Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 16 – Watching

Why do we not let go? Simply let go. Why do we not let our fingertips slide off the edge, gently one by one, fall from the frail structure that upholds us, that is life? Is it hope and faith? Are we filled with hope – hopeful – that, as they say, ‘this too shall pass’ and we may step out into a new world that promises to carry us to blissful completion? Are we filled with faith? Trusting whatever powers, or people, we fancy to bring us through the hard times?

But what is it to be faithful? If faithfulness exists only in our relationships with other beings, be they human or not, what do we do when we are – alone?

Can you hear me?

His eyes were closed.

Faramir fell back in the chair they had provided for him. He sat by his side and watched. He registered every rise and fall of Aragorn’s chest and he fought to stay awake, the lack of sleep becoming more and more evident as time passed.

They had forced him to change clothes, getting rid of his soaked boots and leggings, and replacing them with dry ones. They had made him drink some soup, so hot it had burnt his insides to ashes. His coughing and watering eyes were the first reactions not directly related to Aragorn’s condition they had gotten out of him. But by now, his world had narrowed down once more to include only the King or anyone who might give him information on his state.

Initially, Faramir had wanted to set the room afire to warm Aragorn’s frozen body, but the healer who had brought him here had gently, but firmly, explained to him that that was not how things worked. One small fire was meticulously tended to and kept the temperature in the room on a level no higher than one’s average body temperature. Faramir was not convinced, but there really was nothing he could do.

Outside, the nimble fingers of dawn toyed with the sky in the east, painting bright red streaks across the horizon, and randomly underlining them with a rosy tint. A few yawning stars were still showing in the western sky, but they were eager to dim into the light of day, finding some sleep after the long night.

As the light of dawn drew closer to Minas Tirith, the minutes dragged on, turning into half-hours, becoming complete hours. Faramir watched. As the deathly white shade that held Aragorn’s skin ever so slowly gave way, angry red patches appeared on his cheeks, his forehead and even his ears. Faramir wanted nothing more than to stroke them away with a careful hand, but he was firmly told not to touch. He complied.

Sometime later, the healer Faramir had begun to recognise as a genuinely caring person entered the room and walked over to where Aragorn was lying on the bed. After a long, searching glance at Faramir – probably to make sure he was behaving or had not passed out – he carefully lifted the covers concealing the King’s body and looked underneath.

From his place opposite him, Faramir could not see what he was doing but the healer appeared sufficiently pleased at what he saw – at least there was no new frown on his face. The Steward observed him intently, not sure what to expect or dread. He knew nothing at all and it ate away at him, little by little. Silence hung heavily in the air around them.

The healer replaced the blankets, circled the bed and pulled up a chair next to Faramir. Fixing the Steward with a firm gaze, he began speaking.

“The King suffers as you can plainly see from his exposure to the cold, although not as severely as I first imagined. The cold clawed at his skin cruelly, as you can see, but with some luck it will heal properly and leave no more than a few faint scars.” He paused, checking that Faramir understood his words.

The Steward nodded.

“Eventually, as he regains his regular body temperature he should wake up. The process cannot, indeed must not, be rushed.” These words he emphasised strongly, drawing another nod from Faramir.

“This process is not a pretty one,” the healer warned him. “Blood will once more begin to flow freely in his veins but it brings with it great pain. Once we are sure he will be fine though, we can give him something to ease it with.”

Faramir nodded, and nodded.

“Now, as for his legs… It seems to me that the hurt they have been exposed to was…” another pause, a longer one, “…intentional.”

He stopped nodding. Fighting for words, he only succeeded at repeating what he had heard. “Intentional?”

There was now a grave look on the healer’s face and it was he who inclined his head this time. “Yes, so it seems. I would say, from what I have seen, that the King was dragged across the snow, most likely so by someone who held him by his ankles. There is also an angry mark on the back of his head, suggesting he did not willingly venture outside.”

Faramir felt sick. This time, however, it blended with anger. Staggering to his feet, he did not know where to turn. “Someone tried to kill him!” he cried out, intending it as a question but, suspecting he already knew the answer, it came out as more of a statement.

The healer held up a hand, meaning to calm him down. “This is merely my opinion. We will know more when the King awakens.”

Faramir slumped back into the chair, his mind reeling. Who would want to hurt their King, much less see him dead? The War was over, no new threat had arisen… The Orcs were almost all gathered up. Saruman dead. Sauron defeated. This was a time of peace and budding prosperity.

Besides, the weather surely made it impossible for anyone to even enter the City – the palace? What had happened? The King was well guarded, even though security had been somewhat relaxed as peace reigned.

There, he was back where he started.

Waiting. This constant, hateful waiting was the key to solving this dreadful mystery.

He turned his eyes to Aragorn. A little more colour had returned to his skin but he showed no signs of waking yet. With a long sigh, Faramir forced himself to calm down as he was obviously wished to do.

Then he realised what the healer had not told him. His heart sank in his chest.

“How much damage has been done to his legs?” The question came out as a whisper.

“Truthfully, I do not know. We must wait and see.”

So waited they did.

The light of dawn had not been expecting anything in particular as it climbed the towers of the White City. Mostly it had been contemplating the oncoming spring, making plans for what to do, and who to wake up in which way as the days grew longer. Not that much had happened yet, but there were rumours in the south of warmer winds. The light of dawn danced around excitedly at this as it went in search for the King.

He was not in his chambers, his bed stood undisturbed. The light of dawn peered inside but saw no sign of him. Throwing in the necessary amount of brightness through the window-glass, the light sped towards the Steward’s bedroom. It smiled to itself at this turn of events, but figured that Men appreciated some variety.

Utterly confused, the light regarded the empty and equally untouched bed. This was very strange. It illuminated the room swiftly and continued the search for the two lovers.

It took some time until it found them and what it saw then, shook every glint and sparkle in the sky. The light of dawn stared, horrified, down upon the two humans. The King, its beloved King, lay sleeping in a bed in the healing quarters looking as pale as the snow piled up on the streets below. The Steward had collapsed beside him, seated in a chair, but with his head resting on the bed, close to where Aragorn’s hip must be, but not touching.

Breaking free from the temporary numbness that held it, the light of dawn did two things. First, it gently slipped inside, enveloping the men in a warm embrace, making the air shimmer about them. Then, it made a promise to deal severely with whoever had hurt its King and his lover.

A weak mumbling woke Faramir from his sleep. The day had progressed and the room was now bathing in a wintry sunshine. The fire was still burning but the healers had all left them for now.

Connecting the sound to the situation, Faramir turned so quickly to Aragorn that his head spun. Watching his lover’s eyelids flutter, he held his breath, silently praying to every god and goddess he had ever heard of.

Thousands of years passed and then slowly, slowly Aragorn opened his eyes. Adjusting to the strong light around him, he blinked. Then a ripple crossed his features and with a pained groan and a sharp intake of breath, he thrust them shut once more. His chest heaved and sweat collected on his forehead.

Faramir called out, knowing not which words he chose, only needing someone to come to them.

When the healers stopped swarming around them, Aragorn seemed more at ease despite his still heavy breathing. Faramir had unceremoniously been pushed aside but now he approached the bed once more.

“Aragorn,” he whispered.

A new wave of life passed over the King’s face, but this time it was not accompanied by a stab of pain.

“Aragorn?” Hardly daring to hope, he stood as close to the bed he could without disturbing it.

How could he explain the joy that washed over him as the faintest of smiles ghosted across his lover’s lips?

“I cannot touch you,” he began, for some reason needing to explain why he had not already thrown himself at the King, “but I am here…”

The smile deepened ever so lightly. A movement drew Faramir’s attention and with what must have been an enormous effort, Aragorn slid his hand out from underneath the covers. The skin was tinted with flaming red. Feeling tears well up in his eyes, Faramir shook his head blindly.

“I cannot touch you,” he said in a voice threatening to break, “they will not allow it.” He lifted the blankets and hid the hand once more.

“But I am here.”

Blinking through his tears he saw the smile weaken but to his relief it did not disappear completely.

It was mid-afternoon. Aragorn had spent the last hours in a fitful sleep, unmoving but for recurrent tremors shaking his body. Now, the shaking gradually subsided and he once more began to surface. His head fell to the side and a slight frown crossed and settled on his brow. Lips that had regained almost their full colour seemed to begin forming a word, but failed and stilled.

Faramir watched all of this, just as he had seen every tremor and heard every breath his lover had drawn since he drifted back to sleep. Faramir leaned forward in his chair and fighting the urge to brush away a dark strand of hair from Aragorn’s temple he called out softly, “Welcome back.”

The frown faded away and left the King’s features calm and peaceful.

“I still cannot touch you,” Faramir whispered regretfully, frustration lacing his voice.

Aragorn’s lips moved again and this time he managed a hoarse sound.

“No,” said Faramir, “speak not.”

But the older man was persistent and as his Steward patiently waited, the King managed the first words he had spoken since last night.

They were barely distinguishable, nearly swallowed by breathing and there were only two of them, but to Faramir they were everything.

“Love you.”

With tears yet again streaming down his face, Faramir desperately wished he could crawl into the bed and feel Aragorn’s arms around him, holding him securely. Or it would be he who held the King. He wished for a face free to touch, free to kiss and caress. He wished for a body to mould perfectly against. He wished for words to be spoken, looks exchanged and breaths to mingle.

Instead he remained in his seat, furiously brushing away the wet streaks form his cheeks.

“I love you too, Aragorn.” He choked out the words. “I love you so much! When I found you, I thought… When I found you… Gods… I found you.”

Unable to fight the emotions, he broke down and cried as he had not done for many years. His hands lifted, they hovered above his lover’s hair as if he somehow might be able to feel it anyway.

“Do not leave,” he whispered, “do not leave me, Aragorn.”

That was when he saw it: the tear that slid down the King’s reddened cheek from behind his closed eyelids, leaving a glistening trail behind.

He wanted to kiss it away, wanted frantically to touch anything – any part of Aragorn that was allowed. There was none.

A movement in the doorway caused him to look up. Rubbing his face with the back of his hand, the young man saw the healer standing in the doorway, holding up a pillow. Faramir was too exhausted to care about what he might have heard or seen. Upon crossing the room, the healer silently handed Faramir the light burden and then, while murmuring to Aragorn, he carefully pulled his pillow further away from the Steward, making room on the bed for one more head.

Gratefully, Faramir placed his own pillow beside Aragorn’s and while he was still seated he could at least face his lover. He pushed his chair closer and angled it as best he could.

“I must ask you not to touch him.” The healer repeated softly, his eyes compassionate.

After seeing to the fire, he left the room with a small, kind smile.

Faramir placed his head on the pillow. It was not too comfortable, but his body had no say in this. His heart was the supreme judge.

Aragorn’s eyes were still closed but there were no more tears.

“I…” Faramir began, wanting to say so much, but not knowing where to begin.

Raspy words then slipped past Aragorn’s lips:

“Not leaving.”

And somehow that was all that was needed to be said.

As the King slipped back to sleep, Faramir sat watching.

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