Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

We will now have a change of perspective: this is from Faramir’s point of view.

Chapter 3 – Exploding

He had not meant to come off so harsh, but now it was done. This was definitely not the way he normally spoke to his King, but Faramir had ridden all day and was in no mood for long talks and discussions. Already he knew what Aragorn wished to say as he had heard the same words over and over again, ever since the day the King had had his accident. Now he was about to resume the kissing, but Aragorn seized his opportunity.

“Faramir,” he burst out, “please, wait!” His eyes caught Faramir’s and the Steward recognised in them the pain he knew all too well. “We must speak…”

Faramir felt a very atypical anger spread through him; like a wild-fire it began with the smallest spark in his breast, but soon it flamed brightly and burned savagely in his blood. He had had enough of this! With fierce determination he pressed Aragorn even closer to the window-glass.

“No, no, Aragorn, we must not speak. I have heard everything you might want to say many times by now and I will not hear it again,” he stated. “You are afraid, and of what I am well aware, but I do not want to hear it again!”

Aragorn’s eyes shone before him, their grey beauty so intimately entwined with worry and insecurity. The King silently pleaded, to some power it appeared, desperately wishing for something to cling to, some kind of safe ground. He would not offer that, Faramir decided, his anger ready to explode.

“Faramir, you do not understand…” the King began once more.

And there it was: explosion.

The Steward let go of Aragorn, staggered backwards and threw his arms up in the air.

“I do not understand? I do not understand?!” he cried out, staring at the man in front of him. “Have you gone insane Aragorn?! How can you even suggest that I do not understand?”

Aragorn watched him in silence. It did not help his mood.

“I have pledged my loyalty to you, as a Steward to his King. I have spent almost every day in your company. I have cared for you, I have served you, I have laughed with you, I have been at your side for many a month now, Aragorn – I know you!” He drew another breath, “I have cared for you and served you because that is what I wish to do,” he added, making sure Aragorn knew that was a choice he had made consciously.

The King made no sign to stop him. Faramir eyed him, still in frantic disbelief.

“I know who you are, Aragorn, and this is not you,” he said, shaking his head energetically. “Yes, you are proud, but this is not pride, as you want to name it. This is fear. And you do not fear anything!”

He was trembling now, and ironically, a little afraid of himself and at the reaction he might be provoking. Faramir was no hot-tempered man and this outburst was as new to him as it must be to Aragorn.

Boromir might have done it, it came to him suddenly. His brother would have shouted like this – that would have been just like him. At the thought, he gathered his strength again. Aragorn seemed to stand frozen in time before him.

“What is it you fear, my lord? That I shall laugh at you this time, that I shall, what, come to my senses and reject you because you fell from a horse that trampled all over you – by mistake – and left you injured?” He spat out the words, hating them, but still deeming them necessary. “Is this what you think?” he added, fully emptying his racing mind. His head was spinning so fast he felt dizzy.

Silence.

Outside it was now completely dark. The skies had cleared up, but there was no moon to be seen. The cold winter stars pierced the blackness but could do naught to help the situation.

I have gone mad. I should never have done this.

The fire in the room had almost burned down and the chill was creeping in from underneath the closed door. It was odd, he reflected, that no one had come to see if the King was alright. Someone must have heard his shouting, since the place was full of guards and servants. But here they were, uninterrupted and alone.

The handful of lit candles cast a strange light about the office, bringing forth the shadows more than repressing them. The fire died gradually and soon the embers glowed like heated glass in the hands of a skilled glass-maker.

When someone finally spoke, it was Aragorn.

“I am sorry,” he said in a voice so weak it might have been taken for simply a breath. “I am sorry, Faramir.”

The King held out a hand, and with it, calling for him, begging him to come closer. Faramir did not feel the stone floor beneath him as he walked forward and again found himself directly in front of the older man.

There were tears in his grey eyes and Aragorn was pale enough to match the stars. “Forgive me.”

Faramir said nothing. His breathing had slowed down now and was almost back to normal. His outburst seemed very far away though he knew it was only moments ago he had lashed out at Aragorn. He felt detached from every proper emotion and sensation.

“You are right,” said Aragorn quietly. “Everything you said is true… I am afraid, which does not happen very often, but it is true.” A faint smile ghosted across his face. “Forgive a daft King, will you, Faramir?”

It was such a small smile, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it served to waken Faramir from his disconnected awareness. He let out a long breath he did not know he had been holding. Collapsing in the arms of his King he nodded frantically, assuring him that everything was fine.

“Yes Aragorn, you are forgiven. And forgive me as well, for screaming at you.”

“No, that is impossible – there is nothing to forgive,” Aragorn said, holding him close. “I am very grateful to you for what you said. I believe I needed to hear it,” he admitted, bringing his hand up to stroke the copper coloured hair of his Steward. “Very grateful indeed,” he repeated. “But, dearest,” he let Faramir go and looked at him, the smile growing in his features, “I do need to sit down. I have been standing for a long time.”

If he had not before been fully aware of the situation, Faramir now came round. Of course Aragorn must be tired as he had not sat down the entire time. Reaching for his chair, Faramir helped Aragorn sit and the King leaned back, finally relaxing.

“Come here,” he asked.

Faramir knelt beside him, placed his head carefully in his King’s lap, and Aragorn once again began caressing his hair. A peaceful stillness settled around them, and the embers crackled lazily in the fireplace. It was growing colder, but none of them dared to disturb the silence, Faramir suspected. It was also getting quite late and he had not had anything to eat since he came back from his mission in South Ithilien, where he had been rebuilding some sheds and repaired houses. He was happy though, happier than he would have believed possible only hours ago.

Aragorn’s hand had kept up its stroking, but now it sneaked under Faramir’s chin and turned his face upward. The dim candlelight accentuated Aragorn’s features, darkening his hair and illuminating his skin. His eyes shone once more, but this time they were free of agony. Faramir thought him beautiful, the most handsome man he had ever known.

After a moment, Aragorn warily leaned down, appearing to constantly scan Faramir’s face for any indication of dismissal, but upon finding one – which the kneeling man made sure of – he placed his lips over Faramir’s and kissed him.

It was a kiss as light as a feather, but it lingered on his lips longer than any kiss ever had. It was no kiss of burning passion, but it sent his blood humming in his veins. It was not a demanding kiss, but Faramir would have offered his soul to stay within that touch for the rest of his life. It was a loving kiss, and he gave all of his love in return.

When they parted, Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully.

“I would never send you away,” he said in a low voice, “but even the embers are dying and the candles provide no heat.”

Faramir nodded slowly, not at all willing to rise.

Aragorn traced a finger along his cheek. “I also suspect you did not care to eat before you stormed in here,” he smiled. When he was rewarded with a sheepish smile in return, he continued. “Then I ask you to go and find something edible in the kitchens, and if you will, bring some of whatever you come across to me? It is after all, long past supper.”

At his words, Faramir felt a small hope spring up. He chose his words carefully.

“You would… see me again tonight then, my lord?” he asked, trying to read Aragorn’s smile before the King answered.

“Yes, I would, Faramir,” Aragorn stated simply. He motioned for the Steward to stand up, which he did so quickly he felt his head spin once more. “Find us something to eat and then come to my chambers. I will make it there on my own, I assure you,” he added when the other man opened his mouth to speak.

Faramir nodded. A tingle of nervousness sped through him and settled in his stomach. He made his way to the door, but turned to look back at his King who was still seated in his chair.

“You will manage?” He had to make sure.

“I will,” Aragorn reassured him with a smile, and somewhere in that smile lay a promise.

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