Faramir Fiction Archive

To Love a King (NC-17)

Written by Minx

05 April 2004 | 32130 words

Chapter 9

Faramir moved forward in shock, crying out when he realised his wrists were still restrained. He was still gaping at the sight of Aragorn’s still form being supported in the hands of his kinsman, Lord Ardamir, his dismay augmented by the sight of the red wetness that stood out just under Aragorn’s hairline, when his kinsman spoke.

“Ah, Faramir! Enjoying a nice evening whoring yourself away, are you?”

He stared up at the other man now, his face flushing slowly as he tried to process what was happening. Then a second man entered the room, and he found himself staring into Lord Merdil’s sneering face. He did not think it boded well at all.

“What is the meaning of all this! What are you-,” he started off, suddenly aware of how he looked to anyone else’s eyes, seated naked on Aragorn’s bed, his hands tied to the bedposts.

“I could ask the same of you,” Ardamir cut him off, coldly, “But I fear I have no wish to learn the answer.”

“It would have little to do with you at any rate, My Lord,” Faramir responded almost instinctively in attempt to get his frantic nerves to calm down, “What ails the king?”

He immediately moved his leg, intending to kick out at Ardamir as he moved towards him.

“Stay where you are, My Lord Faramir,” Ardamir walked in and shoved Aragorn’s limp body onto the bed, falling across Faramir’s legs, trapping him in place, “Or your dear lover will leave this world a little earlier than I planned.”

Faramir noticed in shock that the other man held a tiny dagger in one hand, which rested upon the King’s neck. The little vein there pulsed slowly, and Faramir let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

“What are you doing?” the Steward asked angrily, deciding to assert his authority although he had a sinking feeling nothing would come off it, “What is wrong with Aragorn? Call the healers. He’s hurt!”

“We know he’s hurt. I hit him,” Merdil said calmly, “And don’t bother to call the guards. They shall be unaware of the happenings around them for a while yet.”

“*You* hit *him*?” Faramir repeated angrily, but steadily, having realised that his initial misgivings were proving true.

“Yes,” Ardamir said calmly, removing the knife and coming to stand in front of Faramir.

Faramir noticed he had his hand readily placed on the pommel of his sword. Faramir’s own weapons were nearby too, a knife lying on the table by the bed, that he usually kept in his boot. He was careful however, to not even look towards it. He tried desperately to remove the restraint, even as Ardamir continued speaking.

“We think it is time for a change of rule in Gondor, and since you seem so supportive and so acquiescing towards your king, we guessed your support would not be forthcoming.”

“A change of rule?” Faramir gaped.

“A change of rule,” Merdil stated firmly, “This stupid pretence of being ruled by some northern chieftain whose head is forever stuck in elven notions has gone too far.” He reached for something around his belt, and Faramir noticed that it was rope.

“Enough talking. Untie him. We will take him along with us and finish this off once and for all,” Ardamir said quietly.

Merdil reached for Aragorn’s limp figure, and Faramir heart sank when he noticed how still his King lay.

“Why untie him?” Merdil asked as he began tying Aragorn’s hands together, “He seems to be fond of being held in place.”

“Let go of Aragorn,” the furious steward cried out when he saw what the councillor was doing, “I have no idea why you choose to harm your own king and commit treason thereby, but let me assure you, that is sheer foolishness on your part!”

“Oh, shut up, Faramir! He is no king of ours. Northern upstart! Bringing his uncouth ways, and his elven folk into Gondor. And that eleven settlement in Ithilien, with all their different ways. Look what he’s done to you!”

Questions raced through Faramir’s mind, visions of the attacks on Aragorn coming back to him in full force. And the answers too came immediately with startling clarity. He took a deep breath and tried to think clearly. He knew he had guessed right, that the situation was serious. He was unarmed and bound, and Aragorn was unconscious. From what he had heard it seemed the guard too were unconscious and with the end of council meetings and deliberations everyone in their tiredness had become complacent. He knew too that yelling for help would bring none. Aragon’s rooms were deliberately situated away from the hustle and bustle of the citadel. He knew too that he was in an extremely embarrassing position right now, nut that seemed the least of his worries.

“What do you want?” he finally retorted, trying to play for time. If he could just get his hands undone, and reach for the knife . . .

“For Gondor to have a ruler it deserves. One of will and strength and one who is born to hold that place.”

“Aragorn is all that and more!” Faramir could not stop himself from saying that. He failed to understand how anyone could not see Aragorn for hat he was – the best thing that had ever happened to Gondor and its people.

“He’s a ranger from the north. And that is all. What claim has he upon the throne of the South Kingdom. He is of Isildur’s line. Let him rule the north, it is of aught to us. Who is he to take over the great tradition of the Southern Kings and the Stewards?” Merdil retorted.

“And you! What manner of steward are you? To declare him King with so little as a meeting with the other councillors! Your stupid adoration blinds you, you fool!”

“He has the approval of the people,” the Steward gritted out, remembering all too clearly the way the people of Minas Tirith had embraced the man who had spent the entire night after the breaking of the siege healing her people.

“The people are ill-informed,” Ardamir spat out, “ What know they of matters of rule and state? Denethor would never have done so.”

“That is much that the Lord Denethor would have done that I will never do and much that he did not do that I will ensure is done,” came the cold response.

Yes, Denethor would never debase himself so by completely submitting to another in this manner. Have you no shame, Faramir? No sense of worth of the House if Húrin?” Retorted Ardamir, drawing himself up to his full height, as though to remind Faramir that he too was descended from that line, “Look at you! All trussed up just so a mere ranger to take your body!”

Faramir glared back at him. He could not move his legs, for Aragorn lay upon him, and his hands were still tied to the bedposts. He knew he presented a picture that was unusual to say the least, and the idea that something he had willed Aragorn to do to him, might seem debased, made him feel angry.

“Does that Rohirrim piece of ice give you no satisfaction that you resort to this?” came yet another shot. “Leave Éowyn out of this!” Faramir said, his voice turning to ice.

“Yes, you do that, don’t you?” Ardamir retorted sweetly, “Denethor would be mortified if he could see you. Is this how you ‘serve’ your king, child? It may be alright for Elven males to flaunt their whoring with another male, but it hardly befits the court of Gondor.”

“You speak too much –“

“We must leave soon,” Ardamir interrupted the steward mid-sentence, “Get this fool off the bed, and let us move on.”

“Where are you going?” Faramir cried out when he saw Merdil haul the still unconscious king to his feet.

“You come with us, do not worry. I’m going to untie you now, but if you try anything at all, it is your beloved king who will suffer! I do not intend for him to survive the night, anyway. If you wish to make him suffer before he dies, then by all means try to annoy me. ”

Faramir would not let any of this happen without a fight.

The moment his hands were freed, he lunged, hitting out at Merdil’s unprotected side with one hand, and jumped at Ardamir immediately, grabbing his knife off the table. But his blow did not have its usual strength behind it, still numbed from the ropes, and Merdil recovered soon enough to toss Aragorn’s limp figure back to the bed and throw himself on Faramir.

It was a battle he knew he would lose, but he had had to try. He kicked out from under Merdil’s form, even as Ardamir grabbed his hand and wrenched the knife out of it. He was then pulled up to stand by Merdil.

Ardamir lunged at the Steward. Wrapping his fingers around the slender throat, he levelled eyes with Faramir before speaking.

“Our past attempts were constantly foiled. But this time, I have ensured naught will go wrong. Aragorn will die, and it is on your head that the blame will lie. Do you think everyone falls for your stupid act of love for the king? He dies tonight and so do you!”

His eyes were glinting, the hunger for power obvious in them.

“This time I am not going to fail. And not even you, you little shameless slut, can stop me. Gondor returns to the rule of the Stewards and I shall be her new Steward.” “You *are* insane!

He felt a stinging sensation across his left cheek as he was slapped hard. He would have fallen had it not been for Merdil holding him in a vice-like grip.

“Put on your clothes,” Ardamir said coldly, “We leave now.” He hauled Aragorn’s unconscious form up and dragged him forward.

“Leave? Where for? I will not come anywhere with you. You are insane if you think you can get away with this.”

“This northerner will come with us, and there is naught you can do to stop it,” the knife was back at the King’s throat, pushing in just a little, enough to cause merely a nearly unnoticeable drop of blood to well out of the broken skin.

We tried earlier to get rid of him,” Merdil gnashed his teeth in anger, gripping Faramir’s arms tighter “Those Orcs that waylaid you last week were no incidental attackers. And the loose stone was no accident. But this time, nothing can foil our plans. Your friends are busy drinking themselves silly in the taverns, and that fool Minardil is off questioning people somewhere in the city.”

“Do you really think you can get away with all this?” Faramir’s voice rose in his anger.

“But of course! As far as the city is concerned, we were seen riding out for our lands earlier this evening. My dear child, there are more ways to enter and leave this building or even this city than the gates!”

Faramir was about to snap back that he was well aware of that, but then he realised just in time that these men did not know of their secret being discovered. No one else had really known that he too knew of the passages, and it was easy to guess that these two men had snuck back in through some passage that opened near the city walls.

Ardamir was truly insane, he decided.

Ardamir picked up his long tunic and tossed it to him. He pulled it on, even as his mind raced furiously. Merdil *helped* him.

“You are quite pretty,” the older man murmured, “Ardamir has little interest in other men, but I had a few flings in my youth. It has been a while,” he murmured, running his other hand down Faramir’s face.

“Don’t touch me!”

Merdil laughed in response, “Tell me young one? Is it always the older men who interest you? Your swordmaster first wasn’t it, and then that ageing captain of the rangers? And now a man old enough to be your father! Aragorn has found a fine way to ensure your loyalty, I can see. And he certainly seems to get enough in return” he said derisively, tugging at Faramir’s still slightly numb wrist.

---

He was dragged through the long corridors once again, but this time his fear o enclosed spaces were overridden by his fear for Aragorn. Aragorn was still unconscious, his face pale, and his eyes remained frighteningly closed all through. And was in grave danger. Faramir had never really known Ardamir well as a child but he knew he had been a good friend to Denethor, as had Merdil. It was not beyond either man to resent Aragorn’s arrival. But that the resentment could run so deep as to result in multiple assassination attempts over these months of Aragorn’s reign, he found hard to believe.

Faramir tried desperately to undo the bindings on his wrists, but they were too tight. And Merdil clutched his arm hard all along. His palm hurt from where the knife he had tried to use had nicked it, and he realised that blood trickled slowly from his hand, leaving a thin trail on the floor.

“We are here,” Ardamir said suddenly.

Faramir felt himself being pushed through the opening and realised that they had reached one of the exist that led outside the Citadel. It was dark outside. Cool, night air hit his face, bringing with the scent of a night flowering plant. They stood, he realised, in a small depressed area, mud and stones overgrown with grass. He could see structures nearby. All was shadowed and silent.

They were in Rath Dinen.

“A fitting place for the king and the steward to die, is it not?” Ardamir whispered in his ear, pushing him forward towards what he now realised was the pile of rubble and charred timber that was all that was left of the House of Stewards after Denethor killed himself.

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