Faramir Fiction Archive

The Food of Love

Written by Ice

22 December 2004 | 2165 words

Archive: Take it if you want it, but just let me know.
Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Summary: Faramir cooks dinner for his brother-in-law.
Author's Notes: First slash fic in this fandom. Written as a birthday present for a friend who's been asking for this for months. Happy 20th Laila!

---

"I gave the cooks the night off." His voice was what welcomed me into the kitchen. I'd just returned from my usual tour of the town to receive a message that "The Lord Steward requests your presence in the kitchen, my Lord." I'd wondered why he wanted to meet in the kitchens, why he was in the kitchens in the first place, and why he'd sent my cook to bring me the message. Now I knew.

"Why?"

"They seemed tired." A pause, then "They're newly wed, are they not?"

"Aye. They were wed last week, I believe."

"Well, since it's just the two of us tonight, I told them to take the night off."

"Who's going to cook for us, then?" I couldn't quite keep the bite from my tone. I was tired and hungry, and I didn't look forward to a dinner of just bread and cheese.

"I will."

"You can cook?" Here was something new.

"When I realized that the many talents of my wife did not include cooking, I took it upon myself to take up lessons in the culinary arts." I watched as he made his way around the kitchen, picking up various bowls, utensils, and ingredients. He moved with a grace that I'd always admired in him. At first it was one of the many reasons why I'd disliked him; he seemed more like a woman at times than a man. But I quickly learned that he could hold his own, and that he would provide for my sister and any of my future nephews or nieces.

"Valar forbid if our cooks were to become ill or something of the like, and could not cook for us. I think the entire household would die from your sister's cooking. Not that I love her any less because of it, I just prefer my rabbit without the fur." He dropped the bowls onto the counter with a grin. "Have you tasted her stews?"

I shuddered at the memory of the last time I'd eaten something my sister made for me. "Unfortunately, yes. But my uncle got the brunt of her cooking." I paused, watching as he started spreading out the ingredients he would need to make whatever it was we were having for dinner. "I think she called it fish stew, but it looked more like a bowl of...congealed grey...mush. Poor Théoden, he ate every last bit of it; he did not have the heart to say no."

"It was grey? How?"

"I have no idea. But I'm sure I saw some scales in there..."

"Your poor uncle."

"Yes, well, he made it a point to tell the kitchen staff that my sister was not be left alone in the kitchens from then on. I think he was sick for a week afterward."

"I'm glad you have fond memories of Théoden King."

I'd heard of the relationship between the former Steward and his second son, but I'd never truly believed it until I'd spoken with Faramir himself about family life. "He was far from the monster that others would have you think, Éomer," he'd said. "He provided for me, and I suppose I should be grateful for that, though it was no secret that he favored Boromir."

I'd wanted to ask him if the rumors were true, but I didn't. A few days later I realized that I didn't needed to; Éowyn told me of the various scars on his body, some from the battle field, some of a more personal nature. My father, and even Théoden had raised my sister and I with a strong hand, but never had they raised a hand against us in anger.

"Will chicken satisfy you tonight?"

"Yes."

"Good. There seems to be a lack of meat in your storage. We should go out for a hunt tomorrow."

I watched as he started to rub the chicken with some oil. I'd never watched anyone cook before, other than my mother, and that had been years ago. His hands moved with an ease that spoke of confidence and comfort. "Do you cook often, then?"

"No. Not as much as I would like; I have no need of it. Aragorn made sure that we had a cook so that there would be no need for Éowyn to enter the kitchen. In fact he was the one to warn me about her talents... or lack thereof." He stopped the motion of his hands and looked up at me with a grin. "Thank you, for the warning, by the way."

I couldn't quite keep the smirk off my face. "Well, I suppose your lack of warning about your cousin and her fear of dogs was only fair after I neglected to tell you about my sister's quirks."

"Poor Lothiriel. I imagine she did not handle it well when she saw your hunting hounds roaming free in Meduseld." The glint in his eyes told me that he'd neglected to tell me of her fears as a way to torture her as well as revenge himself upon me. "How is she? I haven't spoken to her in weeks. Have you set a date for your wedding yet?"

"No." I knew he wanted more than that, but I couldn't find the courage to tell him why I was so reluctant to set a date.

I never wanted to marry. It was never my intent to do so. But then Théodred died, and Théoden soon followed after. I knew that I could name any of my sister's children as my heir, but I knew that Faramir planned on passing on the Stewardship to his first child, and then the princedom of Ithilien to the next. Valar forbid should they have any other children after; he was out of titles to give them.

He was pouring salt, pepper, and some other herbs and spices into a mortar now. I watched as he started crushing the seasonings together; I watched as his long fingers grasped the pestle and grinded the herbs with the salt and spices, using his entire arm. He had hands with slim fingers, long and graceful. Had our childhood been during a time of peace, I could imagine him training as a musician, or scholar. Hands like his were not meant to wield a sword; they were too delicate. There were callouses there, on his fingertips; after years of service as a ranger, it was no surprise. I wondered what they would feel like on skin sensitized by lust and excitement. I wondered what it would feel like if he were to grasp flesh in his hands; were his hands softer than they looked? Or would the callouses give some texture to the touch?

"Éowyn wanted to accompany me, but the physicians advised against it. I think she was rather put out by their declaration that she could not ride in her condition. But eventually she saw the truth in their statement. I know she misses you."

"And I her. How is she?" What I meant to ask was...

"You mean, `is she happy?'"

There was no need in denying it. So I nodded.

"I think she misses the freedom she had in Meduseld. Gondorrim court life can be restricting at times." I snorted. He rolled his eyes as he started spreading the spice mixture over the chicken. "Fine, Gondorrim court life is full of unnecessary protocol and propriety, but my people pride themselves for their sense of tradition. That is not to say that the Rohirrim do not have their own traditions. In fact, I must confess that I prefer the traditions of Rohan over those of my own people at times. But as your sister so often reminds me, I am a man, she a woman. There is a certain level of freedom that comes with our gender, Éomer, and I think she had that same freedom here, in her home. And she misses it."

"She fears a cage."

"Aye, I remember Aragorn telling me of that sometime before our wedding. I have done what I can to shield her from the nastier aspects of court life. But..."

"But you can only do so much."

He nodded. His voice was somewhat muted as he turned his back to me and walked towards the roasting pit, chicken in hand. "But, I think she is content. She spends much of her time outdoors, in the garden or the stables." He wiped his hands on a rag before reaching for some flour. "Thank you, for the horses. I forgot to mention that in my last letter. And we are going to have to settle for flat bread, as I have not yet figured out how to use yeast."

"Flatbread is fine. Wait... you can bake as well?"

He grinned. "I am nothing if not thorough. Oh, will you make sure to turn the chicken? I only have two hands and I need them for the bread."

I nodded and walked over to the roasting pit, making sure to bring a stool with me so I could sit while I turned the spit. My position allowed me a good view of him without making myself obvious. After a few months in his company I found that I enjoyed watching him. There was something about the way he moved, the way he carried himself that drew my eyes to him. I understood why my sister was so smitten with him. She once confessed to me that sometimes she would climb the tree outside of his study just so that she could watch him in secret. "Like some lovesick farm girl infatuated with her lord I gaze upon him from my branch. It's quite pathetic really. He is, after all, my husband. I have right to stare at him as much as I please. But there is something in the way he moves when he thinks himself unobserved that makes me shiver with pleasure. It's like..."

"Watching a dance..."

"Excuse me?"

My head snapped up at the sound of his voice. "What?"

"Did you say something?"

"No." It came out more like a question than an actual statement, but it seemed to satisfy him. I'd have to be more careful. But it was like watching a dance. Even now, watching him with his sleeves rolled up, his hands buried in a mass of dough, kneading away at what would be the flatbread I found him...intoxicating. What would his hands feel like, kneading away at my flesh? The callouses rubbing my skin. The scratch of his nails down my back. The strength of those arms around my hips. The gentleness of his fingers in my hair. I could almost feel a ghost of those hands caressing my face.

"Éomer?"

"Hmmm?"

"The chicken?"

"Oh! Yes... Sorry."

He turned from me with a smile on his face, once again kneading the dough beneath his hands. "You know, your sister is quite possessive of what she sees as her own. Including people..."

Bastard! He knew! His back was to me, so I couldn't see his face, but I'm sure that he knew.

"In fact, did you know that she watches me while I'm in my study? She thinks she does this secretly, but it is hard to mask the sounds of someone climbing a tree from a former ranger. I find it quite endearing, actually." A pause as he set the flatbread in the open oven. "Your sister does not share very well, does she?"

What was he getting at? "Not with most people, no."

"Yes, well, you are the exception to nearly all of her rules."

I watched as he once again wiped his hands on a rag. "What would you do if I were to say I could feel your eyes upon me, even when you hid yourself away in a corner so as not to be seen?"

I could feel the flush rise in my cheeks as he asked this. I thought I'd hidden myself from him. But then again, he had been a ranger for several years. There wasn't much you could hide from a ranger.

"I think I've got my answer." He smiled, and in his eyes I could see compassion and... was that? "That chicken is going to have to rest for a bit, and the bread still needs time to bake. I'm sure we could get a servant to bring the food to my quarters when it is done." He turned and walked towards the door while unrolling the sleeves of his shirt. I thought he was done but then, "You know, you are the only one, besides your sister, who has ever tasted my cooking. I hope you enjoy it as much as she does."

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/the-food-of-love. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!