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The Strangest of Dances (NC-17) 
Written by Eora17 March 2013 | 19768 words
Author’s Note: Hello dear hearts! A slightly more timely update here! I do hope you enjoy, and I wish you all the best for the new year! Here we see what these two get up to in Ithilien, and Aragorn puts his foot in it.
Chapter 4.
The look on Faramir’s face upon opening the front door to his home was worth the all the hassle of the journey. I probably did not prove so pleasant a view in return, and in fact, was mostly in a terribly black mood (something to do with the dampness of my clothing, and the fact I could not longer feel my fingers, toes or other extraneous appendages). My hair was drenched in melting snow, and I probably smelled heinously of horse and sweat (I had ridden hard in the hopes of outpacing the blizzard) but Faramir hauled me over his doorstep and into the hall, and into his arms as it turned out, embracing me tightly and heartily.
Perhaps he had all the hearths in the house ablaze; I’m going to pretend that’s why I felt so suddenly flushed. I also felt filthy, though I clapped Faramir on the back firmly enough before extricating myself. He appeared oblivious to my state (and scent) and in fact, as he closed the door behind me and turned once again to regard me I noticed he looked different in some small way, I think his hair was longer, or something like that. It sent a ripple of longing through my belly and I quickly quashed it down by proclaiming: “I’m going to need a bath, Faramir.” I put on my most beggarly expression, and he laughed and reached for the saddle-bag in my hand.
“Fate would have it that I was about to partake in some bathing of my own; the hot water is upstairs, you may have it and I’ll have someone send up fresh water for myself later.” He smiled warmly, no trace of pugnaciousness; why was I so surprised that he appeared genuinely happy to see me? He had invited me, after all. I was still standing there, redundant, when he ushered me toward the staircase; “I’m not going to ask you how you are until you look significantly less grumpy. Get thee to the bath!” And I had no choice but to be harried upstairs and into a bedchamber, presumably Faramir’s, onto which adjoined a bathroom.
The journey to Emyn Arnen wasn’t usually a particularly long one, but coupled with snow that had begun shortly after I left Minas Tirith and which only got heavier as I progressed, it ended up taking me from early morning into rather early evening, my state of mind becoming more and more in tune with the gathering storm; in other words, very grumpy indeed. My clothes were travel-soiled, and I’m fairly certain the snow got into my saddle-bag too so I faced the awkward scenario of shortly finding myself unclothed in Faramir’s house with nothing clean to cover myself with.
First things first, though. Before me, was a rather inviting bath, into which I sank most gratefully. I hardly thought about Faramir’s naked body sliding into this selfsame tub at all.
“On second thoughts, I’m not really sure that’s your colour.”
“Seeing as it isn’t mine I think I can be spared the advice, thank you.” It was Faramir’s shirt, and breeches too if you must know (all of my clothes were presumably off drying somewhere), and while they fitted me well and in truth, I was not particularly worried about the alleged clash between my hair or my eyes or whatever it was that Faramir meant and the colour of shirt (which, incidentally, was a dark grey; if you ask me it would suit Faramir’s colouring even less but that is an argument I didn’t have enough energy to begin). I took the vacant chair by the fire, opposite Faramir. “Thank you,” I said, “For the clothes. And the bath. And for inviting me here and so forth.” I waved a hand vaguely, and Faramir seemed pleased.
He was sitting in his chair, legs crossed, smiling at me. I’d like to tell you that his hair was unbound, falling over his shoulders in copper waves that reflected the firelight, that his jaw was unshaven, that his own shirt fit him well (being that it was his own shirt) and that the collar hung open low enough for a few gingery chest hairs to show themselves but as you know, I’d forgotten all about my mad attraction for him and didn’t notice any of these things at all. Instead, I looked around the room; I’d not seen much of the house yet, save for a very interesting staircase and a vague impression of Faramir’s bedchamber (there had been no candles, though the bathroom was lit.) Between us was a low table, laden with a small supper for two; bread, cheese, sliced ham, some apples and two mugs of what I hoped was mulled wine and upon tasting, discovered with happiness that it was. The fireplace itself was modest, but the heat from the flames was welcome and was in danger of sending me to sleep (in my middle age, all I need is a cosy room and a comfortable chair). The rest of the room was tastefully decorated; there was a desk by the window, a number of bookshelves (stacked, of course, with text), a tapestry hung on the wall opposite the fire, a golden-green embroidered rendition of what I presumed were the woods of Ithilien. Above the mantelpiece two great antlers hung; most men, I thought, when charged with ordering their new home, might hang weapons there, crossed swords perhaps, but Faramir was not most men.
“How fare you, then, my king, other than being famished?” A loud complaint from my stomach had prompted the latter remark. There was a glint in his eye, but it could have been the firelight. He lifted his mug and swallowed the sweet wine.
“Is this that conversation you promised me in your letter?” I reached for the bread and meat.
“Ah, no. I had planned that in for tomorrow.” Wry.
“Well,” I said, mouth full. “You won’t mind if I settle my stomach then?” I took Faramir’s laughter for permission.
The snow eased off during the night; looking from the window of my appointed chamber I could see little but a white blanket covering the front of Faramir’s estate through a gauze of gentle snowflakes that continued to drift downwards. Trust him, I thought, to choose a locale so starkly beautiful for his home. The trees held up bare, black arms to a white sky, and below on the ground I could see the faint traces of servants’ footprints and the larger trail where firewood had been dragged to the house. A knock at the door startled me. I slid back into the bed, for I had no breeches on, and though I think Faramir is actually (possibly) half an inch (or thereabouts, maybe less) taller than I (it’s negligible, really,) he seemed inclined to dress himself for bed in nightshirts that did nothing to protect much modesty. I prayed that my own wardrobe might be returned to me soon! Safely concealed by bedclothes, I called out, and the man in question stuck his head around the door.
“Oh good, you’re up.” His hair hung flat and damp against his head, combed back, I realised, by the same reddened fingertips that held onto the door. He sported a crown of un-melted snowflakes in his coppery curls.
“Have you been outside so early already?”
Faramir gave me a look that was only a little condescending. “Aragorn, it is half past eleven.”
Suddenly, I didn’t care if he saw me in my smallclothes; I clambered from the bed and began rooting around for the breeches I had abandoned somewhere upon the floor the night before. “Good gods, Faramir, why didn’t you wake me?” His fault, obviously. I heard him step into the room.
“I thought you’d be up before now, truthfully; in any case, I did look in on you before I went out but you seemed so weary last night and so dead to the world this morning I thought it kinder to let you sleep it off. I’m sure I would have regretted pulling you from your slumber in order to chop firewood in the snow.”
“Don’t you have servants for that sort of thing?” Our roles reversed, my turn for truculence. I felt strangely comforted by the knowledge that Faramir had checked on me while I slept. I found my breeches, or Faramir’s, and hauled them on gruffly.
“I do, but my staff is lesser in the winter. There is no need for so many when it will be just myself in the house.”
I straightened, trying to tame my bed-mangled hair. “I’m here now.”
“I know.“ He threw a smile over his shoulder as he turned toward the door. “Breakfast? And then I thought we might go for a walk?”
“That sounds good to me,” I said. “Especially the first part.”
The wind was chill, and the snow deeper than I first expected, but I was dressed warmly in (Faramir’s) winter layers and my belly was sated with creamy porridge and so I had little (for once) to complain about as we made our way slowly through the wooded boundaries of Faramir’s domain. Here and there he would remark upon something; this is where the tree that they had carved his mantelpiece from had stood, and here, see the old fence through the wintery shrubs, where old land divisions had once been marked. In turn I spoke of the white city, whiter now no doubt from the recent weather. Little had changed, I told him; there were still incessant letters requesting kingly intervention between disputing farmhands, only now, I looked at him pitifully, I had none to foist them onto. He kicked snow at me for that, and I laughed, my breath misting up into the air like pipeweed smoke. I was just thinking about how nice it would be to light a pipe when we returned to the house when Faramir changed direction suddenly, pulling at my arm lightly; I followed, curiously, for he didn’t say a word about this new route or where it might lead.
He led me through a thicket of close trees and bushes; the bare branches caught on our clothes and rattled as we passed by like bony fingers. Beneath our feet the snow was crisp and soft. Up ahead through the tree-trunks I could see a small clearing; to this day I don’t know why but I paused at the edge, and Faramir, though he must have known I’d stopped following him, continued out into the treeless haven. He turned, a few feet from me; the snow was still falling gently, and it landed on his cheeks as he looked up. It landed on his lips too, and he grinned and stuck out his tongue to catch the flakes.
I was about to join him (well, move closer, I wasn’t much interested in eating snow) when he said: “Can I ask you something, Aragorn?”
“I dare say you may. You’ve never needed permission before now.” I walked toward him and we stood a little apart, not quite facing one another. Faramir smiled and sighed through his nose.
“Do you remember the conversation we had in your study?”
“Which one?” There had been many, and one in particular that I hoped he had completely forgotten.
“I think you know which one.”
“I’d rather you didn’t bring it up.” I pushed at a half-buried log with the toe of my boot, avoiding his gaze. He didn’t speak for a long time, and when I eventually looked up again he had moved off further and was peering away through the trees. A breeze had picked up, and lifted the softer strands of his hair with it.
“You know, you never let me finish what I wanted to say that day.” I’d blocked so much of it out through sheer force of will that it was hard to recall what he’d said or done. Luckily, he was about to enlighten me. “Remember,” he said, looking over his shoulder at me. “You told me you loved me.”
“I know,” I said, and even now, after so many months spent apart, I felt my cheeks redden and not from the cold. “And you were kind enough not to reject me with too much fanfare.”
A curious look passed over Faramir’s face, as if I’d confirmed something. “I think, my aged friend, that your memory is beginning to go. I didn’t reject you.”
I think I was staring at him for a good few minutes before the rest of my mind caught up. “What?”
He raised his eyebrows and continued, his voice was kind, I remember. “I said ‘Aragorn’ and you said ‘I will not embarrass you further by letting you figure out how to word what you are about to say,’ and then I said ‘but-’ and then I was shoved out of a door rather hastily.”
I’ll admit, he had an excellent memory (though his impression of me was well off the mark; far too sing-song for my liking. Nor was there much shoving as I recall, but I digress.) All I could summon from the murky depths of my addled mind were the following five words: “What are you saying, Faramir?”
“I have missed you, you know. I don’t mean I regret coming to live here. I love my home and my work, and you know my solitary nature so this place suits me well. But I have missed you.”
“Faramir…?”
It was sort of coming to me. Slowly, half-remembered, half-imagined memories, little snippets of hope here and there. Did he not call me becoming, once?
He took a step towards me; the snow was glinting in his hair, and his nose and the tips of his ears red with the cold. He licked his lower lip. I was completely mesmerised.
“I have…always been enamoured of you, Aragorn.”
The spell broke. My brain departed. All I could think about was how hard I’d tried to forget, how desperately I’d diverted all my attentions from this man before me, how I knew I had to move on, so sure was I of his lack of affection. And so, without thought to guide it, my tongue leapt to an ill-fated rescue, words that I knew were wrong before they were even halfway out of my mouth but I couldn’t stop them in time.
“But I don’t love you any more!”
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Oooh! Very good! Magical: so many words and you caught me in a wave of excitement. I like this Aragorn, and the explanation of Faramir. Ahh, sunshine and fun!
— Laivindur Thursday 15 November 2012, 16:52 #