Faramir Fiction Archive

Tales from Gondor (R)

Written by Minx

23 September 2012 | 36179 words

Title: Winter
Author: Minx
Pairing: Aragorn / Faramir
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash, fluff
Disclaimer: All characters and places are Tolkien’s.
Author’s Notes: Written for the ‘Protection’ prompt for the 25fluffyfics community.
Many thanks to Iris for her help!
Summary: Winter accidents and fluff:)

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Faramir pulled the cloak tighter around him. The evening sky was grey now and tiny snowflakes swirled in the slow cold breeze whistling through the bare trees. The cloak was damp and uncomfortable and coarse against his bare skin, but that and a pair of thin underpants was all he had on for now, and it still counted for something in the cold. His sodden tunic and leggings hung over the fire, the flames barely adequate to dry them; for the ground and firewood were still damp. Aragorn had ordered him to remove his wet clothing and stay by the fire, while they tended to poor Pippin. And while he chaffed at the order to do nothing else, he had to admit he was too exhausted to move.

“Faramir, come. We must return to the citadel now.”

“Aragorn,” Faramir mumbled as the king helped him rise off the log he’d been sitting on.

“How do you feel?” Aragorn pulled his damp and cold Steward into his arms.

“How’s Pippin?” Faramir asked tiredly.

“He’s quite well. Gandalf is taking him back to the citadel, and giving him quite a talking to, as well! He’d warmed up a bit, but he’s still cold, and he did take a small knock to his head. But he did manage to tell Merry not to finish the pie at dinner, so I suppose he’ll be in fine fettle soon. You got him just in time, even if you had to go and fall in after him!”

“Poor lad. All he was trying to do was to show us how they dance on the ice in the shire,” Faramir sighed.

“Well, he selected the wrong part of the pond,” Aragorn said unfeelingly, even as he gently ran his hands over Faramir’s shivering body, “He should have known the ice is not thick enough yet. He’s very lucky you were around. And you, young one, are very lucky Elrohir had the sense to use that branch to pull you two out.”

Faramir winced as Aragorn’s fingers, gentle as they were, skated over all the bruises he seemed to have suddenly picked up. The water had been cold, and littered with sharp shards of ice and broken twigs from the trees on its banks.

“Come now, it is cold here,” Aragorn said.

Faramir, crunched through the snow, stumbling along towards the horses that stood by stamping impatiently. He shivered involuntarily as an icy draught of air hit him. The king’s grip around his shoulders tightened. Light flakes of snow continued to fall around them.

“M-my cloak is damp,” he murmured trying to draw away from the older man.

“Really?” Aragorn said, drily, “I hadn’t noticed.” Faramir felt his aching head slip against the king’s shoulder.

“I’m getting you wet,” he tried again.

“No more Pippin did,” Aragorn retorted, and then continued in a gentler tone,”Let me help you, love.” He led him along slowly over to the horses, and said firmly, “You’re riding with me.”

Faramir, quite tired now from the cold and the aching bruises, merely sighed in response. He clambered onto the horse in front of Aragorn. The king undid the damp cloak and wrapped his own large cloak around Faramir.

The younger man protested, “You’ll get cold!”

“Not as much as you,” Aragorn said, “The northern winters are harsher than this.”

Faramir complied reluctantly. The cloak was dry and heavy and warm and Faramir immediately felt himself huddling against Aragorn.

He recollected little of the ride back other than that Aragorn was there with him. He smelt as nice as ever – of fresh heather and a hint of cinnamon, a welcoming fragrance in the cold, his strong, firm chest formed a most welcoming pillow, his lips as they brushed Faramir’s head many times were soft, his arm wrapped around Faramir holding him in place, warm, gloved fingers gently stroking his bare stomach and side comfortingly.

When they reached the citadel, he was almost asleep, and could not even muster the energy to protest when Aragorn carried him in, effortlessly gathering him into his arms. He just huddled closer into the loving hold.

He was helped into a soft and comfortable bed, in a wonderfully warm room. Someone brought in a bowl of hot soup, and that coupled with Aragorn’s gentle touches and soft, coaxing voice soothed Faramir back to sleep.

Faramir woke the next day to the fragrance of a pine wood fire, numerous aches, a ticklish throat, a heavy chest, a mild headache, the warmth of his dog, Huan, at his side, a foul stench and the wizened faces of the chief healer and Mithrandir looming over his. They greeted him cheerfully, called out for breakfast for him, and went back to applying a cold, vile smelling paste on his bare chest. He was in the houses of healing, Faramir realised.

Faramir sighed, stuck out his tongue as asked, held up his wrist, endured the prodding fingers that poked at a particularly tender set of bruises above his hip, coughed when asked to and said he felt perfectly fine when asked if he felt feverish or ached anywhere.

“You have some rather nasty bruises here and the signs of a cold,” the chief healer told him, his loud, booming voice doing nothing to ease Faramir’s headache, “But you should be fine in a few days. This herbal mix will help.”

Breakfast came then, a thin gruel and a greenish brown herbal potion. He groaned. He’d always hated the houses of healing. Huan edged closer to him and licked his face comfortingly.

Pippin, he was told, was very well; already at his second breakfast and demanding ‘taters for lunch. And all set to leave the houses the next morning.

Faramir finished eating his first and he hoped, only breakfast for the day, for Gandalf stood over him till he was done. He even drank the herbal mix; it tasted as terrible as it looked but Gandalf htreatned to hold his nose until he’d swallow it.

“Don’t even think of feeding that to Huan the next time,” the wizard added, cheerfully, “It’ll give the poor fellow an upset stomach.”

“When can I leave?” Faramir asked once he’d finished sputtering, the awful taste still lingering his mouth.

Aragorn entered just then, his warm grey eyes lighting up with pleasure as Faramir looked up at him.

“I’m off to see Pippin now,” Gandalf said, and left.

“You look so much better now,” Aragorn said, gently brushing his hands over Faramir’s face. Faramir smiled up at him; his headache did seem to have diminished after breakfast.

“Can I leave this place before luncheon?” he asked, “I heard the chief healer ask for cabbage stew for lunch! That’ll also give me time to go through my notes for the meeting on the turnip harvest with councillor Tarlan.”

“Tarlan has graciously agreed to meet another day. You’ll be here for a few days yet,” the king said.

“On no, that can’t be,” Faramir told him, “Pippin gets to leave today.”

“Pippin is not developing a fever. You are,” Aragorn said and sat by Faramir’s bedside, readying himself to argue with and coax Faramir into doing as the healers said.

A half hour later, Faramir’s voice was hoarse, but he made no effort to wipe the miserable look off his face, even when Aragorn had inched closer to him, and gently pulled him into his arms, stroking his bare back gently.

“Pouting like that will not help,” Aragorn told him, and scratched Huan gently under his ear. The dog let out a snuffling noise and licked his wrist happily, “You’ll worry Huan. The little fellow’s really quite happy he’s being allowed to sit in your bed. I don’t think he likes his basket.”

“Whatever would I do here?” Faramir grumbled again.

“Rest,” Aragorn said, stroking Faramir’s hand lightly, “Sleep. Eat. Read… not for too long though. Sleeping would be ideal. You don’t get enough sleep, you know. And you don’t eat enough… it wasn’t very different carrying Pippin and carrying you.”

Faramir let out an indignant squawk at that.

“You know I’m right,” Aragorn retorted, “You asked for luncheon in your study most of this last month, because the trade treaties needed work, but then you’d forget to eat the meals and they’d go cold, and then you’d feed them to Huan!”

Faramir had the grace to blush, but he tried again, “I don’t think even Huan would want that awful gruel,” he muttered.

“Tomorrow, if your chest clears up, I’ll ask them to send you turnip stew instead,” Aragorn said gently, “Done just the way you like it. And some honeycakes tonight, perhaps?”

Faramir sighed. Aragorn’s tone and touch made him want to huddle up into the older man’s embrace and stay there all day.

“I wish I could stay here with you,” Aragorn continued, stroking Faramir’s hair.

“You have to meet the trade council today,” Faramir mumbled, “And the sailmakers’ guild. And the river trade council. I will be fine here.”

Aragorn dropped a soft kiss on his forehead, “I’ll join you for supper. Stay here and rest, love. You know you need to sleep more.”

“Well, that’s really your fault,” Faramir declared, “When you’re around, I can’t imagine why I’d want to sleep when there is so much else we can do.”

Aragorn snorted in response.

Faramir found, much to his annoyance, that he fell asleep after Aragorn left, Huan cuddled by his side.

His bruised body felt sore when he woke in time for lunch – stew again, and an herbal tea infused with a bitter root extract. The apprentice healer who had brought lunch had clearly been instructed very strictly by Gandalf, for he waited while Faramir ate, fussing around the room, adjusting the drapes, stoking the fire in the grate, filling a bowl with water for Huan.

Faramir ate reluctantly, well aware that a fit of sulks wouldn’t work as effectively on the lad as it would on Aragorn. And then sulked as he realised it wouldn’t have worked on Aragorn either. Aragorn wasn’t going to help him leave, he realised, and certainly not Gandalf, or anyone else. The last time he’d been here, he’d tried appealing to Legolas, the twins, Gimli, even Pippin and they’d all refused to help. Elrohir had even gone so far as to tuck him back into bed.

The drapes had been drawn far back to let in the pale sunlight and reveal a fine afternoon sky – a clear wintry azure. This wasn’t fair. He felt quite well, and should be outside enjoying the weather. And then he thought he felt well enough to not need any help to leave. He was quite glad there was no one else here but Huan. He smiled at his dog as it lapped up the water and then jumped back onto the bed to lie by his side.

It would be just him and his dog.

He thanked the lad when he was done, in a soft tone, let out a deliberate yawn and slipped under his bedclothes. He kept his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of the young healer moving around the chamber. Finally, after the boy was done, and had left, his footsteps fading along the hallways outside, he moved. Huan sat up and let out a little bark.

“Hush,” Faramir told him, and held out a mollifying hand, “We’ll go get you a new toy mouse to play with, so the stablehands won’t get bothered when you go mousing in the stables. And a nice, juicy bone.”

He sat up, moving slowly. Pushing away his blankets he made to rise from the bed, only to realise that he was completely naked under the bedclothes. He groaned as he recollected the wet clothes being stripped off him by Aragorn last night before he was bundled into bed.

The clothes lay on a chair near the fireplace. He rose, wrapping a blanket loosely around himself.

Huan jumped off the bed, tugged at the clothes and tore out off the room, Faramir’s garments trailing behind him.

“Huan!” he shouted and made to set off after the dog. The room spun dizzyingly and he clutched at the wall. The blanket slipped, and he grabbed at it with his free hand, groaning miserably, as he stumbled along outside. The hallway was draughty and the stone floor was icy under his bare feet, but he continued on, one hand on the wall, the other clutching the blanket as it kept slipping off his shoulders, trailing from his hip.

“Huan,” he croaked out, unhappily.

The dog was nowhere to be seen!

“What are you doing?” Aragorn’s voice sounded twice as loud in the echoing emptiness of the passage. He held Faramir’s clothes.

Faramir sighed and leaned back against a wall.

“Looking for my dog,” he retorted, a little sulkily.

“He’s in my study, chewing up a new toy mouse I got him.”

Faramir snorted.

“All right then, I think I’ll just stay here and wait for him to finish playing,” Faramir said, and sat down, on the cold stone floor, arranging his blanket around him modestly.

“You could wait more comfortably in bed,” Aragorn suggested.

“In my bed yes,” Faramir retorted.

“Faramir,” Aragorn said, in that soft, loving tone that Faramir thought he used only in the bedchamber. He almost capitulated then, but managed just in time to remind himself of what Aragorn had done.

Aragorn sat down next to him.

“You turned my dog against me,” Faramir mumbled.

“You know I did rightly,” Aragorn said.

Faramir snorted again, but when Aragorn helped him up, he took his arm with a sigh, and allowed him to lead him back into bed.

“I’ll speak to Gandalf again,” Aragorn said gently, as he pulled the blankets up, “Perhaps we could have you rest in our chambers instead.”

“Oh yes,” Faramir said eagerly, “That would be nicer than being here.”

Aragorn smiled.

“And I would be more tempted to stay in, in our bed,” Faramir smirked.

“And rest?” Aragorn asked, smiling, even more.

“Well you may have to do some more work,” Faramir conceded, “If I must stay resting.”

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