Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Lately I have been very inspired and have taken the time to nearly finish this story. What remains are three chapters, including this one, and one epilogue (yes, we will only have one of those, I think). All of this will be posted with about a week in between. Is that a good deal?

Chapter 22 – Choosing

Two days passed, during which Faramir – when he came back from his duties – said the palace was unnaturally quiet. Reportedly there was a tension in the air and when people spoke they did so in whispers more often than not. It had much to do with Deren still being locked away and awaiting his sentence, but it probably had equally as much to do with the rumours concerning the King and his Steward that Faramir finally had admitted swept through the palace like an invisible torrent .

Aragorn was regaining his strength and had even received a few approving nods from the healer. He slept much and his skin benefited from it as it needed undisturbed rest to heal properly. Still, what was most important to him was how Faramir acted around him; contrary to the rest of the palace, in the healing chamber there was not so much tension as there was hesitancy.

What had originally been intended as loving caresses turned into fumbling touches as at least one out two minds wavered and waited too long. When they both faltered, the result was disastrous. Three full cups of tea had so far fallen to the floor, causing the healer to mutter long sequences about ‘healed skin being scorched and injured all over again’ and ‘impossible patients’. In the end, he had had enough and ordered Faramir out of the room if he had no ‘proper business there’.

Aragorn sensed the great void that had appeared in their lives, a void desperately needing to be filled. After Faramir had accepted the fact that the King would have to sire heirs with another, and after he had set his own terms – terms that Aragorn would readily agree to every day of his life – a world of possibilities had opened up to them. Yet, neither of them seemed entirely sure on how to proceed. Faramir had slept in his own chamber, leaving Aragorn to heal, and the King would not dream of begging anything else of him. Not now.

Behind the heavy clouds, the winter sun was slanting towards the western horizon. The inner door opened and the healer stepped across the threshold. He fixed Aragorn with an intense gaze, seemingly making up his mind about something. After a few moments, he put his hands on his hips.

“So, my lord. Where will you have your supper?”

Aragorn stared at him in complete disbelief. “I beg your pardon?”

The healer made a face. “I forgive you. I asked you where you will take your supper?”

“You are letting me out of here?”

“For a couple of hours.”

A thousand ideas at once rushed into his head, but before he had the time to put them in any order, the healer continued.

“I have seen the two of you these past days… Tragic.” He shook his head. “To say the least. I recommend you do something about it.”

Nodding numbly, Aragorn could not agree more.

“Oh, and you just might wish to tackle the rumours while you are at it,” the healer suggested.

Going through them, one idea stood out more than the others, and Aragorn smiled.

The dining hall had been scrupulously altered to accommodate all of his needs and desires. The great table had been pushed far aside and all of the chairs were lined up against one wall. Instead of them, two large, cushioned armchairs were found by the fire-place where also stood a low table already dressed. The scene resembled the one in the antechamber where he had spent almost the entire night with Faramir, except that this one was grander and far more public.

If one took a closer look, it was immediately obvious that it had not been necessary at all to push the customary furniture so far away, but Aragorn had specifically ordered this to be done. He could not say if making a point had ever been more important to him, ignoring what he had done during his mission to extinguish Sauron.

The slow walk to the dining hall had truly been dreadful. It was the first time he was on his feet since after the attack and his body cursed him for even attempting to stand, much less walk. Heavily he had leaned on the two summoned guards, allowing them to carry most of his weight.

“It is good for you,” the healer had nodded contentedly as he stumbled down the hallway. “In any case you shall have to start walking if you do not wish to be confined to a bed for eternity.”

Aragorn had grid his teeth and kept on moving.

But now that he had finally arrived, he was glad he had done it. The fire and the various candles and torches cast a flaming glow about the room, bathing it in warm oranges and reds. The shadowed corners implied an intimacy that was most desired in the King’s heart. The healer had allowed him to drink one or two glasses of wine (‘but no more’) and had recommended him to eat as much as possible as it would ‘give him the strength to walk back to the healing chamber’. Aragorn suspected he would gladly have eaten a full hobbit breakfast – and the Second one – if that could in any way help him.

Pulling the blanket he had sent for earlier closer around him, he leaned back in the chair, saving that well-needed strength for whatever came next. If it came.

He had sent a message with the servants, summoning Faramir to supper in here, but not permitting them to relay any of what was currently going on in the dining hall. He sighed unwillingly, for some reason uncertain that the Steward would even show up. Maybe it was only he who had interpreted the hesitancy between them as hesitancy, while Faramir was feeling less and less inclined to share his time with him?

Pondering was useless, he knew that, but it was impossible to refrain from it.

Someone came to stir the fire and Aragorn could not help himself. “Did you find the Steward?” he inquired.

The girl bowed briskly. “It was not I who was entrusted with the message, but I have heard that he means to come here.”

“I see,” said Aragorn, silently cursing his nervousness and the fact that news seemed to travel more quickly among the servants than to him.

“He should be here shortly,” the girl added and then bowed once more and left.

“Great,” muttered Aragorn after her.

Soon though, anxiety surpassed his other feelings as his eyes fixed themselves upon the doorway and refused to let it go. The hallway lay in shade and it gave him the feeling of being separated from the rest of the world. This was all there was: the dimly lit dining hall, floating freely in the space between the cold winter raging outside, and the darkness opposite it. The darkness that led to wherever Faramir was.

When his eyes finally caught a small movement by the door, Aragorn was not sure what he was seeing; it might be a ghostly vision for all he knew. As it turned out, it was yet another servant, bringing a tray of warm bread. Sinking further into his chair, he watched the servant leave and then he closed his eyes.

He had been drifting in an imageless mist for some time when a low voice broke through his doze.

“Aragorn?”

Slowly opening his eyes, he immediately spotted the outline of Faramir hovering by the door.

“Aragorn?” he called out again, this time a bit louder.

Relief flooded through him as he pulled himself upright to the fervent complaints of his muscles.

“I am sorry, I drifted off.”

Faramir warily walked across the floor with a questioning look about him, and not a small amount of concern.

“Are you well? Aragorn, what is this?” he asked when he was finally standing near the King’s chair.

Still nervous, Aragorn searched his face. “Do you approve of it?”

“Approve?” echoed Faramir. “You are out of bed and that can only mean you walked here by yourself… Does the healer know?”

Before he could move away, Aragorn reached out and grasped his hand. “Yes, he knows. Do not worry so. Does it please you?”

Faramir blinked at him, but he did not pull away. “Is that a confession, Aragorn? Did you walk here by yourself?”

“I had help,” Aragorn admitted. “But, yes, I was on my very own feet.”

Suddenly smiling, Faramir sunk to his knees. “That is good news,” he said. “As long as it was not a foolish idea of yours that you carried out without asking permission?”

“Oh, believe me, he knows. He kept on encouraging me… it was brilliant.” Aragorn heard himself the grumpiness in his tone, but it only served to widen Faramir’s smile and so in the end he was happy.

“I am sorry I missed it.” Faramir rose to his feet and took in the scene before him. “Now, what _is _all of this?”

“I thought we needed some time together, outside the healing chamber,” explained Aragorn, once more feeling the cold pads of anxiety’s feet sneak across his chest.

“And by that you mean in plain sight,” surmised Faramir correctly.

“Yes.”

Nodding slowly, the Steward pulled his hand free and circled the back of Aragorn’s chair. As if he were treading upon glass, he carefully lowered himself into the armchair that was intended for him. When he offered it, his smile was weak.

“I do agree with you, Aragorn, but I am nervous.” His gaze fell and he drew a long breath. “If we do this… well, then we set things in motion, do we not?”

“We do,” said Aragorn quietly, fearful of scaring him away. “If you choose to do this, then it all begins.”

Faramir raised his eyes to meet him. “I am truly scared, Aragorn.”

“Would you believe me if I said I am so too?”

It took a lot of strength not to recapture the younger man’s hand, but Aragorn could clearly see the fright in his eyes and he would not force him. This was Faramir’s decision and Aragorn would never be completely happy if he knew he had somehow influenced the choice to be made, no matter if it was well-intended and only carried out in the name of a vain hope for a love-filled future.

Faramir appeared not to have heard, or he simply did not answer. He sat staring into the fire for long moments.

“Two choices,” he said at last. “Two very different paths may I walk in this life.” He did not take his eyes from the flames that greedily licked at the wood. “I could choose to deny this and live alone – for alone I would live. I could never love someone as I love you.” His voice was steady but low, as if he were speaking to himself rather than to the very person he was addressing. “I would see you every day, for I would not be able to leave, and it would pain my heart greatly to know that you were beyond my reach. Still, it would be typical of me.”

Aragorn swallowed and fought the urge to speak, to assure him that he would never be turned away. He held his tongue, though.

“Or I could choose this,” continued Faramir, nodding at the table before him, but clearly indicating much more than just the wine and the bread. “I could choose to live by your side as your lover… maybe even as your spouse.” There was a faint rising of colour in his cheeks at the words. “Yet it would pain me too, for at times you would have to leave me for another’s embrace.” He finally shifted his gaze to Aragorn. “I can only hope that those moments will be scarce and that your love will not diminish because of them. For my love for you could never lessen.”

He knew not if he was allowed to speak and so he stayed silent. It proved to be the right thing, for Faramir once more drew his eyes back to the fire.

“And this is the hour in which the choice is to be made,” he said, a touch of despair to his voice. “I thought, during the War, that that was the time when the most important choices of my life were to be made. I chose not to take the Ring from Frodo… I chose to fight for Osgiliath, in vain as it turned out, I even chose between life and death for myself… and yet, these choices seem so simple to me right now.”

You will never know how happy I am that you chose to live…

“So what do I do, Aragorn? Both paths will bring me pain.” Then, another smile ghosted across his fire lit face. “But I do believe that one of these would bring me greater joy than anything else ever could.” He turned to face Aragorn fully. “So, I choose you, and the love you have promised me.”

Feeling every tense muscle in his body finally relaxing, and letting out a long breath, Aragorn slumped back into his chair.

“You have it,” he whispered. “I give you all my love, for eternity.”

“Save some for your family and friends,” said Faramir, the smile continuously growing in his features. He gave his chair a push and aligned it with Aragorn’s. “Other than that, I accept your offer.”

“Done,” Aragorn smiled. “Done.”

“Now you may kiss me,” said Faramir with a teasing light in his eyes.

“Is that so? Remember I am an old, weary man who have not used his feet until this evening for many a day.”

Faramir snorted. “Since when do you need your feet to kiss me?”

“True,” Aragorn agreed and leaned forwards, capturing the mouth before him and giving Faramir the most tentative kiss he could muster.

Faramir pulled him closer still, and held him securely in his arms, surrounding him with a type of warmth that the fire had no chance of bringing any living creature. The Steward’s lips were soft upon his, and he gently brushed against them as he hoped to insert faith and trust in the future in the mind and body of his beloved.

When they drew apart, Faramir’s expressive eyes conveyed at least some of this, and Aragorn sent a short but grateful prayer to the Valar.

“So how does one go about this properly,” Faramir asked as he rested his head on the King’s shoulder.

“Do not expect an intelligent answer,” said Aragorn. “I have never done this before.” He eyed the table before them. “I was ordered to eat well…”

Chuckling, Faramir’s head bounced slightly where it lay. “Then I think we should start there,” he decided and abruptly rose from his seat. “Let me see if I can find one of the servants.”

However, as soon as he stood and with a searching gaze surveyed the room, two servants stepped out from the shadows and immediately set to work. Somewhat baffled, Faramir sank back down. “No wonder the place swarms with rumours,” he said in a wondrous tone.

“Which reminds me,” said Aragorn, pulling him close once more. “I was also ordered to tackle the very rumours that you speak of.”

“And here I was under the impression that your feet were too tired,” Faramir teased him but let himself be drawn into an embrace that was just a bit awkward as they were in different chairs.

Acknowledging the approaching servants with a nod, Aragorn only kissed the top of his head. In silence they watched as a steaming stew was placed before them and the bread was taken away and then brought back, reheated. When they seemingly were alone again, Faramir shook his head against Aragorn’s chest.

“I confess I am still nervous.”

“It will be fine. I am absolutely certain of it,” Aragorn told him, daring to believe his own words.

When he, an hour later, was back in his bed in the healing chamber, he still believed them. And he fell asleep to the beautiful sound of Faramir’s voice still ringing in his ears, as he chose love and not loneliness for them both.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, and so matched Aragorn’s mood perfectly. If he for a minute or two pretended that he could not feel his complaining legs, he felt more than ready to rise from his bed and seek out Faramir and proceed with his life. Utterly weary of staying in bed for so long, the King of Gondor proclaimed himself fit to leave the healing chamber. Or he would have done so, had there been anyone around to listen.

Therefore, he was happy when the door opened and revealed a shape blocking out the soft light floating about in the corridor outside.

“I am sorry to disturb you at such an early hour,” said a voice Aragorn had not expected and which quite efficiently killed his hopes of seeing Faramir. “May I enter?”

“Please.” Aragorn made a wide gesture with his hand, indicating the substantial lack of another presence in the chamber.

With a nod, the Elder stepped inside and closed the door behind him. “My sincerest wishes for your swift recovery, my lord.”

“Thank you,” said Aragorn and motioned towards a chair. “Will you take a seat?”

“Gratefully.” Behind the white beard, the Elder flashed a wry smile. “I do not like to admit to it, but I am not as young as I once was.”

His form was indeed stooped and the robes of light grey that fell from his shoulders only served to enlighten the effect that his long beard had. With a sigh he lowered himself to sit. “My back betrays me,” he said mournfully, shaking his head. “In the mornings, when I am rested, it lures me into thinking I could walk an entire circle around the City, but as soon as I have broken my fast I realise it is not so.”

“Old age is the curse of Men,” said Aragorn.

The Elder surveyed him with a curious eye. “Would you then prefer to live forever, my lord?”

More times than he could count had Aragorn considered this. “I was brought up among the Elves. During my first innocent years I believed that too was my fate. Upon realising I was mortal I unreservedly mourned for my destiny, not understanding how one could discover all there was to life in such a limited time.”

“And yet, we seem to find a path on which we tread through life.”

Smiling, Aragorn could only agree. “We do. By the Lady’s grace, indeed we do.”

The inquisitive light did not leave the eyes of the Elder but no subject that was too private to be breeched was brought up. Instead, Aragorn’s guest brought forth a parchment already partially covered in writing.

“My lord, we have yet to consider what to do with Deren.” He handed over the parchment to Aragorn. “I have already noted his crimes and the dates when they were carried out. It is all proper procedure of course, but you will see that I have gone into detail of an unusual kind. As these are grievous crimes indeed, I thought it best to be precise.”

Aragorn read through the paragraphs, realising for the first time how close he had been to entering the Halls. He was not used to considering his own existence as something incredibly vital, having never truly understood the significance of his birth and the importance of his well-being. But now, as the neatly penned words before his eyes hinted at possible disaster if the King of Men – who was he – had perished at the hands of a cruel mind and the icy fingers of winter, understanding began to creep into his mind.

It made him long for someone to hold on to as he still had trouble seeing how he was all of this. It even made him wish for a dose of the healer’s sarcastic humour, and he knew then that the situation was bad.

He let the parchment drop to a rest on top of the covers. “So what do we do?”

The Elder ran a thoughtful hand along his beard. “Behead him?”

Aragorn was relieved to see the disarming glimmer in his eye. “No, I will not do that. Too much blood has already flowed at my feet.”

His guest leaned back in his chair and appeared to examine the windows and the world outside. Silence stretched out between them as the sun – a rare sight this winter – with coy rays embraced the light blue sky.

When the inner door opened and the healer appeared, it took them both by surprise. Even the healer himself seemed slightly taken aback for he blinked an extra time before he turned his gaze to the King.

“It is alright,” Aragorn assured him. “You do not disturb us.”

“I would never dream of disturbing you, my lord. Only once in a while when you seem to forget the importance of resting.” He crossed the floor and critically eyed Aragorn’s facial skin. “These past days have done you good, though. I suppose I should congratulate you upon – dare I hope? – finally having discovered the wisdom of my words.”

Aragorn was about to please him further by muttering, but the Elder broke his unmoving stance and straightened as best he could. “May ask you a question?”

The healer inclined his head.

“Would you say that the attack on the King was, in itself, enough to have killed him, or did the cold outside do most of the work?”

The healer’s answer was delivered at once. “No, the attack would not have been fatal had it taken place indoors. Even so, by dragging the King outdoors, the attacker stated his intention plainly. It is clear to me that he did not have the nerve to strike him dead himself, but hoped that the weather would solve his problem. Ruthless and calculating, but cowardly.”

“You would have preferred it if Deren had killed me instead?” grumbled Aragorn.

The healer’s smile was almost warm. “Not at all! It has been a great joy tending to you, my lord.” He winked unsettlingly. “It has been most interesting.”

The Elder was rereading the parchment he had fetched from the covers. “I shall make a new copy and then return to hear your verdict.”

He took his leave and when the door had closed behind him, Aragorn let his head fall back upon the pillows. “What shall I do with him?” He worded his thoughts out loud, hoping that maybe the action would bring him some clarity.

“Judging by the fresh rumours circulating, I was under the impression that you had heeded my advice yestereve?”

Suddenly feeling years younger, Aragorn made a face and glared. “I meant not Faramir, but Deren. I will not have his shadow casting its gloom over Minas Tirith any longer.”

“Then send him away.” The healer shrugged and began sorting through the herbs he had brought, spreading them upon a clean cloth that he made sure covered the surface of the bed table.

“Send him away,” Aragorn echoed him thoughtfully. Then he drew himself upright. “What is this about ‘fresh rumours’?”

“Ah,” smiled the healer. “It is now common knowledge that the King and the Steward of Gondor have a problem with chairs. They do not seem to understand that two separate chairs never can be transformed into a single one, no matter how hard they try.”

Groaning loudly, Aragorn sank back. But he could not hinder the small smile that insisted on growing upon his lips.

Note: I was asked the question before, and I thought I’d answer it publicly as well. Both Elves and Men go to Mandos after their death. Whereas the Elves await their probable rebirth in Aman (the Undying Lands), Men await their journey to a mysterious land that even the Valar do not know anything about. Only Ilúvatar himself fully knows the fate of Men.

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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