment. He nodded. “Will you touch me?”

“Yes…”

Producing a hazy memory from the night before, he gestured towards the floor; he could not move as Aragorn was draped over his legs. “The oil is on the floor I think… I prefer that to just dry hands.”

He knew he was staring but when Aragorn raised himself up a little and Faramir saw him fully aroused for the first time in daylight, there was nothing that could convince him to look away. He felt like Damrod – although he suspected that Damrod himself would rather face an army of Orcs alone than find himself in this position – when he decided that Aragorn really should put on some weight. Other than that, he was perfect.

Aragorn retrieved the oil and popped the cork. His cheeks were flushed – whether from knowledge about exposure or his present task Faramir could not tell – as he poured a generous amount into his palm and carefully set the vial back on the floor with his free hand.

Faramir smiled. “I am not that sensitive,” he gently teased.

Aragorn looked from him to the oil and back again. Then the sheepish look in his eyes was replaced by a far more enticing gleam. “If you are not sensitive at all, I do not see the point of this…”

With a grin, Faramir tried to shove a foot at him, not really succeeding.

Aragorn rubbed his palms together and then lay back down. As soon as he was stretched out on his belly, the mood shifted and shade of seriousness drifted through the air. He left a string of kisses along one of Faramir’s ribs, skimming his tongue over skin that prickled at the touch. Faramir fought to keep his eyes open as heat simmered along his spine and pushed downwards. His arousal twitched and a tiny moan left him as his body and Aragorn’s tongue traded kisses and licks for trembles.

He missed the moment when Aragorn first touched him. His eyes flew open as slick fingers encircled the base of his member more firmly and carried out a hesitant stroking motion.

“Yes…” he breathed, “like that.”

The strokes grew a little bolder and longer, and Faramir’s hips came off the mattress at the surprise.

“Oh…” He lifted his head to look at Aragorn and the older man wore an expression of such concentration that he must smile through the heat that continuously poured into him.

There was little he could set against the pleasure, however, as it mounted and his head dropped back down onto the pillows. The strokes were slow but evenly spaced, and the pressure just about right. Faramir twisted on the bed, his own breathing heavy, as Aragorn pulled back the skin and exposed the sensitive head. He would need very little – the fact that Aragorn was actually doing this here and now was enough to push him towards his climax.

He dug his fingers into the sheets as Aragorn brushed over his sacs and then resumed his stroking. The heat that coiled around the base of his spine grew nearly unbearable as Aragorn’s fingertips slid across the slit at the tip of Faramir’s member and smeared the pearly liquid that heralded his release.

Aragorn’s heavy breathing matched his own but Faramir’s hands stayed twisted in the sheets as the pleasure augmented further. Then he reached the edge and the air grew thick and foggy in his throat.

“I will…” He got no further before his climax hit him and his senses spiralled out of control.

When he resurfaced and the blissful darkness he had been thrown into transformed into a bleak, rainy morning, he was not even sure of his own name. With a great effort he opened his eyes and glanced down. Aragorn’s hand was resting on his belly, fingers splayed and he was watching Faramir with an anxious light in his eyes.

With a pang, Faramir realised there was nothing he could say that would not betray the depth of his feelings for the other man. He tried to smile and hoped it would draw attention from the tears that threatened to well up in his eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Two – Prerequisites

Faramir sipped his tea but paid little attention to the taste. He was alone at the table. They had risen finally: Aragorn, still overwhelmed and slightly shaken by his own actions, had retreated to his own chambers to wash and dress and Faramir had let him go with a heavy heart. Lost in his own whirlwind of lust he had not reciprocated and guilt soon made itself known; he knew Aragorn too had found release but he knew not how.

He set his cup down and stared at it. The rain had been reduced to a light drizzle and the skies were a bright white that was hard on the eyes. It struck him that he had not much to do. He was a caretaker of Ithilien, so to speak, but even Emyn Arnen which was his personal protectorate, again, so to speak, mostly ran itself.

It was not that he was bored, he tried to convince himself. He was just in between tasks. With the current mood of the weather it was highly unlikely that the remaining piles of bracken would be burned this spring… so they would have to wait until autumn and that was no disaster. He knew of no houses in need of repair – and in any case it was not his task to actually put wood and stone together. Probably some smaller roads would need attention due to all the raining, but that was hardly something that would keep him busy all day long and during weeks ahead.

A soft knock on the open door startled him.

Aragorn was standing in the doorway with a small, uncertain smile tugging at his lips and a nervous light in his eyes. His hair was pushed back from his face and was not entirely dry. Coal black leggings and a wine red shirt contrasted starkly to his pale skin. He wore soft, low boots and Faramir could not tear his eyes away.

“Good morning, Steward Faramir.” Aragorn’s low voice wrapped around him and it took all of the younger man’s strength to not melt into the invisible embrace.

“My lord,” whispered Faramir, unable to find a stable voice. “You are…” He swallowed down the last word that wanted to slip from his lips, too afraid to claim anything.

Aragorn carefully closed the door behind him and crossed the floor slowly. The tension in his shoulders, in the way he carried himself was clearly visible. When he met with no objections he pulled out the chair next to Faramir’s and sank down to face him. He dropped his gaze to his knees and his voice was so low that Faramir must strain to hear it.

“You are beautiful.”

For a long moment nothing moved in the room – not even the air or the white daylight, or any other presence, shifted. But the timid spark of joy in Faramir’s heart was suddenly too much to handle and while the world stilled, this was what needed all of his attention lest he should shatter.

Aragorn’s hands lay folded in his lap and though he looked a little more rested today, he was pale and the shadows under his eyes were still too dark.

Faramir drew a long breath, fuelling the tiny fire in his breast. He gathered all the courage he could summon and covered Aragorn’s hands with one of his own.

“So are you.”

Aragorn glanced up quickly, but not quickly enough for Faramir to miss the glimmer of surprise in his eyes. He leaned in and Faramir did the same – drawn to that glimmer like a moth to a flame. Aragorn’s eyes widened slightly, Faramir turned his head a little and lost some focus when he spotted the weak hope deep, deep down in the grey. So close to drowning in despondency it was that it was almost indiscernible. But as Faramir reached out to it, Aragorn gave into fear and his forehead bumped hard against Faramir’s nose.

“Ow!”

The immobile tension around them exploded into moving reality. Faramir immediately pulled away and rubbed his nose.

“Faramir! Are you alright?”

Aragorn’s terrified expression was so genuine that it drew a smile from him.

“Yea,” he nodded, unable to keep from laughing. “This is madness…”

Aragorn relaxed somewhat but there was a worried frown in his features still. “I am sorry… I did not mean to…”

“Hurt me?” Faramir grinned. “I think I believe you.”

But he was caught unawares, and dragged out of his cheerful state, as his hands were captured by Aragorn. The older man looked at him intently, still serious, still not ready to share in Faramir’s amusement. “I never wished to hurt you,” he said quietly. “And the Valar know that I will try my best to never do so again.”

He brought Faramir’s hands to his mouth and gently kissed his knuckles while the younger man could do nothing but stare. The growing shine of Aragorn’s eyes, Faramir gradually understood, was due to the tears forming in them.

“What can I do for you, Faramir?” whispered the King and a silvery, salty streak was painted across his cheek.

But the heavy silence that imposed itself on Faramir kept him from speaking; his mouth remained closed as his heart began screaming.

“Tell me what I can do for you…” Aragorn kissed his knuckles again, mocking his skin with the brief touch. “Please…”

The wish, the one single wish in his heart, fought its way through the dizziness in his head, but Faramir knew even before he spoke that his hushed words would be the result of fear of rejection triumphing over courage. He was no true warrior.

“Please kiss me…”

He saw the second tear fall before Aragorn brushed his soft lips against his own. So cautious was the reunion that Faramir was sure it would not last long, but when Aragorn’s mouth lingered against his, there was nothing left in him that might chastise him. He fell against the other man, wanting so badly to be held, to be consumed and cherished that it scared him. Yet there was no wisdom offering advice in that moment and Faramir kissed back wildly as if Aragorn was good for him – as if Aragorn was unafraid.

His tongue pushed into the King’s mouth and was granted entrance. Only partially was he aware of the hands that cupped his face, the thumbs that stroked his cheekbones, and then the fingers that tangled in his hair. He kissed Aragorn for all that he was worth, with all he had, and with all his heart.

For a short, short moment in time he had everything. Then he was alone once more.

Their faces were scant inches apart but it was painful to breathe. Aragorn’s hands, empty now, retreated and he kept them in his lap. There was silence again – that accursed silence Faramir had once treasured above nearly everything else.

“I…” Aragorn began, but he lost his words to the blinding daylight that flooded the dining hall.

His lips were reddened.

Faramir wished he could give up thought, turn numb and devoid of all emotion. But the unspoken truth that drifted towards him and slipped through him would not go away.

You love him.

“Faramir?”

There were no more tears in Aragorn’s eyes and the grey was softened.

“May I hold you?”

As Aragorn’s arms came around him, hesitantly at first and a bit awkwardly due to their positions, a part of Faramir simply yielded to the inevitable. A deeper knowledge, one that transcended mortal logic, suggested to him that he was only continuing down the same path he had trod for some days now. Maybe if he had never lain down before Aragorn on the table? Or maybe if he had never tasted him, eased the ache in his body that moonlit night in the guest chamber? Maybe if Aragorn had never come to Emyn Arnen…

Faramir breathed in the scent of the King, filled his lungs with the closeness, with proof of the embrace.

“I missed you… the minute I left your chambers,” murmured Aragorn against his hair and if it all was an illusion, Faramir would rather stay in it than wake up.

“And I you,” he confessed quietly, feeling heat sweep across his face as memories came back to him. “I meant to apologise,” he mumbled, “for not… touching you before. I did not mean to be so selfish.”

Aragorn’s hold on him tightened briefly. “But I wanted to test my courage,” he said in a voice that lacked much confidence but was steady enough to hold. One of his palms shyly ran down Faramir’s back. “How did I do?”

At the unexpected question Faramir had to turn to look at him. Some colour in Aragorn’s cheeks and eyes that refused to meet his caused him to smile. “You did splendidly.”

The older man buried his face in the crook of Faramir’s neck and hugged him closer. “Good,” he rasped and a kiss melted into the Steward’s skin.

Having experienced a chaos of different emotions since the first conscious breath he had drawn that morning, Faramir valued the now tingling joy in his stomach the most.

The sky was still a piercing white but the rain had stopped altogether. The undergrowth was heavy with water as Faramir pushed through it, happy that he had chosen high boots and even happier that he had found a similar pair for Aragorn who had agreed to join him. He neatly dodged a low-hanging branch and avoided stepping on a thick, slippery root that pushed out of the ground and slithered along it like a snake.

“Watch the–”

He hid a small grin as Aragorn cursed under his breath behind him.

“The root there is quite slimy and slippery…” Faramir could not keep from teasing. His spirits had been steadily rising since they left the house. Cautiously he stepped across a puddle.

“Too late…” the King muttered and Faramir turned around just in time to see Aragorn steady himself against the trunk of a young birch.

Dark locks had fallen into Aragorn’s face as he fought his way through the woods. His boots were muddy and his coat partially soaked. He shot Faramir a glare but it was enough to steal his attention from the forest path and he slipped in the mud. Bursting forwards, Faramir caught him before he lost his balance completely. Aragorn fell against him and desperately clang to his upper arms.

“By the Gods, this is impossible,” said Aragorn as he allowed Faramir to take a step back and steer them away from the puddle. He did not let go of the younger man even though they were on slightly dryer ground now.

Faramir’s heartbeat picked up speed as Aragorn’s hands slipped to his waist and came to a rest there. He lifted a hand to brush some hair out of the King’s face and revealed shimmering grey eyes.

“I swear these woods treat you kinder,” mumbled Aragorn, leaning in just slightly.

Faramir’s gaze dropped to the moving lips and he felt a tug of longing in his breast. “It is probably so,” he breathed, little attention focused on his surroundings and much more on the man before him.

“Explain that to me?”

The hands on his waist were a welcome weight. When his own hands dropped to cover them and encountered no resistance, he closed the remaining distance between them by brushing his lips against Aragorn’s. The touch was soft and warm – a welcome distraction from the drenched grass and leaves. He felt a tremble rush through the other man but the kiss was not broken and so he added some pressure. The kiss remained shallow until it was ended but it was not tainted by any darkness or sorrow and for that Faramir treasured it deeply.

“That was not much of an explanation,” said Aragorn as a smile drew across his face, ripping years off his actual age.

Faramir let him go, allowing him some space of his own. “I am guardian of this land… a protector. It is used to me…” He watched Aragorn carefully as he spoke, desperate to sound as if his reality was highly normal, but finding no other words to tell the truth with.

The older man frowned and glanced around. “It is a living place you mean – beyond the standards of mortal men?”

It was easy to figure out what he alluded to. “It is not like Fangorn, of which I have heard strange tales,” said Faramir. “There is power here, and a presence hard to describe.” He smiled weakly. “I have offered it my time and devotion and so it blesses me with its… well, love maybe.”

Aragorn’s eyes held a peculiar glimmer. “What you are truly saying, Faramir, is that you have offered your life to it… To Ithilien?”

Licking his lips, Faramir gave an awkward nod. “Yea, I suppose.”

A chill wind rippled the newborn leaves on the birch.

“Yes,” he amended. “Yes, I have.” When a deep, thoughtful silence threatened to settle around them, he swallowed and gestured at their drenched boots; his own were in much better shape than Aragorn’s. “A royal title is of little importance here.”

Aragorn’s smile did not reach his eyes and suddenly he looked pale and wan. “And so also it is for me.” One of his hands found one of Faramir’s and he timidly twined their fingers together. “Maybe then I should have asked for permission before I entered your home?”

“Before my world was transformed into something unidentifiable?” Faramir suggested as Aragorn’s nervous but cherished energy slipped into him. “Something I have no name for.”

Aragorn did not answer him but embraced him instead, and a hush drifted through the trees as they held each other.

Chapter Twenty-Three – Differences

They walked side by side, avoiding pools and puddles and twigs which happily caught in their cloaks. They did not speak very much, but neither of them was spending the day alone and for that Faramir was deeply thankful. But occasionally, Aragorn’s hand brushed against his and there was both joy and agony in the brief touches: even if Faramir thought he could guess what Aragorn wanted, it was not entirely appropriate behaviour to hold hands where they could be spotted. So Faramir was left with a small portion of guilt to deal with also since he was too afraid to word his desire – even if it was akin to Aragorn’s.

Eventually, Aragorn’s voice brought him out of his musings, “Have we been here before?”

“Yea,” Faramir nodded. “But last time we came from the south… Now we are on the westbound road. Just around the bend is the tavern…” He gathered some courage. “I thought we might have lunch?”

But Aragorn seemed not to have heard his last words for he frowned and glanced up at the sky although the compact veil of clouds made it hard to tell exactly where the sun was hiding. “West?” He squinted at the trees. “So the River would be…”

Faramir shook his head. “We are nowhere near the Anduin, but it would be in that direction.” He pointed to his left though, in truth, the Anduin flowed along parts of Emyn Arnen’s northern border as well.

“Hmm,” said Aragorn, not looking wholly convinced.

“Did you not use to be a Ranger?” Faramir smiled and hoped some mild teasing might be acceptable.

Turning to him, and cocking an eyebrow, Aragorn stopped in the middle of the road. “Are you questioning my orientation skills?”

Faramir shook his head but his smile only deepened at the mock indignation in the other man’s voice. “I would not dare to, sire.”

Aragorn’s mask stayed in place for a moment longer but then he, too, smiled. “Did you mention lunch?”

“Well, yes, if it suits you…” Now was daylight; last time darkness had enveloped the woods and there was little risk of anyone recognising the King. He understood very well if Aragorn wished to return to the house for a meal.

“Perfect, said Aragorn. “Follow the road?”

“Yes.” Faramir confirmed and his heart immediately grew lighter, and they resumed their walking.

He wished he could reach out, to take Aragorn’s hand and by such a gesture tell him what he really wanted to say.

It was not far: around the bend and across the yard. Unbidden, Faramir’s eyes strayed to spot where his world had been turned upside down – before he realised that it had not. And yet, ever since that night in the tavern, when Aragorn had smiled and they had debated on how to divide their food between them, nothing had been the same, had it?

“Shall we?”

Caught somewhere between memory and present time, Faramir met Aragorn grey gaze without having registered precisely what he had said. There was but one word in his heart, in his mind, on his tongue:

Yes. Yes, yes, yes…

“I am sorry?” He managed at last.

“Shall we enter?” Aragorn smiled. “You almost slowed to a halt.”

Pushing aside the mess of memories, Faramir was at least allowed to say what he wanted. “Yes.”

Every chair and stool stood unoccupied. Every tabled was cleared and neatly scrubbed. Daylight filtered through the rough glass and drifted hazily over the wood. Faramir pulled the door behind them closed, slightly harder than necessary, but the noise served to announce their arrival. A rather short and pleasant looking woman of thirty perhaps stuck her head out through an almost hidden doorway in the back and she smiled.

“Lord Faramir!” She hurried over to them, pulling her brown hair back from her face and into a loose knot. She smoothed out the creases in her apron. “What a surprise!” Her bright gaze darted between them expectantly. “What can I do for you, gentlemen?”

“Thellie,” smiled Faramir, “this is a… friend of mine.” He nodded to Aragorn who inclined his head but said nothing. “We have come in search of food, if it is not too much trouble for you.”

“No, no, no! Pleased to meet you, sir.” She was clever enough not to inquire after a name when none was freely given and Faramir appreciated that. “All the men are out, they ate early today. But there is some stew left, if you do not mind me reheating it? Rabbit?”

Faramir shot Aragorn a glance but the other man was already smiling. “It will be like the good old days, then,” said Aragorn.

A brief look of confusion passed over Thellie’s face but it was soon replaced by a content smile. “Very good then.” She gestured towards the tables. “May I offer you any seat in the house? Please be seated and I’ll bring you ale, yes?”

“Thank you.” Faramir watched her dash off and then he turned to Aragorn. “Sire?”

He felt a sudden rush of anxiety when Aragorn leaned in very close. So close, in fact, that his warm breath tickled Faramir’s cheeks and the younger man must fight to remind himself to draw breath. All traces of the smile Aragorn had worn only moments ago were erased from his features.

“Do not call me that. Please?”

Faramir locked eyes with him. There was such urgency in Aragorn’s gaze but the air around him tingled with determination. For a second or two, it overwhelmed him and Faramir’s defences weakened and shattered obligingly, and he let go of his hold on the world almost automatically, without a fight.

You want him… The teasing slid forth from the corners and tangled in his mind.

You desire him…

Have him… Taste him…

The web of hints and hisses caught any disapproving, stable thought. He could pretend all he liked that he lived in a world where there were no voices among the trees and whispers in his dreams, but that would be tantamount to living a lie. The contentedness which filled the tavern wove around his throat and squeezed and the floor shifted beneath his feet. Tiny silver stars flickered at the edges of his vision and balance became a mere idea. He slid deeper down… further away…

“Faramir!” Aragorn was shaking him, one hand on each shoulder, gripping him hard. “Faramir!”

His head cleared enough to alert him of the fear in Aragorn’s eyes. It drove straight through him, like the stab of a sharp blade. The first breath he drew slit his throat in two but the air was blissfully cool. With a huge effort, Faramir slammed his walls into place.

‘Do not do that! Ever again!’

There was faint giggling around him.

“Faramir?!”

“Yes,” he rasped as strength went out of him and his legs gave in. But before he hit the floor, Aragorn’s arms came around his shoulders and steadied him.

Faramir found himself crushed against the other man’s broad chest and without much hesitation he let Aragorn’s energy wash through him. He closed his eyes and breathed. And he breathed in the scent of his King, mixed with rain and green leaves.

“What happened?” Aragorn’s murmur was not entirely free of worry but it was heaven to Faramir.

“Nothing…”

The embrace tightened. “Do not lie to me.”

“I am not…”

Maelir toyed with a corner of a blanket.

“Did you sleep well?”

All the images weighed him down, all the twisted dream-visions that had come to him that night – of birds in wolf-shapes, and yet they were birds still. Of black arrows singing in the air, of deep pools in which bodies floated round and round… and round and round…

“Yea…”

“No dreams?” Maelir looked pleased at the prospect.

“No, nothing…”

Guilt… and secrecy… Long lost, never-to-be-found, apologies… forgiveness…

“Good!” He cast off the blanket. “Make love to me then!”

Knuckles were gently sweeping down his stubbly cheek. “Tell me the truth,” a quiet voice prompted.

His head felt so heavy. Faramir opened his eyes to the day. Aragorn’s arms created a cocoon of safety for him and he knew there was only one way of repaying.

He nodded, and immediately regretted it.

Aragorn must have seen the furrow on his brow and maybe he could sense the pounding in Faramir’s head for he steered them to a table and it was with gratitude that Faramir sank down into a chair.

“When..? Is… Are we?” He rubbed his forehead with a palm, trying to sort out the details.

“Where? How?” There was a hint of a smile in Aragorn’s voice. “We are alone, you were only gone for a moment…” He chose the chair next to Faramir’s. “But you had me worried…” There was very much in his form that suggested he was still far from calm.

Faramir raised his eyes to the older man’s face. “I am sorry.”

Aragorn frowned. “Why?” His hands, Faramir’s anchor, came up to caress the younger man’s cheeks once more. He was sitting so very close.

There was nothing but silence around them when Aragorn pressed a tentative kiss to his lips. “Tell me.”

He owed it to Aragorn who had opened up and laid out so much on display. Still he wished the kiss would last forever. When Aragorn pulled away, his hands fell to Faramir’s knees.

“Here we are!”

They both jerked at Thellie’s call. She bustled over with a tray which she sat down on the table without an unnecessary show of elegance. Grace was not what the tavern guests asked for. She unloaded two jugs of ale and a plate with some bread and butter.

“I will be right out with the stew,” she said. “Can I get you anything else? It is a dreadfully chilly day. You just let me know if you want more wood for the fire.”

Aragorn’s hands were burning embers on Faramir’s knees. There was no darkness to hide in now: if Thellie did not see them resting there she was blind.

“Thank you,” Faramir croaked, his heart like a heavy lump of lead in his breast.

This was not supposed to be – Aragorn was his secret… Unable to move, Faramir watched in dread as she straightened and briefly stilled, a soft smile suddenly brushing her lips. She tipped her head to the side but when she spoke she sounded just as effective and pragmatic as always:

“There’s only the two of you here, gentlemen, but myself,” she said. “The children went with their father and will be coming back for dinner at the earliest.” She shook her head. “In the way, I fear they’ll be.” But she smiled. Then she turned and left them alone.

Nothing moved for a moment or two, then words tumbled out of Faramir before he could check them.

“I dream… and I see things… Most people who know of it think I am crazy.”

Aragorn blinked. “What?”

“I have always seen things… I perceive presences where others see nothing but air. Sometimes I dream of the future.”

“What did you see now?”

Whatever he had expected Aragorn to say, it was not this. People did not ask what he saw – at best, they pretended it never happened.

“Now it was only a memory,” he said cautiously.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

“That is the truth, I promise.”

Slowly, slowly the world settled down around them again. Faramir concentrated on his breathing but Aragorn’s hands that still rested on his knees were hard to ignore. The daylight was sharp and impersonal.

When Thellie appeared again with the tray it was laden with two steaming bowls, two spoons and a small pot of cream.

“There… Anything else for you gentlemen?”

Faramir shook his head but Aragorn smiled up at her. “You would not have a blanket to spare?” He turned his gaze to the younger man. “I think you need one.”

“A blanket?” Thellie cast a glance of concern at Faramir. “Of course! Be right back.” She waved away Aragorn’s thanks and disappeared briefly before returning with a large woollen blanket.

“I will let you sort this out,” said told Aragorn as she handed it to him. “Now eat your stew or I shall have warmed it in vain.” She winked and was gone.

“I do not need…” tried Faramir as Aragorn rose with the blanket in his arms. Nevertheless he obediently leaned forward and allowed it to be draped across his shoulders. And in the end, it was with gratitude that he snuggled into it.

He watched as Aragorn dropped back into his chair and picked up a spoon. After a little while he did the same, a bit surprised at discovering that food was actually a good thing. They ate in a silence which Faramir found surprisingly comfortable. It was odd that Aragorn should want to discuss his vision but if he were honest with himself, it was a relief to not have to hide it. But then, maybe the novelty would wear off and the King would find the matter just as bothersome as Maelir had done?

However, despite this gloomy prospect, the warm food helped to re-stabilise the world and Faramir found his spirits rising once more. Aragorn was still by his side and showed no signs of leaving. At last, they both pushed aside their bowls and came to look at each other.

“How are you feeling?”

As always, Aragorn spoke quietly. In fact, Faramir reflected, it was years ago he had last heard the other man raise his voice. Not that they had spent much time together of late, but even so.

He nodded. “Better, thank you.”

A gentle smile drew across Aragorn’s face but any reply he might have meant to give was lost when Thellie reappeared, a towel slung over a shoulder and a heavy, steaming earthenware cup in each hand.

“Lord Faramir?” There was a hint of an apology in her tone but she made her way over to them with a straight back.

Faramir produced a smile for her. “This was perfect, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it.” She set down the cups. “Sir, I have a bit of news for you… Iein came running… He has been in the woods with his father all day, as I told you, but now it seems all men are summoned to the road for there has been some flooding, from what I hear.”

“Flooding?” Faramir frowned. “The road is flooded?”

She shrugged. “I am not sure, sir… Iein said word came from further up north.”

“Which road, did he say?” he inquired. “The Great West or the South?”

“I don’t know, sir, I am sorry. But he is still in the kitchen and he can show you to his father, if you like.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes, I should go…”

Had he been so consumed by his own needs and desires that he had completely missed what was going on around him? Ithilien was a part of him, Ithilien ran through his veins, blended with his blood – was his blood… why had he not heard it calling to him?

Aragorn made a small, almost invisible, move to his right but it stabbed Faramir hard and almost drove the air out of his lungs in realisation.

Aragorn was a part of him now…

Aragorn was the heat that filled the shell that was his body.

Whether Aragorn liked it or not.

If he even knew it.

Faramir had lost, was utterly lost himself. Therefore, turning to Aragorn and addressing him was most natural, and it was not even a decision anymore.

“I must go.”

Aragorn nodded; the grey shimmer in his eyes was held captive behind a thin veil of something Faramir did not like.

“I thought as much,” said Thellie. “That is why I brought you tea; the day is not getting any warmer.”

Chapter Twenty-Four – Homecoming

Tuilë 44

A bleak sun had risen above the treetops and now, two hours later, when Faramir laid eyes on his house for the first time in three days, a wave of gratitude and relief swept over him. Though his shoulders ached and he was sore and stiff he would have stayed in the camp, but there were rumours of new rain clouds speeding east on a quick wind and therefore it had been decided that the work on the road would have to cease for now.

He dragged his feet up the stairs and nearly choked on a breath as the front door was swung open and a servant revealed.

“Lord Faramir!”

He allowed himself to be ushered inside and warm bath water was sent for without him even voicing the request. As he sank into it sometime later and watched the steam rise towards the ceiling, his gratitude for a moment knew no boundaries.

But when he closed his eyes he saw boots sinking deep into unrelenting mud, greyish-brown wide pools stretching out on the ground… parts of the road that had completely eroded or sunk into the water. Anyone who wished to reach the City by taking the Great West Road would not get very far as soon as they had passed Amon Dîn and the Grey Wood.

His sigh sifted out into the bathing chamber. Four nights he had spent in a small tent, alone, not intruded upon. Utterly and absolutely alone.

He forced himself out of the water before its warmth lulled him to sleep. Normally, working in the woods in the company of good men and women, and with his own land, nourished him. It energised him and gave him strength. This time he was bone-deep weary.

He padded into his bedchamber and pulled on a nightshirt. Though the sun was steadily climbing the sky he drew the curtains across his windows and lit no candles; the wood in the hearth remained untouched by any flames.

But instead of lying down he remained seated on the bed, his fingertips tracing the pattern on his bedspread. In the dim light something whispered to him, hinted at deeds yet undone and promises yet to be made. Beyond his sanctuary the world was restless and frustrated, and the daylight toyed with his curtains, as if to decide whether or not it should let him stay hidden. Faramir drew soft breaths and tried to not make a single sound as something made up its mind.

All remained silent.

Faramir drew another breath but this one stung his chest. He had hoped…

Well, he had hoped that… maybe… his return would not go unnoticed and that…

No. He shook his head. It was silly to think now that he was the centre of attention when he never before had longed for that; the yearning for his father’s approval, he decided, was different. He tried to close his mind to those memories for they would hardly be of any use now, but they slipped through and he fell…

There was a knock on the door.

Boromir dropped the washcloth beside the bowl of steaming water and eagerly raced across the floor. He threw open the door, excitement already pushing his shoulders back and lifting his chin.

“Father!”

It was indeed Denethor standing there; his dark blue cloak lined with fur and elegantly draped about him, a smile on his lips and in his eyes.

“I welcome you back to the City, my son.” He swept inside but his smiling eyes did not stray from their treasure. “So, will you tell me of your hunt?”

“It was most successful, father.” Boromir grinned up at him. As his excitement grew, the energy around him turned a beautiful, shimmering gold. “I shot three rabbits and Faramir one. You may have them for supper, should you wish.” His cheeks were flushed with pride and the words tumbled out of him.

Denethor placed a large hand on his shoulder. “Then we shall feast on your rabbits tonight!” With that, he made for the door, ready to leave now that he had greeted his son. “You may tell your brother that his rabbit can feed the kitchen staff.” Then he was gone.

Faramir, standing not five feet from his brother, said nothing.

There was a knock on the door…

A knock…

…on the door…

Faramir’s eyes flew open where he lay on the bed in an awkward position: feet still brushing the floor, one arm twisted underneath him.

There was a knock on the door.

With bits and pieces of his sleep-steeped memories still clutching at him and weighing down his heart, he dragged himself up and tested his balance. The sunlight seemed to have faded and it was hard to tell the time. Lifeless shadows stretched across the room and there was a slight chill seeping forth from the corners. Swallowing down the old sorrow the dream evoked, he opened the door.

This time it was not Denethor waiting in the hallway and this guest was not swathed in an expensive cloak. Momentarily confused, Faramir simply stared at Aragorn’s face, lost himself in the searching grey gaze.

The soft voice wrapped around in a gentle embrace.

“Faramir… I heard that you were returned…”

Faramir nodded slowly. “Yea…”

“Are you unwell?” A frown grew in Aragorn’s features and perhaps he leaned in a little closer.

Suddenly something inside Faramir screamed. It sliced through his heart and the pain was so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes, and finally he spoke the words that Denethor should have heard and were indeed partly meant for him.

“No… but I am lonely.”

He stepped aside, just like Boromir had done all those years ago, and let his visitor inside. He closed the door but looked only at Aragorn.

The King glanced towards the drawn curtains. “You were sleeping?”

“No, not really…” Faramir barely heard his own voice. “I meant to, but…”

He could sense Aragorn’s hesitancy but underneath it lay something else.

“You look exhausted,” said Aragorn softly. He briefly dropped his gaze to the floor but that something which Faramir had identified made him look up again. “Will you allow me to keep you company while you sleep?”

“You would?”

“I would like to…”

Faramir left the door and moved towards the bed. The closer he came to Aragorn, the stronger the desperation grew; his skin, barely covered by his shirt screamed to be touched, his heart longed to be nourished.

Aragorn toed off his boots but did not loosen his belt or pull off his leggings. With layer after layer shattering, Faramir came to stand in front of him, scant inches away but still they were too far apart.

“Please.” A broken whisper.

Aragorn’s fingertips traced his cheekbones. They followed the gentle curve of his jawline and chin, and brushed against his lips. Then other lips replaced fingertips and Faramir melted into the kiss and the tears that had threatened to fall receded.

Aragorn’s energy surrounded him as they lay down. Though he was fully dressed, Aragorn pulled the covers over them both before he spooned up against Faramir and draped an arm around him. For the first time in over three days, Faramir felt peace slide through him and stay there.

He missed what Aragorn mumbled for his last shreds of awareness registered only the feel of the other man’s lips upon his skin. Then he knew no more for a while.

“Hey there… wild one…”

Faramir stretched, limbs pushing against a solid form. His sleep-induced sigh sped out into the room and something brushed hair away from his forehead.

It was with some reluctance that he opened his eyes but there was nothing unwelcome in the sight that met him. Aragorn’s dark tresses were tousled and the skin around his eyes slightly puffy. It looked to Faramir as if he had fallen asleep as well.

“‘Wild one’?” he croaked. “That is hardly true…”

“Why yes it is…” A smile Faramir had never seen before drew across Aragorn’s face: a sweet smile, further sweetened by a hint of confidence. “You are a forest soul… I think… A part of this land.”

“But not very wild…” As he shifted where he lay, wanting to fully face the other man, Faramir realised his shirt had ridden up to his hips while he slept. A rush of panic made him grow very still in Aragorn’s arms.

“What is the matter?” Aragorn pulled away a little. “I did not mean to… If I have said something wrong…”

“No!”

He could not bear to see the light in the other man’s eyes waver or fade. Underneath the covers, Faramir tried to tug down his shirt. It was impossible to pretend he was doing anything else, however, and soon another type of light rose in Aragorn’s eyes.

“Oh,” he said. He swallowed. “Oh.”

Colour crept over Faramir’s cheeks. “No… It is not that… I am not wearing much and I should… I am not…”

He froze completely when he felt Aragorn’s palm slide down his side. The hand came to a rest upon his hip bone. Faramir opened his mouth to speak but no words came to him. Aragorn’s fingers stumbled over the creases in the shirt and finally brushed against his naked skin.

“You are not… aroused?”

Faramir shook his head against the pillow.

Aragorn’s voice was low but steady. “Would you like to be?”

“I…” He knew what he ought to say, what really was the proper response but the light in the grey gaze was so overpowering that it remained ignored.

The question became an urgent whisper. “Would you like to be?”

“Yes.”

The fingertips skidded lower at first, as if they wanted to avoid their task, but soon a first shiver raced across Faramir’s skin as they drew closer to his groin. He stared at Aragorn as his shirt was pushed aside completely. Even as a lust stirred within, the mixture of astonishment and nervousness balanced it so perfectly that for a moment Faramir thought he might actually find it hard to respond to the touches.

But as the first finger slid down his length, and then repeated the action, the feather light touches awoke tiny tingles in his stomach. Aragorn kept the caresses light for a little while, making Faramir’s skin prickle. He explored the younger man’s member with such gentleness, and it was such an unhurried discovery, that it came almost as a surprise to them both when Faramir swelled in his hand.

“Some oil?” Aragorn’s voice was raspy.

“Bedside table….”

The glorious caresses stopped for a moment while Aragorn retrieved the small bottle; he relaxed when they were resumed. This time, though, Aragorn stroked him harder and the heat started to build around his spine. He instinctively moved closer to Aragorn, wanting to blend with him, to move with him…

But Aragorn was still dressed and still too insecure; it was impossible to make peace with history so quickly.

A twist of the other man’s fingers made Faramir groan. He inhaled Aragorn’s scent, reached out with any power he had, and was shocked to find the desire that shimmered underneath the surface. The realisation worked as fuel to the flames and he shuddered against the other man.

Then his world swam for Aragorn’s fingers extended their quest and slid even lower, for the very first time finding their way to the entrance to Faramir’s body. When the tip of a finger pushed inside, Faramir exploded and lost himself to the light.

Aragorn was kissing him when he sank back into his body. The older man lay pressed against him and his body was so warm. Acting on instinct, Faramir ran his hands over a thigh and hip. The heated skin burned his palm through the fabric and Aragorn let out a tiny moan. Faramir made quick work of the lacings and dove inside. Aragorn’s length was hard and fitted in his hand perfectly. But Faramir wanted more and he could only pray that what he was about to do would not destroy the trust that was building between them.

Letting go of Aragorn briefly he pushed aside the covers. The other man’s arms fell away as if he already knew what Faramir was going to do, and his silence was permission given.

Faramir slid down the bed until he could place a kiss at the base of Aragorn’s member. He kissed his way down the length and when he was rewarded with a long, shuddering sigh, he took Aragorn in his mouth and tasted him. He proceeded slowly, wanting to simultaneously erase the dark memories of the last time it had happened and replace them with new, brighter ones. The salty tang was a blessing on his tongue and the tremors, this time unaccompanied by tears, that ran through Aragorn’s body made his heart swell in his breast. He smiled as he pleasured Aragorn as best he could, and he smiled as he coaxed his release from him.

He was still smiling as he hugged Aragorn close and swirled through the aftermath with him.

I love you.

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.”

Sorry for a slightly shorter chapter this time but it had to be done this way.

Chapter Twenty-Six – Regression

He had sent horses up the Anduin. Now he was waiting.

Waiting for something that would undoubtedly, cruelly, crush the idea he wanted to cling to so stubbornly, but which was not powerful enough to keep him safe. A cool wind, armed with truth, royal commitments and obligations, wound its way across the courtyard, toying with his hair and making him feel exposed, vulnerable. This fragile world he and Aragorn had begun building had obviously no place in time. Still, Faramir felt cheated for if sweet joy, though it may be but an illusion, was possible here, the outer world was not meant to intrude.

Aragorn had not known what to say; he had blanched at the news. All colour that he had gained since joy first slipped into the darkness that had surrounded his soul had been lost in a single instant. Faramir ached at the sight, but even so, his own surprise was too great to be forgotten; and the world had turned to face reality at last and all he could do was to accept.

The large oak by the gate stood behind him as a silent guardian. Proud, strong and protective, it was everything that Aragorn was not. Faramir did not touch the King, and the King did not touch him. The courtyard steadily filled with a tense silence.

He tried to draw strength from the large tree, letting its age-old energy flow through him and lend him something to lean against when nothing else supported him. It worked only to some extent. Faramir was too nervous, too afraid and too confused to focus. There were clouds in the western skies, almost purple in places. The air was heavy with a blend of expectation and the promise of rain; Faramir fought to keep his breathing even.

Aragorn had had no words to offer, nothing at all. In the corner of his eye Faramir could see the man he had somehow come to love. And then he saw the horses returning.

Five horses, with riders. Faramir had time to wonder why the Lady had not asked for a servant of her own to accompany her and the Prince, but that was all, for soon he could make out her fair features and she seemed to glimmer even in this impersonal, callous daylight.

He had never before seen such a graceful rider. Even Legolas son of Thranduil paled in comparison; the Lady was one with her beast though she had not known it for many hours.

“The Lady Arwen Undómiel of Rivendell and Prince Eldarion of Gondor,” someone announced. Faramir stood numb in the courtyard, hearing but barely listening.

He bowed as she slid from her saddle without aid.

“Lord Faramir.” Her voice was sweet but serious all the same. She was suddenly in front of him. “We are most grateful for you offered hospitality.”

With a throat gone dry, Faramir raised his gaze to her face and he inclined his head, nearly bowing again and having no idea what an appropriate greeting ought to look like. “You are welcome in my house.” The words were bitter on his tongue but he pushed them out into the world for it was his duty to speak thus.

She was beautiful – beautiful. It was odd how she somehow resembled Aragorn. Tall, slim, pale of skin and dark of hair. Her eyes were a silvery blue while Aragorn’s were grey but there was some underlying similarity in them nonetheless. There was one great difference easily spotted, however: Arwen still carried herself with great pride and self-assurance, though it was of a quiet nature.

Her attention rested on Faramir for moments that seemed longer than hours. Then she turned to Aragorn and the ghost of a smile crossed her features.

“My lord.”

For the first time since they stepped out into the courtyard, Faramir turned to look at Aragorn. He was pale. A random stranger would perhaps think him calm and collected, regal even, but Faramir felt the apprehension flowing from him, and saw the nervous light in his eyes.

“Arwen.” Aragorn spoke quietly.

She held his gaze for a while too until she turned partly towards the party of riders. At her move, Faramir suddenly spotted the boy who had slid to the ground also but who was hiding among the horses. She said nothing but he must have understood her anyway for he stepped forward and with eyes trained on the ground, came up to greet his host.

“Lord Faramir,” he mumbled. His mother gently pushed back his hood and the daylight caught in the dark locks.

“Eldarion,” she admonished in a murmur.

The boy lifted his gaze and Faramir met grey eyes with just the slightest hint of blue. Eyes that conveyed just how frightened their owner was.

Faramir had thought he must force himself to smile, but the act came fairly easy to him after all. “Prince Eldarion,” he said and hoped he sounded complaisant, “I welcome you too to my house.”

The boy acknowledged his words with an almost invisible nod.

“Lord Faramir…” Arwen’s hand slipped to her son’s shoulder as she spoke. “Your men could not say for certain for how long the road would stay flooded. I am sorry for this inconvenience.”

He shook his head – because he must but also because the tension that was building between them all was nearing tangible and he needed something to move. The world felt a little more stable now that he had greeted his guests and their presence was a reality and could not be dismissed as a dark fear, and he was Steward of Gondor though that was usually something he easily forgot.

Too easily perhaps..?

“Worry not,” he said, ignoring the suggestion that drifted by in the wind. “You may stay for as long as is necessary.” He ignored the ripple of longing that coursed through him.

With him, and Aragorn.

Aragorn…

Aragorn only, by his side… strong but trembling hands mapping his skin… kisses melting into moonlight…

He pushed the images away. “My Lady.” He gestured towards the house and she followed smoothly, leaving her son and his father to walk behind them.

As soon as he signalled movement, the courtyard erupted into activity. He did not need to cast one glance over his shoulder to see that the horses were being led away and luggage picked up. In fact, he refrained from looking back because grey eyes bore into his back and there were pleas and pain in that gaze. Faramir swallowed down the swirl of emotion that rose within and concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other.

There were mumbled words behind him and he heard Eldarion answer equally quietly. He thought he detected a faint wave of relief washing over Arwen.

“Guest rooms have been prepared. Let me know if there is something you need.” He attempted a smile at her but failed.

“Thank you.” She glanced at him and she looked genuinely grateful. “Thank you.”

He should say something in return but could think of nothing.

The waxing moon sailed between heavy rain clouds and in the patches and pools of silver the wet grass gleamed. Faramir stood by his window in his bedchamber, lost in thought though trying not to think. He felt exhausted. Dinner had been a short, somewhat uncomfortable affair; he recalled but bits and pieces of broken conversation about the wild rains that were speeding westward and about travelling in general. Eldarion had hardly said a word beyond an appropriate ‘thank you’ or ‘please’, and Aragorn had been quiet as well. Therefore, Faramir had listened to the twining together of his and Arwen’s voices – a combination he had never envisioned existing within his walls in Emyn Arnen.

The rest of the Rivendell party was housed at the tavern, in guest lodgings, and Faramir liked to imagine the stunned expressions of Thellie’s children as they beheld the elves. But when he himself beheld Arwen he admitted to other types of feelings.

She was gentle and he liked that about her. She knew well her status but did not overemphasise it, neither in speech nor conduct. Her heart was given to her son, Faramir thought, and he despised the stubborn sting of jealousy at the image of the two of them and Aragorn at the same table. There was something so right about that combination that it hurt.

But Eldarion was fearful of his father though Aragorn spoke softly. In the silver glow of the moon Faramir could almost transform the image of Aragorn’s face into Denethor’s: dark hair acquired a hint of grey, grey eyes darkened and stubble faded away… into moonlight…

White glow washing away… faces rising about him… words that always sliced through his heart in their simple cruelty.

White glow on dark grass – darkened words… and then there was only moonlight.

Faramir shook his head brusquely until the window-glass once more appeared before him. He stared out into his garden but sharp contours and edges were muddled in the milky haze that enveloped them. He fought the mist, but it slipped forth and hugged the trees close. Faramir felt himself dissolving as Emyn Arnen claimed what was its due.

A chill seeped across the floor and wrapped around his feet. Faramir shook it off, first mentally, but when that did not work, he dragged himself to the surface and drew a long breath. As consciousness returned to him, he realised he had dropped onto his bed and he was not half as sore and stiff as he might have expected.

So, though the room was cold without a fire heating up the air, or providing some illumination, he remained where he was, trying to sort his way through the mess of blurred images that still flitted at the edges of his awareness.

A part of him fervently wished that Arwen and Eldarion had never come, that they would forever stay in Rivendell like dusty characters magically bound to an old tale seldom retold. Another part of him reacted to, and bled at, the sight of the strained relationship between father and son. But Aragorn had never asked him for advice.

He lay back and closed his eyes, his thoughts completing circle after circle in a never-ending spiral dance which led to no solution. The house was quiet which he guessed he should have found strange since two more people had joined them. He had left shortly after dinner, supposing that Aragorn and Arwen needed to talk, and such talk was certainly not meant for his ears. Arwen had thanked him again. The light in Aragorn’s eyes was almost gone.

He did not know what he wished for: bright sunlight that would dry up the roads and see the Lady and her son on their way again, inevitably joined by Aragorn, or more rain, drenching Emyn Arnen wholly, making it impossible to travel and keeping them all locked up together… Rain that finally slashed through the mist and forced it back into the ground. But when he briefly opened his eyes again and glanced out into the gardens, all he saw was a dense sea of white.

He knew not for how long he had been lost in dreams when a raspy sort of sound reached him. With the night so intimately twined about him, Faramir found strength only to roll onto his side and sigh. Then there was silence for some time until the soft rustling of fabric tried to pull him out of the blessed darkness he had found. He ignored it, sank deeper into oblivion and almost won before some movement anew called out to him.

Reluctantly he shifted to accommodate the presence of another. He found he was fully stretched out and his feet were not touching the floor anymore. It was a pleasant discovery and Faramir enjoyed the feeling of softness for a while. He would have been wholly content with this but still he was not left in peace and something warm and solid pressed against him. Not in a threatening way, not courageously, nor demandingly or boldly, but cautiously and pleadingly. Faramir allowed for it to happen and he found that he liked it. The company was comforting and something soft tickled his chin but it did not bother him. He exhaled and there was peace for a long while.

When next he was touched, it was different. Something brushed his cheek and then his lips. The touches were more urgent and less fleeting. He tried to drag himself into the world of awareness but was lost somewhere in between. There was some more pressure on his lips and then there was taste. Faramir cherished that and he wished for more. It was a blessing when his lips were parted and the kiss deepened. Warmth spread through him and whatever nameless despondency that had previously held him dissolved into nothingness. He felt loved.

The kiss ended but he was not left alone. The soft lips that were not his own left a string of new kisses along his cheek and brushed against his ear. Faramir was already smiling when the words reached him.

“I am sorry…”

A chill threaded its way through the warmth and brought with it a harsher sound. Faramir lost his balance and landed in a cool, barren place. Edges and shapes returned, were given their proper nature back and he opened his eyes to the black night and the drumming rain that shut out the moonlight.

There was nothing but night and loneliness.

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Foundation

Tuilë 46

His tea had grown as cold as the day some hours ago but Faramir found no inspiration to send someone to reheat it or even to fetch him a new cup. He was… hiding in his study, if he were to be honest with himself.

Living in his house meant bending to few rules. You broke your fast depending on when you awoke, needing no one else’s permission to eat. He had been alone at the table that morning but a servant had informed him that the Lady of Rivendell had risen at dawn and was now exploring the woods near the house. Faramir had nodded.

He supposed dinner would have to be a different matter but so far he had not gathered the strength to speak with anyone about that. It would seem strange if the King of Gondor, his son and her mother were left to their own devices at every hour of the day. As Steward, he guessed it was his duty to care for such important guests… and he wondered where the sudden pangs of childish jealousy that occasionally broke through the numbness came from. He fought them as best he could, but they were insistent and he was not set free.

He had finished a business letter to Imrahil and was reading through it when there was a faint knock on the door. At first he thought he may have imagined it but after a little while the sound was repeated with a bit more firmness.

“Enter.” Shying away from the world, he told himself sternly, was not the proper behaviour of a Steward of Gondor though now he would have preferred it. He steeled himself and crushed a flash of apprehension.

The door opened a fraction and then a little more. Dark curls framing a pale face appeared and wide grey eyes met his. For a second, the likeness was so striking that Faramir was completely thrown off balance but then he came to his senses.

“Prince Eldarion.” He inclined his head. “Please, come in.”

The boy, shorter and still more willowy than his father, bit his lip and scrambled inside. He hesitated by the door, seemingly unsure whether to close it properly behind him. In the end he shut it and it clicked dutifully.

Faramir watched him, thinking he ought to say something for Eldarion was clearly more nervous than he, but any possibly appropriate words stuck in his throat.

“Lord Faramir,” Eldarion began, “I hope I am not disturbing you?” Despite the anxiousness in his voice, it was pleasant and had the potential of becoming a perfect blend of Aragorn’s quiet one and Arwen’s melodious.

“Not at all,” Faramir shook his head. “What can I do for you?” He had no idea how to behave: he was far older than Eldarion who outranked him and was only a child.

The boy dropped his gaze to the floor and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Well, father told me you have a library?”

Father…

Faramir slammed the door shut in the face of that thought. “Indeed, I do.”

Eldarion lifted his eyes again and swallowed audibly. “So… I was wondering if maybe I could see it? Or… use it?”

It was impossible to remain untouched by the obvious fear of demanding too much in Eldarion’s face. Once again, Faramir found that a smile came to him quite naturally.

“Of course.” He pushed back his chair. “Would you like me to show you to it? The house is not very big but I would be happy to help you.”

“I am not disturbing you, truly?”

“Truly.”

He laid aside the letter and rose to his feet. Eldarion opened the door again and they left together. Faramir searched among any topics of conversation he could think of to find something to say and finally settled on what he thought was most obvious.

“Do you read much…” My lord? My Prince? He hesitated for too long and could only hope his words had sounded like a question anyway.

Eldarion glanced up at him. “Yes, sir, I like reading.” He fell silent for a moment or two but then continued. “My tutor has asked me to write an account of the Great Battle at the end of the First Age… When Morgoth was overthrown…”

Faramir raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. “That is one enormous topic.”

The quickest of smiles dashed across Eldarion’s face. “I thought so too…” he all but mumbled, but he kept his eyes lowered.

“It has been a while, I admit, since I read about it,” said Faramir, beginning to feel more at ease now, “but at least I can find you some books that might help.”

Eldarion looked torn between the prospect of assistance and guilt for being in the way. He glanced up quickly. “Sir, if you do not have the time… You need not…”

Again Faramir saw in him what he had last seen three years ago in Minas Tirith: the confusion the boy’s heritage inevitably offered him, the complicated, bordering on non-existent, bond with his father, and the apparent problem of not fitting in. In a fit of urgency, Faramir stopped walking and placed a hand on Eldarion’s shoulder.

“Please, I would like to help you if I can.” He gestured towards a window with his other hand, “We are expecting more rain this evening so there is not much else I can do anyway.” He tried a smile. “Life here is not very hectic.”

Eldarion did not shake off his hand and nor did he object at the lack of appropriate address in Faramir’s speech. He only stared up at the older man before giving a small, unsteady smile of his own. “I like it here,” he said quietly and his cheeks gained a little colour. “It is nice and… thank you.”

Faramir said no more but he was still smiling when he let the boy go and they resumed their walking. He felt a bit warmer and his heart slightly lighter in his breast.

His library was nothing in size compared to the great one in Minas Tirith – not the most slippery, ingratiating of tongues could credibly argue that – but it was welcoming and neatly ordered. Eldarion wandered over to a random shelf while Faramir began searching for any volumes that might help his young guest. He picked out a few, found some maps and laid it all out on a desk by the window.

“I think these will do for starters,” he said. “Parchments and quills are stored in that chest over there,” he nodded towards a corner. “There should be ink to.”

Eldarion drew nearer to the desk and eyed the books. “They are all new.”

“Yea,” Faramir acknowledged. “Your… father… gave me permission to copy some of the books from the library in Minas Tirith.” The word was not as uncomfortable to say as he had thought. “But they are just as good.”

Eldarion nodded. “My grandfather has… had… or has, but he sailed, a huge library too… at home.”

The way he said ‘home’ made Faramir suddenly wish he could take him in his arms and comfort him. There was longing deeply etched into that word, and a hope that one day ‘home’ for Eldarion would indeed mean a place where you belonged, such as others use it time and time again with ease.

“Do you miss Lord Elrond?” He could not stop himself.

Eldarion looked up, surprise catching hold of him. “Yes… I do… I mean, I have my mother and my uncles, but I do miss grandfather.”

“You can miss someone even if you have others to love,” said Faramir and wondered if that applied to his own life too.

When Boromir had been taken from him, who had been around then for him to love? Mablung and Damrod were his trusted friends and he guessed he loved them in a way… Imrahil was his uncle but they saw each other seldom. Denethor… no, not Denethor. Someone entirely different came to mind.

“I miss Mithrandir,” said Faramir softly. “He sailed with your grandfather did he not?”

Eldarion nodded. “He did. And with the Lady Galadriel and the other Ring-bearers.”

“Do you remember them well?” They were still standing by the desk and he should leave Eldarion to study, but the air was softening around them and there was gentleness building in the corners.

“They are spoken about often in Imladris, and songs are sung in their honour,” said Eldarion. “That helps… great-grandfather Celeborn lives with us now, and I remember Mithrandir’s fireworks.” At that last word, he smiled a brighter smile than Faramir had ever seen on his face up until now.

It called forth one of his own. “I too have seen them… He was my tutor when I was younger.”

“He was?” Grey eyes widened in amazement. “I bet that was wonderful. My tutor is a friend of Erestor’s and he is very, very dull… He is very serious about everything. Erestor was my grandfather’s chief counsellor,” he added as clarification.

Faramir grinned. “If it helps, Mithrandir took education very seriously too.”

Eldarion looked not altogether convinced. “Did he show you magic?”

“He did not show me, I would say… Sometimes he made a quill levitate or a book close itself but he did not conjure up a dragon in the middle of the library.”

Eldarion’s face lit up. “Would that not have been splendid?”

At his eagerness, Faramir actually found himself laughing. “Aye, it would. And imagine how frightened everyone else would have been.”

After that, silence fell between them for a little while. Eldarion fingered the corner of a rolled-up map.

“I guess I should leave you to it,” said Faramir finally. “If you need help – with anything – do not hesitate to ask me.”

Eldarion looked up at him and though some of the light had dulled in his eyes the Steward imagined that he looked happier and more at ease than before. “Thank you, sir.”

Faramir smiled and nodded. He left the library, closing the door carefully behind him, with the not wholly unfamiliar sensation of caring for something precious.

The afternoon was fading into early evening when he left his study the second time that day with the intention of washing his face and maybe changing his shirt. Upon returning from the library earlier he had finally ordered a proper dinner and he needed to collect his thoughts before he met with his guests. However, that strategy fell into pieces when he spotted a well-known form outside his door.

Slowing his steps in sudden hesitation, Faramir could not help but notice how the last show of the still bright daylight fingered the dark tresses and ran down the broad back. He swallowed down a rising surge of longing that was so intense he could taste it on his tongue. He wished he could retreat, turn invisible.

But Aragorn had already heard him approach and he turned. There was a shadow playing on his face but his stance was less tense than Faramir had grown accustomed to.

“Faramir?” But he sounded frightfully weary.

He had no choice. Faramir saw the distance between them lessen and then he was standing face to face with his King.

“My lord?” He only managed a whisper that he immediately detested.

There was pain in Aragorn gaze and it blended with the tiredness. “I… sought… I need your company.” He lifted a hand but it fell to his side again. “Please?”

Faramir was not sure what in him made him open his door to let them inside. Something caused his body to function and he locked the door behind them and spread his arms. When Aragorn fell against him, and Faramir fell against the wood, he held on so hard he thought he might be driving all air out of Aragorn’s lungs.

Tears welled up in his eyes without him knowing exactly why. He wanted to slide to the floor, spend an eternity simply holding the man he loved, but time was not on their side. He breathed in the scent of rain-filled skies and glistening leaves that clang to Aragorn’s hair, and he feared that was all he might be offered.

“I missed you,” he confessed, probably speaking out loud but not entirely certain. “I missed you so much.”

Aragorn pressed against him as if he were the only thing to hold onto in a shattering world. Faramir left kisses in his hair, stroked his back and prayed for some kind of reason.

“I love you.”

The air stilled around them and outside the first raindrops lost their course and fell haphazardly onto the ground in a mess.

Faramir was not conscious of anything but Aragorn in his arms and the words he should recognise but could not really understand.

Aragorn untangled himself a little and Faramir saw his tear streaked face and reddened eyes. Still he was the most beautiful man he had ever laid eyes on.

“If you cannot…” Aragorn’s voice broke into a whisper, “then I understand… but do not shun me for loving you… please.”

Finally, Faramir felt the floor dissolve beneath his feet and he had never been happier to fall. “I love you,” he smiled though his own tears, welcoming new ones with a heart that was opening up to accepting the impossible. “I love you so, Aragorn… I love you.”

Aragorn stared at him, eyes now filling with shining liquid pewter. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came.

Faramir leaned in and pressed his lips to the other man’s, tasting the saltiness of tears and the brave spark of hope. He renewed his hold on Aragorn and brought him as close as he might. It was a chaste kiss, more of a confirmation than anything else, and when they parted, astonishment was rising to the surface in Aragorn’s gaze.

“But…” he started, “you..?”

Smiling, Faramir gently walked him backwards to the bed and they sank down beside each other.

“Aye.”

This time when Aragorn meant to touch him, he succeeded. His fingertips traced Faramir’s jawline and with the pad of his thumb he explored Faramir’s lower lip. The younger man opened up slightly and, transfixed, Aragorn watched a tongue tip greet his touch.

Faramir pressed a kiss to the skin and then smiled. “I did not think this possible.”

Letting his hand come to a rest on Faramir’s thigh, Aragorn offered his first smile. “But it is?”

“That is all I wish.”

But at his words, Aragorn’s face fell and he sighed. “I would wish for more still,” he admitted. “I would wish that I could leave my crown in the hands of another… anyone… I wish that,” his cheeks gained some colour, “with your permission, I could make this my home too. I wish I knew how to speak with my son and tell him that I love him also…” He fell silent.

Faramir sought out the hand that rested on his thigh with one of his own. “You are King, Aragorn, and that we cannot change. But stay with me in Emyn Arnen as often as possible for I would quickly grow unhappy on my own now…” He laced their fingers together. “Tell Eldarion what is in your heart. He longs to hear it.”

Aragorn looked up. “You have spoken to him?”

Faramir smiled. “I helped him find some books in the library and we talked a little. Not of such matters but of others… He is easy to love.” Perhaps he should not have phrased it so but now it was too late.

Aragorn was regarding him thoughtfully but before he could say anything, Faramir continued quickly, “He is a sweet boy and your son, and you I love. He will always be welcome here.”

“Thank you.”

They sat for a while in silence as the rain filled the outside world.

“So where do we go from here?” Aragorn ran his thumb over Faramir’s.

The younger man produced a small smile. “To dinner?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Death

Aragorn walked so close to him and yet they could not touch. Faramir felt alternately too cold or too warm. He was happy beyond understanding, and he was desperate to show it. He was nervous like never before when he greeted Arwen and Eldarion in the dining hall. Aragorn shot him a glance that well mirrored this inner turmoil.

“My Lady,” Faramir bowed to Arwen and hoped his smile was steady enough.

“Faramir,” she smiled in return.

He doubted he should address her simply by her name but minded not at all that she ignored his title. He smiled at Eldarion too and was pleased to note that the boy did not retreat to his initial, frightened state where Faramir was concerned.

“How did work go in the library?” he asked while Arwen and Aragorn exchanged some words.

“I only read,” said Eldarion. “I am grateful for your help, sir, but there was so much I never had time to start writing. It is interesting but…” He shrugged, as if wanting to seem careless and untroubled, but it was not convincing, and Faramir sensed the apology behind it all – for not performing better.

“I always liked writing,” confessed Faramir. “But it is different when an interest becomes a task.”

Aragorn moved beside him and he tried to refrain from immediately looking up at him, something he must do, though, and for which he was immensely happy, when he was spoken to. He met shining grey eyes and Faramir felt a thrill of sheer joy speed through him.

“You were always good with words, Faramir,” said Aragorn softly. “Much better than I will ever be.”

Aragorn gave him a small smile and Faramir returned it, fervently longing for to touch the other man, to feel his solid form pressed against his own. After a few stumbling breaths, Aragorn dragged his eyes away and turned to his son.

“I am sure your account will be excellent.”

Eldarion nodded but said nothing.

There were many more words crowding around them, waiting to be uttered but Aragorn seemed uncertain how to proceed so he fell silent. Faramir found himself looking at Arwen. She was watching the interaction with worry in her eyes and there was tension in her shoulders. As if she could feel his gaze upon her, she looked up and gave a weak smile that held much sadness and regret.

Faramir thought then that he understood her a bit more clearly. He had little experience with mothers that were not his own and Finduilas had died too early on for him to remember much about her now. He glanced again at Eldarion’s downcast eyes and decided to give the world a little push.

“Shall we?” He motioned towards the table and was relieved when the air reawakened and took a spin around the room before flowing more freely again.

Arwen and Eldarion came to sit facing him and Aragorn sat by his side. He tried to focus, tried to store his feelings for Aragorn away for later examination, but the older man’s energy wove around him and claimed his heart so completely that Faramir might have thought them alone in the room had he not simultaneously been looking at his other guests.

Wine was served and Faramir almost missed the moment when Eldarion blushing and mumbling asked for plain water instead. A carafe was quickly produced and the water was poured and it was silvery transparent, like rain or tears, or a light in Aragorn’s eyes…

This last thought was enough to throw Faramir back into the present. He was not sentimental and he was not one for flowery poetry. Though he lived in a strange world, he preferred balanced judgements and grounded assessments. He would have rolled his eyes at himself had he been alone. He hoped.

“…from the Valley.”

Faramir caught only the last part of Arwen’s statement. Beside him, Aragorn nodded.

“Thank you. I will see to it immediately upon my return.” He actually smiled. “I will even plant them myself.”

Arwen turned to Eldarion. “You may help your father. I think it will look very pretty.” She raised her eyes to Aragorn. “The City needs it, I dare say…”

“It does…” Aragorn picked up his wine glass and still the smile did not leave his features but deepened into one of fond remembrance. “One piece of the ancient world meets another.”

“You must travel there to see it.”

Faramir, who had watched this new type of smile grace Aragorn’s face and brighten it, did not immediately understand that he was being spoken to. Chiding himself, he quickly turned to the Lady. “I am sorry?”

“You must travel to Minas Tirith to see it, Faramir,” she said once more. “Aragorn tells me you go there seldom.”

“To the City?” He frowned. “No, I… do not see it often these days.”

“When the saplings are planted you have reason to journey thither,” she smiled, “and you will see a part of Rivendell there.”

“You are bringing trees to Minas Tirith?” He knew he should have already grasped as much but in order to fully understand his part in the conversation he had to ask, embarrassing though it be.

“Yes,” nodded Arwen, not betraying what she thought of him. “Of the kind that does not naturally grow in Gondor.”

Aragorn turned in his seat and his gaze fell upon Faramir, solely. For once it was not tinted with fear and it was beautiful. “There is not much greenery in the City,” he said slowly, “so I asked Arwen to bring me some. I am born and raised in the arms of nature, and stone…”

“Stone is too cold and hard, and impersonal,” Faramir quietly finished for him. “I know what you mean, Ara… my lord.” Behind his teeth, he bit his tongue and hoped his slip had gone unnoticed.

Aragorn smiled at him, gently, lovingly. “You must see it.”

Faramir found himself melting into submission and it partially frightened him for no one had had such power over him since Denethor’s days. “I would love to.”

They ate but Faramir paid little attention to what was served. The conversation flowed easier this night and thankfully his role was a smaller one. Occasionally he would catch Aragorn looking at him but he was too afraid to acknowledge it and he did not dare to smile too much. It was odd how he had become restricted in his own home but he prayed that it was because only a couple of hours had passed since Aragorn’s declaration, and that some solution may be found.

Eldarion was no more talkative now than the night before but he ate with good appetite and Faramir found the sight strangely heartening. When they were nearing the end of the meal, the desire to be alone with Aragorn was so consuming that Faramir felt almost dizzy. He made effort after effort to keep track of the time and be polite but he feared he was doomed to defeat.

Finally, Arwen ran a hand over Eladrion’s dark curls. “Time for bed, tithen pen?”

He looked up at her and for a second his face held all of that adolescent rebellion Faramir remembered from his own youth, or perhaps Boromir’s. Eldarion seemed more than ready to protest but something in the way his mother had addressed him, made him swallow his words and nod. Faramir would not intrude upon him and touch his energy to please his own curiosity. He stayed out of the matter and let the boy belong all to himself, and it proved to be an easy decision.

But when they all rose from the table and Faramir fully realised he would soon be alone with Aragorn, everything else melted away and he barely heard himself wishing the Lady and Eldarion a good night, and then the door closed behind them and they were gone.

Silence dragged itself heavily through the room and for the first time that night, Faramir noticed how low the candles were burning and how thick the clouds were that filled the sky; few stars were able to peek through.

He lifted his eyes to Aragorn’s face and felt an icy rush of anxiety. The other man stood by his chair, looking torn between so many emotions that Faramir could not even begin to name them.

He took a step closer and Aragorn did not flee. He gradually closed the distance between them until they stood face to face and Faramir could brush his hand tentatively against Aragorn’s.

“I know you have trees here too,” said the King.

“What?” The moment was lost to Faramir and he stared confused at Aragorn.

“I asked Arwen to bring me saplings from Rivendell before I came here and…” his voice faltered and faded away.

Faramir blinked and tried to make sense of this unexpected twist. “Aragorn… What are you talking about?”

But the King shook his head in defeat and wearily leaned in closer. He rested his head on Faramir’s shoulder and exhaled slowly. The younger man, thankful at least for the closeness, brought his arms around him and held on.

Then suddenly a hint of mirth wound itself into Aragorn’s voice when he spoke. It was oddly paired with remorse. “When we spoke of it earlier it struck me as strange that I should not have asked you to contribute to the gardens I am planning… And you…” he shifted, buried his face in the crook of Faramir’s neck, and mumbled, “you I love…”

Faramir stole a moment to stare incredulously at the dark tresses that hid Aragorn’s face from view. Then he could not help the smile that curved his lips and he ran his hands down Aragorn’s back and chuckled. “But you love your childhood home, Aragorn… And I have no elven herbs or flowers or trees here. I would gladly give you something from my grounds should you wish it.”

Aragorn nodded against his shoulder. “Do you think me crazy?”

“Crazy?” Faramir dropped a kiss into his hair. “Only a little.” He listened to Aragorn’s breathing for a few heartbeats. “I want to be alone with you,” he murmured. “And not here.”

He gently untangled them and smoothed out his shirt. Aragorn was looking determined but it was too easy to spot the trepidation behind the façade. Faramir took a deep breath.

“I know it may be unseemly with… Arwen and your son in the house but,” he hesitated, “would you spend the night with me?”

“I…” Aragorn dropped his gaze briefly to the floor but then he nodded. “Yes.”

Faramir had not bothered to bring the fire back to life. Instead he had lit a handful of candles and produced an extra blanket should the waxing night turn chillier. Aragorn’s clothes hung neatly over the back of a chair and Faramir found it hard not to stare a the sight in wonder. It looked so… normal. They were not garments hastily left in a heap on the floor in a moment’s passion, more like a suggestion of a recurrence most welcome. Something natural.

This, of course, was not much compared to the sight of Aragorn actually in his bed but still he glanced over at the chair and felt his heart swell with joy.

Aragorn lay on his belly, arms folded under a pillow, his head to the side and with his eyes closed. Faramir let his fingertips travel over the broad back, painting invisible patterns on the pale skin. He journeyed over shoulder blades and muscles, and followed the spine all the way down to its base. Aragorn shivered and smiled.

“Will you really come to the City?” His words were a quiet whisper in the peace that enveloped them.

Faramir sighed inwardly. He traced the curve of a rib bone too easily discovered. “For a little while…” Not for long.

Aragorn shifted and opened his eyes. They held all the questions he wanted to ask but needed courage to voice. Faramir’s hand came to a rest near his neck.

“Do I ask too much of you?” Aragorn asked and there was true concern in his voice.

Faramir moved closer, almost curled around him. “No…” He pushed away his guilt for finding something other than his home to love.

He kissed Aragorn’s shoulder and his hand drifted down the older man’s back. Skin warmed at the caresses, both his own and Aragorn’s. His kisses travelled upward and he brushed against soft lips. Instinctively, seeking something that might affirm his hope that it might be possible to keep his heart open to both Emyn Arnen and his King, he quickly deepened the kiss and rejoiced in the wave of heat that swept over him when the kiss was returned. Faramir relaxed into the sensation of not being alone and he kept exploring Aragorn’s body with his fingertips.

It took some adjustment but then Aragorn lay on his side too and one of his hands found Faramir’s waist. They traded kisses, and lips grew reddened and swollen. Faramir encouraged the lazy rise of desire that made his stomach twist in a display of expectation, and his heart to flutter.

Aragorn’s hand drifted down to explore his buttocks and Faramir gave a low, appreciative moan. Too ready to give himself over to lust, he for once did not check his own reaction for fear that it would scare Aragorn off. He smiled into a new kiss when he was not punished and Aragorn instead repeated his action.

Gently, gently Faramir urged the older man onto his back and pressed against his side. His own swelling manhood, he found, matched Aragorn’s and, dazed, he decided to not think twice before he cupped his King’s length and let the heat speed through him. Aragorn drew a sharp breath which in the end transformed into a soundless exhale. Faramir added just a little pressure before he withdrew and pushed himself up to look down at his lover.

Aragorn met his gaze and in the faint golden light of the candle flames he had never looked more frightened. Still, there was more in his eyes that bore other names and would not so easily be quenched. Faramir allowed for the throbbing in his own body, the pounding of his own heart, to flow into Aragorn, and hoped it tipped the scales in a favourable way. Aragorn drew another long breath and lifted one of his hands to Faramir’s face and traced the curve of his lips.

“If I would…” Faramir began, the hoarse sound of his voice close to drowning in the thickening air.

No more than a whisper, “I would not stop you.”

Faramir held the other man’s gaze as kissed Aragorn’s fingertips. Then he reached out and found the oil, and finally resumed his previous position. He bent down and joined their mouths together in a tentative kiss. He knew the want and he knew the hesitation, and sought to fuel the former and vanquish the latter. Aragorn relaxed a little and Faramir flicked his tongue tip over Aragorn’s upper lip and drew a smile from them both.

When they parted, Aragorn caught his hand, the one with the oil. “Please… I wish to see you…” He swallowed. “That other time… he took me from behind and… I was so scared.”

A pause filled with boundless compassion, then, “Okay.” Even if promises and words might do much, they were insufficient now. Faramir brushed a stray strand of dark hair from Aragorn’s forehead and bent to kiss the newly revealed skin. “Part your legs,” he murmured and hummed in approval when his suggestion was heeded.

His hand was still caught in a fierce hold when he shifted to kneel between Aragorn’s legs. The older man’s arousal lay hard and heavy upon his belly but the tremors that ran through him sought victory. Faramir met them with caresses and kisses. Leaving a trail of kisses upon Aragorn’s chest, he once more felt desire mount and his own length ached in negligence.

“I need to…” Faramir raised his head and glanced at their joined hands.

Aragorn reluctantly loosened his grip and nodded. “I trust you.”

Faramir smiled. “I love you.”

He sat back again and poured some oil onto his palm. He should have shivered in the cool night but as it was, he had the temperature no thought to spare. The oil gleamed upon his skin and he focused all of his attention on his task.

Aragorn’s length twitched at the initial touch and he tried to be gentle at first. His strokes were long and non-demanding, letting his lover know that this was no attack. Gradually, pleasure overcame fear and Aragorn began responding. His eyes fell shut and his lips parted. With his other hand, Faramir cupped the sacs between his length but quite quickly moved on to circle his entrance with a forefinger. Aragorn jerked at the touch but did not pull away.

“There… there…” Faramir mumbled, to his own ears sounding as if were soothing a babe back into sleep, but the murmurings seemed to help Aragorn relax and so he continued. He conceived a silent prayer and then slid the first finger inside. Aragorn froze and his eyes flew open in silent shock.

Faramir leaned down and kissed the spot just above his heart and he heard Aragorn draw a long breath. Reassured, Faramir continued the stretching and soon he had to stop himself from groaning in desperation. There was something so intimate in preparing a lover, and the knowledge of the pleasure to come was so tangible it felt like a warm tongue dragging down his spine.

With an effort he straightened and pulled out his fingers. “Wrap your legs around my waist,”
he suggested as gently as he could.

Aragorn was trembling as he moved. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead and his body seemed unsure how to respond. He crossed his ankles behind Faramir’s back and the younger man had to inhale slowly too to steady himself. “I love you,” he said and watched how the words challenged the brewing terror in Aragorn’s eyes. “I really do.”

He slid past the guardian muscle and the heat crashed over him and he went down without a fight. Aragorn bit back a cry and Faramir felt the world stumble and spin into chaos. He sheathed himself fully inside Aragorn’s body and must gasp for air. He knew not what his hands were doing but Aragorn wrapped his fingers around his wrists and clang to him feverishly.

Reality was reduced to their bodies, joined and bound, and Faramir knew then that his heart was utterly lost to him. He pulled out, pushed inside, rolled his hips and gave himself up completely. Aragorn was breathing, he was so alive beneath him, so close to finding freedom that it brought tears to Faramir’s eyes. He wished he could see clearer but the tightness and the building heat left him blind to the details.

Yours… yoursyoursyoursyours…

Succumbing to pleasure, coming closer… yours… He felt skin meet his own… only Aragorn’s… ever Aragorn’s…

…white glow, flowing forth… coming closer… and closer, until:

there is only moonlight.

Faramir fell from the heavens and landed in nothingness. The power of his release coursed through him long after his climax and he hoped he was breathing.

When he opened his eyes he saw a flash of white and then the clouds floated across the moon again and the darkness was restored. The scent of sweat upon cooling skin and sticky sweet release was all around him and for a moment he contemplated never bathing again. Then Aragorn’s chest rose in a hesitant inhale, and he turned to look at his lover.

The King’s eyes were misty and all his attention was turned inward. Faramir watched the emotions chase each other across his face, all of them in a mess and transforming. Some of them dying.

He watched the death of fear of the past, and the death of fear of the past ever repeating itself in its old form. He watched the death of a decision to confine oneself to loneliness, no matter the cost. Faramir lay in silence and let it at all die.

Much love to all of you who are still reading this tale. We pick up exactly where we left off.

Chapter Twenty-Nine – Foresight

Gradually, Aragorn drew breath with more ease and confidence. Faramir followed every rise and fall of his chest and though he would have liked to stretch out to be more comfortable, he refrained from moving. The candles were tiny flickering beacons in the night but they provided no warmth. Still, Faramir lay unmoving.

He had sunk almost into a meditative state when Aragorn shifted at last. Their legs were tangled together but Faramir had slipped out of him just after his release, and they lay more beside than on top of each other. The older man lifted a hand and traced a line up Faramir’s arm. When he reached the shoulder, he continued past a collarbone and then, when he could go no further leaned in to kiss him. With a surge of joy, Faramir returned the kiss, his heart growing lighter in his breast.

Now that the first step had been taken, Faramir felt secure enough to gently untangle their legs and find a more comfortable position. Aragorn’s hand slid to rest over the younger man’s heart and Faramir brushed away the hair that fell into the other man’s face. The trail that Aragorn’s tears had left behind he left untouched.

“I still love you,” he said cautiously, not really fearful of disturbing this new type of peace, but needing to hear Aragorn speak.

Aragorn looked like he would rather close his eyes but they remained open. “Do you understand, Faramir,” he all but whispered, “that I will never love another the way I love you? And not because of… this but because of… everything.”

“You have me.” Reassured beyond reason, he moved deeper into an embrace he so craved that it made him almost nauseous. “Forevermore.”

There was a new dash of moonlight but it was soon lost between the clouds.

Tulië 47

It was hard to say for sure but maybe there was a hint of sunlight in the sky. Faramir surveyed the gardens with a frown; the constant raining would soon transform the grass into a sunken land of reeds and that did not fit with his idea of a garden no matter how wild he kept parts of it. His boots were silently complaining at being exposed to the wetness but he was adamant and would not leave before he had made some kind of assessment of the situation. If this was what his gardens looked like, then it was no wonder that the Road, which ran partially through a dale, was flooded.

“Faramir?”

He jumped at the call though it was soft.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.” Arwen smiled as he turned. She had collected her dark hair in a single braid but despite her smile there was a shadow playing around her eyes. In her fine dress of a deep green she looked to him like a faery almost… stepping out of the trees’ embrace.

He found his voice, “I was deep in thought, I did not hear you coming.” He glanced down towards the ground. “My Lady, your gown…”

“Is soaked,” she agreed. “But I was hoping I might speak with you? The dress I believe can be washed.”

He looked up at her and allowed his senses to stretch just a little. There was the faintest hint of urgency in her voice and still the shadow lingered around her eyes, and this compelled him to listen. “Please, madam, walk with me then?”

She inclined her head but said nothing, and they began meandering through the gardens.
Faramir reined in his building nervousness. When he and Aragorn had parted that morning they had not yet spoken of the outside world and so he did not know… And Arwen had not broken her fast with him.

As if his silent musings triggered the conversation, Arwen spoke, “Eldarion is in the library with Aragorn… I am hoping they might find a way to… simply be together. Does that sound silly to you, Faramir?”

He turned to look at her but she would not meet his gaze. He shook his head. “No…” Wavering between the truth and good conduct, he chose the former. “I can see there is much to mend.”

“Aye.” Her smile was not convincing. “It is circumstance that drove them – all of us – apart, I am told… But sometimes I wonder if there was more to it.”

He would have liked for her to continue for he could not yet tell where she was headed but he was intrigued now and lost some of his inherent fear of the mother of Aragorn’s son. He spoke with care, “But the world your son was born into was not this world.”

“True,” she acknowledged, “but still… I love Aragorn.” She drew a deep breath. “Perhaps my darkest deed is to love him as a… a brother? A friend? A confidant? When he sought more and I never told him…”

They passed a row of roses and avoided a couple of puddles. Surprised at her frankness, Faramir debated with himself and only half heartedly came to a conclusion. He was all alone in this; there was nothing else present that might advice him. “He knows that…” he said quietly.

He glanced sideways at her and saw her nod. “Yes… I think he does.” She stopped to trace the frayed edges of a green leaf, battered by the rain. “And now he knows love again.”

The ground dissolved under Faramir when she turned to face him. “There is love between the two of you.” There was kindness in her grey-blue eyes but it was strongly tempered by sadness.

Faramir swallowed. “We…”

“I can see it.” She reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “I have lived long and seen much.” She was not admonishing him and he was grateful. “I confess I am surprised.” Her soft words hinted at a question.

Faramir nodded slowly, lacking the strength to meet her gaze any longer. “I am too.” His attempt at a smile did not manifest into something tangible. He kept his eyes trained on the grass.

She seemed to choose her words carefully. “I never expected Aragorn to find a male lover… A new lover he would be willing to present at some point, maybe, but I would not have thought him male.”

“He never…?” It was too difficult to ask. He glanced up at her, her ebony hair catching a feeble spark of sunlight in the air.

A smile briefly touched her lips. “No.” She shook her head. “I know of no others… Perhaps he found some solace on his journeys but I think his guilt weighed down his heart too heavily. You have not spoken of this?”

“No…” What Aragorn had told him about the encounter with the man who had used him so heartlessly was not Faramir’s story to tell and perhaps Arwen already knew.

They resumed their walking and dove underneath a slender branch with hundreds of white flowers.

Faramir drew a deep breath, equally filled with sweetness from above and fear. “We have only spoken a little about such matters…”

Arwen caught his eye. “I do not mean to pry,” she said earnestly, “but I wonder at what I see.”

“I understand,” said Faramir, and he did, but it was difficult to speak of. He steered them through the gardens, more or less letting his feet choose their direction. “I think we are all surprised.”

“Those he loves, he loves deeply… and though you might think differently due to what you have seen these past couple of days, he truly wishes to keep his loved ones close”

It was a gentle suggestion that nonetheless managed to bring colour to Faramir’s cheeks.

“We have not spoken much of that… either…”

She stopped and turned towards him, forcing him to face her. “Do not hide your love, Faramir… Your heart’s hope is in your eyes.” She smiled a bleak smile. “Aragorn guards his heart fiercely though he has no need to do so. He never understood that.”

A part of Faramir desperately wanted to retreat but he was lost in the gentle cadence of her words. He found himself losing the tender hold on his restraint at her honesty, and at the prospect of finding out more.

“I fear it,” he mumbled. “I fear that he loves me so, and I fear that he does not. I am as bound to Emyn Arnen as he is to Minas Tirith…”

He could have continued but it seemed to be enough for Arwen nodded and lifted her gaze to look about them. “This is a beautiful place… Soulful… Soul full,” she said and suddenly there was a twinkle in her eyes. “I am sure you know what I mean.”

He nodded, surprised, and yet not wholly so. “I do.”

“All will come out fine… I think,” she said but it sounded close to a prayer. They resumed their walking almost on cue. “May I ask, Faramir, if you are as untried in these ways as is Aragorn?”

It took him a moment to fully understand but then he shook his head. “No, I have only been with males.”

She gave a hum while she pondered this. “So Aragorn…”

“I am afraid I have corrupted him.” He watched the wave of relief that washed over her features. “He loved you then… and still does.”

A self-conscious smile curved her lips. “I know… I do… But I could not help but wonder…”

“You should speak with Aragorn himself,” said Faramir.

At this, she actually laughed – a clear laugh that reminded him of the song of an underground well that springs forth in the midst of blueberries and moss. “Is it not obvious already that no one is speaking to Aragorn about the important things?” She placed a pale hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Faramir.”

He smiled in return, finding some steady ground to depend upon in her suddenly ethereal and luminous presence. “Thank you, madam.”

They walked in silence for a while until Faramir could contain his curiosity no longer. “My Lady, forgive me if I speak out of turn, but… what will happen with Eldarion?” She showed no sign of being offended although a new shadow passed over her face. He pressed on, “He is of dual descent, both elven and human… Will he have the possibility to choose?”

Her sigh was deep and she did not respond at once. They circled an apple tree and she stopped to run her fingertips over the bark. “There is power in such a joining,” she said finally. “But…”

When she looked up, Faramir saw the tears that had formed in her eyes. He opened his mouth to say that she needed not tell him but she was the quicker one to speak.

“But the legacy of history is entwined with fate, and the Valar themselves I think are hesitating…” Her attempt at jest fell flat to the ground. “You are right, essentially. My father and his brother chose, and they chose different fates as I am sure you well know. My brothers will be counted among the Eldar and… so will I.” Pain unchecked filled her eyes. “You must understand, Faramir, I will see my parents again – I will see the Blessed Lands.”

He nodded. “Another life…”

“Yes…” She strayed near the apple tree in a way Faramir recognised as one similar to his own. “I do not want Aragorn and Dari to form a bond simply because they are father and son, but because… Aragorn is a Man… and our son will be a King of Men.”

Realisation dawned on Faramir as he beheld the torment in Arwen’s slender form. “You are preparing…?”

“I cannot not stay forever, Faramir…” She shook her head and a first tear trailed down her cheek. “I will see him grow up, marry maybe… have children of his own?” Her voice broke easily as the words rushed out of her. “When do I leave him? When do I leave my son?” She brushed away her tears but new immediately followed. “If I see his children, then I will want to see them grow up too… And even so, the sea calls to the very core of my soul–”

Without hesitating, Faramir caught her in his arms and held her close as she cried. A month ago he would have laughed at the suggestion that he would be soothing the Lady of Rivendell in his gardens but that was not funny now. He did not move as her ragged breaths sifted through his shirt and touched his skin. As she calmed down, he felt more and more determined. When she pulled away, he was glad that she did not blush and excuse herself like a young maiden.

“Will he even have a choice?” he asked quietly.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. “I know not. But if he does, and though it will break my heart, I will encourage him… to choose mortality.” She shook her head as if she could barely believe her own words. “Or the fate of Middle-earth would brutally change and what we have accomplished would not match it.” She tried a smile. “For I doubt you will carry Aragorn’s child.”

He must smile a little himself. “That will not happen.”

“So, Faramir,” she drew a shaky breath and the gaiety was drained from her voice, “I meant not to ask this of you but now I do it nonetheless.” She swallowed and met his gaze straight on. “If the love between you and Aragorn deepens and blossoms, will you, please… remember my son?”

“I will.” He did not for a second doubt his own willingness. “I promise you I will, no matter what my love for Aragorn comes to.”

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek. “I will not hold you to your promise but I will cherish it for as long as you can keep it.”

He meant to say that she could trust him but something in the way a new-found peace was slipping into her made him change his mind. Maybe this was already enough. Maybe she already knew, and in this way he did not bind himself to an unknown future – even if he in this moment truly believed he could do so.

“Shall we turn back?” he suggested instead. “Let us go to the library and see those we love?”

Her smile was broader now and she even gave a small laugh. “I knew you were bold, not so deep down, Steward Faramir.”

He winked at her and took her arm, distantly shocked by his own behaviour. But before he could fully throw himself into jest, he had one more thing to say, “I am happy that I like you, my Lady. I feared your arrival and presence.”

She placed her hand on top of his. “Then I am sorry, but also glad,” she said.

I’m happy to tell you that I have finally finished this story. All in all, we will see thirty-six chapters and one epilogue.

² Nana – Sindarin for ‘Mum’. And no mercy for the chair.

Chapter Thirty – Novelties

The library was in more disorder than Faramir had ever seen it before but there was nothing in him that felt the need to protest. The sight of Aragorn and Eldarion working at the same desk, though opposite each other, was enough to make him thoroughly happy. He exchanged a glance with Arwen and guessed that she felt much the same.

They entered silently but the door clicked loudly and Aragorn looked up, confusion replacing surprise in a flash of emotion across his features.

Faramir guided Arwen in front of him and smiled at Aragorn over her shoulder. Her hold on his arm had changed and now she was rather holding his hand and Faramir must admit to himself that he took some pleasure in seeing Aragorn’s expression when the older man spotted this. However, as soon as Eldarion noticed their arrival, they parted and Faramir watched Arwen hasten over to her son.

“Nana?²” Eldarion said with a worried frown, not missing the memory of tears on his mother’s cheeks. “What is wrong?”

She bent to kiss his brow. “I was speaking with Faramir, love,” she said, “and I was reminded of how much I love you.”

The worry seeped from Eldarion’s face until only the frown remained. “Oh,” he said and returned to his book.

Arwen straightened with an amused grimace. Faramir grinned at her and drew closer to Aragorn who was regarding him with raised eyebrows. Coming to stand right beside him, Faramir chanced a small, intimate greeting. He buried his fingers in Aragorn’s hair and explored the skin on his neck, while keeping an eye on Eldarion. He did not wish for actions to speak sooner than words, if that day should ever come that they told the boy. Therefore, just as he felt the first layer of tension yield in Aragorn’s shoulders, he pulled away with a sharp sting of regret.

“So how is your work coming along?” he asked, intending his question for Eldarion chiefly. “And what are you working on, my lord?” he added as he, for the first time, examined the parchments that Aragorn had spread out on the desk.

“I am designing the gardens,” Aragorn smiled up at him. “I thought I might find something here to bring with me as well.”

There was a hint of an underlying suggestion in his words but having no desire to sink down into the slough of despondency again, Faramir ignored the issues he knew had to be discussed at some point. “We will find something,” he said instead and forced a smile.

“You truly have a talent for gardening, Faramir,” Arwen broke in smoothly. She nodded towards the window. “We brought several saplings from Rivendell. I am sure the King would not mind it if we left you a couple – if you could find a spot for them?”

“Of course!” Faramir could hardly hide his gratitude. “That would be wonderful! I would love that.”

Aragorn laughed, a sound that brightened the day immensely. Eldarion glanced up at his father and seemed not to know how to treat this novelty.

“Wild one,” mumbled Aragorn and Faramir felt a rush of heat to his cheeks.

“Well…” he muttered.

“The saplings are watched over by the rest of our party,” said Arwen. “I did not think they would be needed here at the house, but I was wrong. We will sort that out soon.”

“Thank you,” Faramir inclined his head because that was what a Steward should do in such a case. He strongly suspected that he and Arwen were beyond that point.

She only smiled before turning to her son and threading her fingers through his hair. “So, Dari, are you making any progress?”

Eldarion shrugged. “Master Curundil will want more than this,” he gestured at a stack of parchment he had pushed aside. He glanced up at Aragorn. “Father helped me with the chronology.”

Aragorn’s face softened as he met his son’s gaze. “We worked through it together,” he said.

Faramir smiled down at them both, partly unaware of it himself. Then he caught something in the corner of his eye but he was not quick enough to actually see the flash of sunlight that broke through the clouds. It gave him an idea, however.

“Listen,” he said. “I am sure this is important, but this is a rare day without rain and we should take advantage of that.”

All eyes were on him and he pressed on. “Let us find someplace in the gardens where a blanket will not drown and let us eat outside.” He shrugged. “It is early for dinner, I know, but you two need some daylight and fresh air.”

It was hardly an appropriate way to address a King and his son, but Faramir knew he was close to not caring any longer. If it was due to his joining with Aragorn the night before, or if Arwen’s tears had transformed him fully into a friend and not a Steward, he could not say, but he also quickly decided that he would not dwell upon it.

“That is a lovely idea,” smiled Arwen. “And I will not have to change my dress,” she winked at Faramir. “We were walking before,” she clarified when Aragorn frowned, “and the grass was wet.”

“Perhaps…” Aragorn spoke softly, “perhaps I might speak to you Faramir, alone?” He looked up at the younger man.

“Of course… my lord.”

Faramir met the grey eyes and felt the energy balance itself. He had spoken boldly before and engaged in easy conversation, but now that Aragorn wished to see him alone, it was like before, like earlier. But he realised this was not better, only different. He smiled at Arwen and Eldarion as she ushered her son towards the door.

When they had left, parchments and education all forgotten, Aragorn rose from his seat. Faramir turned to him and a sweet wave of joy through his heart made him smile. The older man lifted a hand and cupped his cheek. He stroked his thumb over Faramir’s cheekbone.

“Tell me you do not regret last night,” he whispered and the light in his eyes wavered.

“No,” Faramir leaned in a kissed him. “Never.”

Aragorn brought him close and twined copper locks around his fingers. “You have spoken with each other…”

“Yes…” Faramir inhaled Aragorn’s scent and relaxed into his embrace. “I never thought that would happen.”

Aragorn’s arms wound about his waist. “I will not ask about what, just say that…” he kissed Faramir’s neck, “that I am happy.”

Faramir pulled back and met his gaze. “I am too.”

Aragorn’s hands wandered over his shoulders, explored the linen of Faramir’s shirt almost thoughtfully. “She asked me yesterday if I had come to care for my Steward.” His grin was lopsided. “I said I have always held my Steward in the highest regard.”

“No wonder she asked me, then, for clarification,” said Faramir with a smile. “We spoke plainly.”

Nodding, Aragorn gave a small sigh. “Just as I must speak with Eldarion.”

“You will tell him so soon?” Faramir wondered at the words. He had not expected an admission so quickly.

“Faramir…” In Aragorn’s eyes rose again some of that old uncertainty. “If you wish to keep this a secret…”

“No, no…” His hands slid to Aragorn’s waist. “No… I am surprised, that is all.” He tried not to think about what would happen afterwards, after they knew how Eldarion had reacted, who then would find out. “I thought,” he mumbled, losing a bit of confidence in the face of future public opinion, “you wanted to wait… You are King… I am no white-clad maiden.”

Aragorn did not respond to the weak attempt at jest. “I know,” he said in a low voice. “And I know you said that the people of Gondor does not take kindly to… love between males.”

Faramir nodded, finding nothing to say.

“I am scared too,” continued Aragorn. “So very scared… but I do not want to hide this.”

Closing his eyes, Faramir hoped the world would still for a moment. Aragorn he could handle, and it had turned out that he could handle his son and Arwen too. But the rest of Gondor? This was different from finding a man at the tavern, from having Maelir parade through the house at any given moment, full of life and energy. Maelir was no fantasy… but Aragorn was real in a completely different way.

He drew on his strength, searched for some of that courage he had nourished when he was younger and slipped through the streets at night, making for some temporary lover that would teach him this or that in secrecy. Only this time, it would be official and he would walk with a straight back by Aragorn’s side.

But then he would have to return to the City…

“Aragorn…” He sighed, having finally found the dead end of the trail. Opening his eyes, he met grey ones filled with worry. “You must understand, I cannot leave Emyn Arnen.”

There.

He was prepared for the blow in whatever form it came. But Aragorn only regarded him in silence.

“I know that too,” said Aragorn softly.

Faramir frowned. “You do?”

“I have guessed as much…”

It was as if the room slowly exhaled, and Faramir exhaled along with it. A burden he had not known he carried on his shoulders dissolved into the shimmering air and he found he breathed with ease. “I can visit but I can never live there,” he said, hearing himself for the very first time the words that had up until now only been a silent knowledge in his heart. “But I will warn you, I have not much love for Minas Tirith.”

“It will be a brighter place when you visit,” said Aragorn. “And… if I may come here at times..?”

Faramir smiled. He threaded his fingers through his lover’s dark tresses. “Though I know it is impossible, I will nonetheless ask you to move here, so that you may understand how willing I am to accommodate you.”

They met in a long kiss, and Faramir must hold back lest he should drown in it so deeply he forgot all about dinner. He slid his tongue along Aragorn’s and revelled at the softness and gentle warmth. He caught the older man’s lower lip between his teeth and gently nibbled while Aragorn’s hands were busy at his waist, seeking a way in underneath his shirt. When fingertips brushed his skin, Faramir instinctively moved closer, pressing against his lover. He sucked Aragorn’s tongue into his mouth and elicited a moan from him. Warmth spread through him as hands travelled all the way up his shoulder blades and then slipped back down to his hips.

One kiss ended and the next began as Faramir began toying with time, thinking they might have time for something before dinner. When Aragorn sighed contently into the kiss and his breath tickled Faramir’s sensitised lips, the younger man gave a small thrust of his hips and nearly groaned aloud when he met with Aragorn’s hardness.

“Can we..?” he mumbled as he dragged his lips over Aragorn’s stubbly cheek.

His lover tightened his hold on him and smiled an unsteady smile. “It is your library.”

Faramir drew back only to make sure he could properly see the other man’s face. “So I decide?”

Aragorn closed the distance between them again by dropping a kiss to his lips. “You decide.”

That was too easy. Faramir tilted his head and smiled. “What do you want, if you could decide?”

The faint rising of colour in Aragorn’s cheeks gave him his answer. “Then I would ask you to touch me.”

Faramir took half a step back. He slid his hands down Aragorn’s broad chest and caught the lower hem of his tunic. He lifted it up and pressed one palm against the bulge in Aragorn’s leggings. “Lean back…”

When Aragorn was half sitting on the edge of the desk, Faramir dropped into the abandoned chair. He grinned up at Aragorn who was confident enough to raise an eyebrow. But when the King understood exactly what was about to happen, concentration settled in his features and his lips parted slightly.

Faramir made quick work of the lacings and flicked the fabric aside. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on Aragorn’s hardened member before gripping it at the base and taking the very tip into his mouth. A soft gasp slipped from Aragorn’s lips as Faramir gently pushed down the skin and laved at the slick head. He must place a hand over his own arousal to keep the desire at bay. He pleasured Aragorn with a bit more haste than he preferred but he should already be setting up dinner and this was time boldly stolen. The older man seemed not to mind for although it was evident that he was forcing his moans down, Aragorn shuddered at the treatment and his fingers came to a rest in Faramir’s copper tresses.

The pounding began deep down in Faramir’s groin and he tore at his own lacings to free himself. He took as much of Aragorn in his mouth as he could handle and swallowed, drawing a strangled cry from his lover. Momentarily sidetracked, Faramir swallowed again and felt Aragorn tense. At that, Faramir released him and resumed the fight with his own clothes. When he could finally wrap his hands around his own length, Aragorn had drawn a few breaths and his arousal was weeping. Faramir licked the drops away and once more descended upon Aragorn. He teased the slit at the tip and then he felt the violent tremble that raced through his lover and a moment later, Aragorn climaxed with a deep moan.

Faramir kissed the twitching flesh and smiled. He was expecting Aragorn to recover his breath and was utterly unprepared for when he moved instead. The older man steadily stepped aside and sank to his knees beside Faramir. His eyes were blazing and his lips were parted. Faramir made to lean in and kiss him but the other man shook his head.

“Can I…” his voice was close to a whisper, “can I taste you?”

Taken aback, Faramir could only stare at him. He hardly noticed the thrill of excitement that hung onto his shoulders, sprang forth from the corners and wrapped around the bookcases.

“I know you do not like dry hands,” mumbled Aragorn.

“But..?” Faramir searched for coherent speech. “You do not need to…”

Instead of answering, Aragorn urged Faramir to release his own member. Desire mounted quickly at the sight but it was tempered by doubt.

“Aragorn…”

The King smiled up at him. It was a shaky smile and his eyes shone with a mixture of panic shyness. “Let me try.”

Abruptly rendered mute, Faramir nodded. He wished he could see better when Aragorn bent down and licked a first tentative wet stripe with his tongue tip along his length. He drew a sharp breath but then he breathed no more as he waited for Aragorn’s verdict. But when none came and instead a trail of kisses melted into his heated flesh, he slowly exhaled. Faramir knew not how to relax in this moment; he could not process what was happening and he mentally shoved at the eagerness shimmering around him. This, he wanted to experience alone.

Aragorn circled the base of his member with his thumb and forefinger and just as Faramir had done with him, he took the tip of the younger man’s arousal in his mouth. Now Faramir saw better and he genuinely feared any sign of distaste on Aragorn’s face. Had it not been for this, he would have come undone at the very sight of Aragorn’s lips on him, but he was too nervous to fully appreciate what he was seeing.

It was not Aragorn’s lips but his fingers that pushed back the skin but to Faramir it made little difference. His own moan reverberated around them as Aragorn’s lips slid lower and Faramir felt, and saw, himself disappearing into wet warmth. His eyes stayed wide open as Aragorn explored his flesh without taking him very deep but with enough determination to apply some pressure. Faramir felt the chair dissolve as Aragorn kept up his ministrations and steadily he was dragged towards the edge.

“Now,” he breathed and Aragorn let him go and he climaxed all over his lover’s hand. Had Aragorn been more experienced, Faramir would have lost himself sooner, but when he now came it was a pleasant drawn-out sensation that felt like a long shudder, and it left him deeply sated and relaxed.

As the velvety numbness spread through him, he slid down in the chair and closed his eyes. Aragorn shifted beside him and let go of his softening length. Faramir smiled through the haze that had enveloped him, “Come here.”

Even while partially lost in the aftermath, Faramir knew what was rushing through Aragorn’s mind and heart, or at least he could guess. He reached out and felt the other man come close. He sought out swollen lips and offered a kiss that started off as a stumble but ended in peace.
Faramir opened his eyes and met a sweet sight. Aragorn looked thoroughly shaken and wonderfully bewildered at his own boldness. He was seeking the reassurance Faramir was more than ready to give.

“Thank you,” he smiled, and his smile only broadened when Aragorn blushed.

“I will have to practice, I did not know what to do.”

Faramir pushed himself up “You did so well,” he said. “But you may practice as much as you like…”

Aragorn glanced down at his hand. “I did not know how to…”

Faramir followed his gaze and saw his own white release still coating it. “We should get you cleaned up,” he said. He lifted a hand and urged Aragorn to meet his gaze by tipping his chin upwards. “Not everyone likes doing this… not even males who sleep with other males. I do not expect you to do it.”

A faint smile was painted on Aragorn’s face. “I do not think I shall ever take another lover… if you have chosen me.” A hint of awe crept into his eyes. “Will you let me try your world?”

Faramir brushed a thumb over his lower lip. “I will not stop you, my King.” He was powerless against such beauty. “I choose you.”

Chapter Thirty-One – Reactions

Tuilë 48

It was nearing late afternoon when Faramir, wading through the undergrowth, finally drew closer to the house. He had taken his time, dragging fingertips over rippled bark, rubbing the leaves of some herb to let loose its scent in the shimmering daylight… telling himself he was making up for time spent elsewhere, reaffirming his vows to his land… walking in circles, dreading the moment he would stand face to face with Eldarion.

For that was the true reason for why he, at every opportunity handed him – and they were many, the land saw to that – took the longer paths that wound through the trees and groves like lost threads in a large tapestry.

The sunlight was hazy, as if the mist had decided to stay the day too. This made it difficult to tell the time for however much he searched the patches of clear sky above, he could not spot the sun itself. But the immediate dampness was mostly gone and his leather jerkin dry.

He wondered what Eldarion thought of him now; another man had gained his father’s love when the son was convinced he himself had not earned it. And Faramir felt guilty for this, but also because he had not wholly trusted Aragorn the night before when the older man had said that he would speak to Eldarion after they had breakfasted. It seemed not long since Aragorn, wearied and haggard, had slid from his horse and requested shelter from what ailed him, though he had not put it like that, of course. And now, when the waxing moon was only a few days from full, he would tell his son that he loved Faramir?

There was some insistent whispering among the leaves but Faramir had the distinct impression these dealings of the woods did not concern him. He had longed for comfort after a night spent alone but found that he only missed Aragorn more. The older man, conflicted by his self-appointed task, had wished to sleep in his own chambers, to ponder and choose his words, to gather courage. Faramir had let him go, agreeing it was probably for the best, though his heart had clenched at the decision.

He listened half heartedly to the murmurings around him and faintly entertained the idea that his land might have grown weary of him and was managing on its own. Of what use was a guardian whose heart and mind were so full of other matters that he almost forgot where his true allegiance lay? Perhaps Minas Tirith would be kinder to him now…

A chill rushed through the woods but stirred no leaf. Nevertheless, it seeped through Faramir’s clothes and icy fingers ran down down his spine. With his skin prickling, and his breath catching, he hastened to silently offer his apologies. After a little while the whispering stopped and all grew silent.

‘A solution?’

He sent the thought forth, and he willed the chill away from his body and wished he were a leaf himself so that he could easier soak up the sunlight.

‘A compromise?’

Silence reigned for yet some time and he stood still beside an overgrown hazel. Then, from somewhere far away, came a shrill cry of a bird and time moved anew. But no one spoke to him; all spirits were busy, frantically trying to make the best out of his still formless offer.

Faramir let out a long breath and suddenly the trees seemed to part in front of him and he caught a glimpse of his house. He could avoid this no longer, however much he would have liked to, knowing that the confrontation should come sooner rather than later. With a heart steadily growing impossibly heavy, Faramir reluctantly made for the edge of the woods.

“Hey!”

He jerked at the call and looked up. Damrod was hurrying towards him from the house. He was dressed pretty much like Faramir himself.

“I’ve been looking for you!” The dark-haired man flashed at grin but it did not reach his eyes, and despite that grin there was a trace of a harshness in his voice that Faramir had not heard for many long years. But before he had time to sort this out, Damrod clasped his shoulder in a semblance of a hasty warrior’s greeting and then leaned in close. “Do you know that you’re housin’ that elf-Lady? And the Prince?”

Somewhat sidetracked, Faramir turned back towards the trees and dragged his friend with him. “Yes, I do happen to know that. Good day to you too.”

Damrod grunted a reply but he was tense and the grin had now completely faded. “And you don’t find that just a wee bit strange?” He spoke in a hushed whisper but the words rushed out of him in great haste.

“It is… working out,” said Faramir, secretly praying it was truly so.

Damrod’s grey eyes were burning with curiosity but the brightness was kept at bay by the accompanying …worry? Faramir could not name whatever it was that flickered across his friend’s face.

“You are crazy. This is madness.” Damrod, suddenly the commander now, steered Faramir in behind a group of low-growing rowan-trees and spoke with much discomfort. “Tell me, I order you – as your friend – to tell me: did I or did I not see you and the King share a… moment that morning, you know?”

“What?” Confused and tempted to jest, or lies, or anything that might ally his friend’s anxiety and buy himself some time, Faramir opened his mouth to deny, but found he could not. He dropped his gaze to the ground and swallowed. He wished he could disappear into the thick grass which twined about the trees’ roots.

“Aye…”

“Faramir–”

“I know, alright?” He looked up into Damrod’s face. “I know how it must look to you…”

“Oh, you do?” The former Ranger raised his eyebrows and his voice acquired a faint but dangerous edge. “Really?” He shook his head frantically. “I know you seek love, Faramir, though you’ve never said as much aloud, an’ may the Gods grant you your wish, but… the King? And now you’re housing his son and the Lady herself? Does she know? Or are you sneakin’ around late at night– “ He bit back his words at the very last moment and all Faramir could do was to stare at him in disbelief.

But Damrod did not pause for an answer even if Faramir had been capable of one; he seemed to grow angrier instead. “So you’re involved with him, and what – you’re gonna go packin’ and do you think the City’ll be nicer to you this time around?!” He spat the last words out. “You think they’re all suddenly so full of acceptance, huh? I’ll tell you nothing’s changed! Nothing!”

Nailed to the ground by the blazing glare, any retort that Faramir might have wanted to make stuck in his throat. Tears stung his eyes as he absorbed Damrod’s words. The air shimmered no more and nothing around him backed him up. Silence hung between them in heavy, dead folds.

“I know,” he whispered at last, pain breaking through the numbness. “I know…” And he turned away and left Damrod among the trees, walking without knowing where he placed his feet towards the house.

His tears ran unchecked down his cheeks and his mind was blank; there was no stirring emotion, only that searing pain twisting his heart into a foreign object in his breast. Pain for an impossible hope, a friend angered, and more he could not name.

He was only a few feet away from the steps leading up to the entrance when he realised that he was not alone. Two figures, blurred by his tears, were seated on the stone but at the sight of him one of them rose and quickly came towards him, one hand outstretched.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s soft voice wrapped around him like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter’s night. “What is the matter?”

Desperately needing that comfort, Faramir instinctively accepted the hand clasping one of his. He tried to blink away his tears and breathe evenly and when the world once more cleared before him he saw that Aragorn’s eyes were full of concern, and the older man drew Faramir close to him.

“Speak to me,” he urged quietly. “Has something–”

“No,” Faramir shook his head and melted into the embrace. He dropped his head to Aragorn’s shoulder and wished everything else far, far away. “Damrod found me and…” his words died in his throat as he laid eyes on the other figure on the stone steps. “Eldarion,” he whispered.

Aragorn stiffened and the embrace turned into an awkward arrangement of two bodies. Faramir felt an uncompromising heat rise in his cheeks as they drew apart. The boy was regarding them with wide eyes, as if he did not trust his own vision. Faramir did not know he had moved before he stood in front of Eldarion and dazedly watched Aragorn sink down to sit beside his son, and fear flipped his stomach over.

“Is something the matter, lord Faramir?” Eldarion’s voice was devoid of all confidence and Faramir silently cursed himself for nor speaking first.

“Well,” he said through the nervous pounding of his heart, “I quarrelled with an old friend… for the very first time.” He could feel Aragorn’s searching gaze on him but he ignored it and dropped down onto the stone, he too, crouching more or less at Eldarion’s feet. The boy was staring at him as if he were a horse with six legs.

“Faramir…” Aragorn did not reach out for him but that was just as well for the younger man had no idea how to behave in this moment. “I have spoken to my son… and he knows,” he made a brief pause and swallowed, “of our love.”

The last word, rich and promising, threatening and challenging, choked Faramir into silence when he should have replied.

“It seems a strange thing,” Eldarion mumbled, lowering his gaze to stare at his own knees. “I did not know…”

Only last night they had shared a meal in the gardens and the Steward and the King had seated themselves opposite each other, not touching once. Faramir could grasp some of the enormous surprise Eldarion must have felt at the revelation and a sudden wave of compassion somewhat dragged him out of his dazed state.

“This came upon us too as a surprise,” he said slowly. “I would never have dreamed of…” He fought for words, but Eldarion nodded.

“Father said so too.” He did not look at Aragorn but kept his gaze firmly trained on his knees.

“Eldarion,” Faramir decided to forego any titles that only seemed cruel to use now and leaned forward just a fraction, “I will not take your father away from you.” Too late did he understand how this might sound and he was ready to bite off his tongue. Father and son were already so distanced that he grimly suspected a lover probably did not make much difference.

But Aragorn grasped at the opportunity and moved a little closer to Eldarion and hesitantly put an arm around his shoulders. The boy froze, completely unaccustomed, and unsure how, to respond to such a display of affection.

“I love you, ion³,” Aragorn said and his voice was not steady but it was clear. He pressed a kiss into the dark curls and closed his eyes. “I always have and I always will.”

For an awful moment, Faramir thought Eldarion would break free in anguish and rage, but then all air seemed to go out of him and he crumpled against his father and clutched at him like a frightened toddler woken by nightmares. Aragorn’s arms went around him and crushed him to his chest. Faramir blinked away new tears even as Aragorn cried openly, repeating his words over and over again in muffled whispers.

Eventually, Eldarion pulled free and though his curls shielded much of his face from view, Faramir had no trouble spotting the puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the wet streaks on his cheeks.

Suddenly hesitant, Faramir did not know if he ought to leave them alone to talk or if he should stay and answer any questions Eldarion might have for him. He shifted uneasily on the stone and so caught Aragorn’s attention. The older man looked wearied and his eyes were still shining with liquid silver, but Faramir thought he had never looked happier. And of this he could not be jealous. He tried a small smile but Aragorn’s eyes only shone brighter. Unable to hold back, Faramir laid a hand on Aragorn’s knee, sensing how easy it was too let their energy mingle now that the walls were cast down fully.

Eldarion, of course, was not blind to this and Faramir cleared his throat before he turned to him. The boy was observing the simple touch but he looked up when Faramir spoke, “You will always be welcome here,” he promised, “never doubt that.”

Eldarion frowned slightly but then his face cleared a little and he nodded. “Naneth – mother – will be leaving…”

Faramir turned to Aragorn in silent inquiry. For Arwen to be sailing so soon was truly madness if nothing else was, and he felt anger flash through him. But Aragorn did not look so troubled.

“While Eldarion and I ride to Minas Tirith, she will continue on to visit Legolas and those of his kin who dwell here in Ithilien also,” the King clarified.

“Oh,” said Faramir for he could momentarily think of nothing else. Just as quickly as anger had come upon him, relief and then sorrow replaced it. He tried to sound neutral when he spoke, “When do you ride?”

“As soon as the Road is mended,” said Aragorn softly. His hand covered Faramir’s. “I fear I am needed in the White Tower…”

Faramir swallowed down the wave of despair that rose in him. He produced a faint smile for Eldarion. “And you shall plant the saplings from Rivendell.”

“Yes,” the boy said simply, his gaze automatically drifting to the hands that lay touching upon his father’s knee.

“I think it will do the City good,” said Faramir, pressing on despite everything. “I am told much there has not changed but has stayed the same…”

He met Aragorn’s eyes as he spoke that last part and the older man gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I would like to change that.”

Faramir looked down at their joined hands and nodded slowly. “Me too,” he said. “Me too.”

³ Ion – son

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.

Chapter Thirty-Three – Love

Even as Faramir pulled off his shirt Aragorn pressed close to him. The older man stood behind him, resting his hands on Faramir’s hips and leaving kisses all over his shoulders. Faramir smiled and dropped his shirt into a chair. “Your turn.”

He spun around gently to watch and touch as Aragorn loosened his own belt and laid it aside. Faramir’s hands found their way underneath the shirt and pushed it upwards, uncovering the downy chest and dark nipples. Aragorn silently complied as Faramir dragged the shirt over his head and his arms slid out of it, and then Aragorn stood there bare-chested before him. This shirt joined the other and the pile gradually grew.

Faramir kissed the spot just above Aragorn’s heart and smiled. His King’s hands were incessantly running up and down his back, toying with his hair or sometimes drifting further down, daring to brush over Faramir’s buttocks. They had lit a handful of candles but no fire and though the floor was wooden, it soon became chilly enough for them to want to proceed in bed. Faramir pushed down Aragorn’s leggings and pressed against the hardness revealed. Aragorn choked on a breath as their lengths touched but he did not back away.

“Step out of them,” suggested Faramir and left a kiss near his temple.

They did not let go of each other even as they moved towards the bed and sank down upon it. Faramir took care in kissing Aragorn’s lips without demanding anything in return and then moved on towards his other temple. Aragorn nuzzled his neck and his warm breath drifted over Faramir’s skin and made it tingle.

“Can I make love to you?”

The whisper did not at once penetrate the fog that was wrapping around Faramir’s senses. When it did, however, he must pull back for a moment to fully understand. Aragorn was waiting for his answer not with fear in his eyes but with… a curious interest, almost – which Faramir might have found amusing had he not been so shocked.

“You..?”

Aragorn’s fingertips travelled up his spine and he shivered despite the tangle of words in his mind. There was a hint, just a hint of excitement in Aragorn’s grey eyes. “I would like to make love to you.”

“Are you sure?” His gaze drifted down to where his own hands lay, palms down, upon Aragorn’s thighs. And only inches away was Aragorn’s manhood, swollen and twitching. Faramir felt heat rise in his body and a slow and steady pounding in his groin commence.

“I think I am…” The words were not weighed down by trepidation, instead they were gloriously free. “But would you want me to… touch you first… or..?”

“No.” Faramir met Aragorn’s eyes and his stomach fluttered as this new wave of possibilities washed over them. He felt a smile spread on his lips and he leaned forward to kiss the other man. “Please make love to me,” he murmured. “We will…” But his words were chased away by Aragorn’s response and they kissed long and earnestly.

When they parted to breathe, Faramir urged Aragorn further up the bed and fetched the oil.

“How do you..?” Aragorn bit his lip and let the ensuing silence complete his question.

Faramir handed him the oil. “You remember how I stretched you?” At Aragorn’s silent nod, he smiled. “Would you want to try?”

Aragorn eyed the small flask. “If I hurt you…”

“You will not hurt me,” Faramir insisted. “I told you I am not that sensitive.”

A small smile flickered across Aragorn’s face. “So, like last time?” There was something boyish about him then, years were ripped off his true age as he gathered some courage and found his own boldness.

But Faramir hesitated. He thoughtfully ran a hand down Aragorn’s chest and with a smile dipped into the coarse hair at the base of his lover’s length. “A bit different,” he said finally. “Stretch out your legs and part them a little.”

Aragorn held his gaze as he did as he was bidden, and Faramir climbed on top of him and loosely wrapped his own legs around Aragorn’s hips and waist. The sudden pressure on his swollen length as he leaned forward sent a jolt of pleasure through him and judging by Aragorn sharp intake of breath, he was not unaffected either. Faramir leaned his head against the older man’s shoulder and needed to say no more for suddenly a slick finger brushed his entrance and he shivered in response.

Aragorn proceeded with care. It took him a moment to actually push one finger inside, to go through with it, but it seemed that when that first step had been taken, the others came easier. The stretching was somewhat erratic and hesitant, but eventually Faramir, who admitted to himself that he was probably just as nervous, felt his muscles relax and he grew supple against Aragorn’s broad chest. He had not noticed his own heavy breathing until he realised it matched Aragorn’s and then he wrapped his arms around his lover and edged forward a little. He felt Aragorn’s legs bend, too, automatically, to perfect their position and then he whispered, “Now.”

The fingers immediately slipped out of him and there was an icy cold moment of reborn terror only that swept through Aragorn and made him stiffen. Faramir challenged it by tipping his head back and claiming his mouth in a deep kiss. He pushed through the barriers and walls and finally tasted the sweetness that lay beyond. Aragorn shifted underneath him and then something around them exploded as Faramir’s body was breached and everything that was not warm crumbled into nothingness.

Aragorn gasped as Faramir pushed down, completely impaling himself on the heated flesh and moaning as he did so.

“Oh…” a raspy whisper.

Faramir’s head swam as he was filled for the first time in what felt like forever. “Gods…”

Aragorn groaned something that made no sense and it took them both a moment to adjust. Then Faramir began rocking softly, letting anything but his mind guide him for he did not want to analyse now.

There was heat… so much heat that his body was melting. Aragorn trembled as they rocked, warm breaths mingling, kisses traded uncontrolled, soft – at first – moans floating out into the room; then they deepened, transformed into groans, building a twirling spiral of energy around them. Faramir lost sense of his own limitations as he clung to Aragorn, hissing when a series of thrusts hit his gland. His own length ached between them but this time, he knew, this time he needed not touch it.

There was heat and sweat-slicked skin and only sound and the glorious pounding, and then they tumbled over the edge, almost at the same time, Faramir following where Aragorn led. And the dark night was bright and blazing.

When Faramir regained awareness he was lying atop Aragorn, legs no longer wrapped around him. He filled his lungs with air and found that there was a smile on his lips he could not, and would for no reason, chase away. Gradually he became aware of Aragorn’s arms holding him in place and the heartbeat that was not his own.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the patch of skin closest to his lips. “I love you so.”

Though it felt heavy, he raised his head to meet Aragorn’s gaze. The grey eyes were filled with tears.

For a terrifying second Faramir was certain Aragorn regretted what they had just done. Then the King smiled. “And I love you.” He shook his head against the mattress. “I cannot believe I just…”

“Made love to me?” Faramir finished for him when it seemed he would say no more. “Ah, but you did.”

Some colour crept across Aragorn’s cheeks and his gaze grew a bit clearer. “I enjoyed it.”

“So did I,” smiled Faramir. “So did I.” With a content sigh, he stretched out on top of Aragorn, smearing his own release upon their skin. “And we managed to untangle just in time though I do not remember it.”

Aragorn’s drew patterns on his back with lazy fingertips. “I dreamt of this,” he said in a low voice. “When you had left for the repair works I dreamt about you…”

There was a rush of something along the far-off wall but it did not venture closer but stayed away. Faramir lay still, only listening.

“I woke in the middle of the night, aching for you…” Aragorn mumbled. “And it frightened me so… but every time I closed my eyes I knew the longing would not pass with the death of night and birth of day.” He fell silent.

“Then you shared my dreams,” Faramir said at last, his own voice no stronger than Aragorn’s.

Aragorn lay silent for a while and Faramir did not pressure him. There was more he could have said, more they could have speculated over and pondered, but also it seemed to him that all that needed to be said was now out here, leisurely floating around them, in silent confirmation of the truth it was. In the end, Aragorn lifted his head and pressed a kiss into Faramir’s hair.

“Then I am lucky,” he said softly.

Tuilë 49

Faramir bent down, slid his gloved hands underneath the mud-smeared branch and hoisted it up from the trampled ground. He dragged the branch, almost measuring his own full height, over to a large pile of bracken and dumped it there. It was good to be outside again and doing something. Granted, it left him sweaty and his clothes stained and soggy, but he felt his muscles flex and it was a welcome sensation. And behind the thin veil of clouds that covered the sky, there was a suggestion of a pale blue.

The trees around him were finally waking up to greet the season properly, he thought. With all the rain and mist, somewhere along the way the natural rhythm of the ways of the woods had been disrupted. He supposed it was foolish to think that nature had thus cast itself off balance, but he stuck to his own reasoning, nonetheless.

“You look happy.”

He jerked at the remark; he did not have to spin around, he only had to raise his eyes. Arwen stood a few feet away from him, blending perfectly with the trees and the surrounding greenery. She was smiling.

“Lady.” He could not help the bow.

She lifted her skirts and stepped carefully out into the small clearing he had created. He saw now that she wore heavy boots and it contrasted oddly to the rest of her. She noted where his gaze fell and said, “You see I learn, Faramir. When I am to speak with you I must not fear the temper of your land.”

“Please,” he was steadily growing more used to being alone with her but still it made him very aware of his new place in Aragorn’s life, very self-conscious, “ let us go inside then.” He gestured in the general direction of the house.

“No, no!” She shot him almost a playful glance and more gracefully than he would have expected came to stand beside the pile of fallen branches and bracken that had been steadily growing since after breakfast. “This you burn?”

“Yea…” He peeled off his gloves and raked a hand through his hair. He must look a mess. “This will be carried off to the Midsummer bonfires. The recent rains tore down a lot.”

“But now you have high hopes for a fine summer?”

He inclined his head. “Yes, I admit I do. The winter was long and dreary.”

She opened her mouth to respond but then hesitated, and when she did speak, he suspected that she had chosen a new direction for their conversation. “You will be staying here, I gather? Most of the time?”

It seemed this particular subject never lent him any peace. “I will, my Lady.” He almost managed to swallow a sigh. “My allegiance to Gondor–”

But she held up a hand and he effectively fell silent. “Faramir, I care little about your allegiance to Gondor.” Her expression was hard to read; there was a sternness about her and yet the smile had not really left her eyes. “What I care about is my son’s and Aragorn’s wellbeing. And yours,” she added. “I seem to care for you more these days.” The spark of jest in her eyes was soon gone, however. “Gondor… well Gondor has always frightened me, believe it if you will.”

There was some rush of something in the air but it was of a kind he had never known before. He tried to focus on what Arwen had just said but he was quiet for a moment too long and so she continued, “Gondor was what lay a heavy weight upon Aragorn’s shoulders when he was still very young, Gondor is what will claim my son – has already claimed him in a way. Gondor was, and is, a world I will never understand.”

He considered this. “I think I see your point, my Lady.” He glanced down at the dirtied gloves he still held. “Ithilien I love well, but the rest of Gondor…” He raised his eyes to her face. “And Emyn Arnen…”

“You are bound to,” she finished simply for him. “Do you think I cannot see that? I am of an ancient race and we too live in the arms of nature.” Once again, some of that sternness flickered over her face, and Faramir saw now what a truly magnificent Queen she could have been had fate taken a different turn. “We are not so different, Faramir.”

This had never occurred to him before but when he pondered it, he saw reason in her words, though he had never thought to compare himself to an Elf before. A question wholly unforeseen left his lips, “What would you have me do, madam?” His voice held the slightest tinge of desperation. “I love Aragorn and I could love Eldarion also were I allowed, but I could never move back to Minas Tirith.”

Her unexpected laugh caught him unawares. “You should no nothing you have not yet consented to,” she smiled. Stepping over a few odd twigs and branches, she came to stand face to face with him. She was tall and so he need not look down to meet her gaze. “You should stay here, keep your house and provide a safe haven for Aragorn and my son, if you will have him too. Visit Minas Tirith when it suits you but do not run thither for that is not your place in the world.”

He shook his head. “You sound like my own heart. Is that wisdom?”

She tilted her head to the side and he was sure her silver-blue eyes caught that suggestion of fairer weather in the air. “It would be folly to do otherwise, I think,” she said. “This is a blessed place. By the grace of the Valar some ancient magic will be woven into the City’s walls with the planting of the saplings but you have pledged yourself to this land, I assume..?”

He nodded silently. It was Ithilien that had felt his fear in the War; here that he had led his Rangers on missions that seemed akin to hopeless; here he had bled, cried, sweated, laboured, suffered… hoped, laughed, made love, met with freedom. He still offered some blood, to renew the vow, their bond, twice a year. And he wondered if Arwen did not know of this also, somehow.

“Emyn Arnen will not curse you for spending some time away now and then,” she said softly.

There again was that rush of something new in the wind. Frowning, Faramir tried to name it but failed. He shook it off and met Arwen’s gentle eyes. “How can you tell?”

She reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. “I get along tremendously well with this place.”

It took him a moment to catch the underlying seriousness in her remark. “You may come and go as you please, Lady.”

“Ha!” She actually snorted. “I am sure you would love to house me while Aragorn stays here as well.” She shook her head but a broad smile he had never seen on her before made her almost glow. “Oh no, I shall not trouble you so. But it is good to know. Thank you.”

He smiled. “You are very kind.”

“Indeed, I am,” she nodded and bent to pick up a slender branch. She dropped it on top of Faramir’s pile. “See, I even help.”

Chapter Thirty-Four – Perspicuity

As the day waxed towards noon, it grew a little warmer. Faramir spread his cloak on a patch of ground that was no dryer than the rest but Arwen, when she sat down, assured him her gown would not be soaked. They chatted with growing ease as Faramir worked and she watched. He had, in turn, declined her offer of help, mostly because it seemed odd to him to have the Lady of Rivendell working in his woods and the mere idea did make him feel rather uncomfortable. But he was happy for the company. She told him of her home, of her brothers and of her planned journey to Legolas’ realm and his kin. He had dumped a new load of branches on his pile when Eldarion suddenly appeared among the trees.

“Nana?” His eyes widened a little when he spotted her where she sat. “Faramir.” It looked like he stopped himself from bowing at the very last moment.

“Dari,” she smiled. “Have you finished? Where is your father?”

That was what Faramir wanted to ask himself but also found somewhat inappropriate.

“He was writing letters when I left the library,” said Eldarion with a slight shrug. “But he said he would soon be done and join us.”

A thrill passed through Faramir at the news and he could not help the smile he felt curving his lips. He bent forward under the pretence to stretch his back and hid his reaction as best he could. By the Valar, he was a grown man and no lovesick youngling. But when he straightened, still he had to fight not to smile too broadly.

“And what of you, sweet?” Arwen held out her hand to Eldarion. “Come.”

But the boy did not let himself be dragged down to sit by his mother upon the cloak. Instead, he cast a glance towards Faramir and asked almost shyly, “Can I help you, sir? I would gladly do something else than write for a while…”

Faramir hesitated for a moment, thinking that perhaps it was a good thing to involve Eldarion in his work if the two of them were to spend time here in the future. In the end, however, he shook his head and hoped he did not come off as patronising. “Thank you. But you are not dressed for it and we shall soon return to the house for the noon meal. Another time, though, I would appreciate two extra arms.”

Eldarion nodded and it was hard to read his emotions. The last thing Faramir wanted was to make him feel rejected but he had spoken truthfully and hopefully Eldarion saw that too. Attempting to avoid some awkwardness, he addressed the boy again, “How does your essay, then?”

With a sigh, Eldarion prodded at a clump of grass with booted toes. “Everybody bears the same name in the First Age. There is Fingolfin and Finarfin, and Fingon and Finrod…” He grimaced. “‘Tis hard to tell one from the other.”

Faramir bit his lip to stifle a chuckle. ““Do you have a family tree to refer to?”

“Yea, father helped me draw one…”

Arwen looked pleased but she too was clearly trying hard not to smile. “There is power in a name,” she said and she sounded grave enough, “and some words carry more power than others, and so it is natural that we should form names out of those.”

Eldarion huffed something in response that Faramir could not make out. He went to fetch the last of the branches he had dragged into the clearing and dumped these too onto his large pile. Then he brushed off the dirt on his hands on his already soiled breeches and met Arwen’s bright gaze. “Shall we?”

She smoothly rose to her feet and handed him his cloak. They began picking their way back to the house but had only walked for a few minutes when a call rippled through the trees and caught Faramir unawares.

He turned and saw Damrod emerging from a thick cluster of hazels, his leather boots soaked and his cloak and hair full of twigs and leaves.

“Faramir!”

Arwen and Eldarion had stooped too, but he gestured at them to continue. “I will not be long,” he said, fighting to keep his tone light. “Please, proceed to the house and I will see you there.” He thought he caught a glimmer of worry in her eyes before he turned to face Damrod and his heart sank as the former Ranger stomped closer. He had had little time to analyse their quarrel and he was not yet ready for a new round.

“I’m sure they’ve all ganged up on me, your trees!” Damrod nearly snarled when he was only a feet away. Irritably he drove a hand through his dark hair, sending a few small leaves flying.

Faramir said nothing. Indeed, his friend had always been courteously treated by the woods in the years he had dwelt here, but now Damrod looked like he had been assaulted by both bough and bush.

“Listen,” said Damrod curtly, but beneath his scowl there was something entirely different, “I came to speak with you.”

“Then speak,” said Faramir simply. “I will hear you.” He wondered if he truly had meant to sound so indifferent and a part of him revolted at the sound of his own voice.

And Damrod would not be tricked. He snorted. “Yea you will, for I came to apologise, first of all.” He was no coward, had never been, and so he met Faramir’s gaze straight on. “I apologise. I spoke out of turn. But,“ he pushed back his shoulders a little, “I don’t think I gave a fool’s counsel either.”

It was as honest an apology Faramir could ever have hoped for. He inclined his head, unused to such situations as he was.

Damrod took one step closer and his voice dropped lower and he spoke with more kindness. “See, Faramir, you’re all lost in this…”

A very rare anger flared in Faramir then. He, in turn, took a step back, his boots sinking down in the undergrowth, rooting him to the ground. “What do you know of that?” he demanded. “How can you presume to know what has happened here since the King arrived?”

There was a glint of something equally unusual in Damrod too. “I don’t care what you do while he is under your roof,” he growled, “but I care what happens to you when he leaves. I know you, Faramir, searching ever for love and sweetness in the world but what have you gained so far?” His jaw tightened. “That’s a hopeless mission in these times and you’d be better off without it!”

It was many long years since Faramir had felt such a wave of rebellion flooding him. Drawing strength from this, his own land, his own world, he lifted his chin. “I have found that love of which you speak,” he hissed, “you do not know since you do not ask!”

“I don’t need to ask,” retorted Damrod at once, “because I see you melting before it – I’d wager you melt at the King’s feet too, uncaring of his intentions. Do not sacrifice yourself for him, Faramir!”

“I have made no such sacrifice,” cried Faramir. “I love him – and he has given his love to me in return.”

“Ha!” Damrod shook himself like a wildcat. “He loves you like a loyal subject, I’m sure! Or will he have his way with you for a few nights and then leave you to cruel slander?” He closed the distance between them again. “You might live in this protected little world of yours, Faramir, but the rest of us live in Gondor where your father’s influence still poisons minds against people like you!”

“People like me!?” Faramir staggered backwards but the woods closed in on them and he could not flee. He stared at Damrod whose brows were drawn together over the boiling ire in his eyes. “Think you so of me? That I am no better than the rutting rabbits in the fields? For that is how they see people like me, is it not?” Shaking with mounting anger, he only partly knew his own words. “Or would you have me thrown into the dungeons, never to see nor Sun nor Moon again?”

“Nothing’s changed!” cried Damrod, ignoring his questions. “Can’t you see? You will be lost when the King leaves your side and returns to his golden throne.” He raised a hand in warning. “No, hear me out! Even if, even if, he has come to care for you, what will he do? Marry you? Give you a coronet and call you his Prince before all the nobles of Minas Tirith? Confine you to his apartments and never let you return here?” When the first tide of anger had ebbed out he seemed to calm down somewhat. “Faramir… as your friend I beg you to please forget him. I don’t know what your deal with these trees is but I gather you have an understanding of some sorts.” He shook his head in disbelief at his own words, “Stay here. Find someone else.”

Through the pounding of his heart, Faramir barely heard him. He watched some frustration leap to the surface in Damrod’s form but he dismissed it. “I will not give him up,” he said, hearing his own voice ragged and rough. “I love him.”

Damrod drew a long breath and visibly fought to control himself. He briefly closed his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said slowly and in a much lower voice, “I love you – I have been ready to die for you time and time again – and I know you. You will give your heart to a man who cannot live in your house forever, who is King of Gondor, where, again, people do not take kindly to males who bind with other males. And you dread the doom of Minas Tirith – say not otherwise for I know it to be true.”

Forcing himself to breathe evenly, Faramir inclined his head. “You are right.” He felt his lips twist into a grim smile. “No doubt you are right, but two things you shall know and know as truths: there is love between the King and myself, and I have already given him my heart.”

Silence followed this statement and the very air seemed to stand still between them. There was no sound. At last, Damrod’s shoulders sagged and he sighed. “Then I will say no more.”

“You could wish me well,” said Faramir stiffly, the energy seeping out of him as quickly as it was born.

Damrod lifted his gaze to his face. “Do you think I do not?” He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I wish you all the love in Arda, Faramir… But…”

“But only of the kind you think simple and easy?” Faramir shook his head. “There is no such love anymore… There never was, for me.”

“I care about you,” said Damrod, and he sounded weary. “I would not have you spat upon and dishonoured before the entire City and the lands beyond.”

“I know.” And as he said it, he knew it was true, and it really was no news to him. “You have done well protecting me in the past, my friend. Now you must let me try my luck.” He took a few steps closer to the dark-haired man, feeling the rush of life around him as the woods exhaled too. “Aragorn will not abandon me… and he knows the people’s opinion on the subject.”

A ghost of a wry grin passed across Damrod’s lips. “‘Aragorn’ is it now? Well, well…”

Faramir smiled. “Aye… it is. He has fought his own demons to be with me.”

Damrod regarded him for a long while; his grey eyes searched Faramir’s face in silence. “Is he worthy of you?” he asked at last, and finally that which had lived underneath the anger revealed itself to be worry.

Self-consciously, Faramir shrugged. “I am human, Damrod, no gilded trinket he has won at the Midsummer games…”

“You’re one of the best men,” said Damrod gruffly. “I shall serve you beyond death.”

Knowing no words that would do, Faramir caught him in a long embrace. No warriors’ greeting or the like, but in a proper hug. “For that I am grateful.”

There were a few patches of sunlight upon the ground when Faramir finally stepped over his threshold, scandalously late for the noon meal but severely lacking in guilt. He hurried, however, to find some water for washing and he scrubbed his face and hands free from all the dirt. His clothes he left untouched since most of the stains were now dried and he would be returning to work when he had eaten. He found the dining hall empty save for one person.

Aragorn stood by a window and it looked to Faramir as if his thoughts were far away. He entered the room on silent feet but Aragorn, once a tracker and a Ranger himself, heard him approaching and turned, the lines of worry disappearing from his face.

“There you are.” Most of all, he sounded relieved.

Faramir walked up to him, opening up, letting the wave of concern flood him. “Yea…” he said. “I had to sort something out.”

Aragorn lifted a hand to his face and slowly ran his knuckles down his stubbly cheek. “Are you alright?”

“I am…” Faramir took one step closer, not willing to soil Aragorn’s clothes by coming too close but it was hard to resist.

“Tell me?” Aragorn cupped his cheek, brushed his thumb over his cheekbone.

Leaning into the touch, Faramir gave a half-smile. “Yesterday I quarrelled with Damrod. Today he came to apologise. Then we quarrelled some more, but now all is well.”

Aragorn’s fingers wove themselves into his hair and the older man drew him close. “Come here.”

Well, Aragorn was King and had more clothes. Faramir rested his head on his shoulder and wrapped his arms around the other man’s waist. The King was wearing simple leggings and a well-worn shirt of undyed linen that was soft to the touch.

“He worries that I shall be heartbroken when you leave,” Faramir ventured. “And if we let this continue and make it public, the people of Gondor will turn on both of us and despise us.” He shivered as Aragorn’s fingertips brushed over his neck and dipped beneath the collar of his shirt.

“When I leave,” Aragorn began in a low voice, “I will trust you to keep my heart for me for it shall stay behind.” He left a kiss near Faramir’s temple. “You must tell me how those with your preferences were treated in the City so that I can begin making changes.”

Faramir pulled back a little. “You are sure you would not rather keep this a secret?”

A curious light woke in Aragorn’s eyes. “I am weary to the bone of hiding, keeping secrets.” He pressed a kiss to Faramir’s brow. “I love you. And I will tell Gondor as much.”

The world gained some balance again and Faramir smiled. He covered Aragorn’s mouth with his own and they kissed long and leisurely. Hands began to wander and when Faramir experimentally fingered the waistband of Aragorn’s leggings he got an appreciative hum in response. Aragorn nuzzled his neck and Faramir felt the first rush of heat claim him.

“Hmm…”

Faramir stretched the waistband a bit further and discovered warm skin. “Hmm?”

Aragorn decorated the skin just behind his ear with a cluster of kisses. “Mud.”

“Especially for you…” Smiling, Faramir coaxed Aragorn to widen his stance by urging his legs apart with a knee. He only smiled broader when he heard the older man’s deep intake of breath.

“Generous…”

Aragorn traced Faramir’s lower lip with his tongue tip and his whisper tickled Faramir’s sensitive skin. Hands were gently tugging at his shirt and he knew that if they kept this up, it would soon be very obvious just how much he needed this man in his life. He pressed his aching groin against Aragorn’s thigh and the older man pushed his tongue deep inside Faramir’s mouth.

“Oh!”

A shrill clatter by the door reached Faramir through the sweet haze of desire. He released Aragorn just as Aragorn let go of him and looked up.

“Dari?”

Cursing the fact the his shirt was not long enough to cover the bulge in his breeches, Faramir tried to twist around without showing it. Eldarion was standing in the doorway, cheeks burning, and a few silver cups lay scattered on the floor at his feet.

“I… I am sorry, father…” the boy stammered, “Faramir.” He blinked several times. “I only wanted to… was…” he gestured awkwardly at the cups, seemed to realise he had really dropped them, and quickly bent to pick them up.

Faramir knew his own lips were reddened and swollen, and so were Aragorn’s. They were both flushed and he could feel the desire coursing through Aragorn in rich waves, and he himself was in no better state. Aragorn’s hands were still on his waist, ready to pull him even closer, but now neither of them moved. It was only when Eldarion had gathered up all his cups and clutched them to his chest and looked up that they parted a little.

“What will you use them for?” Faramir asked, surprising himself as he did so.

“Um,” Eldarion seemed to have some difficulties tearing his eyes from his father’s hands on his Steward’s waist. “I was reading about… some herbs and…” the colour would not leave his cheeks, “and Nena told me… told me about some flowers in the gardens and we… decided we would gather some…”

In the corner of his eye, Faramir saw Aragorn grin. “You like her?”

“No!” protested Eldarion, lost somewhere between confusion and embarrassment. “Well, yes, but…” he squirmed uneasily.

Aragorn’s grin widened. “I think you had better go, son. Never keep a lady waiting.”

“Father…” However, he shot another glance at Aragorn’s hands on Faramir and seemed to come to the same conclusion and hurried off.

Aragorn chuckled as soon as his son was without earshot. He kissed the bridge of Faramir’s nose. “I am starting to understand your scheme, my love.”

Faramir selfishly took a second to let the endearment sink into him, letting it wash away his own embarrassment at being caught flustered and entwined with Aragorn in the dining hall. “She is near to his age, maybe a couple of years younger. Eldarion needs a friend here, I think.”

“Mhm…” Aragorn pulled him close once more. “And perhaps he needed to see this too?” he suggested quietly.

“Yea… maybe…” said Faramir and felt himself relax into Aragorn’s arms. “Do you think he is okay?”

“Yes,” Aragorn left a string of kisses at his temple, “I actually think he is.”

With eyes drifting shut, Faramir drew a long breath. All would work out perfectly.

He would accept nothing less.

You know, in my vision of Gondor there is always this Council of elders helping the Steward or the King and I often include it in my stories, but I just realised that this probably has no canonical backing. There we go: imagination.

Chapter Thirty-Five – Sacrifice

Dusk was creeping across the grass. Behind the clouds the sunlight had been lost in twilight and now a first chill of evening was blending with the light breeze. Faramir shivered as the mist rose about him and twined around his legs. At his feet, almost lost in the high grass lay the stone upon which he smeared his blood in thanksgiving, twice a year. The recent rains had washed away any traces of his latest offering. He pushed aside the grass and sank down to squat before it. The trees towered silent over him and no birds sang. There were a few whispers in air, and he sent forth his greetings. The damp clung to his skin, and the copper tresses that fell into his face as he bent his head had turned into curls.

Open…

He let the power of the land flow through him, and he shivered as a cool wind drifted across his naked body.

White glow… flowing forth… He was open…

A well-known form crouched behind him and he almost swayed backwards, into arms that would hold him so close…

Coming closer, to gently caress.

Faramir fell forward instead, fell to his knees, knelt before this simple altar. His palms, pressed to the ground on either side of the stone, soaked up the mist. His own pulse was the pulse of this land. His land – this land that owned him. He sighed as a wet finger, drenched in the milky haze around him, circled his entrance.

Open, he welcomed the touch, longing to taste…

His breathing was that of the wind; his lungs filled with vision, filled with what lay beyond; he saw the green woods of Ithilien stretched out under his very fingertips… When the finger slid inside, his soft moan sank into the grass. He craved more, wanted to be filled. He moaned again when the finger was joined by another and somewhere, high above, leaves shuddered, and his passion was the passion of his world.

When the third finger was added, and they slid inside, pulled out, slid inside, pulled out… he felt the mist dragging along his spine like feather-light caresses. He pushed himself off the ground, felt the burn as his body accepted further intrusion and yet there was no burn, no sting.

He groaned into the silvery-white haze and the solid body behind him was the ground, the trees, the stone that had never begged to become an altar. Then the fingers were replaced by something else.

The slick, blunt head of his lover’s length pressed against the guardian muscle and far away in the courtyard the large oak shared in the tremor that passed through Faramir, guardian of this place.

Open…

He spread his legs a little wider, knees digging into the wet grass. Then a sizzling fire was wakened in him when his lover breached his body. Faramir sank down, impaling himself, throbbing as the length that filled him throbbed: with life, with unchecked desire.

He was urged forward again and his hands met with the soaked ground. The mist swirled softly around them as they moved. Faramir felt his lover’s body against his own, covering him, draping over him like a cloak. There were moans tangling in his hair, not his own; the ones he gave drifted out among the trees – his lover gave himself to Faramir, Faramir offered himself to his home. His heartland, and yet in his heart dwelt so much more…

Sweat mingled with the damp that covered his skin. His lover strove for balance in the growing darkness and whether by chance or no, he brushed the sensitive spot deep inside Faramir. The ground fell away for a moment, and the stars must all be burning brightly in the sky for there was light everywhere. Then there was more as his lover did it again, and again… and again.

‘Rise…’

The whisper drifted through him and was not a human one. Faramir, blinded by pleasure, struggled to raise himself up a little. A new thrust into his willing body almost pushed him down again.

‘Soon.’

He leaned forward, hands lost in the grass, knowing that the stone was somewhere beneath him.

Ragged breathing picked up even more and then a white-hot current washed through him and there was moonlight and more as Faramir emptied himself, crying out as he did so, and coating the stone with his essence.

He sagged as the aftermath crashed over him and he shook against the one who claimed him. And Emyn Arnen rejoiced and fed on his release and he gave of himself until he knew no more.

Their woollen cloaks were soggy but Faramir was loath to leave so soon. He leaned back against Aragorn’s solid chest and was content to simply breathe. Aragorn was leaving kisses at his temple, on his cheek, near the corner of his mouth.

“I could feel it…”

Faramir lazily turned in Aragorn’s embrace, his limbs heavy, his whole body sated. Aragorn’s face was not blurred in the misty evening but then it was only an inch away. He joined their mouths in a deep kiss. “What did you feel?” he murmured against the soft skin.

“You… the wind… the mist embraced us like a third lover…”

Faramir smiled. “A third one? Would you have that?”

Aragorn smiled, too, but his eyes were serious. “No. Never. I will have only you, always.”

“Good.” He snuggled back into Aragorn’s arms, his skin prickling as the wind drifted through the grove and stirred the air. “I think you are an accepted addition to the household now.”

“Ah…” Still there was a hint of seriousness in Aragorn. “Is this… Have you done this before,” he all but mumbled.

Faramir pressed a kiss into his skin, near his collarbone. “No.” He breathed in the lingering scent of lovemaking that clung to his lover. “I do not know what compelled me to do this,” he said softly. “You have taken no vow.”

Aragorn’s arms tightened around him. “Whatever the meaning of this,” he said into Faramir’s hair, “I am glad we did it.”

“So am I.”

They sat entwined for a while longer but soon the chill had chased away all remnants of the sun’s warmth. Casting off the cloaks, they staggered to their feet and Faramir felt both cold and stiff. But he grinned at Aragorn. “Put your cloak back on. I would not have anyone but myself see you like this.”

“A greedy one you are,” grinned Aragorn, but it was obvious that he was unused to think of himself as one drawing such attention.

Faramir circled his hipbone with a forefinger. “I did not take the Ring from Frodo… the world owes me.” He erased the distance between them and pressed his body against Aragorn’s. “I think I will take you.” He smiled, interest waking anew. “After we have bathed.”

Aragorn’s fingers under his chin tilted his head backwards. “So be it.”

Tulië 50

He turned a page, another one. He was so engrossed in his reading that he did not at once notice the shuffling of feet by the doorway.

“Sir?”

Looking up from his book, Faramir blinked in the soft candlelight. Eldarion had slipped inside the library and stood now uncertainly just inside the door.

“Please, come in,” he smiled and pushed his book aside. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, sir…” Eldarion trudged across the floor and hesitantly pulled out a chair opposite Faramir. “Nothing really… Nana – mother – and father are making plans for tomorrow and Nena is gone off with her brother. I have not much to do.”

“Speak with me then,” said Faramir and tried to make it sound like he was suggesting it and not only responding to Eldarion’s implied question. “Have you packed?”

“Yea… I did not bring much here.”

He had tried to forget… Tried to ignore that he knew Aragorn would be leaving on the morrow, but he was fooling himself. He had known this day would come and now only one night lay between him and the parting.

He forced his own stirring despair down. “Do you look forward to seeing the City?”

The boy coloured a little. “I think I like it better here.”

Faramir leaned forward. The desk was still between him and so he could not touch Eldarion but he hoped he could still make his point. “Come here whenever you wish. I would be happy to house you.”

Eldarion nodded. Faramir thought that in a way they had come a long way if the boy did not feel the urge to thank him courteously for such an offer. He looked his lover’s son and hoped his next words would sound well-balanced. “I can understand if you find it odd seeing your father with me,” he said slowly. “I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

“‘Tis a bit strange,” Eldarion admitted. “But I have seen others kiss… at home.” He shrugged. “I guess it is strange because it is my father.”

“I can see that,” said Faramir. After that he had some trouble with striking a new path in the conversation and so they sat in silence for a little while.

“You know, it is weird also that ‘Nena’ is so very like to ‘nana’,” Eldarion ventured and suddenly he smiled. “This is a strange place then.”

Faramir laughed. “Aye, strange indeed!” Eldarion knew not just how strange it was. “I will not taunt you but I am glad that she might be your friend.”

“Me too,” said Eldarion softly. “She is nice.” Then some urgency caught hold of him. “Please do not tell father I said so?”

Grinning, Faramir shook his head. “You have my word.”

“I will miss this…”

A broad band of moonlight lay across the bed and outside the summer stars were turning in a clear, dark sky.

Aragorn rested his head on Faramir’s chest, his dark hair gleaming.

“So will I.”

They had made love without haste. Here there was no mist blurring their senses and it had taken Aragorn a little while to relax after Faramir had proclaimed his intentions. It would take long, Faramir suspected, for Aragorn to be trusting enough to allow himself to be taken without facing his lover. Not that it disturbed Faramir – there were few other tasks so sweetly perfected as lovemaking. He had spent himself deep in Aragorn’s heat and then lain in his arms without thinking, only feeling the rise and fall of his chest, flowing with him into the moonlight.

“Will you come to the City?” Aragorn turned in his arms and looked at him with hope already present in his eyes.

Faramir nodded. “But I suppose I should wait a while… let the Council members own you for some time.”

Sighing, Aragorn agreed. “You could come at night and leave in the morning?” he suggested.
“And I could come here just as easily.”

Faramir twined his fingers into Aragorn’s tousled hair. “We will be doing a lot of riding.”

“It will be worth it.” His head sank back down as the younger man began massaging his scalp. “I will tell everyone of my love for you… When any of the elders ask my opinion on any matter, be it taxes or horses or curtains, I shall tell them aye or nay and then I shall add that I love you.”

Chuckling, Faramir shook his head incredulously against the pillow. “They shall think you mad.”

“I hope so,” said Aragorn, “and then they may choose a new King and I will come here and never let you out of my sight.”

“Mm… you know in autumn the roads run mud and turn slippery underfoot and when the rains come you shall be constantly wet and shivering?”

“But you love it.”

Faramir closed his eyes, the temper of Emyn Arnen the very song in his blood. “Aye… I do.” He lifted his head and Aragorn shifted and they met in a soft kiss. “I love my land and I love you,” Faramir murmured into the kiss. “I am blessed.”

When they parted, Aragorn resumed his previous position. “I was not jesting, Faramir, when I said I would speak freely of my feelings for you… If it becomes public knowledge that the King has a male lover then perhaps the general view on the matter will change?”

“Think you so highly of yourself?” Faramir joked but the smile fled him when Aragorn said gravely, “I must, if I am to turn the prevailing opinion around, is that not so?”

Somewhat rebuked, Faramir assented to this. “Yes… yes, forgive me. ‘Tis just that to me it sounds like a dream, being accepted even when my secret is known.” He sensed Aragorn’s response and hurried to continue, “No, I am not seeking pity, I am only stating a fact.” He yawned and failed miserably at concealing it.

Aragorn pressed a kiss into his skin. “Dari likes you…”

“I like him.” One of Faramir’s hands drifted down to his lover’s shoulder. “Truly I do.”

He felt the wave of happiness in Aragorn as if it were his own.

“If we were to return for the Midsummer celebrations..?” Aragorn wound his arm tighter around the younger man’s waist.

“I would be very happy,” Faramir smiled. He felt his eyelids growing heavier. “Very happy.”

The moonlight still flooded the bedchamber.

Now, my friends, we’re nearing the end… The next chapter will be the last and then remains only the epilogue. Do you want them posted together or would you prefer one week in between?

Lots of love.

Chapter Thirty-Six – Joy

Tuilë 51

There was clamour in the courtyard anew. Stable boys ran hither and thither with luggage and sooner than Faramir might have liked, the horses were brought and made ready.

“We will reunite with the rest of the Rivendell company down by the Road,” Arwen told him as they watched the commotion. Sunlight was playing in her hair and Faramir thought the blue in her eyes was the same as that of the sky above. “I will part with Aragorn and Eldarion there and journey forth with my kinsfolk to see Legolas.”

He wondered if he imagined the slight deepening of colour in her cheeks when she spoke the name. “You must pass on my blessing to him then, for a bright summer and a good harvest,” said Faramir. “No doubt he will be glad to see you,” he added, trying his best to sound casual.

She smiled, and the smile was that of a young girl’s. “So I hope.”

He opened his mouth to ask but then he hesitated and lost his courage. He chose a different path instead. “Lady… I owe you much.”

She shook her head. “No, Faramir, you do not,” she said firmly. “You have brought light to Aragorn’s heart and I think my son has found a new… home, if you do not mind me saying so.”

“I am honoured.” He bowed slightly, still not entirely able to shake the feeling that he was somehow addressing a Queen when he spoke with her.

“These woods know how to tell those with Eldar blood apart,” she said softly, and Faramir finally understood why he had not been able to name the new flicker of emotion that now lived among the trees. “And yet it loves you just as much as it would any Elf. This is indeed a fair, and curious, land.”

“Aye,” agreed Faramir. “It is.”

Aragorn and Eldarion, in travelling cloaks, came walking across the courtyard. They were speaking quietly and there was a smile playing on Aragorn’s lips and suddenly Eldarion laughed. The King laid a hand on his son’s shoulder and steered him towards the stone steps where Faramir and Arwen were waiting.

Throwing caution to the wind, Faramir caught one of Aragorn’s hands in one of his own and twined their fingers together. The older man met his gaze and his smile faded somewhat.

“I shall miss you,” Faramir said quietly.

Aragorn moved a few inches closer and there was a question in his grey eyes. Faramir quickly scanned the yard, seeing the escort he would lend Aragorn lest the King should ride alone to his City, seeing the stable boys and then Nena, fastening Eldarion’s saddlebags to his horse. He took a deep breath and willed his heart to beat steadily. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to Aragorn’s mouth. For a terrifying moment, he was sure Aragorn would pull back, but then the King wound his free arm around his waist and parted his lips. Melting against him, Faramir dipped the very tip of his tongue into the wet warmth and felt softness envelop him. He claimed all of Aragorn then, letting their tongues slide together and the rising energy wander freely between them. He felt Aragorn’s hand tighten in his tunic and he wished they were alone and had time. But as it were, he must draw back and they ended the kiss gently, trading a few shallow brushes of lips against lips.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Arwen had deliberately turned away from them and was now speaking with one of his men. Heat rushed to his cheeks when Faramir realised just what he had done, but Aragorn’s glittering eyes quickly convinced him it had been worth it. Eldarion had sunk down to sit on the stairs and he was doing everything in his power to ignore them both.

“So we part,” said Aragorn softly, “for a while. I thank the Star Lady for you.”

“Yours…” Faramir left one last kiss upon his lips, “Yours, my lord, my love, I am yours.”

The sunlight soaked the courtyard in a golden glow as he stood to watch the horses disappear through the gate. One by one, they rode away, and Aragorn must turn to face the road at last, leaving Faramir to silence. His lips still burned, his body ached to be touched and not even the Sun could chase away the shadow that fell upon his heart when he was once more all alone. For some time, he stood staring at the open gates, as if he expected Aragorn to come rushing back, proclaiming himself forsworn and casting his rule aside. And maybe even a part of Faramir hoped that would happen.

He sighed and stirred at last. His gaze landed on the great oak, towering over the gates. He dragged up a smile for it, turned and went back up the stone steps and into the house.

Lairë 12

Faramir kicked off his boots and dropped down onto the grass. It tickled his bare feet and he stretched out on his back, content to just breathe; the weariness of many days’ labour finally taking it’s toll on him and he closed his eyes and let his senses slide…

He knew not for how long he had been dozing when someone called his name. Opening his eyes, he first saw only a slim form bending over him, dark against the blinding sunlight.

“Hey!”

Faramir rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Maelir?”

“Yea, ‘tis me. You asleep?”

“I guess I was…” As his eyes adjusted to the light, he could make out the younger man’s ink-black hair, now shorn close to the nape of his neck, and the dark eyes peering down at him.

Maelir grinned, “I never thought I would see you thus in the middle of the day.”

Faramir pushed himself into a sitting position. “I’ve been working on the fields for the past fortnight… Where have you been?”

“Visiting my cousins further north. One of them is recently married and she took her younger sister in when my mother’s sister died. I returned here some four days ago.” He sank down upon the grass, but at a proper distance. “I was certainly glad to discover that that dreadful mist is now gone from here!” He looked pleased. “But how are you, Faramir?”

“Well…” He raked a hand through his hair. “I am well. You should have come to see me sooner.”

“You lonely?” Maelir raised his eyebrows suggestively but his smile did not reach his eyes.

He was. “I have missed your company…” Sleep refused to release him completely and his thoughts were jumbled. When he heard his own words, he grimaced. “No, listen… I am not saying that…” He sighed, “We were good friends too, were we not?”

“We were…” avoiding his gaze, Maelir toyed with a blooming yarrow. He sounded hesitant. “There is this rumour running about… you know – ‘tis an odd one, really – of this man whom you kissed in front of your entire household, and how you also asked for a lady’s hand in marriage, but that she went away from here…”

Faramir stared at him. “What?”

“Yea… and they say… well, they say the King visited you – the King, of Gondor, you know – though no one knows why. And they say also that there were Elves come here to take you away to their lands…” He tried a bleak smile. “I guess in times of peace people have nothing better to do than gossip…”

“But…” Faramir did not know whether to laugh or scream. Maelir’s revelation had a curious effect on him: he wanted to summon all the people of Emyn Arnen and tell them of his love for his King… and he wanted to run. He chose the easy way out. “Why do they think that I asked this lady to marry me?”

Maelir shrugged. “Apparently you were seen alone with her… holding her, here in your own gardens.”

Faramir winced and dropped his head into his hands.

“If you have not changed your ways, I am assuming there is no truth to this?” Maelir asked, not managing to hide all of his budding doubt.

Faramir looked up at him. “This Lady is a friend, I hope,” he said firmly. “She was distressed and I did my best to comfort her. But no, we are not betrothed.” He had to smile at the image that slid through his mind. “You know I would not wed a female.”

“Not even for political purposes? That is what people are assuming since they also think the King came hither.”

“No… no…” He wondered how much of the truth he ought to divulge. “If you ever hear that rumour again will you say that you have it on good authority that the Steward of Gondor does not intend to marry.” He hesitated, then added, “And you may say also that he takes no female lovers.”

Maelir’s brown eyes narrowed. “But that would be implying that..?”

“Aye it would be,” said Faramir resolutely. “It would also be telling the truth and to me it sounds like there is a need for that.”

A grin was slowly painted across Maelir’s features. “Well then,” he said with a small informal bow, “it will be my pleasure to enlighten them.” He shifted a bit closer. “Faramir… I do miss you.” In an instant, his whole demeanour changed: his smile grew warmer and he seemed to somehow soften in the sunlight.

Faramir reached out and ran his fingertips down the smooth-shaven cheek. “There is more to this truth of mine,” he said quietly. “I could not bed you for I am pledged…”

Maelir sat very still before him and Faramir dropped his hand to the grass.

“I have found love when I thought I was headed for misery,” he continued. “It is not easy, but… I could ask for nothing more.”

“Those… Elves?” Maelir asked at last and Faramir smiled.

“No, no Elves… It is a regular Man… sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“It is complicated…” Faramir shook his head. “You will know soon enough… Judging by the pace by which those rumours of yours spread, it is not likely to remain a secret for much longer.”

And the world might just turn upside-down…

He had meant to say no more but suddenly there was a flash of understanding in Maelir’s eyes and he gaped at Faramir. “No?” He leaned back a little as if he could not see Faramir properly when he sat so close. “No..? You cannot mean… But they said… The King?” he hissed as though the whole population of Gondor eagerly crowded behind him.

Some heat rushed to Faramir’s cheeks. “Aye, the King…”

“But…” Maelir’s already large eyes had never been wider. “But he is King!”

“Yes, that is what Damrod said too…”

Maelir snorted, “Damrod! What does he know?”

“I thought you shared the same opinion on loving a King?” Faramir ventured, grateful that the ground still felt solid underneath him and gaining some courage from this discovery. “And you need not try to change my mind for that very same Damrod has done so thrice already – to no avail, I might add, and now he is… accepting.”

“By the gods, Faramir…” Maelir nodded slowly. “Well, you could have done no better, I guess… I have never seen him but they say he is handsome.”

Faramir only smiled as the image of Aragorn’s face rose in his mind. Three weeks had passed since they took their leave in the courtyard and though he had meant to conquer his fear of Minas Tirith he had been called away to the remaining repairs needed after the rains, and then the sowing and tending to the fields had overwhelmed him. Now he counted the days to Midsummer when Aragorn and Eldarion would come to him again.

“Look at you!” cried Maelir. “Smiling like a lovesick fool!” But he was grinning. Then he sighed and the grin faded. “I confess… I am a bit jealous – I had hoped…. I know it has been ages since I last came to your bed but I enjoyed it the last time. The last time indeed, I suppose now.”

Knowing it would be too confusing, Faramir refrained from touching him, even by way of simple comfort. “Damrod said you were spreading the news that you had slept here… after that time.”

“Then he lies,” said Maelir fiercely. “I told only my friends, but if he overheard me and interpreted it that way, the blame is not mine to bear.”

Faramir pondered this. “Perhaps it is so…” he said finally. “You were never close and he cares greatly for me…” he ignored Maelir’s snort and grumbling assent, “perhaps that is how he saw it.” He knew Damrod well and did not find it wholly unlikely that his friend should choose to see it from his own angle. Well, whatever the truth of the matter, it lay now in the past. He shook himself and smiled. “No harm done, in any case. Will you join me for dinner?”

“For dinner only?” Maelir shook his head. “Nah… I confess I was hoping for a better offer.” His smile was rueful. “Another day I will… just… not today.”

He rose to his feet and Faramir followed him. “If ever you need anything, you know… A place to stay or…”

“Money or food? Yea, I will come to you.” The young man grimaced with distaste. “That really sounds terrible.”

“As long as you know that I mean it,” said Faramir. “But as you wish, I will speak no more of it, though the offer stands.”

Maelir nodded. “Good.” then he leaned in and dropped a quick kiss to Faramir’s cheek. With a faint smile he started across the grass but after a few paces he stopped and turned. “Shall I tell people also of your new lover?”

Faramir watched how the sun skidded across his former lover’s hair and face. It felt so long ago that he had kissed him, lain with him… and yet it was little more than a moon ago. It was a wonder how the world had changed so dramatically, and yet so much was still the same. He wondered if it was still possible to go back, to allow time to curl around itself and for Faramir to disappear into a little fold of it and emerge as he had been before: bound solely to his land and occasionally exploring freedom when it suited him best. So much easier it would be, so much safer… so predictable.

“Yes,” he said, “speak of it as you seem fit.”

He picked up his boots and chose another direction, mindful of where he placed his feet, but a smooth path was cleared for him and the grass grew soft and rich around him. A teasing giggle sifted out from behind a group of young rowans and reclined upon a patch of particularly thick moss covering the stump of a forgotten tree.

“Oh, be quiet,” he half-heartedly admonished, but was perfectly unable to chase the silly grin from his face.

The slender saplings from Rivendell were planted not far from the narrow path. Birds liked them, and he wondered if they would bear fruit for they were already in bloom. Many things that had once been fostered in Rivendell had thus come to his doorstep, and the door was wide open. He found that he was walking this new path with nothing but joy in his heart.

Now we have reached the end.
To all of you who have read, or read and commented: thank you. Your faith in this story has been a blessing.

Epilogue

Emyn Arnen, Lairë 19, IV 5

There was birdsong and not a cloud in sight, and the Sun had wandered over to the south-western sky. Faramir tried to reckon how many hours were left until sunset but failed. His fickle thoughts fled him, nervous as he was where he waited at the foot of the stairs. He smoothed out imaginary creases in his shirt for the hundredth time and regretted not taking a second look in the mirror before he hurried outside. He had been too eager to stay indoors, and consequently he had been too early. Still, he had not abandoned his place by the stone steps – he had not even sat down. He was sure that someone was laughing at him somewhere but he did not find it in him to care.

At last there was some commotion by the gates and the air stirred. Faramir’s stomach turned over and his heart picked up a mad beat. A party of riders approached, ever so slowly, commanded by a man Faramir had only met once before but whose piercing blue gaze was as intimidating now as it had been then.

“King Elessar and Prince Eldarion seek to enter the house of the Steward of Gondor,” the man announced stiffly and in a low voice that still managed to carry.

Faramir must force himself to look only at the herald and he managed a smile. “They are most welcome.” Somewhere among the riders were…

But Beriand narrowed his eyes at him until they were mere slits. “Steward Faramir.”

Chancing it could be a greeting, Faramir inclined his head to him. “Sir.”

“This escort is under orders to leave as soon as the King and his son has dismounted and have had their luggage carried into your… house.” He spared the house before him a challenging glare. “I trust the security here is excellent?”

Ignoring the badly hidden contempt, Faramir would have liked to try a grin this time but he could distantly understand the herald’s obsession with the King of Gondor’s safety. “You will have no reason to worry.”

Beriand grunted a reply and spun his mare around to speak with his men. Faramir craned his neck to look past him, knowing it must make him look like a curious child, but ready to explode if he did not see Aragorn soon. The longing had been tugging at his heart for too many lonely nights and was now a bone-deep aching in him. He could not see… but then:

Roheryn carried the King proudly, and he sat tall in his saddle, and his eyes were searching too. When their gazes met, Faramir could not help the smile that he had so longed to smile. He saw Aragorn slide off his horse and come rushing towards him, he heard Beriand shouting and voices raised in the ensuing confusion but then knew no more for Aragorn’s arms were wound tightly around him and their mouths were crashed together.

Faramir breathed in his scent, the mixture of sunshine, dust and stone. He kissed Aragorn for all he was worth, giving in more to desperation than love, or even lust. When they finally parted, Aragorn cradled his face in his hands and his eyes shone.

“By Elbereth, I have missed you Faramir!”

“And I you. So much.” He leaned his forehead against Aragorn’s and listened to his own pounding heart; he found the wild flow of his lover’s heartbeat, too, and closed his eyes in relief.

They shared a new kiss, slower, softer this time, and not until this one also was over did Faramir note that there was bustling all around them. Self-consciously, he pulled back a little. “Well, no doubt Gondor shall have some new rumours to feast on now.”

Aragorn smiled but his hands drifted to Faramir’s waist. “I have hid nothing from the Council,” he said quietly. “They have been informed of my intention to come here as often as I possibly can… and still I am King and respected, I think.”

Faramir fastened a strand of dark hair behind an ear. “I too have made my choice known but I know of no result yet.”

“You look well,” said Aragorn, “and so I gather you have not been assaulted?”

“I have not…” He dropped a new kiss to Aragorn’s lips. “I am so happy that you have come.”

A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he turned to see Eldarion handing over his bags to a servant and casting a quick glance at his father. Faramir released Aragorn and inclined his head to the boy. “Eldarion,” he mumbled and Aragorn took a step back.

The boy warily came over to them and his gaze darted from one man to the other. “Faramir.”

“It is good to see you again. Welcome back.”

As the boy nodded, Aragorn turned to speak with Beriand and Faramir marvelled at the ease with which he went from lover to King.

“So,” said Faramir slowly, “how are you?”

Eldarion’s grey eyes reflected the blue sky above. “I am well…” Guilt flashed across his face and he dropped his gaze to the ground. “I was happy to leave the City and the Tower… It is a bit dull there, you know…”

“Yea…” Faramir smiled. “Tomorrow is Midsummer and we will see the bonfires and… eat, if that pleases you? I made no elaborate plans for I did not know what you preferred,” he went on, the words simply rushing out of him. Finally.

“I would like to see the fires.” Eldarion glanced up. “They have such celebrations in Rivendell too.” He prodded the ground with booted toes. “Sir, Faramir,” he quickly corrected himself, “is Nena here?”

Forbidding himself to smile, Faramir nodded. “She is in the kitchens, I think, helping to prepare dinner.” When he saw the look of disappointment, he added, “Of course, if you happen to know how to bake honey cakes…”

Eldarion caught on quickly, “Could I..?”

Faramir grinned and gave him a small push in the right direction. “Go.”

An unexpected rush of warmth flooded his heart when Eldarion returned his grin before he dashed off towards the kitchens.

“Was he bored of you already?” Aragorn stepped up to him with a gleam in his grey eyes. He had unclasped and rolled up his cloak and tossed it over a shoulder.

“Apparently I am not very interesting…” Faramir tried a miserable look but failed utterly when Aragorn smiled. “Or it could have been because I mentioned food.”

Beriand had mounted his mare again and was now giving out orders. Aragorn came a fraction closer to Faramir and eyed him suspiciously “Or, thanks to your scheming, he thinks only of girls these days… Maybe one girl in particular..?”

Faramir glanced over at the escort and decided they were all too concerned with themselves to pay their King and Steward any attention. He slid an arm around Aragorn’s waist and, pulling him close, murmured, “My lips are sealed.”

“Mhm?”

Somewhere, in some world far, far away, Beriand was shouting out his final orders and the royal escort was set in motion, having now no one to escort anywhere. Emyn Arnen had accepted the temporary intrusion but exhaled slowly as the eastbound wind drove the riders on towards the Road. The sound of hooves died away and left were only the whisperings of the trees and the uneven rhythms of two hearts beating nervously.

Faramir hardly knew where he ended or where he began. Aragorn stood pressed against him and there was a suggestion of heat building. Still, the kiss was tentative, stumbling… Now, with no mortal eyes on them, the boundaries grew muddled and the possibilities multiplied. Faramir sucked very gently on Aragorn’s lower lip and then let him go, opening his eyes to the bright day.

“Would you… like to wash or… unpack..?”

Aragorn shook his head, a flicker of uncertainty finding its way into his eyes. “I would like to be with you.”

In silence, they had come to Faramir’s chambers and by some unspoken agreement sunk down on the sofa in the inner room. The sun was slipping further west but it was not yet time for dinner. Aragorn’s cloak hung abandoned over the back of a chair. They sat facing each other and the silence was dense around them. Faramir’s thoughts were swirling and yet he was sure his mind was blank for he could think of absolutely nothing to say. He should be professing his love, time and time again, letting Aragorn know just how much he had been missed. He should be, in this very moment, speaking of the long nights when he had been craving company, comfort…

There was a void between them and he needed a bridge. He saw his own hand hover in the air as he reached out and brushed his fingertips against Aragorn’s stubbly cheek. The older man trembled at the simple touch and he opened his mouth but did not speak. Faramir shuffled a bit closer, cupping Aragorn’s cheek and urging him to lean in. They met somewhere mid-movement and Faramir instigated a kiss he dazedly thought would have chased Aragorn back to the City only some weeks ago. He felt his own breathing speed up but the kiss only deepened; Aragorn’s teeth grazed his lower lip and Faramir felt his fingers tangle in the dark locks. Meanwhile, Aragorn was tugging him closer still, his hands running up and down Faramir’s back, drifting down again… until they were fingering his belt, sliding along the leather, tearing at it until it fell away completely.

Faramir drove forward, drove his tongue into Aragorn’s mouth, pushed him back against the linen, and he gave up reason and caution. He broke the kiss only to nuzzle the other man’s neck and his open-mouthed kisses melted into warm skin. From Aragorn’s hands, heat flowed into him… they were pushing, too, pushing his shirt up over his shoulder blades, forcing him to draw back and lift his arms. He heard Aragorn’s breath catch before they crashed together again and Faramir parted his lips and let their tongues slide together.

He wanted more, wanted to be so completely consumed by the fire that was waking in the core of his body. Aragorn pushed back, inviting him to wind his arms around the slim waist.

“Wait.” Faramir broke the kiss and must blink several times to clear his vision. “Just…” His heart was pounding. “Stay here.”

He ignored the questions that dulled the light in Aragorn’s eyes and pushed himself to his feet. On shaky legs, he hurried into the bedchamber and returned only seconds later with a vial of oil.

“Oh…” At the sight, Aragorn visibly relaxed and some colour rose in his cheeks. His lips were reddened and his hair dishevelled. “I thought…”

Faramir kicked off his boots and slowed his pace a little. He fixed Aragorn with his gaze and said, deliberately slowly, “Never think I do not want you.” He came to stand in front of his lover and with his free hand ghosted over the bulge in his leggings. He raised one eyebrow. Aragorn looked up at him, grey eyes wide and overflowing with almost every emotion one could imagine. But he nodded and accepted the oil.

Faramir pushed down his leggings, exposing himself, his semi-hard member twitching when Aragorn leaned forward and his lips brushed the heated flesh, leaving a first kiss upon it that made Faramir shudder. But this was no time to honour patience. He heard his own voice rough and raspy, “Next time.”

Then he was straddling Aragorn’s hips, his leggings forgotten on the floor. The older man slid down low and they were kissing again as the sky turned a bright crimson outside, shot with gold. Faramir cupped the bulge in Aragorn’s leggings and cherished the moan that twined around them. He pulled at the lacings and Aragorn bucked his hips and gasped. With desire spiralling through him, Faramir both saw and felt himself swell and he nearly cried out when a slick hand wrapped around his length, only increasing his hunger.

Aragorn’s thick length filled his hand just as a first finger breached his body and he felt himself melt into the waves of warmth that lapped at him. He tried to pleasure Aragorn but was lost as the guardian muscle was tested and coaxed into relaxing. Aragorn’s head had fallen back but there was an expression of profound concentration in his features. Faramir smiled weakly through the haze of desire. He edged forward, clumsily, heavily, pushed himself up and felt the fingers slip out of him. Aragorn opened his eyes, the grey having turned into a shining silver, and Faramir felt the blunt head of his lover’s arousal press against him. He sank down, air rushing past his lips as something else pushed in. Aragorn groaned as the world closed in on them and everything else lost its meaning.

This – the suggestion slid through Faramir’s mind – was perfection.

The shadows had begun stretching and the sky was now a light purple. Soon they must rise and go to dinner but for now they lay entwined on the sofa, having found a blanket to cover them.

“For how long will you be staying?” Faramir had dreaded the question ever since he had received Aragorn message revealing the exact date of his arrival. He steeled himself against the reply, determined to be happy even if it was only a matter of hours.

Aragorn swallowed and there was a hint of insecurity about him. “Would you have me for a fortnight?”

“A fortnight?” Faramir stared at his lover. “Two whole weeks?”

Aragorn shrugged awkwardly against the pillows. “It is Midsummer and all of Gondor will be feasting or lying in a daze, or both. I brought some paperwork and if you could spare a messenger at times, and put up with me–”

“Put up with you?” Faramir echoed him and then he must shake himself. The flicker of fear in Aragorn’s eyes he never wanted to see again. “I would house you for eternity. I was prepared for three days at the most.”

Gradually a sweet smile curved Aragorn’s lips. “Will you have food enough? Eldarion eats for two these days.”

“I will send you hunting. Or, no, I will send someone else hunting.” Faramir grinned. “I never want you out of my sight.”

The bluish light of evening filled the sitting-room and Faramir turned over another page. Eldarion, too, had found a book and so peace had settled while they both read. The night was warm and so no fire had been lit. The house was quiet and it was easy to drift… into dreams and visions… and yet something always pulled him back; and he knew, deep down, that dreams no longer were needed. They had brought him what he now treasured above anything else he could name. Now was not the time to dream.

“Faramir?”

He lowered his book and found that Eldarion was watching him. “Yes?”

“I was just wondering… This winter, will you be travelling to Rohan with us to Éomer King’s celebration?”

“Ah, yes… I had forgotten about that,” said Faramir earnestly. He had, truthfully, not spared the matter a second thought after he had discussed it with Aragorn some month earlier. “There will be a great feast when Lothíriel has born the child, I assume… As Steward of Gondor I will go but we shall have to speak with your father regarding the details…”

A brief look of distress passed over Eldarion’s expressive face and he dropped his gaze to his lap. His reply was too low for Faramir to catch.

“Eldarion?” Faramir frowned. “What is the matter?”

The boy fiddled with the hem of his shirt, his book quite forgotten. “You too could be like my father,” he mumbled at last. “Like my second father…” He looked up at that; large grey eyes filled with anxiety. “If you do not mind…”

It was true that Faramir’s love for Aragorn was like nothing he had ever before experienced. It flooded him, filled him, made him feel like he encompassed the entire Universe, but this timid confession spread another light completely through his heart and rendered him speechless. He knew of no words worthy enough in response.

He reached out and stroked the wild curls. “Thank you,” he whispered at last.

Eldarion swallowed. “It would be okay with you?”

Faramir shook his head slowly. “I know very little of boys your age,” he confessed. “Mablung, my friend, has two children but even the eldest is only barely past her third birthday. I never planned to have children of my own.”

“But you were a child too, and you had a brother,” said Eldarion, curiosity gradually replacing his anxiousness.

“That was… different.” Faramir hesitated. “The times were different… and my brother was a promising warrior at a young age – I was not…”

“I do not much like swords,” offered Eldarion. “I have tried to, but I do not think it went very well… They are very heavy.”

“That, they are.” Faramir scooted forward in his seat, not wanting to lose track of the conversation before Eldarion had fully grasped what a blessing he had bestowed upon him. “Listen, Eldarion, if you will indeed in the future consider me your father, a second one, I will be honoured beyond understanding.”

“Father says he loves me…” Eldarion murmured. “I did not see him much before.”

Faramir’s heart clenched. “Your father loves you more than you know. So much more.”

Eldarion lifted his grey eyes to Faramir’s and the unspoken question in them was so clear that it could not be interpreted as anything else.

Faramir smiled, readily, easily. He slid off his seat and pushed his chair as close as he might. Then he gathered Eldarion up in his arms and poured all the love and security he could summon into that embrace. “I will love you too, little one. Just like I have come to love your father. And you will always have a home in Ithilien should the stone walls of the City grow too confining… and even if they do not.”

Eldarion said nothing but he buried his face against Faramir’s chest and stayed there. Faramir stroked his hair, thanking the Valar for trust freely given.

And as the silver of the Moon spread across the floor and the shadows contently sank into place, he gave thanks for love and courage. Eventually, Eldarion’s breathing evened out and softened.

Faramir looked up as a familiar shape appeared in the doorway. Aragorn crossed the floor on silent feet with the moonlight skating across his dark hair. He sank to his knees before them and pressed a kiss into his son’s hair. Then he looked up at Faramir and there was finally peace in his eyes.

“You have healed us both, meleth nín.” His whisper caressed Faramir’s heart.

Faramir let his gaze travel over Aragorn’s face: his stubbly cheeks, his proud chin, his soft eyes and full lips.

You, I love.

He hugged Eldarion a little closer and the boy gave a small sigh in his sleep.

In wonder, Faramir thought he must have been gifted with two hearts for though he had already given his to Aragorn, Eldarion had stolen it too.

Aragorn lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. The Ring of Barahir reflected the moonlight and spun a web of shimmering silver around them.

All three of them.

The End

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