Faramir Fiction Archive

To Love a King (NC-17)

Written by Minx

05 April 2004 | 32130 words

Chapter 5

Aragorn let himself relax as Faramir’s gentle fingers eased the tension out of his aching muscles. It was early yet, not even evening, and the sun outside imparted a pale golden light to everything. Aragorn let his eyes drift shut and inhaled the soft musky smell of the younger man’s nearness. His half-lidded eyes fell on the desk, and his mind wandered to the events of the previous night. Faramir’s worry had annoyed him at first but then as he had begun to simmer down, he could understand the wariness that the normally introverted Steward was beginning to display. When Faramir had shed that wariness he had felt moved. And yet, the younger man had been right to worry, for obviously his appearance there had not gone unnoticed.

Faramir’s belief in him had been apparent in the way he had come to Aragorn and in the way he had readily submitted to him. The ‘punishment’ he had meted out had had Aragorn feeling a little ashamed later but Faramir had indeed seemed to enjoy it. He thought of the number of times he had convinced the normally restrained Steward to abandon caution in front of his desires, in the hayloft, on the balconies, the other day during their ride, while hunting, and had never been refused.

He could still remember Faramir as he had been in the first few days of his reign, a quiet young man, who had always been there at his side when required, aiding him in the myriad matters that fell to him to see to, driving his still healing body to near exhaustion as he rushed to keep up with the requirements of a Steward’s job that he had been untrained for. His face had been permanently creased with lines of worry in those days. It seemed he was trying to prove to himself that he could shoulder his unforeseen responsibilities.

He hadn’t changed much, Aragorn decided. Faramir still worried over everything far too much. He sighed heavily.

“Forgive me,” the Steward’s soft voice suddenly broke into his reverie.

“For what, love?” he asked sleepily.

“For my behaviour during the council. I merely added to your headache by arguing with Lord Merdil like that.”

Aragorn sighed, “It was not entirely your fault. But, yes, you let him provoke you. I wish you would remember that you are Steward now, and that does count for something.”

“Merdil is many years older,” Faramir began quietly.

“Yes, and that is why you need to heed his opinions too,” Aragorn interrupted, “you are no longer just a captain petitioning for increased supplies for your men, Faramir. You are a Steward and a Prince making decisions for your people. I know you would never come to a conclusion without thinking it out clearly. You must let the others know too. Merdil was wrong to address you as he did. I think everyone realised that.”

Faramir sighed, “He used to address me so, earlier. He was an old friend of father’s. And father had little good to say of my command.”

“Yet you retained your command, and a tough one at that,” Aragorn reminded him.

Faramir shrugged, “No tougher than any other command in Gondor. But we needed more supplies and we lost more men than the others, so I was required more than once to justify any requirements before the entire Council.”

Aragorn pursed his lips slightly at everything Faramir left unsaid. He’d gleaned most of it himself - how Denethor was scathing in criticism when things went wrong, and how sparing in praise when small victories were attained. They were dismissed as just that - small victories. A request for supplies would be met first by a long list of the errors committed that warranted those supplies, before the requisition was grudgingly approved. Faramir had told him laughingly that those sessions with the council had actually strengthened the abilities of the Ithilien Company. The Rangers strove to ensure there were no slip-ups ever. They patrolled the land to the point of exhaustion safeguarding the border, keeping out intruders. And in all that Faramir led from the forefront.

Aragorn shook his head slightly. From what he knew of Merdil, the man was just being his habitual self. Deriding Faramir’s abilities was something of a common trait among Denethor’s close friends he’d noticed.

“What of Ardamir?” he asked suddenly.

“Ardamir?” Faramir asked in surprise, his fingers stilling their soothing movement.

“He is your kinsman, is he not? His words – they seemed -,” Aragorn stopped, unsure of what to say.

“His father was grandfather Ecthelion’s brother,” Faramir told him, “We are all that is left of the House of Húrin for now. He was a good friend to father, too. They shared a common view on many things.”

The last few words came out with just the faintest touch of bitterness that startled Aragorn a little. Faramir usually controlled his emotions perfectly.

“It matters naught now, dear one,” he assured gently.

“He – he – Father - was a good man, Aragorn,” Faramir said suddenly.

Aragorn sighed silently. Faramir was back to his usual mode of controlled politeness where his father was concerned. In all the months Aragon had known him, it was just once that Faramir had released his pent up feelings on his father’s suicide, an act in which he too had almost lost his life. It had been a nerve- racking ordeal for both men. Faramir for he had had to deal with a matter that upset him greatly and still gave him nightmares, and Aragorn for he had held the shaken younger man in his arms all through to give him comfort.

“Yes, love, he was a fine leader.”

They spoke no more for a while after that. Aragorn let himself sink lower in his chair as the fingers carried their gentle and effective work to his temples.

“You’re wonderful,” he murmured, as the throbbing began to dissipate.

“I can do many more wonderful things,” came the suggestive reply.

“Really?” he asked smiling.

“Yes. Would you like me to do many wonderful things to you?”

“Soon,” he laughed when he heard a sigh from Faramir.

“Aragorn, that stone –“

“Not now, my love, not now.”

After a while, he grabbed Faramir’s hands bringing them to his lips and kissing them, “Come sit with me,” he said quietly, and rising led Faramir to the pile of cushions that he had left in front of the grate. The waning rays of the sun played on the pile through an open window. Although it was near season’s turning, the day was as yet warm, so the grate remained unlit.

They sank into the soft mound, and he pulled Faramir into his arms, letting his lean body rest between his legs, the back against his chest, head leaning against one broad shoulder.

“It was deliberate, was it not?” Faramir asked without preamble.

“Yes.”

“But, how, Aragorn? Who could come to your rooms? They are always guarded when you are not there. And I was the only one to come to this wing last night.”

“Minardil is seeing into it, sweetheart. Don’t worry, dearest. All will be fine.”

Faramir’s eyes said everything that the younger man’s mouth couldn’t. Aradmir’s veiled references to his presence near Aragorn’s rooms the previous night, the constant looks that were thrown his way when Aragorn had given him a glance of gentle reassurance after the tiff with Merdil . . . Faramir wasn’t sure what to think any longer. Not only was their relationship in stress but now it appeared Aragorn’s very life was in danger and they didn’t even know why, and given the events he wasn’t surprised that it seemed his involvement could be suspected.

“Faramir, sweetheart?”

He looked up at Aragorn in consternation, as the voice broke into his distraught thoughts.

“It hurts me to see you worry,” the King said gently. He brushed his cheek lightly, murmuring, “All these lines, and you are yet young! You fret too much, love.”

“You could have been hurt,” Faramir murmured.

“But I wasn’t,” Aragorn responded.

Faramir shook his head silently, but Aragorn silenced him by placing a finger on his lips.

“You mustn’t worry so, sweet one. I am here now. I’m here for you.”

He drew the lean frame close into his embrace and Faramir burrowed against him gratefully.

Aragorn sighed softly, “It seems to me dear heart, that ‘twas you who needed your head and shoulders rubbed more than I did.”

Aragorn pulled him close and pushing the hair off his shoulders, gave him a tiny kiss on the exposed skin, causing the Steward to look up at him, his eyes shining a little.

“I do love you,” Faramir breathed out.

“I know.”

“I would do anything for you.”

“I know dearest.”

Faramir leaned up and gently took Aragorn’s mouth in his, “Anything,” he breathed out.

Aragorn nodded back at him when they pulled apart. Wrapping his arms around Faramir, he began undoing his tunic. Faramir sagged back against him contentedly. He undid the entire tunic, and then spreading it open, coaxed his lover forward so he could remove it entirely. Then he pulled the younger man back to him.

His eyes fell on the bare chest and midriff and he gasped softly, causing Faramir to start, worry writ clearly on his features.

Aragorn stared at the reddened marks and the dark bruises from the encounter over his desk, and gave Faramir a contrite glance.

“You should have told me I was hurting you,” he scolded gently.

“You were not,” Faramir said, his eyes shining at the memory of the pleasure he had felt, “You were so wonderful! I could only hope you received as much pleasure out of it as I did.”

Aragorn stared at his Steward, lying against him, his legs splayed slightly apart, his pale chest with its soft tufts of hair openly displaying the marks he had caused, and felt the warmth rush through him at the loving look that was reflected in those eyes.

“How could I not get pleasure out of being with you?” he asked softly, as he leaned down and kissed the hollow of Faramir’s throat, “But it would never pleasure me to hurt you or to do anything to you that you do not wish.”

Faramir gulped softly at the gentle tone.

“I love you so much,” he said softly.

Aragorn turned him slightly and gently lifted his chin and gave him a small kiss on his forehead, “And I love you.”

He felt the younger man snuggle into his embrace, shifting his body sideways to enable him to curl up against Aragorn’s chest. He gently fingered the large bruise above the right hip, careful not to let the touch hurt. Then he let his fingers wander over the naked upper body, tracing the myriad scars dotting it. He stopped momentarily over a particularly deep and nasty one running across the flat upper stomach, feeling Faramir’s slightest flinch as he did so. He moved the finger. Faramir had told him it had been caused on his first patrol, in Ithilien when they had been ambushed many years ago. He had been a new soldier yet and the Orcs they had encountered had held them for almost an hour before they were rescued. As the youngest in a troop of hardy man he had received more than a fair share of their ‘treatment’, in a dark, dank cave.

They had come across the cave on the hunting trip and when Aragorn had proposed they spend a while there, Faramir had blanched and refused outright. The story had come out then, in a bland voice that left Aragorn unsettled for hidden between the sentences he uttered Aragorn could easily make out the sense of failure he must have felt then, and how Denethor might have exacerbated it. Faramir had shown him the ugly scar and quietly confessed a dislike of dark spaces after that, and begged him to take away the pain of the memory.

He looked at the marks once again, and then shifted, aiming to rise. Faramir raised his head quizzically.

“I’ll get something for those bruises,” he said, and gently shifted out of the embrace. He nudged Faramir back against the cushions, and walked back to his desk, to get a paste that was often used to ease dull aches and pains.

He returned to where Faramir now lay languidly and kneeling by him began to rub the salve in gently.

Faramir marvelled at the feather light touch in those long, rough hands. As the strokes covered his lower body, and the warmth of the salve spread through him, he found himself moaning almost in pleasure. He could feel a stirring sensation in his groin, and he knew a distinctive bulge had appeared in the front of his leggings. When Aragorn slipped his hand underneath the cloth, and tugged the waistband a little lower to expose more of his skin, he whimpered.

“Hush,” Aragorn scolded teasingly, “This is no time for all that.”

“Yes, it is,” he protested.

“Do you know what I’d like to do, right now?”

“What?” Faramir asked breathlessly, trying to conjure up the various possibilities.

Aragorn shrugged off his tunic and leggings hastily, and sat by Faramir’s side, placing one hand over his chest to prevent him moving.

Faramir could do nothing else but nod. His throat already felt hoarse. Aragorn had moved his hand up to his throat and was gently stroking him. He let the fingers play lightly over the Steward’s chest, running it over the sprinkling of hair that covered the slender chest, before letting it come to rest on the waistband of the pants.

Gripping the cloth with both hands he nudged Faramir to lift his hips upward. The younger man did so with an ardent eagerness. The leggings were unceremoniously pulled off, freeing Faramir. Aragorn continued in the same soft and sensual voice.

“Run my lips over your soft skin, mark your tender flesh with more of these,” he gently placed a hand over a bite mark over the left nipple, and pressed lightly down on it, before proceeding to bend and nip at various spots all over the bare torso.

Faramir cried out softly with each tiny bite, but there was no pain in the sounds. Aragorn finally let up and then brought his gaze lower and smiled as he saw Faramir’s arousal. The Steward inched his own hands closer to his lower belly.

“No,” Aragorn said softly.

Their gazes met, Faramir’s etched with want and strain, Aragorn’s full of love and reassurance. Faramir relaxed a little. He could see Aragorn was controlling himself. Aragorn smiled reassuringly at him, and then lowered his head and gave Faramir’s erect flesh a very slow lick that elicited a loud cry.

“Pl – please,” Faramir moaned in response, his fists clenching at the pillows under his hips.

“Soon,” Aragorn told him, and then promptly lowered his head and took him in his mouth, opening wider and wider till he had him completely engulfed in it. Faramir jerked back, a series of whimpering noises coming out of his throat. Aragorn’s erection rubbed against his legs, sending the most enticing sensations up his skin. They came together and then collapsed against the pillows tired yet pleased.

Outside the sun had begun to set.

“I must get ready for supper,” Faramir said reluctantly, unwilling to move out of Aragorn’s embrace.

“Dine here tonight – in the study,” Aragorn told him, and then seeing the hesitation in Faramir’s eyes, added, “Minardil will be here. He comes to talk of what he may have found. There will be others too.”

Faramir nodded, his face a little reddened.

“I know,” Aragorn said seeing the flushed countenance, “It is alright. You spoke truly last night; and our friends did so too. We shall restrain ourselves whilst the citadel hosts the council.”

Faramir could do no more than look contrite. They shared a gentle, prolonged kiss before parting, Faramir to his room to finish going through some papers, Aragorn to search for Gimli and Legolas to invite them to dinner.

“Do you think he may have found how the entrance to your chambers was breached?” Faramir asked, as they left the room, “Perhaps you should sleep elsewhere until he does so.”

“The only place I’ll leave my chambers for is yours,” Aragorn teased, “Are you inviting me?”

Faramir sighed impatiently in response, even as Aragorn told him not to worry yet again, and then added that his guard had been increased. And so it had, Faramir noticed as he strode through that wing.

---

Aragorn found Legolas fletching his arrows in his large and airy chambers, and greeted him. The Elf returned the greeting and placing the arrows upon a table nearby, rose to join his friend who was happily helping himself to a new blend of wine hat had just arrived from Mirkwood.

“You have been worried of late, my friend,” Aragorn said pleasantly, passing him a cup of wine.

“Aragorn,” Legolas sighed heavily, accepting the cup, “In all the while I have known you I have found cause to worry. If it is not strange creatures you find necessary to imprison in my father’s realm, it is strange men who seek to get rid of you in your own realm.”

“Did you speak to Faramir?” the king asked promptly, quite sure that if Gimli had come to him, the Elf would have gone to Faramir. He did not envy the young Steward. Legolas tended to get annoyed easily in such situations.

“I asked him to beware of prying eyes, if that is what you seek to know.”

“I’ll warrant you said much more to him. But I am as much responsible for all that happens, and you know that.”

“Yes, it is mostly your doing, but you will not listen to me. I hoped Faramir might, but I spoke wrongly to him. I shall apologise soon. I am as yet angry with both of you.”

“Why, my friend? Why does my happiness cause you anger?”

“How could you think your happiness would irk me, Aragorn! I worry for you.”

“I am an old man, Legolas. I can take care of myself.”

“Yes, you can, and you have all these years,” Legolas assented, and then continued, “But this is a realm of men, Aragorn. They think not as the elves do. And you are their king. They have expectations of you.”

“Which shall be met. You know that, do you not?”

“I do, Aragorn. And so do you. But do your people? These are Men, Aragorn. They have not the wisdom of years behind them. And they can be fickle minded.”

“I am one of them, Legolas,” he responded mildly.

“Yes, but you were raised among my kind, Aragorn. Those of my people who wish to settle in Ithilien deal often with the lords here, as do Gimli’s people at work on the walls. They hear of things and they give credence to rumours because there is no proof otherwise. They hear talk of the King’s friendship with his Steward, and though no one says it aloud, it is but obvious that there is more than just that, for there is no son to the King yet! It is but the lords and those close to you who talk now, but if you keep on as you two do, others will too."

“I trust him,” Aragorn said needlessly.

“And you love him?” Legolas inquired promptly.

“Yes.”

“And Arwen?”

“Yes, and yes, he loves Éowyn too.”

“Does he love you Aragorn?” The Elf watched the reaction of the king steadily.

“Yes, he does. I know he does,” Aragorn’s voice was calm and steady, the tone of a man sure of himself.

Legolas nodded suddenly, as though having made up his mind, “You are dear to me, and this world of men is new to me. I may have been unwilling to trust them entirely and also been needlessly intrusive for which I must apologise to you and to Faramir. Yet I would ask you to just be watchful, my friend, that is all.”

“Nay, do not apologise. Your concern is welcomed. I am glad for it. And your words are wise. Arwen and Faramir caution me oft, but I listen not,” Aragorn said quietly as he thought of his wilder bouts of lovemaking, especially in the hayloft in the Royal stables, “Perhaps, it is for the best from now on, that I heed atleast Faramir’s words.”

Legolas nodded, “It will not diminish the love ‘twixt you two if so, Aragorn. And it will be the better for him.”

---

Faramir waited in the study, quietly drumming his fingers on the desk. He was the first to arrive, the others still at their errands. He spent the time trying to analyse the attacks on Aragorn. On his way out of Aragorn’s wing as well as while entering it, he had tried to think out how the intruder may have entered the chambers, but it seemed impossible, given that in Aragorn’s absence the Tower Guard always stood there. With Aragorn inside, they would be reduced as per his orders.

How could anyone pass through the guarded passageways unnoticed? For no one could enter while Aragorn was there unless they had reason to.

He continued drumming the desk lightly, and suddenly remembered how the desk had been used the night before. He felt the flush rise up his neck, and hurriedly stood trying to calm himself. To get rid of the erotic memory, he thought back to the days of his father’s occupancy of that table.

He remembered an evening just like this, at season’s turning. His father was furious over something or the other he’d done, and had hauled him over the desk and lectured him long, given him a few strokes of his cane, and sent him off to bed without supper.

It was then that he remembered what Boromir had done at that time and oft again.

When Aragorn and Minardil entered followed by Legolas and Gimli, they found the Steward studying the large shelf of books near the grate very thoughtfully.

He turned a shining pair of eyes to them, “I think I know of a way our intruder may have entered,” he declared, calmly.

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