Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

I do realise that updates aren’t as frequent as they once were, but I’ve taken on way too many writing projects… And also, I would hate to rush this story and just write for the sake of writing. So don’t despair and bear with me, please! I know it’s been a while since I last did this, but occasionally I like to keep you on your toes, so: change of perspective! Forget all about your current location (which should be somewhere inside Faramir’s head) and please relocate to Aragorn’s mind!

For Grey Pigeon who is the most amazing and devoted supporter, and to whom I should have dedicated a chapter a long, long time ago. This story would never have gone on for so long if it hadn’t been for all of your faithful reviewing last summer. Your interest was what kept me going. I’m ever grateful!

Warning: We’re getting down to the nitty-gritty… And are going to deal with one of the main issues now. Some of you will undoubtedly hate me for what I have done. There’s a long explanatory note following this chapter.

Chapter 21 – Sacrificing

The solid security of another body next to him was a luxury that the King of Gondor had for a few agonising hours the day before judged to be cruelly stolen from him. He did not open his eyes as Faramir’s slow breathing and warmth was enough for him to enjoy at the moment. Staying somewhere in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness, Aragorn tried to match his breathing with his bed mate’s, but even half asleep, he found that he needed to draw breath more often.

Faramir in his sleep had rocked back and lay now against him. From head to toe, his lean frame counted on the strength of Aragorn’s body to keep him in his position. Ironic it was how the King could not even move his own legs and so subsequently could offer no support.

The taste of bitterness clung to Aragorn’s tongue as if the thoughts had been worded and spoken aloud. The metallic flavour was not unlike that of blood – and Aragorn had tasted enough blood on the battlefield to know. But now those days were over, whether he liked it or not. And in this moment, he had no idea which he preferred.

But then, it was not like he had a choice.

These unbidden thoughts brought him back to the living world, the one he had hoped to evade for a little longer. Even more unbidden, the memory of yesterday’s events forced themselves upon him. He knew not what he saw more clearly and what he consciously – or unconsciously as it might be – avoided to consider. What he honestly believed though, was that all of it should be forgotten and moved past as quickly as possible. And if that proved to be the wrong decision, then he would face the consequences later. Sick to the core of distrust and manipulation, Aragorn had perceived no deceit in Faramir’s eyes last night.

Giving a soft sigh, the Steward shifted against him. Rather than pulling away, as Aragorn feared he might, the younger man nestled closer and buried his face in the dark mess of tresses that had not been combed through since Aragorn had been brought to the healing chamber.

This was a blessing. For the first time since his accident, both the first one and now this second one, Aragorn was truly grateful that Mandos had not called him to his Halls of Waiting yet. What he would think after he and Faramir had breeched the subject they had only briefly brushed upon yesterday, that was another matter.

The King offered a sigh of his own.

A fine way to greet the new day.

Being confined to sleeping on his back and having Faramir stretched out against him, there was not much movement he could engage in at present, but at least he could bring his opposite arm across his chest and with his hand slowly stroke the soft copper locks. Faramir responded to him immediately by tilting his head slightly and so making Aragorn suspect that he was not as deep in sleep as it appeared.

“Meleth?”

“You know I do not speak elvish,” a low, drowsy voice responded.

Chuckling, Aragorn gently tugged at one of the strands he was caressing, earning himself a small grunt from his lover. “It is a word you will hear me say often, so you shall have to adapt,” he said.

“Hmm,” supplied Faramir.

Not wanting to miss out on the sight, Aragorn opened his eyes and turned his head to place a kiss on the sleep-tousled locks. “Did you sleep well?”

Faramir heaved another sigh and moved against the King’s body in what appeared to be an attempt to rouse himself. “Are you always this talkative in the mornings?” he grumbled and pulled the covers around him more securely in an endearing contradiction.

“You have woken up by me before, should you not know already?”

“I think I was too nervous before to notice it,” Faramir mused. “Or something.” If it were possible for a person to dive deeper into a bed whilst not moving, that was exactly what Faramir did.

“You are not nervous now, then?”

“I am tired,” the younger man’s muffled voice told the pillow.

Aragorn knew he should let the man sleep, but for some inconceivable reason he found that this reaction only encouraged him to push further. His mood had rapidly changed and he was wide awake. In a sort of compromise, he settled for resuming the stroking and doing something he had not done in a very long time: he began to sing softly to himself. Instinctively he chose an old tune he had heard many times in his childhood, a song of the whispering grass and sparkling spring floods.

The minutes passed and floated around them to dissolve into one single long moment, outside of time, but held within the grasp of suspense.

When the song ended, Faramir did something unexpected: he caught Aragorn’s hand quickly – as if the covers were only a thin mist he could break through without effort.

Surprised, Aragorn felt his hand dragged into the small space between his own upper arm and Faramir’s chest. He could sense the tension in the body beside him, and Faramir’s shallow breathing echoed in his ears.

“Are you well,” he inquired, not wanting to admit to his worries that he might have done something wrong.

“I have heard you sing once before,” whispered Faramir, noticeably moved. “I understand not the words but… they…”

“Touch you,” Aragorn finished for him, knowing well of what he spoke. “This song is about the promise of spring, the hope that is nurtured by nature and the beauty of the blooming season.”

“We could use some of that,” sighed Faramir. “Spring…”

Smiling, Aragorn extracted his hand and by placing it on Faramir’s shoulder, he urged him closer still. “Come here, please?”

Pulling himself up, the younger man leaned in closer and shyly brushed his lips against Aragorn’s. Instantly afterwards, he drew back and intently searched the face before him. Aragorn had the feeling of being meticulously studied and yet, in this simple action, Faramir ransacked himself equally as much.

“You are awfully energetic in the mornings,” Faramir said before he recaptured the lips he had briefly touched before.

Letting his lover guide their kiss, Aragorn relaxed and leisurely returned what he was given. Soft warmth enveloped him and offered him a long-missed sense of belonging. Faramir’s fingers came up to toy with his hair, neatly avoiding the irritated facial skin. As the kiss deepened and the slick wetness of moist tongues sparked an increased interest within Aragorn’s body, he could not help the moan that escaped him and was swallowed by Faramir’s mouth.

Throwing a small portion of caution aside, the Steward’s hand abandoned Aragorn’s hair and travelled down his chest, pushing aside the covers. Aragorn caught Faramir’s lower lip between his teeth and bit carefully, and then soothed the sting with an efficient lap of his tongue. The young man’s reaction was too glorious for Aragorn not wanting to do it again. Pressing into the King’s side, Faramir displayed none of his characteristic reluctance to show his enthusiasm. His tongue swept far into Aragorn’s mouth, devouring him in a way he had not done before. With his free hand, palm flat against the cloth-covered, strong back above him, Aragorn forcefully urged him on, wanting more and more.

When the kiss ended and Faramir rolled off him, an overwhelming sensation of loss flooded through him. Groaning loudly, Aragorn gave air to his frustration.

“I am so incredibly tired of this!” he nearly shouted. “I want to be able to move!”

He sensed that calming words would come so he quickly continued. Somewhat surprised at his own desperation, he brought both hands up to his Steward’s shoulders and gripped him hard. He locked eyes with the slightly shocked ones turned to him. Forcing the words out of his mouth, he asked one of the many questions he dreaded the answer to.

“Tell me honestly –- honestly –-, will I ever be able to satisfy you properly?” He felt his own eyes burn at the intensity of his stare.

Faramir did not speak at once. Despite the fear this inaction stirred in Aragorn, he was grateful; he wanted no half-truths or reassurances that would, sooner rather than later, crumble in the light of reality.

In a low voice, his answer was given. “I know not.”

Loosening his grip, Aragorn swallowed. He nodded stiffly against the pillows and fought the wave of sickness that rose in his stomach.

“Truthfully, it is so,” continued Faramir slowly. “But then, even if you had been well, I could not have answered in another way. We have not, very often…” He trailed off, allowing a faint blush to complete his sentence for him.

“But there is less of a chance now.” Aragorn stated the obvious.

“Yes…” said Faramir hesitantly. “I suppose.”

They were silent for a while after that, until Faramir traced the arch of Aragorn’s upper lip with the tip of his forefinger and smiled. “Yet, I would like to try.” The smile turned into a tiny grimace of a kind the King could not immediately decipher. “I love you.”

Uneasiness. Insecurity.

“You shall have everything I can offer.”

Faramir bowed his head and Aragorn sealed his promise with a kiss.

The morning was long advanced when the inner door opened and a blond head appeared, accompanied by a frown that soon turned into a rolling of eyes.

“I hope the two of you have had a good night’s rest.” The healer took obvious care to emphasise every syllable as he crossed the floor and approached the bed.

“He wakes incredibly early,” Faramir complained from where he was now laying on his back, a few respectful inches away from the King. Only Aragorn’s hand on his indicated their previous closeness. And maybe the reddish puffiness of his lips.

The healer snorted as he took one look at Aragorn’s grin and evidently decided he could wait a little. Instead he made for the windows and drew the curtains back and fastened them by the wall.

“Oh, and you seem to mind…” he muttered.

Faramir tilted his head upwards in an awkward position to catch Aragorn’s eye. “I have yet to decide.”

Aragorn slapped his hand and grinned even broader. “You seemed not to mind, eventually. When we–”

“Alright!” exclaimed Faramir, cutting him off and mumbling something he could not discern.

The healer returned to the bed and with his hands on his hips, he surveyed his King. Aragorn extinguished his grin and tried his very best to look stately and regal and whatever else Kings were supposed to look. By the grunt that was his reply, he judged he had still some work to do.

“You will be pleased to know,” said the healer, “that there are rumours of milder weather abound. Which in turn means that in due time we will be able to send for herbs from Rivendell.”

Faramir shot up at this and turned to Aragorn with a new light in his eyes. “That is brilliant!”

Smiling tenderly at him, Aragorn reached out and trailed a finger down his cheek. “Aye, it is.”

The healer cleared his throat and both men turned back to him. He was watching them with yet another expression, this one tinted with amusement and expertly crowned with one raised eyebrow. At once, Aragorn’s thoughts strayed to many of his most fond memories and the well-loved image of Lord Elrond rose in his mind. Suddenly struck by the long absence of his wise counsel, Aragorn missed his father fervently. What would happen when Elrond finally sailed west, he did not want to think about.

“It has been too long since I last had news of the outside world,” he said longingly. “No letters from my father have made it through the snows… And no letters have I sent myself.”

“It would have been a futile attempt in any case,” stated the healer flatly. “But if these rumours are true, then soon communication shall recommence.”

Aragorn nodded softly and his eyes landed once more on the mussed form of his beloved. “Much have happened since I last spoke to him. There is much to tell.”

Did he imagine Faramir shrinking back at the idea of telling the founder of Rivendell of their relationship?

Lord Elrond and Gondor’s Steward had met only a couple of times, and it had gone well. Not that anyone had expected anything else, but then, Aragorn and Faramir had not been involved at the time. There was but one reason for Elrond to object to this situation, and unfortunately he would be right in doing so.

For it was, as Faramir himself had pointed out, and as Deren had viciously declared, impossible for the King to have any heirs were he to bind with a Man.

And this King was too scared to bring it up, even though he knew he must. He also knew precisely what he must say.

The healer’s voice brought his attention back to the current discussion.

“Well, if you two can behave – and I heartily beg you to behave – I shall go and prepare some more of that salve, and then I believe I shall force you to bathe, my lord.”

“Please!” Aragorn smiled at him. “You will not have to force me.”

“I am sorry for that. I would have enjoyed it.”

The healer left after a serving them an intense warning glare that lasted several seconds.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Aragorn knew that his time was up. With a heavy heart he revisited the memories of the past months, lingering long in the beautiful images of a night spent in front of a fire, a morning breaking through when he finally held his love in his arms. He almost felt the small touches, the prolonged caresses in the council hall, draped in the shroud of moderation as not to show the others what was happening to him.

He tasted the apples Faramir had brought to his chambers, the wine from that fateful night when he had claimed the Steward in front of Deren…

And that brought him back to reality.

Faramir had been staring into space, but suddenly spoke up as if he knew what Aragorn intended to do and wanted to steer his mind in another direction.

“I am warming to him,” he said. “He first comes off as intimidating, but I see his qualities now. He keeps you grounded.” Turning around, he grinned brightly at Aragorn.

Seeing the King’s mournful expression, his eyes lost all mirth. Aragorn would have paid greatly to never see that happen again. As it was though, he was about to cause an even greater pain.

“Aragorn? What is the matter?”

His voice had taken on a worried tone and there was a crease on his forehead.

“Faramir, love, we need to speak of something I have long dreaded to bring up.”

There. All those words uttered at once.

Faramir turned around completely to face him more easily. In the narrow space on the bed, he managed to fold his long legs underneath him and he nervously brushed back his copper hair. So very young he looked in that moment, and Aragorn felt the sickening weight of age and duties come crashing down upon him.

He knows.

The realisation hit him hard, even though he was aware of this already.

Taking the last breath for what would seem like years, he spoke.

“We have mentioned this issue before,” he began, seeing comprehension dawn on his lover, making it harder still. “I would give anything for it not to be an issue, but it is beyond any power that I know to make it so.”

He swallowed and reached for Faramir’s hand that lay completely still upon the covers. Numbly he grasped it but felt no more secure in doing so.

“The heritage of Númenor… No, this throne that is mine… I have – I must fulfil my duties, Faramir. I am the last heir of Elendil, it was never my highest dream…” He made no sense, but he would have gone on for much longer nonetheless, if Faramir had not stopped him.

“I know, Aragorn,” he said quietly, his gaze falling. “Your bloodline must continue. You need an heir, preferably more than one. Heirs I cannot give you.”

“Yes,” breathed Aragorn, all light fading from his heart. “No,” he added, hating to agree.

A dark silence fell heavily between them, sucking the very breath from Aragorn’s lungs and rasping at his throat with sharp claws.

“I know this…” Faramir mumbled. “Still, I ignored it, thinking… we could somehow escape it.”

His hand felt like a dead weight in Aragorn’s grasp. “I will hold true to my promise: I shall give you everything I can offer.”

The pain and confusion in Faramir’s face as he looked up was unbearable. “How can that be?”

It hurt to breathe, to prepare for what he would say next. If this was only half of the reaction that was to come, how would he ever manage? How would they manage?

But Faramir continued. “How can that be, Aragorn? You can never bind with me. I no longer doubt your love, but look where that takes me: to the edge of despair!”

His words picked up speed and his cheeks flushed. As Aragorn’s heart wrenched, the first tears glistened in his lover’s eyes.

“We can still bind!” he cried out before he could check his words.

“How can that be?!” Faramir stared at him desperately, his shoulders rising and falling quickly as he breathed harshly. “Today I truly imagined that some day we could bind, or marry, or whatever way you would deem appropriate – yes, I let my heart override my thoughts, this one day… But see?! It is NOT TO BE!”

“Faramir!” Heedless of any injuries on his body screaming for mercy, he lunged forward and caught the trembling man in a fierce embrace.

Fervently running his hands up and down his back, soothing and calming, he discovered his own cheeks were wet as well. He buried his face in Faramir’s hair, preventing his lover from breaking free.

“We can do all of that. We can bind or marry or join in any way you like.”

Shaking in his arms, Faramir shook his head violently, threatening to hurt Aragorn but not caring anymore – not caring about anything.

“You need heirs,” he spat out, making it sound like a curse.

“I do,” Aragorn acquiesced, trying to offer some strength through the tears that were now flowing freely from his eyes. “But listen to me, please listen…”

In that moment the inner door opened and the healer was about to step through. One stern look from his King, and he retreated and closed the door in front of him again.

“Listen to me, love, listen to me… There is one solution.”

The bitterness dripped from Faramir’s voice as he rejected any solutions. “There is none, Aragorn. Do not toy with me.”

Continuing to stroke his back, not so much because it worked to calm Faramir down as it gave his hands an occupation, he finally said it. “I am not, dearest, I promise you I am not. There is one solution. Nor you, nor I will like it, but it is the only one.”

He let the man in his arms catch his breath before he went on, desiring all of his attention. Faramir was silent.

“You will be my love, my mate, my consort, my spouse, anything that you wish, for I wish the same. But my children will have to be conceived with another. It will be a woman I will never love, but someone who can ensure that my line continues. Never willingly will I share our bed with anyone but you, but it is our sole option.”

Closing his eyes in this hour of doom, he added what he had whispered the night before.

“Goheno nin.“⁴

Time passed. It was as if night had come in the middle of the day. The light seemed dimmed around them and the air carried no sounds; there was naught but breathing, strained at first and the calmer. Eventually it evened out and became soft. Aragorn cried quietly, wetting Faramir’s hair and his tunic. His body ached and ever muscle frantically begged him to lie back down. His skin stung from the salt of his tears, but none of this mattered.

He cradled the lithe body in his arms as if Faramir were a fallen warrior and they were on a battlefield in the land of the dead. All strength had fled his beloved who would have fallen if he had not held him upright. When words finally formed on his tongue, Aragorn repeated them over and over again, as tenderly as was humanly possible.

“I love you, I love you… I love you so very dearly.”

Floating by, the minutes extended into eternity. A half-hour may have passed, or maybe not, but finally the slumped form stirred as if it awakened after a long sleep. Drained, Aragorn watched as Faramir broke free from his embrace and slowly, and with great effort, fixed his gaze on him.

He looked utterly exhausted when he licked his lips. A mist had blocked out the shimmer of his eyes and it made Aragorn think of sunken lakes, uninhabited by any living creatures.

But there was a streak of determination in his features and his jaw was set. When he spoke, his voice was devoid of all emotion save for one: resolve.

“I doubt not that you will choose wisely when you search for the mother of you children, my lord.”

Aragorn held his breath as the world closed in on him.

“But no matter how good a woman she is, she will never share our bed.”

Hardly daring to let these words sink in, he still refused to breathe.

There was no smile on Faramir’s face, but the fog lifted a little and a part of it fled from his eyes.

“Never shall she have more of you than absolutely necessary. Promise me this.”

And then breathing became so very important. Nearly exhaling and inhaling at the same time, Aragorn threw his arms around Faramir for a second time that day, promising and promising and promising.

“Never, love, never. I am yours. Yours, do you hear me?”

Falling backwards as his body conquered his stubborn mind and his fighting heart, he brought Faramir with him and together they tumbled down onto the mattress. He clung to the body he held as Faramir clutched him tightly.

“I am yours, forever yours.”

Aragorn repeated these words into this night of day until his throat was sore and he wondered if the dawning of spring was ever to arrive.

⁴ You will remember that “Goheno nin” is Sindarin for “Forgive me”.

Note: Okay, don’t kill me. I don’t mean to destroy everything, but those of you who have read “Now” know that this is my way of solving the male/male-lover-means-no-children-problem. And whatever one might think about it, the bloodline is important – or Aragorn would never have been needed for Gondor’s throne in the first place and could have kept on living as Estel in Rivendell. I’m presuming here, but I think our ideas got a little influenced by mr Mortensen’s (brilliant) portrayal of Aragorn in the movies. That version of Aragorn displays much more reluctance and he is more Strider than Elessar. When reading the books I’m always surprised at the amount of willingness to become King that Aragorn actually shows. In several places Tolkien writes that he appears kingly and majestic – long before he even sets foot in Gondor during the war. He doesn’t hesitate to call himself the heir of Elendil either. Therefore, I assume that he would want to see his bloodline continue. Or, again, he could have simply have renounced his heritage. Remember that there have been three joinings of all the bloodlines of the Eldar and Men throughout the history of Middle-earth: first, Lúthien and Beren, second Elrond and Celebrían, and third Aragorn and Arwen. And all of these have been produced significant results. However, I don’t believe that our Elessar would contradict the wishes of his own heart.

In other words: tricky, tricky… Simultaneously we have this relationship between Aragorn and Faramir going so what to do? (You may have noticed now that we have strayed from the canon talk… ) I’m no fan of mpreg stories and in other ways too, I want to stay realistic. I’m hoping that, in time, you’ll forgive me. Cookies to all of you if you do!

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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