Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 2 – Freezing

“I am sorry, my lord. It seems there is not much I can do at the moment.”

The blond healer appeared sincere as he apologised for his shortcomings. Or perhaps that was the wrong choice of word since Aragorn from the beginning had been told the prospects were not that great.

“There are some other herbs that might ease your pain more efficiently, but they are sent to us from Rivendell, and in this weather…” The healer gestured to the window and shrugged.

Aragorn followed his gaze. He was seated on a high bed – it made it easier for him to rise that way – but it did not matter from which angle you looked out the window. All there was to see was a thick, white mist: it was snowing. The never-abating wind brought along masses of snow, with which it attacked the City vigorously.

His fate, Aragorn could manage; his legs would not get much better if the healers did not come up with a brilliant new cure. That was not what was bothering him now. No, with all this snow, he had not set foot outside the palace walls for weeks and for a former ranger, that was both stressful and wearying at the same time. He felt cabined, weak and useless.

The healer had turned his back to him and was currently rummaging around in his cabinets. Eventually he produced a small glass jar which he presented to the King.

“This might help you, my lord. The leaves are dried, but soak them in lukewarm water for about an hour before you got to bed. Place them on your legs, where the pain is most intense, and make sure they stay put all night. I trust you lie still when you sleep?” he finished.

Aragorn gave the dried, crumpled leaves in the jar a doubting look. Then he raised his eyes to the healer.

“I do not move while sleeping. But then, I do not have much of a choice.” he said, much sterner than he had intended.

The healer simply cleared his throat. “I am sorry, my lord, I did not mean to offend you.”

“It is fine,” Aragorn told him. He accepted the jar and slowly got to his feet. “Thank you,” he added, raising the jar a little in some sort of half-hearted sign of gratitude He exited the room and closed the door behind him.

He rested against the wall for a little while, gathering his strength. It was with mixed feelings he was getting used to his situation. Because he did need to get used to it – that was certainly clear enough. Of course, he had been forced to get used to many things in his past, so nowadays he was accustomed to it. He was a Man, raised among Elves, a race he respected deeply. He had adapted to their way of living, before he had been forced to realise he was a man after all. Then, he had been told he was the heir of Isildur and must come to terms with that. He fought in the War, and now he was King. He really had no choice, did he?

That night, when Aragorn lay in his bed with cold, wet leaves on his legs, he longed for his family. Like a child, he wanted his father close. Elrond would know what to do. He would know what to say and how to react. He would know… how to feel.

Feelings…

… were difficult.

Feelings came unbidden and uninvited. Feelings stirred memories and awoke hidden dreams; they did not care whether you were awake or not. Feelings regarding a great many things, Aragorn reflected. There were matters of state to deal with… and of course this constant snowing. Also, servants and friends and family and – others. People in general; there were always a lot to think about, things that stirred up feelings…

Aragorn let out a heavy sigh. Who was he fooling? He turned his head to the other side. In the darkness – he had blown out the candle – he could barely make out the curtains covering the windows. Somewhere out there, in the icy cold, was Faramir, peacefully sleeping – hopefully – in a tent – hopefully – sheltered – hopefully – from the wind. It had been his own doing of course, since Aragorn would never have sent him out on one of those necessary missions. Aragorn had been told by one of Faramir’s men the next morning, which was the day after that night – the night that had ended so abruptly after such a promising beginning. Six days ago. And it was Aragorn’s fault.

It was his fault for being so damn proud! For so long he had held back, not daring to open up to the Steward because he himself was so much less than before. Sure, it was obvious to everyone who met him that he walked with difficulty and was in pain during most of his waking hours, but they, they were – others.

Faramir would see, truly see him, for what he was, and he would touch him – touch him in places no one had touched him for months. Not since the last time, in the tavern after several glasses of wine, and later, when they ended up in the same narrow bed together in the soldier’s quarters.

“No place for a soon-to-be-King,” Faramir had said in a moment of sobriety, excusing his simple lodgings. The soon-to-be-King himself could not have cared less. The War had been won, Sauron was defeated and this was a night of freedom. Any bed would suffice, and it did. It was their first and only night together.

Aragorn closed his eyes, trying to shut everything out where he lay now. He concentrated on his breathing, focusing on his legs, using his healer skills to search for pain, or lack of pain, which would be nice for a change. The leaves were still damp and they felt sticky against his skin. He had forgotten to ask the healer if he could cover his legs with a blanket and so risking dislodging every leaf he so carefully had placed there.

A sudden image of Legolas, his elven friend and companion on the Quest, and later in the War, surfaced in his mind. Legolas would laugh at him, not maliciously, but indeed he would laugh – at the whole situation. He would most probably tease him as well.

Grunting, Aragorn reached for the covers, pulled them over himself and decided he needed to go to sleep. Immediately.

The following days dragged on in a haze. The weather changed again; the winds brought no more snow, instead the temperature dropped even lower. The sun itself, in the few moments it appeared between thick, light grey clouds, seemed dimmed, almost frozen. It offered light, but no warmth, and certainly there was no promise of spring in the air.

Travelling became a little less dangerous so the amount of letters Aragorn received increased somewhat. There were no other visitors though, except for the messengers, for it was clear that this winter was unpredictable. And there was no sign of Faramir returning to Minas Tirith.

Aragorn mostly spent his days and nights alone. He cared not for company of any sort, and he cursed the leaves he still soaked and placed on his legs before he fell asleep. He could not tell if they helped, but he could tell he was feeling utterly miserable.

He returned four days later, when evening had already fallen. Noise and clamour from the courtyard below, called Aragorn, who was in his office again, to the window. Stumbling, he got to his feet, not wanting or daring to hope. He saw the horses in the torch lit courtyard, and he let out a sigh of relief when he spotted the Steward, who looked unharmed, among the other men. Faramir exchanged words with the guards, entered through the great doors and then he was out of sight, as suddenly as he had appeared. So very far away, he seemed. Agonisingly distant.

Hesitancy and indecision occupied his mind to such an extent, that this time Aragorn did not hear the footfall in the corridor. Therefore he was startled, and spun around faster than his legs really permitted, when the door flew open and Faramir himself burst into the room.

The two men stood facing each other in silence. Faramir was panting, as if he had been running, and he was staring intently at his King. All of a sudden, he moved, and with a few steps he was so close Aragorn could not have averted his eyes even if he wanted to. Then, Faramir’s lips were on his, crushing them with strength Aragorn would never have guessed him capable of.

It was cold, he registered; the Steward’s lips, having been exposed to harsh wintry winds, were stiff. They soon grew warmer though, as he pressed them against Aragorn’s own. Not waiting for anything, Faramir forced Aragorn’s lips apart with his tongue, thrusting deep into the warmth he found there.

He leaned in closer, placing his hands on Aragorn’s shoulders, making the King stand with his back against the chilly window-glass. Aragorn really did not mind too much, but he needed to speak, to say something… anything… apologise. He tried to pull his mouth away, but he had no room to move. It was Faramir who spoke instead:

“There will be no words, my lord,” he stated in a deep voice, after drawing back ever so slightly. “We will not speak. At all.”

Yes, he was quite determined.

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