Faramir Fiction Archive

To Love a King (NC-17)

Written by Minx

05 April 2004 | 32130 words

Chapter 2

Faramir nearly fell off his horse when he heard the words that were being spoken. Legolas continued to favour both of them with hard looks, which Aragorn returned with an expressionless face and narrowing eyes.

No! That is not true,” Faramir protested.

“True or not, is it what is being said,” Legolas stated firmly.

Any attempt on their part to answer that remark was promptly quashed by a yell from Legolas. He had seen signs of a party of Orcs and a small band of those creatures now flew out of a nearby bush ready to ambush the group of riders.

The fight was furious but short. Aragorn cursed under his breath as he dispatched off one of the Orcs with ease. It seemed they would never be rid of these pesky bands of Orcs that still roamed the countryside in small groups. He had found a fine outlet for the emotions brewing close to the surface from what he heard earlier. Near him, Faramir dealt with his foes with quiet efficiency. He and his rangers had been coming across these fell creatures regularly in the months after the war of the ring. The Orcs that had survived the battle now roved the countryside in small groups that attacked unwary travelers, and the Rangers had done a fine job, hunting them down.

Legolas and Gimli had handled their quota of with ease too, but Faramir remembered later that they hadn’t played their usual game of keeping count of the numbers each felled. It might have been because there were so few but he had seen them play at that even when there were just three Orcs to deal with. These had been eight in total.

The four warriors needed no help, but it arrived all the same just as the last of their attackers had been dispatched of. The sound of riders had their attention briefly, before they realised that it was Lord Ardamir, whom they had just visited and one of his men.

“We got news of Orcs in the vicinity and thought we’d ride up to warn you,” the newcomer said. He was one of the lords of the city and a fairly important member of the council. Faramir had known him from his childhood days as he was a distant relative, albeit some years older than him.

“But you don’t seem to require any assistance,” he continued, sounding reasonably impressed at their skill.

---

Thanks to the attack, when the four friends returned to the city, they were not looking their best. All four of them had scratches to show for their encounter but no serious injuries. There was the odd scrape or two, a few bruises. Aragorn sported the most serious injury, a long gash that ran down his sword arm. It was shallow and showed no signs of poison, but nevertheless it made an ugly sight, for the sleeve was ripped badly, and it bled freely, staining the fine material. It looked far worse than it felt, something the healers too acknowledged.

The reaction to the encounter however were a little unexpected. As one of the captains confidently stated, Orcs that ventured into the Pelennor, so close to the city were a rarity. They usually tended to wander further away from Minas Tirith, and in fact most of them were to be found in Ithilien. It made a few men wonder. Especially as the king had almost had a riding accident earlier that week. A large splinter of wood seemed to have been lodged in his horse’s saddle, and the poor animal upon being scraped by it, had shied in pain. It was only Aragorn’s skill and the fact that Legolas who had been riding next to him had immediately come to his aid that had saved the king from a nasty fall.

Two unusual events in the space of one week might not normally have raised talk either, but they did appear to. Or so it struck Faramir. Things had proceeded normally when they had ridden back. It was over the next few days that he began to feel unsettled, especially in light of what Legolas and Gimli had said to them. Aragorn had called for a meeting of all his councilors, and the working area of the citadel was bustling with activity. More than once there and a few times around the streets too, he heard the conversation centre around Aragorn’s recent spate of unlucky accidents. He even heard references to a hunting trip Aragorn had been on when his quiver had turned out to be empty.

Faramir had other memories of that hunting trip. Finding his quiver empty, Aragorn had ordered the others to proceed without him, making Faramir stay behind, and then proceeded to use the time very effectively. Faramir still tingled at the thought. Then his mind was brought back to the conversation. He could see one of the older members of the council talking to Ardamir, and it appeared he was asking him about the Orc ambush. Faramir sighed again. Ardamir had a day after they had, and when the Orc attack became the topic of the day, he was the most sought after for all the details, although he himself knew little other than what had occurred when he had appeared on the scene.

Legolas’ words kept ringing through his mind. They had shocked him to the core. He had not even expected to be Steward. To be considered to be eyeing the seat of power in Gondor was something he would never even consider. It was something intrinsic in him. He had been brought up hearing that the Stewards kept the throne for the king to return and take up. And that was what he had always held. He had helped safeguard that throne and now the king had returned.

What left him feeling completely sickened was the thought that anyone could think he would use his relationship to prevent an heir being born to the throne. As far as he was concerned his allegiance was to Aragorn and Aragorn’s heirs forever. And as if Aragorn would be so silly as to not understand the need for an heir. He had told Faramir once that Arwen wished to take it slowly. And that he himself felt she needed time to assimilate the implications of her mortality before she had to go through the joys and travails of childbearing and rearing.

He could feel a changing mood in the councils as the week progressed. He had never had it easy with them ever. He was after all, never expected to be the Steward. Most of the King’s advisors were the same men who had formed the council in his father’s days. And much like his father, they too were always used to seeing him as an unimportant second son of the man who for all practical purposes ruled their land. He had often stood on the other side of the table from these men, fighting to get them to allocate his company in Ithilien the requisite supplies for them to hold their domain against their enemies. Now he sat with them as Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, untrained for either post. Besides with the King returned, the Steward’s post was nothing more than a decoration.

Aragorn had appointed him Prince of Ithilien soon after his return, a fact that it now seemed, did not go down too well with some. It was felt that there was no real reason to give him a title like that. He could apparently have continued to captain his rangers. But Aragorn had wanted Ithilien to once again be the famed land it had been, and he had wanted someone he could trust and someone he considered competent to oversee that. He had known Faramir for barely days when he had appointed him but those few days had been enough for him to have decided he liked the young man and trusted him greatly.

But the Councilors had different ideas. He usually had to fight as much as before to get them to ear his words. And while he would never even have thought of getting Aragorn to intervene, being far too used to the ways of these men, the king did do so, off and on. Aragorn was fair and just and impartial and when he did intervene on such occasion it was when he felt Faramir or even any other member who was not being given a chance to speak had something worthwhile to say. Most such incidents involved Faramir. It happened thrice that week during the meetings, all to do with Ithilien’s restoration. Aragorn knew his Steward was the best man to advise on that score, and as matter of protocol all decisions were put before the other councilors too. Their needless questioning requiring certain areas of funding had forced him to step in and extend his implicit backing to the prince.

Faramir could feel the eyes of everyone on him. He knew there would be atleast a few people there, voicing the thoughts Legolas had told him of. He almost blanched at the thought but managed to control his raging emotions. He had stewed over this the last few days and nights. He had spent the nights alone since Aragorn had been embroiled in more meetings, and the gash on his arm was still healing, the healers having forced him to keep the hand in a sling for safety’s’ sake.

It had left him with far too much time to think and worry. He knew deep inside that he needn’t worry. He knew Aragorn knew and trusted him. He knew they had very deep feelings for each other, and that it was unlikely others would understand that. Yet, he worried because the unvoiced thoughts running through the heads of everyone who looked at him contemplatively as well as the barely hinted words that others directed at him hurt him for their injustice.

---

After the long and tiresome meeting over Ithilien’s restoration, Faramir stood quietly on the terrace leading out from his private chambers in the citadel, trying to forget the tiresome events of the day. The mood prevailing all through had not escaped him. He leaned his head back against the cool stone of one of the walls and took a deep breath, inhaling the smells from the garden below him.

“There you are!” The voice echoed exasperation, but he didn’t turn around letting Aragorn take the lead. The king came up to him, and gently pulled him into his grasp, brushing their lips lightly. He smiled in response, and melted into the strong embrace.

Aragorn pushed him against the wall. Faramir smiled in pleasure. Aragorn no longer wore the sling and his arm had healed well, the gash not being very deep. A gentle wind blew around them, while the sky reflected the colours of an approaching sunset.

“What are you doing?” Faramir gasped out as Aragorn slipped a hand into the back of his leggings, pushing his shoulders back against the rough wall.

“Completing what I started earlier. Where were we… ? Ah yes, I remember now.”

He slid a finger slowly down the crack and then rested it lightly over Faramir’s opening.

“Shall I make you soil your leggings again?” he asked grinning.

“No!” Faramir said mortified.

The finger slid into his entrance suddenly and swiftly, all the way up to the knuckle, and Faramir gasped sharply in response, at the sudden intrusion.

“No?” Aragorn asked, still smiling softly. He twisted his finger in and pushed once again, sending it all the way in. Then he pulled out, and watched Faramir’s eyes darken with disappointment at the loss.

“I want you – now,” he told the younger man, his hand still placed over the taut buttocks, stroking them.

Faramir nodded wordlessly, his eyes shining.

“Now. Here,” Aragorn stated calmly, looking around him at the hard stone surface, and the fact that they were out in open air, albeit hidden from outer view.

“Take off your clothes for me then,” he commanded, and sat back on one of the stone benches nearby, watching Faramir all the while. The younger man obeyed immediately, pulling off his tunic to reveal his lean chest. Then he slipped off his boots and lowered his leggings and stepped out of them, exposing himself completely to the feasting eyes of his king.

Aragorn scrutinized him slowly taking in every familiar curve of the supple body, every scar that marred the other man’s skin, every crease or wrinkle before until Faramir began to shift uncomfortably, beginning to feel awkward under the lustful gaze. Finally Aragorn took pity on his bout of shyness and stood up.

“Now undress me,” he commanded.

Faramir smiled and steeped forward eagerly. He repeated his movements languidly, peeling off each layer of cloth with deliberate slowness stopping every now and then to subject the skin being exposed to a loving series of kisses, nips and licks, softly fingering the battle scars that coated his king’s body too, stopping a while on the recent one from the Orc encounter, until Aragorn too was completely nude and in a heightened state of arousal from the tender ministrations of the younger man. Then Aragorn pulled Faramir down to the floor and began kissing him.

Faramir however still had Legolas’ words at the back of his mind. When Aragorn pulled him into a forceful kiss, he accepted it submissively, his mind still pre- occupied. Then Aragorn pushed him back so he lay on his back on the old floor, and pushed his legs apart. Placing a pillow he had brought from the bedchamber beneath Faramir’s hips, he knelt down in front of him, and took his arousal in his hands working on it gently. Around them the light was fading slowly, draping everything with the mellow shades of dusk. He sighed contentedly.

The contentment however, was shattered when they heard a sound from just below the terrace.

“What was that?” Faramir sat up in surprise, promptly reaching for the first piece of cloth eh could lay his hands on.

Aragorn grabbed a sheet he had brought and winding it around his lean lower body, walked to the parapet.

“Nothing,” he said calmly, “there is no one here. It must have been one of the gardeners.” “Do you suppose he saw us?”

“We are many feet above the garden, Faramir,” Aragorn said patiently.

“Yes, but -,”

“Hush darling. Let’s get back to where we were.”

Leaning over Faramir, he discarded the sheet, and began stroking his shaft gently.

But Faramir was far too worried. He had suddenly remembered that they were out in the open and could perhaps be seen from certain angles from the citadel. It scared him greatly. So lost was he in his thoughts and nearing such a frantic state of worry, that despite Aragorn’s ministrations, his limp member stayed as it was.

“Faramir!” Aragorn scolded gently, “What are you doing?”

Faramir glanced up, his grey eyes mirroring his anxiety, “I was – I was … thinking,” he said lamely.

“This is no time to think, loveling. Save that for later, my sweet,” he bent forward and brushed Faramir’s lips with his.

“But what Legolas said… what if it is true? What if they are truly saying all those things? What if some one sees us now?”

“No one can see us, Faramir! Not unless they take the effort to climb four flights of stairs and stand at that window over there. No one will take the effort to do so. As to what they say, let them. I care not, and neither should you. All you should care is that I love you greatly, and I wish to spend the rest of this day showing you how much I love you. Will you let me do that?”

“But we should care, Aragorn. This is serious. They think I want your throne!”

“And I know you don’t, so leave it be,” Aragorn said tiredly. He had had enough of his councilors at the meetings. To have to discuss them and their foolish talk while trying to make love was not what he really wished to do. He leaned down onto Faramir’s bare body once again, and kissed him softly in the hollow of his throat, snaking his hand between his lover’s legs.

The lack of response yet again forced him to sit up irritated.

“You seem to have far too much on your mind,” he said coldly, perversely satisfied at the flash of remorseful guilt in Faramir’s face.

“No, ! -,” Faramir started miserably, but the expression on the King’s face silenced him.

Aragorn gave him an inscrutable look, before rising, and picking up his clothes. Faramir glanced at him surprised and even a little fearful. Pulling the clothes on swiftly, the king moved towards the door, “I shall be in my study. When you have recovered your senses, you may come to me!” he said coolly and walked out of the room.

Faramir lay where he was, his hips still supported by the pillow, his legs still splayed apart, a confused expression on his face, that turned into one of acute distress as what had just occurred registered finally.

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