Faramir Fiction Archive

Walk No More In The Shadows (NC-17)

Written by Minx and Iris

12 January 2007 | 50694 words | Work in Progress

Pairing: Faramir / Aragorn; mention of prior Denethor / Faramir
Warnings: References to predominantly incestuous rape; child abuse; violence. AU timeline.

This is a sequel to One Last Time which gave an account of the last time Denethor molested his younger son. This sequel deals with Faramir’s recovery after the War. It features brief and mostly hazy references to the abuse, but we have chosen to not include any explicit flashbacks in this story so it will be acceptable to a wider audience. However, instead of such explicit flashbacks there’ll be a separate series of short Denethor / Faramir fics entitled the Past Times Series, of which Minx’s Force and Consideration is the first.

Work in Progress

---

Chapter 1

He didn’t even hear his father speak the words; the command so familiar to him that he knew what was expected as if by instinct. He moved without protest or hesitation, and felt the familiar pressure of the desk’s edge against his bare thighs and the well-known cool sensation of the polished top touching his chest and forearms. He pressed one cheek down against the smooth surface as he willed his thoughts far from the man moving behind him, ignoring the rustle of clothing being loosened.

He steeled himself for the pain he knew was to come; he’d barely had the time to prepare himself for the summons had been sudden. His eyes strayed to the papers next to him as cold hands came in contact with his backside and forced him to spread his legs. They were upside down from his viewpoint, so he’d have to focus to read them. All the better for it; anything to keep his mind away from the hurtful fingers that grabbed his hips to hold him in place, and the pain to ensue.

Re-… recon-… reconstruction estimates? Why would father have reconstruction estimates on his desk? The letters blurred as tears sprung to his eyes at the sudden ripple of pain running through his lower body.

Faramir blinked twice, letting the tears fall, but still found himself staring at the same reconstruction estimates as he had seen in his nightmare. He sighed as he peeled his face off his own desk and sat back in his chair. Luckily Éowyn isn’t here to see me like this, he thought as he watched his hands tremble when he reached up to rub his eyes.

The light filtering in through the open windows had him sitting up straight, groaning as his back and shoulders protested at the sudden movement. He’d slept through the night, he realised with alarm. He’d been working late the previous night, there was so much to do, and he’d obviously fallen asleep midway, which meant he still had all that work left to do.

Taking a deep breath he took in his surroundings once again. It was still early, he noted, the sun was barely over the horizon. If he could quickly freshen up and change, and grab something to eat from the kitchens, he could get back to his study without anyone noticing he had slept at his desk. There was so much to do… and if he could just get back to work again, he wouldn’t have time to think about anything else.

He gathered up the work he’d done so far after a while, knowing the king rose early. He could hand him these for his approval, and then perhaps, take a short rest, he thought suddenly feeling very tired, his head was throbbing dully, and his throat felt a little sore. He wouldn’t be able to sleep, he knew, but a short rest, maybe something hot to eat, soup, perhaps, and then he could finish the pending paperwork on the military allocations by afternoon, and then go through all those treaties.

“We plan to ride till the river today,” Elrohir announced, early in the morning, “Will you not join us, Aragorn?”

To the king’s foster brothers from Imladris and his friend from Mirkwood, the vast stone city of men seemed a stifling structure, and they often wondered how he, after his days as a ranger of the north, was handling life there. Aragorn had lived there earlier, as in many other places, yet after many work-filled days spent indoors, he too longed for the outdoors.

“It is a fine day,” he mused.

“Let’s leave immediately,” Elladan spoke up, “Before someone comes up with an alternate plan for you that involves sitting cooped up inside poring over dusty papers.”

A soft cough sounded from near the door.

Three loud sighs greeted a very puzzled Steward, who held a fat sheaf of papers in his hand. He stood uncertainly at the door, until Aragorn waved him inside, a little impatiently.

“Yes, Faramir?” he inquired politely, though he knew what had brought Faramir there, this early in the morning. Gods! Does he never sleep!

“The resettlement plans for your approval, sire,” Faramir spoke holding out some of the papers.

Aragorn gritted his teeth slightly as he took the proffered papers. A part of him almost felt like snapping at the younger man and asking him why he should have a Steward if he needed to approve everything himself. And really did he have to decide everything himself all the time? Why should one have a Steward if said Steward couldn’t make a single independent decision?”

“That’s not much,” Elrohir spoke relieved, “Hurry up and finish that Aragorn, and then we can leave.”

The apologetic expression on Faramir’s face however had caught Elladan’s attention, and he put up a hand on his twin’s shoulder to stop him speaking, as the Steward held out another bundle.

“And these are the troop commanders’ reports.”

And then another lot, “These are the reconstruction estimates.”

Aragorn took all of them with a silent sigh, “Is that all?” he asked unable to keep a touch of sarcasm out of his voice. Faramir however seemed not to notice it at all, or if he did he ignored it quite well.

“I’ll have the military allocations ready for your approval by afternoon, Sire,” he said quietly, “We need to sit over them.”

Aragorn groaned mentally. He needed those for the meeting with the Council on the morrow. Which meant he’d have to spend some time going through them today. Which meant… no, he resolved mentally… he was not going to stew indoors whatever happened.

“No, Faramir! I am going on a ride later in the afternoon. I’ll go through these later, you can get those allocations for me by mid-morning, and we can go through them before I leave,” Aragorn said very calmly. He needed fresh air desperately, and he wouldn’t get any today if he sat down with Faramir to pore over old records, and definitely not the next day if he was to meet the council. Besides, Faramir knew more about these things, surely.

Faramir seemed to hesitate a moment and Aragorn prepared himself to hold out against any protest but then the Steward simply nodded in assent and left.

“Has not Faramir found work an enjoyable pastime of late?” said Elrohir, once the door had closed behind the Steward.

The others looked to him puzzled, and he continued in clarification, “Since a certain lady returned to Rohan?”

“A little louder, son of Elrond, and perhaps your aim to be heard in Rohan may be achieved,” a very cross wizard stood at the door.

“Well, perhaps it is well he heard it,” spoke up Gimli, “He seems to be heavy of heart.”

“It does not befit one who is counted among the leaders of a land to look so,” agreed Legolas.

“You would have him leave his work and go riding with you instead?” Gandalf snorted, “I suppose you think the land governs itself.” But he looked very thoughtful.

Aragorn almost felt a pang of guilt at that, but then he looked out of the window, and saw the sun had risen over the mountains. It was a fine day indeed.

Faramir stared dully at the reports lying on the table. He was yet to read them. He had barely gone through a quarter of his usual daily paperwork. It was a fine day outside, and he could see that for the window was open. He craved the fresh air but he had little time to enjoy it thanks to the meeting the King had suddenly scheduled, a session he was definitely not prepared for. He had learnt the day before that the King wished to go through all the reports dealing with military allocations over the years, something he himself had little idea of. That was something Denethor would hear nothing from him about. He had had enough struggles managing to sustain the Rangers on their meagre allocation.

Finding the information had taken him most of the night, searching through the archives for old reports and then through his brother’s rooms for his papers on the same, an exercise compounded by the fact that Boromir, although an organised soldier, was a very disorganised scholar. He had had to rifle through Denethor’s papers too, an act he had dreaded even before he started. Finding old letters from his mother and his brother, and then his own concise missives from Ithilien had been a hard blow.

He’d meant to have them ready by the morning, but he’d fallen asleep over the plans instead until the same terrifying dreams that haunted him nearly each night had woken him. If he had till afternoon… but then the King wanted them now. He should be working at it right now. Elessar had seemed annoyed at the delay. Faramir hadn’t missed the sarcasm in his voice. And he has every right to be annoyed, he thought as he bit his lip unhappily. There was already enough to do without creating a backlog because he had been stupid enough to fall asleep last night.

Faramir sighed unhappily. He knew he shouldn’t let his thoughts wander so much. But he did wish he were in Ithilien now, sitting in its wooded glades, feeling the air on his face, listening to the birds and the rustling of the trees.

He sighed again and sat with the papers, trying to reduce all the details into a concise report. Perhaps they could finish early, and he too could slip out for a small ride before the day ended. He hoped the good weather would hold. Ignoring the headache that was building up, he resolutely picked up his quill and began reading, only to be interrupted by Gandalf.

“Mithrandir!” Faramir stared up in surprise at his old mentor, wincing slightly as his aching head protested at the sudden movement, “It is good to see you. How do you find the house?” Gandalf and his companions now stayed in one of the houses in the city that had remained unaffected by the battle, so he was not as often in the Citadel now as he had been earlier. Faramir had found himself missing the wizard yet at the same time a part of him had been glad for he knew there were things the wizard would want to talk to him about that he had no desire to even think of.

“Quite adequate, thank you,” the wizard responded as walked in, “I was hoping you would join us there for supper today. The hobbits in particular are unhappy they do not get to see you as often as they did while they were in the Citadel.”

“Me? Oh! That would be wonderful,” Faramir started, and then winced as he remembered, “But I cannot. I have to meet with the king shortly, and then I still have much work pending here. There is a session with the Council tomorrow.”

“Well, perhaps another day,” Gandalf said quietly, and then came and stood in front of Faramir, “You seem to have a lot of work nowadays?”

Faramir shrugged, a little uncomfortable at the scrutiny his friend gave him, “You know how it is…”

“Yes, indeed. There must be much to do, of course. Have you been sleeping well?” he asked abruptly.

Faramir started at that, looking up from the mess on his table and then shrugged, “There is much work to be done,” he said evasively.

He looked quietly into the face of his old mentor, who shook his head before speaking, “You must sleep more. You have not yet fully recovered. I can see it in your eyes.”

“I am quite well now, Mithrandir,” came the bemused reply, “The healers released me from their care many weeks ago.”

The wizard sighed, before speaking, “You can not simply push this aside and expect it to go away. Please, if you won’t talk to me then find someone else to confide in.”

Faramir gave him a mirthless glance, “But there is no-one else left! I stand here where my brother ought to, my father is dead of his own hand and a fire ate the house of Stewards in Rath Dinen.”

“That is all what troubles you, child?”

“That is what troubles me, yes. The fire… I was there. He set the fire and he sought to take me too.”

“He was under the shadow of the palantír then,” his mentor began to speak, but the Steward cut him off, as he sat down heavily on a chair.

“I know, but that lessens the pain no more. It was my failure to hold Osgiliath that gave him the final push.”

“You did not fail,” Gandalf began soothingly.

“I caused it. I caused his death.”

“You still miss him then, after all he has done to you?” Gandalf latched on immediately.

“He was my father.”

“What he did –,” Gandalf started cautiously.

“What my father did was to take his own life. May I not rue that, Mithrandir? Surely, I am allowed to grieve?”

“That is not what I speak of, child.”

“I am no child,” the voice was quiet yet hard as steel.

“No, you’re not. And yet, you have your life ahead of you, and I would that you are no longer haunted by all that your father did to you.”

“I am not – haunted. What was done, was done. It is over. There is nothing to be done now. Whatever should have happened, should have happened then,” Faramir sank back in his chair tiredly, “But it didn’t.”

“I blame myself.” the wizard sighed, “I’ve been here so many times; I should have noticed.”

Faramir stared up sharply at the words, his face creased in puzzlement, “How could you have? Boromir never knew either. The days that either you or Boromir were in the city were the only happy days I ever had here, I didn’t want those to end.”

“But we could have helped you, Faramir. Why are you so afraid to accept aid?”

“I already told you I wouldn’t have left Gondor. And I tried reasoning with him myself once, and that didn’t end well. He would have done as he wanted. He would get what he wanted,” he said distantly, as though trying to rid himself of some terrible memory, and Gandalf found himself wanting to reach out to the younger man and hug him.

“If I had known, I would have pressed Aragorn to claim the throne earlier. Then, perhaps, much of this might have been averted.”

Faramir turned away from his mentor at that, his grey eyes reflecting grave unhappiness.

“I wish you had,” he said quietly, “He was here as Thorongil. Why did he not speak then? Why didn’t you? You knew all along. You knew who Thorongil was.”

“Yes, I did,” Gandalf spoke.

“Why did you not urge him to accept his claim then? Even without knowing about how father treated me. Boromir would still be alive, and father too. Why did he stay away so long? Why now? When everything is over?” Faramir’s anguished voice was soft and full of hurt.

“The time was not right then,” the wizard tried to soothe the distraught young man, but he would have none of it.

“And now it is?” he asked bitterly, unleashing his frustration on the older being, “Of course it is, the shadow is gone now. Now is the time. What matters to him that so many have lost their lives?” He knew as he spoke that his words were harsh and more so that he was hurting his old friend by uttering them, but he found he could barely think before the words came out. His head ached greatly now, and he felt cold and uncomfortable. He felt a slight shiver pass through him, his chest seemed constricted and he found he needed to take a very deep breath at the end of his outburst.

“You must not speak like that! He has faced up to many dangers too. And do not forget he saved Gondor from worse than you can imagine. And he saved your life!”

“Well, I wish he hadn’t!”

“Faramir!”

“Why should he care about my life?” Faramir laughed unhappily, “What use has he for me here? I cannot even do my duties competently. And he knows it. These constant delays are irking him, and now he no longer bothers hiding his discontent. I can hear it in his voice when he speaks to me… and why do you care either? Your work is done. What care you for a craven fool like me?”

“Faramir, child —”

“My father spoke truly. I was ever unworthy. If it weren’t for my failure, he would still be here. As would Boromir, and Gondor would have the Steward she truly deserves!”

“No!”

Faramir was not listening. He had sunk his head in hands.

“All gone,” he muttered softly, “They are all gone. And there is nothing left for me here.”

Gandalf gave him a studied glance and then finally walked up to his chair and knelt in front of the dejected man. He gently pried the hands away, and took the now flushed face in his hands, noticing the warmth of the skin and the short gasps of breath that confirmed his suspicion.

“You are unwell,” he said calmly.

Faramir seemed to flinch at the statement, “Unwell? Am I unwell because I refuse to denounce my father?” he asked softly.

“You are unwell because you have a fever,” Gandalf said firmly, “We will speak more of this later, but first you must recover from this fever.”

“I am well,” Faramir responded and rose, pulling away from his mentor’s nearness, “Would you excuse me Mithrandir? I must go meet the King. He awaits me.”

The room swirled around him, and he nearly fell over, caught just in time by Gandalf.

“I’m sorry, I – I tripped,” he started saying but when a cup of water was pressed to his mouth, he found himself swallowing it instinctively, accepting it with great relief.

Gandalf guided him into his chair, “Stay there!” he cautioned. He nodded miserably, as he held his head in his hands.

Aragorn drummed his fingers on the table impatiently. He had specifically Faramir asked to be present at this hour. It was a beautiful day and certainly not one to be wasted on spending inside a cold stone room, waiting for a tawdry Steward, so they could discuss military allocations, something that, he thought irritably, Faramir should be able to work out with his eyes closed!

It was important he knew, but he was still having trouble adjusting to the administrative side of being a King. He had been an advisor and councillor in his earlier days, but he had also then been a captain and he had still spent more time outdoors than indoors. Now he found himself more inside than outside, forever going through papers and reports.

Elladan had laughingly commented that Faramir every time he appeared had more papers for Aragorn, and the King thought rather irritated that that was increasingly true. He never knew being King would entitle so much paperwork –he’d never seen Elrond do even half this much!

He finally arose in annoyance, intending to find Faramir and subject him to a few well-meaning remarks about punctuality. Then perhaps he should find a way to transfer the rest of the days work to him, in payment so he could finally ride out.

He will probably prefer to stay inside anyway immersed in all that paper, he thought sourly, and then felt a little ashamed at his own unfairness in thinking so. Faramir might be caught up in something important. Though what could be more important than their meeting, he could not fathom.

He soon found himself in front of the room Faramir was temporarily using as a study, knocked, but pushed the door open without waiting for an answer, finding his steward alone and calmly gazing at papers on his desk. The sight only served to inflame his already frayed temper and his voice came out much louder and harsher than he’d originally intended.

“There you are! Do you even realize I’ve been waiting for you? Our meeting could have been over by now, and I could have been out riding. You probably haven’t noticed, but it’s a lovely day outside, and I don’t very much enjoy spending such days indoors, waiting around for my Steward, who obviously has no notion of punctuality!”

Chapter 2

Faramir jumped up in surprise at Aragorn’s stern tone, ignoring the intense wave of pain that action caused in his temples, “Sire! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please accept my apologies. I was just about to come over—”

“Faramir! Sit down before you fall over again!”

Aragorn turned to see Gandalf had forcefully pushed the door closed, revealing himself, a cup in his hand, his eyes hard, as he glared at Aragorn.

“And you! What’s the matter with you? The humble ranger I once knew would not have been so self-absorbed not to notice his surroundings.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aragorn snapped at the wizard, his eyes gleaming in annoyance.

“Come on now, Elrond taught you better than that! Look at him, it couldn’t be more obvious! And you call yourself a healer… He’s got a fever, Aragorn! And he’s exhausted. You would have spotted that if you hadn’t been so preoccupied with your own needs. And then you come in here and shout at the poor boy, even as he’s working himself to a collapse trying to help you run your kingdom!”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir started, alarmed. He was leaning forward a little now, subconsciously placing his hands on the table for support.

“Quiet, child,” Gandalf cut in, his tone almost annoyed, “Drink this first.”

Aragorn stared bemusedly, his annoyance ebbed away now, as Faramir stared first at him, his eyes frantic, face flushed even more, and then at Gandalf, as though unsure what to do. He was still standing, half-leaning against the table and looked almost scared. Gandalf moved towards him and gently pushed him back into the chair and thrust the cup towards his mouth.

“Drink,” he commanded gently this time, but Faramir pushed the cup away from near his mouth.

“No, it is not needed… I am well,” he said quietly. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, before looking up at Aragorn, who was still a little confused, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, My Lord. Shall we proceed to your chambers now?” He tried rising, but Gandalf’s hand blocked him with surprising strength.

“Nonsense! And do stay seated… any fool who cares to look could see you are unwell. I doubt you’d even make it as far as the door,” Gandalf told him, as he thrust the cup towards his mouth again, “Drink this and sleep. Aragorn has waited a few minutes; he can wait a few hours!”

Aragorn might have been surprised by Gandalf’s tone, but he found he wasn’t. A closer look at Faramir’s distraught countenance had him regretting his hasty words to the younger man. The Steward looked wan and tired. His movements were slow and sluggish, and his voice had sounded hoarse. There were circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth even in the morning, Aragorn realised with a pang as he moved forward towards him.

“N– no,” Faramir was still protesting, “I – I’m well. I really am, Mithrandir. Please do not worry. I don’t need to sleep. It is just a touch of the sun,” he broke off into a cough.

“A touch of the sun? You haven’t been out all morning, or yesterday! And I do think you have a cold too here, young man,” the wizard said promptly, as he rubbed Faramir’s back a little while he coughed.

“I – I can’t sleep,” Faramir mumbled once the coughing had subsided, his eyes fixed at something on the floor, “I mean, I – I have to see to the—”

“Aragorn will do it,” Gandalf interrupted, “Whatever it is.” He turned towards the contrite king, his eyes flashing in annoyance.

Aragorn knelt down on the floor, in front of Faramir’s chair, and reached for his forehead; the other man’s haggard features concerned him greatly. Faramir almost shied away at the sudden move, his grey eyes suddenly looking very large and bright, but seemed to force himself to calm down. His skin felt very warm. “You’re glowing! Gandalf is right. Don’t worry about the work, I’ll take care of that. You should be in bed!”

“Indeed you should be, now drink this. There now, drink it all,” Gandalf spoke in a gentle, soothing tone.

“Yes, drink it and rest,” Aragorn urged, a little dismayed to see the way Faramir seemed to shrink away from him each time he spoke. The grey eyes strayed towards the desk full of papers. Aragorn absently noted that they seemed to be the military allocations he’d asked for.

“Don’t worry about those,” he soothed him again, “I shall see to them.”

Faramir finally drank the contents of the cup, as neither Gandalf nor Aragorn seemed inclined to let him get away otherwise. They moved back only after he had drained the cup.

“Good,” Gandalf said approvingly, “Come now. I’ll help you to your chambers.”

“My chambers? But I have work still –-”

Gandalf sighed and signalling to Aragorn, gently tugged Faramir to his feet.

“Hush, child, you sound like a parrot. You will rest better in a soft, warm bed.”

He slipped an arm around Faramir’s shoulder, noticing the slightly dazed look the younger man was beginning to exhibit, no doubt caused by the fever and whatever it was that seemed to be bothering his lungs. Faramir made as if to move out of the hold, but after almost stumbling over the first step, he reluctantly accepted the support the wizard offered.

Aragorn pushed the door open, and gave his worried Steward a look of reassurance as the three of them walked out slowly. It didn’t work very well, for Faramir’s expression immediately turned contrite and the eyes averted.

Aragorn moderated his pace to keep with Faramir’s slow movements. Gandalf’s arm was still draped over the shoulder, lightly, yet almost protectively.

“It’s really nothing,” Faramir mumbled suddenly, “You do make a fuss Mithrandir. I am well.”

Gandalf snorted in response.

“No, really I am. I just did not sleep very well, last night. That is all. I shall be fine,” and then turning towards Aragorn, still looking unhappy, “I apologise, Sire. I shall finish the work even if I have to stay up all night,” he spoke haltingly, his voice becoming increasingly slurred.

Aragorn could see he was struggling to keep up with his surroundings. He blinked often, and his fists were clenched tight. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and he seemed to be speaking merely in an effort to keep wake.

“It is all right, Faramir,” he said reassuringly.

“No, it isn’t,” Faramir murmured softly, and stumbled again.

Gandalf steadied him swiftly, but then Faramir slumped forward, and it took Aragorn’s help to hold up the now unconscious man, as his head lolled against Gandalf’s arm. They were near Faramir’s room now, so he simply picked up the younger man. Aragorn moved to help him, but the wizard shook his head as he adjusted his grip on the limp figure.

“He is too thin,” he muttered, “Fool of a boy! Never did know when to stop!”

Aragorn looked around the room a little curiously while Gandalf laid his charge on the bed. It was quite bare and cold. It was however neatly kept, and he found his eye drawn to the books stacked atop the unused fireplace. There were so many of them.

“We’d better get him into something more comfortable,” Gandalf murmured, once he had the younger man settled in his bed.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed and moved to undo the bindings on Faramir’s tunic, feeling the rough faded cloth, so similar to the clothes he had often worn in his ranging days, unlike the finery exhibited by others in the court but then Gandalf suddenly reached for them himself.

“I’ll do that,” he said, “why don’t you get him a nightshirt, there should be one in one of those chests there, get him a light, thin one.”

“That head cold will hamper his sleep,” Aragorn murmured.

Gandalf nodded, “We should give him something for that.”

“I have some balm in my quarters to help him breathe,” Aragorn offered, “We could rub some on his chest and back.”

“Faramir might well have something of the sort in here too,” Gandalf replied, motioning to the chests.

Aragorn quickly managed to locate a light grey nightshirt and in the process he indeed found a surprisingly ample store of bandages, herbs and balms, including one, which upon smelling he knew would be a very good substitute for the one he used for coughs and colds. He brought the nightshirt and the balm over to Gandalf who was pulling down Faramir’s leggings now. The young man shifted uneasily in his stupor, but the herbs had obviously started to take effect for he did not rouse. Yet, Gandalf stopped, the leggings awkwardly pulled down midway, and gently ran a comforting hand through Faramir’s hair.

“Sshh, child, it’s all right,” he soothed until Faramir stilled, his breathing even but still raspy.

Aragorn frowned as he observed Faramir’s bare shoulder, marked by the ugly reminder of the Haradrim dart that had injured the younger man during the war.

“The scar remains,” he remarked, sitting by the pillow and taking over the soothing movement.

“Some wounds take longer to heal than others,” Gandalf said grimly as he went back to undressing his charge.

Aragorn gently brushed some locks of hair away and lightly stroked the lined forehead. The skin felt warm to touch, too warm. Gandalf meanwhile folded away Faramir’s clothes and covered the young man up to his waist with the blankets.

“I wonder if it is the wound that is causing the fever? I hope it is not infected.” Aragorn muttered, now engrossed in closely inspecting the still angry looking mark. Aragorn’s fingertips carefully skated over the newly healed and still very tender skin at first, then tentatively pressed in ever so lightly to determine in how far the underlying tissue had already recovered.

“It seems to be healing alright,” he said while still prodding with care, so as to not disturb Faramir further. “Slower than I would have liked maybe, but it’s not infected.”

Aragorn picked up the jar of balm as Gandalf watched on, scooped out a generous dollop and rubbed it between his hands for a time to warm and soften the aromatic substance. He started with the tender shoulder he had just examined, taking care to keep his touches light, but then switched to swift, sure strokes to cover the rest of Faramir’s chest. Up until this point, Faramir had undergone the ministrations without protest, but now he stirred and groaned softly, and when Aragorn accidentally raked his finger over his nipple, the sleeping man emitted a small sound much like a sob.

“I’ll do the rest,” Gandalf grunted out abruptly. Aragorn looked up at him, surprised at the curt response.

“You can hold him up and help him stay calm while I do his back,” Gandalf said a little more gently this time, and then after a pause, “He is unused to you and I would not want to cause him to react at a strange touch.”

Aragorn bit back the rude retort that promptly came to mind about Gandalf’s touch with Faramir, and thanked the Valar his twin brothers weren’t nearby for they would surely have milked that comment for all it was worth. Instead he quietly handed over the rest of the balm to the wizard and busied himself with gathering Faramir’s bare body into his arms, shaking his head gently at the number of scars that dotted the slight frame. Faramir sported signs of his soldiering days all over his body. Scars showed on his thin back too, Aragorn noted as Gandalf began working the balm in. He held Faramir tighter feeling him squirm a little in his sleep. He could see now what Gandalf meant about his loss of weight. Faramir looked thinner now than he had when Aragorn had first seen him in the houses of healing, injured and ailing from the effects of the black breath, a feat he would have thought unlikely. He could see his ribs clearly and his collarbone and hipbones jutted out as the blanket slipped. And he really did look truly exhausted. He’d looked so tired in the morning too, Aragorn realised and it suddenly struck him that perhaps Faramir had indeed not slept much the previous night. His laboured breathing felt almost hot on Aragorn’s chest.

Gandalf finished rubbing the balm, quite efficiently, Aragorn noted with a critical eye. The old wizard did seem quite fond of Faramir, he decided, as he laid the younger man down again so Gandalf could rub some more of the balm on his chest. When he was done, they got Faramir into the nightshirt and under the thick covers. A shiver rippled through the distressed frame. Aragorn patted down the covers, and tucked them under Faramir’s chin.

“The herbs will help him sleep for the rest of the day and through the night,” Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded slowly, before rising.

Faramir sighed in his sleep as the comforting hand moved away, and turned onto his side, snuggling into the covers.

“Will he be all right, d’you think?” Aragorn asked worriedly.

“With a little rest, good food, and fresh air, yes,” Gandalf said pointedly, “He is merely very tired. It seems like he hasn’t been taking care of himself properly.”

“I wonder why he hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly,” Aragorn mused, absently observing the fine lines around Faramir’s mouth and eyes, “He has been through a lot, hasn’t he, Gandalf? He’s so quiet and withdrawn, it’s easy to overlook that he might be suffering too. I hardly even realized it before, but he’s lost his entire family after all, and he appears to have few friends here.”

Gandalf shrugged, “He’s always been quiet and reserved. When you know him as long as I have done, you’ll realise he always puts his needs last, so they often remain unmet. And you’ll never know of his suffering if he does not want you too.”

After a pause he continued, “He was always closest to Boromir, you know. I have never seen him as happy as he was whenever he was around him.”

“The news of his death must have been a hard blow,” Aragorn said heavily, as he remembered how profoundly he had been affected by Boromir’s death.

Gandalf sat by Faramir’s bedside, and gently stroked his cheek, “Yes,” he said shortly, remembering the conversation that had taken place between father and son before Faramir had left for battle.

After a pause, he continued, “He is still learning, Aragorn. He never expected to be Steward, and that at so young an age. But I have never seen him shirk his duties. He will make a fine Steward. He’s diligent and sensible.”

“His men seemed very fond of him.”

“Well, he leads from the front, doesn’t he?” Gandalf pointed out, “See how hard he drives himself to do duties he is untrained for. He’s probably scared he’ll lack in some skill or the other. Someone really needs to look after this boy all the while, and tell him when to stop,” he sighed.

“I’ll make sure he does not get overloaded with work,” Aragorn promised, once again almost a little amused by how fond the old wizard seemed of his Steward.

“He’ll take it on himself.”

“He seems to prefer losing himself in it!”

“I suppose it provides a fair distraction to think of the land rather than other matters.”

“Such as the deaths of Boromir and Denethor?”

Aragorn didn’t miss the slight frown that Denethor’s name caused, “Such as, yes,” Gandalf muttered.

Aragorn bit his lip. From his talks with Boromir and later with Gandalf and other city officials he had discerned more than a little of the relationships in the Steward’s family: of Denethor’s preference for his elder son, and his scorn for the younger. From all accounts it didn’t sound as though Denethor interacted much at all with his younger son, save to criticise him, even going so far as to openly wish him dead in Boromir’s place. Clearly, it had impacted Faramir greatly.

He looked at Gandalf wondering whether he’d tell him more, but the wizard seemed to be engrossed with brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen across the pallid face.

“It’s cold here,” he said finally, “Should I build a fire?”

“Yes, do that,” Gandalf said.

Faramir had felt the hands on his bare chest, a strange cold sensation. His clothes must have been torn off in anger. He could almost anticipate the neatly trimmed fingernails raking his skin mockingly, set to hurt him, a derisive precursor to worse hurt. He could not stifle the protest his unconscious mind felt compelled to register… perhaps if he could just move away… but his limbs would not obey him… he let out a sob of frustration as the fingers ran over his body… why couldn’t it just get over and done with swiftly as always… it hurt so much more this way… he trembled in fear… but then nothing happened. The touch did not turn hurtful, and he wondered why… the hands stayed soft, gentle… Healers, he realised, he was with the healers… not with… he sighed silently in relief.

When he finally came awake, he did so slowly, and realising that someone stood over his bed, stiffened a little, still lost in a haze between sleep and wakefulness. Recognising Gandalf and Aragorn, he relaxed slightly, but didn’t open his eyes. He felt too tired. He didn’t even feel like rolling over to face them. They were speaking, very softly, about someone. Someone who was sensible and led from the front. Gandalf sounded pensive and Aragorn sounded a little quiet too. He wondered whom they spoke of, and why they sounded so sad speaking about such a wonderful person. Then he heard Boromir’s name. They were speaking about Boromir, he thought foggily. Of course they would be talking about Boromir, especially the King. They must miss him too.

He felt tears prick his eyes behind the closed lids. Why did it have to be so unfair! It should have been Boromir here in Minas Tirith. Boromir as the steward, the diligent, brave, capable leader. Boromir would not be the snivelling fool who lay in bed with a fever while there was so much work to be done. Aragorn must have realised that. He burrowed into the covers, hugging himself as he curled up. The tiny sniff he emanated was muffled by the pillows.

Chapter 3

It was warm… far too warm, even more than it tended to be in Minas Tirith in the summer… and there was smoke too, and the smell of burning oil, the acrid sensation squeezing tears out of his tightly clenched eyes so that it was only then that he realised he had his eyes closed. He forced them open, unsure why he did so, and looked into the grim, forbidding face of his father, his expression hard as ever, his eyes displaying scorn and derision. He loomed over Faramir as he sat up slowly on the floor where he’d been lying naked. A soft cackling sound forced him to look around him, and he couldn’t stop the gasp that emanated as he realised what the cause of the unnatural warmth was. His father stepped forward and it seemed to Faramir the ring of fire surrounding them also closed in with each step.

“Nooo…,” he moaned softly, unsure what caused greater distress, the man walking towards him or the fire that kept closing in.

Gandalf sat by the fire, watching it spit and hiss because of the slight dampness in the logs, his legs stretched out so he could warm them. However he sat up immediately when he heard Faramir stirring a little, a soft moan escaping the lips.

“Faramir,” he whispered softly.

“Gandalf?” Faramir tried to sit up, confused as the images that had assaulted him in his sleep thankfully slipped away from his consciousness, but was gently held back, “What is the matter?” he asked a little frantically, his heart still beating a little furiously; he knew it had to be a dream.

“Nothing, you are ill. Go back to sleep.”

Faramir wasn’t listening though. He was looking around tiredly, and his eyes finally came to a stop at the fireplace.

Stray images flashed in his overwrought mind and he tried desperately to quell them.

“Please —”

“What is it?” Gandalf asked encouragingly.

“Could you have someone put out the fire, please?”

“You’ll feel cold!”

“I think not,” Faramir said firmly, and lay on his side, his back to the fire.

“Oh very well, you might not feel the cold,” Gandalf retorted to Faramir’s back, “But what about me? And I’m not getting any younger, you know!”

“I didn’t ask you to stay here.”

Gandalf frowned at his young friend’s snappy remark. Sure he was ill and tired, but he had seen him tired before and Faramir had never been rude to him, or to anyone for that matter. He was about to retort when he saw Faramir pull the blankets closer to his chin in a manner that suggested to Gandalf the young man wished it could shield him from more than just the cold.

You old fool! the wizard scolded himself inwardly, you are getting frightfully slow-witted in your old-age.

He could always fetch himself another blanket while Faramir slept, he decided, unwilling to leave Faramir there alone.

Aragorn groaned loudly and tossed the sheaf of papers he held onto the nearest chair. He’d been reading through some papers detailing out land disputes between the various fiefdoms and the resulting troubles. Normally, Faramir would simply have reduced each bundle into a concise little note. In fact, thought Aragorn, he’d have known he would get irritated and would probably have told the secretaries to pass this onto one of the chancellors to handle; just as he’d neatly reduced all the papers on the allocations into one concise report. Faramir had been ill barely half a day now, and already the paperwork that had piled up had been enormous. Aragorn had instructed his worried secretaries to pass him all the work for now, until he could decide which of his other officials could help in Faramir’s place. Aragorn doubted his steward could return to work for at least two weeks yet and Gandalf and the warden from the Houses of Healing had agreed. In fact, Aragorn was determined to ensure he didn’t. The young man was clearly completely exhausted and he had easily managed to discern that Faramir needed more than just a physical recovery. Seeing the mound of papers though, he was left in no doubt over one of the possible causes of exhaustion.

“Well! There you are!”

The loud voice and the ruckus following it made Aragorn wince.

The twins, Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin all trooped into his study looking extremely happy.

“We waited ages for you!” Elrohir complained, “And then your servants told us you were in a meeting with Gandalf and Faramir so we had to go riding without you… you missed a beautiful day.”

“And now you’re cooped up inside working!” Elladan said in mock horror.

“Has Faramir been by?” Legolas inquired and everyone burst out laughing except the two hobbits.

“Where is Faramir?” Pippin asked suddenly, “We’d asked Gandalf to invite him to join us for dinner but then we got a message from Gandalf saying neither of them would be able to join us.”

“Yes, he’s –,” Aragorn began only to be interrupted by Pippin.

“You haven’t given him more work have you?” the young hobbit’s tone was almost accusing so that the three elves and dwarf turned an interested eye towards him, “You give him too much work,” Pippin stated.

“Pippin!” Merry admonished softly.

“I thought it was the other way round,” Elladan tried to joke, “It’s Faramir who always brings in a new batch of paperwork to Aragorn every other hour or so,” but he quietened as Aragorn held out a hand urgently to silence him.

“No, Pippin, I haven’t,” Aragorn said softly, kneeling in front of the frowning young hobbit, “He’s sleeping right now. He won’t join you for dinner because he is unwell and Gandalf is with him right now.”

“I knew he wasn’t well,” Pippin said sadly, “What’s wrong with him, Strider?”

“How did you know?” Elrohir asked curiously.

“He’s always so tired and he hardly smiles anymore and he hardly eats. He never joins us for meals and even if he has his food sent to his rooms, I’ve always found it lying there only half-eaten. He let Merry have his entire breakfast twice last week!”

“He did?” Aragorn inquired, wondering how he had missed out on all this, “Well, don’t worry, little one, Gandalf and I will ensure he recovers and that he eats properly. You’re right, he needs rest!”

“Can I see him?” Pippin asked hopefully, “I could help look after him!”

“Not today,” Aragorn answered quietly, “But yes, you could help look after him. You could ask the cooks to prepare his favourite soup perhaps? Ask them to make it light and hot.”

Pippin nodded and rushed off. Aragorn turned to his friends.

“What happened?” Legolas asked curiously.

Aragorn gave them a very brief account of what had happened.

“Poor lad,” Elladan sympathised, “I knew he’d do something like this!”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Aragorn asked plaintively, “Pippin speaks true. I did overwork him! I can barely finish half of what he seems to be doing every day and that is just the paperwork! And, the secretaries tell me he’s also been personally inspecting a large amount of the rebuilding work ever since we sent two regiments off to Pelargir. I’ve been loading him with more and more work each day and I haven’t even realised! And he’s never once complained or not done anything I’ve asked him to.”

“Well, then a few days’ rest will do him a world of good,” Elrohir soothed him quietly, noting Aragorn’s distress, “and Elladan and I can help you with some of your work. We’ve helped father often in the past.”

“You’ll get more time to ensure Faramir recovers that way,” Elladan added, guessing the main cause of Aragorn’s distress. It amused him a little though. Trust Estel to want to play mother hen immediately “And we could help you look after Faramir too, if you need. Ada also taught us something of the art of healing.”

Once the others had left, Aragorn tried to return to work, but found he couldn’t. He wondered if Faramir might have awoken, and realised he should have asked Gandalf to inform him. Or perhaps he should find out on his own he decided, and rising, made his way through the long, winding corridors towards the Steward’s room. He pushed the door open carefully, and poked his head through. All he could see was a dark head buried under the covers. He walked silently in, stopping before the bed. Faramir lay curled up on his side, his eyes shut and his features relaxed. Dark hair splayed across his pale face.

He felt irritated with himself for not having noticed how drawn and weary the younger man had looked all these days. It was only from one of the guards that he had learnt that his Steward spent most nights walking through the gardens aimlessly.

He could not help but smile at the sight of the sleeping figure. Curled up under the blankets, his solemn Steward looked very young. Kneeling by the bed, he brushed a stray strand of hair off his cheek, and winced as Faramir stirred at the touch. Half-opened eyes peered blearily at him, and a curled up fist rubbed at them trying ineffectually to drive the much-needed sleep away.

“My Lord?” Faramir’s voice sounded laden with sleep, and confused. He made to rise up, his movements fumbling and uncharacteristically awkward.

“Aye. But I wished not to wake you, Faramir,” Aragorn said as he sat up, and put out a hand to help his half-falling Steward sit up straight, “Lie down again now. Gandalf will be displeased if he hears I woke you up.”

Faramir gave him a confused glance before his upper body suddenly pitched forward, giving Aragorn barely enough time to grab the fainting figure.

“Faramir!” he cried out urgently, attempting to lift the younger man’s head.

He got a weary groan in response, and then Faramir raised his head slowly and tiredly, “Forgive me,” he mumbled, before he collapsed against Aragorn’s chest.

“For what?” Aragorn asked the unconscious man incredulously.

He tucked him in under the blankets, and checked his skin for warmth. When he had Faramir settled comfortably in bed, he rose and looked around. He could stay here awhile, he decided, till Gandalf returned at any rate. He noticed the unlit grate and frowned. Surely, someone or the other should have checked on that!

A fresh pile of kindling had been left near the fireplace and so, kneeling down, he set to building a fire, just as Gandalf entered the room, blankets in hand.

“Don’t,” the wizard said firmly.

Aragorn looked up in surprise, “I was just building a fire,” he explained, “It’s cold, and I’m surprised no one saw to this before!”

“Faramir does not wish it,” Gandalf replied shortly, and went over to the sleeping man to check on him, “Has he awoken?”

“For a mere moment, then he slipped into sleep again,” Aragorn responded, “But why does he not want a fire?”

Gandalf turned and gazed at him with a one eyebrow raised, and suddenly Aragorn remembered how Denethor had died and how Gandalf had saved Faramir from nearly dying the same way.

Aragorn watched as Gandalf spread an extra blanket over Faramir. The wizard’s movements were tender and caring as he tucked it in neatly under the young man’s chin.

“I asked Pippin to tell the kitchens to make some hot soup, in case he does wake up,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf nodded, “That will be good for him, if he wakes up. Would you ask someone to tell the hobbits I shall not return tonight? I have asked the servants to prepare the room next door for me.”

Aragorn rose early the next morning, the sun still not fully over the horizon, and checked on Faramir. He knew Gandalf had slept in the hastily prepared chamber near Faramir’s but he still felt a pressing need to check on the younger man himself. The Steward was still asleep, his face still unnaturally pale, though his breathing sounded much easier. Faramir had slept through the evening and night as they had expected and the soup the cook had sent on Pippin’s instructions had remained untouched. They could wake him later, Aragorn decided, and ensure he ate something substantial.

The blankets seemed to be out of place, Aragorn noted and promptly leaned over to set them right again, as carefully as he could, remembering how he’d nearly woken Faramir the day before. Despite his care however, the younger man did moan slightly and shift. Aragorn groaned mentally.

Oh dear, I hope I’m not waking him again!

“Sshh…,” he murmured softly, hoping to soothe Faramir who seemed to be a little distressed.

Faramir felt the smoke billow around him, he could smell its acrid nearness and the bitter taste of burning wood now settled heavily in his mouth. The heat rippled through his flesh. He could feel drops of sweat rolling down his skin. But he still felt cold, despite the heat. It did not warm him. It burned him, and still he felt cold. And yet he could do nothing against those sensations. He could not move. He was not sure he wanted to move. He just wanted to wait.

So he waited, for his father. He was there somewhere he knew. He had heard him speak. His father was all he had left. He would wait for him he decided. No matter what his father would do to him, he would wait. He had failed, he was sure, and whatever his father may do, he surely deserved it. He deserved all the pain he knew was to come.

He felt a hand on his uninjured shoulder and looked up a little warily, expecting to see his father. A figure loomed over him, and he whimpered involuntarily. His confusion grew more intense as he realised that it was not his father. Surely this newcomer too would try to take him away as the others before him had tried. The fear in his heart rose to a crescendo, pounding into his ears. Perhaps his father wished not to see him, and he sent these people instead. He had done that before once when Faramir had disappointed him. His father must be disappointed in him. He was not sure why, but he thought he had done something wrong.

His father must be angry, he decided, wondering if he could ever please the man. He would do anything to please him. It would hurt, but he would endure it. He cowered away from the figure over him, shutting his eyes tight, and whimpered slightly again.

Aragorn bit his lip when he heard the tiny whimper Faramir uttered as he curled away from Aragorn in his sleep.

It must be a bad dream, poor lad.

“Faramir,” the voice floated to the Steward’s ears, a soft, beautiful voice that reached through the confused recesses of his wandering mind, drawing it back to him.

“Faramir… it’s all right… I’m here, now.”

He could see the face now in his still blurred dreams, the beautiful face that accompanied that voice. He knew who it was. His King.

His King. The other visions vanished as did the smoke, so that all he was left with was a cool, calming sensation that he embraced gladly, slipping back into a welcome dreamless slumber.

Aragorn heaved a sigh of relief as Faramir murmured something softly and settled back into a calm slumber.

“That’s better,” he continued whispered soothingly, “Or Gandalf would have had my hide for awakening you again. He certainly is fond of you! Well, I’ll leave you to rest some more now.”

He rose quietly and looked at Faramir’s sleeping visage. He still looked so tired and pale. Aragorn was still mulling over Faramir when he left the room, so that he almost ran over the young Hobbits who were hurrying down the corridor.

“Strider!” they exclaimed in unison.

“Well, hello, you two,” he said, smiling, “And how are you this morning?”

“Quite fine, thank you,” Merry said, and then continued, “How is Faramir today, Strider?”

“He’ll be fine,” Aragorn assured them, at the same time promising himself that he would ensure the young man would indeed be fine soon.

“Can we see him?” Pippin asked anxiously.

“We’ll be very quiet,” Merry promised.

“No,” Gandalf said firmly from his doorway, before Aragorn could respond, “He is resting now, and the noise might wake him up.”

“Please, Strider,” the two of them clamoured, turning to Aragorn for help.

“Hush!” Gandalf said looking into the Steward’s chamber to ensure Faramir was not being disturbed, “You can see him later.”

“He probably has trouble enough sleeping as it is,” he added in a tone just low enough for Aragorn to hear.

Chapter 4

“Gandalf can’t stay with him all the time,” Merry consoled his cousin, “We’ll just keep an eye out and sneak in when he’s not around.”

“Then we’ll have to stay here all the while!” Pippin said firmly.

“Er – what about lunch?” Merry asked.

“What about lunch?” came a silken voice as they rounded the hallway and found themselves facing three elves and a dwarf.

“And why do you look so unhappy?” Elrohir enquired.

“We went to see Faramir,” Merry explained.

“Is he better now?” Elladan asked and the others gathered together for all Aragorn had mentioned earlier had been that the Steward was still unwell, and he had much work to do.

“We don’t know,” Pippin sighed heavily, “Gandalf won’t let us see him.”

“I should like to see him too,” Elladan spoke up, “He looks lonely enough as it is. He must feel worse when he is ill, and he seems to be a nice young lad.”

Faramir awoke slowly, trying to get his bearings straight. He felt extremely tired, and his limbs felt so sluggish he wondered what might be wrong. His mind felt dense and he struggled to remember where he was, and why it was he felt so tired and so sleepy and why there were soft hands resting on his forehead.

He opened his eyes, the barest crack, and the first thing in sight was a sweep of long golden hair.

“Éowyn,” he mumbled suddenly reminded of her at the sight of the golden head leaning over him.

He was greeted with a series of muted laughs and whoops followed by a whispered hiss in a very indignant tone, before he realised his error.

Of course it could not be Éowyn, he thought to himself, even as he opened his eyes fully and found Legolas and the Peredhel twins arguing near his bed. She was back in Rohan. He had probably just made the most awful gaffe anyone in the land could have, and that upon an elven prince who was also a very good friend of his King’s. He doubted if his misery could be compounded anymore. In alarm he struggled to get up, even as he realised Gimli was also standing by his bedside, laughing softly.

“Forgive me,” he spoke, and was dismayed to find his voice was no more than a very hoarse gasp. He tried again, even as the others turned to look at him. Pushing himself up so he was now sitting straight, he looked around in confusion. His shoulder hurt him a great deal, and his head was throbbing mercilessly, and he knew from the hated weary feeling that coursed through every muscle and bone in his body that he was running a fever.

There were far too many people around, his foggy mind told him, and most of them strangers. He wished they’d leave. Then he heard new voices, one surprised, the king, he thought dully, and then a slightly irascible voice neared him and he noticed the blur of white hair, and promptly latched onto the accompanying figure.

“Mithrandir,” he murmured hoarsely, relieved when his old friend returned his embrace. He curled into the comfort of the hold, clutching at his robes anxiously.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his earlier words coming back to him, “I should not have spoken as I did.”

He glanced up at the ancient face in distress, but Gandalf was surveying him with a gentle look. The hug tightened, and Faramir suddenly found his eyes were beginning to brim over. He buried his face in Gandalf’s chest too ashamed to display so much emotion in front of relative strangers. A wizened hand stroked his head comfortingly, as he struggled to control himself.

Gandalf waved his free hand towards the door and gave the others a meaningful glance as Faramir pulled away a little and let out a tiny sniff, but no one moved.

“Hush, child,” he soothed pulling him close again, “It is all right. I am here now.”

Then looking at the others, he indicated the door again, “I think you should all leave now. Faramir badly needs rest. You should not all have descended on his room at the same time and you should certainly not have awoken him. Hurry now, go!”

“We did not intend to wake him suddenly. We wished merely to see how he fared,” Elladan explained, a little contritely as Faramir burrowed himself against the wizard.

“I will tell him you asked,” Gandalf promised, stroking the soft, dark hair spread against his shoulder, “You too, Aragorn,” he added seeing the king hesitate.

He watched as the others all left quietly, except Pippin who still stood there and waited patiently for Faramir to calm down. Faramir pulled away again after a few seconds and upon seeing the hobbit, a wan smile crossed his worn face.

“Hello Master Peregrin” he said softly.

“I hope you get better soon, Faramir,” Pippin said quietly, “I am glad Gandalf is here. I’ll never forget what I saw when Denethor-” he broke off biting his lip at the unhappy memory of standing by Faramir as he retched.

Faramir stiffened at the words, while Gandalf frowned.

Pippin continued, “I’m very sorry about what happened, but I’m not sorry I told Gandalf about what I saw. He will look after you well.”

What Faramir might have replied, Gandalf never knew for Aragorn pushed through the door right then.

“Pippin, you scamp! Here you are! Come along now. Let Faramir get some sleep. He looks tired.”

Aragorn personally thought Faramir looked more than just tired. He looked extremely unhappy and a little drained. A little scared too.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked suddenly, remembering how the soup from the previous day had been left untouched.

“That’s an excellent idea!” Gandalf said firmly, “You’ll feel much better,” he told Faramir seeing he was about to protest.

Faramir stared unhappily at the tray on his lap. It contained a bowl of broth, still almost completely full. His mind told him he had to eat but he was exhausted and had no appetite whatsoever. The taste of the steaming liquid was not helping much either. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

Dipping his spoon in miserably, he took yet another spoonful, grimacing as he did so, not just at the taste, but also at the twinge that travelled up his arm and across his shoulders and neck with each movement. He had strained his shoulder again. It had still not healed completely from the Haradrim dart injury when he had exerted it at one of the reconstruction sites. The healer had been extremely annoyed and given him strict instructions to put less load on it for a few months at least. But that was impossible. Even lifting down the books in the library caused it to twinge a little. He must have slept on it last night he decided, as another bolt of dull pain ran through him.

He placed the spoon back in the bowl, and bit his lip as Gandalf watched critically. Aragorn stood by the window but his gaze was trained inside the room.

“Well, go on,” Gandalf said, “Finish your broth.”

Faramir shook his head, “I’ve had enough.”

“You’ve barely had a few spoonfuls!” Gandalf scolded, “You are to eat the whole bowl. You know you’ll only get weaker if you don’t have proper food! You’re still not fully recovered. And you are far too thin, and don’t tell me you aren’t. Not while I can see your shoulder bones jutting out like this!

“But —”

“Eat.”

Faramir dipped the spoon in nervously, then he lifted his hand, fingers trembling, as the anticipated bolt of pain hit again.

He cried out softly, and dropped the spoon letting it fall in the bowl with a splash. The broth spilt onto the front of his robe and the blankets. Gandalf and Aragorn were at his side in a moment exclaiming in worry.

“What happened?” the wizard asked Faramir who had his head bent low.

The Steward looked up, his face crumpling as the grey eyes turned bright.

“I spilt it,” he said softly, “My shoulder hurts. I think I slept on it last night.”

“You should have told me. Come, I’ll help you.”

Faramir reached for the spoon before the wizard could get to it. “I’m not a small child that needs to be fed. I’ll use my other hand,” he said quietly.

Gandalf gave him a gentle glance, but did not stop him.

He took a deep breath and focused on the bowl and the spoon, now in his left hand trembled as much as his right hand had, maybe even more. He had used his left arm far more than it was used to over the last weeks, and it trembled under the strain whenever he was tired. The spilt broth made his robe stick uncomfortably to his chest and he realised in dismay that he would need to rise later and change into fresh clothes. The very thought suddenly made him feel even more tired. Afraid to further embarrass himself, he let the spoon sink back into the bowl of broth and pushed the tray from his lap.

“It’s no use. I’m not hungry; my only desire is to go back to sleep.”

“Nonsense! You can stay up for a few minutes longer. How are you ever to regain your strength if you don’t eat?” Gandalf retorted, “And you can’t sleep in that!”

Aragorn watched as Gandalf sat by Faramir, and picking up the bowl began to feed him the broth. Gandalf’s customary gruffness had vanished but Faramir simply looked positively embarrassed and uncomfortable. He didn’t seem accustomed to have people fussing over him, Aragorn realised suddenly. Boromir had appeared to be quite independent to him, and not at all cosseted by virtue of his position. Faramir seemed the same. Denethor had certainly brought his children up the right way!

“That’s right,” Gandalf urged as Faramir swallowed a mouthful without protest, “Eat.”

Aragorn meanwhile lifted off the tray and then removed the soiled blanket from off Faramir’s legs. The younger man still wore the nightrobe Aragorn and Gandalf had dressed him in the night before. Seeing that Faramir looked both surprised and mortified by his actions, and would probably protest, he smiled gently.

“I will get you another blanket and a clean robe. Eat now. It is good for you.”

When Faramir had finished, Gandalf helped him remove his robe, despite his protests.

“Who do you think changed your clothes for you while you were ill with fever?” he scolded gently, as he tugged Faramir’s nightshirt over his head, revealing a lean torso, glistening with sweat. Then he gently swatted away Faramir’s hands and set to wiping the pale chest with a wet towel. Faramir’s face was flushed, more from a sense of embarrassment; Aragorn realised, than fever, and quietly turned away in a bid to make him feel more comfortable.

Gandalf stopped suddenly, as he noticed Faramir’s increasing discomfort as the towel came over his stomach “Perhaps, a bath would be good,” he mused, “It’ll surely make you feel more comfortable, and it’ll be good for your shoulder muscles. Would you like that?”

Faramir bit his lip uncertainly. It did sound good to be able to sink himself in warm water. And it would be much better than being wiped down like a child, and that in front of his king. He’d probably embarrassed himself more than enough already, collapsing in front of him the other day.

“I’ll get someone to bring the water,” Aragorn said, heading for the door.

“And we’ll change your sheets meanwhile. These are damp,” Gandalf continued, “Why don’t you sit on the chair a while. I’ll remove these sheets, and the servants can change them while you’re bathing. Will that be all right?”

Faramir nodded, as he made to rise, wrapping his blanket around his naked frame. He slowly swung his legs off the bed, and stood. His legs refused to hold him up and he found himself stumbling as a mist rose before his eyes, and the floor seemed to get closer and closer. Then he heard Gandalf’s voice in his ear.

“Hush. Sit quietly now. You shouldn’t have tried to get up so soon. You’re obviously more tired than I thought you were,” the wizard said as he clutched his arm, and made him sit on the bed. The blanket slipped to the floor, and he tried ineffectually to pull it up and cover himself.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, as Gandalf steadied him.

Aragorn returned to the room to find Faramir sitting on his bed with his head in his hands, a blanket draped loosely over his lower body, and Gandalf with an arm around his shoulders.

“The water will be ready soon,” he said.

“Good. Are you up to taking a bath, Faramir?”

Faramir nodded tiredly. He really did feel sticky and tired. A bath did sound wonderful.

“One of us will have to be there with him, of course,” Gandalf said calmly, “He’s still a little dizzy.”

“I’ll do it,” Aragorn offered. “Then I can also give his shoulder a good massage.”

“No!” Faramir’s voice cut through their conversation a little too loudly, “I can bathe alone,” he said quietly.

“No, you can’t,” Gandalf stated firmly, “You might slip and fall.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You almost fell right now. You’re still ill.”

“No!” Faramir said again, trembling a little, “I don’t want a bath now. I want to sleep.”

“Don’t worry,” Aragorn said gently, “We’ll give you a bath, and then you can lie down and sleep.”

“No!” Faramir almost squealed out. His face was paler than before, and his fingers were shaking as he grabbed the blanket and backed away, “I- I don’t want a bath. Please – just – please let me sleep. Mithrandir,” he turned to his mentor in fear, “Please,” he pleaded.

Gandalf took one look at the frightened face, and made up his mind, “All right. But will you at least let me rub you down with a wet towel? It will leave you more comfortable.”

Faramir nodded numbly, and let Gandalf settle him carefully in bed.

“But-” Aragorn started only to be silenced by a look from Gandalf, who set to rubbing Faramir down with a wet towel. The younger man bore his ministrations stoically enough outwardly, but he turned his head towards the window and seemed to be gazing at some distant point. Aragorn could see him biting his lips in discomfort. When Gandalf had finished cleaning him and helped him pull on a nightshirt, he thanked him softly.

“We’ll let you rest now,” the wizard replied gently. Aragorn watched as he leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to Faramir’s forehead.

He didn’t think he would be able to sleep. He didn’t want to. Not while his thoughts took the direction they did. He stared out of the window dully. He was trying so hard to forget. He kept trying to remind himself that things had changed now and he was the Steward with far too many responsibilities to wallow in the past so often. He had even asked Lady Éowyn for her hand to reassure himself that all would return to normal now.

It was not to be so. Whatever he tried, he could not forget. He could constantly immerse himself in the boring tedious paperwork that the King preferred not to deal with in the daytime, but at night the nightmares returned. The tiniest things reminded him, more so at a time like this when he was tired and weak and unable to process his thoughts as quickly as he liked to. In the earlier days he had simply preferred to not think of what his father did to him, and it had been easy once he was away from Minas Tirith. They had the enemy to keep at bay and the darkness slowly encroaching into their land had given him enough to worry over.

But now there was nothing else to worry over, save trying to understanding all these myriad details his father had never bothered to educate him on, or wonder which councillor would try to deliberately put him down before the King or when the King would finally tire of his incompetence and ask him to resign his office. He could not step into half the rooms in the citadel without being threatened by an assault of foul memories. Everywhere he went he was reminded of what his father had done to him all too often, of the pain that he had caused each time. The king’s study, his own study, his father’s chambers, even the king’s chambers, he thought with a groan as he rose half-heartedly and sat up, holding his head in his hands.

And then Mithrandir had mentioned bathing him. He’d never been so scared in his life and he knew the wizard suspected something. He shuddered a little trying desperately to lose the images that flashed through his distraught mind. The tub, the water, even the smell of the soap that had been used. It had been a humiliating end to a painful ordeal, one he had never wished to go through again, and it hadn’t even been the end.

He had few good memories now. Oh, he’d had some wonderful times, but all had been either with Boromir or with his rangers. Boromir was gone now, so were many of his men. Thinking of those times only depressed him further. He kept wondering if he could not have done more to save them.

His few good memories still left were the times he had spent with Mithrandir.

Yet I constantly drive him away, he thought despairingly. He knew his old friend wanted to help. Could he do nothing right?

The door opening slowly and silently had him look up frantically, fighting to calm his breath, reminding himself he was in his room, that everything was all right, when Mithrandir stepped into the room, and gazed at him quizzically.

“I thought you said you wanted to sleep?” the wizard inquired mildly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered tiredly.

“You should. You don’t want to fall sick all over again do you?”

Faramir sighed heavily, and then spoke up timidly, “Mithrandir,” he said fingering the hem of the blanket.

Gandalf glanced at him questioningly, taking in the unhappy face.

“Would – would you stay awhile and talk to me, please,” Faramir asked in a rush, and then seeing the raised eyebrows, promptly misinterpreted the gesture.

“Oh! Oh… if – if you’re busy, I – it’s all right. I’ll —”

“Faramir,” Gandalf interrupted amused, “I would be honoured to stay a while and talk to you, dear child.”

He sat down by his young friend on the bed, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Faramir promptly leaned into his embrace, a clear indication of how tired he must feel.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“You have done so much for me and I’ve never thanked you, not even once,” Faramir said quietly, gazing at his hands.

“I? I have done little for you,” Gandalf replied startled, suddenly feeling very unhappy. What had he done for Faramir after all?

“You’ve always been kind and helpful to me,” Faramir replied sincerely, “Every time you visited, you bothered to spend time with me, and to teach me much.”

He’d visited barely four or five times while Faramir had been there. Sure, he took time out to be with Faramir, he thought bitterly, but each time he had done so with reason, knowing Faramir would entertain his requests for information more easily than Denethor would. That Faramir had always been intelligent and eager to learn had helped him reciprocate the help. He knew somehow that Faramir knew that too. It only made the gratitude seem sweeter still.

“I did little,” he said quietly, “There is much more I would have done if I had only thought of you more often.”

“You did more than you need have,” Faramir insisted. “Do you remember the first time I met you?” he continued, his voice distant, yet a smile playing on his lips.

It was as he spoke those words that Aragorn neared the door. Hearing the voices, he stopped instinctively, unwilling to disturb them. Something, however, compelled him to stay and listen.

“Yes,” Gandalf nodded, “You were sitting in a corner of the library crying because your father had scolded you. You were seven I think.”

“Yes,” Faramir said still smiling a little, “And you told me a story about a halfling and made me laugh.”

He’d made him smile, Gandalf thought, that strange little wan half-smile that had made him wanted to hug the boy protectively. The one he wore even now. The kind of smile that hid grave unhappiness to all but the keenest eyes. He’d never ever seen Faramir laugh. He’d seen Faramir’s sorrow then but had assumed it was from the loss of the mother two years ago. Faramir’s left cheek had been bruised and he’d guessed how it had happened.

“Your father had hit you,” he said now.

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed as he continued standing outside.

“Oh that was my fault. I had been reading a book and I’d forgotten to attend my lesson with the arms master.”

“Oh.”

“Father thought I was lying when I said I’d forgotten,” Faramir said a little heavily, “he thought I wanted to get out of my lessons because I could never be even half the warrior Boromir was.”

Gandalf did not know how to respond. Aragorn stood frozen outside.

“I miss Boromir,” Faramir said suddenly, and then sitting up suddenly he stared at the wizard before shyly adding, “I’m – I’m glad at least you are here, Mithrandir. I will miss you when you leave.”

Gandalf nodded and hugged him, pulling him protectively into his arms, “I’ll miss you too. But for now, I’m here, and you need worry no more, dear child.”

They sat that way a while and then Faramir’s head slipped a little and soon he was lying with his head in Gandalf’s lap, half asleep as the long fingers stroked his hair gently.

Aragorn didn’t move until he was sure all was silent in the room. He quietly poked a head into the darkened chambers and watched as Gandalf tucked the blankets neatly around Faramir’s sleeping frame and gently brushed his cheek in an affectionate gesture. Gandalf glanced up at him questioningly. Aragorn simply nodded in greeting and continued to stare at Faramir’s face for a while, taking in the relaxed features. He suddenly wondered if Faramir would ever be this comfortable with him. He found himself wishing he would, and then quietly left the room.

Chapter 5

Faramir woke to bright sunshine late into the next day. Gandalf sat on a chair beside the bed, and smiled gently at him.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, and somehow the young Steward just knew the wizard had been there by his side the whole night and ensured he had indeed slept well.

Faramir nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered softly. He felt strangely rested, something he hadn’t felt in a while now. In fact, he felt better than he had all week. Perhaps, he could even return to work?

“You’ll stay in bed today as well,” Gandalf said suddenly, “The chief healer came by again while you slept. He thinks you should stay here a few days more, till you have completely recovered your strength.”

“A few days more?” Faramir questioned, uncomprehendingly. But there was so much work to do!

“Yes. If you find the bed stuffy, sit in the balcony awhile,” Gandalf said, rising, “I must go speak to Aragorn now, but I will have food sent to you, and you must eat it all. Were you a hobbit it would nearly be time for your second breakfast now!”

Faramir frowned after Gandalf had left. A few days… but that was impossible. There was so much to do. There were envoys arriving from Rhûn the next week, and there was that council meeting about the construction work. He was to have helped Aragorn. He pursed his lips unhappily as a timid knock sounded on the door. One of the kitchen lads stood outside with a tray full of food in his hands. Faramir’s frown turned to a small smile. He might be able to help Aragorn after all.

It was not long after that the boy returned with the pile of papers from Faramir’s study. It was not very difficult to do so, for Faramir was neat and methodical, and all the papers he needed were stacked in a single pile on his desk.

He dismissed the boy and then, forgetting all about the food, started to go through them. The drafts for the Rhûn meeting were missing, as were the most recent reconstruction papers, and he realized with a start that those would be with Aragorn now. Sighing unhappily he began going through the older papers, there had been some plans for building repairs that they had left off going through till now.

Faramir came awake suddenly. He realised there was someone else in his room. He stiffened immediately, and then realised it was Elessar and relaxed. Then he saw the look on the king’s face. He seemed unhappy.

Faramir straightened up almost immediately and quickly bit back the cry of pain that his protesting back and shoulder caused. The papers he had asked for in the morning lay mostly unread on his lap, a thick bundle. He remembered having barely read half a dozen pages, and then… he supposed he’d fallen asleep. That should explain the look on the king’s face, he decided as he looked up warily.

“Faramir!” Aragorn started.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” he said immediately, “I – I’m really sorry. I did not mean to —”

“And you shouldn’t have,” Aragorn inserted, shaking his head, “Whatever am I to do with you?”

“I’m really sorry,” Faramir whispered, “I was going to finish it, but – but I f-fell asleep… I did not mean to, Sire. I promise I’ll have it finished by —”

Aragorn stared at him in surprise, and then groaned as realisation struck him. He’d been sitting there waiting for Faramir to wake up and had planned to administer a strict lecture on health and obeying orders, but Faramir seemed to have totally misunderstood him. For a brief second he wondered why Faramir thought so of him.

“You don’t have to finish it, Faramir,” he said gently, “I shall see to it.”

“You?” Faramir asked in confusion.

“Yes, I. I would like to, in fact, I want to. Leave it to me. I’d rather go through those myself anyway.”

“Oh,” Faramir said in a soft voice, as the king leaned down and picking up the papers began to thumb through them.

He’d rather go through those himself Faramir stared at the stack of papers in Aragorn’s hands as he let the king’s words sink in, still puzzled as to why the king should want to waste his time over such trivial matters as approvals for building repairs. Unless – unless the king had been unhappy with his work. The king would never tell him directly of course; he is such a kind and tactful man, he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Not even those of his Steward, who instead of doing his duty now spent his days lolling around in bed.

The more Faramir thought about it, the more it made sense to him. Yes, the king must be discontented with quality of his work, and of course since he’d been ill the reports weren’t reaching him in time either. Why else would Elessar prevent him from working? Denethor had always been clear on that. They must never shirk their duty. Aragorn must be really disappointed. He had to do something, he decided, as he leaned back against the pillows tiredly. Even if he had to get up and walk all the way down to his study, he must do something, he decided as he fell back against the pillows, his eyes closing involuntarily.

He woke with a start in the evening, and groaned as he realised the whole day had sped by and all he had done was sleep. The conversation with the king was still clear in his mind, and he bit his lower lip a little as he thought of what to do next. It would be getting dark soon, and he suddenly realised that Gandalf might come by soon. He was quite sure, in fact, that he would. There wasn’t time to wait for possible messengers; he must see to everything himself then.

He was barely halfway down the passage, when Aragorn found him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” the king asked, grabbing his stumbling Steward by the arm.

“To my study,” Faramir mumbled quietly, drawing his robe tight around his shoulders, “I thought I’d finish going through those papers —”

“I told you that I would see to that myself,” Aragorn said despairingly, as he tugged him back to his room.

“But – but – you have so much else to do —”

Aragorn sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a self-conscious gesture, before speaking, “Faramir, I have been very remiss towards you, by letting you do all the work I should have done. And you too have not taken care of yourself as you ought to have.”

Faramir coloured at his words, “I-,” he started off uncertainly.

Aragorn held up a hand, “I need you to rest well, Faramir. You have been quite ill.”

“But I am well now,” the Steward protested.

The king raised an eyebrow and drew himself up, “Get back to bed, Faramir, and stay there until Gandalf allows you to rise.”

Faramir hesitated.

“I’ll carry you back if I have to,” Aragorn continued sternly, and that had the desired effect, for Faramir promptly backed away and his eyes fell to the floor again.

“Come, now,” Aragorn said more gentle now and steered the younger man back to his room.

“The King’s chambers,” was all he said, in a flat tone like it was the most normal thing in the world, without bothering to look up from his desk, or even pause his constant writing.

“Yes, my lord,” he heard himself answer automatically as he bowed and turned to leave the study. It wouldn’t do any good to dawdle around, wasting time.

The King’s chambers? Why – Boromir is not here, he wondered as he walked the corridors that became ever more quiet as he went along, the last few passages completely deserted. All that inhibited these rooms and hallways was an eerie silence. They were well-maintained, but no one had lived here for hundreds of years. Like the throne in the great hall, they were not to be used, they merely lay in waiting for the day the king would return.

Faramir undressed, prepared and sat on the King’s bed as he waited for his father’s arrival. He had always considered the waiting to be the most difficult part, but waiting in the King’s chambers doubled his discomfort. Anytime now, he’d hear the heavy boots rounding the deserted corner, the creaking of the hinges as the door opened…

With every minute he sat waiting his doubts grew. He shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t right. Father may not believe there’ll ever be a king again but what if, what if a king should return…

He shuddered at the thought and pulled the lush quilt off the bed to wrap it around his bare shoulders, though it didn’t provide him with much comfort. The king surely would find out somehow what we have done in his room, in his bed. This is treason – high treason! Should a King ever return to these rooms, the House of Stewards will be outcasts… we’ll be doomed and everyone will know why! he thought wildly, his fingers shaking as he pulled the quilt closer.

“Faramir! Faramir, wake up!”

“Mithrandir?” Faramir stared into the ancient face.

“You were having a bad dream again, I though it better to wake you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Faramir sat up hugging his quilts around him.

“Mithrandir? Please promise me you’ll never tell Aragorn about what father did to me?”

“My dear child, you know I’ve already given you my word on that, and that I would never go back on a promise to you, even if I wished I had never made that promise,” he soothed, yet not without making his point.

“Really Faramir, you are making this unnecessarily hard on yourself. I truly feel Aragorn could be a great help in your recovery: he is a skilled healer, trained by Lord Elrond himself. He cares deeply for you; you’ve seen how much time he spends in here. And he’s worried – he’s not blind, you know! He’s been asking questions, and of course I would never tell him anything without your permission, but have you ever though how he might feel? He wants to help, but you shut him out because you don’t trust him enough to tell him what’s wrong.”

The Maia sighed and rubbed his brow, unsure whether or not to continue as he had intended. The young steward looked so fragile now, huddled in his blankets, outwardly calm and composed, but staring at him with a look that didn’t hide his fright or his desolation. Still, things could not go on this way, truth must be told, he decided. Better to be harsh on him now than let this fester.

“I’d be lying if I told you I’ve never felt disappointed because you obviously didn’t trust me enough to let me help you either. Still, I always was but a mere incidental visitor in your life. Yet Aragorn… you will spend the rest of your life serving your king, and you’ll be working with him more closely than any other man. Do you really want to start out that relationship by showing him you don’t trust him?”

“No! He must never find out!” Faramir insisted worriedly, drawing the quilts closer around him.

“You have dealt with it alone for too long,” Gandalf tried again.

“I had to! I could never let anyone find out. Father would have been furious!”

“But I could have taken you away. Somewhere safe, away from his anger.”

“And I would never have left Boromir!” Faramir said determinedly, “I could not!”

“Then Boromir would have known,” he continued unsteadily, “I could not let that happen. He – he would have hated me so.”

“Hated you? Boromir? Why?”

Faramir continued speaking in a flat tone, “I would that you never knew of it too. How could Boromir have stood to talk to me once he had learnt how filthy and cowardly I have been over these years? How can you stand to talk to me?”

Gandalf was at Faramir’s side in an instant, pulling him around by his shoulders to face him, “How can you speak so? As if Boromir would ever have stopped loving you. Do you think your brother was so lacking that he would discard you over what is not even your fault? And do you really think that I would do so? I have known you since you were a child, and I have seen you grow into such a fine young man! There is nothing you can ever do that will make me think less of you, Faramir! I know you can never act in a manner that is unfitting.”

Faramir stared at him in confusion, as he continued speaking.

“If anything I would only admire you more now, my child. To have withstood all this silently, and to still stay strong is a worthy feat,” he gently brushed Faramir’s cheek as he spoke, and pulled the unresisting younger man into his arms, “I know Aragorn will feel the same”.

“Never, ever speak so of yourself in front of me,” he admonished gently, as he placed a tiny kiss on the dark head resting despondently on his shoulder.

Aragorn poured himself a goblet of wine as he wondered what he should do that evening. He had planned to sit with Faramir a while after he’d finished his work for the day but Gandalf had indicated he wished to spend some time with Faramir, alone. Aragorn could see why. The Steward was clearly still not sleeping well. He sometimes woke up from dreams that left him crying and weary. Gandalf would surely be able to help him. After all he had known Faramir all these years.

Aragorn finally decided he would sit down with a book. Denethor, being the man of learning he was, had a large collection in the bookcases that lined the walls of his study, and Aragorn’s keen eyes had spotted the collection to be an impressive one. He headed for the nearest shelf and ran a cursory eye over the books trying to pick out something light to read. The shelf ran along most of the wall, and most of it was lined with books. The blank spaces were adorned with small artefacts. A vase or two, a jewelled dagger, a small statuette. Aragorn glanced at them briefly, until a long object caught his eye. He pulled it out slowly and stared at it. It was a long, thin cane, the sort that he had sometimes seen people use on their animals. He ran a finger along the wooded surface and wondered what it might be doing in Denethor’s study.

The answer wasn’t long in coming. He could almost picture the faded marks on the lean back…

Aragorn slept poorly that night. He had spent his childhood under the care of Lord Elrond of Imladris. It had been a strange existence for a mortal child to grow up among elves and to slowly learn that he was different. He had had few companions and his days had been full of training and lessons. His mother had resided there too, a quiet saddened young woman, whom he had been quite fond of. He’d grown up cared for by those who were in essence strangers, and yet, he’d always been happy. Elrond had been like a father to him, caring and helpful, and Elladan and Elrohir treated him as a younger brother. He’d left to take up his place with the rangers and yet, he held Imladris as home. He had not imagined that home could connote a place such as this citadel, vast and dark, where a father kept a cane within easy reach of his hand, and his younger son’s back bore traces of its application on an all too frequent basis. Or where a father told a child of seven he would always be inadequate. At seven he hadn’t even been allowed a real sword, much as he’d wanted one. Elrond had firmly told him all he’d get would be a toy sword. And in all those years of living around Elves all of whom were excellent warriors, honed in skills over millennia, Aragorn had never once been made to feel inferior in any way.

Gandalf had told him Faramir’s sleep was uneasy. He’d wondered if it had been due to his near-death by the same fire that took Denethor’s life. But Faramir’s unhappiness seemed more deep-rooted that that and Denethor’s callous attitude towards him was no secret. He had not however thought that callous might translate into regular physical punishment. And it must have been regular Aragorn knew as he remembered finding the stock of salve in Faramir’s room, and the scarring that still remained on the young man’s back, even if faint now. Gandalf obviously knew but for some reason had decided not to tell Aragorn. He’d have to deal with that later, though… Faramir came first.
What must it feel like for Faramir to know that the same man who had treated him so ill all these years had in a final act of misplaced kindness tried to kill him.

No wonder he’s so confused and lost… it all makes sense now!

Chapter 6

Aragorn thought over everything again and again all through the night and the next morning. He had to help Faramir, any way he could, that he was sure of. What bothered him was why Gandalf had not chosen to include him in helping Faramir, or at least not fully. Surely it was of the utmost importance for the King and Steward of Gondor to develop a relationship of trust and understanding? Surely Gandalf was aware of this, as well as aware of Aragorn’s skills as a healer – so why shut him out?

Rubbing his temples trying to ease the effects of a nearly sleepless night, Aragorn glared first at the stacks of papers on his desk, then at the door as though he wished he could mentally transport himself down the warren of corridors and to Faramir’s rooms.

He tried to focus on the papers again, but seeing Faramir’s meticulous report and tidy handwriting, he could not help drift back to thoughts that had plagued him all night, of all that may have occurred in this very room, while his eyes wandered to the now empty space on the shelf. That’s it, I am going to talk to him!

Yet as he walked down the last of the long corridors, Aragorn was struck again by indecisiveness. Why hadn’t Gandalf asked him to help? He was so lost in thought he hadn’t heard his foster brothers approach – a situation the twins readily abused by giving their little brother a good scare, jumping in front of him with a loud “Boo“.

Much to the twins’ disappointment though, Aragorn was only momentarily startled by the distraction as his thoughts returned to his impending talk with his Steward.

“What is the matter?” Elrohir asked softly, all playfulness having left his face as he noticed the seriousness in Aragorn’s eyes.

“I’m worried about Faramir,” the king responded quietly, “He is – he’s well… he’s troubled…”

The twins waited patiently, knowing there was more Aragorn wished to say.

“And I think I might know why. “

“Then you will be able to help him overcome these troubles,” Elladan said practically, “It’s clear he needs someone to help him. The poor boy looks a little adrift, not that I blame him.”

“I should, shouldn’t I?” Aragorn said appealingly.

“Of course you should!” Elrohir retorted.

“I – I just wondered… he’s so much more comfortable with Gandalf, and yet… I do think I know how I can get him to recover at least a little,” Aragorn said heavily, I do so wish to help him, and not just because he’s my Steward… “

“There you have it then,” Elladan stated emphatically.

Aragorn nodded in conviction, his resolved firmed now. He knew what he would have to do: he walked up to Faramir’s door, knocked and entered to find him up and dressed, arguing with Gandalf. He was glad to see a little colour in the younger man’s cheeks.

“The gardens,” the wizard was saying firmly, “no further.”

“I’ll come with you,” Aragorn offered promptly, smiling, as they turned towards him.

“Sire?” Faramir looked doubtful, “But you must have -”

“I have nothing to do. Come walk with me, and I shall tell you all the gossip from court. “

“Yes, go with him,” Gandalf said, “Why must I alone hear your arguments!”

Aragorn thought Faramir looked a little doubtful still so he gave him an encouraging smile as he led him out towards the gardens. They walked awhile, under the canopy of trees, and Aragorn told Faramir a little of what had been happening, mostly funny incidents that made the younger man smile, just a weary tugging up of his lips, but still a smile nevertheless, that gladdened Aragorn’s heart. He thought Faramir looked quite endearing when he smiled.

Finally, Aragorn sat down on a small stone bench and invited Faramir to sit next to him. The younger man did so uncertainly, seating himself at the very edge of the stone bench.

“I wish to talk to you of matters that I feel may aid your recovery. I know you chafe at this confinement and Gandalf will not let you away unless he is sure you are eating and sleeping properly,” Aragorn said quietly.

Faramir glanced up at him a little shyly, “The Warden says I may return to my responsibilities in a few days.”

Aragorn nodded, “And yet, I worry you may strain yourself again.”

Faramir’s face coloured a little at that.

“I would not want you falling ill again,” he said gently, aware that his concern seemed surprising to the young Steward.

“It is very kind of you,” Faramir stuttered.

“You seem to be upset often,” Aragorn continued carefully, “I know none of us have come out of this war unscathed and some of us bear wounds that remain unseen, but you, my friend, seem to have troubles older than that.”

Faramir gaped at Aragorn. He’d called him his friend? He was still trying to comprehend that so Aragorn’s words came as a surprise.

Aragorn was continuing quietly, “Is it your father?”

Faramir gasped, and turned slightly pale.

“I know he was not always – fatherly,” Aragorn said struggling to frame his words properly, as he noticed Faramir’s ashen face, “But I have noticed you worry about more than just that.”

Faramir looked up in alarm. Had Gandalf told him? No, he’d promised. He wouldn’t do that without asking him, he had given his word just the night before.

“He – he used to beat you didn’t he, Faramir?” Aragorn asked in a rush.

Beat him? Of course, he did, every time he was disobedient. He kept a cane in his study just for that purpose.

“I -,” he started helplessly, wondering what to say. All fathers disciplined their children if they were disobedient, didn’t they?

“I found his cane, Faramir,” Aragorn said softly, “And I’ve seen the marks on your back. He must have hit you often, although, not perhaps, in recent years. No one should hit a child so often that it leaves so many marks on his body. I am not surprised you are overwhelmed by all that has happened recently.”

Faramir was busy staring at the grass beneath his feet.

“Faramir?” he waited patiently till the younger man raised his chin and stared back at him out of troubled grey eyes, his expression completely miserable, “I think I can help you. Will you join me in my study after you have lunched?”

Faramir had no choice but to nod his head in silent misery.

He had a long, lonely noon meal, toying with the food as he kept wondering what the king proposed to do.

Aragorn watched Faramir as he entered the study behind him. The grey eyes suddenly seemed shuttered and Faramir’s very expression looked wary. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed earlier that Faramir had always looked uncomfortable while standing in his study.

“I called you here, so I could help you,” he said reassuringly.

Faramir nodded silently, but his eyes widened when he noticed the cane in Aragorn’s hands.

“I think there’s a very easy way for you to deal with this,” Aragorn said hurriedly in a soothing tone noting Faramir’s reaction, “I know you must have some awful memories of this cane, and I shan’t pretend that I understand how you feel. But I have travelled far and wide and I have come across others who have been hurt, and I’ve always found that the best way to deal with it is to confront it and destroy it, and not to hide away from it. I know you will understand that because you are a soldier.”

Faramir nodded again, his expression inscrutable.

“So,” Aragorn continued, “I think you should destroy this.” He held out the cane in his hand towards Faramir.

The Steward gaped at him a little, but made no move to take the cane from his hands.

“Go on,” Aragorn urged, “Take it. Break it in half over your knee and throw it in the fire.”

Faramir stared at the cane with increasing horror even as he tried to maintain an outward visage of calm that he certainly did not feel. Aragorn pushed it into his hands and he found his leaden fingers closing around the hateful wood.

“Throw it in the fire,” he heard Aragorn say and glanced up to meet the compassionate eyes of the king.

He could throw it in the fire, he supposed but that would achieve little. His nightmares would never go. He could never enter this study without remembering his father’s cold voice admonishing him.

“It is just a worthless piece of wood, Faramir,” Aragorn was saying.

You are a worthless little fool, Denethor had hissed into his ear on countless occasions as he’d lain sprawled on the floor or the desk, aching all over.

There was no way he could simply destroy the real problem, not when he was part of that problem himself.

Elessar is right, he thought miserably, I should have gone in the fire.

“Faramir,” Aragorn’s patient voice pulled him out of his miserable reverie. He stared up at the King’s face, and then at the cane in his hands, and then at the fireplace. The flames danced before his eyes, and for a brief second he was almost back in his dreams, their heat licking his skin and hair, coming closer and closer…

“You must do it, Faramir,” Aragorn’s voice broke through yet again, “Destroy this terrible reminder.”

But it isn’t the only reminder that I fear, Faramir wanted to tell him as he gazed dismally at the large, ornate wooden desk that Aragorn sat at every day. Lower your pants and get over that table, still echoed in his mind every time he looked at it.

There was nothing to do but to get it over and done with as soon as possible, he realized dimly. He had been a fool to even hope that the memories could fade. They would remain.

He took the cane, broke it quickly and then threw the pieces in the fire. It cackled as the wood fell in, and he watched almost mesmerised as the flames greedily wrapped themselves around the pieces. He could feel the heat on his skin, he could feel his lungs filling up with smoke as the brown wood turned black The fire ate it slowly and in his mind he could imagine the end result – nothing but ashes.

The House of Stewards was nothing but a pile of charred wood and ashes now.

He stumbled away from the fireplace falling right into a chair nearby, and sank his head in his hands.

He felt hands on his shoulders and stiffened immediately. The king he thought desperately, as he tried to control his trembling fingers.

Clenching his fists he finally raised his head, and gave the King a weak smile, “I must be more tired that I thought,” he said in as strong a voice as he could muster, “Would you excuse me, Sire. I would return to my chambers.”

He didn’t wait for a response as he rose and nearly stumbled out of the room.

Aragorn stared after Faramir in confusion and wondered whether to go after him or not. But no, Faramir had left in a hurry and Aragorn could understand he might want to spend some time alone after having to deal with something like this that must still hurt.

He sighed and returned to the ever-present pile of papers on his desk, only to be interrupted by Gandalf’s rushed entry into the room.

“Aragorn! What happened? I just saw Faramir practically fleeing this room!”

The wizard looked extremely worried so Aragorn hurried to placate him.

“Yes,” he nodded knowingly, “He’ll be a bit upset now, but it’s for the best. He told me what Denethor did to him, and I thought the best way for him to deal with it is to confront it. You were being too soft on him and he certainly was not making progress with that approach. So I helped him confront his fears.”

Gandalf frowned as he digested the information, “He told you what Denethor did?” he asked in a cautious tone.

“He did, but after some encouragement. I found a cane amongst Denethor’s belongings in my study; so it wasn’t very difficult to figure out he hurt Faramir with more than scolding words. I told Faramir that I knew about the cane during our walk in the garden and I asked him outright if Denethor used to beat him. I knew it would be difficult for him, and I could clearly see he was troubled by my question. Yet he didn’t avoid it and answered truthfully. I considered that a very promising first step.”

“A first step?” Gandalf asked testily, his voice sounding ominously controlled

“Obviously,” Aragorn retorted, “Voicing one’s worries is always the first step to recovery.”

“Then what do you suggest is the second step?” Gandalf inquired, his voice almost icily calm, a single eyebrow arching up in a manner that reminded a suddenly uncomfortable Aragorn of his foster father.

“Well, in this case I thought it would be best if Faramir were to destroy the cane himself and thereby mark the end of this dark part of his life, so he can start healing. Therefore I encouraged him to break the cane and burn it,” Aragorn was beginning to get a sinking feeling as he watched Gandalf’s expression become progressively grimmer.

“Oh gods Aragorn!” Gandalf finally exploded, “What where you thinking? Why didn’t you speak with me first? You had him burn it? Don’t you know how his father died, how he almost died? Haven’t you seen how he responds to fire?”

The sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach and Aragorn found himself staggering back into his chair in dismay. Oh gods! What ever had he done… how could he have… no wonder Faramir had fled!

“And it’s not just the cane,” Gandalf continued angrily, “You shouldn’t have assumed it was as simple as that. My loyalty to Faramir forbids me from saying any more but there is far more to it than you think.”

He turned towards the door, “I better go see him now. I hope you haven’t done too much damage – he really was making some progress the last few days, even if you didn’t see it.”

Faramir tried his utmost to hide his distress from his mentor, when Gandalf entered his room, but he was failing miserably.

“I just met Aragon,” Gandalf stated without preamble.

Faramir looked up at him, he seemed to be fighting a losing battle with his composure. His face was haggard and his fingers were shaking.

“I know you’re upset, but I can only suggest what I did earlier… Aragorn has misunderstood your worry once, it might happen again. He might misunderstand something else, and I fear there will be no one to help you merely because you do not trust any of us!”

“I do trust you,” Faramir murmured unhappily.

“Then why do you not trust me when I say that it is best for you that you speak of this to Aragorn. I can feel that he is the one who can help you heal. I know he will. I realize he may have seemed stern to you at first, but you must understand he was as confused as you were. He really is an excellent person, Faramir, even though it may be better if you did not tell him I said so!” Gandalf added, his eyes twinkling but there was no response from Faramir.

“He would never want to hurt you Faramir… he is becoming quite fond of you I can see. And it will hurt him tremendously if he were to know that he is inadvertently hurting you, and all just because you don’t trust him to hear the truth,” Gandalf said, hoping he was not sounding too harsh and at the same time still feeling annoyed with Aragorn for hurrying things along, and without asking him.

“I do trust you,” was all Faramir would say when Gandalf had finished. The Maia sighed and wondered what to do when a knock on the door made him look up.

“I’d like to speak to Faramir,” Aragorn said quietly.

Faramir turned towards him in surprise, while Gandalf gave him a look that seemed to imply he’d done enough talking to last him a lifetime. Aragorn gave the wizard a pointed look in return.

“Well, go ahead,” Gandalf growled, “What did you want to say? You should go to sleep, soon, Faramir. You’ve had a long day.”

“I’m fine, Mithrandir,” came the prompt though slightly shaky reply, “Sire?”

“I won’t take long,” Aragorn promised and gave Gandalf a half-pleading look, hoping he’d understand that he needed a few minutes alone with Faramir. Surely, he could trust him to not repeat his error?

“I’ll be back shortly,” Gandalf said, and then turning to Faramir, “think about what I told you.”

When the door shut behind Gandalf, Aragorn turned to his steward who had now stood up, “I came to apologise,” he started.

“No, Sire, please don’t. You were right. I needed to get over it.”

“Yes, but perhaps not this way,” Aragorn started.

“No, I’m fine now, I really am. Much better. I can get back to work now.”

“Work? Why what’s the hurry? Don’t worry about the work. It’s all being handled just fine. You need rest still.”

Faramir bit his lip and stared back at Aragorn, noting that his face looked lined, and tired, as though he hadn’t slept much. Of course, he hadn’t slept much he told himself. He was doing all that work Faramir should have been doing. It probably took him all night, no wonder he looked so exhausted, he thought fretfully. Not to mention the amount of time he seemed to spend worrying over him. He shouldn’t be sitting back in bed like this. Father would never have tolerated it if he had sat back just because he was a little ill, and Boromir had had to take over his duties.

“In fact,” Aragorn was continuing, “Even after you’re allowed up, I don’t want you exerting yourself. You’ll work minimal hours, eat and sleep properly, and stay away from the construction sites. Oh, and don’t even thinking of riding out to join your men in Ithilien!”

Boromir never fell ill. If Boromir were here, this would not have happened. He was so much stronger; he’d have handled everything properly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered softly, “I wish I hadn’t fallen ill.”

“It’s hardly your fault you are ill,” Aragorn said, smiling in an attempt to cheer Faramir up. The Steward looked far too forlorn, “People do fall ill you know. And you have been injured recently.”

Faramir looked out of the window, “Boromir wouldn’t. He was always strong and he’d never fall ill, not when there is so much to do.”

He felt tears prick his eyes as he continued speaking, more to himself now, forgetting where he stood as the heaviness settled on his aching heart, “It is Boromir who ought to be here, not I. He went in my stead. I should never have let him, then he’d still be alive, and you would have a Steward worthy of serving you, not a weakling who merely adds to your worries.”

He lowered his head a little, and stared at the cold stone floor, his shoulders heaving slightly.

Aragorn sighed heavily at the forlorn little speech. Very gently he placed a hand under Faramir’s chin and lifted his head so that the glistening grey eyes looked into his.

“I would have liked greatly to have Boromir here alive too. Just as I like having you here alive. I would have loved it if both of you were here now by my side helping me rule Gondor. But that is not to be, and while I do mourn for him, and I know you miss him greatly, I am happy that at least I have you. I could not wish for a more dedicated steward and I hope a dearer friend.”

Faramir’s expression was almost comical in its confusion at Aragorn’s little speech. The king sighed and then almost impulsively wrapped his arms loosely around the younger man.

“I do mean it,” he said quietly, “you are an asset to this kingdom and I am very lucky to have you by my side.”

He drew back and gave him a reassuring smile, which was returned with a very small and extremely uneasy smile.

Chapter 7

Faramir made his way slowly back to his rooms from the gardens, feeling much better after breathing in the cool, fresh air outside. Mithrandir and the king would probably scold him for going out alone, but he really hadn’t felt like waiting. He’d been wide awake after eating his afternoon meal and it had felt a shame to not slip out for a while both of them had gone to have their own meal. He felt a little guilty for the time both of them spent with him, especially when the king sat by him for so much time, more so after the incident with his father’s cane. He repressed a shudder at the thought of seeing it being consumed by the flames. It was such thoughts that made him feel grateful for their gesture in spending time with him and a tiny part of him welcomed their presence almost greedily finding in it an escape from the dark thoughts that always assailed him when he felt at his weakest.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted when he felt a hand grab his elbow, as he turned into a hallway near the council rooms. He half-turned to see Councillor Tarnost behind him and felt himself stiffening immediately. He had never been very fond of Tarnost, one of his father’s closest friends. Something about the man had always induced a fear in him. He thought he knew what the cause might be, but he preferred not to have his mind dwell on that event. He stared back into the aging face trying to maintain a dignity in his bearing.

“Faramir! It is good to see you well again, dear boy,” the older man purred, nudging him into the small alcove nearby, “I heard you were ill and that the King himself has been taking an interest in your recovery?”

Faramir frowned as his back hit the wall and the fingers tightened around his arm. They were interrupted before he could even think of replying.

“Oh he would wouldn’t he? Faramir must be offering him his ‘services’.” Faramir looked up startled, his heart hammering loudly. He knew that voice so well, still hearing it in some of his worst dreams oft times. Soft and cultured at all times, “Why else would he actually listen to any of his suggestions?”

“Ah, Calembel. I was just telling young Faramir here how nice it was to see him well again! He does look good, does he not?”

“Indeed,” smirked the other councillor, his eyes blatantly roaming down Faramir’s body, “so good it makes me regret I haven’t seen more of you of late.”

Faramir stood frozen, a familiar pounding starting off in his head, a nauseous feeling threatening to overcome him. Their nearness threatened to bring back a flood of memories he had fought long to repress. He’d always wondered if Tarnost had been there during one of those fateful days when he’d undergone the ‘lesson’ as his father had termed it. Now he knew. Those fingers that clutched his elbow now were the same clammy fingers that had dug into his waist to hold him down while… he gulped at the unbidden memories trying to force himself back to the present. They were still speaking and he was pushed against the wall now.

“I thought you might no longer be interested now, but obviously if you’re willing to satisfy the king’s craving, you’re just as much the depraved young lad you always were. I’m sure you didn’t lose a moment to throw your filthy body at his disposal.”

Faramir tried desperately to ignore the jibes even as he wondered frantically what they were speaking of. How could they talk of their king in such depraved terms? Elessar? His king was to marry a beautiful Elven maiden… how could they think of suggesting someone as tainted as he could cater to Elessar’s physical needs!

“That is good!” exclaimed Calembel, “I have often desired to repeat the wonderful experience we once shared, Faramir dear, but your father would not agree, and one must respect one’s friend’s wishes after all. I am sure he would not mind if we were to continue where we left off now. You did seem to enjoy it then. After all, you never protested.”

He’d been too dazed and shocked to protest at first and later too scared. Protesting was what had got him into that predicament to begin with; he didn’t dare to protest any more for fear of even worse repercussions. He could feel that same awful fear inching back now.

“Indeed. I’ve never had such a willing bed mate,” Tarnost said, pushing Faramir further up against the wall. Calembel came and stood by him, and Faramir found himself feeling closed in as their bodies nearly touched his. He tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out, “I wonder if the King knows yet what a lovely obedient whore he’s found himself?”

“Have you shown him the wonders of your talented mouth? You were better than the women in taverns in the third circle,” Calembel murmured, running a finger down Faramir’s face and then along his lips, then down his chin onto his neck.

“We must get together once again, dearest,” Tarnost purred and Faramir suddenly felt a hand slide around his waist into his leggings, to cup his buttocks. He gasped in mortification inducing soft laughter from the two men.

“I must leave now,” Calembel said, even as he toyed with the bindings of Faramir’s tunic, exposing his collar bone, and slipped his fingers in, running them lightly over his skin, “But never fear, child, I’ll give you a fine experience soon.”

“As must I,” Tarnost said regretfully, letting Faramir go, but not before squeezing his buttocks lightly.

Faramir made it as far as the hallways before stumbling against the wall, breathing heavily, the touch of the prying hands still lingering on his flesh. These men would always be there to remind him, he thought bleakly, no matter what Mithrandir said or did. He could not take away all the awful memories, not ones like these that he could share with no one. And these were not the only memories that left him so shaken… his father had seen to that.

For a few brief days he’d forgotten how these men could induce fear in him by their very presence. He’d always known with his father around they would not come near him without Denethor’s leave; Faramir had ensured Denethor never had occasion to resort to that again. But now, with Denethor gone… surely they would not…? And yet, wasn’t that what they’d said…

He tried to straighten up, leaning against the wall, and closed his eyes to take a deep breath and calm himself. They couldn’t harm him now. Mithrandir and Elessar would ensure they wouldn’t. But then, they mustn’t know.

“Faramir!” he heard the king call out to him, and felt his breathing turn rapid.

“S-Sire,” he managed to squeak out.

“Are you alright?” Aragorn demanded, “Are you running a fever again? I told you not to strain yourself, didn’t I? You were supposed to be in bed, weren’t you?”

“I’m fine,” Faramir said in as calm a voice as he could manage. He knew he was looking flushed. He could feel the heat on his face and cheeks. He clenched his fists.

“You certainly don’t look fine to me,” Aragorn retorted and grabbed Faramir’s arm lifting his other hand to check his forehead, and then his throat, where the bindings of the tunic had fallen open.

Aragorn’s hand around his arm felt so warm and reassuring, unlike those hard, clammy fingers that had touched him earlier, that Faramir felt his bare minimal control slip away, and promptly fell into Aragorn’s arms, leaning his head into the strong chest and shutting his eyes so he could simply savour being near his strength and courage. The king would help him, he knew… Mithrandir had told him to trust him, he’d trust him to protect him, he had to. He had no one else. And Mithrandir would be leaving soon.

Aragorn forgot his momentary surprise to pull Faramir closer into his embrace. It was obvious the younger man needed his nearness and truth be told, he quite liked it. He’d often wanted to hold Faramir in his arms, he was convinced he could help the younger man. He continued holding him, realising bemusedly that he could become quite fond of this nearness. Faramir’s head rested against his chest and he could feel his warm breath, coming out in small gasps… He could even see the tiny pulse that beat erratically at the base of Faramir’s throat in that tiny dip where the bindings had come undone.

He didn’t have to wonder too much what had caused this panic attack. He’d seen two of his older councillors walking down the other hallway with far too smug expressions their faces. He’d noticed a tendency among the older members of his council to deride Faramir constantly, especially nowadays while Faramir himself was not present. He gently tightened his hold on the almost trembling figure comfortingly.

Faramir stiffened as Aragorn’s arms tightened around him, and realised he was clinging to his king like a child. He drew back hastily, horrified at having forgotten himself so.

Aragorn let him go immediately, noticing the wariness take over.

“I’m – I’m sorry, Sire,” Faramir gasped out backing away some more.

“It’s all right, Faramir,” Aragorn started in a soothing tone, “you seemed unwell?”

“No – no… I’m fine. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – shouldn’t have… I’ve creased your robes,” he said frantically.

Aragorn waved the last bit away, wondering what Faramir would say if he saw him in his ranger outfit, “You don’t look very fine,” he repeated.

“I – I’m just tired,” Faramir blurted out, still mortified at having thrown himself into his king’s arms. How could he have done that. There was a protocol to be maintained between the King and those who served him, and he had just breached that quite magnificently and that after everything his father’s friends had insinuated. Elessar had simply been kind to him, it was in his nature to do so, he was a fine and honourable man after all… and he in turn had taken advantage of that, and thrown himself at Elessar, just as Calembel and Tarnost had said. How could he have been so stupid?

Aragorn simply sighed, even as Faramir’s mind went into turmoil, “Come on then, back to your room now!” he said firmly, and taking Faramir’s numb arm in hand, guided him back to his room.

“Rest now,” he said as he left after ensuring Faramir had lain down on his bed. Faramir simply nodded numbly. He didn’t think he could rise right now, his knees wouldn’t support him.

Faramir glanced around the small room in fear. It was dark and he could see little from the corner he was huddled in, but he knew he must make an awful sight. His tunic and hair were filthy from being rolled around on the dirty floor for so long, and he was covered in bumps and bruises and dried saliva and semen. He winced as he tried to move into a more comfortable position. He was cold having on nothing but a now torn and ragged tunic and sore all over but more so in some places than others. Perhaps he should simply stretch out on his stomach. His ears were straining to hear sounds outside though there was little he could do even if he had advance notice of a visitor, for by now he was so tired and pained he could barely move.

“Please,” he had mumbled incoherently over and over again all through the terrifying ordeal as one satiated advisor was replaced by another, then another, each using him gleefully, and even now when he was here all alone, waiting, wondering when the next visit would happen, when he’d be grabbed by rough hands, and forced to give in.

His father was right. He should never have protested.

“Please, Father let me go! I’ll never refuse you again,” he wept over and over again his voice cracking, as strange hands touched him, grabbing, pinching, hurting him deliberately and gleefully. But his father either wasn’t there or was simply ignoring him as ever, delighting instead in his helplessness.

And then the footsteps came again, and the door opened, a stream of weak light filtering into the room. He cowered in the dark, breathing heavily. He was a child no more, he was an Ithilien Ranger now, and yet… he was terrified.

Someone bent over him and he sobbed harshly, trying to move away from the hands that he knew would touch him hurtfully.

Gandalf frowned as a soft frightened cry sounded out of the Steward’s room. Quickly, he pushed the door open and hurried to Faramir’s bedside. He knew he shouldn’t have left him alone. The nightmares had still not abated. The bed was in complete disarray, the covers half off the bed, exposing the still recovering body to the pre-dawn chill.

Faramir was whimpering as he curled into himself, shivering all the while. Gandalf grabbed the covers and covered the slight frame, before pulling him into his arms. Faramir continued to flail his limbs weakly, trying to resist the wizard’s hold.

“Please,” he begged, trying ineffectively to push away the arms that were wrapped around him, “Please let me go…”

“Hush now, young one,” Gandalf whispered softly, hoping to calm him, “It’s all right. I’m here now. He won’t harm you.”

The grey eyes flew open at his voice, confused and hurting.

“Mithrandir,” Faramir whispered in a sleep-leaden voice, “Mithrandir. It’s you,” the relief in the voice was unmistakable. Gandalf could feel the silent tears seeping into his robe.

“Yes, I’m here now. Go back to sleep child. It is still dark outside. I shan’t let anyone harm you.”

The wizard stayed awake all night, unable to sleep, watching over his charge.

Aragorn walked briskly towards Faramir’s rooms. He hadn’t been able to check on Faramir yet today and he hadn’t even seen Gandalf around, a thought that suddenly made him panic. He hadn’t realised till now how important it was becoming to him that Faramir recover completely and he realised strangely it had very little to do with the amount of paper lying on his desk.

Faramir was curled in the bed, his head on Gandalf’s lap, the slight frame swaddled in a thick blanket. The wizard was gently combing his fingers through the young man’s hair.

“How is he today?” Aragorn whispered softly, taking in the faint tracks on the cheeks that he realised with dismay, could only be caused by tears.

“He had a rough night,” Gandalf responded grimly, “So I thought it I’d ensure he slept in today. He woke a while ago but he was so exhausted I made him have a little food and go right back to sleep.”

Aragorn nodded approvingly and sat on the other side of the bed. Faramir was lying comfortably on Gandalf’s lap, and despite the signs of sorrow marring his face, his strong sense of honour and sincerity still shone through. He looked almost beautiful to him. Aragorn simply could not understand how anyone could want to hurt him in any way at all. Gandalf’s fingers continued stroking the dark hair and it was obvious that it soothed Faramir.

Aragorn had a strange feeling he would like very much to be in Gandalf’s place; to be able to have Faramir slumbering peacefully in his arms, while he stroked away all his worries. He found he wanted to ensure Faramir had nothing to fear, he’d protect the younger man from anyone or anything that threatened him in any way at all. He tentatively reached out a hand and placed it on Faramir’s hand, gently clasping it, and began to slowly stroke the skin with his thumb, oblivious to the close scrutiny Gandalf gave him.

“I’m so relieved to see him rest peacefully for a change.” Aragorn sighed.

Gandalf nodded in agreement, “His nightmares are so intense, ferocious almost; simply watching him scares me sometimes.”

“Well, no wonder he’s having horrible nightmares. I’m still having nightmares after merely seeing Denethor rape him once, and he has suffered years of abuse!”

“You fool of a Took!” Gandalf growled turning towards the door from whence the unexpected voice came, “Do you never knock before entering someone’s private chambers?”

“I’m sorry, Gandalf. I had my hands full – see?” Pippin lifted the tray a bit higher, presenting a pot of tea, cups and a plate with an array of delicacies.

“I thought you might like a bit of afternoon tea.” He said cheerfully, smiled and looked around the room, expecting his efforts to be met with appreciation.

Instead what he saw made him start back and almost spill the tea. Faramir was pale as he was the afternoon he had just referred to, sitting up wide awake now and staring at him in terror. When Faramir tentatively shifted his gaze towards Aragorn, Pippin’s eyes followed to find the king trembling, and staring at Faramir with a similar look of horror, though immediately changing into one of confusion and concern once Faramir’s eyes were upon him.

It took the hobbit a few seconds to comprehend the situation, but then it dawned on him.

“He didn’t know?” he whispered to Gandalf.

Chapter 8

“No, he didn’t,” Gandalf said quietly as he took in the situation around him, “Pippin, I think you should leave now.”

“But —,” the young hobbit started, unhappily, his eyes glistening with unshed tears as he noticed the little scene playing out in front of him, “I didn’t –” he broke off with a low sob.

“I know,” Gandalf said in a kind but low voice, “Why don’t you leave that tea here, Pippin, and get some for yourself in the kitchens. I“ll join you soon. Save some cake for me.”

Shuttling Pippin out of the room, Gandalf turned back to his young friends. Aragorn was still staring at a mortified Faramir.

“He… raped you? And for years, like Pippin said? Why? How? I mean– why haven’t you told me before?”

Faramir didn’t reply. He had transferred his gaze to his hands, as they played with the hem of his blanket. Gandalf sighed heavily, and went to sit by Faramir and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, while ensuring that he could face Aragorn.

“You have to talk about it some time,” he tried softly but got no response. He looked up at Aragorn who still stood there, incredulous.

“Yes, he raped him,” he said finally, squeezing Faramir’s shoulder gently. The young man slumped back against him, defeated.

“You knew?” Aragorn turned to him promptly, surprised and hurt, “and Pippin too! How many know of this?”

“Only we know, and only recently,” Gandalf replied, “It had been happening for years.”

Faramir emitted a low gulping sound at that and tried to cover his face with his hands but Gandalf gently stopped him.

“I wish I had found out earlier, though,” the wizard said, “All these years. You hid it very well,” he addressed Faramir here, “I could not even guess on my visits to Minas Tirith – when you said you were merely tired or fatigued every time I inquired about your stiff gestures… I suppose if I had paid a little more heed -”

Aragorn stared at Faramir in shock, still trying to process what he had just heard. Taking in the sight of the forlorn face, the wet eyelashes, and the tiny little sniffs, he instinctively sat on Faramir’s other side, and wrapped an arm around him, feeling almost stupidly glad that he wasn’t pushed away as expected.

Faramir blinked and let the tears fall.

Aragorn inched a little closer, his face still mirroring the shock he felt.

“And if Pippin hadn’t found out, you’d never have let anyone know”, Gandalf continued quietly, “You’d simply have suffered in silence and I would have let you do so unknowing. You hid it from everyone so well! Even Boromir. And now Aragorn. He thinks you worry over your father’s words and beatings.”

“For years?” Aragorn mouthed.

“Since he was thirteen,” Gandalf told the horrified king, and then continued speaking to Faramir, “But now that I do know about it, it is the least I can do to ensure that I help you recover. Do you not always say that you count me a friend? And don’t tell me you don’t still suffer from what he did to you. You have nightmares each night! Isn’t that why you had been working all night instead of sleeping?”

Aragorn gave a guilty start at that. He wanted desperately to hug the softly sobbing young man and assure him everything was going to be all right, but he knew very well that that gesture would only cause Faramir more distress. Gandalf seemed to know what he was doing.

“I let you go the last time,” the wizard was saying, “I felt there was no course but for you to do your utmost to defend Gondor. But that’s not the case now, so rest assured, whether you desire it or not, I will see you recover.”

The sobs intensified, and Aragorn felt his own eyes tearing up, as he instinctively hugged Faramir.

“I’ll get you some of that tea,” Gandalf murmured, and rose. Aragorn’s arms tightened and he pulled Faramir close carefully, letting his head rest on his shoulder, the silent tears staining the fine cloth of his tunic.

Gandalf watched Aragorn and Faramir thoughtfully as he poured the tea into a cup. The king was running his hands up and down Faramir’s arm soothingly, and the Steward seemed to unconsciously inch closer to the source of comfort. Faramir was in perfectly good hands Gandalf decided silently. He was obviously in no state to speak though… best to leave him to sleep… Aragorn could see to that; he was so eager to help, and it would give him time to collect his thoughts. Gandalf put aside the teapot, as he recollected Pippin’s distress.

“Here,” he said as he handed the cup to Aragorn, “Make him drink that. I need to go and see how Pippin is doing. Poor fellow seemed very upset.”

Bending down, he dropped a kiss on Faramir’s lowered head, “Rest now, child. All will be well.”

Aragorn nodded distractedly at Gandalf, his attention firmly affixed on Faramir. He held the cup to Faramir’s mouth forcing him to lift his tear-streaked face.

“Drink,” he said gently, but firmly, and handed the cup to the distraught man.

Faramir’s fingers were shaking as he took the cup, but he held it.

Aragorn continued to hold him in his arms, trying to think of anything to say, but sensing that nothing he might say at this moment would be of much help.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, “But I“m glad I now know. There was no need for you to hide this from me. I yearned greatly to help you, my friend, and now I know what troubles you so, I will do just that.”

Faramir stayed silent, sipping at the tea, tears continuing to run down his face. Aragorn continued to have his arms wrapped loosely around him.

Once Faramir had finished the tea, he took the cup from the numb fingers, and kissed him softly on his head, sighing silently as he hoped he could live up to his promise.

“Would you like to rest now?” he suggested quietly, knowing the tea would induce sleep, he’d smelt the relaxing herbs in it.

Faramir didn’t try to move out of his embrace. He seemed too spent to think of it.

Aragorn started to rub soft circles on his back, hoping it would relax the tense young man.

“I’m here now,” he whispered softly, “I’ll look after you.”

Faramir dropped off into a restless sleep shortly, but Aragorn continued to hold him.

Gandalf found a rather distraught hobbit waiting anxiously for him in the kitchen.

“Gandalf, I“m so sorry! I didn’t realize Strider didn’t know. He spends so much time caring for Faramir and he seems so worried about him. I really thought Strider knew about this,” Pippin said in a frantic rush. He dropped his eyes unhappily, “I messed up again, didn’t I?”

“It’s not that bad, my dear Pippin. If anything, your characteristic rash action actually made me feel relieved this time. I wasn’t pleased at all with the way Faramir was hiding Denethor’s abuse from Aragorn. I can understand he felt embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about it, but it wasn’t helping his recovery at all. He has had to live with it for over twenty years; it’s an inevitable part of who he is now. Hiding from it won’t make it go away. He has to face his demons before he can overcome them, and Aragorn can be a great help in that. And you“re right, he indeed cares deeply for him.”

Gandalf paused to reach for some cake as Pippin nodded seriously. The young hobbit had been extremely unhappy to see Faramir ailing while the others were so cheerful and he’d truly been glad when he’d thought that Strider was helping his friend be happy once again.

“Truth be told,” Gandalf continued at a distinctly brighter tone, “Aragorn isn’t blind and asked me, on more than one occasion, if I knew what was troubling Faramir. Yet Faramir had me promise not to tell anyone, least of all Aragorn. Obviously I couldn’t betray his trust, even if it went against my own inclination. It was most awkward.”

With a wink the old wizard pushed the last of the cake in Pippin’s direction, “You actually saved me from a very precarious situation!”

Pippin stared at him doubtfully, but helped himself to the cake nevertheless, sighing silently and hoping Faramir would indeed get better earlier now.

Faramir was still in Aragorn’s arms when Gandalf returned to his room. Aragorn sat running his fingers mechanically through the younger man’s hair; his troubled eyes were gazing out of the window. His thoughts seemed to be elsewhere.

“Is he asleep?” Gandalf asked, causing the king to glance up at him.

Aragorn nodded and then very gently laid Faramir back on the bed, tucking the covers neatly around him and very gently wiping away the tears on his pale cheeks. Gandalf watched quietly, wondering when the barrage of questions would start. Aragorn however turned quietly to him, “He has not eaten. He must wake by evening and eat a little. He cannot afford to miss more meals. I know you would like to stay with him,” he said, “I shall have your noon meal sent to you here.”

“Aragorn,” Gandalf’s voice halted him, “How was he faring?”

He turned around, his troubled eyes meeting the wizard’s gaze unhappily, “I could not tell. He cried and then he slept off.”

Gandalf nodded grimly.

He left quietly, and returned to his study where he leafed through his papers unseeingly. He could still remember Denethor from his days as Thorongil, the stern faced son of the then Steward Ecthelion. He had been cold natured, inured already to the harshness the Stewardship seemed to demand, seeing control and dominance as the means to rule a land labouring under the shadow’s threat.

Yet at the same time he remembered the glimpses he had seen of Denethor’s private life: despite the cold demeanour he greeted all others with, he had never seen him as anything but an affectionate and devoted husband to his new bride and later a proud and loving father to his infant first-born son. He could not fathom why Denethor would have wanted to treat his own son as he did. And yet, Aragorn could believe that he would.

From all Boromir had said Denethor had showered all his love and affection upon his heir, and kept none for his younger son.

He could not get Faramir’s stricken expression out of his mind. That Faramir had borne the brunt of Denethor’s scorn Aragorn had guessed from all he had heard. To realize that the scorn had translated into physical abuse had been bad enough, but to find out now that Denethor had done far worse to Faramir… it explained much of Faramir’s mood these days, Aragorn thought heavily.

Poor Faramir… All these years, and no one ever got to know… not even Boromir… how could he withstand it…

Aragorn was back in his Steward’s room that evening. Gandalf had sent him a message telling him Faramir was awake. He found the younger man lying on his side, his back to the door, and the tray of food only half-eaten.

“Faramir?” he said softly.

There was no response from the figure on the bed, save for a very slight stiffening of the back, which Aragorn almost missed. When he rounded the bed, he found the younger man had his eyes closed.

“Faramir?” he repeated, his voice still soft.

There was no response. He seemed fast asleep, and yet Aragorn knew he was not. He sighed and made to leave the room. Faramir was probably quite exhausted given what he had gone through earlier. He could understand if he didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

A soft cough sounded from the door. He glanced up to see Gandalf there.

“He’s sleeping,” he said shortly, “I do not wish to disturb him. He needs rest still.”

Gandalf sighed silently, “I had hoped he would eat some more before sleeping again.”

Aragorn nodded and then walked over to the window, standing with his back to the other occupants of the room.

“Gandalf, if I know him well enough, he may well turn away from me now, will he not?”

“He will not be happy with himself for having cried in front of you, yes,” Gandalf replied, seating himself on a chair by Faramir’s bedside and helping himself to an apple from his plate, “He is not even happy that he has fallen ill in your presence… He fears to be seen as weak and… now I think he will fear that you will look down upon him.”

“I do not see him as weak,” Aragorn said firmly, “Anything but that. After what I have learnt today, even less so. And I would not want him to turn away from me from fear that I may look down upon him for what is not his fault.”

“Indeed,” Gandalf murmured.

He turned around, his eyes hard, “I do mean that Gandalf! He is a fine young man and one that I have grown to wish as a good friend, and if a friend of mine were to hurt as this young one surely is, then I would do all I can to help them. I hope you will let me, will you Faramir?” his tone suddenly went softer.

Gandalf watched the bed interestedly, where a rather surprised Faramir was sitting up and staring numbly at his king.

The eyes fell at the mention of his name.

“Look at me, Faramir,” Aragorn entreated gently, “I know you feel I have intruded upon something you were not ready to share with me, but please, I think of you as a very dear friend now. Will you not think thus of me as well?”

“He’s right, lad,” Gandalf said quietly, “What happened to you is now no longer a secret between just you and Denethor. Then you had no one to turn to for no one knew what was happening but now we do, so let us help you.”

Faramir eyes were bright with tears when he looked up, “I don’t deserve it,” he said softly, “All these efforts you waste upon me, I am not worth all this.”

“Ssh,” Aragorn said, seating himself on the bed by Faramir, “You are worth all that and much more.”

He shook his head unhappily, “I am not even worth being the Steward.”

“We have discussed that before. Let us not speak of it again. You are my Steward by virtue of your birth and you will remain my Steward by virtue of your ability. I do not think any other man in this kingdom could help me sort out that mess that is lying on my table!”

Faramir looked unconvinced still, and when Gandalf urged him once again to let them help, Aragorn thought he looked positively scared, and yet, he hadn’t pushed him away.

Thankfully!

Well, even if he tried, he was going to find his king was not at all easy to push away. He gently grasped Faramir’s hand and squeezed it lightly, and smiled in an attempt to reassure his surprised Steward.

Chapter 9

Aragorn rose from Faramir’s room only after seeing the young man sleep off in Gandalf’s arms after a light dinner. Faramir had looked so small and so scared, and the unhappiness that still remained in his eyes would not leave Aragorn’s mind. He was afraid too that the younger man might have exhausted himself further with all the emotional turmoil he’d undergone and made a mental note to check on him,

“How is Pippin?” he had asked Gandalf wearily.

“Oh, he’ll do fine.”

“How did he know, Gandalf?”

Gandalf sighed, “He found Faramir retching after he had been with Denethor. I came across them shortly after and that was how I learnt of it.”

“When?”

“Before he left for the final charge on Osgiliath.”

“He raped him before sending him out to what was nearly his death?” Aragorn said aghast, and then promptly turned around and excused himself as he felt tears welling up. He went into his room and just stood there for a moment, leaning back against the closed door, taking a couple of deep breaths as he struggled to compose himself. Yet soon he had to admit defeat, and had to rush to his antechamber to disgorge much of what he’d eaten that evening.

Faramir spent much of his waking hours the next morning trying not to think of all that had happened, even though what had happened had been something he had dreaded ever so much. He had laboured for years to let none know what he was enduring and now in these few months, it seemed the secret was his no longer. He was no longer sure of what to feel of that, and especially of the fact that now the king too knew the truth about him now.

He had not reacted as Faramir had thought he would. He had not pushed him away in disgust. He had not called him all those names that his father’s voice threw back at him in his dreams. He acted instead much like Mithrandir did, offering comfort and kind words. Faramir was fast beginning to see why the wizard had insisted so that he confide in Elessar.

And Elessar thought of him as a dear friend… he had said so… despite all he knew of Faramir. It left a very pleasant and warm feeling inside Faramir, and his lips curled unconsciously in a shy smile, as he remembered how Aragorn had held his hands the evening prior. The strong fingers had clutched his trembling hands, and wiped the stray tears off his cheek with an affection Faramir had known from none but his brother.

But what if he had changed his mind overnight? What if he had slept on it and now realised how unworthy Faramir was of being a friend of one as noble as he?

Faramir sighed, and tried to think of something else, anything else, as he rose and readied himself.

Gandalf and Aragorn came by soon. He found himself nervously glancing at the king’s face for any sign of displeasure, instead all he saw was a little weariness. Well, he would be weary he thought glumly.

“Good morning,” the king said softly, and smiled at him. Faramir smiled back a little warily, and returned the greeting softly, as his breakfast was brought in by one of the servants.

The huge pile of food on the plate reminded him of Pippin.

“Mithrandir,” he said anxiously causing the wizard to give him a sharp but concerned glance, “How is Pippin?”

“He’s fine,” the wizard said gently, “Would you like to meet him after you’ve eaten?”

Faramir nodded, “Yes, please.”

He picked his way through the breakfast, not feeling very hungry, and was promptly scolded gently by Mithrandir.

“You’re too skinny,” the wizard said, “And you’ve been skipping meals in your illness. And don’t say you’re not. That tunic hangs on you!” Faramir had the grace to blush a little at that, “Aragorn wants to take a look at you, by the way. We’re afraid you might fall ill again.”

“But, Mithrandir —”

“Hush, now! Let Aragorn look at you. And look at his shoulder will you, it’s hurting him again, isn’t it?”

Aragorn came and sat by the half-protesting young man and checked his temperature and pulse, well aware that some degree of wariness had returned to Faramir’s demeanour, “You’re looking a lot better,” he said, as he slowly slipped the tunic off the injured shoulder, and examined it, probing and squeezing gently, “It’s still a little stiff isn’t it?”

Faramir almost tensed at first when the tunic was slipped off and then felt absurd. Aragorn’s fingers had the most comforting touch he realised suddenly.

“Just a little,” he said softly.

Aragorn nodded, “Elrohir has some salves that could be useful. I’ll ask him for them.” He slipped the tunic back on and then sat back and looked at Faramir intently.

Faramir thought he looked a little tired.

“So I can return to work soon?” he asked softly.

“Soon,” Aragorn smiled gently, before realising he’d been staring at Faramir, “Not immediately. If you like, work from here a few days.”

That brought some brightness to Faramir’s face. Aragorn shook his head in wonder.

Aragorn watched from a balcony as Faramir sat on a garden bench with Pippin. Snatches of conversation drifted up to him, Pippin’s voice at first subdued, and then progressively animated as Faramir deliberately made his own voice cheerful. By the time the two had risen from the bench the young hobbit was laughing aloud and back to his cheerful self.

They followed that routine the next couple of days, allowing Faramir to work from his room. It gave him the distraction from his thoughts that he craved. He walked in the gardens often too, alone at times and at other times, in Pippin or Merry’s company. He was as yet too shy to seek out the others.

Aragorn was trying desperately to ensure he didn’t let his unhappiness show through to Faramir. The younger man had enough burdens as it was. But he couldn’t keep it away from the others, and especially not from Gandalf. The wizard finally cornered him on one of the balconies as he sat watching Faramir talking to the young hobbits in the garden below. The hobbits were munching their way through a small picnic basket Faramir had thoughtfully had the kitchen prepare for them.

“You’re unhappy for him,” Gandalf spoke without preamble.

“Yes,” Aragorn said heavily, “He didn’t deserve it… not he… look at him, Gandalf! He is kind, generous, warm-hearted and selfless. He deserved none of what he went through! How could anyone hurt someone like him?”

“Well, we’ll just have ensure he’s never hurt again…” Gandalf said heavily, “You will do that for me won’t you Aragorn?”

Aragorn looked back at him puzzled.

The wizard gazed back calmly, “I know I cannot stay here forever and reassure myself on that count but I know I can trust you to ensure he’s never hurt again.”

Aragorn nodded quietly.

“You are fond of him, aren’t you, Gandalf?” he said after a while.

“Yes, I am. He was always a sweet little thing. He used to tag around behind me all the time whenever I visited and never stopped asking questions when he was young, and when he was older, he would just listen.”

“Why didn’t you take him away, Gandalf!” Aragorn burst out suddenly, “You knew he was unhappy!”

“If I had but an inkling of the true cause of his unhappiness…” Gandalf responded heavily, “But I never did… he hid it well. He was always outwardly happy and cheerful, interested and clever and witty… it wasn’t often I met one like that and so young. He impressed me immensely. And with him around my work in Minas Tirith was so much easier, he was always so eager to help me. If I had but known, I would have brought him away as soon as I could… taken him to Lothlórien perhaps…. Left him under Celeborn’s care… or Rivendell.”

“I wish you had,” Aragorn said quietly, “I would have loved to have known him earlier on.”

Gandalf frowned suddenly, causing Aragorn to glance up at him surprised, “Do you remember… you came with me once while we were searching for Gollum…you would not enter the city but you asked about the young man who rode out with me…”

Aragorn remembered the glimpse he’d had from a distance, of a young man in a ranger outfit, raven-haired and grey eyed, hanging on to every word the old wizard said… Aragorn had thought then there was something about the boy, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Gandalf had dismissed him as merely a young acquaintance, a curious child naturally interested in what a wizard could tell about the world outside the White City. Aragorn hadn’t pressed the issue. He gasped now. That was Faramir. The thin, quiet, unhappy looking boy.

It did not take long after that for the guilt to set in.

“I didn’t think it wise for you two to meet, not at that time,” Gandalf spoke softly as he saw the expression on Aragorn’s face change. “Sometimes I think I could have discovered his secret, had I really wanted to. Maybe it is not so much that he hid it too deep, but rather that I did not want to see.”

The wizard rubbed his brow and sighed dejectedly before he continued, “Oh I knew his father was harsh and thought he hit him occasionally, but Faramir never spoke of it and I didn’t ask. You sensed there was something about him too, and I kept you apart, but I think not just because of the implications on your future as a king. I wonder if perhaps somewhere in my mind, I was too afraid of the implications of our knowing entirely what was wrong. Had I known, I would have been obliged to take action. It’s easy enough to say I would have taken him away, though what would Denethor have done then? Perhaps, somehow, I felt it was better not to find out.”

Aragorn frowned, he had never seen Gandalf like this. “My dear friend, I know you worry about Faramir a great deal, but I think that line of thought is neither constructive, nor healthy. Have you been getting enough sleep lately?”

Gandalf responded with a morose silence.

Faramir paced his room distractedly. He’d slept badly the previous night and so had spent the whole day trying to distract himself from the thought of those nightmares, first immersing himself in some paperwork and then seeking out Pippin who was back to his usual cheerful self now. But Pippin had had to leave and now he truly needed another distraction. It was a little difficult though, for Mithrandir had taken all his paperwork, telling him he looked tired.

“And how do you feel?” Aragorn’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Terrible,” Faramir muttered.

“What happened?”

“Mithrandir took away my papers,” Faramir said almost petulantly.

“Did he? Hmm… I wonder why!”

Faramir missed the gentle sarcasm entirely, “That’s just what I asked him!”

“Perhaps because someone needs rest? You don’t look like you have been sleeping well,” Aragorn suggested quietly.

“I was not sleepy,” Faramir mumbled.

“You are still not sleeping well, are you?” Aragorn said worriedly.

Faramir sighed. There were times when Elessar was more like Mithrandir than he’d ever know. Neither stopped fussing. And like the wizard, he thought he detected a note of guilt.

“I have ever been a light sleeper,” he said flatly.

“Oh,” Aragorn said a little dismayed. He could well guess why Faramir might sleep lightly.

“It’s a good trait for a ranger,” Faramir said suddenly.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed quietly.

“Is aught the matter, sire?” Faramir asked sharply, not missing Aragorn’s listless tones, “You seem worried.”

“Nay!” Aragorn replied too hurriedly, “‘tis nothing.”

Faramir looked quite unconvinced, so he continued, “I just – I just wish…” he rubbed the bridge of his nose absently. He’d been thinking of this awhile.

“I do wish – I could have helped you earlier, Faramir. I wish I had done something!”

Faramir looked at him puzzled, “But what could you have done? You were not even here. You couldn’t have known. You couldn’t even have known I existed.”

“Perhaps I should have not waited so many years. If I had not waited so long, if I had come to Gondor earlier…”

“But there was reason behind your waiting,” Faramir replied quietly, “I know Lord Elrond and Mithrandir advised you to wait. They would surely have said so with reason. They would not have advised you so if they did not feel it was better for all concerned that you bide your time, and…” he broke off here, unwilling to go on.

“There is nothing you could have done, then,” he said firmly after a while.

Aragorn found he had no reply, and was extremely grateful when the gong for the evening meal sounded. As Aragorn got up to leave, he looked around the room, and at Faramir’s almost unhappy face and spoke promptly, “Why don’t you join me for supper, Faramir?”

The Steward looked up flustered, “Join you for supper?”

“Yes,” Aragorn said amused.

“But-”

“I would like it if you did.”

“But you eat with your friends, and —”

“And you are one of my friends. The others ask about you. Come, Faramir. You used to join us earlier, remember?”

He had, and had at first been almost shocked at the change from the formality in the days of his father. These meals had been like the meals Boromir had had in his camp – noisy and full of people yelling at each other and laughing irreverently. He had felt out of place and to his sleep-deprived, tired and distraught mind in those days, the boisterousness of the elves and the hobbits whenever they joined them had been almost painful, so he had stopped eating with them, asking the servants to give his apologies to the king, and later not even doing that.

He bit his lip uncertainly. He did need a distraction…

“Very well, sire, I shall join you,” he said softly, but still uncertainly.

The twins, Legolas and Gimli were already there when they reached, talking surprisingly quietly.

“Estel!” one of the twins yelled out when he came, “You’re late. We’re hungry!”

“Quiet down, Elladan,” Aragorn said almost imperiously, as he ushered Faramir in, “You’ll give Faramir a fright.”

“Faramir! How nice to see you here,” Elladan said delightedly, and smiled so widely at him, that the steward took a step back and stared at his king in surprise. Aragorn simply shook his head and nudged him towards the chair next to his at the table.

‘Sit,” he said smiling.

“How are you now?” Elrohir asked him quietly from across the table, his grey eyes gazing so intently at the young man that he almost blushed.

“I’m well, thank you, my lord,” he answered softly.

“We hoped we’d see more of you, but Gandalf said we’d be bothering you,” Elladan pouted playfully.

“Yes,” Elrohir added indignantly, “As if we’d do any such thing!”

Faramir was beginning to look overwhelmed by now so Aragorn gave the twins a stern look to quieten them, which they surprisingly caught on to, and even more surprisingly obeyed.

But it was Faramir who spoke up, “but you did come to see me,” he said reddening slightly, “And I was very grateful. It was remiss of me not to thank you earlier for coming to see me. I – I’m afraid I was not very welcoming…”

“We had not meant to waken you that day,” Legolas said apologetically from next to him.

Faramir reddened even more at that, “And I – forgive me Prince Legolas for what I said of you.”

The elf’s brow wrinkled in confusion, “what you said of me?” he asked haplessly, “I do not understand Faramir. You said nothing.”

The twins hooted, “He called you Éowyn!”

Legolas reddened at that, “I’d already forgotten about it,” he hurried to assure Faramir who was beginning to look a little distressed.

Aragorn stepped in promptly, “Faramir! You’re not eating. Gandalf will have my hide if he hears you have not eaten.”

Gimli helped by turning the conversation back to food and things remained quiet for the rest of the meal, the voices soft but full of humour, and often Aragorn caught Faramir’s lips curving in a small smile at some remark or the other.

“He looks much better,” Elrohir whispered to him from his other side, “You’ve looked after him well!”

“Not well enough,” Aragorn whispered back sadly, “He’s still not fully recovered.”

“It’s nice to see him smiling.”

“He’s going to do that a lot more often,” Aragorn replied resolutely. Elrohir gave him a strange look and then smiled widely.

“That will be good,” he said still grinning. Aragorn wondered what caused Elrohir’s strange behaviour but at the serving maid had brought on the second course and he thought it more important to ensure Faramir got a large helping of that.

Chapter 10

Aragorn thought the meal was quite a success. He wanted to invite Faramir to stay back and have some wine with him, but the younger man was beginning to look tired now, and he noticed him struggling to stifle a yawn as they began to rise.

“We shall see you at breakfast tomorrow,” Elladan was telling Faramir who blushed a little at the attention and nodded shyly.

It was difficult to refuse either of the twins when they set their minds to something, Aragorn thought grinning. Faramir caught his grin and returned a small smile of his own.

Faramir’s thoughts turned to Boromir as he walked down the long hallways, and of the numerous times they had spent together over the evening meals like this, laughing and talking quietly. For those few hours Faramir would forget all his troubles and simply revel in his brother’s company.

If only Boromir were here… but if Boromir had learnt of the truth… he shuddered slightly, the relaxed feeling the dinner had left him, being replaced by a weary and troubled feeling.

Gandalf watched Faramir’s sleeping form quietly. The younger man had oft told him he needn’t stay by him each night but the wizard felt troubled leaving Faramir alone for he still slept badly. Faramir mumbled something and rolled over to one side, causing Gandalf to start. The younger man whimpered and curled up into himself.

“Will you for once stop acting like a delicate little girl and stand up straight!” he heard called after him as he made for the door out of his father’s study, indeed, hunched over and feeling miserable.

Faramir turned to see his father slumped in his chair, lacing up his leggings. If anything, that sight made him want to curl up even more. Denethor smirked at him, shaking his head, “You bring it on yourself, you know that, with all your squirming. If only you would stay still; even a girl could do that!”

Faramir cringed. He recognized this mood in his father, and it bode no good. The sooner he got out of here the better. He took a deep, steadying breath and straightened his back, but right away sparks of pain shot through his lower body and up his spine, causing him to whimper and double over once more.

Denethor laughed at him again, “What is Boromir going to think when he sees you walking the halls like that? What is going to happen to all that fraternal love when he recognizes you for the filthy little whore you are?”

The mocking look turned menacing, “He would probably never wish to speak to you again. Or wait… I’ll tell you what else I think might happen— I think he would like a sample.”

The air hitched in his lungs and he felt like the room had just got colder. Still all Faramir could do was listen to his father as he continued, “He’ll only need one look at you like that to work it out. I might as well call him over now and see if he’d like to take a turn like my friends did. How would you like that, hmm? Would you also wince and cry when your beloved brother takes you, or urge him on like the proper slut you are?”

“Wake up!”

Faramir’s eyes flew open as he sat up gasping and crying, forcing Gandalf to move forward quickly.

“Oh Faramir!” Mithrandir’s voice was full of tenderness and Faramir fell broken into his outstretched arms, “Child, don’t cry!”

He sobbed. He couldn’t help it. The wizard’s hands around him were so comforting and his voice was so soothing.

“Was it another dream?” Gandalf asked softly when he had calmed down a little.

He couldn’t trust himself to speak so he just gave a small nod. His head nestled against the wizard’s chest.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head mutely.

Gandalf sighed and pulled the young steward closer in his arms, “Alright then. I won’t press you.”

They sat that way awhile, Faramir ensconced in the worried wizard’s arms.

Then Faramir spoke, “How long?” he said in a voice full of soft anguish.

“What, young one?” Gandalf asked compassionately.

“How long will I be haunted by my memories, Mithrandir?” he spoke bitterly, the tears starting up again.

“I do not know, child, but you know, if you were to open up a little more about this, it might not trouble you as much in your sleep,” he suggested. In the last few days as Faramir had gradually opened up a little more to the others, Aragorn and he had tried a few times to get him to speak of what he had gone through. The younger man had tried refusing but then given in and tried to speak. However, he would still get overwhelmed sooner or later and refuse to say more. All they knew was that it was a frequent occurrence any time Faramir visited Minas Tirith, more so if Boromir was not also there as was usually the case. It had pained Gandalf to think of the young man coming home on his few short trips to that reception. More so when Faramir had just the day before inadvertently muttered, “I used to ache to return to Ithilien even thought it hurt so much to ride at times.”

“I don’t wish to talk about it,” he said now, repeating a line Gandalf had heard many times.

After a brief while, he shifted and Gandalf loosened his embrace. The young man stayed in his arms but turned to look towards him.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“For what?”

“For being with me each night. I know you lose sleep over it, and I wish you wouldn’t but I am thankful nevertheless.”

“It is but little I do for you,” Gandalf said tiredly; touching Faramir’s cheek lightly, “I wish I could do so much more for you.”

“Y—you don’t have to…”

“I do. You have ever called me your friend and I have ever seen you as one and a dear one at that, but I have done little to show for it. If I had paid more attention to you, if I had had but one inkling these years of what you were truly going through…”

“Please, Mithrandir,” Faramir pleaded, “Do not say that. There is nothing you could have done save fret and worry as you do now. You have done so much for all of us… you have helped free us from the darkness… and you help me so much now! How can you say such things?”

Gandalf tightened his arms around the younger man, “I help you but little. You still suffer I can see it,’ he said, “But I will see you recover, as will Aragorn!”

Faramir didn’t reply but stayed in Gandalf’s arms letting the wizard’s voice act as a soothing balm to his distraught mind, wondering if he were not letting himself get too used to this comfort.

Gandalf sighed when Faramir finally fell back into an exhausted sleep. He’d known the younger man hadn’t recovered fully despite his insistence to return to his duties. His illness coming on top of the not too distant injuries in war and the shock of losing both his brother and his father had ensured Faramir had much to recover from.

Faramir watched bemused as Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli all spoke at once to Aragorn in his study.

“We found the finest ever wine in the second circle. You must come with us next time.”

“And the tavern was so unique!” Gimli was saying, “Such fine walls, very old stonework.”

“And the young er—ladies,” Elladan smirked.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that, “In the second circle? Fine wine?”

“Oh, very well!” Elrohir huffed, “so it is not just a tavern and they do indulge in ‘other’ activities but the wine is indeed fine.”

Faramir almost smiled. The taverns in the second circle were less taverns and more brothels. Boromir had taken him there once. His smile faltered as he remembered his father’s reaction to his rather woeful first attempt with a woman. He didn’t realise he was being spoken to until he heard his name called out a little loudly.

“Y—yes?” he stuttered looking dully at Legolas who was asking him something.

“I said which is the best of these ‘taverns’?” Legolas asked calmly.

“I — I don’t know,” he said feeling rather inadequate when five pairs of eyes broed into him.

“But—” Elrohir started.

“Surely —”

Aragorn cut in swiftly, “I should have thought you wouldn’t. Gondor borrowed from Khand the fine practise of having courtesans for the sons of nobility. It caused less scandal and gossip.”

“Yes,” Faramir said quietly, though he didn’t tell Aragorn that in his father’s eyes he had never qualified as worthy enough for the attentions of one. The few other experiences he had had with women had been in other brothels — in Pelargir, once and in Dol Amroth another time, and while not as disastrous as his first attempt, he’d known in his oft tense state he wasn’t a flying success either.

“And are all sons of nobility as shy as you around women?” Elrohir asked smiling gently.

Faramir reddened at that, “I’m not,” he began protesting.

Elladan joined in, “Yes, we heard Éowyn remonstrating you at your refusal to erm — display affection publicly.”

“I—” Faramir blushed even deeper, as he remembered that day the twins were talking about. He had felt Éowyn’s lips on his and had kissed her back dutifully though his mind had been on the pile of paperwork on his table, but when she’d loosened her collar and then slipped her hands under his shirt and tried to work them past the waistband of his trousers, he had panicked. He had not wanted to be found like that, what would Éomer have said? Or Elessar? And what if Éowyn realised he was so inexperienced in pleasing women… she would leave him.

Aragorn frowned at this line of conversation. He remembered Elrohir’s casual remark many weeks ago that the young Steward seemed to tie himself in knots when in close contact with women, and that Éowyn seemed to be losing patience with his restraint.

He couldn’t have had much time for chasing skirts… not with Denethor the way he was… not with him spending most of his time at home being hurt in such a fashion…

“You can’t expect him to have kissed Éowyn with the two of you goggling at them,” Legolas said smartly, and got an apple thrown on his head by Elrohir.

A fruit fight ensued and so Aragorn shooed them all away, and then settled thankfully back to work in peace.

The light drizzle of that morning had given way to glorious sunshine when Aragorn glanced up some hours later. Faramir had wandered over to the window. He looked tired and tensed.

How did he ever survive it? I’m glad he did, but dear Eru, how did he?

He was still lost in thought when Faramir turned from the window and looked to him. The young steward didn’t miss the pensiveness in his face.

“What is the matter?” he asked anxiously.

Aragorn put down the papers he’d been pretending to read, wondering what to say. There were so many things…

“He hurt you oft times, didn’t he?” he said quietly.

Faramir didn’t miss the note of unhappiness in his voice. He sighed silently and looked out of the window again. He wanted nothing more than to forget, to blight out the past and what he’d had to go through. He wished he didn’t have to talk about it. Why did Aragorn and Mithrandir always try to remind him? They kept pushing him to speak of all that had happened but truth be told, he didn’t even want to remember it. And it only worried Aragorn further.

He hurried to allay Aragorn’s worry, “It wasn’t that bad, really; I learned to live with it.”

It had the opposite effect. Aragorn rose and coming towards him, turned him around so they were facing each other.

“Not that bad! But he hurt you! You told us you couldn’t even ride at times!” The distress in Aragorn’s voice was clear, and his eyes seemed to be filling up, worrying Faramir.

“Oh, but that was my own fault,” he said hurriedly, again, “If only I had cooperated more, controlled myself better and hadn’t winced as much, there wouldn’t have been that much pain or injury.”

Aragorn’s grip on his shoulders tightened and Faramir nearly winced.

“Is that what he told you?” The king had to struggle to keep from raising his voice, “That the pain was your own fault? Oh Faramir, surely you can’t believe that still?” he felt his voice breaking there.

Faramir turned his head away distressed. It had been his fault hadn’t it? Denethor had said so each time, Faramir had been forced to cry out. His father had hated to hear his cries, and berated him often, and simply hurt him even more and deliberately so, so that Faramir had learnt with time to bear it in stoic silence.

Aragorn hooked a finger under the unhappy man’s chin and forced him to look up. To Faramir’s shock, the king’s face was streaked with tears.

“It was not your fault,” the king said quietly, “Never think so. It pained you because a grievous hurt was inflicted on you.”

He didn’t want to think about it. About any of it. Of the constant fear he’d lived in, of the pain he’d felt so often, of the worry that anyone would find out. His eyes welled up.

“Please don’t cry, Faramir. It’s all over now. I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again,” Aragorn whispered softly and pulled him close.

Faramir melted against his king’s chest. A small voice at the back of his head reminded him he shouldn’t act so craven in front of Aragorn; what would he think of him, how long could he abuse the king’s kindness, how long until he would be pushed away in disgust?

But Aragorn’s embrace was so warm, so comforting, Faramir couldn’t bring himself to pull away. With his head resting on Aragorn’s shoulder, his ear against Aragorn’s chest, he could hear his heart beat, feel as much as hear his voice whenever Aragorn spoke, smell that lovely musky, herby smell that was so typically Aragorn continuously rather than catch the occasional lucky whiff.

All these wonderful, intimate experiences on their own would do to silence any voice for a time at least, Faramir reasoned with himself, well aware he was clinging to his king like a forlorn child, but together they were all consuming, making him want to hang on just that little bit longer.

What had got into him? Why now? Why Aragorn? He had never been this clinging, not with Gandalf during the past weeks, or even with Boromir when they were children. What must Elessar think of him?

Taking his cue from Faramir’s tensing shoulders, Aragorn shifted his gaze to the window and sighed, “Again, it is far too nice a day to spend indoors. Would you care to join me for lunch in the gardens?”

They had a quiet lunch under the shade of a large tree. Faramir had gaped at the assortment of foods that had been packed for just the two of them. There was fruit for dessert, large, luscious apples from Lossarnach. Aragorn took out his knife and began cutting one, taking out a large piece and handing it to Faramir smiling.

“Eat,” he said around his own mouth full of apple when Faramir refused the slice. “Go on,” he insisted, holding the piece up to Faramir’s lips now. Faramir started at the gesture and hastily grabbed the piece to cover up his surprise.

“This is a beautiful garden,” Aragorn said calmly, digging out another apple.

Faramir nodded quietly, anxious to start a new topic of conversation, “Yes, I have come here often. It is what I remember of my mother. She used to walk with me and Boromir here and sing to us.”

It was the only memory he had of his mother. Boromir had said she was beautiful and that their father had loved her very much and that was why he had fallen into a gloom after she had passed on.

“Really?” Aragorn was saying, smiling, “That must have been sweet indeed!”

“Yes it was,” Faramir said quietly.

“Indeed. You must have looked a beautiful family surrounded here by these flowers and trees…”

“Sire,” Faramir broached immediately, “About that —”

“What?”

“Your… family… I mean, about your marriage… We have to make plans… you’ll have a family soon, and—”

“A family,” Aragorn said softly, his eye shining a little.

“As will you,” he said smiling at Faramir whose face suddenly became inscrutable as he thought of Éowyn’s anger when he had refused to bed over before their marriage.

“Faramir,” Aragorn’s voice was soft and gentle, “what is it my friend? You seem worried.”

“I—I’m fine,” he said dully.

Aragorn watched him for a few moments and then decided to plunge right in.

“Faramir?”

“Yes, sire?”

“You have — have you lain with others, Faramir?” he asked.

The younger man stared up at him his face looking hard, “If you mean have I lain with a woman, yes I have. I’m not so — so —”

He faltered miserably.

“I didn’t mean that,” Aragorn was saying alarmed, “I just—”

“How could I do more than kiss her before we are wed?” Faramir said, “She is sister to a king!”

Faramir watched as Aragorn played a game of chess with Elladan, his eyes taking in every single little detail about the king as he sat hunched over the table, the way his brow furrowed while thinking, the way the long fingers curled around a pipe, the way he’d lean back once his turn was over. The evening light played on the king’s hair and somehow added to the entire dignity of his person.

They were sitting in one of the high rooms of the citadel relaxing after an early supper, a habit that the elves had brought with them, for Faramir was more used to a late, light supper and then bed. The elves preferred to spend some time after their meals talking and he’d been told, in Rivendell, there would be music and poetry and much merriment. Here they simply sat in this large room, with a nice view and either sang or read or played an instrument as Elrohir was doing quietly, humming to himself or like Legolas and Gimli bickered over something or the other. Aragorn had tugged Faramir along this evening. The younger man had been reluctant at first to intrude among friends, but Aragorn had insisted and as was becoming increasingly usual, Faramir found it difficult to refuse this man he had come to like so much.

Aragorn felt the eyes linger on him and looked up towards the other end of the large sofa he occupied. Catching his Steward’s contemplative gaze he smiled in return inducing a shy smile from Faramir who then proceeded to turn his attention back to the papers he’d been reading… upside down… Aragorn noted in amusement. He was glad Faramir had joined them here. It had struck him greatly when Faramir on being invited had simply said diffidently that he wouldn’t want to disturb his evening with his friends.

“You won’t” Aragorn had assured him, “And anyway you are a dear friend to all of us now!”

It was Gandalf’s urging and the promise that he could work there that had induced Faramir finally to come up to this large airy room and join them. The others had been surprised but delighted to see him there, and he’d blushed a little at their attention. Aragorn had helped him onto a large comfortable sofa and joined Elladan at the game they had left off the previous day.

Faramir’s gaze made Aragorn feel strange inside, it gave him a nice, warm feeling. The grey eyes had been frank and appraising and undoubtedly admiring.

Faramir’s gaze was back to the papers now, which he’d hurriedly straightened, a faint tinge of red marking the still wan cheeks. Aragorn smiled and returned his attention to the game. After a while, Faramir moved a little closer, seemingly watching the game. Aragorn found his attention on the game waning as he kept contemplating whether or not to look up and catch Faramir’s eye. Legolas and Gimli continued arguing while Elrohir continued playing his lute.

“Estel, I think your new chick is tired,” Elrohir said after a while.

Aragorn stared up from the game, confused, and realised the young steward lay slouched into the sofa his eyes closed. The next move had been his but it was left completely forgotten as he darted towards the sleeping man in concern. Whatever had happened to him? He hoped he hadn’t fallen ill again. He should have let him rest, not dragged him here where he’d have to endure this ever noisy bunch of elves and dwarf.

“Faramir,” he whispered gently. The younger man mumbled something and slouched forward, leaning closer towards Aragorn, so that the king suddenly found himself pulling him into his arms. He smiled indulgently when he realised Faramir was just sleeping. It seemed a shame to wake him, he decided.

“He’s just sleeping,” he said with a sigh of relief to no one in particular and stroked Faramir’s cheek gently, “Poor thing, he must have been quite tired.”

“To bed with you, young one,” he said softly and collecting Faramir into his arms, rose from the seat, grunting a little as he did so. Faramir mumbled something incoherent again and snuggled into his hold.

The twins watched with increasing interest as their foster brother carefully adjusted his hold as though holding something extremely precious. They nudged each other and grinned but Aragorn didn’t notice their little interplay at all or the equally interested looks Legolas and Gimli gave him, having stopped arguing briefly.

“Oh dear, you’re still so thin, I can easily carry you…” he murmured softly as he carried Faramir out of the room, towards his chambers, his friends watching on.

“Well!” Elladan said grinning, “Poor Faramir. Aragorn’s decided to look after him!”

“I think,” Elrohir said calmly, “He could do with it. And I’m sure he won’t mind. I don’t think Aragorn will return to that game, Elladan. Should we all go out to the city do you think?”

Aragorn deposited the younger man on his bed as gently as he could but the movement was still enough to awaken Faramir a little.

“Sire,” he whispered softly.

“Yes, … now rest.”

“I — wasn’t I in the hall with….”

“Yes, but you fell asleep.”

“Oh!” Faramir’s eyes widened, and his face coloured, “I apologise I… your friends must think me so rude!”

“Hush! Why do you apologise? Anyone would fall asleep if that elf and dwarf quarrelled again. I think you’re very brave to actually do so,” he joked as he pulled the blankets up around the slender figure.

Faramir opened his mouth to respond but Aragorn forestalled him, “Hush, anyway it is more my error. I should be the one to apologise. I should have realised you would be tired and it’s enough for even a healthy man to withstand the strain of the twins as well as those two!”

“No, no,” Faramir murmured half-sleepily, “I’m glad you insisted I come. It was very enjoyable. I’m just a little tired that’s all. You mustn’t ever say such things about yourself,” he continued mumbling, “You’re always so nice and considerate, and you’re always good to me… I don’t even thank you for that… I’m so glad you’re the king. Gondor couldn’t ask for a better king. You’re so kind and wonderful.”

Aragorn bit his lip at the speech and suddenly on impulse bent and kissed Faramir on the forehead.

“Good night my friend.”

Faramir smiled in his half-asleep state as the kiss permeated through his brain.

He was still smiling softly when Gandalf came by to watch over him.

Chapter 11

Faramir’s routine was slowly falling back in place. He was still not allowed to do the entire gamut of work he’d been handling prior to his illness though. Aragorn and Gandalf let him do his paperwork from his room now and also allowed him to sit in on a few meetings in the mornings. However, while his physical health slowly returned, the nightmares he suffered remained. While not always as intense, there were nevertheless times when he would again wake up screaming and sob disconsolately in Gandalf’s arms, which convinced the wizard to continue spending his nights in the chair next to the Steward’s bed.

It didn’t take Faramir long however to start worrying over Gandalf, whom he was quite sure couldn’t possibly withstand the strain of spending each night with him. Anyone could see he was beginning to look tired from the effort.

He thought over it and soon made up is mind. When Gandalf came to his chambers one evening he felt he had readied himself to sleep alone.

“Mithrandir,” he greeted him.

“Aren’t you in bed yet?”

“I was just about to lie down.”

“Good lad,” Gandalf said affectionately.

“And I think you should be in bed too, Mithrandir,” Faramir told him, “You look very tired and I know you’ve been forgoing sleep on my account for some days now.”

“Don’t you bother yourself about that now,” said Gandalf

“Why not?” Faramir retorted, “You’ve been spending each night on that chair, and I know you can’t be sleeping comfortably there, if you get any sleep at all. I will not have you trouble yourself so because of me.”

“Well, I will not have you suffer from nightmares alone as yet!”

“I can handle them myself; I can’t always have someone around to help me, can I? It’s about time I learnt to cope on my own!”

“No, you won’t have someone to help you always,” Gandalf agreed, “But it is early yet to leave you to cope alone. So why don’t you lie down now and stop worrying about me, please?”

“No,” Faramir stated adamantly and crossed his arms over his chest.

Gandalf sighed in annoyance, “Now, look here,” he began when a small cough from the doorway interrupted him.

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” Aragorn began.

“Of course you couldn’t!” Gandalf replied sarcastically.

“It’s obvious you two aren’t going to reach an agreement on this issue, so I have a proposition,” Aragorn continued, ignoring Gandalf and giving Faramir a warm smile that evoked a small smile from that young man in return.

“Yes?” Gandalf snapped.

“You, Gandalf, should go get some sleep in your bed,” Aragorn said and immediately put up his hand to forestall Gandalf’s possibly acerbic response, “He’s right, you know… you do look tired! Don’t worry about Faramir. I’ll stay with him tonight.”

Gandalf bit back the retort on the tip of his tongue and nodded in agreement, smiling as he did so, “Yes, that’s a good idea, now. I think that should be fine.”

“No,” Faramir stated.

Gandalf ignored him and continued, “We can take turns from now on. That’s a very good idea.”

“No!” Faramir repeated more forcefully.

“What?” Aragorn inquired politely.

“You’re the king! You can’t stay awake all night because of me. It’s bad enough Mithrandir had to, but I can’t trouble you too!”

“Nonsense!” Aragorn and Gandalf both snapped out at once.

“No, you mustn’t,” Faramir insisted, “I can handle it myself. It’s just nightmares! I’m used to them. They aren’t really that bad. You have so much to do! How can you attend council when you’ve been up most of the night?”

“No, it’s always my good dreams that make me wake up in the night crying!” Gandalf muttered to Faramir’s mortification.

“Faramir,” Aragorn said patiently, grasping the younger man lightly by his shoulders, absentmindedly feeling the still thin contours, “I’m a ranger! I can do with very little sleep. I’ve done that for most of my life now! I’ll be able to catch up with enough sleep, even if I have to stay the night with you. And, besides I do recollect you telling Pippin this evening that you were feeling tired.”

Faramir glanced up guiltily at that. He hadn’t thought anyone had overheard him.

“You aren’t fully recovered yet,” Aragorn was continuing, “You need proper sleep!”

“Indeed!” Gandalf said with a tone of finality, and headed for the door, “I’ll leave you to deal with his stubbornness, Aragorn. Good night both of you!”

“Alright, then I’ll leave the choice to you,” Aragorn began in a tone that suggested Faramir would in fact have little choice in the matter, “I can either watch you from the chair as Gandalf did, or if you are worried about me losing sleep that way, I can join you in the bed. I’m used to sleeping in the wild and will easily wake up as soon as you give only the slightest hint of a nightmare.”

Against better knowledge, Faramir decided to give it one last try, “There really is no need for you to lose sleep over this. I can manage very well on my own.”

Choosing to ignore the second part of Faramir’s statement, Aragorn sat down on the bed to pull of his boots. When he looked up to undo the collar of his tunic, he found Faramir still frowning at him. Not wanting to argue any further, he simply smiled and asked, “The bed it is then. Do you have a nightshirt I could borrow?”

Once he’d changed into the nightshirt Faramir had quietly but disapprovingly lent him, Aragorn nudged the steward back against the pillows, “There now, lie down comfortably. It may be a little snug, but compared to the accommodations at Henneth Annûn, this is still basking in luxury, is it not?”

Faramir looked anything but comfortable so Aragorn did what he would usually have done and gently pulled him into his arms, intending to give him some comfort through his embrace. But Faramir tensed slightly, clearly feeling awkward at the sudden close contact. Aragorn loosened his embrace a little.

“Sleep now,” he suggested gently, drawing relaxing circles on Faramir’s back, “You look very tired.”

Faramir nodded tentatively and closed his eyes. The arms around him felt awkward initially but at the same time he felt protected and calm.

Aragorn watched as he fell asleep, his head against his chest. He stroked the sweat-damped locks of hair gently, and smiled as Faramir murmured approvingly at his touch. Carefully, so as to not awake the sleeping man, he put out the lamp by his bedside.

Faramir snuggled closer. Aragorn sighed in contentment and let his eyes close.

“Sweet dreams,” he murmured.

Faramir’s dreams were confusing. He lay in the darkness, his ears straining to hear any sound at all. It was time, he knew. The door would creak open, a single thread of light would fall on him, and yet another face would be leering at him in the lantern’s glow, even as he would whimper in pain. And yet, he felt as though all was not lost. He felt safe, somehow, and he could not understand why. Then the door creaked open, and the light fell on him, forcing him to sit up with a cry.

Aragorn was nearly asleep when he heard the soft knock, and then Gandalf pushed the creaking door open, and hissed out Faramir’s name. The wizard pushed his head in and held up a lamp. Aragorn glanced up, even as Faramir moved restlessly releasing a soft cry.

Faramir tried to open his sleep-weary eyes. All was dark around him, save for the lamp at the door. They were back. He didn’t know which one, but he did know his already abused body could tolerate little more.

“Not again, please!”

“Hush,” Aragorn whispered pulling him back in his arms, “It’s all right, go back to sleep,” he kept murmuring, noting in the dim light from outside that Faramir hadn’t awoken fully. Stroking his hair softly, he glanced up at Gandalf, still at the door, and turned the full force of his glare on him.

“You’ll wake him,” he whispered angrily, and then to a restlessly murmuring Faramir, “It’s alright, I’m here.”

“I wanted to see how he was doing,” Gandalf said stepping inside, “He looked so tired earlier.”

“He was tired,” Aragorn conceded, “But he was doing quite well till you decided to scare him so!”

“Aragorn?” Faramir’s voice was weak and confused and he was clutching at Aragorn’s tunic fervently.

“Aragorn,” he repeated, burying his head against the king’s chest.

“I’m here,” Aragorn reassured him again, at the same time feeling rather pleased Faramir had called him by his name as he’d so often requested.

Gently he rubbed his hand in circles over Faramir’s back, until he calmed down somewhat.

Gandalf slipped out quietly unwilling to disturb either man. A last look over his shoulder showed him Aragorn kissing Faramir on his head, the younger man secure in his arms now. Gandalf smiled broadly, as he walked down the darkened hallway.

Faramir came awake slowly the next morning feeling warm and strangely languorous. He stretched out yawning and then realised he was in someone’s arms… Aragorn’s arms…? He was still trying to process the information, as the recollection of Aragorn’s offer to stay the night returned to him. He shifted uneasily and but then froze in panic as he felt the hardness against his backside.

His heart racing, he scrambled away in haste, slipping out of the comforting embrace, and waking Aragorn, who yawned widely and stared up at Faramir, confused at first and then smiled.

“Good morning,” he said, taking in the sight of the frantic looking young man, hair tousled from sleep, and the nightshirt slipping off a shoulder, “Did you sleep well?”

“I — I — yes… thank you. I did… I’ll leave now, shall I? You — you’ll need…. I shan’t be in the way…,” Faramir stuttered uneasily, unable to keep his eyes from straying towards the tell-tale bulge under Aragorn’s nightshirt.

After that, Aragorn didn’t have trouble interpreting what Faramir meant. A part of him felt angry with himself for he knew he would have scared Faramir, but this wasn’t the time to make Faramir panic further. He gave a small self-conscious laugh, “Oh dear, don’t be silly Faramir, it’s far too early! Now come back to bed. It’s not even light outside.”

Faramir stared at him uncertainly, and Aragorn felt like kicking himself. Of all the things to happen… if Gandalf learnt, Aragorn wouldn’t hear the end of it.

Aragorn smiled again, and deliberately looked down at himself, before glancing up at Faramir, “I’m sorry if I have scared you. Believe me when I say I would never do anything to hurt you. But you know it’s natural for a man to wake up in the morning like this often. It’s nothing to be afraid of. You do trust me, don’t you? It happens to all of us.”

He paused to allow Faramir to collect his thoughts. The younger man still looked a little alarmed. He was biting his lower lip now.

“It doesn’t mean anything. Although I must admit I did quite like the feeling of holding you in my arms,” he continued guiltily, “But that’s about all. Come now, you can rest some more, please? I’d hate to think I’ve kept you from your sleep.”

Faramir stopped biting at his lower lip and moved forward slowly. Aragorn wouldn’t hurt him of course! He should know that!

He sat down gingerly at the edge of the bed. Aragorn smiled reassuringly again. Faramir tried to smile back but his eyes were drawn again to Aragorn’s groin. He was at least partly responsible for that, he thought, isn’t that what the king had said? And Aragorn did say he should get back into bed; what else could he mean by that?

Surely, the least he could do would be to help him out. After all, Aragorn had done so much to help him. Naturally, the king was too noble to ask outright, and he would certainly never force — but surely it’s what he wanted, what they all wanted?

And he wasn’t going to hurt him, he knew that. Not like Denethor… or the others. But it wouldn’t be fair to his king to leave him like that…

Before Aragorn could realise what had happened, Faramir had darted forward, “I — I could help,” he stuttered and pushing up the nightshirt took Aragorn in his mouth, immediately swallowing him almost completely down.

“Faramir!” Aragorn almost yelped in surprise as the wetness surrounded his admittedly aching need, “Faramir, you don’t have to do that! You really — stop now!” he started off only to gasp as Faramir’s tongue began to skilfully work around him.

Aragorn could only moan as Faramir continued. He came to completion soon letting out a shaky sigh as a warmth infused him. It had been a long time, he realised dimly… he’d forgotten how good it felt and Faramir was really quite incredible! Faramir was sitting up now, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at him anxiously.

“Oh, Faramir,” Aragorn murmured sighing, “Thank you,” he said rather inadequately.

But it seemed to reassure the Steward who returned a small smile and moved back to let him rise. Aragorn however reached for Faramir and gently tugged him down, running his hands along the lithe figure. Faramir’s eyes widened a little, as the hands wandered under his nightshirt over his back, along his chest, brushing his nipples and sending a tiny jolt running through him.

“Sire,” he said uncertainly and almost fearfully, as Aragorn expertly flipped him onto his back.

“Mmm?” Aragorn muttered as he gently kissed his throat, making Faramir jerk up a little. The king was kissing him, he realised… he’d hardly ever been kissed, least of all like this, so tenderly and sensually, and certainly not over there, he thought incoherently as his nightshirt was undone and kisses landed on his chest.

“Wh — what,” he stuttered, almost terrified as he wondered where this was going. Aragorn looked up and smiled gently at him.

“Surely it is my turn to return the favour now, is it not?” he said.

“Wh—what?” Faramir yelped.

Aragorn was still smiling as he pushed up the nightshirt to expose Faramir’s member… he took it in his hands first, only to meet with a very startled protest from his steward.

“No!” Faramir cried out, “No, you mustn’t…” he mumbled.

“Hush,” Aragorn said softly and gently squeezed the limp flesh in his hands, watching with delight as Faramir’s eyes flew up in surprise.

He began stroking him gently at first and then more rapidly. Faramir let out a loud moan when Aragorn lowered his mouth onto him. It didn’t take long for him to climax… he was rarely afforded the opportunity after all. He lay flushed on the bed, hair scattered wildly around him, his eyes wide open, breathing heavily.

Aragorn moved up to him and pulled him in his arms, “Well, that was nice,” he murmured thickly.

“You—you shouldn’t have,” Faramir said.

“What? Why not?” Aragorn asked amused, “Didn’t you like it?”

“Yes, but you mustn’t… it’s not…”

“Not what? It’s only fair… you helped me out, I help you out. Didn’t you like it?”

“Y—yes, but…”

“Well, so did I, so there’s that. I suppose we should be rising soon?”

“Yes, but…”

“Sshh,” Aragorn soothed and ran a hand through the wild hair, “All that matters is that we both liked what we did.”

Faramir gave him an uncertain look.

Gandalf came by later in the evening, finding Aragorn in his study still engrossed in his work. Without even a word of greeting, the old wizard had taken one of the comfortable chairs by the fire, and silently motioned for Aragorn to take the other.

After what seemed to Aragorn a long time spent alternately staring at Gandalf anticipating him to speak his mind any minute and following his steady gaze into the fire all but expecting to find whatever captivated the wizard there from the intensity with which he looked at, Aragorn decided to break the silence himself.

“What troubles you, my friend?”

At first, he was unsure Gandalf had even heard him, until he finally spoke up.

“I may be seeing things. Problems where there are none. Too many nights with too little sleep tend to bring that on.”

“Yes, even in wizards!” he added when Aragorn’s eyebrows went skyward at that. Aragorn for one was glad to be acknowledged; to him it had seemed that until then, Gandalf had been addressing the fire.

“Like butter that has been scraped over too much bread, dear Bilbo would have said. Thin. Not that you can compare of course.”

“So it’s good then, that you’ve had some more sleep last night?” Aragorn tried tentatively when he sensed Gandalf drifting again.

“Aha! But that is what I was thinking, you see. As said, I may be seeing problems where there are none, but before you protest, I say so far we have nothing but underestimated the problem.” The intense stare that was reserved for the fire just moments ago was now firmly fixed on Gondor’s king.

“How am I to protest when I do not yet know which problem you think may or may not exist?” he countered calmly.

Just as calm now, and not breaking his gaze for a second, the wizard responded. “You are the new authority in Faramir’s life. He takes his orders from you, he answers to you, it is your judgement of him that matters now. In many a sense, you have replaced his father. Your office, this office,” he made a hand movement meant to indicate the room, “used to be his. Here, he used to report to his father, now it’s you, sitting in the same office, behind the same desk.”

Aragorn waited for his friend to continue, but when no further explanation was forthcoming, he was forced to ask.

“And you think that is a problem?”

“It may be, it may not. But you have also heard how Faramir talks about what he has been through: not so bad or even his fault. It is merely a theory, but he may well be more damaged by this than is obvious. I do not believe he has ever had a normal adult relationship, and I wonder if he fully appreciates their complexity. On top of that, he desperately wants to please, and I am not sure if he would, for example, know there is a difference between shining your boots or seeing to your sexual needs, if he thought you needed either.”

Chapter 12

Aragorn started at that. “Dear friend, I wish you would have spoken of this yesterday.”

Gandalf looked up sharply, “You did not —?”

“Well, not exactly, but, well… he insisted on helping with my ‘needs’ as you term them, and—”

“I was afraid of that!” Gandalf said, sounding more than a little annoyed, “You see now what I said? You stopped him, surely?”

Aragorn flushed a little at that. “I tried to of course, but he is, well, very talented.”

“You think this is a talent?” the wizard sounded truly agitated now, “A gift he was born with?”

Aragorn cringed slightly at his friend’s outburst. No, of course it wasn’t talent, but he had not wanted to contemplate just how Faramir had acquired such skill. He had tried to avoid thinking about the incident at all, and yet he had caught himself several times that day with his mind far from his work. And although it was not unusual these days for Aragorn to be distracted by thought of Faramir, today it was not only worry for his young steward that kept him from his work, but also, much to his embarrassment, less innocent thoughts.

Seeing the guilt build on Aragorn’s features, Gandalf quickly intervened. “What’s done, is done. What is more important now, is how the boy reacted. What exactly did you say to him?”

“I —,” Aragorn flushed a little as he spoke, “I well, I helped him out too,” he said, loathe to discuss something as intimate as this but feeling that Gandalf ought to know.

The wizard nodded slowly, raising one questioning eyebrow.

“And — he was surprised, very much so. He felt I shouldn’t have done so. I told him I was returning the favour.”

“It would have been an unorthodox move for him, certainly,” the wizard agreed.

“It’s what I would have done were he anyone else. It is only fair to return the favour, I should think,” Aragorn countered.

“But he is not anyone else. I do not think his pleasure has ever been catered to, Aragorn,” Gandalf said calmly, “As said, I think he has a very limited understanding of what is normal in adult relationships. Or when he does understand, he does not see himself as someone who could ever be a full, equal partner in such a relationship.”

Aragorn nodded slowly as Gandalf voiced much of what he’d assumed.

“Perhaps,” Gandalf said carefully, “This is not so bad an occurrence after all.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that.

“There is much Faramir needs to learn — of his own worth, and of the fact that he too can be loved. Learning such things is a bumpy road for all of us, with some nights we’d rather forget about, and some lovers best left behind. But that is the only way to learn.”

“Most of us get this out of the way, for the most part at least, while we’re young. Quite a bit younger than young Faramir perhaps. But in my opinion it is never too late to learn, so the sooner he’s set off on this road, the better.”

Gandalf carefully studied his companion’s expression as his words sank in. “Unless, of course…” he added slowly.

Aragorn looked up questioning.

“Unless of course this was not a night — or a morning, as the case may be — to forget, and you, my dear friend, would rather not be left behind.” Gandalf suggested shrewdly.

Aragorn had been thinking about things, and a tiny thought at the back of his mind kept pushing itself forward insistently. The little thought that kept reminding him that he was beginning to enjoy Faramir’s company and that he was coming to be more than a little fond of the quiet young man.

“Perhaps you speak truly,” Aragorn said instead, “And what I think is one thing but what Faramir may understand of all this is another. Should I speak to him, do you think?”

“Yes, you need to speak to him,” Gandalf said quietly, “He is a rather confused young man nowadays and perhaps a small talk with him will help him clear his thoughts, as well as yours.”

“He is confused yes,” Aragorn said, “And you are right, there is much he must understand, more so if he is to marry soon.”

“Hmm,” Gandalf continued, “I would rather it is you he turns to than anyone else. Clearly he is increasingly fond of you, and — you are right. You must speak to him. And tell me what he says.”

The wizard got up to leave, but before he reached the door, he turned. “And if you decide to pursue this, do be careful. It is up to you to go slow, for he will not deny you anything — you have seen that now. And you have also seen he can react to the simplest things. You know of what I speak — the vivid flashbacks he has.”

He waited for Aragorn’s comprehending nod before he continued, “If he experiences those at the sight of a lantern, or the thought of a bath, I can only begin to imagine what memories will be stirred up should the two of you ever become more intimate than you have been so far — if you understand what I mean.”

With that Gandalf left the room.

The day seemed interminably long to Faramir. There was a lot to do for which he was grateful… it gave him something to focus his attention on instead of the events of the morning, although truth be told he could just not keep his mind off the morning. He had woken up to feel the king behind him, and true he had almost panicked at first. And yet, Elessar had actually apologised for scaring him. He hadn’t meant to wake up like that, Faramir knew. He himself had acted almost out of habit after that. Anyone else, Denethor or anyone in that situation would have wanted only one thing from him.

Elessar had not. Elessar had instead had only kind smiles and gentle words for him, despite his discomfort. It had felt right to him to take away that discomfort.

Elessar hadn’t expected that, and yet Faramir knew he’d been more than satisfied. But he couldn’t help but wonder what the king might think of him now. Denethor had always expected Faramir to cater to his needs but it hadn’t made him any better disposed towards the younger son. Instead Faramir had been constantly referred to as filthy, dirty and nothing better than a common whore for seeing to these needs.

Elessar was not Denethor and nothing like him, Faramir knew that. He had constantly seen that, but… what if Elessar saw him the same way?

His hands trembled slightly as he lifted some papers off his desk, and he nearly jumped at the knock on his door.

“Enter,” he said trying desperately to keep his voice calm even as he wondered frantically who might have come to visit him.

“May I come in?” Aragorn asked hesitantly, still half hiding behind the door.

“But of course, my liege,” Faramir stumbled instantly, automatically, overcome by surprise of the king’s presence in his study.

The king barely ever came to his study; Faramir always came to him. In fact, Faramir now realized, the only time Elessar had ever come to his study before was when he had first fallen ill, which had made him miss a meeting — and the king very angry.

Faramir observed his king uncertainly. He looked uncomfortable, unsure what to say. Perhaps he was angry again, Faramir thought. He certainly had good reason to. Perhaps the king had come to tell him he’d best leave the city after what happened that morning, that he didn’t want him around anymore. Perhaps it was worse news still.

Aragorn had been pondering over just what to say to Faramir ever since Gandalf left his room earlier that evening, and seeing his steward now — so timid, anxious almost — made him hesitate yet again. He had not doubted Gandalf’s assessment of the situation, but seeing Faramir now made it all the more real.

Looking around his steward’s study, he realized there were no comfortable chairs or roaring fire to create a pleasant corner for an informal conversation like in his own study, so he took a place at the window-seat instead.

“Come join me,” he patted the seat next to him while addressing Faramir, who was still eying him apprehensively, “I’d like to talk about what happened this morning.”

In the high but narrow windows in this part of the tower, the window-seats only barely provided enough room for two, but Faramir duly obeyed and squeezed into the space Aragorn had indicated, sitting primly upright and pulling his legs in just so, in order to prevent their knees from touching

Seeing the gesture, Aragorn quickly put his hand on Faramir’s knee and smiled at him at the same time, urging him to relax. “Please, there is nothing to fret over. I told you this morning, you did nothing wrong. It is I who came to apologize,” he started.

“Oh no, my lord! You have nothing to apologize for!” Faramir insisted instantly, looking if anything more tense than he had a moment ago.

“Faramir, please, let me speak. I frightened you this morning, and for that I am deeply sorry. I should have shown more control, especially since I know you have been through so much, and the reason I was there was to protect you from more hurt. I understand if you would prefer Gandalf to tend to you from now on.”

Faramir bit his lip nervously. So Elessar didn’t want to care for him anymore. He probably found him repulsive, but was too kind to tell him outright. What a fool he’d been for thinking this could have ended any other way, for believing anyone like Elessar would want to spend time with him.

Aragorn watched the turmoil on the younger man’s face, discouraged that his words seemed to have done little to reassure him. “Faramir, forgive me, please,” he tried.

“But my liege, you never frightened me. I know you would never hurt me. I’ve know from the first time I saw you, when you called me out of the shadows, and again last night when you called me from my dream. You have always made me feel safe.” Faramir took a deep breath before he continued, “I understand you do not want to have anything to do with me anymore for the liberties I took this morning, and for that I can only apologize. But you, my Lord, have nothing to apologize for. You have only ever shown me kindness.”

Aragorn grabbed hold of Faramir’s knees with both hands now, needing the contact. “The liberties you took? Oh Faramir! You did no such thing, I assure you. It is not that I want naught to do with you — there is nothing I would like more than make you feel safe and help you sleep soundly. But you have to understand you do not need to repay me. And—,” he paused to reflect on Gandalf’s words, and to choose his own carefully, “and there are some favours that should never be used for bargaining.”

Faramir looked up to him and nodded. He seemed less anxious now, but it was difficult to read from his expression if he had really understood.

“If you want, I will sleep next to you again and keep your nightmares at bay. Or if you prefer, I am certain Gandalf will be more than happy to watch over you instead. It is entirely up to you.”

“I could not ask any more of either of you,” Faramir protested weakly.

“Nonsense. We both are happy to help. But if you feel safe with me as well, maybe it is best to let the old wizard sleep. I think he needs it.”

Faramir continued to bite his lower lip uncertainly, trying to sort out his muddled thoughts. He wasn’t sure why he’d acted the way he had that morning, and truly the breathless look of pleasure on Aragorn’s face had evoked a strange feeling in him. He had acted almost on impulse, knowing somehow that Elessar would never expect it from him.

The king had spoken of favours that should never be used for bargaining and Faramir felt a dull ache inside him as he recollected the words. To him, such favours had always been a bargain, a losing one. He had never had the choice to refuse. And he had never received anything in return.

Perhaps the king did not indeed see him as Denethor had…

“I feel safe with you,” he repeated softly, “Safer than ever.”

Aragorn smiled gently at him at the words and quietly grasped the Steward’s cold hands in his own and pressed them gently, “I shall see you after the evening meal then,” he said. And then after a pause, “You did nothing that you need fear about this morning. I liked what we shared, but I would not have it unless you liked it too, and did so from your own desire and not from a need to oblige me as lord. If you wish to forget ever that it happened, I shall do so too. If you choose to remember it I shall cherish it.”

Faramir had been quiet while eating, too lost in thoughts. Elessar’s words had left him quite thoughtful. It was not often that he had catered to someone’s needs and created such a near-uproar. He had expected surprise, disgust, shock but not an apology. He noticed the king and Gandalf exchange glances at dinner.

They were worried he realized, almost surprised. Worried for him, because he had chosen to cater to his king’s needs. Worried because he had been intimate with another. Mithrandir had subjected him to a close scrutiny making Faramir wonder uncomfortably whether the wizard expected him to fall over during the meal.

It hurt him a little. Did they think what had happened that morning would hurt him? Did they expect him to react like a swooning maiden? He’d been scared he realized now, but he’d pushed the fear away. And yet, he had been afraid and they must have realized that for they feared for him now in their glances at him every now and then.

He was being stupid. He had to lose his fear.

He met the king outside his chambers after the meal.

They entered Faramir’s room quietly and Aragorn gently steered him towards the bed.

“You said we needn’t do anything,” Faramir said suddenly, almost nervously.

“Yes,” Aragorn smiled reassuringly, “We’ll just sleep. You need enough rest anyway.”

“I — um… I’d like to,” Faramir said rapidly.

“You would like to?” Aragorn asked, quietly.

Faramir nodded diffidently, “If — if you’d like. I don’t want to forget what we shared this morning. You cared for me unlike — unlike — … and you reminded me that — that — this is not an act I should fear,… But if you’d prefer to not — I —”

“No… I would like that,” Aragorn replied gently, pulling Faramir into his arms. “You are right, it is not an act that anyone should fear. It is meant to be enjoyable — for both.”

“I — I know it is meant to be enjoyed… and I have seen happiness on the faces of others after they have spent the night with another. But I — I have never — enjoyed it,” Faramir said haltingly, miserably, “And yet I know it is meant to be enjoyed, but —”

“Sshh…” Aragorn whispered gently, taking Faramir’s face in his hands and gazing into the clouded grey eyes, “I’ll show you how… let me show you…”

They sat down on the bed and Aragorn pulled off his outer garments and stood in a thin tunic and pants. Faramir made to remove his clothes too, but Aragorn stopped him.

“Let me,” he said softly, not missing the slight tremble in Faramir’s figure. It was clear a part of the Steward was still troubled. He gently pulled Faramir onto the bed and leaned over him and began to undo the bindings on the tunic exposing Faramir’s bare chest underneath. Faramir’s eyes were full of uncertainty as Aragorn pulled off the tunic entirely and moved his fingers to the ties of his pants. But Aragorn also kept up a soft and tender stroking motion on the small of Faramir’s back that seemed to allay his nervousness a little and he even began to relax slowly. He then helped the younger man up to pull off the pants entirely and then leaned over and kissed him softly on his mouth, before placing him back against the pillows. Faramir flushed slightly and gave Aragorn an anxious glance as the older man smiled gently at him.

Realising Faramir felt a little awkward over his nakedness, Aragorn busied himself with undoing his own tunic. He’d seen the younger man undressed earlier but Faramir had been unconscious then and would probably be as embarrassed to hear about it.

Faramir turned over onto his stomach and spread his legs slightly and turned his face sideways towards Aragorn, who had removed his own pants and tunic completely now, revealing a well—proportioned handsome figure.

Aragorn could see Faramir still felt a little tense; the bright grey eyes darted around rapidly at every movement Aragorn made, and a slight tremor ran through the legs. The sight made him remember Gandalf’s words from earlier that evening: his warning to go slow and be aware some things may jog unpleasant memories.

Very gently, Aragorn reached for him and turned him over. Surprise was etched clearly on Faramir’s features, and discomfort too. Going slow was easier said than done! He would have to act somehow, he decided, or else the young man’s fragile confidence would soon disappear completely.

He stroked the pale face gently, in a relaxing motion. And then reached lower and took his arousal in his hands. Faramir gasped very softly at that.

“You look beautiful,” Aragorn murmured softly, as he reached for the bottle of oil he’d seen by the nightstand, and coated Faramir’s shaft with it, slowly and gently, watching the expression on his face change as it thickened under his fingers.

The grey eyes opened wide as Aragorn took more oil in his fingers and contorting his body coated his entrance generously with it.

“Wh—what are you doing?” Faramir asked worriedly.

“I’d like to feel you inside me,” Aragorn said softly, as he continued working the oil into himself.

“Wh—what?”

Faramir stared at him a little uncomprehendingly as he repeated, “I’d like to feel you inside me.”

“B—but…”

“Ssh…” Aragorn murmured placing a finger on Faramir’s lips as he straddled himself over the younger man’s thighs and pushed himself onto his erect member.

“No,” Faramir cried out, as Aragorn grunted a little, “It’ll hurt you… you mustn’t!” He reached for Aragorn’s waist trying to urge him to pull out.

“I’ll be fine,” Aragorn gritted out as he felt Faramir fill him. He pushed in harder, forcing Faramir to fall back against the pillows, and despite himself Faramir found his body betraying him as Aragorn’s tight muscles clenched around him. He let Aragorn take over after that, pushing as demanded, and allowing the king to take his hands and wrap them around his arousal and stroke it as they rocked in tandem, until Aragorn suddenly cried out and clenched tighter around him. Faramir gasped softly at that, knowing he could not control himself any longer. The king threw his head back, his hair flying wild sweat glistening off the muscles of his chest and abdomen, and let out another animalistic moan before releasing himself at the same time as Faramir.

They came apart slowly and lay in each other’s arms getting their breath back. Faramir spoke first, “Are you all right?” he asked timidly, turning to look anxiously at Aragorn.

“Never better,” Aragorn smiled, “You were wonderful!”

“I didn’t hurt you?” Faramir asked worriedly.

“Of course not, darling! It was most enjoyable!”

“You—you enjoyed that?” Faramir asked a little incredulously. He’d had to impale himself once on Denethor who had had a bad back and the pain the experience had caused had remained for days after that. He’d been sore and in pain not just from the act itself but also from the bruises Denethor’s fingers had left in his waist and hips. And while he knew that there were others who found this pleasurable it was difficult to remember that while being made to hurt in performing the same act.

“Of course I did,” Aragorn repeated reassuringly.

“Oh,” Faramir said, and then after a longer pause, “Could — could you show me how,” he said in a rush.

Aragorn stared at him in confusion, “How to what?”

“How to enjoy that?” Faramir said blushing a little, as he realized how he must sound. It was supposed to be an enjoyable act he knew, but he had never been given an opportunity to enjoy it and that hurt.

Aragorn looked at Faramir closely. The younger man seemed to need this, he thought, and he was determined to ensure he’d teach Faramir what it felt like to actually be made love to. Still, it was all very much, so soon. What if he could not make it good for him? Or what if Faramir panicked, like Gandalf had suggested, before he had even had a chance?

“I suppose so,” he said slowly, gently, “But, tonight?”

Faramir nodded.

“All right,” Aragorn said pulling him closer and kissing him softly on his forehead, “But we’ll go only as far as I say we shall.”

Faramir nodded and then to Aragorn’s puzzlement rose and turned away from him. He smiled as he realized the Steward had reached for the oil, but the smile faltered as he watched Faramir take it in his fingers and swiftly coat himself with it before Aragorn could even tell him to let him do it. He’d obviously done this before, Aragorn realized with a pang of sadness.

“I’m ready,” Faramir said in a small voice, sounding a little nervous once again.

Aragorn quietly took the oil from his hands and nudged him down onto the pillows, spreading his legs apart a little. He could feel the steward’s puzzled gaze rest on him as he helped himself to more oil from the bottle, noting quietly that Faramir had taken but a bare minimal amount, and coated his fingers thoroughly with it. Kneeling down between Faramir’s spread legs, he gave him a small smile, “Relax,” he said soothingly, and circled his fingers around the tiny entrance.

He pushed in very slowly and gently. Faramir took him in easily and Aragorn soon slipped in a second finger, circling inside the passageway lubricating it thoroughly. Faramir still looked a little uneasy so Aragorn leaned over and kissed him gently on his lips, and stroked his chest with his other hand. He inched his fingers in slowly further and further, until he felt the tiny gland he sought, and then he crooked his fingers brushing over it gently. Faramir gasped aloud.

“Oh!”

“Did you like that?” Aragorn asked softly, as he pulled his fingers away and then brushed over the area once again.

Faramir could only nod. Aragorn kept up a deliberate routine of pulling away and brushing in again and again and watched as Faramir’s gasps turned into an almost silent ecstasy. Faramir’s hands were gripping his arms now and he moaned softly as Aragorn’s fingers worked.

Once more, he lightly stroked the sensitive gland, and watched as Faramir’s eyes clouded over. He kept up the stroking motion, gently circling the spot with two fingertips.

Faramir groaned aloud and then cried out as Aragorn wrapped his free hand around his arousal and squeezed it lightly.

Faramir was still crying out softly when he came, breathing heavily and rapidly, his eyes full of a dazed wonder.

“Did you enjoy that?” Aragorn asked gently as he made Faramir lie back after cleaning up.

Faramir nodded quietly, too tired to speak.

Chapter 13

It was dark and foggy around him and terrifying, as he felt the familiar weight descend upon his aching body, followed by the pain that seared through his lower back. Harsh, smirking words echoed into his ears, even as he tried desperately to keep from crying out. It hurt as much as the words did.

He was worth little else, he was nothing like Boromir, he was to be taught a lesson.

He shifted uneasily, he would be held in place and it hurt, his head hurt, and—

He whimpered fearfully. And then louder.

Aragorn murmured softly as the whimpering sound reached his ears, and instinctively moved closer to Faramir’s trembling body. Still sleeping, he slung an arm over Faramir’s waist and buried his face against the thin shoulder.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he whispered, still in deep sleep, “I’m here. All shall be well.”

Tears continued to flow down his cheeks, as his father continued to berate him. And then suddenly the pain stopped, as did the scornful words.

Firm but soft hands circled around his waist, fingers splaying across his stomach, then running up and down his upper body, stroking him gently in calming, soothing motions. Gentle words wafted into his tired ears.

“I’m here for you…”

“Sire,” he murmured as he raised his head to see his king standing before him, resplendent in his regal robes, the crown set atop his head, bending over his ungainly, naked frame sprawled across the marbled floor in front of the king’s throne.

“Dear Faramir,” Elessar responded softly, before helping him up, “Do not worry dearest, I am here for you.”

He felt himself being pulled into a gentle embrace, his aching body coming in touch with the silk of the robes. He fell into those arms, and let himself be touched and stroked gently, slowly, a bevy of strange wonderful feelings collecting in his lower belly.

The king’s robes disappeared, evaporating into thin air, and his skin was touching soft skin now. Hands wandered over the back of his thighs. As though on impulse, he moved to kneel down and pleasure his king, but the hands around his waist prevented that.

“Ssshhh…” Elessar murmured softly, and then shifted his position, so that his erection brushed against Faramir’s semi-aroused length.

Faramir gasped softly. Elessar pulled him closer, holding him in place maintaining that wonderful contact. And then he shifted again. Faramir let out a soundless cry.

They fell to the floor, still holding each other, Elessar still stroking lightly all over. Gentle hands continued to probe his upper body, running over his chest, skimming over his ribs, brushing his nipples, before moving to his lower belly. He spread his legs wide, raised up, breathing heavily. The slight nudge to his backside, caused him to gasp softly from the excitement the touch induced. Greased fingers parted his legs wider, before slipping between them and touching him.

As awareness returned slowly, his mind still processing the feelings his dream had evoked, Faramir found himself waking to a strangely familiar feeling. One that he noted as wakefulness filtered back into him, no longer felt as scary or even uncomfortable as he would have thought.

His dream had left him recollecting the feeling of the king’s nakedness against his own, much as he felt it now. The king seemed to be a morning person, he thought with amusement as he felt the telltale hardness brush his bare bottom. And this morning, the king wasn’t the only one!

He flushed slightly as he remembered how they hadn’t bothered with nightclothes last night after they had cleaned up, their close proximity providing plenty of warmth. Faramir had been so tired but in the nicest possible way. He remembered how it had felt to have Aragorn’s hands touching him so tenderly, the feel of those soft hands lulling him further into sleep.

He ought to feel more embarrassed than he felt, to be naked, in his state, with his king so near. But then again, the king was equally naked, and in a similar state. And truth be told though, Faramir quite liked the feel of Aragorn’s skin on his. It felt warm and cosy and comfortable. He flushed a little more as he recalled all they’d done the night before and how the king had shown him after all these years how it was truly supposed to feel to be intimate with another. It had been pleasurable, and even exciting in a way and most of all, gentle, full of the tenderness and care that came to mind whenever he thought of Elessar.

His eyes drifted to the bottle of oil on the nightstand, where Elessar had replaced it. The sight of the oil bottle had usually filled him with trepidation all these years, bundled as it was with memories of countless occasions where he’d been sent summons by Denethor just as he’d been ready to retire for the night, and had had to hurriedly prepare himself before leaving. Today though, a strange tingling feeling coursed through him.

Wouldn’t it be nice, he thought sleepily, to give the king a nice start to the day, just as they had done the previous day. The king had seemed to like it the previous morning. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind if he’d help him out again?

Yes, perhaps he could give the king a nice start to the day again. He reached out for the small bottle taking care to ensure that he did not disturb Aragorn with his movements. He shifted as discreetly as possible and smiled as Aragorn murmured something indistinctly. He took out some oil and deftly prepared himself. The king was still asleep, lying on his side, when he was done.

How was he to go about this now? It would not be fair to disturb the king before everything was ready, he decided. He would do it slowly. Quietly, he lay back down by the king on his side, aligning himself till he could feel the stiffness against his buttocks. There was a slight murmur.

Elessar seemed to be waking up he decided, smiling, and then curling up his legs, pushed himself back against his arousal. That should wake the king!

It did. Aragorn’s eyes flew open as he felt the tip of his erection breach Faramir’s entrance.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, in surprise.

“Good morning,” Faramir was glancing back over his shoulder, a small smile on his face.

“Oh, it is good indeed!” Aragorn managed to reply, feeling very wide awake now, “If only all mornings could be this good,” he gasped out as Faramir pushed back against him again.

“We could try,” Faramir offered, blushing a little.

“Hmm…” Aragorn murmured, wrapping his arms around Faramir, as the steward pushed against him again, a little more assertively this time. Aragorn moaned at the sensation that pulsed through him, and gently pushed into the welcoming passage, sighing softly as the tight muscles constricted around his stiffness, “We could…”

Faramir felt himself filling up slowly and for the briefest of moments nearly froze, waiting to be pushed onto his stomach and the rough, hard thrusts to start. But all he felt were gentle nudges and he felt himself begin to relax slowly, and pulled his knees up further allowing Aragorn deeper inside, before the tender pushing stopped. They lay like that for a few seconds before Aragorn began to push in slowly once again, his arms still around Faramir.

The thrusts were slow and so unlike the painful ones he was usually used to, Faramir realised, gasping a little at the tenderness he felt. Aragorn was in no hurry… he was almost lazy in fact. His hands meanwhile were roaming over Faramir’s chest, the touches soft and gentle, brushing his nipples, his ribs, his navel. The fingers played with his nipples, kneading them gently, hardening them. Faramir moaned softly, he’d never known a touch like this… he could hardly move, Aragorn was holding him snugly in place. At any other time, he’d have panicked he knew, but this time, Faramir didn’t want to move. He felt perfect here. He coloured a little as he realised how much he was enjoying this feeling. Soft kisses landed on his back and shoulders, as the almost lazy thrusts continued, engulfing Faramir in a dream-like feeling that didn’t let up until Aragorn touched him in that place again. He moaned loudly as the warmth coursed through him. He’d never realised it could feel this way, he though hazily as they climaxed together, and Aragorn continued to hold him and kiss him gently.

They parted only when the sun filtered harshly through the curtains into the room, Faramir still blushing a little. Aragorn studied him carefully for a moment, suddenly anxious over going against Gandalf’s advise as well as his own intentions and becoming this intimate already this soon. But there was nothing but relaxed bliss in the steward’s features.

He smiled at the slightly silly expression, as he wondered just how long he would have waited if Faramir wouldn’t have made the first move. Just be glad he did, he quickly concluded.

“Did you sleep well?”

Faramir’s blush deepened as he once again remembered his dream. “Yes, very well, thank you,” he answered smiling.

Aragorn couldn’t help but smile back. “Good. That’s very good to hear,” he said planting one last kiss on Faramir’s shoulder.

“Shall I see you again tonight?” Aragorn asked softly as he rose from Faramir’s bed, not wishing the younger man to undergo the same turmoil that he had the day before, worrying over what Aragorn may think.

Faramir nodded quietly, and gave a small smile in return.

They had to spend the morning and afternoon apart, Faramir having to go through some old work still leftover, while Aragorn had an audience with an envoy, meeting again only at an early supper where most of the conversation was monopolised by Legolas and Gimli who were arguing about something Aragorn paid no attention to. It was only after supper that they got time together again, to discuss Aragorn’s talks with the envoy.

Gandalf came by just then, and found both men in Aragorn’s study.

“Mithrandir!’ Faramir said smiling, “You do look much better today!”

“Thank you, child,” the wizard replied almost sarcastically, “So do you. I trust the new arrangements are comfortable enough?”

“Indeed!” Faramir said his eyes shining as he looked at Aragorn.

Aragorn simply nodded.

“I suppose you won’t need me tonight,” Gandalf said grumpily.

“No,” Aragorn agreed steadily, “You could do with more rest.”

Gandalf shrugged, “Good,” he grunted, “The hobbits have some idea of visiting taverns tonight. I think I should go along, just in case!”

Gandalf said nothing a day later either when Aragorn told him that he would spend the next few nights as well with Faramir. He merely shrugged.

Faramir welcomed Aragorn’s sharing his bed each night shyly but willingly. And Aragorn for his part decided to ensure that whatever they did, Faramir got to sleep regular hours each night. The younger man had been through a lot, he knew, and he ensured that he was at all times nothing but caring, a sensation that, he realised each day, was new to the younger man. It made Aragorn all the more determined to ensure that Faramir know that sex could be enjoyed. He was old enough and sensible enough to know that the act when not forced was meant to be just that, but years of being taken against his will would be difficult to overcome. Aragorn was the first person he’d met who had been in such close contact with him and not wanted to abuse him sexually.

He carefully but discreetly, along with Gandalf kept a watch on the younger man’s eating habits and work hours, never hesitating to pull him away for a walk whenever the young Steward seemed to be getting overwhelmed by the necessity to learn so much of the Stewardship in such little time.

Faramir sighed softly as he leaned contentedly against a tree. It was beautiful outside, and the air was crisp, so Aragorn had suggested a long walk in the gardens after they’d finished going through a particularly gruelling set of papers on new trade treaties. Faramir had agreed, for he had begun to feel exhausted, the recent illness still troubling him. They had spent a wonderful hour in each other’s company talking about books and poems, and had only stopped when Aragorn had decided it was time for Faramir to rest a little. They sat on a small stone bench in a shaded nook enjoying the view, and he felt his eyes drifting shut.

“Here you are!” the sudden sound made his eyes fly open and he found himself instinctively moving closer to Aragorn.

Twin faces grinned back at them in delight, as Aragorn protectively wrapped an arm around Faramir’s shoulders and pulled him close and then stared back at the sons of Elrond who sat on either side of them now.

“Elladan, Elrohir,” he said with a calmness that Faramir envied. His own heart was beating furiously as he realised what an odd position he and his king were in. The elven twins were not only the brothers of the King’s betrothed, but also like foster brothers to Aragorn himself, and he wasn’t sure how they’d react to his nearness to the King. Aragorn however made no move to release him so he stayed where he was, staring from one to the other.

“Hello Aragorn,” the one sitting near him said cheerfully, Faramir thought it might be Elrohir, “How are you now, Lord Faramir? We have missed you greatly. We hardly see you nowadays, even though Gandalf says you’re continuing to recover quite rapidly now. Aragorn seems to have claimed most of your time.”

Faramir opened his mouth intending to say something, anything, but the other Elf interrupted him, “Well, Aragorn did always have surprisingly good taste, although that doesn’t explain Arwen!”

Both of them snickered loudly at that while Aragorn groaned and looked around for help in the form of Legolas or Gimli to shoo the twins away. All he could see was one of the councillors in the distance sitting in another shaded bower, reading a book, Tarnost he though his name was.

Meanwhile, Faramir tried to sit up, slipping out of Aragorn’s embrace, confused and a little fearful.

“I did wonder to see Faramir smiling at breakfast. It was a fine sight but curious nevertheless. I see now what caused it!” Elladan said irrepressibly.

The twins arose together and Elrohir smiled at a gaping Faramir, “We are very glad to see you are well again.” Bending down he grasped the Steward’s face lightly and bestowed a small kiss on his forehead.

Faramir gasped softly in surprise, and felt his face redden. He dropped his eyes to hide his embarrassment, even as Elladan too dropped a kiss on his lowered head.

He looked up bewildered, to find them smiling gently at him. Aragorn was giving him an amused yet fond look, “You’re embarrassing him,” he said lightly, and brought his arm around Faramir once again and kissed him lightly on his cheek.

Aragorn could see too that more than a few people noticed Faramir’s changed mood over the next few days, though he was sure no one was aware of the full circumstances as much as the twins were. He was certainly going to ensure the younger man continued to take things lightly for a while!

Aragorn couldn’t help but think there were many more things also that he could teach Faramir, especially when it came to his ways in bed. The young man was inexperienced enough in many matters and Éowyn for one would not care much for a husband like that, he thought. For now he was glad though that he was beginning to drop his reserve with him, even if it was only in bed. He’d convinced him to call him Aragorn while they were alone, and to hear his name being uttered in a voice so thick with emotion and an almost reverence had thrilled him and awakened a strange feeling inside him.

They were in Aragorn’s study a few nights later, when Aragorn put his quill down and rose from his seat, “Come,” he said warmly to Faramir, “I’m a little tired and I’m sure you are too!”

They walked down the winding passageways with Aragorn leading the way. He’d decided they might as well spend the night in his chambers. The bed was larger and much more comfortable than Faramir’s straw-filled mattress. He stopped at his chambers and opening the door, stepped inside. Faramir waited outside politely.

“Well, come along then,” Aragorn said smiling.

Faramir stared at him worriedly, but stepped in all the same.

“I was thinking we could sleep here instead,” Aragorn said, “It’s a larger bed and more comfortable as well.”

Faramir stopped hesitantly and stared around the room, causing Aragorn to look at him in consternation. Faramir was biting his lower lip unhappily as though thinking of something else altogether and Aragorn felt a pang in his heart.

I thought he said he liked being with me… Is Gandalf right? Did I rush things after all?

“What’s wrong?” he asked anxiously, “Do you not wish me to spend the night with you? Is it because of—” Aragorn stopped mid-sentence, seeing Faramir’s apprehensive expression, still focussed on the bed. “Don’t worry,” he tried to reassure the younger man, “we can also just go to sleep. All I want is to keep your nightmares away so you can sleep easily, just like Gandalf did. You don’t have to do anything for me.”

“I know,” Faramir said sincerely, turning to Aragorn now, but a troubled expression remained on his face.

“Then what’s the matter?” Aragorn asked gently. Something seemed to be bothering the younger man.

Faramir took a deep breath before answering hesitantly, “It’s the room. Father used it sometimes… with me.”

It took all of Aragorn’s self-control to not look as aghast as he felt on hearing that. “He did? This room? Why not his own bedroom?”

“He used that too, but only at night. If he wanted the use of a bed during the daytime, he’d send me here. These rooms were not in use then, so it was quiet here.”

“But surely it would be noticed if the rooms had been used? Someone would have had to clean up, put fresh sheets on the bed.”

“I did that.”

“Oh,” Aragorn said. He looked at Faramir closely. The younger man was staring at the bed again, clearly unhappy, “You’d be more comfortable in your room then?”

Faramir nodded in response.

Aragorn nodded and led Faramir out.

“I’m sorry,” Faramir whispered miserably.

“Don’t be,” Aragorn said reassuringly as he closed the door behind him, “I can understand if you have unhappy memories of that room.” Indeed he could. In fact, he briefly wondered how he himself would feel, next time he slept in his own bed, now that he knew what had come to pass there, in his room, in his bed… But no, those were not healthy or helpful thoughts. The last thing Faramir would need right now, was for him to get upset too.

Seeing that Faramir still looked unhappy, he continued, “Maybe, in a while, we can make some happy memories for you in that room, so it won’t be all bad ones. How about that?”

Faramir gave him a tiny smile and ducked his head sideways, nodding.

Faramir smiled shyly at Aragorn as he finished undressing and sat upon his bed. Aragorn was struggling with the bindings of his ceremonial robe. Faramir had offered to help him but he’d shaken his head.

While he was slowly beginning to feel more and more comfortable with him, the king’s nearness still caused a strange sensation in him. It seemed unbelievable to him that Aragorn could actually want to spend so much time with him, being so gentle with him. He felt himself redden a little as he remembered how Aragorn’s hands felt on him, how his mere fingers had caused that strangely pleasurable sensation inside him…

He watched as Aragorn finally untangled the bindings. He reached out for the small bottle that he’d ensured was readily placed on the nightstand. He’d even ensured it contained a sweet smelling oil instead of the usual saddle oil he’d often used for want of anything else. He uncorked the bottle, preparing to take the sticky substance on his fingers, when Aragorn came and stood by him.

“No, don’t use that,” Aragorn said.

Faramir stared up at him.

“I don’t think we’ll need this tonight,” Aragorn said firmly and plucked the bottle of oil from Faramir’s nerveless hands.

The Steward barely managed to keep the scared surprise he felt off his face. He watched dumbly as Aragorn replaced the stopper in the bottle and placed it on the table, and then recommenced undressing. They were not going to use the oil?

He wondered whether to protest, no perhaps plead that he be allowed to use some oil, but then — Aragorn was his king. And he had been through this before.

He gulped noiselessly at the unbidden memories that filled his head. Denethor had always seemed to like it better when Faramir hadn’t used the oil. There had been times when he’d been summoned unexpectedly and had had no time to prepare. It had pleased his father to catch him unawares, and it had pleasured him the more the pain was. He could still remember the pain he’d experienced each time, even as his father had gloated into his ear calling him tight as a whore in the first circle, and told him this was his sole use.

But these had been rare occasions. Faramir had made it a habit to prepare for the worst each and every time he went to see his father, as well as each time he had to appear in front of the Council since Denethor often called him back afterwards. It had been humiliating, standing there in front of all the councillors, delivering his reports and all the while feeling the oil creep between his buttocks. Especially since soon enough his father as well as a number of members of the Council were well aware of his predicament and taunted him mercilessly with it. But it was a humiliation he had gladly accepted. For he could not easily forget the one time, when he had been summoned a mere half hour prior to leaving for Ithilien and had gone unprepared; he still remembered the tremendous pain he’d been through on the ride there and the his ensuing efforts to hide his awful predicament from the rangers concerned over his clearly pain filled and ailing demeanour.

But on all such occasions, Denethor had always been more than satisfied. He didn’t shove him away roughly off his bed as he usually did after finishing with him.

No wonder Elessar didn’t want the oil either. He would get more pleasure without it. And that was what Faramir was meant to do after all — to please the king. Why had he ever thought otherwise? He had been foolish to think Elessar might have liked him! Why should he? He was the king of Gondor due to marry the elven daughter of the Lord of Imladris. How could someone like Faramir be more than something to pass the night until then?

And as if anyone could love someone like him. He was too spoiled and defiled for anyone at all to want him for any other reason. Of course Aragorn knew how worthless he was. He was of use for only one thing. All of them knew that.

He lay down on his back, spreading his legs slightly, and waited, trying to control his rapidly beating heart. He was used to the pain, after all. He shouldn’t be so worried. And it was not as though he had much work on the morrow. Perhaps, Elessar would let him rest off the pain awhile in the morning. He hoped he would. He could catch up with his work later in the morning. A few hours of rest extra, that was all. He mustn’t ask for more.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when Aragorn sat by him, having finally divested himself off his outer garments.

“Turn around,” he said calmly, and Faramir obediently flopped onto his belly. He laid his head on his hands as he felt Aragorn’s weight descend on the bed between his legs. He should have expected this too, he told himself, nevertheless feeling slightly dazed.

Denethor had always made him face away from him. Facing Denethor had invariably meant a stinging slap. More than once, the Steward’s ring had scratched his face; he still had a series of faint little scars, running almost parallel across his right cheekbone, to prove it.

He raised his hips slightly. Aragorn’s hands were on his buttocks now, spreading his legs wider apart. He shut his eyes tight, burrowing deeper into his hands, trying to force himself to relax, despite the pain he knew was to follow.

He couldn’t help but tense up as Elessar’s hands spread his buttocks wider. A breath of warm air hit his backside and then he felt something wet enter him, pushing into him… before he scrabbled up in shock, a squeal erupting involuntarily from his shocked mouth.

The sudden movement sent him up against the hard wood of the headboard even as Aragorn let out a startled exclamation and drew back from his flailing legs.

Faramir huddled against the headboard now, rubbing at the bruise that was forming where his forehead had impacted against the carved wood.

Aragorn was nearly at the edge of the bed now, a bemused expression on his face.

“You almost kicked me,” he complained as he moved towards Faramir.

Faramir stared back at Aragorn’s face, at the tip of the pink tongue that had entered him barely seconds ago, “I — I’m sorry, Sire!” he gasped out, “I didn’t mean to hurt you!”

Aragorn’s expression turned to one of concern, as he took in the fear and confusion in Faramir’s eyes. He moved closer to Faramir, “You didn’t hurt me at all,” he assured him

“Wh — why did you do that?” Faramir stuttered and hugged his legs to his chest, covering himself.

“Why? Didn’t you like it?” Aragorn countered, “I had to use something to prepare you, didn’t I?” he continued teasingly, “You don’t expect me to just —” and then stopped suddenly.

There was an awkward pause before Aragorn swiftly pulled Faramir into his arms, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he said quietly, a little alarmed at how fast Faramir’s heart seemed to be beating, “You’ve bruised your forehead.”

“N— no. I’m fine,” the steward answered. He had that same confused look Aragorn had thought he’d seen earlier but not thought to probe into. He wished now he had.

Apparently Faramir had indeed expected him to not bother about preparing him. Somehow he didn’t think he’d have to explain to Faramir that that would have hurt him a great deal. He continued to hold the tense young man in his arms, and then gently kissed the bruise on his forehead.

As he waited for Faramir to calm down, Aragorn debated on what to do next. Knowing Faramir, he would probably clam up about this, especially if Aragorn let him go off to sleep now, much as he would have liked to. Once Faramir seemed to relax a little, he spoke.

“Faramir?”

The younger man looked up at him mutely, his grey eyes filled with an almost fearful expression, but he made no move to leave Aragorn’s embrace, for which the king was grateful.

“I told you earlier this should always be enjoyable for both partners, it can’t be a one-way stream, remember? And I would certainly never do anything that would hurt you. You know you can always say ‘no’ if there’s anything you don’t like — I won’t be upset,” he said sincerely, “Will you tell me, from now on?”

He received a meek nod in reply, and settled for that. Pulling Faramir closer, he gave him what others had called his ‘naughty smile’ and hoped it would work on Faramir as well as it had often worked on those others.

“Then should I assume from your earlier reaction that you do not like this preparation method or should we try that again before we reach any final conclusions?” he asked in a half teasing tone.

“No!” Faramir said softly but emphatically, moving away from Aragorn slightly. His ‘naughty smile’ wasn’t going to work on Faramir, the king realised quietly.

“No?” he responded, “You didn’t like it?”

“No!” Faramir retorted with a little more force this time, “It’s too undignified for you. A king shouldn’t have to stoop to that for his subjects!”

“I think that’s for the king to decide,” Aragorn countered, “And besides I didn’t know you thought of me as just your king here. I thought I was more than that to you,” he said.

The little fire that had developed in Faramir promptly fled at that, “You are more than that to me, Sire!” he said frantically, “But —”

The use of the address didn’t escape Aragorn’s notice but he knew it was difficult for Faramir to slip out of an ingrained habit, so he simply sighed and pulled him closer yet again, “Then nothing we do between us can ever be too undignified.”

Faramir bit his lip uncertainly in response.

“Should we try it again?” Aragorn suggested. He truly wanted Faramir to feel the pleasure he knew he could give him, if he would only let him.

There was a pause before Faramir glanced doubtfully at him and finally gave a very tiny nod.

Aragorn smiled and after kissing Faramir lightly on his bruise again, gently laid him back on his stomach. Faramir automatically spread his legs out, yet Aragorn couldn’t miss the tension that marked his entire body. The slender back was rigid, and every muscle seemed to stand out, the arms and legs lay spread out stiffly, and the discomfort was evident on Faramir’s face.

Sighing silently, Aragorn placed his hands on Faramir’s backside, and the tenseness seemed to increase. Making up his mind rapidly, Aragorn simply placed a light kiss in the hollow at the base of Faramir’s rigid spine. The younger man’s face turned towards Aragorn, confusion writ clearly on his features. Aragorn smiled gently at him, and then placed another kiss on his spine right above the spot where he’d kissed him previously, then another above that and another till he’d trailed all the way up the tense backbone, interspersing the feather-light kisses with tiny licks. Faramir’s tension eased somewhat, though the confusion remained on his face. Aragorn placed another light kiss between his shoulder blades and then reached over him for the oil still on the nightstand.

Faramir tensed imperceptibly, an involuntary gesture on his part, for in his heart he was glad that Aragorn had decided to resort to the oil instead of his tongue.

“It’s alright, Faramir, please don’t worry,” Aragorn said softly.

Faramir nodded dumbly.

“Would you like it if I were to give you a massage? It will help ease the strain I know you felt in your shoulder this afternoon while pulling those books off the topmost shelf in my study, and it will soothe me to knead your muscles.”

Faramir turned onto his side at that and gaped at him.

Aragorn continued in a soothing tone, “I know we have been making love each night but I thought tonight I’d like to just touch you and be close to you.”

Faramir nodded again, a little hesitantly this time.

Aragorn brushed his cheek lightly with his lips and nudged him back onto his stomach. Taking a generous amount of the oil, which he noted had a sweet smell to it, he began by kneading the muscles between Faramir’s shoulders, which he knew would need extra attention. Faramir’s face was turned sideways and his eyes were open.

He worked his way slowly down Faramir’s body, noting the gradual relaxation in the tense muscles with gratitude, over the upper back, frowning slightly at the scars he could still feel there, then onto the lower back, down the thighs, even the calves, and finally the buttocks.

As he kneaded the soft buttocks letting the oil spread over them, the wariness lessened very gradually, and after a while Faramir had simply let his face rest on his pillow, his eyes half-closed, a smile half-forming on his lips, once in a while letting out a soft noise almost like a cat’s purr that made Aragorn smile in satisfaction. He returned to knead the shoulders once more, before dropping a kiss near Faramir’s ear.

The grey eyes opened and glanced expectantly at the king, who had realised that there was still a fair amount of oil left in the bottle.

“Would you turn over now?” he whispered in Faramir’s ear.

Faramir complied immediately but not without giving him a confused look. Aragorn poured some more of the oil onto his hands.

“Haven’t finished,” Aragorn murmured hoarsely, before laying his hands on Faramir’s chest, and gently rotating the heel of his palm. Faramir stared up at him silently as Aragorn began running his oily fingers over his chest. As the fingers drew a light circle around his nipples however, he gasped softly. Aragorn let his fingers flit over the now sensitised nubs before running them down each rib. Faramir gasped again. Aragorn set to work on the flat stomach next, dipping his index finger into Faramir’s navel. Faramir was definitely purring now, he realised with a smile, at least when he wasn’t gasping.

He returned to the nipples now, gently rubbing the tips of his fingers over them, feeling them harden, just as he felt a hardening sensation in his own groin. Glancing down he realised Faramir too was getting aroused now. He worked his way down again. Faramir looked flushed now, but he seemed to be enjoying himself, Aragorn thought as his steward smiled shyly at him through half-closed eyes.

He stopped as he reached the lower belly and then reached for Faramir’s arousal. The steward’s eyes flew open and he gasped aloud this time, and let loose a hoarse moan. Aragorn felt like groaning himself as he ran his hands up and down the thickening shaft feeling it throb under his fingers.

He let go suddenly, inducing a protesting moan but then immediately spread himself atop Faramir, grinding his hardness gently against the Steward’s and kissed him in the hollow of his neck.

“Aragorn,” the younger man murmured, clutching at the older man’s body and pulling it closer. They moved against each other, the rubbing motion inducing them to release simultaneously.

Aragorn collapsed against Faramir when they were done, “Sweet heart,” he murmured, lovingly.

“Aragorn,” Faramir murmured softly in response, an almost dreamy smile forming on his lips.

Aragorn rolled off him but continued to run still oily fingers down his arm, lazily watching Faramir’s eyes flutter close again from the soothing feel. He must be exhausted, Aragorn thought to himself. Once Faramir seemed to have fallen into a light doze, his lips still curved in a smile, he moved.

“I think, young one, you need cleaning up,” he said affectionately, and rose.

Faramir simply purred in reply, and Aragorn laughed softly as he searched in Faramir’s chest for a towel. Finding one, he cleaned himself up rapidly, and then came to Faramir’s side. The Steward still laid dozing, lines of tiredness beginning to show up on his face, his body glistening lightly from the oil, his stomach covered with the traces of their combined release. Aragorn thought he’d never seen a more attractive sight.

“My sweetling,” he whispered softly, as he began cleaning up the younger man.

Faramir fell asleep shortly after that but Aragorn stayed awake, gently running his fingers through Faramir’s sweat dampened hair having noticed that the movement seemed to calm the younger man.

He needed to be careful with Faramir, he realised yet again.

He’d been through far too much at too young an age. And yet, when it came to such matters as receiving a little pleasure himself he knew so little. Had he even been kissed properly, Aragorn wondered, as he traced his fingers lightly over the slightly open lips. He doubted it.

Aragorn awoke before Faramir the next morning. He opened his eyes to find Faramir curled up against him, his head resting near Aragorn’s chest. The massage would have helped him sleep he realised as he ran gentle fingers through the soft hair. Faramir stirred slightly and after a few seconds opened his eyes slowly. Seeing Aragorn in front of him, he smiled, but then his expression changed a little as though he had remembered something.

“Sire?” he said softly.

“Sweet Faramir,” Aragorn whispered softly, inducing a look of confusion on Faramir’s face.

“I— last night — I —”

“I really enjoyed last night,” Aragorn said gently, and pulled Faramir up, into his arms, “And you look as appealing this morning.”

Faramir blushed at that and made to duck his head but Aragorn cupped his cheek gently.

“I’d like to kiss you,” he said calmly and covered his lips with his. He felt Faramir stiffen a little as he slipped his tongue into the warm mouth. Pulling Faramir closer to reassure him, he continued to run his tongue around his mouth. Faramir responded, a little awkwardly though and Aragorn knew he couldn’t have had many kisses.

He pulled away gently when he sensed Faramir was about to run out of breath but too scared to say it.

Chapter 14

Faramir’s face was flushed, and his eyes were shining and displaying a sense of wonderment when Aragorn gazed back into them. Sensing the other man’s awkwardness, Aragorn smiled and placed a hand on Faramir’s cheek.

“We must rise now,” he said not without reluctance, “I shall see you at breakfast.”

Faramir nodded before slowly moving forward and pressing his lips against Aragorn’s, a little hastily, “Th — thank you,” he murmured, reddening even more.

Over the next few days, there was much else that Faramir found himself wondering at. To be cared for and pleasured by another was new to him. He had not thought a mere kiss could leave him feeling as Aragorn’s did. With Éowyn his fumbling kisses had resulted in her turning impatient and pushing him away. Aragorn simply held him close and lavished him with such care and tenderness that Faramir felt he would happily melt.

He was also back to working almost as much as he had before his illness, much to Gandalf’s annoyance. The wizard still insisted to Faramir’s exasperation that the younger was not yet fully recovered. While he often did feel a little tired at the end of the day, Aragorn’s attentions were enough to divert him from the weariness.

Aragorn too found himself yearning to show Faramir how much they could pleasure each other without any hurt involved. Faramir was still shy in much that they did and there was so much, Aragorn often realised with a dismay, that he had not experienced. Nor did Faramir ever take the lead. While he often initiated their lovemaking, he always seemed to let Aragorn take over almost immediately. It wasn’t difficult for Aragorn to realise that that came of the Steward’s own limited experience.

For Faramir, it was indeed a whole new experience. He was happy to let Aragorn take the lead and show him what was to be done as he was accustomed to, for the king was ever tender and gentle with him. But Aragorn instead was ever opening up newer wonders for him.

When they had kissed the next night, Aragorn’s tongue had wondered onto Faramir’s jaw, and dipped into his ear, causing such a sensation inside him that he had bucked in the king’s arms. Aragorn had then undone the bindings, and slipped his hand under the tunic to caress Faramir’s chest slowly. Faramir had moaned softly at the touch but when the long fingers had started circling his nipple swiftly and intensely he had nearly screamed at the strangely welcoming sensation.

Aragorn had over these few days explored every inch of Faramir’s body; he suckled his nipples, explored his navel, sucked at his toes, and with each act the Steward had been shocked at the intensity of the feeling that arose in him from so small an act.

He would hesitantly repeat the same act on Aragorn next day, his heart gladdening at the approving murmurs it released from the king. And yet he yearned to do so much more. To provide to the king the same pleasurable feelings that arose in him, covering him from head to toe as he squirmed under Aragorn’s ministrations. His own inexperience was not new knowledge to him. But it did dismay him a little. He wished he could find some way to learn of new ways to cater to Aragorn’s needs.

And he had found it now, while looking in the libraries for a book on cropping patterns in Rhun. The Steward’s private archives, earlier accessible only to Denethor, were now open to him, and while searching there, he had, much to his surprise, come across a shelf full of literature on lovemaking, many of the volumes even richly illustrated. Face aflame, he had hurriedly pulled out one that looked the most appropriate and taken it away with him to read later.

Aragorn found him in his study later that day, absorbed in what seemed to be an alarmingly thick report. Faramir looked up when he entered and smiled softly at him, before pushing away a thick leather bound book.

“Still at work?” Aragorn asked gently, “It’s quite late, you know.”

“I hadn’t realised,” Faramir murmured, “It should not take long.”

“That must be a very interesting report, if you did not realise the time,” Aragorn said teasingly, as he came to the table.

“It is for your council tomorrow,” he replied straightening up and stretching himself a little. Aragorn placed his hands on the younger man’s shoulders, intending to knead them lightly, and frowned.

“You’re very tense — and cold! I’m having a bath prepared in my chambers, would you like to join me?”

Faramir glanced at him uncertainly. He did feel tense and cold, and a hot bath sounded very appealing, and the thought of sharing it with Aragorn even more so, but try as he might he could not prevent his mind straying towards the last memory he had of sharing a bath with someone.

But this was Aragorn, and he was safe here, and he was not required to take a bath just so he could be clean to be used again.

“Well?” Aragorn urged, “The water’s getting cold as we speak.”

He nodded, and let himself be led down to Aragorn’s chambers. He kept his eyes on the floor, even as he was taken to the small antechamber where the tub had been kept out. Aragorn slipped off his robe swiftly and entered the bath. Faramir removed his robes more slowly.

He climbed in gingerly after Aragorn had entered, but winced as he dipped his foot in and found the water scolding hot, remembering the last time he hadn’t bathed alone. He quickly calmed himself. It is fine, ‘tis just my feet that are cold, he thought as he sunk further into the tub, and he found that the rest of his body perceived the temperature of the water to be most pleasant. Only his feet still tingled uncomfortably. They must have been lumps of ice, and I hadn’t even noticed; maybe Aragorn is right, I am too absorbed in my work, Faramir admitted to himself.

It was a large tub and quite capable of accommodating both of them comfortably but it seemed so much more comfortable to lean against Aragorn’s chest as he suggested. The last time he had been alone in the water, and Denethor had stayed outside.

Filthy slut, he had called him.

He shuddered at the thought, thankful that Aragorn was here, and it was his strong arms that were wrapped around his bare chest, rubbing him down gently.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s voice cut through his thoughts.

“Yes?” he murmured, as the long, slender fingers began massaging his back.

“You don’t mind taking a bath with me do you?”

“I like it very much,” Faramir replied closing his eyes and leaning into the touch of the fingers.

“I just wondered… you were so upset the last time, you even preferred to let Gandalf rub you down.”

Gandalf’s suggestion had reminded him of Denethor by his bath, soaping him, his groping hands adding to the incessant throbbing between his legs after nearly three days of being used by assorted friends as they wished.

Aragorn’s fingers were working magic over his strained muscles as the heat of the water seeped into his body, and with every breath his lungs filled with the smell the aromatic herbs that scented the water — he could identify the overpowering juniper, but there were many others completing a delicate bouquet— all helping him to relax and drive away unwanted thoughts. It all felt so good.

“Was something wrong then?” Aragorn persuaded softly.

“Father made me bathe once,” Faramir said sleepily, as the fingers settled on a knot at the base of his spine, “I was very filthy.”

Aragorn almost paused at that but then continued, unwilling to stop doing something that was obviously helping Faramir a great deal. He did wonder however what exactly the young Steward meant. He obviously wasn’t referring to falling into a puddle of mud. He thought he felt the muscles on the slender shoulders tense immediately and promptly changed the subject.

“There now, just relax,” he whispered whispering softly in his ear, his hands kneading Faramir’s tense shoulder muscles.

Faramir could do little other than murmur his pleasure as the aches relieved. He leant further back against Aragorn, letting his eyes droop, feeling the older man’s hand work on his chest and stomach. As long as he could feel Aragorn near him, he had no fear of imagining Denethor’s impassive face leaning over him, as his hands reached between Faramir’s legs to clean off the signs left from his ordeal.

He never realised when the water seemed to have turned lukewarm, until Aragorn nudged him forward slightly, “We must rise now. The water’s getting cold and you’ve only just recovered.”

He sighed, and tried to rise, his movements sluggish, with Aragorn helping him.

Aragorn smiled slightly as he realised Faramir was struggling to keep his eyes open. He managed to get him out of the water without accident but almost as soon as the young man was on his feet, his legs threatened to buckle. Aragorn quickly wrapped a large towel around him, picked him up and carried him over to his bed, placing him gently on the sheets. He patted him dry the best he could and pulled the thick covers over the naked form. I’m not going to wake him now, but I can’t very well carry him back to his rooms in nothing but a towel, Aragorn doubted, knowing Faramir was uncomfortable in these chambers. Come what may, he’ll just have to spend the night here, he finally decided.

He smiled as he did so. Faramir was fast asleep now; a small, slender figure in the huge bed, his usually wan face looking somewhat relaxed, reminding Aragorn that the young man was less than half his age. He gently bent down and kissed him on his forehead.

“Good night,” he whispered, “May all your dreams be pleasant ones.”

Faramir came awake slowly, yawning as he stretched himself to rise. A soft murmur reached his ear and he smiled as he realised Aragorn’s arm was wrapped around his waist. Sunlight streamed in through the windows. It was morning he realised with a start, and not very early either. He must have been sleeping heavily. It must have been the bath.

“Good morning,” Aragorn interrupted his thoughts.

“Good morning,” he responded automatically as he recalled the prior night — he’d been bathing with Aragorn and then he’d just fallen asleep, just like that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I’m sorry I just fell asleep like that,” he muttered quietly.

“What? Why? You think you have to please me every night, is that it?” Aragorn said with a slight teasing note in his voice, but he quickly softened his tone as he realized he’d probably guessed right. “I was very pleased to see you sleep peacefully. It’s a pleasure just to hold you in my arms,” he said lightly, pulling Faramir closer.

Faramir gazed at him uncertainly, but Aragorn’s eyes were sincere, so he leaned into his arms. He pushed the covers down a little and then stopped as he realised he was no longer in his bed. He was in the king’s room. He had spent the night here. He stared around at the huge bed and the high ceiling he’d often dreamt of. But he hadn’t dreamt anything last night. He’d slept in Aragorn’s arms surrounded by his scent on the pillows and covers.

The whole room looked different now. It was no longer the luxurious yet impersonal room waiting for a king. This room screamed of Aragorn’s presence in everything from the clothes that lay over a chair to the open windows to the man himself now lazily licking Faramir’s neck.

He wriggled a little at the wetness of Aragorn’s tongue and smiled.

“I can make up for it now,” he said huskily.

Aragorn raised a brow in amusement.

But Faramir proceeded to do just that. Gently but swiftly laying Aragorn back against his pillows the younger man pushed up his night robe and lowered his mouth onto Aragorn’s hardening erection and in a few short moments, skilfully had Aragorn gasping and moaning. Aragorn gasped loudly in pleasure at the wonderful sensation of being taken in so completely in Faramir’s mouth. Fingers fisting into his soft sheets, he watched through hazy eyes the sight of Faramir’s lips surrounding him.

By the time they were done, Aragorn was in a state of bliss he had rarely felt before. His throat felt slightly hoarse from the screams of pleasure that he had vented and he was quite sure he had never been so vocal before.

“That was wonderful,” he whispered hoarsely.

Faramir smiled at him, and lazily sunk back into the luxurious assortment of soft pillows. As Aragorn watched him, he suddenly remembered something.

“So… how do you feel about sleeping in my bed now?” He rolled onto his side, right up next to his still smiling lover, and nipped at his ear while he let his hands wander. “Are you comfortable here already, or do we need to create some more happy memories first?”

It was well into the morning and Aragorn had had nothing done. He had decided to have his noon meal alone settling for some light fruit as he battled his way through some new proposals from his councillors. Normally, it should have taken him barely half the morning but only if he’d been able to concentrate. He’d kept the windows open. It was a fine day outside, the sun just right, the air fragrant with all the right smells.

He absentmindedly sucked on a piece of melon and lapped up the juice that ran down his wrist.

Most of all, his thoughts constantly returned to Faramir. The Steward was away from the Citadel having decided to inspect the work Gimli’s kin were taking care of in one section of the city. All Aragorn could think of was how Faramir’s mouth felt on him, how those beautiful eyes gazed at him even as he was engulfed in the waves of pleasure that only Faramir seemed able to generate. He longed to return that feeling to Faramir, make him realise how wonderful lovemaking could be, beginning with this particular aspect.

“My lord?” the subject of his thoughts stood at his half-open door even as he picked up a banana for the next part of his lunch.

“Faramir!” he exclaimed happily, immediately returning the banana to the fruit bowl. The younger man looked slightly red from the wind outside, and his hair looked wild. Aragorn thought he looked wonderful.

“I’m here to help you with the military reports,” Faramir said smiling in response.

“Oh dear! I forgot we had those to take care of too,” Aragorn said bemusedly, “I’m still seeing to these.”

“Are there a lot to do in them?” Faramir asked anxiously and neared his table.

“No, but I haven’t felt like reading them,” Aragorn complained, “I’ve been feeling very distracted.”

“Oh,” Faramir looked puzzled, slightly worried and a little awkward too. He had never forsaken his duties for anything but the gravest circumstances, and was not used to his superiors doing anything less.

“I was thinking—,” Aragorn said slowly and then shifting back in his chair gently tugged Faramir close and pulled him swiftly onto his lap, ignoring the muted protest.

“I was thinking I miss you a lot,” he said wrapping one arm around the slender waist and placing the other behind Faramir’s head.

He kissed him gently, letting his tongue lavish Faramir lightly and thoroughly before letting up.

“I can’t keep my thoughts off you,” he said honestly, and began playing with the ties of Faramir’s shirt, loosening them to expose the thin shoulder.

Faramir blushed, “But I—,”

“I cannot forget how you made me feel this morning…how you make me feel so often. You give me such pleasure, darling….” He ran his fingers lightly over Faramir’s shoulder and the exposed part of his torso.

“I’m—”

“I would like very much to return to you such pleasure,” he continued and gently kissed Faramir’s shoulder before continuing, “You deserve it so much more… will you teach me how to do that?”

He had bent down to kiss Faramir’s shoulder again so the younger man’s sudden movement surprised him. He stared in alarm as Faramir jerked away from him. The younger man’s face was a little pale.

“What is it, darling? You will show me won’t you? I wish to pleasure you just as you do me…”

“No!” Faramir cried out, “I shall never let you do that! I couldn’t!”

“But why not?”

“Because it’s awful! And you are the king. You must not!”

“Faramir!” Aragorn pulled the younger man’s face close to him, and looked at him gently, “You are my Steward, yes and I am King, but when I lie with you, it not as King with Steward. You are no more my servant in my bed than I am yours. If anything is so awful, you shall not have to do it for me either. And yet, you do.”

Faramir opened his mouth to reply but Aragorn placed a finger on his lips.

“Look, let’s try it just this once, and then if it is as awful, neither you nor I shall ever do it again.”

Faramir looked unconvinced, but Aragorn was never one to lose an argument and it was a very subdued Faramir whom he manoeuvred to lean back against his desk.

“Now let’s create some nice memories for you in here,” Aragorn whispered as he sunk to his knees, “just lean back and enjoy…”

Aragorn had never quite done this before, as a ranger’s time was short and what little trysts were to be had with men were short and hurried. In Imladris, the elves preferred lovemaking methods that were much slower and Aragorn had despaired of some of their techniques.

It was not easy, and no matter what Faramir suggested, his voice soft and full of worry, Aragorn found himself struggling to take Faramir’s length in his mouth. He could keep Faramir on edge with licks and kisses easily enough, and sucking on the tip was simple also, yet gave spectacular results. But every time he tried to push himself a little further and take more of Faramir’s penis into his mouth, he ended up coughing, gagging and with tears in his eyes. With Faramir’s reluctant instructions he could manage a few seconds or so before he had to draw back, but still not the entire length. Finally he decided to be brave and quickly lunge forward all the way, but he ended up pulling away just as quickly and turning to the side, retching violently.

When he moved back to Faramir to try again, all signs of arousal had disappeared. The younger man had tears streaming down his eyes and while Aragorn quickly made to stand up and comfort his lover, Faramir moved the other way and was now sitting curled up on the floor under the desk, his head resting on folded knees.

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn gasped, crouching besides him, his own eyes tearing, “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to it. Faramir! Please, please don’t cry,” he whispered, “Did I hurt you?”

“I said it was awful!” Faramir sobbed out. Aragorn folded his arms around him and embraced him tightly.

“It wasn’t. Not for me. I’m just not used to it, that is all. It was already working much better, but I wanted too much too quickly. I simply want to make you feel good so much.” Aragorn pleaded, unable or unwilling to understand why Faramir would not let himself take pleasure in this way.

“You already make me feel wonderful every day. You do not need to do this,” Faramir gulped out through his tears.

Aragorn sighed. He had rushed forward again, ignoring the need to go slow with Faramir and pay attention to any signs that he was overstepping Faramir’s limits.

“You are right. Of course you are right,” he said, stroking Faramir’s hair soothingly, “Not about anything being unseemly for a king — I meant what I said about us being equals in the bedroom. But you do not have to do anything you do not want to do. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have insisted —”

Faramir said nothing but his silent tears continued to dampen Aragorn’s tunic.

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn repeated softly.

Faramir was rather subdued after the incident and Aragorn couldn’t help but berate himself at the hint of worry that marked the younger man’s eyes the next night. The steward however, continued to lay with him each night, and seemed to welcome Aragorn’s gentle touches and lovemaking. Over the next few days, Aragorn kept a close eye on him and watched with relief as Faramir returned slowly back to his quietly smiling ways.

And yet within barely a week, Faramir seemed to sink into a quiet despair yet again. Aragorn wondered why he seemed so morose. When he appeared particularly distracted one day, often staring out of the window dully, Aragorn tactfully halted all work and called for an early dinner with their friends. Dinner was served with ale that night and it didn’t skip Aragorn’s attention that Faramir drank more than his customary fill of the potent brew.

Aragorn had to visit Frodo that evening before they retired. He kissed the younger man softly on his forehead and stroking his cheek lightly said, “You look a little tired. Why don’t you go lie down a while? I’ll join you soon. Perhaps we should sleep tonight?”

Faramir glanced at him solemnly and shook his head, “I’ll wait for you,” he said quietly, and left.

When Aragorn returned, Faramir was waiting for him. The younger man had changed into a nightshirt and was sitting near the window and looking out.

“You are still awake,” Aragorn said smiling at him, as he removed his outer robe and boots and walked into his bathing chamber.

“Yes,” Faramir said softly, as Aragorn washed himself quickly, “I was waiting for you.”

“I am glad,” Aragorn said smiling a little. Faramir looked a little tired and his speech seemed slightly slurred, and Aragorn had an idea he’d had more ale than he was normally used to, “Are you sure you would not prefer to sleep?” he asked again, as he began to undo his shirt.

“Let me,’ Faramir said, and helped him change into a night robe and made him lie down and settle down against the pillows.

“I’m not sleepy,” he said suddenly, “Will you take me tonight?”.

“Is that what you want?” Aragorn asked. Faramir looked tired…

Faramir nodded grimly and the suddenly and swiftly pushed up Aragorn’s night robe and took his limp member in his fingers and began kneading it skilfully.

“Well, if you ask me like that…” Aragorn groaned aloud, and lost himself in the heat that was pooling up in his lower body.

Faramir’s movements were swifter than usual but he didn’t notice that until the younger man stroked him to arousal and then let him go and straddled him, positioning his entrance directly over the tip of Aragorn’s erection in the manner of one who might have done this before.

“What are you —?” he started but Faramir spoke.

“Please, let me,” he said softly and Aragorn was puzzled to realise he had tears in his eyes.

“Faramir, dearest —”

Faramir lifted himself and stretching his legs pushed into Aragorn, with the softest of grunts. Aragorn found himself bucking up to meet the tightness that encircled him. He clasped his hands around Faramir’s waist hard.

“Gods, you’re tight today,” he gasped aloud as he pushed up to meet Faramir’s almost frantic movements.

He thrust upwards, breeching the tiny ring of muscle and pushed, causing Faramir to moan slightly. The dryness of the tight passage encircled him so snugly, he felt almost heady. It was so dry, and then he realised with dismay; too dry. He glanced up sharply at Faramir’s face, the finely chiselled features covered with beads of sweat as they contorted in a painful grimace.

“You are — the oil —?” He gasped out.

Faramir shook his head mutely and pressed further down onto him, clenching his muscles. To his annoyance, Aragorn found himself responding, pushing his achingly hard shaft frantically up with each downward thrust, unable to stop himself as Faramir’s grunts became louder.

He spent himself inside Faramir, inducing a short pained moan from him. The sticky juices of his release that trickled down Faramir’s thighs, were the only thing easing his way out. Once he’d pulled out, Faramir heaved himself off and stumbled onto his side, curling up in a ball, sobbing harshly.

Aragorn bit his lip, partly in anger at himself. Faramir had hurt himself, that was clear, as was the fact that he had done so deliberately. Had it been anyone else, Aragorn would have pulled him up and shaken him, but this was Faramir, and all Aragorn could do was to inch closer to him and very gently gather him in his arms and hold him close.

Aragorn lay still for a while as Faramir wept into his chest. He wanted nothing more than to rise and take a look at Faramir. He must have hurt, he thought with a shudder. But he was loath to move while Faramir sobbed. Instead he stroked his back for a while, hoping the gentle movements would soothe him. When the sobs finally died away to tiny sniffs, Aragorn moved.

Very carefully and gently, holding Faramir in his arms, he turned and placed him on his side. The younger man hissed at the movement. Aragorn raised a hand and brushed a sweat soaked strand of hair off the pale forehead.

“Ssh,” he murmured, “Lie still. I’ll take care of you.”

Faramir refused to meet his gaze, staring away at the distance somewhere. Aragorn sighed, rose and collected a bowl of water, some herbs and some cloth, and sat by Faramir’s back. He gently nudged Faramir onto his stomach, and then quietly proceeded to clean him up and examine him. He was thankful to note Faramir wasn’t bleeding, but the skin around his entrance was red and inflamed. He certainly was going to be extremely sore.

“You’ll stay in bed tomorrow,” he said firmly, feeling a little angry at the sight.

Faramir didn’t respond, not even when Aragorn swabbed at the reddened skin and caused him to flinch slightly.

When he’d finished Aragorn washed his hands and then came and sat by Faramir. He pulled his unresisting body into his arms and covered him in a soft blanket.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

Faramir didn’t reply.

“You have been listless all week, and you were distinctly unhappy today. I thought perhaps it was the weather or that you were just tired, but I seem to have been wrong. You have drunk too much and deliberately hurt yourself tonight! And you made me hurt you!”

He paused and crooking a finger under Faramir’s chin forced him to look up. Faramir looked exhausted, and there were dark circles under his eyes, reddened and puffy from the drink and tears, but the eyes themselves looked so unhappy and listless, Aragorn didn’t have the heart to even think of scolding him.

“What is it?” he pleaded softly, “What has hurt you so? Will you not tell me? I thought you trusted me?”

There was only one word uttered.

“Boromir,” Faramir said in an anguished tone.

Aragorn pulled him closer, and waited.

“Today — today… would have been Boromir’s birthday…. I — he would have been forty one … and, and we would have spent the day together… but…”

“I’m sorry,” Aragorn, said quietly, unable to think of anything else to say.

“I m—miss him,” Faramir gulped unhappily, “I— I didn’t mean to drink so much, but it was Boromir’s favourite ale and I — I… m—miss him,” he repeated brokenly.

“I can understand that darling,” Aragorn said gently, “But you had no cause to hurt yourself like that tonight!”

“I — I d—did… it’s my fault,” Faramir said softly, and the tears that were swimming in his eyes fell.

“What’s your fault?” Aragorn asked surprised.

“H—he’s dead, and it’s m—my fault,” Faramir cried, and for a second Aragorn wondered if it was the ale that caused him to speak so.

“Of course not! Whoever told you that?” Aragorn demanded angrily.

“F—father.”

“What?”

“He said it was my fault,” Faramir said, “Wh—when I saw Boromir’s boat I told him… I —I hoped it was a dream, but Father got angry… and he said Boromir was dead and it was all b—because of me, and — and…”

“And?”

“And that he’d punish me for it… and that I deserved to hurt for it, so he’d hurt me…”

“And then?” Aragorn asked dismayed.

“H—he hit me,” Faramir’s voice was flat and exhausted and a little slurred, no doubt because of the ale, Aragorn thought. But the same drink seemed to have loosened his tongue.

“I fell… and then he hit me with his belt, and then he dragged me up and — and — the table… he pulled off my pants… and — I wasn’t ready… normally I’d be ready but I had hurried back that time… and he said I had to hurt or I wouldn’t learn a lesson.”

Aragorn listened in sickened dismay.

“He was so a—angry… and he had been drinking I think, and he’d been sitting with the palantír… I — he wouldn’t stop no matter how much I begged, and then h—he threw me out of his room and told me to return to Ithilien. S—so I left that night. It hurt so much, but — he said — I had to hurt…”

“It — it was my fault… Boromir left — it should have been me —”

“No!” Aragorn whispered, dismayed, “It was not your fault, and you do not have to hurt, not any more, dearest. He’s not here to fill up your mind with such things any more. It was never your fault!”

“It matters not,” Faramir insisted, “He is dead. And all I could do was to stand there and watch. I would have gone with him… when I saw him, for a moment I wanted nothing more than join him, lie next to him and let the river carry us away from it all… but then he would have called me a coward… so I stayed thinking that such a fate would soon be mine too…”

“No!” Aragorn cried out and held him closer, hugging him tight, wondering at what all Faramir could have endured to have felt such despair and unhappiness in those days.

Faramir finally cried himself to sleep, still in Aragorn’s arms for the king had no intention of letting go of him.

To be continued…

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/walk-no-more-in-the-shadows. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!