Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

I long debated with myself on how to do this… It was not easy, and you will see that I finally settled on the not so nice version. But, if I may say so, I’m actually quite proud of this chapter. There’s A LOT of talking in it so hold on to your hat and your ears and let us begin.

Chapter 19 – Telling

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

Deren took one more step forward. He moved like a lazy cat, eyeing the Council members like they were his dinner already cut in pieces and displayed tantalisingly on a silver platter before him. But he had not set out to devour them; he was intent on nailing them to the floor with his sweetened words and the slow smile that contrasted starkly to the dangerous gleam in his eyes. It was too obvious. Nonetheless, he held their full attention.

“Yes,” he mused now, “it seems an appropriate wording.” He spun suddenly around, turning fully towards Aragorn and exhibiting a small frown. “If that truly is the case, my lord…” He glanced over at Faramir. “Perhaps… yes, perhaps I should rephrase it?“¨

His space was limited, but the elegant dance he was performing needed not much room. Well-chosen words and glances complemented the twists and turns of his feet effectively.

“Ah yes, gentlemen, this is how we shall put it: ‘The Steward’s beloved King’, for I do not know for certain that the King returns the feelings that his loyal servant has so generously offered him.” His smile had not grown but remained the same.

“Enough!”

Dazed, beyond shock, Faramir watched the appointed Elder raise a hand to stem the flow of words.

“Enough of this! Of what are you speaking?”

Of course, Deren’s words would not pass unnoticed. Gradually Faramir began to understand the implications of what was being said before them and his vision swam. Matters, long veiled by the mists of secrecy were now being revealed in the full light of day, to people who had no business delving into them.

What made Faramir feel a wave of nausea washing over him though, was that he knew perfectly well that these people had every right to know because it concerned all and everyone of them.

Deren knew that as well.

“I have not yet spoken of much,” Deren said, “I seek only a way to introduce you to the information I carry, without confusing you.”

The Elder snorted. “If you take my beard for a sign of my age you are correct, but my feet carry me swiftly and my mind is clear. Old age does not make a man a fool!”

Immediately Deren’s face softened and his voice filled with earnest. “Forgive me, I meant no such thing.”

The Elder did not look entirely mollified, but he apparently found no reason to pursue the subject further.

“If you would relay to us this so called information you claim to carry?” He leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table, surveying the young man.

“Certainly.” Deren bowed, an apologetic look about him still.

But when he straightened, only seconds later, his eyes had taken up the dance his feet had previously engaged in. Faramir would have had a thousand thoughts cross his mind, had Deren not begun speaking in this moment and the tone of foreboding that tinted his words helped not at all.

“Lords of the Council, this is my tale. I came to the White City as a simple traveler, in the company of good men, all of us messengers, sent forth by our own people – the people that you serve, the people of Gondor. As all the other races of this earth, we rejoiced when the war came to an end and the Dark Lord finally perished. We had many to thank and among them is our King, naturally.” Deren bowed shortly in Aragorn’s direction before he turned back to the Council members. Faramir wanted to throw up.

“Yes, there was great joy for the old line of Kings was restored and there was once more hope and promise in the wind. Then happened what should not have happened to such great man. Our King was injured and though not many, dare I say ‘none’ even, from our regions saw him, word carried to us that he was weakened.”

Deren’s eyes did not wander as he continued speaking. Everyone else sat perfectly still.

“Yet, even a weakened King was far, far better than the poor rule and the threat of doom that we had endured only months earlier. So we still rejoiced and prosperity grew – that, I shall not deny. However, when winter came to these lands, it was harsh, bitter and colder than any winter anyone in Gondor could recall. The old and the very young suffered – and still do – greatly, and the animals are poorly shielded from freezing winds and frosty nights. Strong men, I among them, were called upon to travel hither, to ensure the welfare of our people.”

A discreet cough from the Elder, head of the Council this day, urged Deren to speed up his tale. “These troubles we already know of and, I believe, have already seen to,” he said decisively. “If you wish to be heard, you shall have to quicken your speech!”

“Sir.” Deren’s features were set. “I wish you to fully understand my cause, but I shall heed your word as you wish.”

“We were made welcome, and for this I thank you,” he continued. “And we were heard and our demands were seen to as you say. But with my own eyes I could now see what rumour had before only whispered to me: the King was indeed weak, maybe too weak to reign properly.”

At this, calmness shattered and several sharp intakes of breath could be heard around the room. A few of the Council members exchanged sharp looks and the appointed Elder narrowed his gaze. Faramir held his breath.

“Under the circumstances, Deren son of Vorgen, this statement does not surprise me,” the Elder said, “but I warn you: choose your words carefully.”

Deren held up a hand as if resigning to this, or possibly in a gesture of peace.

“I hear you. Nonetheless, I speak only my mind. The King was no strong man, ready to defend Gondor with his own sword, should the situation arise as it may. But I also noted that he had good help. He is loyally served by those who love him.“

Was it only Faramir who knew the deeper meaning of these words? Aragorn would understand, but the Steward dared not to look at him. He let Deren continue instead, they all did, trapped in the web he so cunningly spun with his every breath. He spoke slower now, taking great care to word his thoughts.

“The Line of the Old Kings… restored it is now, but will it last? Will it last, my lords?” He looked about him, the unanswered question hung in the air, and Faramir began to comprehend where this was going.

That was a realisation that inserted fear into every single part of his body and mind.

“Some speak of an old love of the King, a love that would certainly have ensured this. But these tale-tellers say that she left the King as the war approached. They say she was an Elf of noble birth, but that she sailed into the West and that it was the King’s wish.”

Closing his eyes, Faramir heard Aragorn shift in his bed.

“But what these people do not know is that the King has a new lover.”

He got no further.

“This is improper!” The Elder bellowed, echoed by the other members of the Council. “Surely this goes beyond what is appropriate, and we shall have no more of it!”

But there was a fire in Deren’s eyes now. “My lords!” His voice had gained in power and he spoke very clearly. “You have granted me leave to speak, so speak I shall. It is my right, is it not?”

Faramir heard every syllable, every word burned his heart but there was no way to stop this. He could not hinder Deren to speak, and neither could the Council. Deren was met with only a nod, and despite the look of deep mistrust on the Elder’s face, the old man fell silent.

“Yes, our King has a new lover, but I am afraid it will be the end of the royal line. The victorious blood of Elendil shall be buried along with the body of our sovereign on the day that he dies. You deserve to know, my lords, that you are serving a King who will take from you the very hope we have fought for and lived to see rise again – only to be destroyed and lost!”

A murmuring broke out in the healing chamber. Nailed to the floor, Faramir could only stare. Wave after wave of nausea flooded him and it became hard to breathe.

“It is so,” Deren confirmed, taking advantage of the simmering energy around them. “It is so. For this lover will give the King no children, no heirs, and so his line will die with him and all shall come to an end. The people of Gondor, who have endured so much, will see their kingdom fall into pieces at their very feet. For how could it be otherwise when the lover that our King has chosen, is a man?”

Silence. Complete and utter silence. Dreaded, hateful silence. Even Deren appeared struck by the sudden heaviness around them.

Faramir knew that he breathed but he felt no air enter his lungs. He knew the Council members were alive, but watching them was like watching a painting. No one moved, no one spoke.

Until the Elder stirred and broke his own unmoving stance. “Pray, tell us,” he said slowly, “how this relates to your own actions?”

Equally slowly, Deren inclined his head. “I am not proud of my deeds. But as you can plainly see, there is now before you a new threat to Gondor, maybe to Middle-earth itself. I acted on impulse, thinking wildly that if I removed the King before he destroyed his reign, all would be well. I see now of course that is impossible, but we shall be ruined in either way.”

“There is no logic to this,” the Elder shook his head. “Yet, undoubtedly you know this yourself. You shall be charged and sentenced accordingly.”

He turned over a parchment before him on the table and sighed. “Truly, I know not how to proceed.”

It came as no surprise when Deren spoke up again. “Perhaps, good sir, it would be a good idea to hear your King? I have already taken upon me the responsibility for my actions, but the future is not as certain as you might have thought it…” Even as he spoke he drew away from the Council, bowing his head.

Hesitating, the Elder sought aid from the other members. Loud whispers and frantic hisses enveloped Faramir, too shocked to do more than blink at the blond man who now stood in the shadows by the door with Eachann and his rangers hovering behind him.

“I will speak.”

The deep voice rang out in the chamber, silencing the Council members. Dreading the sight, for the first time in his life, Faramir turned to look at his King.

The image of Aragorn’s face might have been carved in stone, so hard and drawn it was. He stared directly at the Council, ignoring both Faramir and Deren. There was no light in his eyes, no softness about his lines, and no compassion or kindness surrounded him.

“My lord,” the Elder began uncertainly, “there is no need for…”

Aragorn cut him off. “I will speak. I will answer these accusations laid before me, so hear me now.”

The stern look he sent his counsellors prevented any of them from protesting when they would have wanted to. Officially, he had not been charged and therefore he did not need to answer, but Faramir knew that was not an option. Aragorn would never accept something like this silently.

“I feel naught but disgust,” the King began as the collective wide-eyed stare of the Council settled upon him and the men hung on his every word. “Yet, I will not deceive you. You are all aware of my condition and it would be a lie if I told you I could take up my own sword to defend the Reunited Lands, much less the whole of Middle-earth. I trust you know me well enough to be assured that this grieves me deeply.”

A few of the Council members bowed their heads, but most of them could not take their eyes away.

“However, I trust my armies and should the time come when war is upon us again, I will do my best to inspire them to fight hard, just as I would have done myself. If this is not enough for you, you may choose from among Men, a new King, if you deem that necessary.”

Protests erupted despite Aragorn’s grim stare, but they faded quickly as he continued speaking.

“I will say no more of this. The other matter of concern that needs to be approached and dealt with, however much discussing it here displeases me – to say the least – is the question of my bloodline.”

Cringing inwardly, Faramir wanted to disappear forever. Deep down, he had feared this day, maybe even known it would come – the day when all he had gained would be taken away from him, he had just hoped it would not be so soon, or in such a fashion. The curios looks from the people of Minas Tirith he might learn to live with, but he had no idea how he would bear to be separated from Aragorn.

Ithilien. To Ithilien he would go. He would resign from his duties and leave for the lands that had once before taken him into its arms when the whole world had come crashing down around him. The King might say whatever he wished, Faramir would be gone by the first light of day, never to be seen again in the White City.

For as long as his heart could bear it, he would live in the woodlands – be it only for a day. All was over, and no one would care. That was evident since he cared not himself.

Aragorn’s voice carried him back to the present.

“I will not deny this either. What was insinuated earlier is true as well. The Lady Arwen, daughter of Elrond, lord of Rivendell, sailed from the Grey Havens prior to the war. We were once betrothed, but we broke off the engagement when it became clear to us that what we had shared was too precious to endanger. She will always be very dear to me,” he ended, his voice softer.

Faramir swallowed. It did not matter that he knew it was over, it still hurt to hear Aragorn speak of his love for Arwen. Faramir had never known the details, but had suspected that the feelings they had for each other were deep and sincere. He had thought though… No, it made no difference.

“As for this new lover of mine…” Again, Aragorn’s tones hardened, but he bestowed no glance upon Deren by the door. Nor did he acknowledge Faramir’s presence. “He exists and he is a male.”

Another rush of murmuring carried through the room, but that was all. To Faramir it felt like he was standing atop a cliff and was slowly being pushed nearer and nearer the edge.

“Whilst I know that this is not uncommon among Men, you must understand that it is common practice among Elves, and it is among them I was raised. To me, it is as natural to take a male lover as it is to take a female lover.” Aragorn spoke firmly, stressing every single word as if he had decided he would take this moment to educate his Council. “Of course, a male lover cannot give me a child, and I agree, even if I do not like to do so, that the blood of Elendil should run in the veins of my heirs. Still, these are issues that are not impossible to tackle.” He fell silent.

Maybe? But Faramir dismissed the thought. No.

“Thank you, my lord,” the Elder said, bowing his head curtly. “I can assure you that the people – and the High Council of Minas Tirith – stand behind you. You are a great King, no matter your physical condition.” A murmur of agreement followed this.

Aragorn nodded and sank back a little where he sat.

“If you please, my sirs..?” A soft voice spoke up from a forgotten corner. The healer had risen to his feet. “I should like to tend to the King.”

Faramir felt his heart twist painfully as the healer hurried over to the bed and bent over Aragorn who must be exhausted by now. The two men spoke in low voices, and Aragorn was eased back down so that he might rest his head against the pillows. Desperately, Faramir wished he could go to him, but he was bound by his deeds as well and he was fairly sure Deren’s eyes were upon him.

A minute later, he found out exactly how correct an assumption that was.

“My King…” The slim, blond figure slipped forward once more, demanding all of their attention. “Will you say no more? Will you lay it upon me to reveal the seriousness of this matter? Shall I be the one to tell the Council of the most improper alliance that has arisen of late in Minas Tirith?”

This time, Aragorn made no effort in hiding his anger. “To you I have nothing to say. Only that I will be part of the Council that decides your fate. Keep that in mind as you poison us with your words.”

“Alas! It is a sad day indeed when the King succumbs to the weakness that holds him,” Deren cried out, not caring either for politeness. “Nevertheless, I shall give you all the truth and I shall do so now. Afterwards you may punish me for my actions as you seem fit.”

He needed to say no more. But he did.

“Had the King taken any lover – any other lover – I would have held my tongue, but I cannot. Members of the Council, for his lover the King has chosen his Steward. The son of the late Steward, the mad Denethor, a man that should have had no children. There he stands now, torn between obligation and desire, your innocent Faramir.”

All eyes were on him and the very earth shook beneath his feet. Gladly, willingly, he would have given up his breath but the gods were cruel. Instead of taking, they gave – gave him a sense of being torn apart by hungry claws. An excruciating pain seared through his stomach and wound his way to his heart. It would trap his soul, hold him captive, and only one thing was certain: he would survive.

His blood was tinted. His father’s madness was his son’s doom. Whereas Aragorn’s blood was too precious to be lost to the world, the warm substance that ran in Faramir’s veins was useless, unwished for, detested. He was his father’s son, and if Denethor could have seen this, he would have rejoiced. His fanatical laughter would have reverberated in every chamber of his former citadel. Faramir’s fall had always been his wish. Now it had been granted.

“What did you say?”

Aragorn spoke. Faramir barely heard him, but he supposed it was so, since the Council members turned their faces away from him.

“What did you say?!”

“I speak the truth, my lord.” If that was Deren’s voice, it was laden with revulsion.

The King practically roared. “I will not hear such words uttered – ever again! Do I make myself clear?! You will not again suggest that… Faramir carries the shadow of his father and live through it!”

“You need a moment before you say his name?” Suddenly Deren’s voice was honeyed. “Even now that you admit you have taken him for a lover?”

Faramir closed his eyes.

“I do not have to defend my actions, unlike others,” Aragorn answered him menacingly. “But you shall have it from my lips if nothing else satisfies you: yes, it is so. I confirm that we are lovers.”

“Ah,” Deren said sweetly, “then my King, it might interest you to know that your dear Faramir slept in my bed on the night of your accident in the gardens.”

Pain stabbed him all over again. His eyes flew open and before he knew it he spun around to face Aragorn.

The King, his love, was being restrained by a desperate healer. He was pale and looked so incredibly tired, but he had been fighting the hands that held him and from his eyes flew sparks of anger. But even as Faramir watched, Aragorn slowed his movements and shrank back. Determination fled his body and his cheeks were drained of whatever colour that was left in them. When Faramir met his eyes they were empty save for one thing:

the shock of betrayal.

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