Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

OK, this is not the most action filled chapter in the history of slash, but I like to work things through properly — and the boys needed to do some talking. Change of perspective as well: we’re back in Aragorn’s head.

Chapter 11 – Dining

Aragorn was staring into space. He was utterly dumbstruck. Beside him, Faramir sat in complete silence. None of them had spoken a word since the door closed before them, and that had been a good long while ago.

Sitting on the bed with his back against the heavy headboard, he felt strangely detached from his own body. He vaguely suspected he would fail to focus on any thought that might have tried to cross his mind. Not that any did, as far as he could detect. All in all, Aragorn had lost all sense of reality and was now floating free in a hazy mist of numbness and disbelief.

At long last, he spoke in a slow voice:

“Faramir?”

He turned his head to fix his eyes on the younger man whose face carried a mostly blank look, although slightly tinted with doubt and incredulity.

“Mhm?”

“Did we just… Did he…?”

“I think so.”

Aragorn turned back his head and resumed his staring.

Long moments passed.

“Aragorn?”

“Yes?”

“Do you mind killing him, please?”

A weak smile appeared on Aragon’s lips.

“Do you not think there might be more worthy causes for Andúril?”

“No,” Faramir answered him flatly.

Silence fell yet again between them as the afternoon grew older and dusk approached. Somewhere inside, Aragorn recognised hunger, but since he had no idea where his body ended or began, he found no solution. Instead he lowered his gaze and took in the pile of leaves, herbs and pots containing various creams that were lying in his lap.

The leaves were of the same sort that he had been given before, the ones he was expected to soak and place on his legs. No matter how good and reasonable a healer he was himself, and withstanding the fact that he probably would have ordered the same treatment to someone in his own condition – Faramir would laugh himself to death over this when he saw it.

“Aragorn?”

“Yes…”

“If we survive this, will you have dinner with me tonight? Alone?”

“I am beginning to think we did survive, so yes.”

“Good.”

Aragorn drew a few deep breaths and before they could slip back into their shared state of shock, he turned back to Faramir and caught his eye.

“We should rise now, before we turn into stone trolls.”

Faramir nodded and gradually began to awaken his dormant body. He bent forward to stretch his back, he lifted his hands and rubbed his eyes, he stretched out his legs and wriggled his toes. Amused, Aragorn watched this last action.

“Wriggle mine for me, will you?” he suggested.

Faramir smiled, the first real smile since that morning, and shook his head. “Nah, I only have so much energy.”

However, despite his own words, Faramir got out of bed and walked over to the window. He leaned closer to the glass and then with an exasperated groan he flung his hands into the air.

“I do not believe it! More snow!”

He spun around and Aragorn caught sight of those emotional eyes which were burning with frustration. The room was lit only by a couple of oil lamps and since none of them had stirred the fire for hours, the shadows were creeping forward from their corners.

Faramir stood in his wrinkled white shirt with his copper locks all ruffled and messy. Had the room been a little darker, he might have passed off for a ghostly vision – albeit a handsome one – but now, with his displeased and annoyed expression, he mostly resembled a glum adolescent. Aragorn decided his appearance indeed was a mixture of a hungry hobbit and a wind-blown, grumpy Gimli. His height being the main difference.

Also deciding this would not be the best time to tell his lover exactly that, Aragorn rested the back of his head against the headboard and gave an encouraging smile.

“Even this winter will end at some point,” he said.

Faramir frowned. “You suddenly seem very comfortable,” he said. “Was it not you who hated this constant snowing?”

“Ah, yes,” Aragorn agreed, “I did. But it appears things have changed since then and I have everything I need right here.” He inclined his head to Faramir and was pleased to see, even in the growing darkness, the Steward blush.

“Well, I want to be able to go outdoors without freezing to death in an instant,” he muttered.

“Meaning you prefer being outside than in my company?” said Aragorn.

“Of course not!” Faramir immediately cried out, eliciting a broad smile from his King. “I only meant that with some finer weather maybe both of us could go outside together.”

“Oh, a very good reply!” Aragorn laughed. “Now come over to my side and help me rise please?”

Faramir did as he was bidden and with joint effort, Aragorn was pulled to his feet. Having not been out of bed all day, his body was unused to standing up and he rested against the strong frame of the other man for a few minutes. Faramir held him close and now and then ran his fingers over Aragorn’s back, sending shivers of pleasure through him.

With Faramir’s help, he had dressed sometime in between the Healer’s visits but both of them were still barefooted and the stone floor was cold.

“I should get a rug for the floor,” he commented.

Faramir chuckled. “You are too romantic, Aragorn,” he said. “Here I am – how did you put it – ‘everything you needed’, and you are thinking about carpets?”

“I am being practical,” Aragorn defended himself. “If I can cover up these tiles of ice, you can hold me like this for much longer.”

“Or at least until dinner.”

Aragorn backed away from him slightly and took hold of his shoulders. He studied the Steward’s face before him intently, searched it.

“What is this now, Faramir…” he said softly, feeling a smile growing in his heart. “You are answering back in a different way. Is this…” He tipped his head to one side. “Is this confidence I see?”

The younger man in front of him bit his lip and refused to meet his gaze. Instead he studied the floor, as if to decide where indeed to place the potential rug.

Aragorn tried to make him look up, but Faramir’s only answer to his efforts was to close the temporary distance between them and bury his face in the crook of Aragorn’s neck. The King was now the one who brought his arms around his lover and stroked his hair fondly.

“I like it,” he whispered.

He did. It was as if Faramir was finally stepping out of the shell that seemed to hold him captive.

And as the shell opens, the pearl shines even brighter than I ever thought possible.

“I like it,” he repeated. “I am honoured.”

Faramir only buried his face deeper among Aragorn’s dark tresses, but being as close as they were, it was easy for the King to notice how the other man’s breathing first quickened and then slowed down again.

After a little while, still stroking his hair, Aragorn spoke once more:

“Now, I am hungry, love. I believe you said that was when you would let go…”

Faramir dove out of his embrace and stood facing him. In the faint, but warm light of the lamps, Aragorn saw two wet streaks trailing down his cheeks. Ever so tenderly he stroked his thumbs against the soft skin underneath Faramir’s eyes. Then he gently kissed him, placing his lips against those offered. He simply let them rest there, as if performing a sacred act.

When he deemed them both steady enough, Aragorn slowly released him and in silence they pulled on the rest of their clothes, keeping close to each other.

After extinguishing the oil lamps, Faramir held up the door for Aragorn who stepped through and into the much brighter corridor. Moving forward, it did not take long before Aragorn accepted the arm Faramir offered him. Continuing on quietly, fingers soon entwined, and during the brief stops Aragorn needed, he sank into Faramir’s embrace gratefully.

As they gradually made their way towards the dining hall, Aragorn rejoiced in the peace that grew in his mind and extended to his stomach. And during their next break, when Faramir kissed him ever so slowly and leisurely, Aragorn realised he cared not the tiniest bit if anyone saw them – and judging by the way Faramir’s tongue sneaked into his mouth, the Steward minded not either.

Arriving in the dining hall had meant confronting reality and a piece of the outside world. King and Steward were met by a couple of anxious servants who were wondering when to serve what where and for whom.

It took a few moments for Aragorn to realise they were referring to his guests from Erelas, still in Minas Tirith and presumably hungry.

It felt strange, to be reminded of them. And yet, it was only yesterday he had pointed out – by taking matters into his own hands, so to speak – to Deren that he was not planning on giving Faramir up for anything. As if Faramir were an elegant piece of furniture. But desperate times require desperate measures, and things had turned out very well, if Aragorn was any judge.

But no matter how much of a statement he had made, he felt not the least inclined to dine with Deren and the others, and also, he had promised Faramir they would eat alone. Therefore, he now ordered the servants to set the great table in the dining hall for the guests, while he and Faramir would dine in private, in a smaller room.

He led Faramir towards a pair of doors and ushered him inside.

“Why do you smile like that,” Aragorn asked curiously when they had settled down near the fireplace. “Not that I mind, of course,” he added, not wanting the other man to think he was doing something wrong.

A peculiar smile had grown on Faramir’s lips since they first stepped inside and he was now looking about the room as if he knew something Aragorn did not.

“I was here before,” he explained. “I came here after the council, to clear my head. Or to simply disappear,” he added with a shrug. “I left my coat here as well. Coming back inside, it was soaked through. I am afraid I forgot all about it.” He nodded at one of the chairs near the balcony door.

Aragorn turned in his seat to look for himself but no coat was to be seen.

“You are lucky, then, that you live in a palace. Your coat is probably back in your room, washed and dry.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I miss my Ranger days,” he mused, fondly remembering his old, well-worn dark green cloak which had mysteriously disappeared when he became King.

“Only sometimes?” asked Faramir softly.

Aragorn felt his eyes burning into him, bringing forth feelings and memories he almost always did his best to suppress.

“Slightly more often than that,” he admitted, resting his head against the back of his armchair.

The room was bathing in a soft light, spread by both candles and oil lamps. It was small, so the flickering flames in the only fireplace were enough to keep it warm and comfortable. The modest heat was such a difference from the perpetual cold that seemed to penetrate every part of the palace that Aragorn felt uplifted despite his lingering melancholy memories.

“Let us not dwell on times long past,” he decided. “I want to concentrate on the present.”

He leaned forward and reached for Faramir’s hand as if he needed the touch to remind him of what he had gained, rather than what he had lost. To simplify things, Faramir pulled up his own armchair alongside Aragorn’s, so close that he was able to rest his head on the King’s shoulder without too much trouble.

Aragorn stroked his hand, found a faint scar that he followed with his fingertips and traced an invisible pattern in his palm, enjoying Faramir’s struggle not to scratch it.

“You do know that I have loved you for a long time?” Aragorn asked him quietly.

It was both a question and a statement; for many months they had circled around each other, knowing and yet wondering at the same time. He wished to make sure.

“I fell in love with you at once,” Faramir said in a low voice. “I think you symbolised everything that should have been for many years…” he trailed off.

Aragorn continued to caress his hand.

“When you spoke to me, you looked at me – you saw me. It was new to me,” he finished finally.

“It was hard not to look at you,” Aragorn replied, smiling to himself when he recalled their first meetings, when matters of state had slipped his mind completely as the late Steward’s youngest son had walked into the room.

Faramir moved uneasily against his shoulder. “You know what I mean,” he mumbled.

Aragorn nodded. “Yes, I know,” he soothed. “I know.”

There came a knock and the door to the antechamber opened. The same two servants stepped inside and if they reacted to the way their King and Steward were sitting, they did not show it. Instead, they produced a small table to place between the couple and the fire. Swiftly they laid it, left and came back with food and wine.

In silence, the King watched them work. Faramir was still resting his head on his shoulder but Aragorn had noticed how his breath caught when the servants came in. Therefore, he made a point of not moving. Twice, he had asked Faramir to stay and this time around he was not going to let him down.

“Is there anything else, my lord?” the remaining servant asked him now, a woman of thirty perhaps. Aragorn remembered having encountered her in the City, just after the War. Her husband had been found among the dead, and she had three small children to feed so Aragorn had offered a place among his staff.

Of course, she was far from the only widow who needed help, but at least it was something. To her, it had meant a lot, he saw that.

Giving her a warm smile he shook his head. “Not at present, thank you.”

She gave a nod and left, cautiously closing the door behind her. If Aragorn was not wholly deceived, he thought he noted a hint of a smile in the corners of her mouth.

Faramir stirred in his seat, sat up properly and let out a long breath.

“You were not nervous, were you?” Aragorn teased him.

“No,” Faramir answered as his pale cheeks regained some colour. “I am only exhaling. I have been told I should do so on a regular basis.”

Aragorn regarded him curiously but Faramir showed no sign of further explaining his words. Instead he lifted the pitcher and poured wine for them both. Aragorn accepted his cup and as they shared the first taste, he was beginning to feel very relaxed indeed.

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