Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Thank you for waiting patiently! Here is the next chapter. Many of you would like to see some happiness. Will there be some? Read on!

Chapter 17 — Deciding

Evening came and melted into night. Somewhere along the line, Faramir lost track of the hours, slipping in and out of sleep, still seated but with his head on the bed. He was vaguely aware of his aching back but pushed the sensation aside repeatedly. As the deeper and darker midnight approached, he gave up and pulled back his head, trying to find a more comfortable position in his chair.

The room lay in shadow, lit only by the faint glow of the embers in the fire-place, but filled with the steady rhythm of Aragorn’s breathing. This was the only thing that kept Faramir from seeking out his own bed: the fact that the King was breathing, that he was here and alive. Faramir was not going to leave for anything. Ignoring his body’s complaints, he drifted back into a shallow slumber.

Night waxed and waned, and finally recoiled as a greenish-yellow dawn grew in the east. The palace awoke gradually; small movements spread throughout the chambers and corridors. The first clank _of a pot on the stove in the downstairs-kitchens mingled with the _screech of an unwilling window on the second floor opening to let in some fresh air.

Faramir tossed and turned in his seat’s confining space, knowing even before he woke up properly that he would have a sore back and stiff legs. Blinking in the morning light that managed to penetrate the drawn curtains, he felt in no way refreshed. He rubbed a hand over his face and tugged at the collar of his shirt. None of these actions particularly helped to revive him.

He had been standing by the fire-place dwelling on nothing and everything for a while when a violent coughing shook the stillness. Aragorn had been sleeping peacefully for the past half-hour but now he was shaking in his bed, fighting to bring his arms up from underneath the blankets to cover his face. Raspy, dry noises erupted all around them as the King struggled for air. Rushing to his side, Faramir threw away every word of caution the healer had sent his way, and he grabbed Aragorn by the shoulders to hold him upright as he coughed like what seemed to be his lungs out.

Soothing words neither of them paid heed to escaped Faraimr’s lips as alarm hit him hard and seized his heart with ice-cold claws. Every breath Aragorn drew was aggressively beaten down by his own body, forcing the air out of him as soon as it had entered. No one came to their aid.

The King was shaking in his arms, sweat collecting on his brow, eyes wide with pain. He was clutching at Faramir, forcing him to stay when the Steward would have run for help. It was when the coughing finally died down, that he realized he could have called out.

Exhausted and yet in agitation, Aragorn sank back on the bed, still firmly gripping Faramir’s arms and hands.

“I will get help, Aragorn… Lie down, there… easy… I will get help. Wait… lie down…”

The King refused to let him go, shaking his head and still staring widely.

“Please, let me go, Aragorn…” Faramir tried to break free from the vice-like embrace but without success. “You need help, please… love?” He tried that last word, so foreign on his tongue despite what had been said amongst tears yesterday.

Aragorn caught his eyes and fixed them with a stormy stare. A whirlwind of mingled sensations, pain and release, fear and relief, could be sighted in them. Faramir leaned down closer.

“Love?” he said again. “Please?”

The grip loosened a little and Aragorn’s breathing evened out slightly. Determinedly Faramir pulled one hand free and brought it to the dark tangled tresses. Slowly he began stroking them, soothing once more. As a sort of compromise, he let the King hold on to his other arm tightly.

“There…” he whispered, “sshh… all is well now… there…”

He stroked and stroked, let Aragorn breathe and calm down. Let himself breathe and calm down.

“Love…” he said softly. A small smile appeared on the older man’s lips.

“Love,” he repeated, watching the smile deepen. “Love, love, love” he chanted as if he tried the word out, all the time seeing that beautiful smile grow.

“I wish I could kiss you,” he whispered, feeling a blush steal over his face and so he looked away.

The hold on his arm loosened even more and then he felt a hand tenderly stroking him instead. A thumb traced small circles on his cloth-covered arm, comforting him now. Raising his eyes to Aragorn’s face he saw that the man was finally relaxed and the frantic look gradually replaced by the first signs of an inner stillness.

“Missed you,” Faramir said with colour still tinting his cheeks.

His King abandoned the movements and carefully brought his hand to his mouth. He placed a soft kiss on his own fingers, and then slowly lifting them to Faramir’s lips, he spread the kiss upon the sensitive skin.

Gingerly Faramir accepted his gift, hardly daring to move beneath the touch but all the while gazing into the eyes of the man he loved.

And who loved him.

He saw that now, and wondered why his heart had not truly seen it before.

His love’s hand fell back onto the covers and for a while they sat and lay in silence watching the brightness of day weave patterns of light on the walls, taking advantage of every crack between the curtains it could find.

“Do you know who did this to you?” Faramir said at last. He was beginning to come back to life as he felt the first, rather commanding, pangs of hunger pound his empty stomach.

Aragorn shook his head.

“I guessed as much,” Faramir sighed. “For you did not go into the gardens by choice?”

The face his lover made nearly made him laugh despite the circumstances. He held up a hand. “Alright!” he said, “message conveyed. This is serious though, if there is a threat to your life…” He trailed off, not wanting to word his thoughts.

Aragorn grasped for his hand and Faramir gave in. He could not deny his King this limited physical contact if he desired it.

“I will find whoever did this,” Faramir vowed as he felt the warm fingers cover his own. “I thought you would never be warm again…” Collecting himself, he drew a long breath. “I should commence the inquiries, and I am in need of some food as well… I will get the healer to see you.”

“I hate to leave you,” he added in a lower voice.

His hand was given a small squeeze but it was accompanied by a yawn from the King.

“But I see you need some rest,” Faramir smiled. “I will return later.”

Reluctantly, he rose and felt his hand slip out of the comforting cavern it had been resting in.

“I love you,” he mumbled as he made ready to leave, but turning his gaze to Aragorn, he saw the older man was already asleep.

His men were efficient and competent, and a couple of direct orders later, Faramir had five trusted ex-rangers taking care of the inquiries for him. Every one within the walls of the palace was to be questioned about their whereabouts the night before, that was everyone, no – absolutely no – exceptions. He would let question the whole City if he had to. He had chosen these men for two reasons. Firstly, they were uncompromising and incorruptible, traits that might come in handy should the situation arise. Secondly, they were not Faramir. The Steward, if he were to be completely honest with himself, was afraid he might affect the investigation, having feelings for the King that went beyond friendship solely.

Making his way to the kitchens to find something to quench his hunger with, he pondered this. What happened when all was resolved, and they ware suddenly faced with a future consisting of nothing else but vague promises and unspoken wishes?

Aragorn was King. King. He would want heirs. Heirs, being the one thing Faramir could not give him no matter how deeply he may want to.

A King… with a Steward?

The fact that this particular Steward had been made Prince following the coronation ceremony last summer did not lighten his heart.

What on earth awaited him after this?

Through the kitchen doors drifted the clamour of pots and pans being washed or hung above the fires. Carefully he pushed the door open and peered inside. The difference to the Healing Wing could not have been more distinct. Here were people rushing about, calling to each other over the clatter and clanks of plates and knives. Steam was rising from various great cauldrons along one wall and the smell of herbs and spices drifted through the stuffy air. He stepped inside, not feeling as out of place as one might think. The noise was a relief, setting his mind on a different track and scaring off the persistent worries regarding his future.

Somebody spotted him and waved him over. With a smile on his face he wound his way through the commotion, to finally be wrapped in a warm embrace by a sturdy elderly woman equipped with a huge wooden ladle and dressed in a spotless white apron.

“Faramir!” the woman beamed at him after letting him go. “I have not seen you down here for ages,” she chided him, waving the ladle before his face.

“Spare me!” He avoided the wooden weapon skilfully. “I am sorry,” he offered, sending her a new smile.

“I should dearly hope so!” the woman exclaimed, placing her hands on her hips and surveying him. “Something is wrong, laddie, I can plainly see that,” she added in a concerned tone, her brown eyes penetrating his mind.

Faramir ran a hand through his hair. Of course, he had expected this. Mòrag knew how to read him by now, it would be strange if she did not. After all, he had sped down to the kitchens as a small boy, taking every chance he got to escape his father and his displeased stares.

“I see it, son,” she repeated, preparing to assail him with the ladle again lest he did not enlighten her.

“I have two things to ask of you,” he hurried to say, steering her away from the others, even though it was unlikely they would be overheard.

“Anything, laddie.”

“Good. I need you to pick up on any gossip around.” His eyes flew around the room. “There is a threat to the King’s life… He was attacked last night by someone… and left outside.” He swallowed. The image of a frozen Aragorn buried in the snow would haunt him for a long time.

Mòrag’s jovial look was erased from her features as she listened to him. When he finished there was a serious frown on her face and her lips had thinned, almost to one single line. “The King attacked?!” she hissed, searching him for any more information.

He only nodded briskly. “I do not know by whom or why, but inquiries have begun. It is to be done as discreetly as possible. I do not wish for havoc straight away.”

“I will keep my mouth shut, but my eyes open!” Mòrag promised him. “Imagine that! Oh, If I get my hands on the bastard…” she hit the ladle forcefully against an innocent bench.

“Thank you,” Faramir said, and meaning it.

“And your second question?” She turned back to him, most likely refraining from giving air to the string of curses ready to leave her tongue.

“Oh, well… I do not wish to eat with the others… Could you find me something perhaps?”

For a few moments she beheld him in silence. Then a twinkling light crept into her eyes. “Can he eat?”

Confused, Faramir blinked. “Can who eat?”

“The King,” she clarified, raising an eyebrow. “Can he eat?”

“I do not know… I have not seen… he has been sleeping.” A flush broke out on his cheeks. “A lot,” he added.

“Ah,” she grinned unsettlingly, “I see. He needs some nourishment, I am sure. You wait here, son, and I will be right back.” With a wink, she left his side and pushed her way through the crowded kitchen.

It took her only a few minutes to find a tray and load it with plates and bowls, all of them covered by lids. The tantalising scents which arose from beneath them inspired Faramir’s stomach to a joyful dance.

“Here you are now,” she said contentedly, handing it over. “Bring it to him and make sure he eats at least some of it. The rest is for you,” she teased him as his stomach ended its dancing with a loud rumble.

Faramir could not thank her enough, but she waved his words away with a hand. “No need dear. Glad to be of service!”

“And I will let you know if I hear anything,” she added in a lower voice as she escorted him towards the doors and held one open for him.

“Thank you,” Faramir said once more, as he stepped through. “I am very grateful for your help.”

She sighed and stilled. “I wish to see you happy, my little one. You deserve it.”

He looked down, his gaze settling on the steam rising from the tray.

“Does he make you happy, Faramir?”

He nodded and swallowed yet again, momentarily unable to speak.

“You have been waiting a long time for this, I know,” she murmured. “Yes, I know,” she continued as he frowned. “I know, dearest, I know.” Mòrag lifted a hand and stroked his cheek once before she let him go. “Off you are now.”

Faramir lifted his gaze enough to see her kind face tinted with the shadows of sadness and concern. He tried a pale smile and then turned back towards the Healing Wing.

The Healing Wing was calm and peaceful, strangely devoid of any smells or scents. From the tray he carried the steady stream of steam still flowed. On approaching Aragorn’s door, he set down his burden on a small table beside the wall. If the King was not allowed to eat, Faramir suspected he could down all this food in one mouthful. However, that was not the idea.

Carefully opening the door, he looked inside. The curtains were pulled back and the full light of day entered through the windows. In his bed, Aragorn was awake and supported by several large pillows, mounted behind his back. The blond healer was sitting on a stool beside him, speaking softly and pointing to some parchments he was holding.

For some reason, to Faramir it felt like intruding on a private moment and he was about retreat from the doorway when the healer turned around and Aragorn looked up.

The broad smile that crossed the King’s face as he noticed his Steward was enough to wipe the healer’s words out of his system as soon as Faramir registered that he was speaking.

The skin on Aragorn’s face was covered by a thin sheen of salve that reflected the daylight. The red marks seemed to have calmed down somewhat. Faramir crossed the floor, forgetting the tray outside.

“You are awake,” he said softly, stating the obvious. Coming close to the bedside, he was lost in the grey depths that caught him.

“I am,” said Aragorn with his head resting on the pillows.

“And you are speaking?”

“That too. Do you not approve?”

“Of course I approve!” he had time to hastily state, before he saw the amused look before him. “Oh…”

“Hey…” Aragorn spoke softly, reaching out for him.

Faramir shot a glance at the newly-remembered healer sitting not two feet away from him.

“I cannot prevent it, can I?” The healer gave a mock-sigh, but he did not look angry. “But take care. It is better if your hand is held by the King’s than the other way around.”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably at the words, not at all used to this open display of emotion. He would never refuse Aragorn though and despite his nervousness, he was happy to feel the other man’s fingers closing around his hand.

“We were discussing treatments,” Aragorn informed him, inclining his head to the parchments.

“As the King is a skilled healer himself, I found it appropriate to go over this with him,” the healer said. “Now, we have some different options to consider, but it depends on the weather as well. Should this winter come to an end sometime we can have herbs brought to us from Rivendell. They would no doubt do us good.”

Aragorn inhaled deeply and turned back to his Steward. “Love,” he began, “my legs…”

Faramir’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?” he asked breathlessly.

“My legs were injured last night. Further,” he sighed. Pain, emotional rather than physical, was evident in his eyes. “I will be able to walk, but it will take some strength and patience. And the distances will be shorter…” He ended quietly, turning away.

The healer rose from the stool and moved away from them tactfully.

“So,” Aragorn continued slowly, “I understand I you do not want… me.”

The hold on his hand slackened and Faramir saw the dark void opening up before them.

It took nothing at all to close it.

It took only a determined heart. Something he did have this time.

“I want you, no matter what,” he whispered. “I love you.”

Aragorn looked up and there were tears filling his eyes.

“Never say that again,” Faramir told him. “Never.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am,” he nodded, using Aragorn’s wording from before.

As the first tear spilled down his lover’s cheek, Faramir leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his hair. The grip on his hand strengthened and he squeezed back as much as he dared.

“I love you, Faramir.” Aragorn’s voice was unsteady but clear.

Straightening his back, the Steward took yet another step to make sure darkness be banned from his life. “Shall we leave all this doubt behind us?” he suggested. Any other day he would say it was a risk opening up like this, but now it was a required one.

“I would be happy to,” smiled Aragorn through his tears. “Very happy.”

“I wish I could kiss you.”

“So do I.”

Faramir smiled back, the knowledge that his man was finally his beginning to lighten his heart. However, there were some things left say.

“I thought last night that you did not want to see me… that was why you never showed up.” he admitted, feeling utterly stupid now that he knew the real reason for why Aragorn had been missing.

“I would never leave you if I had a say in it.”

Faramir’s neglected stomach gave a loud, annoyed rumble.

“Very romantic!” Aragorn laughed.

“I brought food!” Faramir exclaimed as if he had forgotten to lock the gates to the very City at night. “Now it has probably gone cold,” he mourned dismally as Aragorn continued laughing.

A hand on his shoulder made him look up.

“I expect I will find it outside?” The healer smiled fatherly at him. “I will heat it up for you. Do not engage in anything while I am gone and cannot keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you,” Faramir settled for, not sure how to respond.

He sunk down on the stool and placed his head on the bed. Aragorn’s hand landed on his hair and began stroking it.

“So the circle closes,” the King mused. “I cannot wait to get out of here and have you all to myself, without supervision.”

“I would like that.”

They had been sitting in silence for a while when the healer returned with the tray, the pots smoking once more.

“I bring something else too,” he announced. “Or rather someone.”

“My lord,” a deep voice spoke up from the doorway.

Faramir flew up from his seat and watched as one of the rangers he had appointed the task of investigating the attack walked into the room.

“Eachann?” he asked. “Any news?”

The tall, broad-shouldered man wore a grim face.

“Trouble, Captain.”

So tell me, how do want to see this played out? If I don’t see you before next Friday, have a great Halloween and – if you happen to walk that path – a blessed Samhain!

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