Faramir Fiction Archive

Wishful Thinking under the Summer Stars (NC-17)

Written by December

11 October 2023 | 8431 words

Part 3.

The hidden path through the cliff is cool and dark, water murmuring through the pebbles beneath their feet. They do not walk for long before they reach a matching curtain of vines blocking the way out, and Aragorn sees a faint light seeping through the leathery leaves.

Then the man in front of him pauses.

“What is it, Faramir?”

Faramir lowers his ethereal lamp.

Even without seeing his face, Aragorn can sense the change in him, his earlier nonchalant determination giving way to hesitation, the well-worn chainmail of outward composure revealing a vulnerability beneath.

“Faramir, we do not have to do this,” he offers. Whatever ‘this’ may be, he has never never at once dreaded and hungered for something so much. But his guilt is heavy enough as it is, without adding the suspicion that Faramir may go forth anything but freely.

“And then what?” Faramir asks wearily, his back still to his king. “We may yet turn around, that is true, but there is already no going back.”

“No, there is not,” Aragorn agrees, and does not know whether he regrets that it is so.

“Whatever tonight may bring,” Faramir says, “the price must be paid upfront. But I must hope, nay, I must believe that what lies ahead could be even greater than what has been.”

Aragorn wants so much to take him by the hand, but he only says, “Then I shall try to believe with you.”

Faramir stays still for a moment more, and unbeknownst to himself, Aragorn holds his breath.

“Very well, my king,” Faramir says at last.

He steps through, and holds the ivy aside for Aragorn.

Aragorn catches back an exclamation of surprise as he walks out and looks around. He knew these lands like the back of his hand – how did such a wonder stay concealed, if not by some ancient magic?

It seems to him that in a matter of a few steps they had traversed an age back and fallen through to a place outside the grid of modern maps. Private and sealed off from the passage of time outside, it feels a remnant of how the world had once been meant to be. Technically, they are in a spacious domed cave – but it does not feel like one. It is free of musty, stagnant smells, and breath comes easy and sweet, with a glimpse of starlight shimmering in like gem-dust from an opening far overhead.

While below… Brilliantly coloured emerald mosses of every conceivable variety cover the uneven floor as though a velvet rug, like an enchanted forest seen from far, far above. The light is dream-like and soft, and he can hear yet again, far in the distance, Elven voices singing – or perhaps it is only the water humming a melody to itself. It may be the Age of Man out in the world, a world where their titles have replaced their names, but they can take refuge from it here.

The air is warm and gently muggy against his skin. The source of the warmth is not only apparent but altogether the centerpiece, the very point of this place.

Several heavy stone steps, formed from the body of the cave itself and parted by the stream running down the middle, lead up to an overflowing pool. The water moves around, agitated by unseen heat bubbling from within, and a hazy mist hangs over the glowing surface. It is a bathing pool that could very comfortably fit one – or in very close proximity, two.

The unspoken implications run hot through Aragorn’s blood.

His heart high in his chest, at last he looks back to his guide.

Faramir stands facing him squarely, watching him with great intensity. The lamp pole which had served a handy distraction before, is now put out of the way, planted securely into a crevice between two boulders.

Clad in his Elven robes, in this faery setting, it is as though he comes before Aragorn anew. Suddenly the King is reminded of Noldorin Elves, their lucent ivory of skin and absolute black of ebony hair, hearts hidden safely away behind studied blank expressions. So, too, has the Steward learnt to meet any monumental upheaval with a straight face. Chin held high, he stands tall and seemingly unabashed as his daring tactic is finally laid plain for the High King to judge. But in the Steward’s grey eyes swells a stormy darkness, and colour rises high in his cheeks.

“Faramir…” Aragorn is not quite certain where even to begin. When has Faramir conceived of this plan, how long had he dwelled on it just as Aragorn delayed putting his desire into mere words? The absolute leap of mad faith it must have taken to execute tonight.

Faith or else utter desperation.

A frown touches Faramir’s brow and he shakes his head in warning for Aragorn not to spook the moment. The air between them is taut like the bowstrings of an Elven host.

“I have loved you so hard, for so long,” Faramir says flatly, almost like an accusation.

Something falls away in Aragorn at the fearless simplicity of these words.

It had not crossed his mind to call it that, too hallowed a name for his untamable hunger. But spoken by Faramir, it makes immediate, irrefutable sense, and he accepts it at once. He knows it shows in his face, too, because he sees it mirrored in the change in Faramir’s expression, the winter melting away.

“Why must it hurt so much?” Faramir asks in a half whisper, as though not trusting his voice.

“Faramir, I am so sorry.”

“No, nothing to be sorry for, serves me right for the audacity to desire the High King’s heart,” Faramir says with an attempt at mirth. Then he grows serious again, “But know this – you have already given me more than any man could hope to find in a lifetime. For years, you have carried my dreams, you have been my star in the sky. Since I laid eyes on you, I knew you would bring Gondor peace – just as that you have taken away my peace, or what chance I had for one. Yet the impossible love that you had set alight in my heart without your own knowing – it has led, and shielded, and carried me through. It gives me reason to rise on mornings insurmountably dark with the weight of old sorrows, it gives meaning to every loss, it makes every joy tenfold the greater. And for this I could never thank you enough. But I am only a man. And I have grown weary of waiting, and watching, and wanting…”

“Faramir!” Aragorn exclaims. “If only but for a minute had I known. If I could have dared imagine…”

“Dared imagine, my king? Do you not know what you are, how inescapable it is to love you? Will you not believe me when I tell you that the selfsame dreams that haunt your waking nights – that I have seen them, too? That when I wake on the morrow after a restless non-sleep – your presence lingers with me still. To think of being with you is a headier drink than any Elven wine. That time by the river, when we swam and there were dragonflies, and you almost touched me but didn’t, and I walked away – I have cursed myself, forever after. We do not choose what calls to us, only if we should heed. I have led you here, my lord, and so you have followed. But to this moment I still do not know what… What will you say to me?”

Aragorn does not know how it happened, whether it was his feet or Faramir’s that have cut the distance between them, but there is nearly none left. And for once it does not rouse shame or bewilderment. Daring swells in him with surety, a hot resolve he has not known since his days of charging into battle with bared sword.

“Yes. I say, yes.”

The barrier that had stood impermeable between King and Steward, is all at once no more.

He is holding Faramir by the hands, without knowing how it happened either, but it does not matter. Against the feeling of Faramir’s skin on his, nothing can matter. How can such an everyday, innocent touch be so entirely rewritten to take on all the meaning in the world?

Years fall away, like a heavy winter cloak cast aside with the arrival of spring, and suddenly, overwhelmed with joyous relief, he laughs – and Faramir laughs in return.

As Faramir cleaves to him with cautious eagerness, Aragorn wonders at the living warmth of the younger man’s body through the thin Elven silk. The arresting reality of his touch, a shock to all his sense. The warrior strength sleeping in him, unneeded in this time of peace but forever set into his frame by years of dark vigil past. This is what he had always known it would feel like – only better. He cannot think straight any longer, but he recognises a sense of completion, a relief so tremendous he wants to weep for joy.

Then once again, they are on the move, now with unconcealed urgency – and this time it is Aragorn leading, pushing Faramir up the stairs to the hot water. There is no grace to trying to walk and embrace at the same time, and certainly no king who could be bothered to remember his reputation would care to be seen stumbling along with the haste of a smitten youth, entangled with his steward in a mess of bodies trying to stay aligned and roving hands trying to find purchase.

Somewhere along the way his fingers fumble across the sash of Faramir’s robes. The only natural response to such discovery is to pull at the loosely done knot. At which point he meets proof that Faramir had not been exaggerating in his earlier comment that this form of attire is exceedingly fast to be relieved of.

He feels rather than hears the fluid fabric fall to their feet.

A soft gasp from Faramir’s lips confirms that his steward was wearing nothing beneath.

The moment stands still, and it seems neither one of them even breathes. Then, before Aragorn can lean away to let his eyes confirm what he already knows with the rest of his body, Faramir takes him on the face with both hands and kisses him full on the mouth, hard and deep.

As he kisses Faramir back, Aragorn finally knows that his hope beyond hope, which he had dared not give shape nor form in words or image, is not only graciously tolerated, but fully returned.

Thank you for reading! To be continued…

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