Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 13 — Drifting

He had a magnificent headache. He was not quite sure why it was magnificent but most probably it was because it reminded him so effectively of the previous night. And indeed it was a night to remember.

Unfortunately, this was not the optimal time for reminiscing. He supposed it was no more than fair, since they had done a great share of recalling and memory-evoking only hours ago. Still, it would have been nice to simply… stay in bed. The royal one, into which they had stumbled after sitting in the small, comfortable antechamber much longer than planned.

Real life, though, complete with duties, obligations and responsibilities had at last come upon them in the morning. And now, here he was, in the council hall, with a blanket wrapped around his legs and that headache which told him he had slept far less that he ought to, but – who was he to complain?

A blond figure entered the room and walked smoothly towards a chair. He sat down elegantly, and offered a nod and a courteous smile to the King.

Well, maybe there were some reasons for complaining after all.

“It seems the snowing has ceased,” said Deren.

“Apparently so,” agreed Aragorn.

He was saved from further conversation as the other men entered the council hall and took their places at the table.

Faramir came in last, as always heavily burdened by scrolls, maps and other documents. He showed no sign of being as exhausted as he probably was, even though he did look tired. Aragorn managed to hide his smile as he remembered how his lover had groaned when the rays of sunlight no longer could be ignored as morning inevitably had proceeded.

His Steward dropped everything he carried on the table in a most unceremonious way, and slumped into an empty chair at the far end. Aragorn watched him intently, but he told himself he was allowed to do that. This man was his part of his staff after all.

Put like that, it is both horrible and exciting what we have done.

“My lord?”

Aragorn met Faramir’s inquiring gaze with a puzzled look. He had no idea what he was being questioned about.

“My, lord,” Faramir repeated, “everyone is here, shall we begin?”

Aragorn inclined his head. “Yes,” he said, not feeling very eloquent.

Faramir spread the various maps over the wooden surface and immediately everyone began poring over them.

“Somewhere here,” Forn tapped the map with a forefinger, “is a small settlement that may have to be seen to even before this winter has ended. There are a few families there, living off what the earth can give them but no more than that. If we want them to survive, we had better make sure they are alive to begin with.”

Aragorn sighed inwardly, already tired of this. ‘We’ in this case meant ‘you’ as in ‘the King’ or alternatively his men. Of course he did not desire people to die, and as he had pointed out on several occasions, these men of his – Rangers and soldiers – had roamed the lands for weeks, doing what they could.

Forn kept on talking and Aragorn found it hard to concentrate. His eyes started to wander about the room and very soon came to rest on Faramir.

The man was bent over the table, appearing to be studying the map before him, but by the way his fingers absentmindedly toyed with the corner of one of the documents, Aragorn could tell he also had some problems focusing. His copper locks fell around his face, letting anyone who cared to take a closer look know that he had not been particularly interested in his looks that morning. There were faint, dark circles under his eyes.

Aragorn watched as Faramir raised a hand to support his head while he continued to blankly stare at the papers before him. His movements were slow as if he had little energy to spare. He sat unmoving and no words escaped him.

There was an expression of nothingness in his features. He appeared emptied of most emotions, and that stirred an uncomfortable feeling within Aragorn. As he watched, the shadows under Faramir’s eyes seemed to deepen and take over his whole face. The shades mingled efficiently with the growing uneasy sensation in Aragorn’s stomach, gaining ground as they quickly grew in power together.

There was a slight pressure on his chest now; Aragorn was lost to this dreaded, unwelcome feeling. He could not tear his eyes away. Faramir’s lips were pale, his normally lightly coloured lashes suddenly contrasted sharply against the ashen skin. A heavy weight settled on Aragorn’s mind and forced his heart to open up to very unsettling possibilities.

In a floating motion the young man tilted his head and Aragorn spotted more of those shadows and ghostly marks. Faramir’s unseeing eyes met his King’s and ever so slowly a smile spread across his lips.

Aragorn could see the twinkle in those beautiful eyes. He took in the strands of gleaming red in his hair. He saw how the pale cheeks that had lived without proper sunlight for days were tinted with a rosy hue.

It became easier to breathe as his awareness narrowed and that smile enwrapped him – the smile that was just for him. And Aragorn smiled back, poured every ounce of love in his body into it, sending his affections across the table for Faramir to take as much as he liked. Forgetting about roads and barns, trees and huts, images of last night danced before Aragorn’s eyes.

They were both breathing heavily, and for a long time that was the only thing Aragorn heard. The fire could have blazed brightly, spread across the room and set every panel and curtain on fire, but he would not have noticed. Finally, Faramir had collapsed against him, despite his vow not to hurt the King.

Aragorn slowly opened his eyes to the sight of Faramir’s sweat covered hair. He breathed in the tantalising scent of lovemaking as his shoulders gradually stopped heaving.

Faramir sighed deeply and in the lowest voice possible, he whispered, “I love you.”

“I highly dislike this!”

Aestor had placed his hands on the oaken surface and was surveying the assembled men with a discontent glare.

Aragorn blinked. Colour rushed into Faramir’s cheeks, his smile faded and he quickly pulled himself upright. Not that Aragorn minded really, but this was perhaps not the best way to tell his subjects that they would not be seeing a Queen by his side in the near future. Or ever, if he had any say in it.

“It is so frustrating,” Aestor continued, “to know everything but not being able to anything about it!” He swept his arm over the documents on the table.

“Yes,” Deren said in a slow, contemplating voice. “So it seems. However, problems are meant to be solved, is it not so?”

“I suppose,” grumbled Aestor.

Aragorn only listened with half a mind. Realization had just dawned upon him that, at some point – if by the grace of the Valar things stayed this wonderful – he would have to make his choice of partner official. The question was: how would his people react? And even more importantly: how would Faramir react?

Because he wanted it to be official. No way was he going to sneak around in his own home, hiding in dark corners late at night on his way to his lover. Nor did he want Faramir to do the same. There would be no stolen kisses, abruptly broken as somebody walked into the room. He wanted to be able to walk through the corridors of this place, proud and tall, with his chosen love by his side.

So far, three people knew: the Healer and the two servants. No, make that four, Aragorn thought, a resentful sensation in his breast, Deren knew as well.

No, he would waste no energy on that man. Instead he imagined how it would be like if every future night was spent in the same way as had been the previous. Yesterday, they had hid from no one.

They were standing face to face just inside the still closed door. The fire was almost extinguished and the gleaming embers offered very little light. They had pulled on the necessary tunics, leggings and boots, but without bothering to clean themselves up first; the skin on Aragorn’s stomach was sticky from Faramir’s seed. Now they were about to leave this haven.

Aragorn moved closer, placing a hand underneath his lover’s chin. He caught the glimmer in the other man’s eyes and smiled.

“I love you.”

Faramir kissed him then.

Had Aragorn been strong enough, he would have taken Faramir by the arm and dashed through the hallways to his bedchamber. Now it was not so. Instead, he gratefully leaned against the stronger man and allowed him to lead him towards the royal chambers.

As they walked, he felt Faramir’s arm encircle his waist underneath his tunic.

“I miss you,” he explained hoarsely.

“Almost there,” Aragorn nodded towards the door that had appeared in the shadows further down the hall, sparks shooting through his body.

“I really miss you,” Faramir complained, his hand now tugging at Aragorn’s waistband.

They did not make it to the door. Aragorn turned on his heel, and pushed his lover against the wall.

“I want you,” he stated before his tongue plundered his lover’s mouth.

No, they did not make it to the door, not at once.

An icy chill swept through the council hall and startled Aragorn out of his reverie. He wrapped the blanket more firmly around his legs, wishing he had a second one to drape around his shoulders. His headache had almost disappeared, but instead the straining muscles in his back had begun to make themselves known.

The others were still talking; Aragorn was glad that he was basically only needed to agree on, or refuse, whichever ideas and plans arose. Had matters been different, he would have been more engaged he told himself, but they had already been through all of this a thousand times already. It seemed that his mere presence was enough and hopefully the same went for Faramir.

He shivered and rubbed his palms against each other. His actions did not go unnoticed.

“My lord?” Faramir had worry written all over his face. “Are you cold?”

The conversation died down a little around them as Aragorn felt several pairs of eyes fall upon him.

“I am, a little,” he admitted, suddenly feeling like a miserable old man, one who could nor concentrate, nor keep himself warm.

Faramir quickly rose to his feet. “I will stir the fire.”

He did more than that. He added more wood to the flames and ordered the servants to bring them all some mulled wine, not containing much alcohol but spices enough to energise you.

Meanwhile, the guests resumed their debate for which Aragorn was rather thankful. Returning to the table, Faramir stopped by Aragorn’s side and after briefly hesitating – his emotions clearly playing in his eyes – he placed a hand on the King’s shoulder.

Aragorn looked up into his eyes and met his gaze, Faramir asked quietly:

“You alright?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Faramir only raised an eyebrow.

“Tired,” Aragorn confessed, with a small, cautious smile.

“End this madness?”

“Please.”

“I will see what I can do.” The other man made a face, a grimace that lasted only a second, but managed to convey exactly what he thought of the council so far.

They fell silent. Faramir bit his lip. Aragorn swallowed.

Reluctantly, the hand was lifted from his shoulder. He felt the loss of the touch carry through his entire body. The room was cold once more.

The heated wine was brought to them and Aragorn gratefully wrapped his fingers around his jug. He drank slowly as his mind drifted off again.

They lay buried underneath several heavy layers of blankets and quilts. Faramir’s naked body was pressed against his own equally unshielded one, and their breathing had begun to calm down. Sated and drowsy they lay, on the very edge of sleep, but not wanting to let go just yet.

“That was brilliant,” Aragorn smiled into his lover’s messed-up hair.

“Mmm… had to be, after the way you molested me in the hallway.”

“You liked it, I could tell.”

“Perhaps.” Faramir carefully turned to face him, mindful to not disturb the King’s comfortable position. “You may do it again.”

Aragorn kissed him on his forehead. “I will remember that.”

He closed his eyes and was about to give in to the night when Faramir’s sleepy voice came to him:

“Do you know what the funny thing is?”

“No?”

“I actually like snow.”

Snow.

“Gentlemen.” Faramir was standing up behind the table again. “I believe we have reached the end of our discussions. Minas Tirith will make sure that all we have settled on is seen to. Have faith that this winter gives way to spring and new life very soon.”

He could not have put it clearer. The gathered men looked around the room as if they had at long last awakened from a deep trance.

“Rest assured you still,” Faramir glanced over at Aragorn who gave a curt nod, “remain our guests while this weather persists.” With that, he began gathering up the vast amounts of documents.

It may have been somewhat harshly done, but Aragorn was so thankful he did not care.

As his guests began filing out, he ungracefully stood. Bringing with him his burden, Faramir came over to him.

“I need to return these to the library,” he said. “I do not like to ask, but can you manage on your own?” There was a hint of concern in his face.

“I will take it slow,” Aragorn told him. He would have preferred it if he had his Steward’s arm to lean on, but he was not altogether helpless.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, go! See you at dinner?”

“Dinner,” Faramir agreed. “Be careful.”

“Always.” He smiled. “Dinner then. And afterwards?”

A sly smile spread across the face before him. “Definitely afterwards.”

“Good, off you are then!” He made a shooing gesture with his hand, and watched Faramir disappear through the door.

He left the council hall himself in the slow pace he had promised. The many hours spent sitting down had taken their toll on his back, and after only a short while he had to stop for a rest.

He stood near one of the doors that lead to the gardens, leaning against a windowsill and looking out on the snow that covered the grounds completely. The bushes and shrubs looked like giant snowballs, almost no twigs visible.

Snow.

Was it possible he had stayed indoors for so long he even missed the snow on his face?

He knew he was not dressed for it, but he only meant to breathe some of the outside air. The door proved difficult to open, but after some persuasion it creaked open and a fresh wind met his cheeks.

Aragorn closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. Freezing air filled his lungs and he felt an urge to laugh. Despite the cold, there were traces of life and energy in this wind – some notion of the world that lay beyond these confining walls.

He was so focused on this new feeling that he did not hear the footfall behind him. Therefore, the hard blow that struck the back of his head, took him by complete surprise. Before he could react, he lost himself to darkness.

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