Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 7 – Playing

What had begun as a short visit had turned into a long stay. The delegation from Erelas had stayed a fortnight and was still not eager to leave. Aragorn blamed the weather.

They were probably good men, they were just a little… trying. When evening finally came after a long day filled with discussion and argumentation, Aragorn was too tired to think of anything but sleep. And as for Faramir, he spent every free hour inside the library, desperately trying to find the documents required. The King and the Steward had not spent another night together and by the looks of it, they would not be doing that for yet another week… or two.

Meanwhile, it kept on snowing. No horse, no matter how strong, would make it very far, laden with baggage and rider, Aragorn grimly realised. It really was quite annoying.

Now it was dinnertime and the King was seated with his guests in the dining hall. At first, he had stretched out his legs underneath the table, but the man called Aestor had constantly kicked him by accident, taking no notice himself. Lacking the energy to enlighten him, Aragorn had receded and tried to find a different position that was equally comfortable.

To his left, further down the table, sat Faramir with Deren by his side. They appeared deep in conversation, but Aragorn noticed how the blond man sometimes, very briefly, studied the Steward’s face before he answered him. Then he opened his mouth and flashed a brilliant smile as he spoke.

Aragorn felt his own eyes being drawn to the couple. He tried to tell himself that he was not watching them but did not prove very convincing. Deren’s behaviour brought forth an odd feeling in him. Faramir certainly was an intelligent man and anyone would be interested in hearing his opinion on any subject, but this was something else. It was strange.

The dining hall was lit by many torches whose light did its best to chase away the growing darkness of evening. Two wood-fires helped keep the temperature up, but still the chill managed to creep in through windows and doors. They had only begun eating when Deren suddenly spoke up so loud that everyone’s attention was turned to him.

“You do not say? I shall have to return then, as soon as this accursed winter is passed and the weather has grown warmer!” He beamed at Faramir.

The Steward, realising that the entire party was looking at them, gave a courteous smile. “I am sure there are some Rangers you could join if you truly like to see Ithilien.”

In an instant, Deren’s face grew troubled. “Some Rangers you say? Ah, but is it not yourself who are most familiar with the lands? Faramir,” he added.

Faramir gave a small coughing sound. “I am needed here I am afraid, but as I said, if you wish, I can find you companions good enough.”

Deren shook his head dramatically, and looked at the Steward with sadness in his eyes. “That is too bad,” he said. “I should indeed have welcomed your knowledge – and company.” Then, quick as a fish in a splashing stream he turned to Aragorn. “You do not venture outdoors very much I trust, my lord?”

Aragorn simply stared at him. At last he cleared his throat. “No, I do not.”

“It must be very hard on you,” Deren said. “According to what I have been told,” he glanced at Faramir, “the lands around here are very beautiful.”

“They are,” Aragon replied, not truly believing he was being spoken to in this fashion.

“It seems such a tragedy that such a… great King must be confined to his own chambers,” Deren continued, seemingly oblivious to the growing anger of Aragorn. Beside him, Faramir was listening with terror in his eyes. “And also, having a Steward who is so used to living in the wild… It really must feel… hopeless.” Deren finally offered Aragorn a grieving look.

The rest of the visitors sat in complete silence. For several long moments the only sounds heard were the howling of the winds and the crackling of the fires. Forn took a sip of his wine, avoiding looking at the others.

Aragorn was very aware of his own breathing. His chest rose and fell in a normal rhythm as air drifted through his lungs and his nose, but inside him there was a storm gathering. His eyes were fixed on the blond man who had just stopped speaking. So casual was his tone, but such a meaning his words carried! However, when a reply came it was not Aragorn who gave it.

“If there is anything I have learned from our King, it is that there is always hope,” Faramir stated in a firm voice. His jaw was set but he conveyed no other emotion.

The storm winds died down a little as a heartwarming joy awoke within Aragorn at the Steward’s words, but no matter how hard he tried to lock eyes with Faramir, he failed. The other man refused to look at anyone, keeping his straight posture and facing forward.

“Of course, of course,” Deren smiled. “After all, he did save Middle-earth.” The man lifted his glass and raised it to Aragorn before he drank.

If it had been up to Aragorn, Deren would have choked on his wine and died on the spot.

They finished the meal to a large extent in silence. The other men talked a little among themselves, but neither Faramir nor Deren said a word. Aragorn was forced to answer at times when spoken to, but his replies were short and sharp.

Soon they rose from the table and dispersed. Most of the men hurried towards their chambers and Aragorn meant to do the same, albeit in a slower pace. Upon starting his tiresome journey he realised how accustomed he had grown to having Faramir’s supporting arms to lean on. But Faramir had left the dining hall briskly, without even a bow. Not that he needed to bow to Aragorn, of course, but… well, he had left.

The King made his way bit by bit through the dimly lit corridor, inwardly cursing Deren and occasionally Aestor for the kicking. It made the going easier, at least somewhat. He steadied himself against the wall as he walked, but stopped when the first notes of hushed voices floated towards him. They seemed to be coming from further down the hallway.

“… really…”

“… if… can… help…”

Aragorn drew nearer, straining to hear.

“I will let you know.”

That was Faramir, for certain. Aragorn dragged his legs forward, not paying attention to the large urn standing close to the wall, a gift to the King from Gimli, made by his people. The resounding clank that sprang forward when Aragorn collided with it was enough to wake the whole palace. Adding both himself and Gimli (and the Dwarf’s craftsmen just to be make a point of it) to his list of individuals to be cursed, he staggered from the wall.

The voices were no longer to be heard and there was a scorching pain racing through his leg.

Brilliant.

Having no other option, he continued until he at last was standing before his own door. Just as he was about to open it, the sound of feet approached him and not a second later a man came into view.

“My lord,” he flashed a dazzling smile, “I bid you goodnight.”

He bowed while passing the King, and all Aragorn could do was to turn his head and watch Deren’s back disappearing down the hallway.

Morning brought not solely daylight, but also profound uneasiness.

Aragorn felt it as he lay in bed; it began as a small flicker in his breast but grew and extended to his stomach. Soon, it weighed heavily on his mind. And his heart.

It was as if Deren had, unbidden and with dirty fingers, poked around in an old wound, and it hurt. Also, he was smiling too much. Far too much. Aragorn was definitely not going to see that dazzling smile growing any broader. And it was definitely not supposed to be directed at Faramir like that.

Aragorn broke his fast early and settled in the council hall with a blanket wrapped around his legs. Gimli’s urn had bestowed some bruises upon him but other than that he was fine. At least he was not worse.

The others began filling the room after an hour or two, seated themselves around the dominating oak table, still appearing to be in a dazed state of shock. They nodded to Aragorn but spoke very little. The King himself pulled at the blanket to cover his freezing hands, and waited.

The Steward entered about ten minutes later, carrying several large scrolls and maps, and probably using them as an excuse for not addressing him, Aragorn thought. Faramir spread them over the table surface and immediately began studying them. There was no sign, no look, no word. There was nothing, and the uneasiness within Aragorn welled up again.

However, as much as he was painfully aware of Faramir’s presence, he also noted Deren’s absence. The young man was not among the other guests and no one mentioned him. Aragorn had no intention to wait for him though, and he drew a deep breath and was about to start council when the blond casually strode into the room.

“God morning, my liege,” he smiled gallantly.

Aragorn watched him suspiciously as he rounded the table and sat down beside Faramir who seemed to take no notice.

“Deren. We were about to begin without you,”

“Forgive me my lord,” Deren kept on smiling. “I slept too long. Apparently I was – exhausted.” He leaned back in his chair, looking far too comfortable for Aragorn’s taste. “It must be the air.” He ran a hand through his hair and glanced at the Steward with a gleam in his eye. “Or what do you say, Faramir?”

It did not matter then that Faramir looked up with confusion written all over his face. It did not matter that he seemed to have no idea of what Deren meant. It did not matter that snow was whirling in the wind outside, it did not matter that he was King and he ought to follow protocol, Aragorn decided in that moment that something had to be done, and it had to be done very quickly.

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