Secret (PG) 
Written by Bubbles05 February 2006 | 52192 words
Part 7
Aragorn considered dismissing Faramir. The day had been long and arduous for both of them, perhaps even more difficult than the day previous, when the young steward had fled to Eden Aur and he had followed so desperately. His injury and Faramir’s distress had been trying. The day, however, had also seen them run up against each other and fly apart, then each wander in desolate solitude and finally return to try the encounter again. The day had seen Faramir open a door into dark and painful places and invite him for a look, a brief glimpse of the abyss in the human heart.
He sighed and turned back toward his desk. The distance over to it seemed massive, difficult to travel. His simple path back there seemed complex and uncertain. He had been in this position often enough, with Legolas. He had been the one to walk to that desk, pull the chair out, and summon the reluctant wayward elf for a lesson. Now he faced the same steps, the same actions, and they were strange to him.
But ‘twould happen this night, for Faramir had waited long enough already under the guilt of that crime. What he had begun and then abandoned in the garden — the way he had begun and then abandoned an eternal love with Finduilas, the way he had begun Faramir’s existence and then abandoned his own responsibility — he would finish before another moon came and went. If he were to wait for the new dawn, the dark of night would bring to him all his fears and doubts, and he would greet the sun not with certainty but with dread.
At the chair, he turned to face Faramir. “Come to me,” he called, holding out his hand.
With barely a reaction, Faramir heeded his command. Standing beside him, the young man glanced down at the chair and then met his eyes again.
“I had thought,” he said quietly, laying a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, “to have you lie over the edge of my desk. On the way from there to here I pondered it. What say you about that, Faramir?”
“I... my lord,” — and Faramir looked from the desk to the chair, back to the desk, eyes wide — “I do not know, my lord. The desk might be easier... ”
“That was my thought as well,” Aragorn agreed. “I said I had thought to do it, however. I have decided that ‘easier’ is not what either of us needs right now.”
“Nay, my lord?”
“Nay, Faramir. I believe that we both have sought our ease simply by doing what we have always done in the face of difficulty. Although I have made attempts to reach you, I have relied too heavily on my position of authority. I have relied on being the king, rather than being the man who is now a parent.” Aragorn ran his fingers over the back of the chair by which he stood. “I should have told you, Faramir. Instead I allowed you to believe that you had erred in your duty. Because I chose to remain silent, you were forced to assume on more than one occasion that you had failed your king and this city, this realm. Indeed, you had merely caused me the worry that plagues any father. These were my failings.” He sighed. “And you, Faramir... ”
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir put in. “I have been evasive and disobedient. Rather than hear you when you attempted to counsel me, I repeatedly turned away in resentment and anger. I have cast away much good sense in the doing of it, as well, indeed failing both my king and my realm. Although I did not wish to, I have. The strain I have caused you, the injuries I caused those warriors to receive... they were my failings, my lord. You might have died coming after me as you did. For the sake of an undisciplined steward a king might have died. You should not have followed—”
“Faramir, silence.” Aragorn pulled the chair back from the desk and sat. “I wish you to see your mistakes, but I will not have you reproach yourself for mine. And I will not have you question the merits of my decision to pursue you.” He shook his head. His throat felt tight; his stomach was a dull ache that he pushed from his thoughts. Ahead lay a path he would needs take. “We have both failed, Faramir,” he continued. “Much of our failing was our mutual inability to reach each other. But you take too much blame on yourself, both in suggesting that you are not worthy of my efforts and in not allowing yourself the excuse of your own strain. I have known this would be difficult for you.”
“It... has been,” Faramir admitted slowly.
Aragorn nodded. “Then come to me once again, young one. You have spent much time alone, but this day you have turned from your solitary wanderings and come to me, and I intend to honour that. I ask you to do the same.”
For a moment Faramir was silent, watching him with a look that suggested mild alarm or worry, or perhaps even a brush of sadness. ‘twas difficult to read that shifting, complex face. “I will... do my best, Sire,” the young man breathed.
“Good.” Leaning back in the chair, Aragorn met Faramir’s wide eyes and waited. He would utter no command, but trust the coming decision. Faramir’s honour required atonement, and atonement required... this. With Legolas, he would have simply reached out to grasp a soft, warm, slender wrist; the elf would have looked sorrowfully at him before surrendering to the necessary position. Yet there had been a time, he knew, when Legolas had faced him with anxiety. That time had long since passed, and now the prince could yield to him perhaps not easily, but at least not in fear.
Legolas had grown up in a very different home, though, than had Faramir. Legolas’ lessons had been of a different kind.
Time edged by. The office bathed itself in silence — Aragorn found it comfortable, at peace with itself. What did Faramir think? The young man looked anxious indeed, but not afeard. Not ready to bolt from his side. Moments move along their course and he waited. So much in life necessitated patience.
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir murmured, although no question had been posed, and became suddenly, obviously alert. The young man’s blue-grey eyes swept over his lap and up to his desk; Faramir reached out one hand to steady himself on the desk’s edge and then eased forward. With Aragorn’s hands as guides, Faramir lay himself over the waiting thighs and hung there, stiff and seemingly breathless.
Aragorn drew a shaky breath. Faramir was light, so light. Not unlike the elf – he had expected more weight. His son, though! The young man was slender of body and limb, and when he reflected on it he could not recall, of all those morning and evening meals in the dining hall, ever seeing Faramir really eat. Certainly not the way Gimli could eat. Or a hobbit, for that matter. Always a duty seemed to appear at some point. A quiet page slipping up beside the table to murmur a message to the captain. A scroll changing hands, and shortly thereafter Faramir politely excusing himself. The plate, never laden to begin with, would sit bereft, its contents growing cold, until a servant whisked it from sight.
Little wonder Faramir remained over-lean and angular whilst all around, including the king himself, had seen their angles smooth a touch into curves, their hollows fill. The health brought by plentiful meals and warm beds remained apparently elusive to Faramir, who held thinness and fatigue close at all times.
“That is good, Faramir,” he said, for want of better words. His tongue felt a need to keep moving, to soothe and explain and engage. But he wished not to alarm Faramir with talk of what would come next: the young man would know, certainly, what came next. Aragorn’s fingers crept around Faramir’s waist until they found lacings to untie. Hanging over him, Faramir did not move as he worked to loosen the breeches.
“Assist me, Faramir,” he bid. “Lift just a touch.”
“M-my lord?”
“Lift up so that I may lower your breeches, Faramir.”
Silence met his reply, then Faramir twisted to gaze at him over one shoulder. “Must I, Sire?”
Aragorn nodded. “You must,” he replied firmly. “This is how ‘tis done, always. I have had cause to address the wrongs of... others, in the past. I would address yours in like fashion.”
Faramir did not reply, but faced forward once more and eased himself slightly upward from Aragorn’s lap, allowing the king access. Aragorn worked quickly to untie the breeches and slip them midway down Faramir’s thighs; he heard what could have been a gasp from the young man but ignored it. A part of him urged delay, for given a little time he might succeed in easing Faramir’s tension. The lithe body across his lap could have been a board or a stick, and he wanted to see it relax. But another part of him screamed for action. Faramir had come to him, opened this door, and asked him to walk through it: whatever lay on its other side he would see. Raising his right hand, he brought it heavily down against the young man’s bared bottom.
The king turned away from him and walked back toward the desk. Faramir watched. His one hand still rested lightly on the door handle. Had he confessed that he was so terribly weary, that his eyes were filled with grit and his muscles wished only to relax, he would have been readily dismissed to his sleep. He said naught, however, and waited. Having walked from his garden solitude into the citadel’s very heart, right into the king’s office and the king’s life, he was loathe to walk out again with circumstances unresolved.
His own determination shook him. Only hours past he would not have been able to imagine such a moment. Such candid conversation with the king, and about such deep old things. Lord Denethor, who he had called Father out of ignorance, had stared right through him, occasionally stabbing a finger into his pride. And Lord Denethor had seen into the depths of him and read things there. But Lord Denethor had never gone quiet and tried to hear his feelings, nor studied him with interest and concern.
Now he wondered what more the king would wish to hear. His irresponsibility still rang in his own ears, and the sight of the guards pouring through the gate of Eden Aur like blood from a wound. King Elessar’s sacrifice, that might have been so much more of a sacrifice had the villager struck with just a touch more skill. Aye, he was guilty of much. Weakness and disobedience. Rashness, selfishness. Not least of his crimes was his own failure to see and hear. Like Denethor, perhaps like Denethor and oblivious to the pain he caused, he had responded to Elessar’s painful truth with anger, resentment, and a stubborn desire to turn away. Again and again this man had tried to counsel him; again and again he had politely ignored the caveats. And all the while Elessar had acted on his behalf. During the battle he should not have joined. In the town where he should never have been.
Aye, he was guilty.
The king’s grey eyes were on him. “Come to me,” Elessar called.
He crossed the room and stood beside the older man. He recounted his crimes with as much detail as he could relate. Much of his error, Elessar claimed, had come from not turning to the king, from closing himself off in isolation. Events had been somewhat stressful, but discomfort was no excuse. Elessar was sitting then, on the armless chair, and waiting for him. Lord Denethor had never really waited, had simply ordered him into place and seized him ferociously if he failed to move quickly enough. Learning, Faramir had become a swift penitent during such sessions in the steward’s study. That gruff voice had needed only hint that he should be over the desk, and he was over the desk. Reluctance to face punishment was cowardice. Cowardice only resulted in more pain.
Leaning on the desk to keep his balance, Faramir moved his body into place. ‘twas an awkward position to hold, but he held it. He was an expert at positions. Long years he had trained, his accolades appearing bruise-blue and red. He heard the king’s voice float above him, but his mind wandered down historic roads and studied the land around. What award would he come away with this time?
But the king was bidding him do something, and he knew not what. “My lord?” he asked hesitantly, cursing himself. Not paying attention — fool!
“Lift up so that I may lower your breeches, Faramir.”
Opening his mouth to reply, Faramir found himself without words. He had oft been ordered to remove his clothing before Lord Denethor, but now his mind and body both rebelled against such a possibility. Such an idea — exposing himself before the king! Shifting, he looked to the legs which supported him. King Elessar was not wont to dress the part of king unless compelled by conference or ceremony: much of the time the man wore simple shirt, breeches, and those boots that had seen their share of Middle Earth. He twisted his neck and upper body and managed to meet Elessar’s eye. “Must I, Sire?” he asked.
Aye. ‘twas required; ‘twas tradition. Apparently this was the way. Faramir looked back to the floor and then, gripping the chair’s legs, pushed his body upward. He felt hands go to work on his breeches. The breeches were gone then, pushed out of the way. He settled back down, tense. Through his mind flitted duties. There was a pile of lower-level diplomatic correspondence on his waiting desk, and he had informed the head of the guard that he would be reviewing leave schedules before day’s end. The men, faced with reports of orcs and then with the rebuilding of the city after the attack, many of them also healing from their first encounter in the forest, had rallied through Yule. Their families had seen little of them at what was supposed to be a happy and peaceful time. Now spring approached: they would have their days of ease in the warming weather.
A crack echoed through the chamber, severing him from his thoughts, and he gasped. King Elessar’s hand came down again, and this time he felt the heavy sting of it. ‘twas not especially bad, not like the bite of a cane or a whip. Hanging in place, Faramir wondered if such punishment was appropriate for one who had nigh caused the death of several brave men and a king. Lord Denethor would have seen the need for something more immediately forceful — at the very least a strap. Something that would at once have convinced the wayward son of his failings and set a suitably condemnatory tone. But the king seemed — had seemed, if he pondered it, from the beginning — to treat his crimes less like telling failures and more like simple mistakes in judgement. Of course Elessar had accused him of stupidity, but then later for that there had been both apology and retraction.
Strange. Never had Lord Denethor retracted a slur.
Faramir shook his head and forced himself back to the chamber, to what was happening. The king had vowed to remain with him and to “honour” his presence. He had agreed to do likewise for the king. Yet only moments into his correction he was allowing himself to wander away and hide within his mind! Scowling, he curled his fingers so that his short nails dug into the flesh of his palms, and he relished the little sparkle of additional pain they caused. So far Elessar’s hand had been light, although he did feel a sustained sort of burn over his hindquarters, and with each ensuing slap it grew a touch. Lord Denethor would have had him in agony long before, and would by this time have been determinedly thrashing at his deepest inadequacies so as to drive them out of him forever. And he would have been gasping, clenching his jaw and his fists not to shame himself with cries; he would have been praying for the strength to endure. He would have been escaping into the peace and beauty of his thoughts, leaving his embattled body behind.
Perhaps the king, despite having “addressed wrongs” in the past, truly did not know how ‘twas supposed to be done.
Faramir’s tension remained. Aragorn doggedly continued his work, resisting the urge to believe he had no effect whatsoever on the young man. Having elicited a single sharp intake of breath with his first blow but naught after that, he did wonder. He had covered Faramir’s lean backside with a dusky pink, had extended the colour down to the tops of the young man’s thighs, and was now focussed on the backside once more. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was a cadent and somewhat sorrowful one, alone in the chamber, striking the walls and fading out of existence. Them and the sound and naught else; even the fire seemed to have gone silent. Faramir neither shifted in place nor wriggled even a touch, nor kicked long legs when his hand landed — he might as well have been whacking the desk for all the reaction he got! Ai... by this time, Legolas would have been sniffling, helped along the road to grief by a heavy conscience that made each slap more painful. By this time, Merry or Pippin would have been wailing fit to startle the deaf. But Faramir, other than that one gasp and a subsequent clenching of fists, had shown no sign of even noticing the discipline. Did the young man’s tolerance for pain hover somewhere impossibly high above his reach, accessible only to a brute with a horsewhip? He would never injure the slight body beneath his hands, not even to teach a lesson.
The only thing to do was continue, carefully. Tilting his head, he studied the set of Faramir’s shoulders and neck. His hand rose and fell and Faramir’s skin reddened accusingly. He himself bore responsibility for this. The blows hurt his hand, as was only right. Learning the truth had stunned him, reshaped his history, cast a strange glare over the totality of his life. Reading Finduilas’ letter had sucked the air out of his lungs and the reason out of his mind. How? Why? What next...
He could only imagine, in the palest and poorest way, what such a truth would do to Faramir. A young man escaped from the grasp of a tyrant called “Father.” A young man who had learned to read the language of violence written over his own body. A young man who had managed to grow up straight and true, and who in spite of it all — or due to it all — might indeed hold family and heritage more valuable than ever, for the sheer necessity of saying, ‘It was necessary because it was my proper place and blood.’ To learn that ‘twas not his proper place and blood was to learn also, ironically, that the brutality had been but a chance, a lie, the result of silence. A mistake never aimed at him the son, for he had not been the son at all...
Oh, Faramir. Aragorn wanted to close his eyes and weep over the unflinching board across his lap. To think that all the hurt had been merely the result of Finduilas’ choice not to tell him — nay. Nay, ‘twas not fair to blame her alone, for he had left. He the ranger had come into her life, spent spare moments and hours there while advising Denethor, forged a connection, departed, and then returned and played the hunter for a time. And he had left yet again, and she had been alone with her son and her unforgiving husband and her helpless frightened staff, and the life growing in her. He had lived in relative safety and peace while Faramir had lived in pain and fear. And now Faramir had to know how meaningless it had been, life as Denethor’s son. Of course the young man would wish not to hear that a few mere words might have changed it all.
His palm hurt and he had turned Faramir’s backside a startling crimson. ‘twas about time to cease, and yet scant little acknowledgement of pain or regret from the penitent over his lap. Lifting his right knee a bit, Aragorn aimed his hand for the soft skin at the very top of Faramir’s thighs. Such a tactic was sure (in all others) to induce tears, kicking, promises of good behaviour. He set to enflaming the already heated flesh, and beneath his hands Faramir began, ever so slightly, to squirm.
Perhaps the king had an idea. Faramir struggled to remain in the chamber while his thoughts whirled and threatened to carry him away. Staying alert and focussed on the punishment was the best way — the only way — to truly demonstrate an acceptance of his guilt. Aye, as a boy in the steward’s home he had recognized his failings well enough yet still had permitted himself to escape from the painful consequences of them. He had oft enough released his mind to wander distant halls and hills while “Father” had bruised and battered his pliant body. But King Elessar had promised to stay and had asked the same of him. His word he had given.
Aye, perhaps the king had an idea indeed. Although the... paddling had begun inauspiciously, with little fanfare and even less actual discomfort, the hand against his rear had been most persistent. Every place it had landed bore a small sting from it. Every time it landed again in a place, a new sting was laid over the old one. While Faramir had pondered Elessar’s ability to inflict pain, Elessar had simply kept travelling the territory and repeating the message.
And now, he had to admit, his backside hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. The stings had come and come and come, been set down and left to hiss at him from their places on his skin. Like little fires they could be kindled with additional attention, and the king seemed intent on doing exactly that. Faramir’s breathing quickened; he concentrated on slowing it. His body became desirous of action, movement, escape; he concentrated on staying still and taking what he deserved. His legs wished at least to kick in symbolic protest; he would not let them. There was no ground for complaint when one had disobeyed the king.
Now he was angled forward, his nose closer to the floor and his lower half alarmingly higher. King Elessar stopped applying the blows at random, as had seemed to be the way, and began applying every blow to one area at the top of each of his thighs. What had been at first just a sting, then later a distinct burn, then later still a pain he had to acknowledge, became under these blows an inferno. It felt as though his skin had been flayed, branded by fire. Surely injury had been done — he would have to wait until his release to check... if he was released. A voice inside whispered spitefully that he deserved it all and more.
Unable to stop himself from squirming, Faramir squeezed his eyes shut and panted through gritted teeth. He had sworn to stay, to stay, to stay. After King Elessar had praised him for coming to the study, he had nodded and promised the king he would stay. The king had never lied to him; he would keep his promise.
Oh, ‘twas getting difficult. He knew he was shifting in place and could not stop himself. From his closed eyes, startlingly, tears leaked. The sound of King Elessar’s hand against him was sharp and disconcerting, the pain more so. But ‘twas a strange feeling he held close inside. Lord Denethor had shamed him for his weaknesses and his cowardice, but never had he felt such a tugging in his breast. It felt like... sorrow.
Sorrow, sadness. Grief.
Grief. Over what? The pain? In his thoughts the king’s face hovered, weary and drawn, plagued first by sadness and tension and then by injury. Faramir felt the tears come more hotly, more insistently though he kept his eyes tightly closed. He sniffled and drew a breath, and it hitched and stuttered in his throat. He had suffered far worse pain without unravelling so; the pain he had suffered had not torn so at him.
Ai... how? ’twas his guilt, obviously. Could aught else but guilt sink him? After all he had said and done, the king had remained. Like a friend impossible to repel even with the most vicious rejection.
Like a...
Faramir felt the moment come, and he hung his head as silent weeping wracked his body. The tears were warm and salty in his throat. His head pounded and his lungs burned like they had been pressed upon by a heavy weight. His face was hot and wet — he lifted his shaking hands to cover it. The voice whispered again, but it now whispered gentler words. Forgiven. Forgiven. He was forgiven. The thought made him cry harder.
Ayan had reduced him, on occasion, to a few childish tears. Boromir had once elicited kicks and desperate pleas for leniency after he had hidden all the forenoon in a cramped nook, forcing his older brother to crawl through half of the citadel in search of him. But the harshest beating had not brought him to such a place, nor pushed him so utterly over the threshold between reason and feeling. He had failed the king, aye, and he knew ‘twas wrong. He had wounded someone far greater and closer than the king, and his heart wept. Now he was forgiven for it all, and the tears felt as though they were carrying something dark and ugly away with them.
His heart fluttered in his breast and tears burned in his eyes. Aragorn drew a ragged breath. Faramir had sagged over him and was shaking, wracked by silent grief. The tension had seemed all at once to bleed away, and he had been relieved for only a moment before the weeping had begun. His left hand now wandered in what he hoped was a soothing path up and down Faramir’s back; his right hand throbbed at his side.
He should speak. Always with the others he had spoken. Words that would be nonsense any other time became, in the teary aftermath of such an ordeal, welcome. In his ears, though, whispered words already ran. ‘You are forgiven; you are forgiven; you are forgiven—’ He was saying the words — he had been saying the words for he knew not how long. They flowed from his lips and floated in the chamber, and Faramir, grieving, would come to hear them.
His hands moved. Leaning down and clutching the fabric, he raised Faramir’s breeches as far as he could. Carefully, carefully he reached down to grip Faramir’s upper body, and he eased the young man off his lap. Faramir, groggy and pliable, slid down to kneel beside him, and he got the breeches up and re-laced. “You are forgiven, Faramir,” he said again. “’tis finished and I wish only to know that you feel no more guilt over this. Tell me.”
The ginger-curled head remained bent for a long moment, the young captain kneeling beside his chair as though in supplication. Aragorn bent his own body, wrapped his arms around Faramir and felt a momentary stiffening in response. He did not release his hold, but leaned down so that his lips were close to Faramir’s ear. “I am your father, young one,” he murmured. “I will always act for you, as I did when you left this city. ‘tis my duty and my right to pursue you, to fight for you, to die for you if I must. Do you understand me, my son?”
Faramir did not appear to understand him, but Aragorn waited and pressed no further. He half wished for the abilities of some of the eldar, the eye that could see into another’s mind and heart. He half wished, also, never to know what Captain Faramir, son of Denethor in all ways but one, thought and felt about him. Perhaps too little time had passed for him to seek understanding — perhaps Faramir would not understand that he could feel like a parent, that he could be proud and angry and joyous and possess such a fierce frightening love toward one he barely knew.
Then Faramir lifted his head and gazed damp-eyed at him. Aragorn ventured a smile. “Do you understand me, Faramir?” he asked again, and waited. Long moments passed. Eternities passed.
“Nay, my lord,” Faramir replied. “But I am willing to try.”
It ended, and he came aware that it was over. Limp and exhausted, Faramir lay over the king’s lap and cried. His body ached from the force of it; his throat was raw as though he had been screaming forever. His face was hot as though with the gravest fever. Over it all hovered the pain, screeching down at him like a beast. He tried to control his breathing. His head hurt. His eyes hurt.
The king was speaking to him, forgiving him. He had atoned for his crimes. A hand was ranging over his back in reassuring motion. It felt gentle and kind, and he realized he was weary. So weary that he could only wait for whatever would happen next. His thoughts were scattered and flickered weakly like dying lamps.
Then, inexplicably, he was being lifted. Hands — King Elessar’s hands — were strong around his shoulders and were righting him. His head swam, the world spinning briefly. He was on his knees beside the chair. His clothing had been righted; he knew not when. And although his hindquarters blazed with the heat of a torch, his senses told him he suffered no other hurt. Not broken bone, not broken skin, not torn muscle that would impede his future movement. His body was tense and aching but unharmed. Aye, there had been those times with Ayan and Boromir, when he had come away from punishment in such good condition. The king... had not hurt him.
A question asked. Did he understand? A king who would sacrifice life for the sake of a mere steward was but a fool. At once he was ashamed of the thought. King Elessar was no fool, to be sure. But he did not understand. The king of Gondor was a man above all men, not subject to the whims of them, a man precious and to be guarded. For him this king had fought like a wild thing, put himself in harm’s way to slay an orc. For him this king had ridden from Minas Tirith into an angry little town and been injured. Finally, for him this king had committed such an act, such an intimate and seemingly caring act.
“Nay, my lord,” he said. His thoughts rattled and clashed. This king was also a man. But still ‘twas not clear how this king could be also a man, and could love him. Elessar’s arms were around him and would not let go. They felt real. He would try to understand.
The gardens had been lovingly recreated by their elf, in those exultant weeks before his wedding to Arwen. The dark twisted weeds that had grown so dense during years of neglect had been meticulously pulled; the tiles had been cleaned and polished, replaced where necessary. The streams and fountains had been tended until their waters ran clear. The trees had been trimmed so that they once more lined neat paths rather than clamoured and clawed in to choke the way. And new trees and shrubs and flowers had been added — new life to embolden the old, new blood to flow into a new future.
Now the trees hung with multi-coloured lanterns and the paths nigh glowed in torchlight. The flowerbeds were bright with blooms. And everywhere, down every path and in every small plaza, people drifted. Men, elves, dwarves. The fountains splashed merrily. Conversation and laughter floated on warm, perfumed evening air.
Aragorn walked, nodding to his guests, stopping often to share a few words, a laugh, an exchange of pleasantries. And from every guest he heard much the same message. Congratulations, Sire! You have been blessed, Sire. And Gondor has been favoured as well!
He entered the main courtyard, his eyes sweeping the throngs. Wine goblets clinked; servants wandered with trays of pastries and drink.
There — framed by lantern light. Faramir stood with Arwen, who fingered a tendril of bright trailing verbena. She smiled at something the young man had said, laughed and laid a hand gently on his arm, and Faramir smiled in return. Beside them, Legolas and Gimli also laughed, the sound barely reaching him. Merry and Pippin joined them, and Faramir beamed even more brightly at their presence. Aragorn felt a rush of warmth. His mate, his son, his best friends.
His family.
The guests had begun to eye him, smiling. ‘twas about time for the announcement, the moment when he would say it to all. Aye, they all knew, for word of the king’s son had spread throughout Gondor. To the settlements and guard outposts, through cities and towns and villages, it had flown on golden wings. Not the expected babe, held up triumphantly in its swaddling-clothes and welcomed gladly into the people’s hearts, but a grown warrior already known and respected by so many. There was joy.
Across the courtyard, Legolas grinned and winked at him, eyes sparkling. Faramir looked also, and for a moment the young captain’s gaze held the formality one assumes when looking to one’s king. But then those blue-grey eyes softened and the smile returned. Arwen glanced, knowingly, Aragorn’s way. She nodded, her face serene.
He stepped forward, wondering at the taste of tears in his throat, at the faint burning behind his dry eyes. His breath came unsteadily, then more strongly as he made his way through the crowds of well-wishers. Gondor waited to hear news of its prince.
Aye, there was joy. Crossing the stone, weaving a path through the crowds, he reached them. He bowed gently to Arwen and was met with her dazzling smile; he grinned at Legolas and Gimli and extended a warrior embrace to each; he laughed and impulsively ruffled the hobbits’ curly heads, and they grinned tolerantly in return.
He turned finally to Faramir, meeting the young man’s bright gaze. “Are we ready, my son?” he asked. Around them, the crowd stirred, stilled, waited. The servants flitted, ensuring every goblet was filled and ready to be raised. The courtyard hummed with anticipation, and Aragorn found his smile answered by a warm glow gracing his son’s features. He waited, as well.
“Aye, my lord,” Faramir said.
The End Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/secret. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]
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