Faramir Fiction Archive

The Cure (NC-17)

Written by Minx

29 March 2004 | 13289 words

Chapter 3

Aragorn waited until the warm breathing hitting his chest had evened out, before he tried to move out of Faramir’s embrace. Faramir’s arms were wrapped snugly around him, and he was forced to shift them. The movement resulted in a soft whimper from the Steward but he remained asleep. Aragorn gently lifted him and placed him on the pallet near the large fireplace, covering him up in the blankets that had fallen to the floor. Then he cleaned himself up and pulling on spare clothes, replaced the soiled bedclothes rapidly.

Picking up a wet towel, he proceeded to wipe Faramir’s bare skin clean, slowly and tenderly, letting his hands explore the thinned body in detail. Faramir looked completely worn out. There were dark circles under his eyes that stood out against the ashen paleness of his face, and thin lines had formed around his mouth. Aragorn’s long fingers brushed over numerous battle scars that dotted Faramir’s chest and back and his long limbs. Many years spent defending Gondor against the shadow had left their mark on the brave young man.

He felt warm to touch and Aragorn was soon left berating himself for having succumbed to Faramir’s request. The younger man had been so ill; he should have forced him to rest, instead of listening to him, and making love to him.

“But I could never resist you, my sweet,” he murmured softly as he swathed him in blankets once again and carried him back to the bed. Laying him down on the bed, he ensured that Faramir was comfortably clothed in a fresh sleeping robe and covered in blankets. The only robe he had been able to find had been his own. It was a little large, but it was warm.

The younger man mumbled something and snuggled into the warmth of the bedclothes. He lay curled up on his side, his face turned towards Aragorn. The King gently pushed the stray strands of hair stuck to his face and kissed his lover lightly on his temple. Faramir’s expression relaxed immediately, and the tired lines seemed to vanish, as a soft sigh escaped from between his lips.

Aragorn drew away and moving towards the table, began to sort out the herbs kept there, searching for an alternative. The after effects of the medicine Faramir had taken were excellent and highly desirable, but his lover was in no condition to experience them once again. They needed to change the medicine. Faramir had been too ill to indulge in any activity that could get as strenuous as the lovemaking he had literally demanded from Aragorn.

He should not have listened, he thought to himself. Faramir looked so tired right now, and he had fallen asleep almost immediately. He knew from experience that his Steward rarely slept so easily, usually lying awake instead till the wee hours before drifting into a light slumber, often plagued by painful dreams.

He had often woken up in the few nights they spent together, to find Faramir’s grey eyes focussed intently upon him. He would invariably make love to his Steward all over again, revelling in just feeling the supple body encased in his arms. And Faramir would quietly submit to his desires, asking in return merely to be held in his arms.

The rustling sound of sheets interrupted his thoughts, and he turned towards the sound only to see Faramir moving restlessly in his sleep, throwing his blankets into disarray. He was by his side in an instant, holding him, and calming him down, pulling him away from whatever nightmare haunted his sleep then. He had done this often and each time it would take little more than his touch to soothe the younger man. It was the same this time. Faramir curled into Aragorn’s embrace, his breathing shallow and rapid, as beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. When Aragorn tried to move away, he whimpered, and moved closer in his sleep, swinging one slender leg over Aragorn’s thigh.

The sight of the bare limb over his leg nearly drove Aragorn into distraction, but he had heard the tremor in the faint sob that had resulted from his movement.

“I am here,” he whispered reassuringly to his unconscious lover as he gently nudged the bare leg off and pulled the blankets up again, all the while continuing to hold Faramir in his arms. When he was done he lay back against the pillows and let the still sleeping man rest his head against his chest. He could not possibly let Faramir suffer a relapse of his illness, all because he, the King of Gondor, could not control his lust.

He ran his hands through Faramir’s hair, smiling as he noted how the usually neat hair was now a dark unruly clump. He fingered his drawn face slowly, tracing out the sharp contours wishing as he had on numerous occasions before, that his lover could have been spared all the ordeals he had gone through. He had battled so many things in so few years, been hurt so often, and lost much he loved, and yet survived everything bravely, but still retained humility and gentleness. Three nights ago, Aragorn had been afraid he was going to lose him forever, and that to a mere fever.

It had reminded him rather painfully that Faramir, although he had Númenórean blood in his veins, would not live as long as he would. He would do anything to see him happy. A part of his mind argued that he had made Faramir happy by giving him what he wanted this night, but the other part argued that he had merely given into his lust because Faramir had looked so appealing, unmindful of the exhaustion he would cause him.

He felt extremely contrite for his Steward did indeed look completely worn out, and to Aragorn’s eye, he still retained the strange attractiveness that the fever seemed to cause. This time, he had a faint hint of a smile too on his sleeping visage.

He didn’t seem to be in pain, Aragorn decided. He’d never forgive himself if he caused Faramir to hurt. Thankfully, his illness did not seem to be worsening yet either. He found himself drifting off, his young lover still ensconced in his arms.

He was wide-awake, however, when Faramir began to stir. He stayed by his side, quietly watching him awaken. It was a rare sight to his eyes. Faramir would usually be the one awake, staring at him whenever they lay together. If ever he had awoken before Aragorn, it would have been due to some terrible dream. This time however, the dreams that may have floated through Faramir’s head seemed to have been pleasant ones. But he was still worried about his health.

Grey eyes opened sleepily to his gaze. Aragorn smiled. Faramir looked so endearing as his expression turned puzzled and confused while he tried to make out his surroundings and at the same time, pleased at the sight of Aragorn’s face.

“Aragorn,” he whispered softly, his voice still sounding husky.

“How do you feel now, dearest?” he asked tenderly while aiding Faramir in his attempts to sit up.

Faramir’s eyes widened a little as though he were still trying to decipher how he had woken up in Aragorn’s arms.

“I am well,” he replied distantly, looking down at the robe he wore, “But why am I in your clothes?”

“Your clothes were soiled last night,” Aragorn explained.

“Last night -,” Faramir spoke uncertainly, and then his eyes widened as the memory of their revels hit him in full force.

“I – last night -,” the distressed voice trailed off as he shut his eyes and a flush spread over his pale cheeks, a ruddy hue that promptly sparked off a warmness in Aragorn’s groin.

The King took a deep breath to control himself, before replying remorsefully, “Forgive me sweetheart. You were ill and I should not have –“

“But you didn’t,” Faramir spoke wide-eyed, “I forced it.”

He pulled away from Aragorn’s embrace, all the while muttering unhappily, “I behaved so disgracefully. You must hate me so, to have forced you to make love to me. I know you did not wish to.”

“Why would I hate you for wishing me to make love to you? I wish or no more, dearest but not when you are so ill and weary. I tired you out needlessly when I should have insisted you rest.”

But Faramir seemed not to be listening. He continued speaking in hurried phrases, the words tripping over each other, “Forgive me for not heeding your words, Aragorn. I know you wished not to lie with me tonight, but I made you.”

“Faramir!” Aragorn couldn’t help the raised tone, “Stop saying that!”

Tear-filled fevered eyes glanced fearfully up at him, “You are angry with me,” Faramir spoke uncertainly.

“Yes, I am!” Aragorn growled as he stood up, and walked over to the window. He found he could not stop the words coming out now, “Do you not love me Faramir? Tell me now and I shall never bother you again.”

He heard a gasp from behind him, but he didn’t turn. He would never have confessed to this fear of his, but Faramir’s words had hurt him, though he knew the Steward would never have intended so. But the fever had made a different man of him, and Aragorn found himself scared now that he would learn what he had so far managed to hide from.

“I – Aragorn, - ”

“Do you feel anything at all for me?” he asked brutally, his voice hard.

He heard the rustling of clothes from behind him. Faramir seemed to be rising from bed. The tiny, unhappy voice came from behind him.

“Forgive me. I did not mean for this to happen. I do not know what came over me. But to see you here by my side, and when I heard you say that you wished to lie with me this night, I thought- I only wished to please you Aragorn,” the voice had turned hoarse and pleading now.

Aragorn shut his eyes in despair, “Do you love me Faramir? A simple yes or no will suffice,” he repeated calmly, turning around to stare at the drooping figure of his Steward.

The ashen face lifted up, shock mirroring the worn expression, “I love you Aragorn,” Faramir said beseechingly.

“And yet you do not trust me?” Aragorn responded tiredly.

“I do trust you! Since the day you saved me from the shadows. I knew you were the King. You could be no one else. I knew I could give Gondor over to you.”

“You trust me with Gondor but not with your heart?” he asked brutally.

“I would trust you with my life!” Faramir protested.

“With your heart, Faramir. Do you trust me to love you forever, unheeding of what others may say, or of what may happen?”

Faramir nodded brokenly, tears now flowing down his pale cheeks, “I trust you with all I have, Aragorn. You saved me.”

“Is that all I am then? Your saviour? To pull you out of the shadows.”

“Nay. You save me everyday. Without you, there is naught for me here. Believe me Aragorn, please, I beg of you. Why do you doubt me so today? Is it for what I have done? I was not myself, Aragorn forgive me,” Faramir was almost swaying on his feet as he spoke, and Aragorn had to put out his hand to support him.

For a moment he almost thought, the hand might be shrugged off, but then it was accepted gratefully.

“Then why will you not believe me if I tell you that I love you and that nothing you do will change that? It is you I love, loveling, and if you, one day, choose to ask me to make love to you, I will willingly do it. Why do you fear me so? Do I seem so stern to you, my love that you cannot ask me for what you desire?”

The dark head fell into his shoulder, “Nay, it is not what I please that is of aught. It is what you please that we must do. I will not lose you,” he muttered fervently. The heat radiated off his forehead onto Aragorn’s shoulder through the cloth.

“Faramir!” he said shocked, “You would never lose me love. How can you speak so?” He gently pulled him away and stared into the stricken face quietly.

“I do not want to lose you,” Faramir sobbed incoherently, “One day, you too, will see for what I am and stop loving me.”

“What do you say?” Aragorn exclaimed uncertainly.

“You will realise how worthless I am and you will love me no longer. I am of no use. Father spoke true. I was ever the lesser man.”

“Faramir!”

His literally shouted out the name causing Faramir to look up, out of scared eyes that wrenched at Aragorn’s heart. He had never realised how much of an impact Denethor continued to have on his lover even after his death.

It was obvious such thoughts had remained dormant in the younger man’s mind for long now, and the impact of the fever had brought them out, loosening his tongue and his self-control. For, under normal circumstances, Faramir would never have admitted to such matters. He spoke rarely of his father, preferring instead to dwell on the happier memories of his brother’s love and affection for him.

“I do see you for what you are,” Aragorn said softly, clasping the warm face in his hands and staring into the deep grey eyes, “I see you for the lovely noble man you are, for the brave captain, the intelligent scholar and the sweetest lad I have ever known. You are you, my dearest, and it is you I love. Do you truly doubt me, sweetest?”

The same scared expression dotted Faramir’s visage.

“Look into my eyes and tell me you doubt my love for you,” Aragorn insisted.

“I could never doubt you,” came the hoarse reply, and Aragorn automatically found his spirits lifting. He had been foolish, he knew, to think that Faramir might not love him, but for a while he had feared that to be the case.

The hands that had hung limply by Faramir’s sides now suddenly wrapped themselves around Aragorn, the grip very weak, but there nevertheless, “Forgive me,” Faramir whispered, his head sinking against his king’s chest.

“You keep asking my forgiveness, love. It sounds – trite, now.”

“I know you love me, and I do trust you, but the fear never leaves me.”

“Then I will drive it away for you,” Aragorn said firmly, gently stroking his hair.

A stifled sob made him lift the drooping chin in concern, “Faramir?”

Faramir’s eyes were brimming over.

“What is it, love? Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked frantically, shocked to see the stricken expression upon the Steward’s face. He placed a palm against the exposed throat. It was warm to touch, “What is it you require, love?”

“You. I beg of you. Please Aragorn, stay with me tonight.” He raised a curled fist and wiped his eyes, and then sniffed softly.

The gesture completely undid Aragorn’s resolve. Faramir seemed to be hurting terribly, and he would do anything to prevent that.

“I had every intention of doing so,” he promised softly.

He tugged him towards the bed, sank down next to him, and pulling him closer, hugged him gently.

They stayed that way awhile, in each other’s arms; the Steward slumped against his King for he had no strength to stand on his own. The King meanwhile, found he loved holding his lover in his arms so, as he soothed his fears away, holding him as one would hold a child.

They spoke after awhile, of simple, ordinary things, of the weather outside, and how they could go riding when Faramir’s health improved. Outside, the sun rose, a thin line against the horizon. They even spoke of the herbs from Khand and how Aragorn had encountered them in a courtesan’s house, where he had had to take refuge once, a story that made Faramir laugh.

It thrilled Aragorn to hear him laugh like that and see his mood improve.

---

“I do not like how I behaved last night,” Faramir gulped, his head still in Aragorn’s shoulder, “Can I make it up to you?” he raised his head, and attempted a coquettish grin, failing miserably as the pallor on his face showed up how awful he felt inside.

“Yes,” Aragorn said promptly, “Get to sleep, you little imp. And take what rest you can for there is much work to do! The papers are piling up on my desk and the councillors are beginning to get tiresome, and no one will let you work for some days yet, so I must do it all!”

Faramir gave him a guilty look, but before he could start off again, Aragorn placed a hand on his lips, “Say nothing! I merely jest. But rest you must, and I will ensure you do that if I must tie you to the bed.”

“Tie me to the bed?” Faramir inquired with a small smile, “I should like that.”

“Really?”

“Those flowers – are they all destroyed?”

“Why, need more, do you? Have you not thrown yourself wantonly upon me enough for one day, my dear loveling?”

“Well . . . you seemed to like it.”

“Go to sleep, dearest!”

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