Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

So, have you been eagerly awaiting this instalment? What if it all consists of weird ramblings and a full report on my grocery lists from August to mid-October? Oh, wouldn’t you be disappointed! :D One never knows… only one way to find out… Long chapter ahead! (I did have a lot a groceries to pick up in September… )

Chapter 18 – Accusing

“Trouble, Captain.”

Faramir eyed the large man in the doorway intently. For one so frank and brutal a man – Eachann’s hand stayed forever close to the hilt of his sword and would wield it more often than not –, he did look utterly uncomfortable and nervous.

“Trouble? What trouble?”

“I am not sure, sir.”

“You are not sure?”

Frowning, Faramir stepped up closer but he did not miss the quick glance his ranger threw across the room.

“How is the King?”

“The King will be fine,” Faramir answered warily, not at all liking the way in which this man was shifting his weight from one foot to the other. This was most unlike him and it caused a disconcerting feeling to grow within the Steward.

“Good,” said Eachann and turned his eyes away.

“Yes, good,” said Faramir slowly. “Outside.”

Eachann turned on his heel immediately, trained as he was to heed his orders, and stepped outside into the hallway. Faramir followed him swiftly, looking only at Aragorn as he closed the door behind them. The healer was tending to him and they both appeared once more submersed in the discussion about treatments.

As soon as they were alone he stood to face the other man. “So, what have you to report?”

If he had hoped this seclusion would change Eachann’s strange behaviour, he was wrong. The ranger had been serving Faramir for many years but the Steward had never seen him thus before. If he was a man who knew what it was to fidget with the hem of his tunic, he would do so now.

“So,” Faramir pressed, “tell me.”

“We have found him, sir.”

“You have found him?”

Faramir stared. Then his mind caught up with him. “You found the person responsible for the King’s condition?”

“Yes,” Eachann admitted, but he did so in a reluctant sort of way. “But…”

“But?”

Gondor’s Steward resisted the urge to shake the ranger violently and scream at the top of his lungs. “But what?!” he demanded.

Eachann cleared his throat. “He has a strange story to tell.”

And then, again, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

“Oh, he does, does he?” Faramir snorted, his irritation augmenting. He had not much civility to spare at present. “I presume he denies everything and claims he was far away from Minas Tirith even, two nights ago?”

“No, sir.” Eachann shook his head.

“He confesses?”

“In a way.”

“‘In a way’? What is that supposed to mean?”

“He wants to explain his actions.”

Faramir stared at this former ranger, so reluctant to consider himself anything else – and so unused to calling his Captain ‘Steward’ and roaming palace corridors instead of the forests of Ithilien.

“And he shall,” Faramir agreed, swallowing his anger. “Lead me to him, Eachann and he can explain to me.”

He took one step but was hindered immediately. The ranger slowly lowered his arm, looking slightly embarrassed on top of his already uneasy demeanour. “I am sorry, sir.”

Faramir closed his eyes momentarily and drew a long breath. “What is it?”

“Sir, he wishes to speak. But he says he will only do so in front of the Council.”

The Steward’s eyes flew open. “In front of the whole Council,” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, Captain.”

“But,” Faramir glanced at the closed door, “that includes the King.”

Eachann stood silent before him.

“Certainly we can deal with him without involving the King?”

Aragorn had only just begun recovering, for heaven’s sake! He did not need to partake in a Council meeting that would only drain him of the small amount of energy he had built up during the past hours. Faramir strongly doubted that the King was in the mood to meet the person who had replaced his general condition with a weaker one.

“Sir, I am sorry, sir…”

Faramir turned his back to the ranger. The door leading to the healing chamber hovered before him, tempting him to step through and enter a safe haven, far away from conspiratorial idiots and dangerous individuals threatening his King. But then, if he did not deal with this now, who knew what might happen?

“You have heard this ‘story’ of his?” Faramir asked the door.

“Only parts of it,” Eachann said. “I am not sure I grasped the meaning of it.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “I will alert the King. I trust you can find the other Council members.” He paused. “Bring them here. The King cannot be moved to the hall.”

“Very well, sir.”

“And Eachann,” Faramir turned around to face the ranger, “I will ask you to delay a little. The King needs a couple of hours to eat and rest.” His voice faltered, but he kept his gaze firm.

We need a couple of hours…

“No problem.”

The ranger gave a curt nod and promptly turned on his heel once more. Faramir watched him disappear down the hallway before he pushed open the door and did cross the threshold.

Across the room, the curtains were half-drawn, letting the light inside but still keeping some of it away, so that it would not strain the King’s eyes. The small fire had been tended to and blazed merrily in its place, filling the room with its crackling and wheezing noises. A large mound of pillows and blankets took up two chairs to his right, resting beside a low table laden with bottles, jars and pouches. And, of course, alongside the windows was the bed containing the one man Faramir had not only swore his duty and his allegiance to, but also given his heart and offered his very breath of life.

Aragorn lay back against the pillows, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling steadily. The parts of his skin visible were still covered in salve and looked remarkably irritated. Silently crossing the floor, Faramir realised how little he cared about this; it was not to his King’s appearance he had promised his existence.

The tray he had brought up from the kitchens was placed on the bedside table and looked disturbed. In a good way though, he decided as he lifted a lid and noticed that what he deemed was a pot that had once contained soup, was empty. After pulling up another chair, he examined the other pots and was pleased to find dried meat, a stew made of root vegetables and some bread and cheese. Having absolutely no care for manners, he threw himself at the food, devouring half of it in less than three minutes.

“There is no soup…”

Faramir nearly dropped the bread that was presently holding his full attention. Aragorn had turned his head and was now peering at him through half-lidded eyes. There was a gleam in the grey though, that told the Steward his King was not as tired as he looked.

Chewing, Faramir only managed a shrug and an awkward grimace. Aragorn smiled, clearly quite amused.

“I am sorry, love. I ate it. Forgive me?”

Wondering how he possibly could have taken such a huge bite, Faramir chewed and chewed, doing his very best to swallow.

“Please?” Aragorn’s smile was continuously growing.

Faramir nodded, reaching for a mug he hoped would contain some water.

“I need to hear you say it…” his lover pressed, the light in his eyes dancing.

Finally able to swallow all of the bread, Faramir aimed a mock-slap in Aragorn’s direction, only drawing a soft laugh from him. “Yes!” he declared, watching how the older man was practically beaming. “You are forgiven. Happy now?”

“Aye, very pleased,” Aragorn acknowledged and caught his hand before Faramir had time to slump back into the chair. Carefully he pressed his lips to it. “Most pleased,” he amended.

“Good,” Faramir smiled and reached for the stew again with his other hand.

Aragorn rolled his eyes. “I see I cannot compete with the food.”

“You can. Anytime. Just not. Right now,” Faramir announced between bites. He let the other man hold on to him though, inwardly revelling at the contact. By every second that passed, his body seemed to remember the touch, reawakening and wanting more. Then he remembered something else.

“Aragorn?”

“Mhm?” The King was exploring his palm with his fingertips, sending tingle after tingle rippling across his skin.

“They have caught him.”

Aragorn raised his eyes to his face, questions of every kind filling them. The movements of his hand, ceasing.

“I do not know much,” Faramir admitted, pushing away the tray after finishing the off the last of the edible morsels. “Only that he will only speak in front of the whole Council. I agreed, reluctantly.”

“You would not have done so if it was not necessary.”

It was not a question, nor a statement. It was more of a reflection.

“I would not. They will all be here in a few hours.”

Fingers once more began travelling over his palm.

“I trust you,” Aragorn said.

The sleeve of the much creased and well-used shirt Faramir wore was gently pushed back to expose more of his skin. Delicate patterns, circles and spirals, were traced by Aragorn’s fingers all the way up to the elbow.

“I should wash,” Faramir began mumbling, but was silenced by the look of burning need that Aragorn sent him.

“I want more of you,” the King whispered hoarsely, his hand increasing their strokes.

Faramir’s mouth went dry as his heart soared and his stomach sank, leaving an empty void in his body. A void quickly filled with worry, expectation, nervousness and – lust.

“We cannot,” he said unsurely. “You should not even…” he glanced at his own arm being caressed by determined fingers.

“I sent the healer away to get some sleep,” Aragorn stated quietly but firmly. “We are alone for now.”

“But…”

“No.”

“No?” Faramir smiled weakly, his stomach turning over and over again in the most pleasant unpleasant way he had ever experienced.

“I want more of you,” Aragorn repeated. “Lock the door. Not the inner door, the healer passes through that one, but the other one.”

The walk was so short; in only a few moments the task was completed. Nonetheless, Faramir was aware of nothing else but his own mind reeling and the fluttering, almost nauseous feeling within. He noticed not the floor he walked upon, nor the cold iron click of the lock as it snapped. There was naught but his own being, and Aragorn, in his mind.

He came to stand at the bed, his eyes caught by his lover’s.

“So…” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Lie by me,” Aragorn asked. “There is room for you.”

Where Faramir’s constructive and practical mind would have opposed this, he found that his heart did not. Slowly he pulled off his boots, and carefully sat on the edge of the bed. Movement behind him suggested that the other man was shifting and changing his position, albeit probably with some difficulty.

“Lie down.”

Swallowing, but for a very different reason this time, Faramir slipped into the bed beside his lover who had managed to turn onto his side. There was room, not much, but enough. Facing the King, he thought his heart had never beaten like this before, not even on the first night they spent together this winter.

“Let me do this, please?” Aragorn said in a low voice. “I know you, my love, I know you only care for me and I am ever grateful, but let me do this. You want to protest, but I must prove to… myself, that I can still…” His voice trailed off and his so unwavering gaze gave way to insecurity.

“I cannot touch you.” Faramir repeated the words he hated.

“But I can touch you.”

The Steward felt a rush of colour speeding to his face. “You do not need to…”

“Maybe I want to,” Aragorn said. “And since I was able to eat earlier, I believe I can do, this.”

Faramir did not register exactly how it happened – who scooted over or reached out – all he was aware of was how he closed his eyes, only to have soft lips pressed against his own. He hardly dared to kiss back, but instead felt the light touch envelop him in a warm embrace.

Then there was more as Aragorn’s arm stole around him and held him as close as he might. Their lips did not move, they just stayed connected as if they were sealing this loving alliance between King and Steward. Aragorn loosened his grip and began stroking the younger man’s back, working his hand inside the shirt and settling upon bare skin. His mind clouding over, Faramir breathed deeply, trying to pour all of his emotions into the simple joining of lips.

His body came alive under Aragorn’s touch and he felt blood stream through his veins once more – warm blood, not the chilly substance that had seemed to occupy him these past days. Fingers tangled in his hair, sent shivers along his spine and gradually worked their way down to the waistband of his leggings.

Clutching his hands, Faramir forced himself not to give in return. No matter what Aragorn might say, he was not going to disturb the healing process of his skin.

One finger slipped beneath the material, causing the warm blood to race to Faramir’s groin. Momentarily, his lips left Aragorn’s mouth as he needed an extra breath of air.

“May I?” his lover whispered.

“Yes,” Faramir breathed but shivered anyway as Aragorn’s hand undid the laces and slipped inside, brushing against his semi-awakened manhood.

Heat collected within as a cautious caress sent him swirling. He hardened rapidly as he was stroked, fighting the urge to thrust into the moving hand. The only thing that would ground him was to capture the lips he had let go, and so he did. A low, content moan from Aragorn matched his own ones as he felt lust coursing through him. His lover smeared the liquid escaping the tip of his length and the strokes became smoother.

It became increasingly hard not to touch Aragorn, but Faramir held back and allowed the sensations to overtake him. The movements urged him to loosen his grip on reality and he succumbed to these unspoken wishes until all that surrounded him was his mounting desire and Aragorn’s presence.

His erection throbbed in the hand that held it, his body trembling and he had no control over the groans which he knew were his own. When his muscles finally contracted and he came in the warm grip, he lost all awareness of even his body.

Aragorn’s lips were still pressed to his when he opened his eyes. He noticed vaguely he was still being caressed, although the touch was lighter.

“You are beautiful,” Aragorn smiled, so close to him.

“I…” Faramir began weakly.

“No.” His lover withdrew his hand and wiped it on the sheets between their bodies. But his smile did not falter. “You are beautiful.”

Blushing faintly, Faramir clumsily tied the laces. Uncertain of what to say, he stole a glance at his King. “I would return the favour,” he tried, simultaneously realising it sounded like he had been sent a load of grain and was currently offering to do the same next week.

To his relief, Aragorn only laughed. “Soon enough, perhaps. But this is no more than fair,” he continued, pulling Faramir close to him. “You did the same for me some weeks ago, if you remember… When I was too tired to pleasure you.”

“The first night,” Faramir said, reliving memories with complete clarity.

“The first night in a long time.”

“I was so nervous,” he admitted, images of Aragorn’s chambers and bed, flooding his mind.

“So was I.” Aragorn smiled and gently placed his lips on Faramir’s for one more, motionless kiss.

Another type of warmth swathed Faramir in its sheltering cloak. He nestled into his lover’s embrace, letting drowsiness guide him into a nurturing darkness. He fell asleep with his hands resting on the sheets, but with Aragorn’s hands holding him.

He awoke to a gentle shaking, low muttering and maybe a huff or two. Groggily he opened his eyes and could see that Aragorn was given the same treatment.

Rolling over in the small space, Faramir looked directly into the disapproving eyes of the healer who was shaking his head just as much as he was shaking the sleepy men in the bed. His heart sank all the way to the floor.

“I should have known,” the healer sighed as Faramir struggled to sit up gracefully, but suspecting he failed miserably. “I should have known…”

Beside him, Aragorn sighed deeply and reached out for his young lover blindly.

“Oh no, you will not!” the healer warned him and the tone of his voice obviously served to bring the King out of his sleep, for he too opened his eyes.

Instead of the hurried actions that Faramir had engaged in – and possibly the felt embarrassment – a slow smile spread across his lips. “Ah,” he said simply.

“Ah indeed!” the healer retorted but his face was not the harsh mask Faramir dreaded. “My liege, I see it is impossible to leave you alone for the shortest of moments.”

“I am merely ensuring my welfare,” Aragorn said, keeping his expression as straight as he could. “Our welfare,” he added, turning a much more tender gaze to Faramir.

Faramir himself found there was not a lot he could do. He allowed a small loving smile for Aragorn to see, but he stayed put in his sitting position, trapped between the King and his healer.

“Gods,” the healer exclaimed. “With all due respect my lord, you are impossible!”

Aragorn’s smile grew brighter. “So we have an impossible situation and an impossible sovereign. It is only you, my love, who are without fault,” he said, covering Faramir’s hand with his own.

Blushing furiously by now, for what seemed to be the hundredth time this day, Faramir mumbled something incoherently.

“Yes,” the healer nodded, his eyes narrowing. “I would not blame you, my Steward. I do not believe this is your fault at all.” The last words were directed at Aragorn who looked all too conspiratorial for his own good. “Anyhow, gentlemen, I suppose you wish to know that the Council will – and the gods know I would have forbade it if I knew of it beforehand – assemble here in a half-hour. That should give you time enough to – wash.”

This news set Faramir’s mind working again. “Aragorn, we must get ready.”

“Aye, I guess,” Aragorn agreed, his voice less playful now. “I shall see you in a little while then.”

The healer stepped aside as Faramir slipped out of the bed, infinitely grateful that he had already tied his leggings. Pulling on his boots, he regarded Aragorn where he lay. Had all of this – everything that had happened in the past weeks – been necessary to bring them together? Or would it have come to that anyway?

It was too great a question to be considered in this moment.

“Let us finish this business.” Aragorn spoke softly now. “And then we can concentrate on what is… in our hearts.”

Expecting the healer to interfere at any moment, Faramir dared to stand as close a possible to the bed. Leaning down, he placed a feather light kiss on Aragorn’s lips. “Yes, please,” he murmured before pulling away and leaving the chamber unwillingly.

Chairs had been produced and arranged near the fire-place. The members of the Great Council had all arrived and despite their looks of bewilderment and confusion, they had pulled themselves together and were now speaking in low voices. The King had had help to wash and dress, and was looking as royal as could be asked of him whilst still confined to bed. Faramir could only admire his performance as he was himself rather uncomfortable and was hovering in the back of the chamber, near the inner door. The only person who was not a Council member but had been granted permission to remain was the healer and he had withdrawn into a corner, seemingly immersed in the study of various documents.

In fact, the were piles of documents everywhere, spilling over and covering every inch of the tables placed in front of the Council members. Wood had been added to the fire and the flames were greedily watching the parchments, now and then sending a hopeful spark flying towards them. So far the only thing the fire had accomplished was to burn a small hole in the robe of one of the Elders, who was still rubbing the darkened spot angrily.

Then the door opened and Eachann’s broad shoulders and grim face appeared in the doorway. He gave a quick nod in Aragorn’s direction as Faramir drew closer to the chairs.

This was it.

Several former rangers filed in and then a slim figure was hauled inside. He wore an immaculate tunic, blood red and black, and his blond hair was neatly combed. He held his chin high as he regained his footing and surveyed the healing room and the assembled Council members with an almost fascinated stare.

“My lords.” He bowed.

Deren.

Faramir gripped hard the first item that presented itself to him. It happened to be another piece of parchment that crumpled unhappily in his hand.

“Deren son of Vorgen,” the appointed Elder began. “You have confessed to the attack on the King of Gondor two nights ago, and the following actions…”

His voice was drowned out by the buzzing anger in Faramir. He had trusted this man to speak his heart to him on at least some occasions! He had been made welcome into Minas Tirith in the depth of winter, into the very royal halls and now he had tried to murder the King?!

Aragorn who would normally have presided over this Council was, because of this man, forced to lie in bed, unable to move his legs and maybe without much hope of ever doing so! To Faramir, the promises the healer had made about Aragorn’s condition, were immediately lost. Deren had reduced a magnificent warrior to a crippled being. The memory of the accident with the horse fled Faramir’s mind as he regarded Deren with utter contempt.

“You admit to this?” the Elder asked.

“I do,” Deren nodded. “I am responsible for this.” He made an elegant gesture with one hand, indicating Aragorn’s state.

Had they been alone, Faramir would not have been able to answer for his actions.

“But I have more to say,” Deren continued in a voice that demanded attention. “I have asked to speak in front of your Council for a good reason.”

There was some low murmuring amongst the members. Faramir glanced over at Aragorn who was watching attentively with a face set in stone. The only thing that betrayed his feelings was the unnaturally clenched jaws.

“And what will you speak of, if I may ask?” one of the other Council members asked with a hint of taunting glee.

Deren’s eyes drifted over the room and settled on him. He stepped forward, and so did the guards. “I will speak of important matters,” he said. As calm as ever he was, but there was an underlying menace in his tone now. “I will speak of the threat to Gondor, and therefore the threat to this world that we know.”

His gaze lifted and once more sought out its targets. “I will speak of serious matters that include both your beloved King…” his eyes strayed to Aragorn but moved on, “and you trusted Steward.”

Faramir felt those eyes fixed upon his own form.

“Or should I say, ‘your King’s beloved Steward’?”

Aye, what say ye?

I’m telling you: this chapter was NOT supposed to include a sex scene – but as I was writing, this just moved along uncontrollably…

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