Faramir Fiction Archive

To Love a King (NC-17)

Written by Minx

05 April 2004 | 32130 words

Chapter 4

Gimli sighed silently, hoping Legolas was having better luck with Faramir. He should have let Legolas come here and met Faramir instead. Aragorn was being a stubborn fool. They had decided the previous night to speak to the two men for it worried both that their friends could be the topic of petty gossip, and that it may hurt them in the long run.

Aragorn listened to him even as he readied himself, and offered nothing in response - no defence and certainly no assurance. He heard Gimli out and then simply nodded and told him he’d keep what he had heard in mind. He did look thoughtful however, but the Dwarf was unsure as to whether that was good sign or a bad one.

He followed Aragorn out to the terrace leading off his room, saying no more for he wished not to be heard outside of the walls of the room.

“You will be careful, will you not?” was all he said, as he leant against the small wall overlooking the city.

“I take it Legolas speaks to Faramir on the same matter,” came the amused reply.

Gimli sighed again. Legolas could talk to Aragorn next time. He preferred straight answers. And Faramir was a nicer lad to talk to. He leaned forward resting his elbows on the stonework. Aragorn stood beside him.

He was never entirely sure what happened next. He was leaning on the wall one moment, and then the next he was jerking forward. And then he was being jerked backward. He really was not sure. One moment the city seemed to be rushing towards him, the next he was sitting on the cold stone floor of the terrace, with Aragorn talking rapidly in his ear. He heard a crashing sound, then after a short interval of silence, there came more voices.

It took him a while to realise Aragorn was pushing him into a chair, and asking him if he was all right. His elbows were abraded from where the falling stone had scraped against them, and his shoulder hurt from being pulled back forcefully by Aragorn, but otherwise he was all right and he said so. Except for the strangely flighty feeling he got when he remembered how it seemed the ground far below was rising to meet him; he who could barely climb on to a horse.

So he latched on to some other subject.

“How?” he asked.

By now, the captain of Aragorn’s guard, Turgon, had entered the chamber. Turgon took his duties very seriously. He stuck to norm now. He promptly herded a concerned king and a confused vertigo-ridden Dwarf back into the chambers, barked out orders to his lieutenant and then proceeded to ensure that no commotion would take place.

Gimli grasped the mug of ale Aragorn thrust in his hand and found it helped him regain his equilibrium. Aragorn, as expected, had headed back to the terrace, unheeding of the lieutenant’s entreaties. Turgon returned to announce that the offending stone had fallen on the courtyard below, was now cleared out, the noise had been heard by only those on this wing of the citadel, he had reassured them that naught was wrong, and none knew of the mishap barring those in the room, and Aragorn’s chief councillor, Minardil.

“The stone was loose,” Aragorn said calmly. Gimli looked up promptly, then noticed the expression on the faces of the Men around him and nodded.

“And I really should not lean forward so,” he murmured, and he knew by the startled look that Aragorn threw on him that his acknowledgement of what was surely a weakness had the King’s gratitude.

Sounds from the passageway made them look up, and soon they found themselves in the company of a very concerned Faramir, Legolas and Minardil.

---

Legolas had headed out to the gardens frustrated at everything that had occurred. He was annoyed - with Faramir, with Aragorn and also with himself. He had not taken things along the right way. Faramir was just as pig-headedly stubborn as Aragorn could be and he had forgotten that. It must be an Edain trait he decided. He had expressly decided to tackle Faramir himself and leave Aragorn to his dwarven friend’s single-minded approach because he knew Aragorn would not listen to him.

Faramir had been no better.

“It must be Aragorn’s influence,” he muttered angrily.

He sat under the shaded trees watching the sunlight slowly stretch over the city, and thought quietly about his friends; only to have his musings interrupted by a loud crash. An upward glance revealed that whatever the noise was, the source had been from Aragorn’s wing in the chambers.

He dashed into the building, up the steps, his surefooted feet padding swiftly, yet quietly, up the stairs and across the corridors, stopping only at the sight of the figures standing out on one of the passageways.

---

Faramir found that the tepid water although not helpful for his aches atleast left him feeling more awake to deal with the morning’s meetings. His torso and belly were covered in marks and bruises, and he had ensured his tunic had a high collar. He had even been forced to lower the waistband of his leggings a little so it would not abrade against the tender skin on his stomach.

But his mind dwelt elsewhere. He tended to keep mulling on his conversation with Legolas. He supposed the Elf’s words had some sense in them but he still felt that he had no right to interfere. A part of him also felt that it was unfair Legolas chose him to speak to, when he could have spoken to Aragorn too.

But what really hurt was to be questioned about the truth in his love for Aragorn. He was ever grateful to his king for much, it was true. Aragorn loved him, and he respected him, feelings that Faramir had received from few. But to think that he indulged in this relationship as a token of his gratitude was absurd. He truly loved Aragorn, since the moment they had met. He had felt something then. And he still felt it.

It angered him to hear that people might be talking about them, as Legolas had said. He knew he would have to control himself in future, however for it was of no use getting angry with the messenger just because the message induced disappointment. He dressed quickly and walked out of his chambers towards the halls, only to come across the figure of Lord Minardil, striding swiftly down.

It took the older man barely a few seconds to explain to the worried Steward that a mishap had occurred in the King’s chambers but none had been hurt. Then, Legolas had run up o them, his usually serene countenance marked by concern and Faramir knew he was aware something had happened.

Minardil gave him a sketchy greeting, and a few words of explanation and then waved his arm, “We were on our way to the King’s chambers. I felt it appropriate to inform Faramir of the little accident that you no doubt are already aware of.”

They were soon at Aragorn’s door.

---

Aragorn tried his best not to drum his fingers impatiently on the table. He was beginning to feel a headache form behind his temples. It was barely mid- afternoon and he found the thought that he already felt tired rankled him. And they had yet to discuss the request by Rohan for help against Orcs in their western borders, one that he was sure would cause debate. But then, anything, it appeared could induce debate among his councillors, he thought sourly.

Though he and the others had outwardly dismissed the morning’s incident as caused by a loose stone on the terrace, he still found himself bombarded by questions. The piece that had slipped off had been a thick fat slab, and it had been noisy, and potentially dangerous to both those above and those below. It was a good thing Arwen was away visiting in Dol Amroth. He had no desire to cause her worry. Poor Gimli had had a frightful experience. He could stand anything, but not such a great height looming towards him. He had however recovered soon enough and had even joined Turgon in examining the stonework, as Aragorn had left for the council, where the news of an ‘accident’ had already reached.

“It is strange,” Duinhir of Morthond had commented, “The citadel’s construction is surely not so faulty.”

“Nay,” that been Ardamir, “In all these years, not a crack has there been in the stonework. Is it not Faramir?”

Faramir had glanced up expressionlessly at that, “Not that I am aware of,” he had acknowledged quietly.

“Strange indeed then,” spoke up another councillor, “Perhaps, my King, you would consider looking deeper into the matter –“

Minardil stepped in with alacrity, “It has been looked into,” he said firmly, “You must remember that much of the city was impacted by the war. We shall go through the Citadel’s surfaces carefully now.”

Aragorn nodded at him, “Yes, we will get that done. It will not do for another such mishap to occur. Someone could have been standing underneath that terrace!”

“Yes, more such mishaps can be disconcerting,” Ardamir had spoken up, his tone making it clear that he referred to more than just the occurrence of the falling stone.

Aragorn had promptly brought the meeting back to order in an especially acidic voice by reminding the others in the room that they had gathered there with a specific agenda in mind.

The headache remained, a dull throb. Atleast the painful discussion on the reinforcement of the defences in Pelargir was over and done with. There yet remained the matter of aid to Rohan though. He motioned to Minardil to table Éomer ’s request for help. His eyes fell on Faramir.

The younger man was shuffling through a sheaf of papers, and Aragorn struggled to keep a soft smile from forming on his face, as he remembered the previous night. He’d noticed earlier that the Steward’s movements were minutely slower and had no doubt over the cause. He desperately wanted to reach out and ensure that Faramir was not hurting from the experience. When they had met in the commotion in his room earlier that morning, Faramir’s eyes had been directed at him the moment he had entered the room, and the intense fear and concern that he had seen in them had hit him hard. The look had changed to one of pure relief when Aragorn had indicated that he was perfectly well, and that no one had been harmed.

They had been unable to speak after that, as Faramir had excused himself during the noon meal saying he wished to discuss some matters with a few of the councillors. That had been immaterial however, for Minardil had requested speech with Aragorn then.

---

Minardil had got to the point immediately, “That was no loose stone.”

“I am aware of that.”

“There have been far too many incidents to ignore. And this was far too close. Someone would have had to enter your chamber.”

“Yes.”

“Your guard keeps an eye on all who enter the passage. They saw none hereabouts yesterday save Faramir,” Minardil said bluntly.

Aragorn nodded, “He was in my study,” he said firmly.

“I said nothing,” Minardil said mildly.

Aragorn glared back at his chief advisor, “Please do not tell me you could even think -,” he could not even say it.

“No! I would never doubt Faramir. I merely wish to point out that someone entered your chambers somehow, and I must find out how. If I may have leave to have a through search conducted?”

He had nodded thoughtfully, the idea that someone was out to harm him still a little too fantastic for him to comprehend.

---

And now, the repast long over, and the headache making its painful presence felt, he found himself wishing to subject some of his councillors to grievous harm. The Rohan issue as he had suspected did give rise to much debate.

“Aid? But we need those troops to guard against troubles of their own,” was the general consensus.

“We can yet spare a few troops to aid them,” Faramir spoke up.

Aragorn looked up at that.

Faramir gave him a glance before speaking, “I spoke of this to the Lords Beren and Tirion earlier, Sire,” he indicated to the two younger members of the council, who like him still captained troops for Gondor’s army, “They ask only for temporary aid, and we have some troops we can spare, without endangering our own defences. I could not discuss it earlier with you Sire.”

“I should like to hear more of those plans then, Faramir, as would the rest of the council I am sure.”

“Oh, I thought you might have discussed this last night,” asked Ardamir of Faramir, in a soft voice that could be heard only by those near him, “When we met in the citadel last night, I assumed you were on your way to the king’s chambers?” Aragorn being seated nearby heard it.

“No we did not,” came the cold response of the Steward, before Aragorn could say anything.

“It seemed a matter of great urgency and the hour was so late,” Ardamir said silkily, as those around him began to take a sudden interest in the papers in front of them.

Before either King or Steward could respond, both with faces as carved from stone, Beren spoke up in confusion, “But we discussed it merely today,” he pointed out earnestly.

“Indeed,” Faramir responded, before turning back to the Council, and encouraging Tirion to put forth what they had spoken of, when they had met at noon.

Aragorn looked at Ardamir in puzzlement, wondering at his words. He had had only so much interaction with the other as these meeting called for. The spite he had detected in those words directed at Faramir angered him. And yet, he wondered why it was so, for he had understood that the two were kin. Ardamir he knew was related to Denethor. Perhaps, he thought, he had been influenced by Denethor’s impatience with Faramir.

He had no time to ponder however, for he had to once again call the council to order. They behave like children, he thought exasperatedly, as an argument began to brew swiftly.

“Our relations with Rohan seem to be of great importance these days,” the remark by Lord Merdil, an old friend of Denethor’s was obviously directed at Faramir.

“I was given to understand My Lord, that they were always of importance,” Faramir responded icily, “I oft heard such from *you* before.”

“And they were of great aid to us during the war,” Tirion pointed out.

“My Lord Tirion,” the older councillor responded with deliberate slowness as if speaking to a child, and thereby sending a flush up the other man’s face, “This is not a state of war, and we are as yet unsure of our own defences. Do I need to remind you that the King himself was attacked by Orcs some days ago?”

“I believe that is what Lord Tirion has been attempting to explain,” Faramir injected.

“My Lord Steward,” came the languid response, “Do you really think the numbers you retain in Ithilien are enough to get rid of those foul creatures?”

“You certainly seemed to think they were enough to face them earlier, My Lord, and under worse conditions if I may remind you,” Faramir literally spat out the words, an obvious reference to earlier meetings across this very table, “Is there aught else you wish to say?”

Aragorn moved forward frowning intending to quell he argument but before he could speak, Merdil’s voice cut across.

“Your request for more men then was unreasonable and impossible, my dear boy! We needed our other fronts guarded just as well!”

The foregoing of Faramir’s title did not escape anyone’s notice, and the Steward himself paled slightly.

“My Lords!” Aragorn interrupted, fuming, his voice hard as rock, “I fear we deviate from the subject at hand.”

“My apologies Sire. I got carried away,” Merdil responded smoothly, “and to you too, My Lord Steward, My Lords,” the accent on Faramir’s title this time was greatly pronounced.

Faramir bit his lip uncertainly, “Forgive me, My Lords, Sire,” he murmured, his white face colouring slowly.

Aragorn flashed a gentle reassuring look on him, and then the council plunged back into discussion, in a more sedate fashion this time.

---

By the time they adjourned for the day, Aragorn’s head was pounding miserably. And they had still decided nothing! For a brief second he wondered how Denethor had ever put up with the cantankerous lot of advisors. He knew they were good men, yet there were times when they let their petty foibles get in the way. Faramir had once told him he had considered falling on his knees before them to beg for more supplies and they had taken an entire week to sanction half the amount. He could now see why. He had jokingly told the younger man he’d have had greater success if he’d offered to fall on his knees and do something other than beg. Faramir had not been amused.

He wondered if he ought to seek out Gimli and borrow a case of Dwarven ale from him. He wished greatly to see his friend was all right and the ale he knew from past experience could numb one.

He sighed and leaned back against the chair in his study, closing his eyes tiredly, only to open them again as he heard the door open. He smiled at Faramir, and leaned back once again. He felt a warm hand slip under the neck of his robe, and squeeze his shoulders gently.

He gazed into the concerned eyes warmly and smiled again.

“You are tired,” the Steward said softly, as he continued with his soothing ministrations.

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