Faramir FanFiction Archive

Chosen Roads (PG-13)

Written by Sileya

Type: LOTR FPS
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: We don’t know them, and we don’t claim to. We just like their faces and names.
Beta: legomyarrow
Pairings: Aragorn/Faramir
Archive: Author sites, OEAM, AV
Notes: Written for helenhighwater. I owed her 600 words, but this one had a life of its own. She got 1,600.
Summary: Faramir shares concerns for his future with his King.

---

Chosen Roads

“What distresses you, friend Faramir?”

The newly recognized Steward turned his chin from the view of the slowly dying light of day to see the soon-to-be-crowned King in the doorway. Faramir’s lips turned up. Aragorn still eschewed the trappings of his new office, and more often than not wore leather trousers and a plain though rich-colored jerkin as he visited with his friends and subjects. His forward nature and blunt honesty had already endeared him to many, Faramir included.

“Do not let me trouble you, your Majesty…”

“Ah, Faramir, please. I have asked you to call me Aragorn, have I not?” Aragorn reminded with a small smile.

Faramir’s smile widened, and he nodded. “Aye, Aragorn,” he said, nodding a bit.

“Your smile is a welcome addition to this shaded balcony,” Aragorn commented. “Will you tell me why it was of late not to be found?”

The younger man’s lips twitched. “Nerves, Aragorn. Worse nerves than I have ever endured. Even when riding to Osgiliath I was not so eaten inside with worry, for at least then I was convinced of the surety of my impending death. But now…”

Aragorn’s head tilted in question as he approached the balcony wall and braced his elbows upon the stone, mirroring Faramir’s pose. “But now?” he prodded gently.

Faramir sighed and glanced at his King, lips pressed together as he attempted to gauge the impact of his words. “Your crowning is only seven days hence.”

“Aye, and I do not need a reminder, I thank you,” Aragorn retorted mildly, drawing a soft snort from the younger man.

“There will be more to that day, as you know,” Faramir ventured.

The King nodded slowly. “You worry over your nuptials,” he said quietly, lowering his eyes. It made him think of what he had hoped for himself, and his heart ached with every beat.

Faramir sighed. “Indeed. Although I trust my Lady Éowyn to be sure of herself and my troth, I am…nervous for what will come to pass.”

Eyes sliding to his Steward, Aragorn chuckled, happily distracted from his own deep sadness. “Might you be more vague, Faramir? I think I yet understand far too much.”

The younger man blushed. He stuttered a bit when he started speaking. “She is not the only one worthy to wear white on our wedding night,” he admitted.

Aragorn’s brows both rose, and he blinked in honest surprise. He turned his head back to the view, and some quiet moments passed. “I see,” he finally commented.

“Indeed,” Faramir murmured, looking blindly out over the fields himself, letting the wind blow upon his heated cheeks.

After a longer period of quiet, the King turned to study Faramir’s profile. “Have you no experience with women?” he asked quietly.

Faramir’s eyes closed tightly for a moment, then he sighed and relaxed, glancing to Aragorn with a slight roll to his eyes. “No. My father and his whims kept me close by, not to mention Boromir’s protectiveness.” Aragorn smiled at the mention of his passed companion as Faramir continued. “And then the training, and when I became a Ranger the war was already raging. Twas no opportunity.”

Aragorn simply nodded, his hands closing together, fingers loosely clasped. “Have you no experience with men?” he asked bluntly.

The younger man’s fair face flushed deeply, and he shook his head yet again. “I heard them, sometimes, in the night,” he admitted. “But I dared not try. I was the Steward’s son.”

Nodding again, Aragorn turned to lean his hip against the wall. He pulled out his pipe and took his time lighting it, enjoying the rich pipeweed as they stood together quietly. He ordered his thoughts and began anew. “Will you share your worries with me? Perhaps I may be of some slight assistance.”

Faramir rubbed his hand over his eyes, bolstering his courage. Aragorn would not scorn him, he told himself. “I fear I will not…satisfy her. I know the composition of the act, of course…” he paused to draw a shaky breath. “Even moreso I think I fear most kissing her.”

Aragorn had no reply, so he simply watched the younger man until Faramir raised his eyes to encounter the older man’s gaze. “I have ere to even attempt more than the most basic of such things,” Faramir explained awkwardly.

Considering Faramir’s quandary soberly, as was his nature, Aragorn puffed on his pipe a while before speaking up again. “I would seek to assuage your concern, if you might allow it,” he offered.

The Steward glanced to him, amusement warring with patent disbelief. “However might you accomplish such a task?”

“I will not. You will,” Aragorn replied. He tamped down his pipe and set it aside before leaning back against the wall. “Kiss me.”

Faramir’s eyes bulged. “I beg your pardon?” he stammered.

Aragorn’s visage broke into a broad, honest smile, and a laugh rumbled from his chest. “You did not mishear, Faramir. Kiss me, and I shall allay your fears.”

“Surely you jest.” Faramir scrambled for something to say.

“Not at all,” Aragorn said seriously. “I merely wish to help you. Here, I will offer up examples. First greet me as you would were you returning from a long journey.”

The Steward went immediately to one knee and bowed his head, right hand over his heart.

The King stifled a chuckle and shook his head slightly. He reached down to urge Faramir to his feet. “Friend Faramir,” he greeted formally as they grasped each the other’s arms, and before the younger man realized it, they had exchanged warm kisses to each cheek.

“There, you see, you have given and received kisses,” Aragorn said, eyes dancing.

Faramir actually smiled and shook his head. “You are clever, Aragorn.”

The older man smiled widely and reached up with both hands to cup Faramir’s cheeks. “My dear friend,” he greeted quietly before leaning to press a soft kiss to the corner of Faramir’s mouth. The Steward blinked and looked at him, nonplussed.

“You try it,” Aragorn encouraged.

Several possible responses considered passing Faramir’s lips, but instead he grasped Aragorn’s right arm with his and said his name quietly, then leaned forward to kiss the very corner of the other man’s mouth lightly. He felt for an instant the brush and prickle of beard upon his lips, and he drew back, unconsciously licking his lower lip, lowering his eyes to the stone.

The King’s eyes riveted upon the soft flesh of Faramir’s mouth as the red lips were moistened. “Now…you have kissed Éowyn, have you not?” he asked, his voice a bit darker and on the edge of husky.

Faramir glanced up and nodded. “Show me,” Aragorn invited.

The younger man swallowed and stepped close. His hand shook minutely as he lifted it to cup Aragorn’s cheek, lifting his chin ever so slightly before he pressed the whole of their matched lips together warmly, but gently. When he pulled back, the King could see his blue eyes darkening, as the sky before a storm.

“Any other?” Aragorn rasped.

Without nodding, Faramir leaned in again. This kiss was more searching, more fluid as his lips moved against Aragorn’s, and just as he moved away the barest slide of his tongue met the lower edge of Aragorn’s mouth.

Surprised, the King gasped as the eroticism of Faramir’s kiss affected him. The Steward pulled back in alarm, but Aragorn firmly held his elbow so that he could not step away. “Friend Faramir,” he said, the slightest drawl in his words, “you have been holding back,” he observed.

Faramir swallowed hard on the arousal that was threatening. Even such kisses – with a man, with his King – struck him as intensely personal. “Perhaps,” he allowed shakily.

“Now,” Aragorn whispered as he pulled Faramir close into his arms. “Show me how you want to kiss Éowyn.” The King saw the immediate flicker in Faramir’s eyes as they turned liquid and tossed like the ocean waves. He barely had drawn a full breath when the Steward’s hand slid to his jaw, and his lips were firmly captured in a full-blown kiss.

When Faramir teased Aragorn’s lips apart to deepen the intimate contact, it was as if lightning struck them both, and the kiss turned intensely passionate, heated and wet. They clutched at each other as they gave up breathing to extend their unexpectedly fiery union.

They finally parted, gasping for breath, color high on their cheeks, lips wet from the other’s mouths. They stood there, chests pressed close, sharing the heat of their bodies, Aragorn’s hand about the back of Faramir’s neck, the younger man’s hands buried in the King’s long, dark hair.

When eyes the color of the sea’s depths met those reflecting the spring sky, an understanding passed between them – a sting of recognition, a pang of mourning, and a settling of resignation within their breasts as they slowly separated and put their feet back upon their chosen roads, the moment of another future’s possible birthing slipping from their willingly opened fists. It was the end of one momentary twist of fate, and the beginning of another future only slightly changed from what had existed moments before.

They stood there quietly against the balcony wall, their pulses subsiding as the wind rustled their clothes and their hair, and finally the King spoke.

“Trust me, my friend. You have nothing to fear.”

A smile pulled at the corners of Faramir’s mouth before bursting into being, and the younger man turned his chin with a quiet chuckle to behold the man who would now be more than his King – he would also be his friend and trusted confidante.

That chuckle was echoed, and in pleasant, companionable silence, they looked out toward the setting sun.