Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

This is the first part of the epilogue. I usually don’t like epilogues if they aren’t like a good, solid, proper chapter (because I’m greedy and want to know everything). Hence the length of this one… Notes follow the second part.

I’ll give you the new elvish right away (all Sindarin):

⁶ ada – dad/daddy

⁷ tiro – look

⁸ daro – stop

⁹ tithen pen – little one

¹⁰ ion – son

---

The Coldest Winter, Epilogue, part 1

Minas Tirith, in the fifth year of the Fourth Age (IV 5)

“Ada⁶, ada! Tiro⁷, tiro, tiro!”

A small running figure burst out of the nearby shrubbery and lunged himself at Faramir. The dark, curly head came first, profoundly knocking the breath out of his chest, followed by a soft body that scrambled down into his lap. A muddy hand was shoved in his face and two bright eyes glittered at him.

“Ada! A frog!” A beaming smile went with the statement.

Reeling backwards just a little, Faramir blinked at the tiny creature, most unwillingly encased in the tight grip.

“Right,” he said, swallowing. “Why do you not let it go? Surely it will be happier hidden in the bushes?” Trying to sway his son in cases such as this was not the easiest task.

The small face frowned. “But ada, if he were hidden I could not see him.”

“‘He’?”

“Yes, he is a he!” Eldarion was once more one big, happy smile.

“And how do you know that?”

Giving his father a look that said everything, he patted his treasure with his other hand. “Because he said so.”

“Of course.” Faramir bit his lip to keep from smiling too much. “What else did he say?”

Eldarion pondered this with an expression of profound concentration. “I think he really, really likes the summer.”

“Good for him,” said his father.

Suddenly the small boy gave a shrill, disappointed cry as his hand was flung into the air. Heedlessly he threw himself after the fleeing frog but only ended up with his nose in the grass a couple of feet away. “Nooo!”

Frantically staring after the escapee, Eldarion scrambled to his feet and began running. “I will catch him, ada!” he called back to his father over his shoulder.

Not knowing whether he ought to be troubled or not, Faramir saw him crash into a new shrubbery further down in the gardens, sending some leaves flying in the sunlight. Slightly overwhelmed, he grabbed the bunch of documents he was reading through before they were carried off by the breeze.

He was sitting in the private parts of the gardens, ‘private’ meaning that the royal family received an extra apology if they were disturbed in here. It was mid-July and the City was swarming with travellers and merchants. The latest delivery from Rivendell had arrived that morning and though the lists had been written by Lord Elrond himself, he still needed to go over them. It was easy to forego however, as the sunlight shone down upon him and the temporary stillness lay like a nurturing blanket around him. Sighing contentedly, he leaned back against an impressive oak and let the documents stay on the grass, secured however, with a fairly large stone on top.

Then, as quickly as his son had appeared and disappeared, a new figure was sighted. This one moved slower, though, and was far taller. Equally as much loved, but loved in another way, King Elessar made his way through the gardens with the gentle wind playing in his hair. He walked cautiously, leaning on something that more resembled a wizard’s staff than a stick or a cane. As stubborn as always, Aragorn had refused to use any walking aids that would make him resemble an old man.

This was also why Faramir remained where he was and did not get up to help him. Many discussions of the kind they had been through, and now he had given up – but only after having been promised he could help his spouse when he had reached the age of one hundred and eighty. Perhaps.

Coming up to where his former fulltime Steward was seated on the grass, Aragorn smiled a smile tinted with a bit of confusion. “Was that Eldarion I saw diving into the bushes?”

“Yes,” acknowledged Faramir and nodded in the direction of the frog-pursuit. “Aragorn, are you sure he is not hobbit?”

Chuckling, Aragorn lowered himself to ground and with a small grunt managed to make himself comfortable. Faramir wisely held his tongue, but drew him closer until he had his King secured in his embrace.

“Now you are my frog,” he grinned.

“What?”

“Nah,” said Faramir and patted his shoulder in an imitation of their son. “Nothing. But this one is not fleeing.”

“I just might if you prove to have gone completely mad…” Aragorn muttered but nevertheless nestled closer to his spouse.

The sun-dappled leaves rustled above and a faint stirring of the grass brought them a rich scent of blooming. Faramir absentmindedly stroked the arm that rested on his thigh as he leaned back and rested his head against the supporting tree-trunk. The closeness of Aragorn’s firm body and the warm weather served to lull him into a doze and he felt his eyes close to the faint singing that enveloped him tenderly.

The sun painted streaks of light on their bodies, as they both drifted off together. Telling the wind to quieten, the midday light proficiently burned away any lingering memories of long winters spent indoors, and days that lacked in hope and happiness.

“… that would be… the kitchens…”

Faramir sighed in his slumber, feeling the tree a little bit more keenly against his back.

“… one could never do that too many times a day… I remember…”

Aragorn shifted in his arms and reached for his hand to hold.

“…you should have seen us! Starved to the very bone we were!”

The voice grew clearer as the speaker evidently came nearer – and grew more excited. Extremely reluctant to properly slip back into his body, Faramir tried not to listen. Unfortunately, when a hobbit is determined to tell a story, he is determined to tell a story.

“But then, in the midst of all the chaos – and a mighty pickle we were in, I will have you know – I made a brilliant – a brilliant – discovery! There they were, two barrels, just idly floating about!”

With a loud groan, Aragorn raised himself up a little. “Pippin, he is two years old! He will know naught of the Longbottom Leaf for many a year yet to come!”

“Strider, there you are!”

Faramir opened one eye and glimpsed the beaming hobbit. Elboron fiercely clutched his hand as they were trudging along on the grass at a slow pace.

“Is all well?” he inquired and earned himself a reproachful glare from Pippin.

“No need to worry!” the hobbit declared. “Well, there could have been some more roast potatoes at lunch, but that is but a tiny detail in the grander scheme of things, I suppose.”

Laughing, Aragorn fell back into his previous position. “Is that not an appropriate problem for the honorary Caretaker of Gondor to tackle?”

Pippin pulled his shoulders back a little and raised his chin. There was a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. After some intense thinking, he brightened visibly. “It just might be! It just might be.” Nodding to himself, he turned to Elboron who was fingering something in his free hand. “Come, let us engage in conversation with this wise King and his noble husband for a while.”

They trotted over and settled down upon the grass. Shaking his head, Faramir reached out and ruffled his youngest son’s fair hair. “What have you there?” he asked Elboron, pointing to the hand which closed firmly over something.

Blue eyes caught his. “Hazeeut!”

“A ‘hazeeut’?” Aragorn asked doubtfully.

“A hazelnut,” clarified Pippin. “We are working on it.”

Lovingly caressing his son’s cheek, Aragorn smiled. “I rely on you Pippin. We are raising future Kings here.”

Faramir felt a sharp twist in his heart at this. As the fearful images of not only future Kingships rose before his eyes, also the images of future battlefields and suffering came to him. Not even his two sons, too precious for the outer world to ever lay its hands on, would be spared from whatever pain that awaited them. Here was little Elboron, fair and thoughtful already despite his only two years, who faithfully followed Pippin wherever he went, and who was inconsolable as soon as he spotted the hobbit leaving through the gates. And then Eldarion, so alike his birthfather in appearance and with an eagerness that would take him far away from his homelands one day, on his quest for new discoveries.

Without really knowing it, he pulled at Aragorn’s tunic, and desperately wished he could stave off the future and remain here, in this place and in this moment forever. Aragorn, who noticed his change in mood as if it were his own, turned in his embrace and caught his eyes.

“What is wrong, meleth nin?”

Faramir shrugged, a little embarrassed at this display of emotions. “I simply do not want them to grow up,” he said quietly. Glancing over at Pippin who was busy investigating the hazelnut Elboron would only show to him, he sighed. “A fine parent, am I not?” He gave a weak half-smile.

Aragorn’s grey gaze held him steady. “The finest,” he said and brushed his lips against Faramir’s.

When he was released, Faramir cupped Aragorn’s face and hoped his heart spoke loud enough for his spouse to hear. In that way he needed not to word his thoughts.

“In the grander scheme of things, we have so little time,” Aragorn whispered and Faramir nodded.

“The last time was the last.”

Against his will Faramir remembered a moonlit night more than four months earlier. The fifth winter since that fateful one – when the Erelas delegation had turned their lives into a spinning whirlwind of emotions and actions – had loosened its grip on Minas Tirith many weeks before. Yet the nights were long and the days chilly. Mists strayed over the fields long past the gloomy midday hour and life seemed reluctant to conquer the lingering drowsiness of winter. Aragorn’s jaw was set and there was remorse in his eyes – not as much as before, but enough to again assure Faramir that he did not this gladly.

As there was not much to say, Faramir had dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He had endured this twice before and would do so a third time. Had someone told him five years ago that the pain would ease with time, he would not have believed them. As it was though, in the end, it was… bearable.

She was elven. That had been Aragorn’s choice. To Faramir had been given the power to decide her dwelling-place. She had told them that she would return to Rivendell from whence she came if that was their wish, but Faramir had seen how much it pained her. She had no particular love for Aragorn, no more than the usual admiration for the man who had reunited the lost lands, but to force her to leave her future children behind was not a wound he wanted to inflict upon her. Faramir had far too few memories of his own mother to punish his husband’s children in this way.

Comfortable chambers had been given to her, in a part of the former citadel that Faramir had no business in. She was free to go and leave as she pleased, not only from the palace but from Gondor as well, and after all was done, she was free to marry whomever she liked.

It seemed now that day might come sooner than expected.

“The last?”

“Aye.” Aragorn was studying his face intently. “By the turning of the next winter, my third child shall come, and I shall have no more.” He smiled faintly, a little uncertainly. “Then I am all yours, if you will still have me?”

Sensing the small spark of completion, Faramir shook his head but smiled all the same. “You think I would give up on you now?”

He hindered any further words from escaping Aragorn by placing his lips on that most beloved of mouths and gave his husband a long kiss. Aragorn melted against him and the kiss was hovering on the edge of becoming far more intimate than was initially intended when a rustling of leaves was heard and quick feet sped towards them. Aragorn broke away only in time to shout “Ai, daro⁸!” before a curly head crashed into both of them, toppling them over onto their sides.

“Ada!“ an even muddier and messier Eldarion than before cried out blissfully as he threw himself at Aragorn.

Struggling to untangle himself from the mess of limbs, Faramir brushed his hair out of his face. “Dari, you know you cannot– “

“Ada!“

Before he knew it, Faramir had an armful of enthusiastic Eldarion as he hugged this other ada of his. Making no difference between his fathers, their eldest was equally happy every time he saw them.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow while he tried his best to regain a sitting position. “Help me up will you, tithen pen,⁹ as this is your doing?”

Scrambling down from Faramir, Eldarion tugged at his arm, blind to the fact that Faramir secretly gave Aragorn a push.

“I did it!” The little boy was practically jumping up and down on the grass.

“I am tremendously grateful,” Aragorn told him and placed a kiss on the forehead when he reached it.

“Dari,” Faramir tried again, “you know you cannot throw yourself at your father like that. You are getting stronger and heavier by each passing day.”

“Like the frog!” beamed Eladarion.

“What is this about a frog?” Aragorn asked as he settled back against Faramir, stretching out his long legs in front of him. “I keep hearing about a frog.”

“He escaped.” Now he was pouting. “I hunted him, and hunted him, and I even pleaded ada! But he escaped.” He spun around and threw his arms out in a wide circle to indicate the vast project of hardship he had undertaken.

“Aw, I am sorry,” said Aragorn.

“I you had seen the poor frog, you would not say so,” mumbled Faramir in his ear and heard his husband laugh low.

“Pippin, what are you doing?” Eldarion had swiftly abandoned his sorrows and was watching Pippin watching them.

Elboron was still protectively guarding his hazelnut.

“You know, we used to do that, Merry and I,” said Pippin. “We would lunge ourselves at your father just to see what would happen! Brilliant!”

“Remind me never to go on a Quest ever again,” said Aragorn.

“What quest ada?“ Wide, dark eyes were turned to him.

“Long story. For elder folk,” concluded Faramir. “Not for your ears just yet.” To take his son’s mind of this he reached for him and grabbed him by his waist. Pulling him close, he held two of the people he loved most in this world.

For a short while.

“There is the frog!”

Eldarion shook off his arm and plunged headfirst into the grass, aptly demonstrating what might happen if one ever attempted a dive without having water at hand.

“I am beginning to suspect that you might be correct,” Aragorn said with wonder in his voice.

“No.” Faramir shook his head. “I have changed my mind. Now I think he is dwarven.”

Somewhere between glowing shapeless images and a floating feeling of absolute calm, Faramir was dazedly aware of something working itself into his system. Warmth and softness, dimmed light and the soundless haze of sleep surrounded him and held him close. Yet, the presence of some motion touched his dosing senses and gently lifted them into the waking world.

Sighing, he turned over and snuggled closer to the warm chest he found there, right beside him. He breathed in the scent of Aragorn’s body and of the warm sunlight that floated in through the window-glass. He slipped down further into his sleep but only to be brought back up again as a hand began stroking his thigh underneath the simple white sheets that covered them. Soft lips were tentatively dancing at his temple and he once more felt the bright light of morning toying with his eyelashes.

During these, the warmest months of the year, they slept unclothed and Aragorn had but to pass his palm over Faramir’s naked skin in order to stir up some interest in his body. Without opening his eyes, Faramir left a cluster of tender kisses on Aragorn’s chest, earning himself a firmer stroke from the hand, still rather chastely running up and down his thigh.

Aragorn’s lips were travelling over his forehead and down his nose to finally settle over his mouth. That was when some shuffling was heard outside the bedchamber and the door flew up. Faramir felt the soft mouth abruptly disappear, and blinking, he most unwillingly opened his eyes to the dazzling radiance of day.

“Ada!“ Eldarion was standing in the doorway, adorned with a bright smile and a complete mess of dark curls. “Are you awake?”

Aragorn’s hand left Faramir’s thigh and came up from underneath the sheets to rub his eyes. “Yes, yes… I think we are. I am… If I am who you meant.”

“Or ada!” The small form of their eldest stated, happy that any of them was awake enough to form coherent speech. Without warning, he burst forward, nearly tripping over his long nightshirt and with an enormous display of willpower, he managed to climb into the bed. “Are you sleeping?” He tilted his head and inspected Faramir’s confused and drowsy form.

“No, not now, I think…” Faramir cleared his throat and did his best to indeed wake up properly. “And what about you?”

“Of course I am not!” Eldarion flung his arms out in the direction of the door. “Then I would still be in my room!” His eyes widened with what looked like expectation and he held out a hand in which he clutched something dark and soft. “This is your birthday present!”

Even more confused by now, Faramir saw the piece of fabric being dropped on top of the sheets. It was a left-hand glove, crumpled and creased, but a glove it was nonetheless.

“Dari, my birthday is not for many months yet…”

The small face did not look the least troubled. “I know that! But if I did not show it to you now, how would I know that you will like it when I give it to you for real?”

Aragorn laughed heartily and picked up the glove. “Are you planning on finding a matching one as well?”

His son nodded resolutely and rather vigorously for such an early hour. “Yes, I think so.” Then he turned back to Faramir. “Will you like it?”

Smiling, Faramir reached out, scooped him up and hugged him close. “I love it. Thank you.”

Eldarion’s muffled voice came sifting through his dark locks. “Now you must forget all about it, so you will be very surprised when you get it.”

“I promise.” He let his son out of his embrace and saw a wide grin spreading on the small lips.

Aragorn handed Eldarion back the glove. “Is Elboron still asleep?”

The curly head bobbed up and down. “It is boring, ada, he is so little!”

“He will grow and you shall see that you will find him interesting enough soon.” The King stroked the cheek of his pouting son. “Now, why do you not run off in search of the other glove?”

Faramir caught Aragorn’s eye and raised an eyebrow, but his spouse appeared very innocent.

Eldarion silently watched them for a moment, still with a hint of a sulk in his features. Then he seemed to make up his mind for he scrambled back towards the edge of the bed and slipped down to the floor. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe I can find two and then you can have one too, ada!” He flashed a happy smile at Aragorn.

“Excellent!” Aragorn’s hand dove underneath the sheets again and Faramir felt it resume its previous position on his thigh. “Good luck.”

The small boy nodded and trotted over to the door. Before stepping back outside, he fixed Faramir with a serious stare. “You really liked it?”

“I did, I do,” Faramir assured him with a smile.

“Will you sleep for much longer?”

Aragorn’s hand slid downwards, along his leg. “Yes, ion,¹⁰ a while longer.”

Eldarion slipped out of the room, but immediately put his head back in the door opening. There was a hopeful light in his dark eyes. “Can I have breakfast?”

“Yes,” Faramir nodded. “Go and find Pippin and you can have breakfast together.”

“He can look for another glove with me!” He beamed suddenly and without further ado, spun around and closed the door behind him.

Aragorn’s mouth descended equally swiftly upon Faramir’s lips and kissed him deeply. The open palm rushed higher up and cupped his hip bone, awakening a series of sparks in Faramir’s stomach. He lifted a hand of his own and brought it around Aragorn’s head to force him closer. He had just parted Aragorn’s lips with his own tongue when a rustle broke through the newborn silence and the door was thrust open again. Aragorn pulled away immediately and Faramir’s hand froze in mid-air.

Eldarion peered into the room once more, eyes alight with the beam of a new discovery not yet relayed. “I forgot!” he declared to Faramir. “There is a letter for you ada, from… the…” His face crumpled into a complicated expression of intense concentration, amusement and the urgent need to sound like he knew more of what he was speaking of than he really did. “From… the ada of ada!” he finally stated brightly.

Aragorn’s low grumble ran through his chest. “He writes you more often these days than he does me.”

Faramir gave him a wide smile and a teasing wink. “You have a very intelligent father. I shall not torment you by reading it now, though.”

“How gracious of you.” Hidden by the sheets, Aragorn’s hand made a circling motion across his lower stomach. “As your King I give you leave to read it later.”

Over by the door, Eldarion made a discontent huff. “Will you sleep for very, very much longer?”

Dragged out of their respective planning of the activities that would keep them in bed for the rest of the morning, both Aragorn and Faramir nodded. “Yes,” Faramir proclaimed quite forcefully, but making sure it was followed by a smile for his eldest.

“Have you forgotten about the glove?”

“Entirely.”

“Okay,” Eldarion said and withdrew his head.

The door closed and they heard the soft sound of small feet quickly disappearing. Without moving, they intently listened for any other noises – or well-known noises returning. Two minutes passed during which Aragorn lay absolutely still. Then he bowed his head and possessively plunged Faramir’s mouth with his tongue.

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