Faramir Fiction Archive

The Strangest of Dances (NC-17)

Written by Eora

17 March 2013 | 19768 words

Title: The Strangest of Dances
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: NC-17 (eventually)
Warnings: Slash, sexual scenes, my attempts at humour.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. All written in good fun with no offence intended!
Author’s Note: I tried for a very long time to even think of a title for this and I’m still not sure I’m entirely happy with this one but I feel this story has been sitting on my hard-drive for so long now that I better set it free before I forget all about it! This was originally about two pages long and long-abandoned until I found it again over a month ago I think and suddenly became possessed with the urge to finish it and it became rather long I’m afraid. The characterisation is wildly non-canon. It’s meant to be funny. But whether it is funny is another matter entirely. Just don’t take anything you read below too seriously and I’m sure we’ll be fine :) (To be honest, I think it starts out a little ridiculous and settles itself toward later chapters but that is entirely my own judgement :P)

---

Chapter 1.

There was a wryness about Faramir, a sense that the lifting of the weight of armour, and therefore the weight of war, from his shoulders had allowed and even encouraged his more likeable aspects to blaze forth. I realise that I never knew him in wartime, as a commander, the captain, the ranger; our first meeting was rather mundane on the face of things, he unconscious in a healing bed, myself unwashed (overdue for a bath by a day or three, I was told in no uncertain terms by a healer that I with some conviction decided was not much of a royalist) and harried by innumerable nurses. It was all so rushed and by nature of his condition we did not speak. In any case, it didn’t matter; once awake I liked him regardless of whether or not his mouth curved in what he probably thought, or hoped, was a hidden smile, privately amused at some thing or other, and one day a few weeks after my coronation (and a few weeks after the first of many, forced or otherwise, baths,) in pleasant exasperation I asked him what he found so funny.

“You,” he said simply.

“Me?”

“Yes!”

I stared at him, and he stared back, before the smile widened into a grin that quickly disappeared from my view as he bent his head back to his task. We were sorting the old maps in the small library, my hands were full of decrepit sheaves but I’d lost interest in the face of this new information. Peacetime was having a remarkably attractive effect on my new steward (not, as I mentioned, that I knew him when he was, presumably, dourer. No, sterner maybe. I can’t imagine Faramir as unpleasant, not that I spend much time trying. Considering him attractive is apparently something I do partake of, however.)

“What’s so funny about me?” I asked, wondering if it was the fact that I asked stupid questions. (There hadn’t been that many, had there? It’s not every day one inherits a kingdom; one was entitled, I felt, to the odd bout of idiocy.)

“Nothing,” he replied, and equally stupidly I thought, for I judged him as too intelligent to be the sort of man to laugh at nothing. “Pass me the ink, would you?” Luckily for him I had foolishly instructed him in the lack of necessity of titles when alone with me. Foolish, because I might have used his easiness with me as arsenal in this bizarre affront to my (so far, for I know modesty is something of what, hopefully, makes me attractive) imagined dignity.

As it was, I passed him the inkwell without comment and resumed staring, even going so far a to put a hand on one hip though I refrained from raising an eyebrow. One can be too coquettish, even a king. I watched as he, with infuriating casualness, made a note in the ledger he held open with a finger. I noticed, for the first time somehow, for I had seen him write endlessly at council, that he was left-handed. Eventually, he looked up, the elevated brow his gesture to perform.

I waited, and after a pause Faramir straightened and shook the hair from his face. He set down the quill and raised his hand, placating what he thought would be my inevitably angry reaction. “Your…trepidation, it’s very becoming.”

An odd choice of word, that. Becoming. “And you find that funny?” Wait. I put down the parchments. “My trepidation?”

Was that a sigh? Of impatience? No, more the sort of exhalation one performs when trying to dig oneself out of the hole one has inadvertently excavated and then immediately fallen into whilst standing on the edge looking in, wondering how it got there. For no other reason than to bother Faramir, for his admission had certainly bothered me, I immediately became engrossed in the parchments again, sifting through them, ordering and reordering and laying them out beside one another, all the while avoiding eye contact with the man but nevertheless making my expectation of a response clear with many little ‘hmm?‘s and similarly facetious noises. As a king, I could get away with this. As a friend, I was sure Faramir would later find a way to exact revenge in a suitably squirm-inducing way, likely in public. Our war of words was one that would never be over and that was just one of the things I found likeable about him; he fought well. He always had an answer, and even when it was one I didn’t agree with it was one I usually somehow inexplicably found agreeable anyway. I’m not sure I can really articulate it. I’ll come back to this, I promise.

Faramir shifted, his boot heel scraping against the leg of the table. I studiously continued to ignore him. “How can I put it?” he began, and a voice inside my head did an accurate impersonation of him, chorusing ‘without signing my own execution warrant‘ involuntarily as if he’d ever be so brazenly cheeky and as if I’d ever command such a thing. Shamefully, I fought a smile and won for the most part; there would come a day very soon when Faramir would hit that level of (private) impudence and I‘d let it slide because in secret it delighted me. I think I’ve become a very good actor- for all Faramir knew the secret to eternal youth was scrawled on those parchments so welded to them was my gaze. In reality if I’d looked up at him I’d have just asked something stupid (and, I‘m going to be immodest here, I believe that I already come as close as one might get to eternal youth without being an elf). Then Faramir said something stupid.

“It’s the way you, well, not hesitate, and it‘s not about quietness either, but how gentle you are when you speak. A king needs to be loved, not feared, and you inspire confidence with your manner; you’re very accommodating. I mean, today you asked me if I’d rather we do this in here or the great hall or maybe my study, and then when we got here you wondered if you should send for food or could I wait for lunch. Did I want wine or light ale? You are allowed to command me, you know, delegate. Make decisions to suit you; you have that right because you are the king. But you don’t. And it’s charming.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I said “I thought it was becoming.”

“It’s both.”

“Can it be both?”

Faramir shrugged and bent over the ledger again, free of my interrogative shackles. And I described his speech as stupid because it set in motion some hitherto unused and undiscovered wheel in a back alley of my brain which prompted me to perform acts and say words and instigate and participate in a whole manner of unpredicted circumstances that would eventually culminate in his hand closing around mine three weeks and four days from that very day in the library. And as he did that I said something extremely stupid but I’ll come back to that too, don’t worry.

“So,” I said, drawing it out. There was no reaction to my prolonged silence, so I blundered on, eyes boring into the back of Faramir‘s head while my mind decided right then and there was the optimum moment to argue with itself over whether he was blonde or red-haired or whether it really just depended on the light. “My charming you is funny.”

Faramir nodded without looking up. Maybe the secret to eternal youth was the thing he was so diligently inscribing, so at ease with ignoring me as he was. Or maybe it was the fact I’d phrased it as a statement and not a question. He underlined something, satisfied, and answered me anyway; “Not in a ridiculous way, though.”

“In what way then?”

“A charming one.” I was about to give up on this useless nowhere-conversation and ask, no, wait, I should probably delegate something to him (but then my so-called charm would evaporate and though the thought of my being becoming was an alarming one the thought of not being so was now equally undesirable) when he closed the ledger with a snap, startling me. “I find you very agreeable.”

What an odd thing to say. “Agreeable?”

He seemed undecided. “Likeable.”

“Likeable?” Today I was mostly going to be repeating everything that Faramir said.

“I like you.” Suddenly I realised it wasn’t indecision, it was nerves! What was happening? He laughed, and I opened my mouth to probably tell him I liked him too, but in the time it took me to work out how to say that without just parroting him again someone else said;

“My lords, lunch is being served in the lesser hall.”

And that was the end of that excruciating conversation.

A fortnight later and I was pretty certain that I had fallen in love with Faramir. Now, I need to explain this a little, so bear with me. It wasn’t the sort of love where really it’s just lust and all my getting to know him better was just a poorly wrought excuse to shove my hand beneath his shirt. I mean, I can put that very hand on my heart and swear to you that I have never had thoughts of that sort about any man in my life, real or imagined. And I absolutely was not having those sorts of thoughts about Faramir (except it falls apart here slightly because I absolutely was).

I found myself lying awake thinking about that afternoon not long after his release from the healing houses, where, in the privacy of my office, he had, without so much as a blush, dug up the hem of his shirt from its burial beneath belt and breeches to show me the burn mark on his waist when I enquired if he had recovered fully. It wasn’t bad at all, rather neat in fact, and as he ran his hand over it to show that it didn’t pain him I got an uncensored glimpse of his ribs and belly as his shirt rode up with the movement of his wrist. For some reason I remember leaning in closer as if to deliver the final, official royal verdict upon the neatness of the scar. “It’s healed very well,” I declared, and Faramir made some sort of satisfied grunt of acknowledgement and lowered the hem. It was at that point I retreated behind the desk again; the only possible conclusion to my continuing to stand so close to him was to capture him in an all-encompassing and life-igniting kiss and I’d only just found out about my need to shove my hands beneath his shirt and that was quite enough for one day. I sat down and thanked all the gods in existence for keeping the lower half of my body ignorant of my mind’s rash decision-making. (The decision being that I was now going to be attracted to Faramir, or that I was always attracted to him and only now was my brain planning on revealing that to the rest of me. Either way, it posed some obvious difficulties.)

I’ve not really explained it, have I? I think I wanted to prove that it wasn’t just uncouth lust but I suppose in the beginning it was. I was just lucky that everything else about Faramir, the things you couldn’t see, suited me too.

Now, lying in a storm of sheets I realised I was obsessing over whether the hair on Faramir’s stomach had been blonde or red (you know I hadn’t even really bothered to look properly when I had the chance, and when else was it likely that I be presented with various unclothed parts of Faramir’s body? But then what is there to recall? He was not as if carved from marble but his belly was flat and mostly toned and his waist dipped inwards and that was good enough for me; I am not chiselled from stone either) and I’d decided also that it was merely the proximity to another man’s bare skin in such an intimate scenario that had somehow muddled my brain into thinking this was something erotic. There must be an aura, or some sort of undetectable scent people give off that draw others in like a magnet, this was obviously the reason for my confusion; I was newly crowned, we‘d just won the war, baths were almost daily occurrences now, what man wouldn‘t fall prey to such intoxicating pheromones? I tried desperately to think of occasions where I’d been in similar nearness to reasonably handsome men and not fallen in love with them (the reasonably-handsome bit I had trouble with.) Of course there were none, or rather I mean there were many I had not fallen in love with, all of them in fact, and rather irritatingly I had to abandon my paltry theory (mainly so I might get some sleep) and surmise that while I didn’t prefer men on the whole I might prefer Faramir but it didn’t matter anyway because I wasn’t going to be so stupid as to actually tell him.

Author’s Note: This chapter’s a little on the short side, but fret not, there is one later on that makes up for it in length. Fans of unwieldy paragraphs will be pleased to know that there is a particularly endless one coming up shortly below. Also, the NC-17(ish) rating comes into effect in this chapter, but only for a short while. I’m afraid it’s only a teaser of what may or may not yet come…

Chapter 2.

“This is probably going to come across as a bit sudden but I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

Thankfully, we were in the stables when I came out with it and I came out with it at the same moment Roheryn came out with an obnoxiously loud whinny (professing his love for Faramir also or telling me I was an idiot) and because I’d said it too quietly for Faramir to hear in the hopes that he wouldn’t actually hear it, thankfully as it turned out, he didn’t.

“What?” he said, looking over the dividing wall between our mounts‘ stalls.

“Nothing,” I said, burying my face in the spiky musk of my horse’s withers. We rode out, we had a lovely day, I tried not to look at Faramir’s long fingers on the reins or the way his thigh muscles tensed and relaxed as he guided Marin alongside me. It wasn’t just his body, you know, he was rather frightfully clever, honourable in the sort of way that doesn’t make you wince and he managed to make his unyielding stoicism and his innate gentleness blend together as if it were impossible to ever have one without the other in a man.

I wanted him. The level of my desire rose like floodwater; unstoppable, inevitable, poised to cause no end of damage. I stayed away from him which only served to drive my need of him to unforeseen heights. I dreamt of him. I woke, damp with sweat expecting to find him lying beside me, but he never was. I suppose I could have commanded him to sleep with me; it was my right as king to command, but I didn’t and I shouldn’t have to explain why. The worst part was those dreams weren’t romanticised fantasies where we made wild love on a moonlit night, crying out each others’ names as our bodies arched against one another in the throes of unquenchable passion, no. These dreams were alarmingly realistic; messy, occasionally ungainly lovemaking, off-balance thrusting, mis-timed kisses and elbows in ribs and teeth that bit too hard and a moan that might have been of discomfort but no-one wanted to ask or clarify. Those awful necessary things you have to say; ‘can you move your leg?‘ and ‘Sorry, that’s not, no wait, wait-… actually slower.’ and ‘Shift over before I fall off the bed.‘ I could smell him, I could smell us, that muggy mingling aroma of sex and salt and sweat and absolute maleness. His beard scraped my lips and cheek raw and yet I could not help but kiss him as deeply as our jaws would allow. He was heavier than he looked too, so my subconscious had ascertained; I’d wake in the dream to find him sprawled across me, my arm or leg gone cold and useless beneath him until I tried to shove him off and woke myself up for real to find my arm or leg tingling from my bizarre sleeping habits. More than once I had to wait for the sensation to return to my lower leg in order to rise and, shamefacedly avoiding the looking-glass, wash myself off in the bath chamber. The very first time it happened I actually put my head down the latrine and was ill. I’d just had a ridiculously erotic dream about another man! Where on earth had all of this come from? I’d have had less trouble accepting it if somehow I’d conjured up a dream of Faramir as a woman, something encroaching on nightmare territory, I realise. But when the dreams continued I managed to control my reaction somewhat, even so far as to enjoy them. If no-one found out, if Faramir didn’t find out, then there was no harm, surely?

Except he was going to find out because I was going to tell him, really, properly, the very next time I saw him, that I loved him. (While ‘that I’d been having ridiculously graphic sex dreams about him where I may have tried to imagine him as a woman‘ rolls off the tongue rather nicely, I’m not that stupid.)

“I had a dream about you last night, Faramir.”

We were in my study; Faramir was hunting through my bookshelves for a particular pamphlet while I helped by sitting on the edge of the desk and watching him.

“Oh? And what happened?”

How was I going to phrase it, now that I’d moronically opened with the very thing I’d not wanted to reveal to him? I think somewhere during the council meeting that immediately preceded our seclusion in the study I’d decided that professing my undying and inexplicable love was maybe a bit too heavy-handed. Sex dreams though, were fair game. Oh gods.

“Well,” I couldn’t look at him. Fortunately Faramir’s gaze was tome-bound and so neither of us were privy to the other’s exact reaction to the words I said next. “We were…lying together.” Ah, what sweet poetry falls from the tongues of kings! Faramir seemed only to be half-listening; I still wasn’t looking at him but the process of working out what I’d meant in his mind was practically audible.

“We were…” He selected a book and straightened, opening it. “Do you mean like-…oh, wait, fucking?” He looked at me, though I couldn’t meet his gaze. There was a smile in his voice when he exclaimed loudly, covering his uncertainty over what would be the appropriate reaction: “Good grief! Was I any good?”

I wanted to die. I glanced at the window, as if to find it open would be invitation enough to throw myself from it and dash the hopes of men forever. But all I had to do was play along. “You proved yourself quite knowledgeable.”

Faramir snorted and opened his book. For some reason the question as to why exactly his king was having erotic imaginings concerning his-self wasn’t leaping from his mouth. “I’ve long wondered whether the person you dream about is dreaming about you at that same instant. I can now confirm my theory debunked.”

I grinned a this-isn’t-torture sort of grin. “No nocturnal thoughts about me then?”

“Regrettably, no.”

I tried not to pick up on this small shred of impossible hope. Regrettably. “Regrettably?”

Faramir closed the book again and ran his palm over the cover, composing a sentence that I would never had had the courage to utter if our roles had reversed themselves.

“Regrettable indeed, for had I had illicit dreams about you sire, I might pass them off as mere flights of my subconscious and therefore untameable; it is to my sorrow that the private thoughts I have of you are entirely the conjuring of my conscious, controllable mind.” He looked at me levelly. “And therefore must come under scrutiny and judgement; surely you must know now that I can’t not be biased in your favour in all matters.”

And then, just as I had had my mouth open in a semblance of reply for long enough to show, to an astute observer though Faramir was not such as will become apparent, my disbelief at something I heartily wished to be true actually being so, I saw at the corner of Faramir’s lips the most poorly repressed twitch and I knew I had been had. (Faramir, of course, being too wrapped up in his jest to notice I had fallen for both it and him in one fell swoop.)

“Clever,” I said, and attempted a smirk which mostly fell flat. I hoped my disappointment and mortification could be shrugged off as impatience at Faramir’s poor attempt at humour. Now, apprising him of the deeper nature of my feelings for him suddenly seemed like a very bad idea.

Faramir, softening after laughing to himself gleefully for moment, said; “Forgive me. It was an irresistible opportunity.”

I went into a bit of a huff after that, and Faramir was evidently aware of this and spent most of the day trying to ingratiate himself again, though truly there was little he could ever do to really lose favour with his king. Does that make me a fool? There are some sayings about fools and love but I will leave them for you to appropriate.

It was now two weeks to the day since the map sorting in the library. The erotic dreams had faded, replaced with something all the more cumbersome to ignore. I dreamt, instead, of the future.

In these night visions, the sex was off. No longer did I experience rampant hallucinations of our naked bodies entwining beneath tangled, sweat-drenched linen, though that’s not to say that in the context of these dreams our ‘relationship’ had become platonic. It was rather that it had developed; the physical aspect lurked in the background, a known factor, but now my subconscious was constructing scenarios even more improbable than coitus with my second man. Mad dreams, dreams of a house in Emyn Arnen, of walking in the woods with fingers interlocked. Of marriage. Yes, marriage. I was going insane.

Author’s Note: Many apologies for the delay in updating; this chapter is longer than the last, which should hopefully make up for my tardiness :)

Chapter 3.

“Ithilien?”

“Yes, you know, that fiefdom you made me a prince of some while ago.”

“I know what Ithilien is.”

Oh, our blessed, blessed war! Let it never be said that the high king Elessar Telcontar and his steward, the lord Faramir, prince of, yes, Ithilien, were not wordsmiths of the highest pedigree! How I loved his barefaced belligerence, though it was always gentle, teasing, fondly bandied. There he was before me, leaning against the edge of my desk with his arms folded and I wanted to pull him to me and never let him go. Instead, I sat down in the chair before the fireplace, crossed my legs and gestured to him with my hand. “Go on then.”

“I’m having a house built in Emyn Arnen. It won’t be ready for a few months yet, but I will probably be wanting to live there- Aragorn?”

I must have gone white, or looked at him very oddly for he was now looking at me very oddly, tilting his head and smiling as if I were some half-wit in need of reassurance. He was expecting me to say something; congratulate him somehow, or at least be interested. Instead, I blurted “You’re leaving?” like some love-sick fool, which, of course, I was.

“Not for a few months yet,” Faramir repeated slowly, amused no doubt by my ineptitude at normal conversation. “And I shall be going back and forth; you need all the help you can get.”

It was a joke, and I tried to laugh it off but whatever noise I made fell flat and Faramir frowned. I stood up.

“I’m feeling unwell,” I said, though the cause of my wanting to die was not through any sudden affliction but due to the fact I’d chosen that as my excuse for solitude. I thought of swaying slightly on the spot for added authenticity, though I really would be half-witted to think that for a moment Faramir was fooled by any of this, but Faramir himself prevented such theatrics by pushing away from the desk, stepping to my side and putting his hand on my shoulder.

“What has come over you?” And I knew he wasn’t talking about sudden onset playacting. I sighed.

“There’s something I really need to tell you, Faramir.” Here we go, I thought. Again. Luckily for me, I’d heard that Faramir would soon be moving to Emyn Arnen and I wouldn’t have to deal with the fallout to my proposed confession for too much longer.

“The thing is,” I said, and I wished his hand would leave my general proximity.

“For a long time now,” I continued, and he only watched me, concerned for once in lieu of banter, kind eyes shining. I looked at him squarely, trying to be kingly about this.

“I’ve been falling in love with you.” I swallowed. “Fallen, really. I mean, I think…no, I’m quite certain that I love you.”

For a moment my wish came true; Faramir lowered his hand from my shoulder, and I was now free to disintegrate into infinite, mortified motes of dust and be blown hither by whichever breeze came first; either that or flee the room, I wasn’t too fussed on the particulars of my escape. But I was a fool to think myself so easily off the hook; Faramir’s hand curled around mine and he said, as my heart exploded; “I know.”

And then I said, stupidly (I promised I’d get back to this, remember?); “You do realise I mean love love, don‘t you?”

He laughed, and the fingers that were somehow already interwoven with my own tightened their grip briefly “Yes.”

I was at a loss. “You know?”

“Admittedly, I didn’t know until you confirmed it now. But I had suspected something was going on; your gaze isn’t too unwelcome but it’s also rather obvious.”

What was happening? “What is happening?” I said, and my voice seemed to be getting higher with each twist of this unlikely tale. “For I do believe I have just offered my heart to you and here we stand, hand in hand.” Such sweet poetry, but not sweet enough to halt the change of Faramir’s expression from gentle mirth, and dare I say it, flattery, to one of delicate sadness, as if he were about to reject that freely offered heart, albeit with such tact that I would be hard pressed to ever find fault in him for it. And that is exactly what occurred next.

“Aragorn,” he said, and I knew, even though he never called me my lord or your grace or my king any more, I knew somehow that this use of my given name boded only ill. I decided then, that that was enough. I let go of his hand, and stepped back, blushing to the roots of my hair, no doubt. What a fool I really was.

“Hush now, I will not embarrass you further by letting you figure out how to word what you are about to say,” I remember striding to the door with some purpose, determined Faramir should not see the ugly conglomeration of emotions on my face at that instant. I heard his footstep behind me.

“But-”

“No, no, Faramir, it’s alright, really.” I opened the door. I really was feeling unwell now. Thankfully, Faramir took the hint without me having to actually ask him to leave, something I’d never wanted to do in the first place. Oh gods, why have you laid upon me this unmanageable fate? Not even so much the love part, but the awkwardness I am plagued with?

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Faramir said, suddenly on the other side of the threshold.

“What?”

“At council; tomorrow is the first day of spring.” The dawning realisation that I would indeed see him the next morning, seated beside me as he would be for the majority of the day at spring council made me want to renounce my kingship and take myself away into Eriador, or perhaps see an elf about a westward-bound boat. Instead, I nodded dumbly.

“See you tomorrow, Faramir.”

So, spring council came and went, as did summer council, and autumn, and now the days were short and the nights long, longer to me now because I had no-one seated at my side for the winter meetings; Faramir had been in his new home in Ithilien for almost three months now, and save for the occasional visit to the city I saw him not, though that is not to say we didn’t speak to one another.

Letters, endless letters, and though the snow beckoned and the promise of storms and impassable roads loomed, for now messengers were not hindered on the journey between our two residences and were dispatched almost daily (and you’ll be pleased to know that I was still bathing with equal regularity). In the days that followed my (this time, well and truly heard) confession, the relationship between Faramir and I became a little problematic, the problem being that I, in my attempts to avoid him, so filled with a fury of embarrassment as I was, was only making life more difficult for him; I suppose generally a steward will, now and again, actually need his king for various little things like councils. During that spring summit it was impossible to ignore him or the notes he kept passing me and beneath the table our knees kept colliding and I just wanted to throw my chair out of the window in the hope that the distraction would allow me to slip away unnoticed. But I didn’t, and after a week or so our friendship resumed normalcy, albeit with a little less time spent together, mostly, I think, due to my own self-preservation. I kept away, because I was only going to fall further.

In the end, it was almost (almost) a relief when he departed for the hills of Emyn Arnen. I was sore to see him go, but didn’t stop him; he wasn’t just leaving because he felt like it, as prince of that fiefdom his duties were now pulling him increasingly in that direction. It wasn’t practical to live in Minas Tirith when your work was mostly concerned with what was happening in the woodlands to the south, and I dare say it’s not practical living in Minas Tirith when you know the king is infatuated with you. And the fact of the matter was, however much I may have secretly wished for an excuse to keep him by my side (contrary to my varied methods of avoidance) in reality I had little need of an on-site steward any more; off he went, with guard and retinue and what felt like half my household staff (well, I suppose they were his first).

And then, I realised he was gone. And I missed him, immediately and dreadfully.

And so, our correspondence began. At first, they were just the occasional note slipped into more official letters of state; a vague how are you, how is the pastoral life treating you (mine) or how fares the king without his loyal dogsbody (his). And it was that last missive, laced with his old, familiar cheek that spurred me into action; sarcasm doesn’t usually translate well through the written word but Faramir was a smart one and he (I hope) didn’t take much offence from my tart reply. At least his own returning letter, which arrived a day later, was even cheekier than the first. This went on for weeks, with each note getting longer and longer, until soon they were more essays than anything else, not so laden with brazen disrespect, but now of a fonder tone, our friendship reignited, minus the difficulty physical proximity sparked within me. My day was brightened immeasurably when in the morning I would discover an epistle lovingly (and so neatly) scrawled with ‘Dear Aragorn‘ at the top and ‘yours, Faramir‘ at the bottom. He’d even begun to poke fun at my admittedly sub-par handwriting; my signature at the best of times was illegible and so his became even more fanciful until at one point the flourishing ‘F’ overwrote half a paragraph. I smiled to myself, and consigned to write to him in childish block-letters from then on.

Prior to Faramir’s departure I’d begun to take myself out of my duties if not every day then every other, and pursue some physical activity. It was not that in the days since my coronation my more sedentary lifestyle had resulted in my belt feeling tighter, but since the crown had been placed upon my brow I felt I had hardly held a sword since, and I was out of practise, and, fine, in mild danger of becoming unfit. Helpfully, this gave me ample excuse to concentrate on something other than Faramir and my ailing heart, and I spent many pleasant hours in the practise yards or ahorse, touring the Pelennor when the weather was clement. I mention all of this only because it gives a little context to what happened a while later. (Did I mention at the start that this was a long story? No? Well, as you will have gathered, it is.) The snow had begun one morning, not terribly, but enough to put me off any long rides and any especially prolonged sparring matches out of doors. So, sufficiently diverted from any physical exertion, I threw myself into reordering my study, a sadly neglected task and one that I heartily wished I could thrust upon my steward, though recalling him from the wilds to put my ledgers into alphabetical order was not something I felt he would appreciate, no matter how tidy my calligraphy.

After about half an hour of, truthfully, half-hearted rearranging, there came a knock at my door. The post was late on this day, delayed by the weather no doubt, and contained the usual petitions and invoices and this and that from whomever I was currently not settling a quarrel over farmland boundaries for. In the midst of it all, however, was Faramir’s letter, and I know I should have kept it for last, a reward for dealing with all of the disgruntled farmers but though I have had a long life and plenty of time to learn it I really do not know much of patience and so I sat behind my desk and ran my thumbnail beneath the seal to open it immediately.

Most of the letter was the usual, the replies to some questions I had asked about winter supplies and what his plans were if the storms truly did cut off all travel between north and south. He had practical answers for everything, as always, and I envied him that level-headed knowledge that seemed to come so naturally to him. The last few lines of the letter, however, set alight within me something I couldn’t even name, let alone decide how to react to.

In any case, it is long since I have seen you, and you are yet to visit my home; I know it is winter and travel is not pleasant, but if you might deign (oh, Faramir) to spend a few days as my guest I would be pleased to have you. Far be it for me to suggest that I miss you, but I think a real conversation between us is long overdue.

Please write quickly, before the snow buries us all.

Your Faramir.

Now, first things first. It was not the content of that last paragraph that initially gave me pause, though the invitation was one I was fair tempted to take him up on (and you’ll already have guessed that I did, so there is no point in leaving that a mystery.) It was more the wording he had chosen, specifically in the valediction.

Your Faramir.

I squinted at the script.

Not yours. Your.

I sat there, puzzled for many minutes. My over-active imagination, surely. His hands were probably cold and he mis-wrote. He’s forgotten how to spell, it comes to us all. There was no way in actuality that this was some sort of subtle invitation of a different sort. I had put it aside, surely, my fondness. I was fitter, now, and my hands freshly sword-callused; I had proven that I could forget all about that nonsense.

Write quickly, he had asked. What better reply, I thought, than to ride quickly instead, and show myself as answer. I found myself summoning servants and instructing them to begin preparations for my journey southwards not ten minutes later. It would take a day or two to assemble the necessary retinue, days in which I would throw myself into weapons-practise with vigour never before witnessed; I missed Faramir horribly, but as my friend, and my friend only. I would prove that, and we would sit before the hearth in his home with wine and laughter and watch the snow fall endlessly.

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!”

Author’s Note: Oh dear, have I kept you on a knife’s-edge? ;) Okay, I don’t believe it was that big of a cliffhanger, but rest easy now, for now you get to find out what happens next…

Chapter 5.

I think I meant, somehow, to say that I had done so much to forget, to make it as it was between us, as friends only. To prove to him that I was not some heartsick pest. But the damage was done. His face crumpled for just an instant, but I caught it and it tore through my heart like a knife. He turned from me, and though I’ll never know I pray to all the gods there are that I did not bring him to weep.

“We should be getting back,” he said, and didn’t look at me as he passed me, walking back the way we had come. Why am I such a damnable fool? I looked at the empty clearing and felt sick; he had probably wanted to kiss me here, in this secret, wintery place. I wanted to shake myself, kick my own backside, and probably would have attempted it but I had to get to Faramir and make him see that I was as great an idiot as I’ve always secretly assumed he thought I was. (Make no mistake, my thoughts at this time were about as clear as that last sentence.) I ran after him, crashing through the trees, so un-rangerly.

“Faramir!” He didn’t stop. I slowed to a walk, unwilling to catch up to him completely. “Faramir!” I called again, but he took no notice. I set my jaw. “Good gods Faramir, as your king I command you to halt and listen to me.”

He stopped, but didn’t turn. I suppose I deserved as much and so I set about explaining myself to the back of his head.

“Faramir,” I said, and was immediately at a loss. “I don’t even know how to-…look. You’ve been saying it for a long time but you’re right, you’re always right. I do need all the help I can get. I need your help Faramir. I need you.”

He shifted, I could tell he was looking up at the treetops. “That’s fine, Aragorn. I’ll always be here.” His voice was so devoid of emotion, defeated. “I know how you feel, now, and that’s fine too.”

“You don’t understand,” I said, knowing of no way to make him understand either. I ran my hands over my face. “Since that day in my study I’ve spent every spare moment trying to forget you, trying to put from my mind your image, trying to distract myself with work and weapons-practise and the gods know what else so that I wouldn’t dream of you.”

“I commend your dedication, my king.” The title sat ill with me, but it was no time for corrections.

“I told myself over and over, I didn’t love you. I didn’t love you. I told myself enough times that I started to believe it.” Exhausted all of a sudden, I leant against a tree, dislodging snow from the branches that fell in clumps around my feet. “I told myself I didn’t love you, but the thing is, all of those attempts at forgetting you failed.” He had half-turned, and I know he could see me in his peripheral vision but I didn’t draw notice to it. “Faramir, I love you desperately.”

He looked up at me with an expression I couldn’t read. “You’re just an idiot?”

“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Yes,” I repeated, mastering myself. “Gods, Faramir, please don’t say I’ve ruined this again. I can’t believe I could have had you all those months ago and here I am again, letting what brains I have rule my heart.”

In a moment, what brains I had would alert me to the inexplicable truth that Faramir, by his own admission, returned my affections, but right now all I could focus on was Faramir himself, a streak of golden flame walking toward me through the whiteness of the winter wood. He came very close, so close that I could feel his breath on my face, warm as the longed-for summer. He was beautiful.

“I forgive you,” he said in a low voice. And then, he kissed me.

All I remember is that his lips and tongue were cold, that his fingers were like icicles where they framed my face and yet my innards were on fire and that I kissed him back with my eyes open. It was over so fast; a brief confirmation, lingering long enough to shatter any illusions of chastity, just a promise, but it was enough. I shivered as he withdrew, and he reached up again, running the backs of his fingers over the side of my neck.

“Is this happening?” I breathed, and I remember expecting some snide remark, an ‘of course this is happening, you stupid oaf!’ or some such. But Faramir, he looked at me–and I told myself we were on uneven ground, for I was sure he was looking down at me, though only by the smallest degree–he looked at me, and he smiled the widest smile I think I‘ve ever seen upon his face.

“Yes,” he said, and we walked back to the house hand in hand.

The winter nights in Ithilien set in early and lasted long; but despite mutually unacknowledged but rather obvious attempts at prolonging supper for as long as possible, there were only so many ways one could play with the crumbs on one’s plate before one must give up, have the servant clear the table and direct one’s thoughts to bed.

You’d be forgiven for assuming that we were all over one another the moment we set foot over the threshold to Faramir’s home, but we weren’t. Surprising, perhaps, given my deranged longing and Faramir’s newly confessed ardour, but when we’d taken off our cloaks and stamped the snow from our boots and Faramir turned to me and said “Hungry?”, I could only nod with enthusiasm. It felt to me like Faramir was nervous about this small change in our dealings with one another; I know I was terrified, so why wouldn’t he be apprehensive, and putting dinner in the way of intimacy? My stomach wasn’t going to hold it against him.

When the plates had been taken away Faramir took a long time to get to his feet. It was his house, I thought, so let him lead the way. He stood, and glanced at me, and then smiled shyly, picking at a knot in the wood of the table with a fingertip.

“I’m fair tired,” he said.

“Me too,” I said, for lack of anything useful. I yawned. “I suppose–,” I continued, when the silence stretched. “–that we might as well go to bed.” Oops. “I mean, turn in. To our beds. Separately, maybe. If you want.” I’ll warrant my rallying speech at the Black Gate could hardly rival that for eloquence.

“Let’s decide when we get to the top of the stairs?” A genius, that man. I nodded again, and rose, head spinning as the blood rushed from my feet. I followed Faramir in silence, climbing the stairs without incident. It was dark at the top, and I walked immediately into the back of him when he stopped at the crossroads. Ahead were two doors; on the right, my bed chamber; on the left, Faramir’s.

“I don’t want to rush this, Faramir. I can wait, if you’d rather we…didn’t…” I made a face; I made it sound as if I was desperate to lie beside him, which, of course, I was. But I didn’t want a quick fumble ‘neath the sheets, a riotous rutting with no foundation. I wanted him, I wanted life with him. And for that I would wait forever.

Faramir’s tone was thoughtful, his voice quiet. “It’s cold in my room, even with the fire.” I could see what he was doing, and warmed to it. Start small, nothing too frightening. “We might just…cuddle, for a while.”

We both laughed at the same moment, which was a relief. “Cuddle? That sounds like something hobbits might do.”

“I have little knowledge of the bed-habits of hobbits,” Faramir said, and I actually, almost, hand on heart, giggled. (Hobbit habits. The tension was making me giddy, that was all.)

“Well, I would hate for you to be cold, Faramir.” And that seemed to settle it.

Inside the bedroom, Faramir bent to the fireplace, lighting candles from the grate. I walked slowly about the room; it was large, and a door off to one side promised the bath chamber I‘d made use of the previous day. In the centre stood a sturdy wooden bed frame, almost bowing beneath the heap of furs and blankets piled upon it (he’d be hard pressed to feel a chill under all of that, I thought with a smirk). A wide bay window opened out from the east of the room; though the curtains were now drawn, I imagined Faramir in the morning pulling them open, the new sun lighting faerie-beacons in his eyes. A noise distracted me. I turned; Faramir stood by the fire, his hand on the mantel.

“Will you come here?”

There were candles all about him and his hair seemed alight. I approached, my hand meeting his as he reached out to me. I was very aware of my own breathing. In, out. Just keep doing that and you’ll be fine. The heat from the fire was burning me up inside. We faced one another. (He was taller than me, but I didn’t care about something so silly as a half-inch any more.) When I kissed him, (and of course I kissed him; how could I not? You have no idea how beautiful he was in that moment, with the candles creating a halo about him, his shirt collar sitting just-so, the shadow of his beard upon his chin and throat, the slope of his nose…) it wasn’t like it had been in the woods. His tongue wasn’t cold, his lips not icy, and his stance now wasn’t so dominant; instead of cradling my face this time I felt his hands sneak around my waist, holding me there gently. I tried to tell him how much I loved him through that kiss; my tongue was light, tenderly seeking his. I closed my eyes this time, though I could still see him before me as clear as day.

We were standing apart; I let him pull me closer (or rather, I stepped forward and his hands stayed on my hips) and I wrapped my arms around him, pressing our bodies together. He murmured, and I broke from the kiss, resting my forehead against his. I liked this, I liked this a lot.

“Shall we…?” he asked, and his eyes darted in the direction of the bed and then back to mine. I nodded, and we melted apart, and what followed was the most awkward ritual of undressing I have ever experienced (awkward for me in any case). I let Faramir lead, for I didn’t want to usurp his side of the bed unintentionally (though I doubt he was that fussy). He rounded the bed, and we came to stand on either side of it; without much ado, he threw me a smile and began unlacing his shirt. My cue to begin hurriedly shedding clothing, but halfway out of my shirt I had a horrible quandary; exactly how unclothed should I become? In my own bed I slept in the nude, but this was not my own bed. I snuck a glimpse at Faramir through the collar of my shirt (it was still mostly over my head; I was feigning an entanglement that bought valuable moments in which to reassess the situation). He was so nonchalant, the way he elbowed his way out of his shirt and began wriggling out of his breeches. Soon, he stood but in smallclothes and undershirt and he made quick work of the latter, flinging it over the back of a nearby chair before raising his head to look at me.

“Are you quite alright in there?” Gruffly, I nodded, and then realised he could not see me through my linen prison. I threw off the shirt.

“I’m just…sort of-”

He looked at me kindly. “You have nothing I’ve not seen before.”

He wasn’t standing there without confidence, but neither was he showing himself off, he just stood there, unconcerned with his lack of apparel (though he was wearing an undergarment, and, gods he wasn’t yet aroused but I could see the impression of his manhood against the cloth and I thought I might expire from a combination of fear, lust and longing); he didn’t care, I noticed, what I (or anyone) might think of him beneath his garb. And of course, truthfully I didn’t really care what he thought of me but the fact that I was admittedly a lot older than he kept niggling at the back of my mind, and I became rather privately (and sillily) concerned of what wrinkles he might find in what undignified places and what he would think about them which only added to my hesitation.

He wasn’t perfect either, mind you. But I think I only grew fonder of him because of that.

I hurled off my undershirt and rid myself of my own breeches in short order but my worries were groundless; Faramir wasn’t even looking, busying himself with the removal of roughly forty-seven layers of bedclothes. I laughed.

“If you find any mithril in your excavations I know a dwarf who’ll gladly take it off your hands.” I could tell he was smiling even though he faced away, my stomach turned over in delight. I moved to the side of the bed, lifting the last (or so I hoped) blanket in order to climb beneath it although I only managed as far as sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“What will the servants think?” I said jokingly, though there was no way Faramir missed the nervousness in my voice I so gaily tried to mask. This was supposed to be romantic, I kept remembering, at least fake some seductive tones.

“I dare say I don’t pay them to think about the implications of discovering us in bed together.” Gruffness, and a wry glance. I relaxed a little; if he wasn’t bothered, then neither was I (in theory). “Anyway,” he continued, “everyone in the realm knows I’m your favourite.” He clambered into the bed, pulling his side of the blanket up over his lap.

Worried for a moment, I paused in my following him. “What if people think I coerced you? You know, ‘you’re my favourite so I took what I wanted because I’m the king,’ that sort of thing.”

He reached for me, pulling me by the hand into the bed. “Then I shall stand up before the court and set them straight.” We were sitting beside one another now, and he slid closer, his warm thigh against mine. “Time for bed, Aragorn.” And he drew me down, down, until we lay facing one another. I could feel the heat of him radiating; I decided to be bold and slung my arm over his waist. He liked that, moving closer so that our chests and bellies aligned. Our legs tangled, and our foreheads came together once again.

“Cuddling…” I smiled and so did he, and then we were smiling against one another, a joyful kiss. I was fully hard, and suddenly I didn’t even care if he discovered it (which I‘ll say was fairly inevitable). I wanted him, I wanted him to touch me. I moved my arm, running my hand up and down the valley of his lower back, and then, in a fit of boldness, reached down and found out just how firm his backside was (quite).

He liked that too because he made a pretty little noise of encouragement and moved his lower body closer, close enough now that my cock, still trapped beneath my smallclothes, was pressed up against some angle of him that I could not identify and oh gods, oh gods, I must be crude and tell you he felt damn good against me.

It was a bit of a blur after that; our kiss never ended, but we gave up on any pretence of cuddling rather quickly in lieu of a bordering-on-desperate embrace, grinding hips and pliant bodies. I was on top of him somehow, kissing, kissing until my lips and tongue were raw, his bent knees colliding with my hips. He reached up and began pushing my underclothes down; suddenly I was afraid, what if he found me after all of this… inadequate? Unattractive, incompatible? But it was too late, there was a slight breeze around my nether-regions. I crawled out of my smallclothes and had little chance to think about the situation before Faramir’s fingers encircled me.

We had stopped kissing and I was panting, looking down at him (I dared not look at his hand). My hair was damp with sweat, and batted my cheeks as it hung down on either side; Faramir’s was a tumult beneath his head, drawn back from his high forehead by quick fingers, those same fingers that were now between my legs. A moment passed between us, and then he began to stroke me as I lowered my face to his and left a very shaky kiss upon his lips. I thought of reaching down and sliding my hand into his smallclothes but I was getting too excited (and the thought of taking him in my hand only excited me further), I needed him to slow down, to wait, Faramir!, wait!, but suddenly all I seemed fit to do was ram my face into the pillow and pray Faramir wouldn’t be disappointed in me as I came all over his belly and hand with a shout and a violent shudder.

Mortified, I collapsed on top of him and just lay there, face hidden. Only now did I feel his own manhood pressing up into my stomach, stiff and waiting. It was awful, and the receding waves of a rather intense orgasm weren’t helping anything at all. I felt Faramir’s arms loop around my middle, and the kiss pressed into my ear.

“Are you alright?” he asked after an excruciatingly long moment.

“I’m so sorry,” I said into the pillow, then turned my face to his, cheeks burning. “I don’t usually…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence out of embarrassment.

He was smiling kindly, bless him, though a sheen of sweat coated his forehead and I felt even worse for his missing out. “Happens to us all, don’t worry about it.”

“I want to die,” I said.

“Was it that bad?”

I thought for a moment. “I’ve not come that hard in a long time.”

“Well, then?” Faramir was still smiling, and one of his hands tousled my hair. “Think how terrible this relationship would be if it began with no chemistry whatsoever beneath the sheets.” He showed me his teeth in a grin. “I’m a bit flattered, actually, that I elicit such a reaction in you.”

“I promise it won’t happen again.” Propping myself up on one elbow, I reached down. “Let me make it up to you.” I ran my palm over his stomach; it was fingers slicked with my seed that gripped Faramir now, and I swear I felt the heat rise in me once again when I touched him; he was gifted, and the encouraging noises he was making soothed my rather bruised self-image. I made it up to him, and then, about an hour later when I realised there was no way on the earth I was going to be able to fall asleep, I kept that promise.

Author’s Note: This chapter is a bit short, but we are nearing the end, and you won’t have to wait too long for the remaining parts. I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 6.

It was one of those slow awakenings, those lovely, sleepy moments when you half-open your eyes and the bed feels especially comfortable, and there’s someone you are very fond of lying beside you keeping you warm. Unfortunately no sooner was I aware of all of this than the vision was shattered with a literal bang; I raised my head, startled, just in time to see two servants manoeuvre heavy pails of hot water through the door (a small puddle on the floor the result of the clatter of bucket versus door) and in doing so, incriminated myself rather splendidly. There was no way I wasn’t seen, despite the servants’ insensible expressions as they disappeared into the bath chamber. Faramir’s hand snaked from the covers and pulled my head back down, though I had to shift from my original position (I’d originally opened my eyes in fright to behold a coppery armpit a scant inch from my nose) and pull the blanket over myself again.

Faramir’s voice was far-off, heavy with sleep. “The worst they can think is that we succumbed to a moment of madness on your visit here, that we drank too much wine, or our passions were running high. Our friendship is close enough, and we haven’t seen one another for a long time.” He was speaking quietly, and it sounded as if he was about to lose consciousness again at any moment. I envied his lack of concern; I was ready to bolt out of the door, heart hammering. “I wouldn’t worry, Aragorn.”

And then I really began to worry. What if that’s all it really was to Faramir? A bit of heated blood, passions that took us over only to fade with the dawn’s light. I wanted to ask if he still wanted this, now that the cold light of day clarified matters.

“Faramir?” I whispered, and when I got no response I looked out from beneath the sheets. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, sound asleep. I suppose I’d just have to wait. I turned over onto my own back and watched the servants leave the room, closing the door behind them with what I thought was a rather particular care not to look in the direction of the bed.

Faramir roused himself about ten minutes later; I’d gotten bored with lying there, despite the warmth and softness of the bedclothes and besides I needed to piss terribly, so with a quick prayer to the gods that no more of Faramir’s household would needs traipse through the room I rose and padded to the bathroom, intent on relieving myself of at least one concern, if not them all. I was washing myself when he came up behind me, hands sliding about my waist, burying his nose into the hair at the base of my neck and pulling me back against his chest gently. I was fairly sure that constituted an end to my worries.

“How did you sleep?”

“Well enough,” I said, smiling and then I remembered with horror my performance the night before. My burning face looked back at me from the mirror, and from over my shoulder I could see Faramir’s too, peering through pillow-ruffled hair; he hooked his chin over my shoulder and kissed my flushed cheek.

“Love you.” He paused. “Love love.”

It occurred to me that this was the first time Faramir had said it, and even though it was the most momentous thing that had happened all morning all I could do was grin idiotically at his reflection until he disengaged himself with a snort of laughter and stole first dip in the bath.

There was nothing I could think of to say (for once), so I knelt behind the bathtub and began washing his back. The water was hot, and I envied him, but there wasn’t enough space for two so I was content in massaging his shoulders and singing to myself. After a while, he lay back against the bath, the back of his head on my shoulder, and though my knees were starting to pain me I lifted the cloth and let the water run down over his chest. He turned his head and smiled, and we shared an upside-down kiss that ended when I had to stand lest my legs seize up.

“I’ll be finished soon,” he said, lifting the cloth, presumably to wash more intimate areas. “I’ll send for more water.”

“It’s alright,” I said, stretching, and trying not to stare at him too much. This was the first time I’d seen him unclothed in good light, and, I realised, the first time he’d have seen me, though he was keeping better control over his wanton gazes. I was hairier, or perhaps the hair on my chest and belly was just darker. He had freckles, pale ones, all across his shoulders and upper arms and I did not, save for one or two here and there, but I think we were more alike than not and really, none of it mattered at all.

“I thought frequent baths were a thing you were doing now?”

I felt cheerful enough to cuff him across the back of the head, nothing more than a brush of my fingers through damp hair. “What I meant was that I’ll just go in after you, but you are so very droll, my good friend.”

A look of faux-worry passed over his face as he wrung out the washcloth. “Your good friend? I thought I was more than that, surely?”

I knelt (again) and kissed him (again). “Surely,” I said, and I couldn’t stop the lovesick grin that spread across my face. It soon turned out that there was room for two in the bath after all.

I wanted snow, I wanted storms, I wanted fallen trees and floods and hail and earthquakes, anything that would keep me holed up in this place with Faramir for as long as possible. I’d already stretched my visit out to almost a week, and though I didn’t feel unwelcome (oh, far from that) I knew I was pushing my luck in regards to my absence from the city. My heart grew heavy; I knew it was unlikely that I could persuade Faramir to come back with me but it wasn’t going to stop me from trying.

I sulked a little over breakfast on my fifth morning in Emyn Arnen. The previous night we had touched one another again, and I had shared his bed, but it had been a long night of wakefulness for me, lying blinking in the darkness while Faramir slumbered on like a slow-burning furnace alongside me. I was worried; yes, his admission of affection was one I believed, but the stakes were so high I feared losing him once we parted and the spell broke.

I was sullen. My porridge was cold, and drawing in it with my spoon was irritating Faramir (he kept glancing at my efforts with a certain look on his face) but I felt suddenly listless, as if I had no purpose in life but to be in the company of this man and even now our separate lives, however entangled, must divert our paths in disparate directions. How I detested my destiny in that instant! Of course, I didn’t really; I was being petty, selfish, childish to a high degree. But, still.

“One more night,” I said.

“You said that yesterday,” Faramir countered, and I felt it unfair that he wasn’t taking my side on the matter; I must’ve glared at him, for he quickly added: “You know I don’t want you to leave, but the longer you stay away, the more work you’re creating for yourself when you get back.”

“Come with me, then. You’re supposed to help me with all of that sort of thing.”

He pushed aside his bowl, and reached over to lift mine out of reach too (I was being very irritating). “I am helping you, love. That’s why I’m here, so you don’t have to deal with all of the ‘Ithilien doings’ as you so adroitly phrased it.” I cringed, though felt a tingle of delight at the endearment that slipped so naturally into his speech. I was also annoyed; he was right, as usual. “Also,” he went on, ignoring my internal battles, “it would benefit us not to parade our relationship in front of absolutely everyone at court. Here it’s fine; I’m reasonably assured that my household staff aren’t too well connected with the higher levels of the council–but it would be a problem if it came out that you and I were, ah, biased toward one another, and I think discovery would be inevitable were we both residing in the citadel. I don‘t like sneaking around, and I can tell you for a fact that you won‘t either, and I‘m honestly not prepared to put up with your complaining about it. We need to be discreet. Distance will ensure that.”

“I thought you didn’t care about publicity?”

“I don’t,” he replied with a light frown. “But others do.”

“Hmmh,” I said, unable to think of anything else. Again, he was right, but again that didn’t mean I had to like it. “So, what then? Do I visit you every other week? Or shall I only come on festival days? Midsummer? Our birthdays?” I hadn’t meant to let my testiness flare in my words but it did and Faramir’s frown deepened.

“If you’d rather not deal with it at all there is a simple solution.”

That shut me up. “I’m sorry,” I said.

“Me too.”

A few moments of silence passed. “Shall we work something out, then?”

“I’d like to, but you’re being especially difficult this morning.”

“I said I was sorry, Faramir.”

He reached over and covered my hand with his. “If you think I’m going to let a little thing like eight and a half leagues get between us then you have less faith than I thought.”

“I just don’t really want to–” I’d realised the root of my odd temper. I felt foolish, but Faramir’s thumb was stroking the back of my hand and I was bolstered by his complicity in all of this. “I’m going to miss you when I return to the city.”

“And I won’t miss you?” He gripped my hand firmly. “Be assured of my love in all things, Aragorn. And if you’d ever learn to read your diary, you’ll know that I shall be by your side in less than two weeks for Midwinter.”

Oh. Oh! “See? I really do need you with me; surely telling me whatever it is I’m meant to be doing on any given day supersedes any of this woodland malarkey?”

Faramir let out a bark of laughter. “Neaten your handwriting and you wouldn’t have this problem in the first place.”

I looked straight at him. “One more night.”

“One more night,” he echoed, and I smiled.

Author’s Note: Almost there, just the epilogue after this and we’re done; I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey! I’m moving abroad in just over a week so can make no guarantees as to when the last part will be posted, but it shouldn’t be too long a wait :)

This chapter is decidedly NC-17 ;) Also, I’m not sure ‘epiphanous’ is a real word, but it’s in there, somewhere, thanks to artistic liberty :P

Chapter 7.

Fireworks, feasting, festivities and Faramir. I liked this Midwinter, particularly because everyone was so distracted with all that was going on (or so drunk) that Faramir and I were able to be more tactile with one another than we would normally be in public (though this was the first time we had been in public together since… getting together). There was even a moment upon the great rampart, when everyone’s attention was well and truly diverted skywards by the firework displays, where we felt it safe enough to let our fingers interlock. It was exciting, and I turned my head from the glittering explosions above to say this to Faramir but he was gazing upwards, and I saw the reflections of the colourful paroxysms in his eyes, and I could think only of how he was the most handsome man I had ever known, and so kept my tongue stilled. His fingers tightened around mine, and so I think he knew something of my good cheer.

Later, on pretence of getting more wine (for the king himself must inspect the barrels, and of course he cannot read properly so his steward must accompany for the purposes of deciphering the vintages) I pulled Faramir into a nook on the way to the cellars and kissed him furiously (Nook, corner, awkward space behind a statue where one man might struggle to fit both of his shoulders and two would most definitely discover it impossible to conceal themselves, it‘s all the same). I think we were seen, but I’d had too much wine (and therefore didn‘t care), and it was darker in this hallway (and so as two long-haired and bearded men we might be any men in the whole of Gondor), and the king is allowed one passionate clinch with his rather male companion on a night such as this, isn’t he? (Why not! Scandal seemed low on my list of priorities on that evening.) That was my defence, anyway, should anyone come inquiring. Truth be told, I had missed Faramir just as much as I’d thought I would, and I’d reached the limit of my patience; I had to remind myself of him, here, now, intensely.

He pushed me away a little, mirthful eyes creasing. “You are impossible.”

“I want you,” I was slurring, and annoyingly Faramir kept batting away my attempts to kiss him again. “I want you in my bed, now.”

“One thing at a time, heart of mine,” he said, holding me still by the shoulders (I was swaying a bit, or the world was turning, one of the two). “You’ve still a speech to give.”

“Oh hell,” I fell against him, burying my face in his tunic. He held me and patted my back mock-soothingly. “Maybe the speech will be about how there is no speech because I’m in love with my steward and want to–”

“I think we will get you some water, my love.” And he bodily steered me back in the direction we had come, away, regrettably, from the cellars. I bemoaned this to him in a series of incoherent mumblings until at some point I was made to seat myself on a windowsill (I was probably too heavy to be carried, and also, it was probably, in hindsight, not a good idea for the populace to see their king quite so unsteady) while he went off in search of something sobering. I envied him his clear-headedness; his gait was steady and forthright, but the grin he threw over his shoulder was so full of humour I couldn’t help but smile to myself long after he’d rounded the corner out of sight. The last thing I wanted was to sober up, but some part of my mind, perhaps the only vestige still untouched by the wine, reminded me that our relationship was still so new as to barely earn the title of such, and so maybe, just maybe, it might behoove me to behave; he was my steward, but I’m sure that taking care of a tipsy king did not come under his duties, lover or no.

I rested my head back against the window and tried to focus. King and steward, lovers… I regretted my earlier show of affection; though Faramir hadn’t really objected, it had been foolish. Anyone could have seen us, and now, when I thought about it, I wasn’t really sure I could have convincingly excused my behaviour. When Faramir returned, carafe and goblet in hand, he found me frowning and murmuring under my breath.

“I hope you’ve not gone mad in my absence,” he said warmly, sitting beside me and offering the water.

I shook my head, and thankfully, the room stayed put. “Just trying to remember what I’m supposed to say in front of everyone in five minutes.” I poured myself the goblet, and drank it down, thankful.

“Nothing about me, I pray.” He said it in jest, but I understood.

“I promise I’ll behave myself from this moment onward,” I looked at him; I think he must have been vaguely drunk too for his eyes were a little unfocused. I held out the carafe, raising my eyebrows and he laughed.

“I’m not as far gone as all that, though I will concede to this,” and he leant in, brushing the hair from my cheek, and kissed me, softly, on the corner of my mouth.

“I love you,” I said, looking at him squarely.

“I know.” The grin threatened to encroach again, but he straightened suddenly, shifting away as some merrymakers appeared at one end of the corridor. “Come now,” he said, standing. “Time for that speech.”

“Well, I should say someone’s keen.” Faramir was lying on my bed, mostly dressed (his shirt hung open, his belt flung into some unknown location), smirking at me, or rather, a certain part of me. We hadn’t gone anywhere near one another after my bedchamber door had closed behind us (he, rather cheekily, had claimed the bed, stretching out and losing his belt; I, meanwhile, had gotten busy with my own undressing, and I refused to so much as blush over my body’s reaction to the notion, and reality, of having Faramir in my chambers like this) but nevertheless when I had turned to him, still in my breeches, and without my surcoat for coverage it was more than plain that Faramir could see the shadow of my erection against my leg. Keen indeed.

“I’ll take care of this by myself, shall I?” I nodded toward my groin, and received a permissive hand wave.

“If you think my skills inadequate.”

Famous last words, I thought, as I raised my eyebrow and began palming myself through the cloth of my breeches. Faramir kept his expression neutral, but he was watching me intently; undoing the laces I was careful to keep any view of, well, anything, hidden from him as I slid my hand into my smallclothes and around myself. Was that the twitch of the corner of a mouth, the slightest frown? Were his fingers curling against the bedclothes slightly? I took myself in hand, and stroked, once, slowly, and made a soft ‘mmh’ just to be sure.

“Just–” Faramir looked conflicted, caught between wanting to be right and wanting to be the owner of the hand currently in my underclothes, the thought of which delighted me no end (it’s always nice to feel wanted). He half-sat up, then settled back. “You’ve made your point.” In his eyes was a fire, one that was beginning to blaze. Come here, it said, but I was not so ready to give in.

“Ah-ah,” I took a step back, though I was well out of reaching distance. “Lie in the bed you’ve made, Faramir.” And to further torment him, I brought myself out of my breeches, pushing them down over my hips so that the warm air of the room caressed my stiffened flesh. I was sure I looked ridiculous, standing there so, but Faramir’s humour had left him, and his hand was ghosting over his groin with growing frequency. I leant back against the desk, and widened my stance. I licked my palm, and wrapped my hand around myself anew, my eyes never leaving Faramir’s. I had him now, I thought.

Of course, the reality was that I was still a little drunk (and therefore overestimating my cleverness), and that Faramir was just as wily as I. Not to be outdone, he shook his head in resignation and pulled off his shirt. I stood resolved, I would not cave in; he might run his fingers over the wiry muscle of his chest as many times as he liked; I was not going to succumb. Even when he kicked off his own breeches (with no finesse, I might add) and I could see the arc of his hardening cock through his undergarments, I was resolute, a noble king, standing regally with his trousers around his knees and his manhood jutting from him in excitement, just barely able to stop from stroking himself into oblivion.

“I’m going to be naked in a moment,” Faramir said.

“I’m sure I will be able to resist.” What silly game was this, anyway?

Faramir extricated himself from his smallclothes with a wry glance in my direction. He lay back upon the pillows, and sent my blood pounding southwards as he parted his legs and began to fondle himself, massaging his balls and letting a fingertip trail downwards toward–

“I–” It was all I could manage. I know he saw me pinch the base of my erection between thumb and forefinger because he grinned at me, the fire in his eyes burning me from within. I was going to lose at my own game, and I was annoyed, but equally I wanted him so badly I didn’t care.

“As much fun as this is,” he said, looking up at me, leaving himself alone for a brief moment. “I’d really rather you were doing this, Aragorn.”

And that was that. I practically leapt at him, or would have, if my breeches had not restricted my movements somewhat; I half fell toward the bed, and he caught me by shoulders and pressed a laugh to my lips. I snorted, and finally rid myself of clothing, swinging my shirt from my arm and banishing all else with a violent kick. Faramir pulled me back until I straddled him on all fours, and he was smiling up at me, his hands tracing my ribs and waist on either side repeatedly.

We kissed, and kissed; I could barely get my jaw wide enough, pressing my nose into his cheek. His tongue was hot and his beard grazed my lips but I drove deeper until I lay upon him, unable to keep from rolling my hips against his. He held me there, arms across my back, a hand in my hair, moaning gently. Our cocks were rubbing together and I was afraid a repeat of our first night was soon to occur; I pulled away, breathless, before I lost control. I wanted to ask him something, but I didn’t know how.

“Faramir–”

He looked up at me, panting hard through his nose, but his expression was one of devotion and it completely diverted me. I keep saying it but he was so beautiful, all of him, every part, every line and freckle and auburn hair, every scar; I was drunk but I knew in one epiphanous moment that I’d never love another like this, never, and I sincerely hoped it would never come to it that I might have to.

Faramir was talking, and I wasn’t listening. He stroked my cheek, eyes roving over my face as our chests rose and fell together. “My love,” he was saying. “My love, my love.”

“Oh, Faramir.”

“My dear love,” he held my cheek with one hand and left the memory of a sweet kiss upon my mouth. “Lie with me.”

“What?”

He shifted beneath me, bending his knees, reaching down to run his thumb over the head of my cock. I shivered, this sensation of another man, of Faramir, doing such a thing so relatively nonchalantly still very much a delightful novelty to me. He drew me down with his other hand, and whispered in my ear; “I want you to make love to me.”

Was he sure? “Are you sure?” Was I sure?

He pulled back a little and stroked my hair. “Yes, but if you don’t want to, then I won’t mention it again.” He kept running his fingers through my hair; gone was the cheek, replaced by gentle, kind affection and comfort. If I didn’t already believe in his love I would have known it right then.

“Faramir…I probably won’t last five minutes if we do this.”

“But you want to?”

“Yes,” I said, earnestly. I could feel sweat pooling on my back; the heat between our hips was unbelievable. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been wanting to.” The notion was so potent that already I felt dampness weeping from my cock; it was going to be too much to bear in very short order. But I wanted him like nothing on the earth.

“I’ve a fair idea,” he said, and pulled me into a kiss that never actually ended; we shifted, we moved, limbs supported and braced as our tongues writhed. His hand was still between us, and I was thankful, for all my dreams and imagining and lusts I was nervous, and though I’d an idea of how to proceed when it came down to it, I wasn’t sure I’d summon the confidence to actually go through with it the first time. Faramir’s kisses became gentle and the hand he had between our bodies began spreading the moisture all over my cock, which somehow bolstered my courage. It occurred to me then, though I’d never thought to ask, that this didn’t seem to be the first time Faramir had done this; a strange bolt of jealousy shot through me before I forgot everything as he moved, and guided my cock so that the head was bumping against what I assumed was his opening, though the angle was such that I couldn’t really see much other than his fiery pubic hair and the length of his cock lying heavy and twitching on his stomach.

“There,” he said against my cheek. “Spit on your fingers and do this.” I glanced to the side as he made a slow scissoring motion with his free hand. It took a second for what he meant to dawn on me; he gave me a reassuring look. “I can do it if you’d rather, though it’s a little more awkward.”

“If I hurt you–” I began, but he only swept my hair from my face again and held me close.

“You won’t.”

I didn’t, and by the time I was hilt-deep within him all thoughts of his discomfort had quite rapidly disappeared because he’d pulled me so near (and our hips were moving together, so slowly, in rhythm, and I felt myself sliding in and out of him, in and out, again and again, past that guarding, velvety muscle and he was so hot and tight and I don’t know what else) and was murmuring things into my ear that were only partly nonsense and showed no signs of hurt, though the faces he was pulling at first led me to believe I was doing it all wrong.

“Faramir…Faramir is it alright?” I’d made love before, but not like this; I must admit I was panicking just a little even as my climax slowly gained fuel (and I thanked the gods endlessly for my unexpected stamina).

“Oh…” Faramir had let his head fall back, though his arms still held me trapped against him. His eyes were closed, his nostrils flaring as he panted. “You’re good, you’re so good…” And that was all I got for the rest of our lovemaking in regards to coherency. He rocked his pelvis against mine, and soon I felt the weight of his interlocked ankles on the small of my back, pushing me deeper; we maintained this harmony for a long time. Despite his iron grip I arched my back, chancing a glance downwards along our bodies in time to see his stomach muscles tensing as I (must have) hit that place within all men (I think you know of which I speak) and I heard him cry out, and run his hands into my hair, and when I hit it again his fingers tangled almost painfully there and he shuddered and exploded against me, sudden and scalding. Not to be outdone I drove into him once again, and as his arms fell away as his orgasm made him insensible I straightened and sat up a little, enough to be able to see myself disappearing into his heat time and again. It wasn’t long before I followed him into that blinding light, spending myself within him and collapsing forward, breathless, bewildered, euphoric, cradled by a loose but loving grasp.

“Do you still love me even though I am an old man?”

“I knew you were old when I fell for you; I hardly think I’m like to let your crow’s feet dissuade me now.”

I had been expecting at least a little pity, but I think I was becoming too trusting in my old (middle) age. We lay upon the bed, facing one another with the bedclothes pulled up a little to cover us. Our foreheads were but an inch apart; the only contact between us were my fingers in Faramir’s hair, and his hand on my waist, his thumb slowly circling a freckle on my hip.

“Speaking of such…” I trailed a fingertip across his cheek near the outer corner of his eye and received a light slap on the thigh for my impertinence. Perhaps he felt bad for such a reaction, for he kissed the bridge of my nose shortly after.

“If you’d rather I not smile for the rest of my life then I shall see what I can do.” This was delivered with what I assume was meant to be a straight face but he was fighting a losing battle; I smiled in turn when I saw that it was merely happiness that bade his laughter lines deepen, happiness that did not let indignation nor pride quash it.

“I’d rather not try that idea; you are most handsome when you smile.” He smiled at that (and I actually think he was blushing), and I laughed aloud.

“And you,” he said after he had composed himself, running his hand over my waist again, “must keep up this ‘weapons-practise‘ you spoke of; I see a marked improvement.” His eyes darted to my midsection and back again. “Though which weapon you are practising with I’ve yet to ascertain.”

I opened my mouth to answer, then paused as what he actually meant filtered through the fog of my post-coital wits. “Are you saying I was out of condition?”

“Maybe–“ His eyes widened and his grin became an open-mouthed guffaw as I stared at him in (possibly) mock-hurt. “Oh, I jest. I wouldn’t think it’s possible for you to be particularly unattractive.”

“I’m too tired to decipher your blatherings, dear heart.” And to punctuate that, I yawned noisily. I closed my eyes, and felt Faramir’s lips press between my eyebrows. “C’mere,” I said, shifting onto my back; he settled himself against me, cheek on my shoulder and arm slung across my chest. I held him there loosely, slowly fading from conscious thought.

“I can’t believe I just slept with the king,” he said softly, and it really only dawned on me at that moment that yes, the king and steward were now quite royally entangled as far as politics went. The gods forbid anyone really find out how deep our friendship dared delve. A thought that had assailed me before our lovemaking occurred to me again.

“You have slept with others?”

“Not kings, no.”

“I meant men.”

I counted the heartbeats between my question and his answer. “Yes. And you have not?”

“Was it that obvious?”

He ran his fingers over my upper arm slowly. “You were very good. Very…satisfying.” I wasn’t quite sure whether or not to take offence at that, but I let it go. “You have slept with women, though?”

I frowned. “I am not that inexperienced!”

“The implication was not intentional.” He sighed, but it smacked of contentment rather than exasperation. “You’re a funny one.”

My eyes slid shut. “You’ve said that before.”

A scrape of stubble against my flesh told me of the curling upwards of his mouth.

Author’s Note: I thought it was about time I finished this (I know I’m woefully behind on replying to comments but life has been hectic lately to say the least!) Anyway, I hope you enjoy where this little journey has led as much as I enjoyed writing it :)

---

Epilogue.

I’d thought about it for a long time. Years in fact, and I’d dreamt of it once before everything even began. Now, I thought, was time enough.

I found Faramir out on the balcony as he was wont to be these days, enjoying the warm evening breeze, watching the summer sun disappear slowly beyond the hills, nursing wine or a book or often both. He had a chair there, something of dark wood and solidly wrought that I’d gifted him on a previous birthday. This was his space. He’d draped a deerskin over it, soft woven blankets, and there was a cushion for his back, and in the evenings when I read my letters and replied to some by firelight at my desk, he would take himself out for an hour or so by himself, and think his own thoughts. Often I would lean back from my notes, and watch him for a moment, intent on his book, peaceful, happy, I hope. He was older now, we both were, not by too much, but still. He stayed with me now in my rooms when he was in the city, more or less (of course, ‘officially’ he did not, but really the only things he kept in his own apartments were the books that didn’t fit into mine). We’d never come clean about our relationship, never gone public, but I think we would have been foolish to think that some of the more astute (or scandal-hungry) of the inner court didn’t have at least an inkling. Close friends were one thing, but in hindsight I realise now that it was probably quite apparent to anyone who looked closely enough in the early days that we were quite smitten with one another. No-one had ever commented, so I did tend to wonder what all the fuss was about (though I kept that thought to myself, for privately I think Faramir really did fear the reaction, and I was content to let it lie).

This evening I forwent my correspondence and headed straight for the balcony. Faramir glanced up as I passed him, heading for the balustrade, looking over the city out into the expanse of Gondor. He sat with legs crossed, leaning back in his chair, book held open with two fingers. “You’re early tonight, love.”

“Sick of writing,” I said, giving him a smile. “Thought I’d disturb you instead.”

“’Tis no disturbance.” (Our bickering had mellowed out a little over time.) “We might get you a chair; I’d enjoy your company here on nights such as these.”

“But in winter I can bugger off?” (Mellowed, only.) He laughed, and went back to his book. I smiled again to myself. I loved him, I loved him. Time enough.

“Come here?” I said, and when he set aside the book and rose, I slung my arm about his waist as we stood facing the city, the Pelennor, Ithilien, the distant notion of the Riddermark, the earth itself. Rather heavy-handed, I agree, but the moment was spiced with a strange magic beyond that of which I hoped to cast with my impending incantations.

But before I could speak, and weave such charms, Faramir shifted and leant his head upon my shoulder, heavy and soap-scented. I spun a kiss into his curls; blonder now with age, threads of pale gold amongst skeins of copper. My own hair was greying now, silver at my temples and in my beard, but Faramir still came to our bed with undiminished ardour and that was all I cared about.

“What on earth are you fiddling with?” He had lifted his head, and reached for my free hand, dancing on the stone of the railing. I opened my palm; the curve of twin serpents glinted there in silver and green. Faramir lifted Barahir’s ring from my hand and looked at it, running his fingernail along an edge gently. “I don’t think I‘ve ever seen you take this off.”

“Would you wear it?” I asked, leaning away from him a little. He looked at me, nonplussed. The wind caught his hair; he stood with the sunset behind him, framing him with a halo of molten star-fire, his auburn waves alight. His eyes looked into me, a thousand leagues into me, and I was open to him, every part of me. I was his, utterly his, until the last leaf fell and the rivers ran dry. Until the last wave crashed upon the shores of Valinor, I was his. “Will you marry me?”

I didn’t know what I expected but he was quiet for what seemed like an eternity of the earth. He was looking at the ring in his hand, and then I saw the shimmer of saltwater on his cheek, and I fought the almost irrepressible urge to reach out to him. “Faramir, love, don’t weep. You can say no!” I said with a little humour, but the reality of that refusal was something I didn’t like to prepare for.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last, wiping his face roughly with his palm. “I just…I never…” He smiled, a huff of shy laughter that I’d not heard from him in the gods knew how long. “I just…you told me this ring has been in your family for generations. I’m not sure I should have it.”

I took his hand and curled his fingers around the ring. “You will be a part of my family, if you say yes.” I had thought about it, all of it, the practical aspects as well as the romantic; Faramir was not going to bear my children (nor I his, I hasten to add), but he had cousins, and their descendants would be my heirs. The line of the stewards would not longer be kings in all but name, but the line of kings itself. All of this I would tell Faramir later, we could arrange everything, it would be alright. All he needed to do was–

“Then, yes.” I had been looking at our hands; my head jolted up to see his laughing eyes, his warm, close-lipped smile. “I will marry you.” He leaned closer, tilting his head. “Heart of my life.” He kissed me then, so soft a caress, but firm, the sealing of a contract. I could had kissed him back for the rest of my life, but there was one thing I needed to do first. I looked down at his hands in mine.

“I hope it fits, after all that,” I said, and I felt his sigh of laughter dance in the loose strands of my hair. I took the ring, and turned his left hand over. “I know this isn‘t your ring finger,” I slipped it over the first digit where it fit as if made for his hand. “But you might agree we are not the most traditional of betrothed ever to grace this particular balcony.” I met his gaze again, and his eyes were shining. His hands lifted, and framed my face most delicately, thumbs brushing over my cheeks, smoothing over my eyebrows as if he was reminding himself of who I was. I watched him, wordless. His expression was one of wonder, and I wondered myself if he would ever really know how much I cared for him, how inexplicably lucky I knew myself to be for finding the other half of myself in him. Then he kissed me again, differently this time; he surged forward, and held me to him, and we shared the same breath for many minutes. His tongue was tender and hot, thrusting into my mouth not un-gently, and I met him with equal fervour, my longer whiskers catching on his coppery stubble. The sun dimmed, but Faramir was alight, and I wrapped my arms around him.

“Let us never be parted,” he said, his forehead against mine. I could feel his smile. His fingertips ran through my beard endlessly. There was nothing I could do but agree.

One of the nicer aspects of the length of our relationship was that it allowed for a certain degree of easiness with one another; one way of putting it might be that we were just used to being together, but I liked to think it was more our feeling comfortable, though in fairness it was both. Thus, I was often treated to the delightful sight of Faramir emerging from the bath chamber, wringing out his damp hair, reaching for a comb, perhaps shifting a chair out of the way, or selecting a book, pressing a kiss to the crown of my head as he passed before finally deciding at some point to put underclothes on. And sometimes, I treated him to a similar scenario.

This night, some time after my proposal, he did much the same thing, striding from the bathroom and looking around the room, before finally standing in the centre of it all with his hands on his hips and a puzzled expression on his face.

“Lost something?” I lay on my back on the bed, arms folded behind my head, ankles crossed, equally undressed.

“Believe it or not,” he said, moving cushions on the couch. “I’m looking for my smallclothes.”

“Pah, come here instead. I prefer you thus!” I grinned, reaching out an arm to him, into whose reach he eventually migrated. I pulled him onto the bed beside me and mussed his hair annoyingly.

He shrugged, face hidden behind a tumult of strawberry-blonde. He wore naught but the ring of Barahir. “I think only upon the questions the servants might ask when they find my linens in your chambers.”

“Remember when I cared about what the servants thought?” He made a face at me, then yawned, turning onto his front, chin propped up on his elbows to look at me. “I think you hurled them somewhere earlier, though I was hardly in a fit state of mind to record their exact landing position.” Sex as betrothed seemed to stir up within the both of us some sort of internal infernos, at least my blood certainly felt heated beyond all reckoning. Faramir took me, and I forgot my name and who I was for what seemed like my whole life. What on earth did I do before I met him? (Other than put my hands to certain uses.)

“Shift over, will, you? I’m going to fall off the bed.” And I knew then that I was looking at him strangely for he just shook his head at me and shoved me gently. I moved, digging the bedclothes out from beneath the both of us and drawing them up to our chins. I thought it best to leave out my prophetic dreams for the moment, even though now, at last, they had all come true. I knew he knew something of such things, but he was yawning again, and shoving me further over, and I was content to comply. His hand slipped from the covers and pushed my hair from my eyes. “Goodnight, husband,” he said, and kissed me, sweet as the very first time, when snow glinted in our hair, and chilly fingers clasped my own.

My dear reader.

That is the tale in its telling. Is this ending abrupt? Is it an ending?, I might counter, but for now my wrist aches, and the light is low, and my handwriting is bad enough without even such hindrances. I will set aside my chronicle, and beg refuge within a familiar embrace. He waits for me, you know, and though one could say he is used to such things this time I will not keep him lonely for long. Just a moment, I said to him, and the last I saw of him was his bare backside disappearing between the bed-curtains. I will join him shortly. I’m afraid he presents a far more enticing prospect than scribing this account even if he is its subject. Flesh over fiction, I would say, but you must know that everything I have laid out here has been nothing but the truth.

I must of course admit this has been but one side of a story of two halves; for the unbiased account, for an un-tapped slew of disparaging inner-monologues, for the whole truth and everything else, you will have to ask Faramir.

(But you will needs wait until morning for that.)

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-strangest-of-dances. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!