Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Chapter 6 – Falling

Yes, it had seemed easy at first, but Aragorn soon discovered that the men who arrived that morning were not swift to leave. There were nine of them, they had been riding for several days and they were most anxious to inform the King of every hut, shed, bridge, fence, wall, roof, window and barn that had been affected by the snows. They gave a detailed account of every injury to these, be it tiny or extensive damage, not minding at all that morning turned into midday, and midday into afternoon.

“You see, my lord,” one of them, an elderly man called Forn who seemed to consider himself someone of utter significance, said, “the bridge that crosses the River Ciril about a league south of the city of Calembel, is severely damaged already. A few more windy days and no one can be sure it remains in place.” He shot the King an exacting glance.

“Yes!” said Aragorn, weary of this endless talk, “I have marked it on my map. My men will see to it.”

“Very good, sire,” Forn continued,” because it is a most important bridge to the people of Calembel! It was built over fifty years ago to help the passage across the river,” he nodded.

“You do not say?” Aragorn muttered to himself where he sat.

“I am sorry, my Lord?” Forn looked at him inquisitively.

“No, nothing. Pray, continue.”

“Well, there is also the question of the farms in Erech,” another man named Aestor said quickly. He had been poring over the maps but now he stood and spoke in a raised voice. “Fences have fallen to the ground and those that still stand upright are in no excellent condition, I will tell you.”

The other men mumbled in agreement and discussions started all over again.

The King leaned back in his chair and listened to their demands and requests. His lower back ached and he longed to lie down. The men at his table were not all from Erelas he had learned, but came from all over Gondor. They had met up in Erelas though, and ridden out together.

The great oak table was laden with maps and records, lists of his men and the material they would need when they set out to repair and rebuild. Faramir was seated at the other end of the table and was practically drowning in paper. He looked about as miserable as Aragorn felt.

As afternoon wore on, thick clouds drew in from the east and blocked out the sun. Soon snow fell heavily to the ground in Minas Tirith and the men shook their heads and pointed to the maps.

“This will definitely be the end of some of the huts we passed on our way here,” a younger man, who went by the name of Deren, stated ominously as the others nodded frenetically.

Making one final attempt to end the council, Aragorn placed his hands on the table and cleared his throat. “As I have already told you, my good sirs, my men have been travelling through this country for weeks, working hard to repair what has been shattered by wind and broken by snow. I have heard you worries, and I thank you for your opinions.”

Which you have stated over and over, and probably would continue to express long into the night if I let you.

Before any of them could say anything, Faramir stood amidst a whirlwind of papers.

“The King is weary,” he said, gesturing towards Aragorn. “I am afraid we shall have to end things here, but I assure you all that we will see to your requests.”

A few disgruntled noises rose up around the table and Aragorn felt inclined to speak again. No matter how tired he was, he did not want to be considered haughty and callous.

“You shall of course stay for dinner,” he smiled and before he knew what he was saying, he added, “and you will be given rooms for the night if you do not wish to ride in this weather.”

So. He did not mean that. He was in no mood to entertain guests. He had no choice though, he saw when he looked out the window. Riding in this snow could truly be perilous.

Spirits rose immediately as he finished speaking. The men gathered up their documents, bowed to him and left the council hall in pairs, speaking quietly to one another. Only Deren stayed behind and exchanged a few words with Faramir. Aragorn could not hear what they said, but he saw Deren place a hand on the Steward’s shoulder and laughing brightly as he did it.

A moment later, Faramir closed the door behind him.

“Gods!” he exclaimed. “I thought they would never leave!” He dropped into a chair next to Aragorn’s and began massaging his temples. “How many bridges can there be in Gondor, after all?” A frown settled on his face. “I really should know that.”

Aragorn shook his head tiredly. “No, no… You should not. No, thank you for ending it.”

“I did not mean to imply that you are not well – or interested – but I saw no other way.” Faramir leaned forward with a worried look in his eyes. “I did not offend you?”

“No, you spoke the truth, I am weary.” Grasping Faramir’s hand, he added, “I forgive you,” and smiled.

“You are most kind, my lord.”

Watching Faramir grin at him made it almost worth it, Aragorn decided. He had nine demanding guests to deal with, but he also had an amazing Steward. He raised Faramir’s hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

However, he also had strained muscles and an aching back.

“I fear I shall have to rest before dinner,” he sighed.

Releasing the Steward’s hand and feeling as old as one of the great trees of Mirkwood he steadied himself against the table and stood. Gratefully he accepted Faramir’s arm and they made it to his bedchamber at a slow pace. They met none of the new arrivals for which he was also very grateful, and he finally collapsed on his bed with closed eyes and a heaving chest.

If only time could stop now, if only for a little while…

“Aragorn?”

Faramir’s voice drifted through the haze that filled his mind. It sounded frail, as if his name were spoken with the utmost care by the Steward.

“Aragorn?” Again.

He tried to form a reply but he had no strength left. He saw stars, or perhaps it was snow, falling, falling – endlessly falling, in the darkness.

There was movement, a tugging at his feet, something was pulled over him and he thought he heard voices coming from far away. Then all went blessedly quiet and he stopped trying. An age passed and then a warm body lay against him. Sweet Valar, how he needed that closeness!

He was floating. He desired to stay within his own mind but it would not be. Gradually, he lost awareness and soon there was no more snow to be neither seen nor felt.

The room was dark when he awoke, and outside, one wind fought for control over another. They howled and bawled at each other, rushed to and fro, and by the sounds of it, not wanting to give way the least.

He reached out for the body that he believed he remembered from before, but his hand was only met with cold sheets. He was alone.

For a while he lay in the darkness, struggling to figure out what time of night it was. All was quiet around him and it increased his uneasiness. The delegation from Erelas needed to be seen to, he knew. On the other hand, if it was very late they would all be asleep by now.

Frustration grew within him as he realised there was naught he could do. Now indeed, they would find him weak!

Sleepiness, though, came to him despite his aggravation. It did not care it he fought it, embedding him once more among misty shadows and holding firm its grip. He barely heard the push of his door, and the footsteps that followed. Not until something touched his forehead, he became conscious that someone had joined him.

It could be anyone. Aragorn desperately pulled himself out of his dizzy state. Turning his head to the side and reaching for his eyes with his hands, he meant to rub them but another hand caught them briskly and lay them down by his sides.

“Sssch… Lie still…”

The same hand now ran along his cheek, soothing him. He cringed underneath it, wanting, needing, to wake up.

“Easy, Aragorn, please… It is I, Faramir.”

Faramir?

He fell once more, but this time into calm waters. Words did still not come to him, so he reached for the hand that caressed him.

“Aragorn, may I stay the night with you?”

Such a simple question, but it must have taken an enormous amount of strength to verbalise it. Inside his own mind, Aragorn nodded, confirmed, agreed, approved and permitted, but he could only squeeze the hand he held on to ever so lightly.

Once more that night, a body slipped into the bed to lie beside him. He turned his head to the other side, sensing the breath that swept over his face.

“I will not keep you awake for long,” Faramir whispered, “I just…”

Well-known lips touched his. He vaguely tasted wine on them, but beyond was the flavour of the man he longed for so badly. Being completely exhausted by now, he did not kiss back. Instead, he lay still, surrendering to Faramir who let his own lips travel tenderly over those of Aragorn.

When the other man pulled back he wanted to persuade him to continue.

With this treatment I need no other. Stay… please… stay…

He felt Faramir’s warm body move closer, and he welcomed it wordlessly.

Whispered words he could not discern drifted around him. He felt no need to distinguish them though, as he allowed night to carry him away into the realm of dreams.

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