Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 2: Gifts

Weeks passed as days in Minas Tirith for Faramir, as he found himself easily swept up again in the quick pace of city living. Too many hours were spent in arduous meetings with Elessar and the councilors as they drew up new legislation, and Faramir began to remember why he had been glad to live away from the incessant arguing and backhanded insults that always went into law-making.

A few nights he would spend with some of his former men in the taverns, taking meat and ale with the old rangers, glad to see how the years had treated the fellows of his company.

But the friends he revisited with the most fervor were the books in the King’s library. In his free afternoons, he would sit at the large table under the window, having undertaken Elessar’s research, in spite of his protests. Aragorn was hard-pressed to lure Faramir from his work-table, which Faramir suspected it was mostly out of guilt due to the extra work he had undertaken on his behalf. But he could usually let himself be pulled away long enough to share the evening meal with his hosts, though he would not stay long at the table after his glass of after-dinner wine was emptied.

He was grateful to have someone to share supper conversation with again, especially a pair so filled with light and joy as Aragorn and Arwen. It relieved Faramir that he felt no bitterness when he looked upon them together, he did not begrudge them the happiness they had so long suffered for. No, that was not what drove him from the table each night into the solitude of his library.

It was how the King watched him.

Each time his deep blue irises would lock upon Faramir, the Steward could not help the deep flush that crept across his body as his heart abandoned its steady rhythm to pound raggedly upon his ribs. It unnerved him greatly, that his King’s gaze could leave him feeling so flustered for no apparent reason, the open care offered in Aragorn’s eyes too much for Faramir to accept. It left Faramir feeling vaguely wicked each time he looked away hurriedly; instead studying the patterns on the fine silver plates they dined off of as if they could give him the answer as to why his body reacted so shamefully in the presence of his Lord. But no matter how he interpreted the glittering whirls as he stabbed his fork at them, they never revealed more than new excuses for a quick escape from the table and fresh questions for Faramir to turn in his mind as he lay awake in his lonely bed at night.

“Faramir? Do you ever sleep anymore?” Aragorn’s good natured voice was tinged with concern as he found his friend in the exact same position he had left him in the night before: hunched over a pile of dusty books and documents in the library, scribbling madly at an increasing pile of papers before him.

“Only when the mood strikes me.” Faramir looked up and smiled crookedly, surprising himself with the ease he felt that morning, even as his pulse quickened at the sound of Elessar’s voice. “I imagine another couple of weeks like this, and I will be finished with the report you requested.”

“I did not request any report from you, Faramir. You volunteered for it.” Aragorn shook his head as he approached him. The morning light shone off Faramir’s hair, giving it the texture of golden silk as he absently pushed little wisps behind his ears, only to have them fall in his eyes again. Aragorn’s chest tightened at the sight, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious as he neared the younger man.

He looked over Faramir’s shoulder at the huge tome he had splayed before him on the desk, and sighed heavily as the Steward turned back to his work. Abruptly, Aragorn slammed the book shut, and Faramir barely had enough time to jerk his finger away from the passage he was transcribing before it was crushed between pounds of parchment.

“Aragorn! I was almost done with that paragraph!” Faramir was annoyed, more by the pleased smirk that had crossed Elessar’s face than at the interruption of his work.

“I thought you had all the books in here memorized by now,” Aragorn’s voice held no mockery, only humor, as he pulled from behind his back a smaller book bound in rich red leather, “but I’m sure you do not have this one committed to memory yet.”

Faramir took the book offered to him, as mesmerized by the fine bookbinding as a dwarf would have been by skillfully wrought jewelry. The leather felt buttery smooth under his hands, and the title was embossed in elvish, the silver-leaf lettering gleaming as brightly upon the spine as if it had been penned with moonlight.

“What is this, Aragorn?” It was still awkward for him to call his liege by anything other than title, but the King had insisted time and again that he did not want to be addressed so by his guest and friend.

“It was from the private library of Elrond himself, a collection of old elvish tales and songs.” Aragorn said proudly. “Arwen brought it with her when she left Rivendell.”

“It’s beautiful. But I cannot read much Elvish.” Faramir replied, the awe in his voice laced with more than a little regret.

“Ah, but this is what makes this volume exceptional,” Aragorn opened the book carefully, more out of reverence than out of fear of damaging it, “it was meant to be read by both men and Elves.”

Upon each page were two neat columns of writing, one in the language of the men of the West, the other in the poetic script of the elves. After every few chapters were artfully painted illustrations in full color, the hues so vibrant it seemed to Faramir that the little figures of ink moved upon the page.

“I’ve never seen such a fine book before.” Faramir breathed as he caressed the paper, amazed to find it as pliant as cloth, “it must have been bound no more than a few years ago.”

The King chuckled. “That is where the true beauty of Elven craftwork lays. This book was made over a thousand years ago.” He laughed again as Faramir’s jaw went slack in amazement, “so, yes, it is still comparatively new.”

Faramir closed it gently and handed it to Aragorn, “I would very much like to borrow it sometime,” he said softly.

“Faramir, it is for you!” Aragorn’s heart squeezed as the Steward’s eyes filled with wonder, yet flickered with confusion, as if he almost didn’t dare hope he could possess such a treasure. “I though it was the custom in Gondor to give gifts when one’s friends reach their day of birth.”

Faramir blinked hard several times, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What day is today?”

When Aragorn told him, Faramir shook his head and let out a slight laugh. “I forget almost every year.”

“Well, I’m not letting you forget this year. Nor am I going to let you spend it locked in this library.” Aragorn looked out the promising day through the open window behind Faramir. “Come, the weather is still warm enough for the two of us to venture out in comfort. Will you accompany me out on a horse-ride along the river?”

Faramir’s first instinct was to refuse, especially as the full meaning of what was passing between them hit him. Not only had Aragorn remembered his birthday and had given him possibly the most luxurious gift he had ever received, but he genuinely desired to spend time with Faramir. Did he trust himself enough not to humiliate himself in front of his King?

But as he looked into Aragorn’s eager face, the open anticipation, Faramir could not refuse. The slight fluttering that had invaded his stomach when Elessar had entered the room became a violent flurry as Faramir swallowed his fear and answered honestly.

“I’d love to.”

The late afternoon sun threw jeweled light off the blue Anduin, dazzling Faramir as he basked in the dappled shade at the river’s edge. Beside him, Aragorn silently tugged at the thread he was holding, intently watching the large fish that was circling closer to the bait he had cast into the water. Only the whisper of the tall grasses could be heard over the incessant gurgle of the water, punctuated now and again by the chirps and calls of red-breasted birds that fluttered from tree to tree. Faramir shifted against the large trunk he was reclining against as he watched Aragorn’s attempt to catch their dinner, sighing contentedly as he drank in the quiet.

They had set out at noon from Minas Tirith with six of the King’s guard, who knew how to ride at a far enough distance so the King and Steward could have their privacy, but also reinforcements should the need arise. Aragorn and Faramir had amused themselves by racing each other along the river, much to their guard’s dismay, devouring the freedom of the land and open air, feeling like escapees from the duties that kept them bound behind high walls.

The pair had ridden farther than they had intended, too caught up in the call of the green land to take heed of the sun’s position in the sky. By the time they had stopped at a quiet beach at the river’s edge to let their horses drink, the sun had been well on her way to the cradle of the horizon. They would not have returned to the city until long after dark if they turned back at that moment, and neither man had the desire to leave the lush peace so soon. So they had made a camp at the riverbank, carefully picking a bend that would shield them from their guards to at least give them the illusion that they were alone. Faramir had ridden back to alert the men of their plans, who set up their own camp at a discreet distance.

Aragorn jerked the line suddenly, and the silver fish flew out of the water and landed on the graveled beach in a slippery, thrashing dance. Looking very pleased with himself, Aragorn wrestled the fish into stillness, getting his muslin shirt thoroughly wet in the process. Faramir was glad that both of them had opted to wear their more rugged traveling clothes than the riding finery of nobility; it would have been a sight to see them return to their city with their silks and velvets streaked with fish scales and dirt.

“He should be big enough to feed us both, don’t you think?” Aragorn held up his prize proudly, but almost dropped it as the fish gave a final, mighty spasm in the hope of escape.

“Indeed. He’ll make a fine dinner.” Faramir laughed at the struggle as he stood, brushing the stray sand from his breeches. “I’ll have the fire ready by the time you have him cleaned.”

The shadows were blending together in the twilight by the time Aragorn and Faramir sat down at the crackling fire to eat, using their hands and knives to carve at the succulent meat. Few words had passed between them since they had left Minas Tirith, but it was a comfortable silence, each simply being glad to have another to share the serenity with.

It was Faramir who broke the silence first.

“There is a winery near Firien Woods, very small, but very good, that makes a vintage of white wine that would compliment this fish well.” Faramir rolled the taste of the flaky meat over his tongue again. “Yes, it would go perfectly. The wine has a slightly apple-like flavor, but is not overly sweet, and yet not too dry. Quite mild.”

Aragorn grinned. “I never knew you were such a connoisseur.”

Faramir shrugged, throwing a shy, sideways smile at Aragorn, “there are many things that people don’t know about me.” Suddenly feeling a little foolish for being so open, Faramir turned away, hoping the dim light hid the hot blush creeping across his face.

Aragorn immediately saw the change in his friend, the warmth that had shown in his eyes only seconds before now frosted over in that protective layer he constantly wrapped around himself. Faramir was so hurt, so afraid to open himself; Aragorn knew he would have to tread carefully if he hoped for the younger man to trust him.

Hoping to lighten the mood a little, Aragorn cut off a large piece of the fish, and stabbed it on the end of his knife. He raised it, as if in salute, and turned to Faramir.

“Come, we have no wine, but I still would propose a toast.” Aragorn’s heart rose to see the mirth return to Faramir’s fine features. When Faramir also had a chunk of meat held aloft, his lips twisted in amusement, Aragorn cleared his throat, and spoke as if he were addressing a great host, “to Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, and Prince of Ithilien. To Faramir, warrior, scholar, and poet. To Faramir, my friend who is wise, noble, and brave. May you live to see many more birthdays in peace and in health.”

Aragorn wondered if he had made a mistake as he saw Faramir’s eyes grow wide and bright during his speech, a hint of shimmer on his lower lids. They clinked their blades together in toast, and Faramir swallowed hard a few times before taking the fish into his mouth. By the time he had finished his mouthful he had mastered himself again, and took a drink from his skin of water before trusting his voice again.

“Thank you, my Liege.” Faramir’s voice was filled with genuine gratitude, and more than a little reverence. He was silent for a long moment, finishing the last of his meal, and Aragorn could see a debate roiling in Faramir’s mind as he stared through the mesmerizing fire. Finally it seemed as if he had come to a decision, and when Faramir turned to Aragorn he was amazed to see that his prince’s eyes were completely clear of the cold fog.

“In all my years, there have only been two others who ever saw my day of birth as a cause for celebration.” Faramir sighed, and shifted lower against the fallen tree he sat against, “my father never had much time to really acknowledge either mine or Boromir’s birthdays, and I don’t remember what my mother did for me, I was so small when she died. So Boromir would always take it on himself to do something special for me, and I for him on his day.” Faramir pulled his pipe out of his belt pouch, and handed it to Aragorn as he filled his own pipe from the full sachet of pipe weed he had pulled from his pack.

“One year, I think it was the year I turned seven, Boromir convinced the cooks to make a huge cake for us. We hid it from father, since he didn’t let us have sweets, and we didn’t realize that he would have made an exception if we had reminded him what day it was. So, being the cunning children we were, we snuck into one of the linen closets and ate the whole thing, scared to leave any evidence.” Faramir chuckled. “We were so sick that night. The only reason father didn’t punish us was because he knew that nothing could have been more miserable than the bellyaches we had for the next two days.”

Aragorn laughed softly with him, and passed Faramir back his filled pipe. The more the prince spoke, the more it dawned on him how truly striking Faramir’s face was when it was free of doubt and shadow. The severe angles of his cheeks and jaw had softened, and the clear, wide-set eyes twinkled from behind the ubiquitous stray wisps of coppery hair. But it was Faramir’s lips that intrigued Aragorn the most, for they were so full they were nearly pouting when they weren’t tightened into a thin line, glistening pink as Faramir ran the tip of his tongue over the bottom lip after taking a long puff from his pipe .

It was Aragorn’s turn to look away into the fire, hoping Faramir had not seen him studying him so intently. He didn’t want to scare him, give him the wrong impression. But Aragorn was beginning to question his own motives for bringing Faramir out into the wild alone; the same impulse that had driven him to send Faramir the invitation to Minas Tirith, the same longing that had him seeking out his Steward whenever given the chance. ‘I’m supposed to be a friend to Faramir, not a threat or confusion,’ he reminded himself as he took another deep draw from his pipe.

“Father did host a dinner banquet when I turned eighteen,” Faramir continued, “I think it was mostly because he had had one for Boromir, and knew others would look badly upon him if he did not for me. It was, by far, the most depressing party I’d ever attended. Most of the guests were father’s friends, and all the talk centered around the rising threat in the East. After dinner, Boromir was able to sneak us both out of the Citadel, no easy feat, but we managed to pass undetected. We got roaring drunk at a small tavern nearby with some of our friends from the military, and Boromir drank so much he passed out at the table for a while. Then we had to sneak back home with me practically carrying Boromir the whole way! It was a miracle we didn’t get caught that time, but both of us were so hung over the next morning…” Faramir’s eyes were misty with memory, and he blew out a stream of gray smoke as he mused quietly for a minute on his lost brother.

“Sounds like your best birthdays were the ones that left you ill the next day.” Aragorn said, suddenly feeling a pang longing for his own foster brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, whom he had not seen since the ending of the war. The three of them had been good friends, and there had been much love between them; but Aragorn had been far, far younger than they and never had built as tight a bond with them as Faramir had with Boromir.

Faramir thought for a minute. “Close. I think the best birthday I ever had was the in the second year Éowyn and I were married…” he trailed off, his throat tightening again.

“I remember that day,” Aragorn said gently, hoping to lend Faramir strength in a joined memory, “you were both still living in Minas Tirith. The look on your face when you walked in and found us all waiting for you at the table,” Aragorn chuckled, “you really had completely forgotten it was your birthday. Éowyn had no trouble keeping that dinner a secret from you, even though she planned it for weeks.”

Faramir smiled wanly, wistfully, seeing in his mind’s eye the delight on Éowyn’s face when he had walked into the dining hall. He had expected nothing more than a quick meal before returning to his paperwork, and instead had found a feast prepared in his honor, his dearest living friends and kin all waiting for him to take his place at the head of the table. It had been a small party, no more than a dozen guests or so, but it was exactly how he had wanted it. He remembered how his wife had taken his hand and led him to his chair, kissing his cheek and beaming at the pleased shock on his face, and he knew he was the luckiest man in all of Arda to have a wife as loving and caring as Éowyn…

“I am sorry about Éowyn, my friend.” Aragorn’s soft voice broke his reverie, and Faramir shook his head to clear it of his wife’s beautiful face. He was met by Aragorn’s knowing eyes, filled with regret and the offer of comfort, as he took Faramir’s empty pipe and refilled it with fresh pipe weed without needing to ask.

He knew, then. There was sense in lying to him anymore.

“As am I,” Faramir sighed, “out of everyone I’ve ever lost, hers is the absence that affects me the most.”

“How long has she been gone?” Aragorn handed back Faramir’s pipe, his voice soothing and even, hoping to encourage Faramir to speak freely.

“She left about a month before I came to Minas Tirith, so, about three months now.” Faramir shook his head again. “Feels like it’s been three years.”

They sat in silence for a long minute, Aragorn not wanting to ask the question that was burning in his mind lest it push Faramir too far too fast. But Faramir met his gaze, and when Aragorn saw the naked sorrow laid open for him, the same anguish he had seen when Faramir had first arrived, Aragorn breathed in shakily and continued on. Faramir needed to speak of this with someone. He’d held his pain bottled up for far too long.

“Faramir, where did she go?” Aragorn asked gently.

Faramir remained quiet a little while longer, and Aragorn feared he had indeed overstepped his bounds. The prince took a long draw off his pipe again, thinking, thinking, and finally deciding that he could trust his King with the delicate secret of his shame.

Hesitantly, Faramir told Aragorn of Éowyn’s past with the Lady Galadriel, of the burning desire for the elven queen that had never left her. He spoke of the distance that had grown between him and Éowyn, of the nights he would wake up alone long before the sun had risen, and of the red-faced maids that would not meet his eyes when he was in their presence the following day. He spoke of his denial, of his refusal to acknowledge Éowyn’s episodes as anything more than minor trysts to alleviate her boredom, even as she would turn her back to him every time he attempted to kiss her good-night. Finally, he told him of how he had let he go seek the great Lady, even though he feared that Éowyn would meet her grave trying to reach the fabled shores of Valinor.

Faramir’s voice was even, practically monotone as he spoke, stripped of all feeling. It was almost as if he were reciting history from a book, refusing to claim the emotions that a man feels when deserted by his wife. It was only Faramir’s eyes that betrayed his pain, the high walls lowered for once, and Aragorn’s heart almost broke for his friend as he saw just how deeply this abandonment had wounded him. No, it had more than wounded him. It had almost destroyed him.

By the time he stopped speaking, the moon had risen high in the clear, dark sky. Aragorn’s pipe weed pouch was half-emptied, as Faramir chain-smoked throughout his story, drawing long, hard pulls right before speaking of the most difficult parts. The river sang to them in that silence, as Aragorn searched for the right words to give Faramir some solace. But he could find no words that could fill the emptiness of Faramir’s heart, and instead, took his friend’s hand in his and squeezed it hard, lending his prince strength in solidarity.

Faramir squeezed back, suddenly feeling lighter than he had in months. He had not spoken to anyone of Éowyn’s estrangement, even while they were wrapped tightly in the thick of their conflict, and it had been a burden he had carried alone through these trying times. He looked at Aragorn, at the sadness he wore on his behalf, and was struck by how willingly this man, his King—no, his friend—shared his grief. Not since he had lost his brother had he met another he felt he could share his private thoughts so freely with. Never had the words come so unbidden in the presence of anyone else, never had he let any other man touch him this tenderly without recoiling.

“Thank you, Aragorn.” Faramir said quietly, suddenly very aware of the roughness of the King’s war hardened hand against his own, the latent strength of the fingers as they slowly stroked the back of Faramir’s hand unconsciously, sending little arcs of lightning across Faramir’s skin, “I didn’t realize how badly I needed to speak about this.”

The corners of Aragorn’s mouth rose, and he looked deeply into Faramir’s eyes again to fully acknowledge his thanks. The pain was still there, that Aragorn had expected, since it seemed to have been carved into the tiny blue lines of his irises, but it was greatly lessened, a bruise rather than a gaping wound.

But there, hidden in the bitterness and sorrow, lay something Aragorn did not expect, something that stole the breath straight from his lungs. Unbidden, the path to Faramir’s soul opened before him, revealing itself as an old road would when the thick overgrowth is pulled aside. Aragorn found himself tracing the conduit that he himself had forged what seemed like lifetimes ago, in hopes of pulling Faramir back from the Shadow as he had lain dying in the final days of the war. He had not realized the channel would remain open to him after so many years, and he felt himself melting in Faramir’s memories, visions flickering in Faramir’s pupils like light upon a dark wall:

He could see Faramir as a small boy, no older than five, cradled by a grief-stricken Boromir as they wept together at the foot of Finduilas’ deathbed. He watched as the years passed in a flash of seconds, the decades of scorn and ice he had borne from Denethor, the desperate yearning for even a kind word from his bitter father. Aragorn saw the heartbreak in Faramir as Boromir rode away to Rivendell, the last time he ever saw his beloved brother alive; and then as he saw him dead, a vision of mist and light floating along the river in the funeral boat Aragorn himself had prepared. He saw the life-long desperation with which Faramir had thrown himself into battle in the name of Gondor, only to fall under the Shadow’s poison arrows just as his people needed him the most. There was the hollow realization that he was all that remained of his bloodline when news of Denethor’s suicide reached him in the house of healing, joined with the crushing knowledge that his own father would have murdered him in grief and called it a mercy. He saw the bright beam of light that had appeared though this darkness, the White Lady of Rohan, as Faramir finally found peace and joy in a mutual love…which had been snatched from him just as easily as everything else had been.

But still, through that, there was a flame within him, a burning beauty that guttered and struggled to stay lit as it was buffeted on all sides by death, betrayal, and war. All hope had not left Faramir, it had just been cloaked in the cold, wet mantle of disbelief. Aragorn wanted to reach in, caress the little lick of light, stoke it into the blazing bonfire he knew could burn the residue of grief into scattering ashes…

They did not realize what they did, for logic had receded into afterthought as their two souls remerged to form one consciousness. When their lips met, it felt right, complete, as Aragorn gently cupped Faramir’s face with his free hand, tasting the smoky sweetness of the plump lips with his own. Their beards rasped softly against each other’s; and Faramir sighed into Aragorn’s hot mouth, flicking out his tongue to taste his King’s desire. The kiss grew deeper, richer, and Faramir entwined his fingers in Aragorn’s wind-tangled hair to draw him closer, savoring the feel of the silken strands as they brushed against his cheek.

The tiny light became more vivid with each subtle suck and delicate nip that Aragorn played across Faramir’s lips, and he felt his own soul grow brighter with each passing second. A deep, dark place long hidden inside Aragorn opened its arms and drank in the brilliance radiating from Faramir; Aragorn’s secret need, long repressed, glutted itself not on memory as it had for countless years, but now on the flavor of warm, wanting flesh.

They pulled away slowly, each taking a moment to relish the taste of the other still clinging moistly to their lips, before opening their lids almost in unison. Faramir’s eyes were clear of all darkness, and Aragorn had never seen anything so heart wrenchingly beautiful as the pure warmth and love that shone freely from the younger man’s eyes. Faramir was able to meet Aragorn’s gaze without flinching, and was delighted to see the serene bliss that flashed brightly as he stroked his stubbled cheek.

Saying nothing, for words were a pale imitation of the communication they had just shared, Faramir rested his head on Aragorn’s shoulder, and was surprised to find the King trembling.

Aragorn drew his arms protectively around Faramir, burying his nose in his soft curls and breathing in his musky scent. Even in this quiet afterglow his heart was racing faster than his horse across the open plain. In that kiss, he had touched an innocence long lost, something that Aragorn had truly believed he could never regain again.

“Faramir?” he finally asked, his voice thick with wonder.

“Mmm?” Faramir snuggled tighter against Aragorn, feeling the King’s words vibrate in his chest.

“Have you ever…” The words stuck, as if speaking them aloud would rob them of their full meaning.

Faramir sighed, and buried his face deeper into the fabric of Aragorn’s tunic, losing himself momentarily in the scent of campfire smoke, dried sweat, and…frightened fish.

For a moment, the healer feared that he had unraveled the good that he had just done, poking at the freshly raw emotions welling up from his charge. But then Faramir lifted his face again, smiling a little, and his voice was soft, yet clear.

“Once.” Faramir shifted more to look up at Aragorn. “You?”

“Very long ago.” Aragorn whispered. “When I was a young man.”

Not quite content with each other’s answers, but unwilling to risk the fragile peace they had found together, neither pressed to ask the same questions that burned in their minds. Instead, they fell silent again, watching the fire dwindle into coals. Faramir’s breathing became rhythmic on Aragorn’s chest, and the King found himself slipping into sleep as well. He shifted a little, trying not to disturb the beautiful man in his arms, but attempting to adjust them both into a more comfortable position. Faramir molded against him again instinctively, his face languid with sleep, and Aragorn was reminded of the vision he’d had of the grieving child in his big brother’s comforting embrace. His heart twisted again, and he stroked Faramir’s arm, the battle-sculpted muscles under the thick cloth reminding Aragorn of the long path of manhood that had led Faramir from his brother’s arms to his King’s.

“Good night, my prince.” Aragorn whispered, and deposited a kiss on the smooth forehead. Then pulling his cloak tighter around them both, Aragorn let sleep claim him as well, as the moon kept watch over their union.

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