Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

The first half is for Vanwa Hravani and Kelly who both thought I dealt too lightly with Deren. I hope this pleases you! Thank you both for your faith in this story.

The second part, that’s for all of us ;)

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The Coldest Winter, Epilogue, part 2

Gondor, in the fifth year of the Fourth Age (IV 5)

The gloom of twilight lay over the woods around the border of Gondor. The temperature was alternately rising and falling. As it was at present, the snow had been melting for two days, wetting the topmost layer of white and creating an icy coat of sharp flakes that could be cruel enough to those who did not glove their fingers. The midday light had waned into an afternoon shine, and this had in its turn faded into dusk. Long shadows which only moments before had freely swept across the snow now mingled with the oncoming lightless darkness of evening.

There were no noises to be heard in the forest and maybe this was one of the reasons that Eachann found the setting somewhat unsettling. He was a strong man, and a proud ranger, even though his role in the past years had somewhat changed with the coming of the new King – and the growing of his family. Eachann was, however, forever loyal to his former Captain, in whose tracks he had trod in far more dangerous woods than these.

Despite the treacherous weather and the troubling temper of the night, he was happy at being back outdoors. This was what he knew best and he was not surprised at finding it more pleasurable being here than wandering the hallways of the White Tower from morning until night.

He had had a lot of time to think. And the more he thought, the more certain he grew that he had truly seen some remarkable times during his years. Faramir may be wedded to the King now, but he was no less his Captain and no more Denethor’s son than he had been before the War – or in the long years preceding it. Ever dutiful he had been, and ever had he put his heart’s wishes aside for whatever little good he had hoped that action would bring.

Eachann had seen the change, yes he had. When Elendil’s heir had appeared out of what seemed to be nothing else but remnants of old tales and songs, and had claimed the throne of Gondor, Eachann stood close to Faramir and so consequently heard the long breath of air that his Captain drew. He had witnessed the immediate kindling of the light of devotion in Faramir’s eyes, and he had seen him shrink away just as quickly. And then no one really knew what had taken place, for whatever it was, it had happened in silence and well hidden from view.

Until Deren. Curse that name!

Even if pain and sadness were – throughout many a long year – constant presences in Faramir’s eyes, Eachann had seen their power grow in the months during which King Elessar recovered from his accident, and with Deren in Minas Tirith, it had not lessened. And then, Deren. Once more – and Eachann had received a more thorough explanation than he had anticipated, even wished for.

A sudden rustle in the woods pulled his thoughts back to the present. Gripping his bow more firmly, Eachann sent a hopeful prayer to the Gods that is was, at least, a rabbit. A hare might do, if it was well-fed and had some meat on its bones. Not that their packs were empty, but fresh meat was always better than dried – and far, far, better it was than that elvish waybread the King had ordered them to bring along. ‘In case something happened and they needed some extra strength’ or whatever he had said. Legolas the Elf, who was alright to deal with in other matters, had sent a large batch from Ithilien where he and his people now dwelled. In fact, he made sure that the kitchens were never lacking in it. Weird creatures they were, those elves.

No, if Eachann had anything to say in the matter, he would recommend his men to eat some good and proper meat. And now, if luck proved to be on his side, he just might return to the campfires with some.

With some trouble he made his way through the snow which lay almost knee-high in the places where no trees would hinder it from falling to the ground. It softened the sound of his movements though, so he was able to creep forward undetected by the hidden animal.

In front of him, even in the gloom, Eachann saw the trees closing in on each other, forming a more compact wall of prickling fir-tree needles and snow-covered branches, bare of any withered leaves. He threaded his way between them, careful not to give away his presence.

Rustling was now heard somewhere to his right and so he changed his course, narrowing his eyes to peer through the trees. Night was falling swiftly and as darkness conquered the sky, the failing light of evening easily gave itself over to the shadows that greedily licked it up. The small fires of the ranger party were all lost to his sight, burning far away from where he was presently hunting his prey.

Snow slipped into his boots and would soon wet his skin as the heat of his body melted it. He was loathe to give up however as the mere thought of the elvish bread dared to penetrate his mind.

Eachann had learnt to get along with the elves as King Elessar had chosen an elvish… woman? Female? As King Elessar had chosen a female Elf to become the mother of his children. Also, with Legolas Thranduilion restoring the forests of Ithilien, eagerly aided by Faramir, his presence in Minas Tirith was common. Not mentioning the Lord Elrond, who seemed now quite content at staying in the White City for months in a row, as his sons – whom Eachann had also met on several occasions – looked after Rivendell, his realm. There had been talk of Elrond leaving for that place across the sea Eachann knew little about, but with the arrival of his grandchildren, the elvish Lord appeared to have decided to delay the voyage.

Maybe it was not hard to understand. The sons of the King – and Faramir, Eachann liked to think – were a blessing, even if they could be a handful at times. Not the youngest so much as the eldest, but as the hobbit Pippin had become Elboron’s treasured friend, Eachann counted himself among those preferred by Eldarion. And now, as the King expected his third child to arrive any day, Lord Elrond had again travelled to Minas Tirith to aid in whatever way he could, be it only as a devoted grandfather. Eachann had no problem with this, it was just that there were plenty of elves around.

He should have known better than to become so submersed in his own thoughts. He had no warning before a strong arm gripped one of his own and twisted it around his back, and an ice-cold, sharp blade pressed against his throat.

“Good evening, old friend.”

The voice was low and laced with false sweetness. It was a voice Eachann recognised immediately, even though several years had passed since he last heard it. Keeping his temper under control, he only hissed loudly, drawing a short chuckle from his attacker.

“Is that your idea of a proper greeting? Well, I never had much faith in you rangers. A brutal and uncivilised lot you are.”

This direct insult went straight to Eachann’s heart and awoke an anger that speedily rushed through him. Gritting his teeth, he tested the blade by shifting slightly in the uncompromising grip. “Release me.”

“I cannot do that, for, you see, I am not sure that you will allow me into Gondor.”

“As long as I draw breath I will not see you set your sorry foot inside the border.”

“Ah!” The sound of a lazy smile slipped into the voice.“That is why I am about to make sure that soon you will draw no more breaths.”

“No one will welcome you in Gondor.”

The knife pressed deeper into his skin and a sharp stinging told Eachann that his own blood was wetting the blade.

“I was once very close to your former Captain. It could be so again.”

Eachann snorted. “You are delirious! Faramir never cared for you, and he is married to the King now.”

“Yes… so I heard.” Scraping the blade in an almost thoughtful way along his throat, Deren suddenly laughed. “No one – and nothing – is holy. I am sure I could… persuade Faramir.” He reaffirmed his grip on Eachann’s arm. “He cannot possibly love that weak and pathetic man who claims to be the heir of the Great Kings of old – nor those sons of his. No, I will take care of things and settle the matter appropriately.” He wiped the blood from the blade by smearing it over Eachann’s skin. “What do you say, my friend… how should I deal with the children?”

It was to the images of Eldarion and Elboron that flooded his mind that Eachann was able to break free from Deren by savagely kicking a booted heel into his knees. Taking advantage of the moment, he spun around and shoved away the arm that held the knife. And before he could think, Eachann thrust the top of his bow into Deren’s chest, forcing the other man’s breath out of him.

Rage replaced the surprise in Deren’s eyes and he raised his arm, aiming at Eachann’s throat once more, but this time not appearing intent on wasting his time. The ranger threw himself at it, bringing them both down and he used all of his strength to force the blade from the fingers that were gripping it fiercely. Breathing harshly, he rolled away from his foe, clutching both his bow and the knife in his hands.

“Flee, or I shall not be able to answer for my actions.”

There was fright running across Deren’s features, but he laughed nonetheless. “Merciful, are you Eachann?” He unsteadily got to his feet, backing away from the ranger holding up the blade before him. “Mercy is weakness! They are one and the same thing, do you not see?” His laughter turned shrill as he continued to stumble backwards in the snow.

Eachann’s eyes narrowed as he watched the scene. His heart screamed with fury, and so did his mind. But King Elessar’s orders had been clear that accursed winter. And the unspoken wish behind them, even more so. Eachann fingered the knife in his hands and his breathing refused to calm down.

The darkness was quickly obscuring his view, but Deren’s voice carried through the trees without trouble.

“I am not weak, as you have seen! As everyone will see. I shall have that which I desire!”

Eachann dropped the knife to the ground. His jaw was set and he breathed not at all as he in one, swift move, reached for an arrow from his quiver, notched it and let it loose.

A piercing cry rang out into the forest.

Eachann notched a second arrow and sent it forth.

After the third arrow, silence ruled the woods.

Cautiously, he plodded through the thick layers of snow, but only far enough to see the heap of a body slumped beneath a fir-tree.

When he returned the next morning, he pulled out the arrowheads and cleaned them in the snow, deciding that if never questioned, he would say nothing about it.

That was the easiest way.

On his way back to the camp, snow began falling heavily, covering all that was not already buried beneath a blanket of innocent white.

Sliding open the door, Faramir let Aragorn enter the royal bedchamber first. A fire was roaring in its sooty cave and thick curtains had been drawn to keep the cold night out. A couple of oil lamps were lit and even some candles. The King of Gondor dropped down on the large bed while Faramir closed and locked the door behind them.

“She is beautiful, Aragorn.”

Still with a smile on his lips, Faramir approached the small table nestled by the wall, near the desk. He lifted the carafe and poured two glasses of a dark red wine, scented with strong herbs and therefore rich in both aroma and taste.

“I confess I am a bit surprised.”

Faramir turned to face the bed, lifting the glasses from the tabletop. “It was expected, was it not? At some point, at least?”

Aragorn was kicking off his boots. “I suppose no one could say for certain how these things work. Maybe my father can enlighten us?”

Faramir walked over to the bed with the wine flashing bright red in the flickering dance of the flames. “I shall ask him tomorrow, when I see him.”

Putting away his boots, Aragorn looked up with a mock expression of displeasure. “I am glad you two are getting along so terrifically, but would you please not forget about my existence in the process of making friends with him?”

“I will do my very best to remember you,” grinned Faramir as he placed one glass for Aragorn on the bed table and kept the other for himself. “Who did you say you were, now again?”

Being attacked by a positively amazing glare from his husband, he bent down and kissed the top of Aragorn’s head, chuckling only a little as he did it. “Ah, it comes back to me, I find…” he mused as he pulled himself up again.

“Brilliant,” Aragorn grumbled, but got to his feet, shooting an appreciative glance towards the floor.

“So, how do we celebrate the birth of you daughter, the first of the elven race in the family?” Faramir asked in a low voice, locking eyes with the dark-haired man in front of him.

Aragorn smiled a slow smile and traced a finger along his cheek. “You fell in love with her at once, did you not?”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably where he stood. He set his wine-glass down beside Aragorn’s. “Do not think I love Eldarion and Elboron any less, but she is lovely.”

Strong arms wrapped around him and he was pressed against the firm body of his husband.

“She resembles you.”

“That is impossible, Aragorn.”

The King backed off and held him an arm’s length away. “Her hair has a reddish hue.”

Faramir shrugged. “It will darken to brown.”

“Maybe,” agreed Aragorn and placed a kiss on his brow. “Then again, maybe not.”

Faramir circled his waist with his arms and brought them close once more. Thoughtfully, he rested his head on Aragorn’s shoulder. Naturally it was impossible for their daughter to resemble him at all but there was that tiny voice within that continuously repeated that maybe somehow, by the grace of the Valar, his love for Aragorn had left a small trace somewhere in the woven pattern of life.

The image of the newborn baby rose before his eyes and he smiled into the soft wool of Aragorn’s tunic. Her delicate features, her pointed ears and her rosy lips… Yes, Faramir had fallen in love immediately. Her mother, obviously happy of having given birth to an elven child, had smiled blissfully. Faramir had found he could only do the same.

Aragorn’s hand was sliding up and down his back, now and then tenderly tugging at his hair. “What are you thinking of, love?” His voice was low and gentle.

There was so much… So many years of pain and confusion, when he had thought he was all but lost to the world and forgotten by the people who were meant to love him – but had never really done so, or had not tried enough. Boromir had been taken from him – not only when he died, but many times before. His older brother had never meant for it to be so, but every time he made Denethor laugh, or praise him, Faramir had seen the void stretch between them.

Aragorn knew him well.

“You have a family of your own now.” He snaked a hand around Faramir’s chin and tilted his head backwards softly. “And we love you very much.”

“I know,” whispered Faramir before his lips were caught in a passionate kiss.

Aragorn undressed them swiftly, and as soon as they were wholly unclothed, he pressed his body against Faramir and forced him as close as possible. Faramir returned the action, caught Aragorn’s mouth and let his tongue slip between two pairs of longing lips.

His husband’s hands landed on his hips and circled them against his own, Faramir’s swelling member meetings its partner. He tasted Aragorn’s wet heat and delved deep into the softness of his mouth before releasing him and facing him again.

“I wish to take it slow tonight,” he said as he met the trusting grey gaze that always looked at him so openly; there were no lies, no secrets and no cunning plans aimed at him in those stormy depths.

“Then it shall be so,” responded Aragorn in low tones, and then he placed a single kiss on the bridge of Faramir’s nose. “Tell me what you desire.”

“You.” His lopsided smile was kissed into a broader grin as Aragorn attempted to find out exactly what he meant.

When the King had no success, he let go and reached down to pick up the neglected wine. Without words, he offered Faramir his glass and caught his eyes. Aragorn touched the rim of his glass to Faramir’s and they drank – in the younger man’s mind, to the completion that this night hinted at, to the ending of something he could no longer define. To excruciating pain that had proved bearable when he saw the results it had brought: the two, nay three, precious results that were now fast asleep in three separate beds. To all the love that had replaced the hatred and the evil that before had infected this place. To his fate which had led him into the arms and the heart of someone so beyond measure. To Aragorn.

Faramir set his glass down and it was soon joined by a second one. Tentative hands began sweeping over his bare chest, sporadically brushing over his dark nubs and causing them to harden at the attention. He gave as good as he got and ran his fingertips over strong shoulders and upper arms, content when he saw the skin rise as a shudder sped across it.

The first kisses were traded, but not enjoyed mouth to mouth. Instead, Aragorn traced a line of them along Faramir’s collar bones, tending with his tongue to the shallow bay just below his throat.

“I love you,” he whispered into the night, but intending the words for Aragorn only.

“As I love you,” his spouse smiled as he straightened and his hands resettled on Faramir’s hips.

“Can we not do this better in bed?” suggested Faramir, suspecting that the chill of night would soon attempt to sneak inside the chamber.

A disappointed look crossed Aragorn’s face. “You mean that we should abandon the rug?”

He rolled his eyes at this. “Aragorn, you have been proud of this rug for over two years. Can you not get over it? At the very least, the initial exhilaration?”

The disappointment transformed into a beaming smile, providing Faramir with some information on who Eldarion had inherited his swift changes in mood, and his animated expressions, from.

“But it is a brilliant rug!” Aragorn exclaimed. “We can stand up – undressed – for much longer with it here than we could before. This stone floor really is cold in the winter time.”

“Aragorn,” Faramir tried again as he shook his head. “I do want to lie down. I will still be unclothed, you know.”

The King’s eyes narrowed and he slid an open palm across the hip he was currently claiming. “Is that a promise?”

Shiver after shiver ran through him as Aragorn skimmed over his naked chest with his fingers. His spouse’s warm breath wafted over his neck and cheek and Faramir’s eyes lost their focus as the pleasure augmented. Being now able to sleep on his side as well as on his back, Aragorn had spooned up behind him in a way that always made Faramir feel completely safe. Now, however, what he felt was much more than that.

Aragorn was kissing his hair and murmuring soft words of encouragement as his hand danced over the skin he found underneath the covers. Faramir caught hold of it when it came up to stroke his cheek, and he placed similar kisses on the fingertips while Aragorn’s long, content sigh encircled them both.

Still with a light hold on the hand, Faramir twisted carefully in the embrace and met the lips that willingly sank down to his mouth. As his teeth grazed against The King’s lower lip, he felt the instinctive thrust of Aragorn’s hips, pressing his hardened need into his backside.

“I am all yours,” Aragorn mumbled against his mouth as his hand escaped Faramir’s grip and slid down towards his young husband’s groin.

“Then have me.” Faramir smiled into the lazy kiss as Aragorn’s hand brushed over his arching member and caused an almost nauseous tingling to stir within him.

The hand left his groin and slid over his hips, leaving him with a burning desire for more. Resting already upon one of the pillows was a half-filled vial of oil, and this one he reached for and offered to Aragorn along with a deep kiss.

As the first finger breached his entrance, Aragorn sunk down to rest his head against Faramir’s cheek. “From now on, I sleep only with you.” His voice was raspy and caused a new shiver to rush through Faramir’s body. “Never think I wanted anything else.”

“I know, love. I know.”

Faramir breathed deeply as he was carefully stretched. Aragorn’s mouth was sporadically placing kisses along his jaw and when he withdrew his fingers, he immediately replaced them with the blunt head of his arousal.

“Make me yours, Aragorn. Once and for all.”

His plea was heeded without delay, and as his King slid into him, Faramir was sure his vision filled with the starlight that only appeared to be hidden from view behind the clouds in the night sky.

Aragorn’s body moved slowly, nearly covering his own. It was not every day – or night – that his husband had the strength to take him thus, but right now he seemed intent on carrying it out. Faramir would enjoy any pace he chose, as he also did this night. When Aragorn struck the sensitive spot within him, the pulsing through his own erection increased and he pushed back hard. Automatically, his hand sought it out, eliciting a growl from Aragorn. His husband needed his hands to keep himself steady, but it did not bother Faramir that he had to touch himself as it always served to arouse Aragorn even further.

Faramir’s harsh breathing mingled with Aragorn’s groans as they drove each other closer to the edge. The younger man forced his eyes to regain focus as Aragorn lost control and spiralled into his release, his beautiful ecstasy painted across his features. He collapsed against the length of Faramir’s body, burying his face in the copper hair and using his last strength to join his spouse’s hand that was erratically and desperately stroking his still hard member.

Faramir did not know what kind of touch Aragorn applied to him as he was too far gone by now, but he felt himself coming forcefully, madly thrashing underneath the King’s body.

“Only you.”

Aragorn’s words clung to him all the way through the shaky aftermath.

When he finally felt the world settle down around him again, Faramir realised Aragorn had pulled out of him and was now lying on his back with his eyes closed but with a smile on his lips. Nestling closer, Faramir placed his head on his chest and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“Content?”

“Very.” Aragorn ran a finger along his arm. “You know, you should get up and unlock the door, or Dari will have an awful lot of trouble fighting it in the morning.”

“I should do that, you say?” Faramir let go of Aragorn and raised himself up on one elbow.

Aragorn nodded against the pillow. “You are the young and strong one.”

“I think you proved your strength excellently only minutes ago,” Faramir teased him, happy at seeing the smile widen into a grin.

As it was though, Aragorn was correct, and reluctantly he slipped out of the bed and hastily made for the door, blowing out the candles as he went.

“Now can you see the magnificence of the rug?” Aragorn called after him cheerfully.

“It is splendid. It really warms my back,” muttered Faramir.

“I heard that!”

Upon returning to the bed, Faramir dove beneath the covers, pressing his chilled body against Aragorn who gave a small cry.

“Cold!”

“See?”

“No,” shuddered Aragorn, pulling him closer. “But I can certainly feel. Oh, well… Lucky for you I am here to warm you.”

“Lucky me,” Faramir smiled into the dark hair.

For a while they lay in silence, listening to the sleepy crackling of the fire and the winds chasing each other outside the windows.

“Meleth nin?” Aragorn’s voice had taken on a more serious note.

“Yes?”

“I think I have decided on… what to name our daughter.”

Faramir nodded. They had agreed on ‘Eldarion’ and ‘Elboron’ together, and the children’s mother had chosen two more names, one for each of the boys, as she would also do for the girl. However, if Aragorn had already made up his mind this time and did not need Faramir’s opinion, it was so. After all, Aragorn was her birthfather.

Now Aragorn turned to face him, his eyes a dark grey in the dim light. There was a slight hint of uncertainty in his expression.

“I would like to name her ‘Mirairael’.” A small hopeful smile faintly ghosted across his lips. “If that is alright with you?”

Faramir could only look at him, very, very conscious of the enormous tidal wave of love welling up within, and the sudden glaze that filled his husband’s eyes. He swallowed.

“I would love that,” he whispered.

Dazedly, he leaned closer and placed his lips over Aragorn’s. He felt strong arms encircling him and he melted into the embrace.

So many gifts to treasure…

When Aragorn released him, Faramir opened his mouth to speak, to offer some words of thankfulness, but Aragorn only smiled and shook his head. His hand came up and brushed the stray strands of copper-coloured hair from Faramir’s forehead.

“Your love means more to me than any words could ever do,” he said softly. “Beloved.”

So Faramir sank bank into the arms that were his haven, without speaking, but with a joyful heart and a soaring soul.

And Eä held them both safely.

The End

Notes: I have, as you have no doubt noticed, blended canonical facts with my own imagination.

1. After the War of the Ring, Legolas settled with his Elves of Mirkwood in Ithilien and remained there until Aragorn’s death in IV 120. Ithilien became known as the fairest of all the western lands during this time.

2. The names of Aragorn’s children:

Eldarion is the name of Aragorn’s son by Arwen, meaning ‘Descendant of the Eldar’.

Elboron may be the name of Faramir’s son by Éowyn, although Tolkien never really presents him to us with absolute certainty. Faramir’s grandson, Barahir, is the more famous one.

In this story, the name of Aragorn’s daughter Mirairael, is a play on the Sindarin –mir ending of Faramir’s name meaning ‘jewel’, and the Quenya word for copper-coloured, ‘aira’. Isn’t that fitting so say?

3. Eä is the Universe, brought into being by Ilúvatar. (Eä! – Be!)

And here we come to the end. I thank you all so very much for your lovely reviews and comments – I have truly cherished every one of them! If I should, some day, find myself in the dire need of a sequel, it will be named “The Most Grassy Spring” as suggested by Grey Pigeon – for who could ever deny such a terrific title?

Love.

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