Faramir Fiction Archive

Simulacra (NC-17)

09 November 2011 | 30013 words | Work in Progress

IV

The silver horns of Gondor sounded across the green sunlit plain as the travelers’ party approached the gates. Faramir had sent messengers ahead to announce the arrival of the envoy from Lorién. The doors to the throne room stood open and waiting, the guard prepared to let the honored guests pass unchallenged. Soon Haldir, his brothers, and their companions stood before King Elessar’s throne, flanked by Faramir and his Second.

‘What news of your patrol, Lord Faramir?’ the King asked formally.

‘Sire, I present to you a traveling party from Lorién, come in peace to pass time in Minas Tirith and Ithilien.’

Breaking protocol, as was increasingly his wont, Aragorn grinned broadly and rose to descend the steps from his throne.

‘Haldir, Rúmil and Orophin, you and your party are most welcome.’ He clasped each one’s shoulder in a warm greeting. As he came to Haldir, the gesture was coupled with a firm embrace, recognition of another time they had met under more dire circumstances, when Haldir’s unlooked for presence and selfless valor had saved many lives.

As Aragorn pulled back into a second warrior’s grasp, his eyes met Haldir’s, and held. In that moment, Haldir recognized, his measure was being taken. Aragorn knew of his past relationship with Faramir and had an idea of its import. For a brief moment the King’s thoughts became clear in his eyes. Haldir knew him to be too practiced a statesman and too fluent in elven ways to take it as an accident.

Welcome, Aragorn said. You are very welcome. I wonder if your visit has to do with Faramir? Watching Haldir intently, Aragorn gave the subtlest of smiles, a mere tightening of hidden muscles, quickly past. Ah. I see that it does. But quickly his face carried a stern warning. Do not hurt my steward. In any way. I will be watching, and I will take it personally.

Haldir allowed his own face to communicate his thoughts in return. I understand. I have not come to hurt him. I also care for him.

Aragorn’s eyes revealed his acceptance – and possibly his hope. Come then, and love him with our deepest blessing. We would see him happy.

Aye. Haldir lowered his eyes gently in recognition. I will try.

Turning to the larger party, Aragorn spread his arms wide. ‘Please, all of you, be at peace here. Our city is yours. I will welcome you all to a banquet this evening, but until then, find your rest after a long journey. My servants will show you to your rooms.’

As the group departed, he added, ‘Lord Faramir, if you would stay. I would hear the rest of your report.’

The doors closed behind the last of the elves and Aragorn led the way behind a richly woven tapestry at the back of the throne room, to the more comfortable arrangement of soft couches hidden there. He had added this less formal area to interview and entertain trusted guests and advisors in some measure of comfort and less ceremony. Now he asked the adjacent guards to step several paces off and let the thick curtain fall between them. Collapsing into a velvet couch he turned to his steward, now facing him from a deep armchair, ready to continue his report.

‘We found nothing else out of the ordinary, my Lord. There is a piece of the road near Obringen that will need regrading before next rainy season, but otherwise all is as it should be.’

‘So will you take him to your bed?’

Faramir stopped, mouth open, his prepared response suddenly not fitting the question.

‘Sire?’

‘Oh come on, Faramir! How long has it been since you stopped calling me ‘sire’ in private? You heard the question. An honest one between friends. Will you answer?’

Faramir’s eyes took on an uncomfortable cornered look, like an animal suddenly finding itself trapped, and trying to back away.

‘It has been a long time,’ he shrugged non-committally, deliberately keeping his voice casual. ‘I don’t even know if there’s anything left of that. An adolescent fling in the flurry of celebration. Perhaps no more.’

Aragorn was silent for a long moment, his eyes studying his Steward, his friend. ‘We both know that it was more than that. And so does he. He is here to love you Faramir. And to see if you will love him. He has come back for you. I shouldn’t wonder that this whole entourage is here as an excuse to deliver Haldir into your arms. It is Galadriel’s style.’

At this Faramir’s face reddened as his mind reeled. Why must the King tease him so? Not about this, please.

‘Faramir, how long will you wait like this? How long until you allow yourself to be happy? It is no secret that many strapping young cadets offer themselves freely to you. Yet you mentor them only, always the honorable Captain. And of all the distinguished warriors and counselors of your own age whose eyes follow your every motion, not one has seen the inside of your chambers. Do you deny it? In truth, I pressed you to keep company with me not so long ago, and was turned down ever so sweetly – but firmly. Because, you said, your heart was elsewhere.

‘So I ask you then, Faramir, where is it? Who holds your heart so long that none has touched you since Haldir left? The implication is obvious.’

‘Sire, I…’

‘Aragorn! Can you deny that you are trying to shut me out when you can’t even call me by my name when we talk about this?’ The sharp note left Aragorn’s voice as quickly as it had arisen, and he began to chuckle. ‘Honestly Faramir, if you mean to tell me to mind my own damn business, you have leave to say it. You know you do. Just call me by my name, as your friend.’

Faramir half-smiled, as was his habit. ‘Fine then, Aragorn. Mind your own damn business.’

Aragorn smiled warmly. ‘Ah. That’s more like it. In that case… No.’

With that, the king rose to leave. Faramir let out his held breath with an audible huff, rolled his eyes in annoyance, and made to follow.

‘I have one final word for you my friend,’ the King began again.

‘And what is that?’

‘Take Him. To Your Bed.’

Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but before he could speak, the King stepped forward to grasp his friend’s shoulder. ‘Yes.’

With that, Aragorn caressed Faramir’s face once with the loving touch of a parent or an old lover. And with his curled index finger he chucked Faramir under the chin, closing his mouth with a click.

Faramir’S POV:

What on Arda is he talking about? Why must he mock my fondest daydreams? To have Haldir back would be like getting back my heart. Though perhaps even then it was gone.

No, Haldir doesn’t hold my heart. He may have tossed aside what was left of it, but it was already a waste when he found me. I didn’t have a chance. Haldir was a brief moment of sun in a dark time, but I am a burden he rightly chose not to bear.

No! I have done so well these past few years. Turning all this off. I won’t get swallowed by it again. I am Steward now. An adult. A respected leader. I have no time for all this wasted emotion, mooning and simpering like a sixteen year old.

As if I did this at sixteen. No, by sixteen I had the jaded heart of an aging prostitute. No, maybe at eighteen. At sixteen I was still just scared. Every day. Every time.

I won’t start all this again. I am turning this off. I have no heart left to give.

Aragorn’s POV:

Oh my Steward, if only you knew how many people love you! Both men and women, humans and elves. Your quiet beauty and gentle composure have ensnared us all. Your absolute selflessness is a wonder to behold.

Yet I know there is a fierce warrior in there as well, and a leader ruthless in protecting his men and his country. I have always wondered if that same warrior might be protecting you? If the selfless scholar cannot keep you safe, does the warrior step in? And is it he – the Ranger schooled in subterfuge and concealment and constant observation – is it he who protects you now?

Faramir walked slowly back to his rooms, lost in thought, hoping to find peace and solace for a few hours before dinner. Instead, he rounded a corner of the corridor to confront a waterfall of palest gold. Two elves with their backs to him, with matching cascades of shimmering silk. One of them had to be Haldir. It was his hair. Faramir knew it well.

And they were holding hands, heads leaned together, talking confidentially.

Faramir’s heart had leapt unexpectedly at the sight of the hair (a sensation he thought he could no longer experience). Now it began to choke him. The beginnings of tears prickled the corners of his eyes.

Damn! What was this emotional reaction?

At the slight noise, the two elves turned. So like Haldir.

But not.

Rúmil and Orophin smiled broadly and moved to embrace their old friend again. As usual, it was Rúmil who spoke first.

‘Faramir! I see we’ve surprised you. I’m afraid we’ve come to disturb the quiet of your corridor. We’ve all been placed here to keep you company and cause you trouble, I’m afraid. Hope you can learn to bear us.’

Faramir returned their smiles, if somewhat shakily. But his pleasure at seeing them was genuine. Their easy affection for him could aptly be described as ‘brotherly,’ and he realized now how keenly he had missed it. It might be nice to be part of a family again.

Aragorn washed his hands at the basin inside the door of the Houses of Healing. He had been serving one shift every fortnight to keep up his skills and to be in service to his people. He and the Gondorian healers still had techniques and remedies to teach one another, and occasionally he was the only one who could help with a severe or unusual case.

But today there were no such cases. A broken arm, a minor burn, some soldiers with the inevitable training wounds. Aragorn found himself caring for a young boy with an unfortunate allergic reaction to an herbal bath he’d been given. The resulting rash was barely visible to the eye, but it itched him terribly. To avoid secondary infection from scratching, the healers had prescribed a soothing medicinal oil, which Aragorn was obliged to smooth on the boy’s skin.

Starting on the boy’s arms, Aragorn had quickly reassessed his initial assumption that the boy was ten or eleven. For he had the well-shaped muscles of a young warrior, although his torso was still slim like a girl’s. He was firm as well, Aragorn thought, as his calloused hands spread warm oil across the biceps and shoulders, squeezing slightly to help relax the muscles and avoid tickling. He knew this was embarrassing and awkward for the child, and wanted to avoid making him any more skittish with light touches. His attempt at small talk quickly fizzled, and instead he lapsed into the silence of competent efficiency.

Moving to the boy’s legs, Aragorn was again surprised to see the sculpted thighs of a burgeoning horseman as he stroked the oil upward from hard calves. The boy must be around 13 or 14 to be this strongly developed. And yet he was shy and looked small beneath his clothing.

‘There. Have I gotten it all?’ the quiet King asked as he finished the second leg.

The boy’s eyes lowered in charming embarrassment. ‘Um, no sir… There is more.’

The boy dropped the cloth he had been holding wrapped around his torso and blushed. Then he turned his back to his King.

Aragorn narrowly avoided drawing in his breath as he was confronted with two perfectly rounded muscular buttocks, freckled with rash. He could see without touching how they would feel beneath his hand. Firm and warm. Ready to be cupped by his large strong hands. Squeezed and lifted. Spread.

He shook his head slightly to clear the thought. This child was thirteen!

Thirteen. The age Faramir was when his father first came to him in desire.

Pouring the medicine into one hand, Aragorn rubbed his palms to warm it. He turned his face away and began to smooth the oil over the firm mounds of flesh. Much as he tried to feel detached from what he was doing, he found his hands moving by necessity in the same practiced motions he had used so many times with his lovers, his thumbs sliding into the crease and lifting upwards as his fingers rotated outward over the surrounding skin. Swallowing a groan, Aragorn saw that the rash continued down the crack of the boy’s buttocks and along his inner thighs. From the scratch marks there, it must be bothering him and had to be treated.

Aragorn poured out more oil. As he trailed an oily finger down the crevice between the boy’s cheeks, Aragorn felt his sex stirring and again steeled himself back in the present. This was no willing young lover, but a mere child, and in pain at that. He took a slow breath and prayed that the boy couldn’t sense his discomfort.

Rubbing his palms again, he directed his ministrations to the muscled inner thighs. He could feel cords of resistance as his two hands slid between and pressed outward, sliding between and inside the warm flesh, surrounding each thigh and stroking first upward, taking care to avoid the (tightening?) sac, then downward. Please gods, let the child not have rash there!

Feeling like a dirty old man, Aragorn began to turn the boy around – only to meet resistance and have him frantically grasp for his cloth. But not before Aragorn saw a small but fully erect member bobbing before him. The boy was as aroused as he was!

Clearing his throat to banish the huskiness he feared, Aragorn asked again, ‘Have I gotten it all?’

Again the charming blush as the boy looked down, now fumbling to tie the cloth about his waist.

‘Yes Sire. Th… That is all of it. Thank you.’

Aragorn corked the oil and excused himself to wash his hands, wishing the boy a speedy recovery. He walked from the room as quickly as royal dignity would allow, thankful he had worn a loose robe this day. He was ashamed of his reaction and kept repeating to himself that the boy was only thirteen.

And yet so well formed. So firm. So ripe. And responsive.

His thoughts turned back to Faramir, so fair of face and yet also strong and lithe. Even in adulthood, his blush was still disarming and his shy silence alluring. What had he been like at thirteen? Had he, like this boy, been aroused by another’s touch? Had he perhaps not been only the innocent victim of his father’s advances but perhaps also a participant, however unwilling? Aragorn hated to think it, but could it be? And if so, what would his experience of sexuality be, especially now, with those who knew what had happened and expected him to be traumatized?

Faramir would have to feel guilt, he thought, and perform it as well. What if his performance of false shame masked a deeper guilt for having – if only at times — enjoyed the intimacy? He would have learned to perform victimhood to hide the fear that he might be complicit in his own abuse. How could he later enjoy sex at all, if the very sensations were tied not only to fear and pain, but also to immense guilt both for enjoying and for accepting solace when he also felt to blame?

While his heart went out to his dear friend, Aragorn fleetingly thought he might be glad Faramir had refused his advances a few months ago. The whole situation was far too complicated. He would have no idea how to help the younger man through it.

And yet help he must. Faramir was his friend as well as his Steward, and Aragorn desperately wanted to see him happy – either with him or with Haldir. But how? He hoped Haldir had found a way through this. Or did he even know? Faramir was good at hiding things, perhaps even by revealing others. How involved was it permissible for him to get in this? Could he talk to Haldir?

Not yet, that was for sure. Aragorn sighed as his steps turned back toward the Citadel. Perhaps he could understand why Faramir thought it best to leave sex well enough alone.

Dinner that evening was a joyous affair, resplendent with laughter and smiles, songs and stories. Though not as ribald as when Legolas and the twins were in attendance, there was still plenty of news and mischief to share. Queen Arwen had known many of the guests since she was an elfling, and they felt free sharing stories of their lives together. Aragorn couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sadness, knowing that Arwen’s tales were now limited as these elves’ were not. Because of him, her past was now longer than her future.

But tonight was no time for such thoughts. Rúmil and Orophin were reminiscing about an angry young elf princess who had run away (again) after being told too many times to sit still and finish her dinner. After two days, their own patrol had found her, clothed only in vines, wild hair decorated with flowers. She appeared to have set up her own ‘household’ with a family of rabbits, whom she had arranged around a bark table with leaf dishes of grass and acorns – which, as they approached, she was pointedly scolding the squirming small ones to finish.

Faramir was seated across from the two brothers, and so got the full benefit of their facial expressions as they told the tale, and the familiar way they interrupted one another and seamlessly finished one another’s sentences, as if so bursting with the story that they couldn’t possibly wait for the other to finish. The whole style added immensely to the performance, and Faramir found himself laughing heartily with the rest of the company as they shared more episodes of Young Arwen, Wild Elf Queen of the Jungle.

At a pause in the telling, Faramir reached for his water goblet – only to have his hand brush that of his neighbor, who had had the same thought.

Haldir.

Whether Aragorn had left instructions that they be seated together, or the servants had vaguely remembered their friendship, he didn’t know. But in whichever case, they found themselves now side by side, deliberately not touching, and yet painfully aware of one another’s proximity. Their shoulders, straight against carved high back chairs, were only inches apart. Their thighs almost touched under the table’s cloth. Faramir could feel the hairs on his leg standing up, as if bristling with electricity, reaching toward his old lover. He wondered how Haldir’s smooth and hairless thigh registered his own presence. He remembered its texture on his palm, his tongue.

Their predicament was made all the more painful by the easy way Rúmil and Orophin leaned against one another’s shoulders, batted each other’s hands during their tale, or rocked against each other in laughter.

And then his hand brushed Haldir’s at the water goblets.

Faramir felt like lightning had shot through him in a sudden jolt. And with it came a flash – of memory? of the future? of Haldir’s present thoughts?

As if from a distance, he saw their two bodies, naked and glistening in candlelight, moving against one another on a bed. He was on top, as he had so seldom been before, his body grinding, sliding, gyrating upon Haldir. His hair falling in an amber curtain to frame his lover’s face, which he now saw close-up, a look of raw desire and deep love in his dilated eyes. Lips round and soft, loose and swollen from kisses, hungry for more. Faramir jerked his hand back, startled, and the vision ended. But his sudden movement jostled Haldir’s elbow and the Steward was forced to turn to him in apology. And saw that same look in Haldir’s deep blue eyes. Naked desire and aching love.

Faramir quickly looked at the table, but not quickly enough to stop a precious blush from spreading to his cheeks, ears and forehead. And neck, noticed Haldir. How he loved those blushes. How he longed to lift the soft waves of hair to trace the red flush across Faramir’s slender neck, behind his ears. Down his spine and chest.

Rúmil grinned ever so subtly at Orophin. They knew their brother was in love, and they were glad of it. In silent unison, both silently offered up the same prayer to the Valar: Please let Lord Faramir accept him.

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