Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 4 – Moving

Faramir made his way down to the kitchens letting his familiarity of the corridors and stairs guide his feet; his mind was being consumed by the anticipation and apprehension that grew stronger every minute. They had come to some sorts of crossroads, he knew. Seemingly, they were moving in the same direction, but if Aragorn chose to follow a different path – if he changed his mind – Faramir would not know what to do. The rage that had coursed through him earlier that night had left both his body and mind, and was nowhere to be seen, no matter how deep he looked into his own heart. He only longed to see that smile again – the smile Aragorn had given him as he exited the office.

Faramir quickened his pace and would not have noticed if an army of orcs urged on by twenty revived Sarumans came towards him. Not until he brutally collided with the closed kitchen door did he stop, rubbing his forehead and swearing, but quite happy it was past midnight and the place was deserted.

Inside, he absentmindedly picked up some bread and cheese and placed the food in the first basket he came across. He also found some apples from last year’s harvest. They were slightly crumpled and yellow, but had a sweet flavour, and they reminded anyone who tasted them of warm sunshine and leafy groves. He took a moment to remember the autumn passed, drawing in the scent of the apples. It had been but a week before the accident: he had been strolling with Aragorn in the orchards, the men, simply enjoying each other’s company. The newly-crowned King had told him that in some places, apples were regarded as symbols of immortality and rebirth, and were, because of that, considered sacred.

Faramir knew not much of such things, but where he was standing now, in the dark in the kitchens, he thought that apples were an appropriate choice. He desperately hoped this was a new beginning for himself and Aragorn, even a form of rebirth of some sorts.

Content with the result of his quest, he started back, but this time, he headed for the royal bedchamber. Once more, nervousness overwhelmed him, and once more he increased his speed until he was almost running. Praying no one heard his hurried footsteps he finally found himself in front of the door that separated him from the man who he spent most if his waking hours thinking of.

‘And whom you dream about at night,’ Faramir admitted to himself, colouring slightly, even though he was all alone and no one could hear him think anyway.

Collecting himself, he knocked softly, and waited for a response. When nothing happened, the beginnings of a cold sweat broke out across his forehead, but forcing himself to breathe deeply, he knocked again, a little louder. Finally, Aragorn’s voice drifted through the wood, calling for him to open.

Stepping into the room, Faramir saw Aragorn bending over a bowl that seemed to contain water and something dark, floating on the surface. The King looked up when the Steward entered.

“There you are,” he said, eyeing the man by the door. “Faramir, have you been running?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

His lord may not walk as easily as before, but there was certainly nothing wrong with his sight or hearing, Faramir ascertained. Trying to recover his breath, he shrugged:

“I was trying to stay warm.”

“Ah,” Aragorn said, “not too easy this winter,” he added with the smallest hint of a smile on his lips, making Faramir suspect he did not believe him the least.

Aragorn glanced at the bowl on the table beside him and ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair. He had dressed in a loose grey tunic but he still wore the same brown leggings underneath. His broad shoulders and strong arms might be covered, but Faramir still felt a spark of excitement in his breast at seeing his King so. It was definitely much less clothing than usual and it made him hope that Aragorn was… well, at least comfortable in his presence.

The bedchamber was lit by two oil lamps and it was warm, despite the low-burning fire. The curtains were drawn, and the howling winds seemed suddenly very far away. Faramir made his way over to where Aragorn was standing, still observing whatever was in the bowl. Upon seeing its content he frowned.

“Ehm, my lord? These are… leaves?”

“They are,” said Aragorn. “I was given them to help ease the pain in my legs,” he explained. “They are stored dried, so one must soak them before using them.”

Faramir gave him a curious look. “How do they help,” he asked.

“Well,” Aragorn began, “I place them on my legs before I go to sleep.” There was a slight colour to his cheeks now.

“You have been sleeping with dripping wet leaves against your skin?” said Faramir, trying his best to keep a straight face.

“It… might be so,” Aragorn confirmed reluctantly.

Faramir shook his head. “Healers…” he sighed, “a sorry lot you are.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Aragorn, “you would not be so well off, my dear Steward, if it were not for the healers!” His frown though, was being overcome by a great smile which Faramir happily returned.

“Alright,” he agreed, “true enough I suppose. But I still find this weird,” he gestured at the bowl. “If it helps, though…” he trailed off, not believing anything that wet and sticky could relieve pain.

Aragorn grumbled something Faramir could not make out, but then he turned his attention back to the Steward.

“I see you did find us something to eat,” he said, nodding at the basket Faramir was carrying.

“I did. It is not much, but in a few hours we will have breakfast, I guess,” he smiled, glancing towards the windows. No light of dawn could he see, though. “Shall we sit?”

He helped Aragorn to one of the cushioned chairs by the fire and claimed the other one for himself. They shared the bread, cheese and apples and ate in silence while the flames licked the wood and transformed it into ashes. Again, stillness settled between them and Faramir may have been entirely at ease if his mind did not constantly remind him of where he was, and with whom.

At some point, we must sleep. Aragorn will go to bed and so will I. The only question is: which bed will be mine tonight?

In front of him, Aragorn was staring into the fire, looking as one of the Kings of Old. His strong jaw line and crystal clear eyes blended power and beauty into an enchanting image. Faramir shuddered at the thought of being close – closer – to such a man. True, it had already happened, but that was last summer, and summer seemed so very, very distant. Now snow and ice surrounded them, and had buried the orchards under a thick blanket of white.

A hand touching his own stirred Faramir from his reverie. Aragorn was leaning forward, watching him intently, but at the same time, appearing completely calm. He spoke in a low voice:

“I think I will have to lie down now,” he said gently. “I am an old man, remember?”

“A very young old man you are, Aragorn,” Faramir answered him, feeling the tingle from earlier begin a dance in his stomach again.

“Even so,” Aragorn smiled.

He fell silent and Faramir did not dare to speak.

Crossroads.

Aragorn traced a circle with his finger on the back of Faramir’s hand. The sound of their breathing mingled with the crackling of the fire, but other than that it was quiet. The taste of apples lingered in his mouth and told him again the tale of the sacred fruit.

“Will you sleep here tonight?”

Blood, rushing through him, weakening him, but making him stronger at the same time.

Faramir raised his eyes to Aragorn’s.

“I would not want to sleep anywhere else,” he said, not finding the words he really wanted to speak.

Aragorn regarded him with a gleam in his eyes that Faramir could not interpret. “It makes me very happy, Faramir.” He paused. “Shall we… then?”

They rose and Faramir escorted Aragorn to the large bed. He drew away the covers and helped Aragorn lie down, pulling off his boots and making sure the King was comfortable. A thought crossed his mind when he went to extinguish the oil lamps.

“My lord, will you want your leaves as well?” he said, smiling a little.

Grunting was heard from the bed before Aragorn answered:

“I think I will do without them tonight,” he muttered.

“Very good,” Faramir said, and then, he could not resist adding, “we shall have something to eat then, if we wake up hungry in an hour.”

“Oh, please go on!” Aragorn cried out from where he was lying, “tease me as much as you like!”

Faramir chuckled and came back to the bed. “Who knows, maybe they are absolutely delicious?”

“They are all yours,” the other man stated. “Enjoy…”

Faramir laughed this time, pulling off his boots as well. The small fire cast a dim light for which he was thankful. He hung his belt over the back of a nearby chair, but then he hesitated. His shirt was long enough to cover him properly but perhaps it would seem strange if he took off his leggings. Biting his lip, he sat down, fully clothed, on the bed. Behind him, Aragorn stirred.

“It is alright, Faramir,” he said softly. “Undress a much as you choose.”

The Steward felt his cheeks flush and quickly undid the knot that held his leggings together. He slipped out of them, more gracefully than he had hoped. He lay down beside Aragorn, at a respectful distance, wondering how he would survive this at all.

“Will you come closer?”

The question was not spoken in a raised voice, but it managed to pierce the air with full force all the same.

His pulse quickened as he moved nearer, feeling the first wave of body heat radiating from the King. He lay on his side, facing Aragorn who looked at him through the growing darkness. The fire must have died down, Faramir registered.

Aragorn shifted his upper body to change his angle.

“I have longed for this for an eternity,” he said in the low voice that made Faramir shudder with longing. “Come…”

Faramir felt arms draw him closer, and he gladly acquiesced, moving so that his body lay against Aragorn’s. His head was on the King’s left arm, while the right one was securing Faramir’s position.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” Aragorn whispered hoarsely, but the younger man made no attempt to prevent him.

“Aragorn…” he began, “I would never ask you to stop.” He whispered as well.

Then he was kissed. It was a slow, slow kiss, working its way into his system. Aragorn brushed against him with a tongue so impossibly soft. He sucked on Faramir’s lower lip, breathing deeply through his nose, but seeming like he never wanted to end it. He gently parted the younger man’s lips and ventured inside his mouth with that tongue, exploring and conquering. Aragorn stroked his tongue, traced his lips with the tip of his own tongue, pulling him closer, tangling his hand in Faramir’s hair. He moaned softly when he found the Steward’s neck and could caress his skin with his skilled fingers.

Faramir was melting. He was flooding over with emotion, not sure of where he began or where he ended. He was sinking, and then he rose over the mountains, high above Middle-earth, becoming one with the stars. He saw nothing, he could form no thoughts – he could only return what was being given him. Kissing Aragorn was beyond everything.

When the man who was King sucked on his tongue, Faramir felt a heat collect in his groin. A low moan, deeper and stronger now, escaped Aragorn and the heat within Faramir intensified. That sent a warning to his clouded mind and brought back his awareness. He lay pressed against the other man, but now he shifted, not wanting to display the growing bulge beneath his shirt. Feeling safer with his stomach against the mattress, he captured Aragorn’s tongue with his own, and sucked in the same way the King had done.

A growl elicited from Aragorn did not reduce his condition, and nor did the way the same man now stroked his lower back, forcefully but painfully arousing. It took all of Faramir’s willpower not to thrust his hips against the sheets. He was not sure why he felt so embarrassed, but still he fought on, trying to mentally separate his mouth from the rest of his body.

Realising that was impossible, he was almost grateful when the kiss ended. They were both breathing heavily by then, and Aragorn’s grey eyes were locked on his.

“Come closer,” he murmured roughly, attempting to pull Faramir to him.

The Steward flushed, “I… Aragorn… it is…” he tried, wishing desperately he could think of something intelligible to say. “I cannot handle too much,” he finally managed, silently cursing his foggy head.

“Oh, Faramir,” Aragorn sighed. Then he flashed a knowing smile. “Do you think,” he caught one of Faramir’s hands, “do you think you are the only one who are aroused,” he asked placing Faramir’s hand on his own hardness.

Faramir drew a sharp breath at the sensation of Aragorn’s cloth-covered manhood. The King pushed Faramir’s hand further down, sending shivers through his Stewards body.

“Shall I untie your leggings?” Faramir asked, hearing his voice shake.

“I would like that,” the other man answered huskily.

With Aragorn’s hand still on top of his own, Faramir worked the knots until they gave way. Pulling away the fabric his breath caught when he touched bare skin. Aragorn was still watching his face.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered. “Lie against me again,” he begged.

Faramir changed his position once more so his groin now touched Aragorn’s leg. He trembled slightly, but stayed like that this time. Gathering courage, he encircled the King’s hardened member with his hand, but protested when the other man drew his own hand back.

“No,” he smiled faintly, “keep it there.”

Aragorn’s hand returned and together they began stroking. Faramir closed his eyes and rode the waves of pleasure, listening to the soft groans coming from his lover. The first wet drops that touched his moving hand helped ease the friction and Aragorn shifted underneath him. Faramir felt his own arousal twitch and this time he could not stop the movement in his hips. He thrust against Aragorn’s leg, hoping he did not hurt him.

“I am sorry,” he mumbled in a slurred voice.

But Aragorn urged him on with his hand, and Faramir stroked harder. He brushed his thumb against the tip of Aragorn’s member, making the man thrust his own hips upwards. Faramir wanted to tell him to be careful but he found he could not speak as heat sped through him and filled him completely.

“I…”

Aragorn inhaled sharply, and came with strong force, spilling his seed over their hands and himself.

Faramir felt tightness in his own body, and after a few seconds he followed Aragorn, thrusting once more, and then finding his release.

Trembling, he sank further down into the bed, placing his hand on Aragorn’s flat stomach. The King’s hand covered his as they struggled to regain their breathing.

“Oh Valar,” Aragorn finally sighed, turning his head to place a kiss on Faramir’s forehead.

“You are not hurt? I… I did not hurt you?” asked Faramir.

Aragorn lay with his eyes closed, but with a smile on his lips. “Nay, you could never hurt me,” he said. Then he opened his eyes and met Faramir’s gaze, looking a little troubled. “My dear, I am sorry,” he said, “I would do something for you, but I am so tired.”

Faramir shook his head. “No, Aragorn, it is fine. Of course you are weary. It has been a long day, after all…” he said, with a small smile.

“No, I am sorry, Faramir” Aragorn repeated, “but I will make it up to you, I promise.”

The King kissed him once again before Faramir pulled the covers over them. Soon, Aragorn’s breathing evened out and he was sleeping peacefully. Faramir lay awake for a while in the dark, doing his best to integrate what had happened. He had begun the day freezing in a tent and now he was in the royal bed, in Aragorn’s arms. And with a promise that more would come.

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