Faramir Fiction Archive

All Colours are Born of Grey (NC-17)

Written by December

11 January 2019 | 18156 words

Title: All Colours are Born of Grey
Author: December
With: Aragorn, Éowyn
Rating: R
Warnings: angst, somewhat AU, hurt-comfort themes, implied het relationship.
Summary: Just when the Steward and the King thought they could find a sliver of innocent comfort in each other, one evening it begins to turn into something more.

Every night begins with him being embarrassed – ashamed, even – practically begging the King not to.

Not once does Aragorn heed – and not that, in his heart of hearts, does he truly wish it were otherwise.

And so every night, starting from the very day of his return from that surreal journey to Rohan, the emerald plains of which he hopes to never again be forced to behold – every night the Lord of Gondor firmly shuts the door to the Steward’s chambers, sealing the wall between them and the world out there. The world that knows not only no mercy – no justice at all, so it would seem.

Grieved, burdened, uncertain – they are united as though specifically by virtue of their common guilt. What offence, really, is the little comfort they allow themselves in the face of their eternal, irreversible culpability.

Of course, they say ‘it is not your fault’ to each other many a time before the bleakness of dawn begins to leak through the curtains – but what can words change? As fallen leaves cannot be glued back on their tree, so appeasing statements cannot reverse the truth.

Only in the gut of night, when there is only the warmth and the breathing of a living person by his side, does it feel that there might yet be room for peace on his plate.

“My lord,” he says when three weeks have passed, and he does not look Aragorn in the face, for fear of seeing that Aragorn would actually agree with him, “I hear folk are starting to wonder.”

“Let them wonder,” Aragorn says simply, with the serene unaffectedness of one whose conscience is clean.

“But…” this time Faramir does look up, “what of the Queen?”

A shadow of a wince passes over the older man’s lean face, as though a recurrent headache has just threatened a comeback.

“Ah, that…” he only utters, and gives a slight dismissive shrug as though to assure Faramir that this, although an understandable concern, is in fact in no way related to their situation.

Faramir cannot see how it could possibly not be most directly related – nor does he wish his personal pain to cause conflict in the lives of others. His sentiments must clearly enough show in his face, for Aragorn sighs and crosses his arms.

“Well, it would be fairly sound to allow that, just as you have pointed out, she too could have heard I spend my nights outside my bed,” he says too levelly for the levelness to sound fully natural.

And so Faramir asks no more, for the screaming contradiction between the dryness of his liege’s tone and the inconceivable message in the actual words is a clear enough warning to not tread on this ground.

Then comes that night. On the face of it, it is little different from all the previous ones. Maybe he becomes aware of the one small nuance only because he happened to wake up at this particular point in time.

Just as before, they lie together under one fur-lined cover as though they are blood kin, only now in his sleep the King has shifted to him so that their bodies are, in fact, touching.

He has always been most mindful of his sire’s personal space, especially since Aragorn has taken to sharing his sheets, and by day it would have been beyond mortifying to merely imagine that they might come this close. Yet it is not day, and now that his propriety sensor seems pacified by the darkness, by the slowness of the sleeping King’s breath, by the deep warmth that has seeped into his very bones, he is unsettled not at all.

In fact, ‘touching’ is somewhat of an understatement. Aragorn has sidled up to him from behind and is hugging him around the middle, and maybe the top half of Faramir’s sleeping garments had hiked up, or maybe the King’s hand had crawled under it – somehow it does not seem important now – Aragorn’s firm dry palm is pressed right to the nakedness of his belly.

Faramir smiles. Quite likely, for the first time since – well, that day.

For a fleeting moment he is ashamed of his quiet joy – how dare he be happy in a time like this. But he is so weary – of shame, guilt, regret. Especially as he knows there will be no end of it – and this is such an innocent little light in the muted dimness of his days. To be held like this, in this protective, older-brotherly way… As though Aragorn senses a boy in him, a boy alone but too stubborn and cautious to accept this comfort in his waking hours – and therefore it has to be given him when he does not see. Faramir’s smile broadens at this thought.

When was the last time he had felt this wanted, this welcome?

I am tired, she had said. More than once she had. He should have heard. How could have he possibly not heard?

I am tired, she had said. She could not have given him this, for she had no strength for it, no warmth left to share when she did not even have enough for herself.

Not so with Aragorn. Aragorn has enough to share – needs to share, in fact, for he too asks himself these same questions – how could have he not seen, how could have he not begun to worry in time? That strange comment about the Lady Arwen, implying that only through hearsay would she learn where her husband abides by night. Which in turn would imply that she does not even anticipate him to be where the logic of marriage would suggest. Does this mean then, that just as Faramir has no one else whose warmth to feel and sleeping breath to hear, neither does his-?

With Aragorn’s tough, sinewy arm wrapped over his waist, and the man’s bony ankle hooked over his shin, he struggles to think of Aragorn in the terms of his formal titles.

Lord. His lord, he reminds himself before he slips back into slumber.

The next night Aragorn does not come.

It is only in that purposeless hour, as he sits on the edge of his bed at a loss what to do with himself, that Faramir realises how presumptuous he had been in his earlier resolve to tell his sire this very evening that there was no longer need for concern – and therefore for the visits. For he had felt so grounded, so soundly tied to this earth the previous night – although of course he would not explicitly refer to that – that it was bound to be quite beyond doubt that at least on his behalf there would no pining or withering. He was safe from that fate.

This was why they were doing it, was it not?

So that Faramir would not fall prey to the same stealthy, proditory menace. So that Lord Aragorn would keep an eye on him and through that be comforted himself in knowing his Steward is well – reasonably well, of course, as much as could be hoped for for a man in his circumstances.

But if that were so, if that were the full and only truth, why is he not come tonight?

Steward Faramir lies atop his bed, atop the unwrinkled fur-lined blanket, fully clothed and shod, thinking this thought, well into the night. It should not be so important, he understands, for of course any man, and the King tenfold so, is called on by many a matter and cannot be reasonably expected to be available every minute his company might be desired – and yet…

Not that it should matter, but the memory – the sensation – of that hand under his shirt, the long fingers resting so habitually on the plain of his abdomen – it is never far from the top of his mind. As time passes, it intertwines tighter and tighter with his question, and somehow he comes to be quite certain that his lord, too, knows of what has transpired. Except that nothing did – nothing of significance, at any rate.

His day, exactly like those preceding it, passes in a dream-like haze. Like visions, like scenes from a story many times reread, familiar and in that familiarity distant and boring.

Until she died he had not been remotely aware of the existence of so many shades of grey. The grey of the empty palace halls, the grey of the overcast sky, of dusty windowpanes, of daylight, of his own skin. Her absence is like a hole, a pit, an ulcer that sucks all the juices out of what remains of his living days. Leaving behind only the hollow, dry husks and shells of the once meaningful things.

It is only by night that his senses awaken and with them returns the proper saturation of colours. The brightest of all is, of course, the brilliant grey of his King’s eyes.

Because now, after twenty four hours of waiting and not knowing, twenty four hours crossed out of Faramir’s preordained and ever-dwindling measure of time, Aragorn is finally come again.

As though there had never been this little lapse, this accidental misstep in the rhythmic pace of their comforting exchange.

Or perhaps not exactly so.

“I am sorry,” Aragorn says somewhat sternly as he sits down on his side of the mattress, with his back to Faramir. “About last night. That I left you.”

“Please,” Faramir objects warmly. “I am not ill, your Majesty. There is no need for a constant vigil at my bedside.”

“That may be,” Aragorn agrees, pulls off his royal tunic and reaches for the plain night-shirt. “And my apology is, I suppose, more for the reasons of my not coming than for the actual not being here.”

“Then I assume it was not the marital duty that withheld you?”

Aragorn goes still, his gown forgotten in his lap. All the thews in his bare back have gone stiff and taut, as though it was not a harmless combination of words but a ray of arrows loosened on him and he longs to be cased in armour and not naked skin.

Yet Faramir decides against taking it back with an apology, for from some cue he cannot quite define even to himself he knows that the King needs him to bring this up, blunt and tone-deaf though it may be.

“No indeed,” Aragorn says at last. His voice is stern and worn, yet free of resentment, and Faramir knows he has made no mistake.

The King offers no explanation, but strangely Faramir wants to smile for the second time since that day. What a great luxury, to have his thought occupied with someone else’s sorrow and not his own.

One thing he has come to appreciate about grief is that there is little need for decorum in the face of pain, it justifies nigh anything. A level of trust that would otherwise be unwise, a degree of openness that would be inappropriate, a king sitting half-naked in his steward’s bedroom, ready to tell him what it is nobody’s business to know.

“You ache,” Faramir says quietly and very gently, “but I do not understand.”

Aragorn shifts on the bed and makes to turn to him, but pauses midway so that Faramir is looking at him but he is still looking at the wall.

“Mind if I harass you with a tactless question?” Aragorn asks of the wall.

“That would only seem fair, sire, seeing as I started it.”

“Can you imagine yourself ever being with a woman again? With… another woman?”

“No,” Faramir says simply, without thinking. Then he remembers the hand, the warm hand on his belly, and feels himself blush and his thoughts rush, although this is beside the point, altogether beside the point. To get himself together more than anything else, he elaborates, “Not as of right now, I cannot – though frankly I cannot envision how that would change with time either. I could not be with another lady without thinking – of her. It would not be fair.”

Aragorn nods, as though receiving an expected confirmation. “Another tactless question then. Do you think you will miss it?”

“Well,” Faramir grins softly: the king’s tone leaves little ambiguity as to what exactly he is speaking of. “It is a sweet thing, one certainly cannot deny that. But I don’t expect it being gone will weigh on me overmuch.”

“No?” Aragorn looks up as he asks this, and Faramir sees confusion in his eyes, as though the man is searching for direction.

“I…” suddenly Faramir wants to sit down beside him, to take him by the hand. He is startled by the impulse and does not follow it, for he knows that to this question his king desires an answer of substance, something that will help him make sense of things.

“You see, my lord,” Faramir begins slowly, “I had, not unlike you, had quite some years on my own before taking a wife, and so I’d grown rather accustomed to how it feels. Some of our soldiers would go to willing women to relieve the loneliness, but I could never truly relax into it, and would feel guilty afterwards, so I did not seek it much. I suppose it is not dissimilar to how Master Pippin had explained to me about the hobbit fashion: if you walk unshod all the time, you do not notice the ground is cold.” He wonders if he should stop at this, but Aragorn is listening keenly, more so than before, and so Faramir continues: “I’ll admit, I did expect it to change with marriage. I thought this is when the ‘good times’ begin, that we would do nothing all day but make love – then have supper, and make love again. And with Éowyn,” he stumbles, for it is difficult to pronounce her name, because the name sounds just a before, but she is not here, and his mind refuses to get around the paradox.

Faramir exhales and takes a new breath. “We’d had our good times indeed, especially in the beginning – although not as I had imagined. It would seem,” he cannot stop himself from grinning, “I did not know until I had the chance to find out, but apparently I am one of those men who cannot get enough. Perhaps it is the toll of the seasons that my passion had had to be subdued – and likewise for her, she had had too many years without affection and tenderness. It were them that she sought of me above all, and my greatest joy was to make her happy. So as for my hunger, I figured since satisfying it was not feasible, it best be kept out of the picture altogether.”

Aragorn keeps eyeing him, and Faramir does not like the look of the man’s face. Is it disbelief? Disappointment? Or rather disappointment with himself?

“And you… could do that? You were happy with that?” Aragorn enquires at last.

“Maybe I was just fortunate enough to never have known anything better,” Faramir says carefully, “but I love her, and to my best knowledge, I was happy.”

Aragorn draws a sharp breath – then another one, and another, and Faramir’s eyes round as he realises what is happening. Before he can say a word, the King stands up abruptly, and his fair noble face is dark.

“I can’t,” he states adamantly, cutting through the air with his words. “If you could, then I should too – but I can’t.” The degree of hurt and anger in his eyes is unbearable to behold.

“I am so sorry,” Faramir whispers.

Aragorn averts his face to the wall once again. “You must forgive me,” he utters bitterly. “My woes are nothing compared to yours.”

To Faramir’s horror, the man swerves around and heads for the door.

“Wait!” Faramir calls, and his tone is so imperative he himself falls silent in shock, and Aragorn stops dead in his tracks.

Cautiously, seconds tiptoe by.

A minute falls away. Then another.

Faramir takes a breath.

“Don’t go,” he calls. “Please.”

The King replies without turning: “I am not certain it would prove to the benefit of either of us should I do as you ask.”

Yet he does not take another step for the exit – not just yet, and Faramir ventures on.

“Then how, my lord, could it be for the worse?”

“That I do not know,” Aragorn answers nervously. “I have taken it upon myself to help you, my boy, and for that you may think me the stronger. But know that the portion of our lives that still makes any sense to me is progressively withering, and I am afraid I can no longer know what to expect even of myself.”

“That much is fine by me, my lord – being made sense to is hardly something that befalls me all too often these days. And while I cannot imply that I hold any keys or answers that I could share with you, but maybe – maybe…”

“Yes…?” Aragorn turns his head just an inch, as though to hear better.

“Maybe that’s alright?” Faramir entreats, spreading his hands in supplication even though his king cannot see him. “Maybe clarity is more than can be found in a time like this? Maybe that one can give solace and be blessed with some in return – maybe that is enough?”

At this Aragorn finally faces him – and the expression he bears, Faramir realises with a jolt, is that of fear.

“Enough?” the man echoes, and swallows. “You would never guess how much so it indeed is for me. I had thought you needed me—”

“And I do!”

“Nay, you do not. You are not going to die, Faramir – you know that. And I know that. Yet still I come to you. Because…” his fingers curl.

“Does the ‘because’ matter? Or did I misunderstand your meaning and you in fact do have elsewhere to go for rest and comfort?”

To the Steward’s immense relief, his lord, albeit looking quite defeated as he does this, slowly returns to his former place, sits down exactly as before his attempted retreat – and only then gives his answer.

“Again, I do not know. I am a man married to one I had always desired – so the answer to your question ought to be beyond obvious. And yet it is not – for it is you, Faramir, you that I look forward through the whole damn day, to staying with in private with, to sharing an unguarded word, it is only you I could tell of what eats at me.”

“You have told me no such thing, your Majesty.”

“Then let me set that aright,” Aragorn suggests sternly. “I do not sleep with my wife. Never have. There. How is that for a confession?”

Faramir coughs.

“Don’t bother,” Aragorn says. “Not that there’s a correct thing to reply to that. Not that there’s anything to be done about that at all – ’tis a settled deal.”

“But…” Faramir searches for the polite way to put the inevitable question, then asks only, “Why?”

“Ah, I might have been a little self-indulgent in how I phrased it. ’Tis not that I don’t, but rather…”

“I see.”

“Yes.” Aragorn runs his fingers through his dark hair. “The naked truth of a mortal Man’s body, especially that of a Man in need… The life my lady had led left her unprepared for it. What Elven boys she may have chanced to inadvertently glance are far less uncomely beneath their clothes.”

Faramir blinks at his King’s back.

“I beg pardon – but what…?!”

“Do not take me wrong – there is great love between us,” Aragorn pronounces passionately, gently, almost dreamily, as a devout worshipper sensing the existence of his deity about to be doubted. “But this she could not step over – and who would blame her, if she had not known?”

He puffs his cheeks and lets himself fall backwards on the bed. The mattress springs under the weight of a tall warrior and gently prods him back up, but he remains splayed and unmoving.

“And sometimes it all feels fake. Just like that. Fake. A trickster’s gold. How can I say that? How can I be so ungrateful? ’Tis such a small thing, is it not? Is it not shallow to become fixated on it? She is giving up so much for me – can’t I give up this little in return? And yet I cannot shake off the feeling that this isn’t my life. That I’m being mocked – not by her, of course not, but—” he waves his hand in the air.

“I understand,” Faramir nods.

“Aye, I reckon you might. But what now? Maybe I am naive and simple-minded – but isn’t this supposed to be the part where we all live happily ever after unto the end of our days?”

“Sure is.”

“Tell me then – who is happy?”

“What of the Queen…?” Faramir inquires with caution.

Aragorn hums pensively. “I would think so. She tells me so herself, ’tis all exactly as she’d wanted. We do have intimacy, of sorts – by the Elven definition. Being with me brings her bliss and joy, I see that clearly – only to her… It is different, the degree of meaning a bodily touch has. The way that the sons and daughters of the Edain do their coupling is considered crude and barbaric.”

“Does the lady know…?”

“In part, yes. After a few months, I tried…” suddenly Aragorn looks ashamed, so ashamed that Faramir’s chest aches for him. “I sat her down and tried to reason her into it. Gently, of course, I never forced. I will never forgive myself for the look in her eyes. And how is this her fault? Only my own ignorance is to blame. Have you never wondered how it is they have so few children in unions thousands of years old…?”

“Yet nonetheless, there are children.”

“Ah, yes, we are seeing to that. No fear for the state of Gondor, my friend. See, on the propitious days of the moon, I take care of things on my end, and then – ah, just how pathetic is this?” Aragorn laughs.

“It is not—”

“Please. I know some men resort to this practice, to dealing with their own tension, before they take a wife – just appreciate the irony of starting afterwards.”

Faramir’s brows go up. “You had never—”

“Imagine that,” Aragorn confirms with another hollow laugh. “It seemed a disloyalty to my lady. Pretty much anything seemed a disloyalty to my lady. She was, in my eyes, perfection itself – not because I loved her and my vision was clouded, but because she was perfect. Like. No. Other. And how I yearned to be worthy of her, to justify the price she has to pay. Unlike all other men, whose women are likewise not without flaw, I did not have the luxury to be only human, even only in thought. I had awaited the day for sixty-seven years – ’tis a long time, and I won’t say I was never tempted.”

He looks up, back at Faramir standing behind him, and grins at the disbelieving confusion his last words have brought to his steward’s features.

“See? Even you have come to expect better of me. True enough, the prospect of another’s love had never threatened to lure me off the path, for my heart was safely locked for my lady alone – not so my loins. Isn’t it strange how they can each burn for their own thing? I never had welcomed these urges, they disgusted me, horrified me with their ability to resist the resolve of my honour and mind. But still, I could not rid myself of them. I… still can’t.”

“My lord,” Faramir begins gently. “But by your own logic, do you not reckon your lady deserves a little better than a man made miserable in her company? Or do you yet hope that if indeed you were given permission to consummate your bond in the Edain fashion, it would serve to your joy? You sound to me as a man who hungers for true ardour – and if our fair Queen had that in her, surely she would have bestowed the gift upon you already?”

Aragorn frowns stubbornly – not entirely unlike Boromir used to when outreasoned.

“If everything is as you say, then all has been in vain from the very onset – how can I accept that? This was the meaning of my entire life, Faramir, my heart’s only desire. Don’t take it personally, but the prospect of becoming King of Gondor, in and of itself, might not have been enough to get me to do all the deeds that I did. Mayhap, I am indeed a fool knowingly grasping on to an illusion, but ’tis easier to believe that the fault is with me, even if it cannot be fixed.”

“My goodness, sire, fault?” Also not unlike his beloved brother at times, the mighty King Elessar is beginning to test Faramir’s capacity for digesting absurdity.

“See, Faramir, I can throw away my pipe and my breath would be clear of the smoke, scrape my stubble clean off so my skin would be smooth like an Elven-boy’s; I can oil my hair and wash it in fragrant water so it will be like silk and not a dog’s pelt. But the rest,” Aragorn gestures down along the length of his body, “is made the way it is made, and not a damn thing there is to be done about that.”

Faramir can no longer suppress himself: he is appalled like he has not been for a long, long while – and this is very refreshing. Outrage is such an alive emotion. On an impulse, he bends forth to stand on all fours above his reclining liege.

“The rest is very beautiful,” he declares hotly – and when, startled, Aragorn once more looks up at him, upside-down as they are to each other, adds just as hotly: “As is your face. You are, all over, one of the most beautiful men I ever laid eyes upon. And if the Lady in three thousand years has not learnt what is to be found neath a man’s codpiece -”

Coming back to himself as one slapped, Faramir trails off.

“I… am sorry, your lordship,” he utters tightly, overcome with a different kind of heat this time, “that was… unkind.”

“Well, I’d say,” Aragorn agrees in amusement – and lets out a hale, merry snort.

Faramir makes to move back, away, to resume an appropriate distance – but Aragorn catches him on the forearm and keeps him in place.

“But do you mean it – what you said?” the lord questions, his voice for some reason a notch hoarse, his eyes alight with a sharp brightness.

The younger man feels a sudden constriction in his chest. The firm grasp on his arm is so warm, impossible to stop being aware of. As though at the point of contact of their bodies, mead is seeping through his skin into his very blood, and he catches himself growing light-headed.

“My lord, pray forgive me my forwardness, this conversation is not headed in a proper—”

“This conversation has long not been headed in a proper direction,” Aragorn agrees amiably. Then in a flash his face grows strict and proud, and much as he is lying on Faramir’s bed more undressed than not, Faramir is at once reminded why he had accepted this man as his sire without a second of peradventure.

“Answer me!” Aragorn orders in a voice as quiet as it is imperative. “Did you mean it?”

Faramir squares his shoulders and replies in kind, for albeit a vassal he is a lord too. “I believe we have lived side by side long enough, my king, for you to have seen proof that I am not in the habit of speaking without meaning what I say.”

Some string too deep inside him is pulled when he feels his liege’s fingers tremble on his arm, and he can say no more.

“Well, that’s a change of heart,” Aragorn pronounces at last. In this moment he more than ever reminds Faramir of Boromir – Boromir who too would get wary when his hidden vulnerabilities were threatened with exposure. “Just the night before last you were disinclined to have me stay – and now this. I…” Aragorn closes his eyes and slowly, very slowly exhales.

He makes to say something else, but does not. Faramir waits, and to his dismay sees the King’s face turn grave, closed.

“I should go now,” Aragorn says curtly. “I should have gone long before. It was indecent to brandish my woes at you to begin with – and even more so to subject you to these kinds of attentions. You,” he tears his hand away, with such visible reluctance as though it hurts his flesh to break the contact. “You are confused now, grieving, it would be…”

Faramir reaches out and touches him on the face, gently, frames the King’s cheek with his fingertips. There has been more than enough talk for one night.

Aragorn stares at him aghast.

Faramir registers the light-headedness return, twice the stronger, but keeps his hand in place. Boldness is a virtue, he has been taught this as a warrior.

“’Tis is a strange thing, is it not?” Aragorn murmurs cautiously as slowly he raises his own hand to bring over Faramir’s. The touch is uncertain, skittish, and he holds Faramir’s gaze as though thus he could prevent the younger man from entertaining second thoughts.

Faramir offers him an unsmiling grin.

“My wife died a strange death,” he says. “As did all my blood-kin. Am I in a position to not even give a chance to an offer of what might be a new beginning on account of it coming in strange circumstances?”

“Give a chance…?” Aragorn echoes him as though from a distance. “Well, fair enough, I reckon.”

“I worded that poorly—”

“No, ’tis better thus,” Aragorn closes his eyes again. “’Tis, quite likely, how it should be. That two should begin not with a pledge and a troth, but with naught more than hope in heart and caution in step.”

And at that, with a conclusive decisiveness Aragorn slides out from under his steward’s hovering form, and heads for the one candelabra keeping the room alight.

“If you would undress and lie down,” he says in a tone that makes certain Faramir will not forget that he is in the presence of the King – a king kind and patient, but king nonetheless.

“My lord?” Faramir cannot keep his voice entirely level.

“I apologise if this is somewhat – how did you put it? – forward, but I want you to know for certain – straight away,” Aragorn turns to him before snuffing out the last candle. “I cannot take it, Faramir, to have my hopes rise again – for naught. You have known many, but I have known none, to me it… it has… If you do not desire this after all, then tell me now – we’ll be done with it once and for all.”

“Will you not let me see?” Faramir calls, pulling his collar open as he had been asked to. He hears urgency in his own voice, but maybe it is for the best.

Aragorn hesitates, his fingers paused inches from the flame. His gaze follows the ministrations of Faramir’s hands, takes in the freshly exposed triangle of the young man’s chest, the chiselled rectangular elevation of a warrior’s pectorals so different, no doubt, from the white roundness of his wife’s maiden breasts he is not allowed to touch. There is longing in the King’s eyes, but also sadness, wistfulness even. It occurs to Faramir that perhaps his lord is thinking that maybe if he had taken care of the candles back on that festive midsummer’s night when all the City had been filled with lights and music and garlands of field flowers, if he had thawed her with the heat of his love before her sight could decide for her, maybe then things would have taken another course.

Aragorn’s gaze returns to his face. “You look so lovely with a blush,” the King says softly, and again there is sadness, as though this loveliness is not for his eyes to behold. “But no. Mayhap some other time – tonight, let the darkness guide your hand.”

His touch glides over the lean tautness of Aragorn’s breast muscle. His fingertips probe the softness of the small nipple that tightens and hardens as though with apprehension. So he repeats the caress, again and again until he feels the King, ever so subtly, press into his hand.

How has it come to this?

What will this come to?

Is he doing the royal family a favour, trying to give the Queen a happier husband?

Is he doing himself any favours at all?

He lets the questions slip away into the surrounding blackness, where they belong. He feels the other man shiver above him, and a puff of warmth caresses his cheek as the King’s breath hastens. He turns his face towards it, half-expecting, half-hoping Aragorn would erase the distance between their mouths – but the man does not, for he is waiting.

And so Faramir continues with his task. For his part, he believes he could skip the introductions, but he knows his lord will not accept an answer that is not supported with hard data.

He wishes that he were not so limited in methods, and the wish itself strikes him as curious in its oddness. A mere hour ago he had not detected any probability whatsoever of finding himself yearning, and yearning so clearly and consciously, for a taste of his king’s skin, for the feel of the man’s clavicle as he would try to enfold it with a kiss. Yearning for the scratch of the dark stubble against the softness of his wandering lips. Let alone for the gasp the King would no doubt fail to withhold were Faramir to pull that distrustful nipple into his mouth. But he has already gathered that even more so than everlasting loneliness his lord dreads profanity, and he must consider the possibility that to someone of Aragorn’s history even a lick to the throat may come seem quite vulgar indeed. Furthermore and more to the point, it would be unfair on Aragorn to start bestowing such pleasurable little promises before providing the man with a reliable assurance. For now, he must make do with his hands, and not allow himself too much even at that.

There is a vastness and a sweep to the plains of Aragorn’s body, to the steely span of his shoulders, to the way the long muscles of his back stretch on and fall away beneath Faramir’s palms. This is not a matter of merely height or girth – there is freedom and scale to the very make of the King’s body, there is inner, bone-deep iron strength, reticent and uncompromising, like unto that of a tree growing atop a field hill in proud solitude.

This man is all as though made to leap only, to heave, to swing a deadly, double-edged weight, to withstand, endure, and conquer. His is a practical, applied beauty – there is no place on him for pretty bits, no parts catering to the leisurely purpose of pleasing the eye. Nothing to cushion the self-effacing zeal of a ravenous lover, and what modest curves he does sport are all spiced with a bony angularity. He is made for action, and just maybe, he is also made for stoic patience in the face of a bigger purpose, for staying the course with his gaze fixed unblinking on the ultimate aim. What he has not been tailored for is lingering – suspended, tethered, without direction, without logic, as a sleek battle-ship forgotten in harbour sways, and nods, and rocks with the sempiternal, self-absorbed waves without moving an inch from the place of its timeless confinement.

Bizarre, outlandish thoughts begin to flicker through Faramir’s mind. Is this how it was, how he had felt to his unfortunate Éowyn – too big, too long, too tough, too hard, all fire and sparks, no place to cosy up against, to find peace?

Would have she, perhaps, fared better in the care of the tender Queen?

As his hand slides across the long road to the King’s lower back, the bumpy valley of Aragorn’s spine lying between two solid ranges of muscle, Faramir sees his wife resting her head on Lady Arwen’s chest, a quiet smile upon her white face. Thick strands of their unbraided hair fall together, like lustrous ropes of sunshine and midnight, like a complete solar eclipse.

Have they, all of them, made a mistake?

Lazily he speculates if this is an old family friend, lady Madness, come to pay him an exploratory visit. To try and ease herself in between the links of his reason like he heard she does, building connections between assorted bits of nonsensical randomness, immersing her helpless host into one of those absurdist dreams that easily make perfect sense so long as they are being dreamt. When she packs up and leaves, he might well regret his choices – but tonight all his concerns swirl away and dissolve like sugar in hot tea, and his fingers slide lower still.

The Princess of Rohan had never been the sort of woman whose backside would stretch a dress taut, and Faramir had never minded – he had often felt he could fit all of it into the palm of one hand, which somehow had endeared him almost to tears.

And likewise learning the shape of Aragorn’s lower body by blind feel, he is filled foremost with affection and gratitude, desire remaining in the background as a welcome side-effect. This with him is a mature man, not a young woman, and there is even less rounded voluptuousness in his king’s behind than what little had been in his wife’s, and somehow he likes this.

It seems to him he can feel the history of his beloved friend, his beloved king, in the man’s make, the many decades of toil and lonesome pilgrimage, cold rock his armchair and hard ground his bed, icy stream his bath and empty sky his roof. Decades of carrying a full load on his back, of practices that temper muscle and bone as a forger tempers battle steel. As loyalty to a dream tempers the spirit.

No, Faramir would not wish for the perky flesh of a light-hearted youth in his stead, for the flawless curves that bear no meaning, for a body that has known nothing but ready pleasures.

His fingertips lick over the underside of the man’s buttocks – so lightly, barely skimming over skin – but Aragorn gasps, and jolts, and much as there remains a safe measure of space between their naked bodies, for a moment, before it is hastily withdrawn, Faramir feels a hot, hard nudge to the stomach. The realisation takes a moment, for of course this had never happened with her.

Aragorn is panting above him, and although he utters no other sound, Faramir hears his lord’s shame.

The young man reaches up to touch him on the face, to reassure, but the King turns away, shuddering.

So Faramir makes to settle this elsewise, to affirm his acceptance – furthermore, his willingness – in a most unambiguous manner. Yet with no warning at all, Aragorn bats away his grasping fingers, so precisely as though the King can actually see his aim.

Faramir knows better than to insist – and so as to assure his lord of his complete obedience, of his respect for the King’s perfectly understandable sensitivity, he altogether takes his touch away and lies back on the sheets.

This is a long journey, and long journeys can seldom be made in one go.

Now that his hands rest idle on the linens, he comes back to himself a little to grow aware of how tense and flushed he himself is, of his head spinning and a droplet of sweat sliding down his temple. Aware of a hot dryness burning in his gut – and also of the scent of his own desire rising as steam from his skin. He marvels how the King cannot smell it on him, how there is still place for doubt.

Faramir shuts his eyes.

He cannot be certain that he has not erred in his judgement, going too far too soon – but once an arrow is shot, there is no altering its flight, and knowing Aragorn, they might not get a second chance at all.

“If you do not let me,” Faramir reasons quietly, “we will never know what might have been.”

He does not know whether it is the rational grain in his words, or something else, the very sound of his voice perhaps – but slowly, the King nods.

He feels Aragorn grow into his hand, and it is a sensation as exciting as it is strange. His light touch is as though changing the actual composition of the other man’s flesh, crystallising all traces of the soft and the supple out of it, making it like unto star-metal awaiting rebirth at the hands of a talented Elven-smith.

It is fascinating how quickly everything in him rises to the task, how his palm begins to glow with the warmth of the strokes only yet to come. How could he, how could have he lain for all these nights by Aragorn’s side and not become mesmerised by the possibility, so real, so easy, so within reach? But he is yet capable of reminding himself that his errand is, in fact, only tangent to this beguiling prospect, and that were he to give ground to the mood of the moment and without further ado set to speeding things to their logical conclusion, it would abridge what fragile trust he has managed to earn.

With one final brush of his finger-pads bidding an interim goodbye to where he is determined to return before long, Faramir quests lower. To complete what had been asked of him, to acquaint himself with every angle of his lord’s unfortunate innocence.

In the crease of the groin his skin is so untoughened, so shiveringly tender, and it is impossible to understand how it can coexist in such close proximity with the lean rigidness of the long muscles of the thigh. When Faramir moves down over the thigh, the feel is even and sleek, but no sooner than he turns back his progress is halted by the many little hairs curling up against his palm. He enjoys the notion, and somehow it amuses him to think that the exact same effect would take place if he were to rub his own leg. He repeats the little play, and it is just a tad bit scratchy, and he finds that very earthy and cosy.

It is a stark, exquisite contrast when he cups from beneath the more delicate components of his lord’s masculine manifest. They weigh roundly into his hand, so sensitive, full, such unreasonably fine skin. He is reminded, as though from far away, of how her breasts used to weigh into his hands when she would bow over him.

The reminiscence brings sadness, but that of a gentle, diluted sort, for it is sweetened with the new purpose her passing has given him, ironic as that in itself may be. Once again he tells himself not to dismiss the possibility of soon parting with his sanity, for it all seems to be coming together now. A warped, uncanny sense emerging from the messy tangle of grief, secret woes and broken dreams, the little individual tragedies arranging themselves into graceful shimmering constellations upon the inner sky of his mind.

So be it, he thinks. He is tired of analysing, of driving his thought at the pointless pursuit of the clever and obvious solution that would prevent what has already come to pass. So be it if there is some bigger meaning to this – so be it if there is not.

Aragorn has not uttered another word. Aside from the involuntary jolts he makes when his steward wanders across the more finely-wired spots, he seems grimly bent on remaining an unintrusive observer to his own premiere, patiently enduring whatever new ideas strike the younger lord’s fancy.

Faramir no longer trusts himself to judge whether this is a good sign or not. He fondles the hard curve of the King’s hip-bone – sweetly, acutely aware of how good it feels to be lying like this with Aragorn, so close, so engrossed, so safe in their private little universe where all the threads are coming to fit together at last. And to that end, he is drawn, inexorably, to return to where it is the hottest and hardest of all, and he has ceased to care whether the permission be being granted to him through weariness, desire, or hope, through love or fear. He simply shifts his hand sideways, and a primitive test as it is, it works, for the King is swift to match this slight movement with one of his own, just as faint – but it is enough.

As though without any conscious intention on his behalf, Faramir’s fingers close into the simplest, most harmonious of shapes, a snug and familiar hold. A perfect circle. Perfect intimacy.

The King sighs.

Faramir does not want it to end, wants it to never end. He does not even move, for he wants to set this moment in amber, to keep it unchanged till the end of his days. For this is not about body parts and lustful caresses, this is not for pleasure or pity – but a sensation of such startling kinship that he dreads to as much as inhale lest he spoil it.

So it is not he, it is Aragorn who takes the reverie a step further, who asks for it with his hips clearer than he ever could in any of the spoken languages of Middle-earth.

Faramir knows the guard will not be let down, even now, especially now, knows Aragorn will not be coaxed to relax onto his steward and lie atop him – but the distance is intolerable. So with his other hand he grasps, and hoists himself up, and hides his face on the older man’s shoulder, and it is strong and solid against his cheek. He is clinging, hanging on Aragorn for support, and he can feel the strain in Aragorn’s frame, and his own nose is positively squashed against the bone of his lord’s chest. But he is filled to the brim with this dear, kindred scent, and as it expands his lungs he hears it call to something good and ancient in the depths of his memory, and he forgets all about bodily comfort. And what does comfort matter, for they are floating, and the tide is gentle, and what can a man afloat do but row – slowly, thoughtfully, for it is so intuitive, so little physical effort, like conducting a symphony with the sole motion of his wrist.

He wishes to never strike shore, to sail, and sail, off into the bright radiant blue, away from here, away from anywhere at all.

He sees blazing sunsets and rosy sunrises, he sees whipped creamy clouds stacking up into castles and swimming lazily through the transparent air far above, he sees the golden glow of late evening reflected across the infinite seas.

And selfishly he veers off the course, and lets his fingers dally – but dally they can in one direction only, for fleetly they seek out the most elaborate, most complex part, that where the long stretch of straight curves over into bluntness, where it seems there is no skin at all, only the flawlessly polished feel of thin expensive satin. He recognises the geometry from his own make, knows what every subtle dent and curve is for – but he has never noticed how streamlined all this intricacy is, how tastefully designed, how cleverly symmetrical. Captivating, and he cannot withdraw.

A wetness marks his fingertips and he understands he should, really should stop, but instead he goes on, for he also knows just where a nonexistent graze with the pad of the thumb would be utterly—

“Ah, Faramir, not so—” the King whispers, panicked, but before he can even tear himself away, only a startled, strangled sound escapes his parted lips, and it is all over.

It touches Faramir very deeply, more deeply than he had made to prepare himself for, that his leader and saviour has bodily reactions as those of a boy on the cusp of manhood, unspoilt, unpractised, sincere. That this man, who rules the land with a steady hand, with wisdom and composure, whose head is adorned with thin threads of noble mithril, cannot help but unravel at the teasing caress of an unwary hand.

It is not how it should be, not how it should be at all, and the injustice overfills the young lord with such sharp, bitter tenderness that his throat goes tight and sore. Before he knows it, there are tears rolling down his cheek bones and into his ears, and dimly he realises these are the first he has managed to shed since she has gone. He lies limp, sweaty and undone, abruptly thrown ashore, back upon the sticky sheets, back into the thick darkness of his rooms. His head is spinning, and he is not certain that his legs would hold him if he were to try and stand. But in his mind there is a swept, empty clarity, and in his heart a clean, fresh lightness, like cool water flowing, and, without asking whether he would have it, a smile makes itself at home upon his lips.

A dull, winded groan falls onto him, and he feels shallow aftershock tremors scatter through Aragorn’s frame. He raises his hand to run it over the man’s hair, to move a dampened strand from his temple – and Aragorn bows his head, tucks into the curve of Faramir’s neck.

Shamefaced he may be, but the old ranger is not about to flee. Maybe only because he is too tired, too disoriented to go.

Faramir’s hands overflow with caresses, and his mouth with kisses, and all of his body with the desire to hold, and cherish, and give joy, to show acceptance with his every gesture, every fibre of his every limb. Instead he must close his eyes and focus all his thought on drawing the air deep into his breast. It is not the time for sweet abandon, not just yet, and so he should steady himself – and just maybe, with the sheer steadiness of his own breathing, he could also calm his king. To lose oneself in another’s arms for the first time, what was it like? An altogether different state of being, this much he can fathom, yet he cannot properly relate, and it is not a question of years that have passed, for how could this compare to anything he has ever known. He cannot aspire to understand, he can only wait.

And maybe he can also try and beckon Aragorn closer still.

This is not fair play, surely not, for Aragorn’s defences are low and he is taking advantage, pulling him down, lower, nearer. This may not be fair play, but he believes it justified. For surely nothing works to underscore his lord’s vulnerability like this clumsy spread-legged, bent-over stance he has assumed atop his younger companion, and the cold sheen of moisture that is settling like evening dew on his fever-hot skin. Both of these can be easily remedied, by far more easily than the insecurity that lies within.

So as Aragorn gives in and slowly, awkwardly lowers himself onto Faramir, Faramir grasps for the rumpled blanket and, tugging and pulling with one hand, careful not to nudge the other man in the ribs, manages to haul the heavy cover over the King’s back and at least part of their legs.

Satisfied, he slinks his arm across Aragorn’s shoulders, and whispers, “’Tis alright.” He allows himself to plant a quick kiss on the side of Aragorn’s head. “You are spent… ’tis alright… everything can wait till later… let yourself rest…”

It is almost too warm, and much more comfortable, and it is exactly then that another matter brings itself to his attention. In any other circumstances it would have borne no import at all, but tonight is precisely an exception from all foreseeable normality. With a pang of unease Faramir realises something should be done about his other hand, the one now trapped between their bellies, still quite unequivocally holding the King by the manhood. He had chosen not to pull it away earlier, and struggled with the blanket one-handed, so if he were to withdraw it now when he has no actual purpose for it, the withdrawal will in itself become the purpose.

The King says nothing, does nothing, and Faramir is left to his own devices. If he is careful, if he is very patient, if he takes his fingers away one by one, and counts to ten dozen in between, it will pass unnoticed. The fingers, however, do not take this logic on board, as they remain where they are, safekeeping the precious warmth until he feels the last of the stiffness seep away – and even after that he does not, cannot let go.

As it shrunk, his grasp had tightened with it, and he is now positively holding on for dear life – which would be quite amusing if he were not so desperate for a solution. This is not an end of the world sort of predicament, and that it should be so difficult only goes to show how much out of shape he has fallen in these past few weeks. Naturally, tomorrow he will arrive at the most tactful way to resolve the situation – but he has not been given until tomorrow.

It would be quite obliging indeed if Aragorn were to pull away all off his own accord, or altogether fall asleep – so that Faramir could… Before he can chastise himself for feeble-heartedness, Faramir sees suddenly that it is not the pulling away as such that bothers him, but rather the even more sensitive question of what he will then do with what he has got a full handful of – the slippery, viscous aftermath of the brief enjoyment Aragorn has found in his bed.

And at this, funnily enough, he has no more experience than his king.

He had understood the reasons and never took it personally when the women he had known, the ones before his marriage, attended to things. Too much unnecessary trouble, in every sense of the word, could come their way if they did not. Judging they knew best, he never tried to interfere in the procedures – and after Éowyn it had become even less of an issue, seeing as children were not an unwelcome prospect. For that matter, in all his life he never had much interest of whichever sort in the bodily products that come as a natural accompaniment of disrobed interactions with a beautiful person.

Some men, he heard, like to implement these things into their love play, perceiving romantic or erotic symbolism therein, while others shun them as offensive to the senses or, worse, impingent upon the veil of sacredness that should enshroud the act of intimacy. Faramir did neither. He would wash himself afterwards, which seemed like the obvious thing to do, of no more metaphorical significance than wiping the mouth after a meal – and that would be the end of it.

Adventurousness and variety had never become his pursuits in the private area of life, even if only because as a young man, he had been too preoccupied with the moral dubiousness of the behaviour to further aggravate that preoccupation by exploring the less travelled roads – whereas as a married one… Mayhap if they had been given more time, if things were allowed to evolve… But as it was, his love had been young, and easily pleased, and maybe, in part, cautious.

As a result of all of which, on this dark night they will have to pave a new path – not only Aragorn, but he, too. For whatever had been, had not ended too well, for anyone, and it seems to him now that at least for his part, the sorrow that followed has as though separated him from his previous ways. Cut through him in a fashion that allows to reassemble anew, differently – the more differently, the better.

His eyes only half-open, he eases his arm out from between them. This time, he will appreciate what has been given to him.

As the minutes passed, it had grown sticky rather than slippery, but with one broad, generous swipe of his hand, he smears it all across his face – and there is something wondrously heathen about this, something full of the deepest, most sacral of meanings. He tilts his head back as he paints this ritual mask across his features, as he drinks in the scent, as it tickles the inside of his nose and descends down his throat into his spine.

Some rational grain in him insists he should be overwhelmed now, with something dark and stifling and burning, with shame for enjoying what has happened, for enjoying so earnestly what they have done – what he has just done, a bereaved inconsolable husband as he is supposed to be. So quick to turn a new leaf, so hungry for second chances. But the more he rakes himself for remorse, the more he produces of something else, a confusion so thick and pleasant that it is far too tempting to give up on trying to think his way through it. Such a strange thing, all of this.

And with this thought, Faramir dips his fingers into his mouth.

The taste of sweat, tears, blood he knows all too well. Intense but straightforward, unequivocal like primary colours – blood is red, sorrow is blue. Simple alchemic components of all earthly things – water, salt, metal.

He knows not what to expect, however, from the thick turbid syrup of a man’s pleasure. The scent is deep, heady, with an inciting, provocative note – yet carries no warning. And so the explosive sharpness upon his tongue takes Faramir aback, catches the breath in his throat.

But even more so than that, Faramir is astounded by the complexity. No more than he could assign one hue to the shimmering iridescence of translucent pixie wings, one shade to the ancient jewel-sheen of dragon skin – or one name only to his King Elessar Telcontar, Elfstone the Strider, Envinyatar the Healer, Estel the Hope – no more so could he put one name on the essence of Aragorn’s ardour.

He tastes to Faramir like a song. A fierce melody that unfolds, evolves, pulses with life. Claims him, spreads through him, and sweeps him away – on a wild journey through strange uncharted realms, full of savage magic, rough but wondrous. As it melts away at last, dissolves into silence, it rings on in him still, with the sweet after-burn of hard liquor. Such stark, feral beauty. He wants to tell Aragorn this, to share his joy and wonderment – but he is embarrassed. Afraid it will come out profane, dirty tavern banter. He wonders whether his little stealthy foray has even been noticed. Maybe it be best it is not, maybe he has gone too far.

Beside him, Aragorn stirs, props himself up, and Faramir can feel the man turn his face towards him in the dark.

“Faramir…?”

So much for escaping a weathered ranger’s notice.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Did you…? Did you just…?”

“I did, my lord,” he admits matter-of-factly. Might as well own it.

To his relief, Aragorn’s primary reaction is puzzlement more so than bewilderment.

“I may betray my lack of worldliness here, forgive me if so,” the king begins carefully, “but do tell me, is this the done thing? Am I missing something…”

“Do you mind?” Faramir is quick to ask.

“Well, it…” the question seems to confuse Aragorn further. “It’s not so much that, and if that’s what one does, then I suppose… But it does seem…”

“It does seem –” Faramir is about to call him lord again, but all at once this persistent formality of address feels in poor taste, no longer fitting. So he catches himself and finishes, “Aragorn, what does it seem?”

“Isn’t it…” The king rakes for the appropriate term, and at last offers, “Isn’t it awful?”

His tone is clearly intended as humours, light-hearted, almost as though he is not quite committed to this choice of vocabulary. But his voice trips and cracks, and the last word tumbles forth like a granite boulder down a mountain-side.

Isn’t it awful.

They both hold still in the wake of it crashing past.

“Aragorn,” Faramir whispers in gentle reproach, and reaches to stroke the king’s cheek, his neck, his taut arm, with the tips of his fingers, so lightly. To convey how completely non-awful, how un-awful, how exquisite, how delightful everything in him is. He feels the man tense up, ready to shy away from his touch. “Aragorn, please don’t speak so. The only thing awful is that you would imagine to call yourself that.”

“But surely the taste?”

“And what of it? ‘Tis how we are made, you and I both. Not exactly marmalade, true that,” he concedes, “but then again if one were after marmalade, one needn’t go to all this trouble. Besides, one would also need toast, and toast in bed is a sure path to swift regret.”

“Faramir, don’t give me that,” Aragorn says very seriously. “Why in the world do people do this? One would think a towel?”

“Who is to know what people do? If the great library has a section on this, I’m afraid we have yet to find it. I am equipped with little other than my own experience, and one man’s tale can hardly be a reliable yard-stick.”

“This is not standard practice then?” Aragorn insists, with growing agitation.

“Please,” Faramir puts his hand squarely on the man’s shoulder. “Please, I did not mean to upset you. If it will ease your mind, I shall go and wash. But I wouldn’t say…” he takes a vast breath, o how to explain. “I don’t believe in standard practice, that it necessarily exists – nor that it should. Some pleasures would be more common than others, I’m sure – but that’s not to say we should be obligated to grant prevalence a say in how to do certain things, if at all.”

“Then why did you?”

Faramir smiles.

“I wanted to,” he says simply. “It feels good, and right, and true to be with you, and this is you, and everything about you I love.”

Aragorn shifts a little closer.

“Is that so?” he murmurs, playful almost, as though he is only asking for the pleasure of hearing Faramir say it again.

“It is,” Faramir confirms. “And I think it must have always been so, only I did not know to see it.”

He feels Aragorn’s hand sidle up to his cheek, practising a caress, tentative, exploring. In all their nakedness, Aragorn is yet to lay hands on him, and Faramir inhales deeply, closes his eyes. He can feel his own coarse texture against the back of the man’s hand, the sand-papery beginning of a stubble, and he knows the old ranger must feel it, too. Just as he wonders if the man would mind, Aragorn’s hand opens and the fingers slowly follow the line of Faramir’s jaw, by some unseen string pulling him to arch into the touch.

“When I think of hope,” Faramir needs to explain, while he still can, before his mind abdicates, before he melts. “When I think of light, when I think of kindness, of laughter, and joy, and quiet companionship, of grace, humility, and high nobility… Of everything I have ever longed for in the nigh-forty years of my life… When I think of tomorrow and the rest of my days – in my mind’s eye, ‘tis always you that I see. When in my duty I come across a thing of beauty or wonder, ever my first thought is, I wish Aragorn saw this, I should tell him. And when I ache with my own pain, it cuts nothing like when I ache with yours.”

“But I am your king,” Aragorn offers as if for the sake of the argument, shifting closer still. “Surely, any good lord would have a measure of devotion to his king.”

“There is that, yes,” Faramir agrees. “Indeed we must all have that in very good measure for such a very fine king.” He smiles, and as though riding on the crease and the dimple of his smile, Aragorn’s hand glides to brush the corner of his mouth. He feels the man’s knuckles go over his lips, and he opens up, lets Aragorn feel the softness of his mouth. “Let fealty be my excuse for why I did not know sooner.”

“You need no excuse,” Aragorn breathes into his ear, “I did not know sooner either.”

Faramir turns to him, feels the tips of their noses touch in the darkness, feels the sweet heat of Aragorn’s uneven breath on his lips, feels himself tremble.

As excitement and trepidation swell in him like a tide, as he is about to drown in the glory and the unknown, no less avoidable than the impending rise of the blazing sun, he wants to say more. So much more, all that he feels, all that he understands now, all that he yearns to give. Think fast, for he is running out of words. Or else there are no words big enough, pure enough, brave enough.

Aragorn’s hands are in Faramir’s hair, on his neck, down the chest, over the ribs, so daring all of a sudden. His touch is like liquid sunshine, joy incarnate, a revelation, a call to rise. The hands of a King, Faramir remembers, as the man sets his warm palm low in the curve of his waist, both a question and a claim.

You have brought me back. I am yours. I always was.

“Please,” he whispers. “Make love to me,” as hungrily Aragorn seals their mouths together.

His king’s kiss, in all its strangeness, in all its differentness, is oddly, hypnotically familiar, like a recurring dream. Like a dance he had once known, an ancient tongue he had once spoken and forgot. It is coming back upon him now, swimming up to him from the depth of the memories that are both his and not quite, rising up from somewhere beyond him.

It is bold, and deep, yet with such a candid, trusting quality to it. Aragorn takes this kiss to Faramir like a hopeful gift, a humble offering. And somehow this moment, his king’s lips on his lips, his king’s hands in his tousled locks, is more profound, more intimate than anything that came before.

Everything makes sense now.

To feel Aragorn sigh with pleasure floods Faramir’s heart with a sweet ache – and so his manhood also. He feels heavy, laden, over-running with the desire to please.

Everything comes easily now.

Aragorn turns further towards him, eager to do deeper on his mouth. Eager to let his palm slip around Faramir’s waist, down and back, lower, to grasp the pert roundness of his arse. There is unashamed, flamboyant hunger in his grasp, coming into his own at last. With this the sweetness of Faramir’s pain hitches to a sharpness, a throbbing urgency, and he too turns, and feels his need press eagerly, rigidly against his lord’s body.

Aragorn’s breath catches. The high lord falls out of rhythm with their kiss and leans his face against his steward’s as though otherwise the disoriented world will not stop spinning around them. But ever eager to continue, he is swift to recover, and already his lips are grazing against the stubble of Faramir’s cheek, looking for his mouth again as with his hips he shifts to align them, to bring the rigid weight of his desire against Faramir’s.

His healer, his liege, his commander in battle, his dearest friend – to know him like this… The unbelievable, impossible softness of his lips, the formidable power of his embrace, the heat of his lean frame. The push and glide of his tongue, the dizzying hardness, the hot-steel-in-satin feel of his erection.

Faramir’s mind is fuzzy, blurry with want. Only distantly can he wonder at this newfound capacity to desire so consummately that he can no longer feel any border between their bodies, between their very entities. To the point where they are one bizarrely, illogically split into two, where they are made up of nothing but a want to be reunited.

Aragorn’s hand knows no restraint as he reaches in between them, to grip and rub, to learn, again and again, every detail of Faramir’s make. And the steward’s hand comes down to cover the king’s, to make him squeeze ever harder, grind ever faster.

He heaves, hauls, drags Aragorn on top of himself, spreads his legs to make room for Aragorn’s hips, arches up to be ever closer.

He recalls, vaguely, the necessity to make things slide, wetness, he needs wetness. She had used to need it, too, and the provisions they had used for help must still be around here somewhere. But he will not touch those things, they are from a different time, they were for another – and even were they not, he has no patience to search in the dark now.

“Aragorn,” he pants into the king’s ear. “Aragorn, I… please…”

“Yes… what is it?”

“I need to take you in my mouth.”

Aragorn jerks as a man blindsided.

“What… are you saying?”

“I… I would…” Trying to rephrase without exchanging ambiguity for vulgarity feels like too much work, too much delay. “Give me your hand,” he murmurs instead.

He slips Aragorn’s index and middle fingers in between his parted lips, wraps them into the underwater warmth of his mouth. They take up a surprising amount of space and feel so hard against his tongue. Faramir already knows how much the sensation will be amplified when they are replaced as he wants, and it is so beautifully indecent, so erotically uncomfortable he can hardly inhale. In demonstration of precisely what he asks be done to his face, he guides Aragorn to push in to the knuckle, back then again, until his lord must have gotten the idea.

“This,” he whispers against his king’s face. “But not with your hand.”

Aragorn goes very still.

“Faramir, what – no… We can’t, no.” The strands of his hair sway against Faramir’s face as he shakes his head in confusion.

“Please, I just…” Faramir cannot quite bring himself to mention the practical aspect of his request. Besides, in all honesty, would he not want it even were it no necessity at all? “Would you not like it?”

“I… would like it. And I would… want it. What fool wouldn’t! But no, we shouldn’t. It’s not…” Aragorn’s breathing is heavy, the weight of his body strained above Faramir’s. “Forgive me, Faramir, but this is too much. I am not ready perhaps, it’s…” He almost shudders with the effort. “I… if only…”

“You don’t believe I would truly enjoy,” Faramir finishes for him gently.

“No, no I don’t.” Aragorn admits somberly. “I am so sorry, I am making this so difficult.”

“Not at all,” Faramir is swift to object. “Please…” He holds Aragorn’s face in his hands, brings their foreheads together, shuts his eyes. The sadness cuts through him, oh how many more bridges to cross. But his heart is adept at converting sadness into tenderness, into longing, into a bright sweet flame, and instead of being sobered he desires all the deeper, all the stronger. “It matters not, great heights are only reached by winding roads.”

He holds his palm to his mouth, spits generously, and with a tight glide spreads it down his lord’s manhood. Aragorn sucks his teeth at the sharpness of the sudden pleasure of a wet touch, and his hips jerk down into Faramir’s hand. So Faramir repeats the sequence, and soon has enough glide to have Aragorn’s length swim, sail easily through his hold.

But it is no longer enough to merely have him on top. It is so important, so absolutely imperative, that their bodies align just right. That the choreography of this dance fit the melody of their story. He has to, he must show Aragorn his love, his confidence, from the most trusting, the most defenceless angle possible in the anatomy of Man. To show he fears nothing, doubts nothing, holds back nothing.

He rolls over, scrambles up, bends down again. His chest is heaving, but he stands still, awaiting.

Aragorn, behind him, above him, reaches forth to feel his form in the dark.

Slowly, the king traces with his fingertips up the verticality of Faramir’s arm, over the bend of his shoulder and along the horizontality of his back. Then down another bend, this one at the hip. Faramir bows his face, hair cascading on either side into an invisible curtain, as he feels himself arch up, open up the private space between his legs. There is a surreal flavour to this position, it tastes like an invitation, like surrender. Yet in the same breath it makes him feel vastly, infinitely strong, filled with the power and fearlessness of his desire, and he stands undiminished bowing naked to the hardness of another man’s cock.

Aragorn’s touch drops down the round curve of his buttock, then pauses.

Faramir plants his knees wider on the bed.

“Do what you will with me,” he calls to his king.

Aragorn leans over him, not too close yet, only a promise of closeness. Then without warning, like a mountain lion pouncing, he gathers a fistful of Faramir’s hair at the nape of his neck – and pulls, hard and slow. Faramir gasps aloud as his body bends and cranes, as a strange thrill blossoms through his veins.

“How about this?” Aragorn’s voice is low and gritty. His cock is jabbing into Faramir’s right buttock, hard enough to leave a bruise.

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir breathes out in great haste.

Aragorn leans closer still, licks up along the side of his neck, then into his ear. Faramir exclaims and thrashes under him, but Aragorn’s grip in his hair holds him firmly in place. Suddenly their bodies align perfectly as Aragorn’s cock comes to rest snug along the cleft of Faramir’s backside, and Faramir freezes, only trembling.

“And even this?” The king’s tone betrays a smug grin.

Faramir is hazy, half-conscious as though with lack of air, but it feels so good, so safe.

“Oh. Yes.”

Aragorn leans on him fully for support, to free up his other hand.

Faramir feels him probe, ever so gently, a dreamy touch, barely the pad of a fingertip. But it is as though a colossal harp string inside him is plucked, struck – and a wild, entreating noise flies forth from his throat. He strains to turn his face towards his king, further than the design of his neck would allow. Graciously, Aragorn helps him, twists Faramir around as though by a rein, and bites into his mouth with a kiss. He pushes in with his tongue just as his finger pushes too, and this is more than Faramir can take.

Brightly he sees Aragorn on the day the silver crown of all Gondor was placed upon his dark head, on one knee before Mithrandir in the green Pelennor grass. About his shoulders a cape white as mountain snow, how stern and pure he had looked, how noble and grave. How breathlessly in awe of him Faramir had stood, how humbled and filled with joy. Such honour, such majesty lay in this man, such untouchable grace.

To now, from this very man… this savage, sweltering hunger. And his commanding hand seeking, savouring… such… Unspeakable. Places.

And yet, how easy, still, it is to cause him pain, how vulnerable his raw heart.

Faramir reaches behind himself, grips hard. Valar, how thick…

“I will hurt you,” Aragorn protests into the back of his head. But only half-convinced. For Faramir can hear in his hoarse voice the pounding excitement of this most forbidden of pleasures, of this communion like no other.

A first, for them both.

“There is no hurt,” Faramir declares, and with a firm hand he shoves his king in.

Oh, how much to take in. Faramir gapes, gulps for breath, but all he knows is crushing relief, like reaching shore after days adrift at sea. If only he had known how much he needs this, to feel Aragorn’s hardness entering him, to welcome him in. He cannot quite inhale, he cannot quite tell whether it hurts, and it does not matter.

Heat, raw, almost burning – and strain, oh such strain, but not like any pain he has ever known, and he has known a bit. A power this great comes laden with the shadow of danger, but with Aragorn on him, above him, inside him, nothing could harm him ever again. The strain intertwines somehow with the safety that Aragorn is bringing him, and he revels in it.

Like unto the joyous full-bodied exertion of pulling a tall bow to its full span, sliding the arrow just so. The bowstring impatient as is its wont, alive with need, quivering like a slice of hard fire in the hand. Halt the time, become one with the bow, draw in a breath to expand the chest and draw the string one inch more.

He not so much pushes back as feels himself sink onto Aragorn, taking him in even deeper, taking him in ever closer. Motion brings sudden, scorching pleasure, and echoing his own gasp Aragorn moans softly into his hair. The beauty of this small sound makes Faramir bolt uncontrollably against him, and spear himself to the hilt.

“Easy,” Aragorn bids in a laboured half-whisper.

The king’s behest has the opposite effect, for the commanding note in his voice is mixed with helpless wonder, and it seems to Faramir he will never be able to get enough of him. He will keep wanting, and wanting, and wanting, and how can he ever prove to Aragorn exactly how much. From this angle he cannot show tenderness, cannot hold him in any meaningful way – this angle is made for being bent over and taken. So that is what he begs of his lord, not daring to speak in words, not knowing which words to use even if he did, but with his body, with the arch of his back, with the spread of his thighs.

Aragorn pushes him flat down into the mattress, with a hand careful but firm, and sinks down together with him, snug in the space between his steward’s open legs. Faramir has never had occasion to be face down in the pillow for love making, and the weave of the case is coarse and strangely real against his cheek in contrast to the dreamy smoothness of Aragorn’s caress on his naked skin. Aragorn’s fingertips trail down Faramir’s back like a scatter of warm stars, and Faramir cannot comprehend how a touch can be at once so lulling and such a drunken thrill.

Aragorn holds him on the hips cautiously at first, as though mindful to not insult Faramir with too firm a grasp, as though without a firm grasp there is no risk to Faramir’s propriety. Slowly, gingerly he leans down, his abdomen on Faramir’s lower back, his chest on Faramir’s shoulder blades. It is so warm, so heavy, such a safe haven to be covered by him so close. The last remnants of tension in Faramir’s back and thighs dissolve and drain away, and he feels his body spread, melt into the bed as Aragorn grinds slowly into him.

There is no further left to go, they are as one as can be, but Aragorn yearns to be deeper yet, to reach beyond the limits prewritten into the lines of their bodies. Nothing else to do but pull back and try once more, for maybe he got it wrong somehow, maybe this time will work. Again he makes it so maddeningly close to that perfect closeness – but still not enough, and once more he must draw back and try harder, drive faster.

Faramir blinks, heavily, slowly. The movement is familiar, the setup is familiar. A rhythm, a difficult, loud breathing. A sagging of the mattress at the knees where it is pinned down for leverage. A rocking of hips punctuated with moans. He recognises all this, such a universal expression of need, the alphabet of lovemaking no different between king and common man. Yet he is on the other side now, he understands better what it feels like for Aragorn than what it feels like for himself. The pleasure is so natural and effortless but so strange, for it is his front dragging back and forth against the bunched-up linens. It is from his own lips that the moans are leaping – completely without his involvement, as though Aragorn presses the noise out of him like wine-juice from ripe grapes. And the louder he moans, the hungrier Aragorn works for more.

The king wraps his arms around him from underneath, finds Faramir’s hands to interweave their fingers. Tied up in the embrace, Aragorn has no purchase in his upper body, but the king’s legs are long and strong, and his passion is free for the first time, and he can get everything done through his hips alone. This is an unmistakeably animal configuration, like a pair of mountain lions on a snowy slope, and Faramir wonders if Aragorn thinks of this too as his manhood unashamedly ploughs his intimate depths.

The air dense and thick, he can only growl for breath, and somehow this is wonderful. Like unto the ecstatic implosion in the lungs when sprinting across a summer meadow, leaping through the tall grass-blades ablaze with gold in the midday sun. He is seeing spots of pulsating colour and his chest is tight in Aragorn’s crushing hold, and Aragorn’s weight on him is like a grinding furnace, and it feels like Aragorn is forging a blade inside him.

The heat reaches boiling point and they, or one of them, it is impossible to tell who, breaks a sweat, and suddenly everything slides and glides like wrestling in the rain. Aragorn’s hipbones imprint into his open buttocks with bruising jabs, and the angularity of the king’s lean frame hits so much sharper in the slickness of their sweat. He can take it, he wants all there is to take and more, to be filled to the brim, to overflow with devotion.

Aragorn’s arms, and chest, and belly on him slip hotly, and it feels so good, but he misses the coarse texture of the friction, the tightness of the grit. He bucks against Aragorn – as close as he can come to articulately asking for more.

There is no time, now is all they have.

He must know Aragorn’s mastery over him, to have Aragorn claim him and take of him everything he needs to give so the king himself is overwhelmed into incoherent ecstasy.

He bolts again, nearly breaks their pace.

Aragorn grunts and drives harder against him – but Faramir will not stay put. The king snarls a curse and yanks one hand free to thump his forearm square across Faramir’s back, and throws all his weight into nailing him into place. His elbow nudges sharp under the corner of Faramir’s shoulder blade, fist clenched tight, just as with his other hand he grips Faramir’s fingers to the bone.

Faramir tosses his head on the pillow, grits his teeth – and just when it seems he cannot take it anymore, when he is all gasps and screams, Aragorn wedges his face into the crook of the man’s neck and bites down into him. The molten softness of his lips and the harsh edge of his teeth, fighting for this torturously sensitive spot. Faramir’s skin comes alive with sparks, and on the inside he blossoms, glowing, as the pressure between his legs rises with a glorious promise.

The bedsheet is so sweetly rough against the tender underside of his manhood, and even the eager wetness leaking from the tip cannot soften the grinding pleasure. Is Aragorn, too, dripping deep within him? This is too much, too much happening all at once, and his senses overload, collapse. His throat forgets how to coordinate sound, and his keening cries fly silent in the dark.

He hears then Aragorn groan into his hair, the back of his neck, it is a sob almost, as though he too cannot bear to feel this good.

“Faramir, oh Faramir,” the king pants, taking such obvious delight in saying his name, “Faramir, oh how I love you!”

Before Faramir can answer in kind, his body answers for him.

His love, his pain, his grief, his glory, everything coalesces in the light that is Aragorn.

His voice finds him then, and all he can do is squeeze his eyes tight and let it soar, as sweet fire curls the soles of his feet, arches him taut, shoots up his spine, and bursts from his loins in spasming pulses of liquid heat.

No sooner than the waves of pleasure wash Faramir ashore, Aragorn yanks out of him.

Faramir cries aloud at the loss.

It is not quite clear how long he can survive without Aragorn inside him, and he makes a disoriented, uncoordinated lurch at him in the dark, in a blind need to have him back. Scrambling just as desperately, Aragorn is already dragging, rolling him over onto his back, and falls back on top of him, chest to chest, mouth to mouth.

“Hold me, Faramir. I need you to hold me,” he mutters as he is grasping for Faramir’s legs, pulling Faramir’s thighs up, to get to where they can be one again.

The kiss is a hot mess, all tongue and ragged wet breath, but it is the purest, most beautiful thing on this earth.

He groans against Aragorn’s mouth as Aragorn pushes, glides back into him. Almost, so very close to too much – and in that one step separating it from being too much, lies all the bliss of the world.

He knows no beginning and no end between them. There is no telling where Aragorn’s manhood finishes inside him and his own rises forth on the outside. He is as though impaled on one solid, continuous beam of delight, glowing, throbbing, ready to burst.

Aragorn catches him, grips hard, and with every thrust grinds his fist down to the base of Faramir’s hardness, as though he wants to weld the two lengths together.

He has just had his release, he should be done, but his body does not work like that anymore.

He digs his fingers into his king’s straining shoulders, cranes his neck to lick into Aragorn’s ear. Aragorn jolts, moans with such endearing helplessness, and Faramir whispers to him, with a seductiveness he had not known himself to possess. The coarsest, most uninhibited words of encouragement to ever exist. Words that only soldiers could use, rangers with nothing to fear and no one to answer to. Two men loving each other freely in the great wilderness, in starlit woods, on the featherbed of fragrant nightgrass.

With every fibre of his being he feels his king unravel and lose control. Aragorn roars as he beats into Faramir one last time and comes undone.

There is no greater purpose in life than to make Aragorn happy, no higher privilege than to be chosen as the source of his need. No brighter glory than to hold him close as he weathers the sweet onslaught of his completion.

The King of Gondor comes long and hard, his seed pumping in hot, rhythmic bursts as throes of release rock his whole body, and somewhere amid it all the Steward loses himself, too.

There is no time or space, only darkness and all-consuming sweetness.

Heavy, drowning warmth. Everlasting peace.

His breath is the first thing that returns to him.

Faramir inhales, blinks, hugs Aragorn closer.

The way his heart, his whole body had sung for Aragorn – it is more than a smile, than any words can express, only tears will do.

He weeps with elation, with soaring joy, with utter relief.

Aragorn gathers him up, tenderly, pulls him in, and Faramir feels his body loll over like a rag doll, boneless and pliable.

“Oh Valar, I did hurt you… Faramir! What have I done!” Aragorn strokes the side of the younger man’s face, the back of his head, his arm, as though searching for signs of damage.

Faramir tries to laugh, hiccoughing through his tears. “No,” he breathes out. “No, never. I never… felt this good…”

He holds his king’s face in both hands, his nose pressed flat into Aragorn’s cheek. They kiss wet messy kisses through the salt of his tears, Aragorn laughing too.

“Then I wish to do this with you always,” the King murmurs against his lips, “every night of my life. And every morning. To steal you away in the day, to the groves of Ithilien, to love you in the meadow and on the river bank.”

“And so you shall,” Faramir promises.

Aragorn spreads on his back to rest his well-worked muscles, and exhales with happy exhaustion.

“Come here,” he pulls Faramir to him, and there is a new kind of intimacy to his voice, proprietary and certain.

He guides Faramir to lift up his face to him.

This kiss is slow and soft, but deep, Aragorn going far in with his tongue, confident now that he knows the way. Faramir meets him in kind, pulls himself alongside Aragorn’s body for a better angle. With this, Aragorn shifts too, to cradle him around the waist, to place his hand casually, comfortably over the curve of his buttock.

There is great luxury in knowing that there is no immediate rush for more, and Faramir rests his head on Aragorn’s shoulder. Tentatively, they settle into a close, reposing embrace that is possible only after a storm of great passion.

The hair in the pit of Aragorn’s arm is soft with dampness and warmth, the male scent strong on him. Faramir breathes in quietly, not wishing to disturb the balance with so much as the beating of his heart. He lies still, observing the new sensations, basking in the happiness.

His hand rests flat on Aragorn’s breast, and he feels the touch of curly wire-mesh against the side of his palm. It comes to him, wrapped in peaceful contentment, in quiet glowing joy, the thought that this is how his lovemaking will be from now on. Aragorn’s chest is smooth up towards the collar and around the nipples, but with a tuft down the middle. Of all the different configurations a person’s body can take, this is the one Faramir will be getting used to, to soon forget that a lover could be made any other way. It is meaningful somehow, as though there is a special message in this design. He wonders whether the hairs are all dark or some silver, and finds his fingers playing idly with it.

Aragorn shifts under him a little to move the arm on which Faramir is lying so as to be able to stroke the side of the younger man’s head, thread his fingers through Faramir’s tousled tresses. His deft touch is lulling, hypnotic, so full of the promise of yet unexplored pleasures.

They speak, softly, with long, comfortable pauses, of their newly discovered way to bring each other joy. Aragorn is finding his voice, with growing confidence, to put words on what in the light of day had been forbidden to even imagine. This is the final step, claiming aloud the things done in the dark. Taming shameful, shapeless longings with names of love.

Faramir is growing drowsy and would like nothing more than to sleep with Aragorn’s body against his. But the warmth on their skin has been licked off by the night air, and the dew of their sweat has become too cool for comfort and keeps him awake.

Aragorn props himself up, leans forward, and Faramir thinks he is looking for the blanket to cover them with.

The older man remains sitting, silent.

With a heaviness uncharacteristic of his agile frame, Aragorn swings his legs off the bed.

Faramir tries to ignore the unpleasant dropping sensation in the pit of his stomach, like missing a step on the staircase.

And so, the fairy tale comes to an end. Time is up.

All thought of sleep is gone. He swallows, his throat gone tight and dry.

The King is leaving now. To go back to his other life. No, this is – was – the other life.

His lord is going back to his rightful place. Hopefully, to return again someday… For a visit.

Or maybe not.

It feels all too familiar, pretty much to be expected by now. Always ending up alone no matter how much he is willing to give. Did he really think it would be any different this time?

Faramir makes to chase the disrespectful notions away before they can take root. He has no right to ask for anything. He knew what he was doing.

He does not need to speak, Aragorn well reads his heart.

“Faramir, I shall try to be back as soon as I can. I do not know – this might be swift, or it could take a while. But it must be done now. It may be cruel to break such news in the middle of the night, but to delay is hardly kinder.”

The air is suddenly too heavy to inhale.

“My lord…?” he asks, hanging onto denial by his fingernails.

“I must speak with Arwen.”

Faramir sits bolt upright.

Images, glimpsed memories, flood in, overtaking one another.

The feast table aglow fire-gold against the midnight backdrop.

The Hall of Minas Tirith filled with courts of Gondor, Rohan, Dwarves and Elves, Hobbits and Wizard-folk, all gathered in high celebration. Proud Elven cheek-bones framed by cascades of white-blond hair, the twinkling undulations of the Ancient Tongue. Music, laughter, wine flowing.

And amid it all, as though the legend-like splendour is nothing but an ornate bejewelled frame for the two of them, straight-backed and regal, draped in swathes of star-shimmering velvets and silks, the High King Elessar and his faerie bride.

All of this will be lost, undone, forever gone.

Because of Faramir’s self-indulgence, his arrogant taking it upon himself to fix his king.

He reaches for Aragorn, but stops just short of touching his shoulder.

“Please, sire, let me not cause this sorrow.”

“Don’t give yourself undue credit, ’tis unbecoming of a lord,” Aragorn says bleakly. “You had no hand in the making of this sorrow, for it was conceived before you even walked the earth.”

“But is this necessary? I would have you no matter. Come whenever you wish. Whenever you can, it is what it is.”

“It is what it is? Well, I don’t think I’ve heard that one before. Faramir, I am sick and tired. To the death of me.”

Faramir sits back, swallows.

“Please, Aragorn,” he tries again, softly. “I only wish to ease the way for you.”

Aragorn takes a deep, slow breath, calling on his patience. “And I thank you. But there is no easy path, nor should there be. It is terribly noble of you to show such accommodating kindness, I don’t think I for one would have it in me to be so generous. But I don’t want your generosity, Faramir, nor your pity. I’ve had it with heroics and sacrifices, let there be no more. I was given one mortal life, one human heart only – and only so much love, only so much time I can give.”

“I make no aim to compete for your attention. Whatever you would give me, I will be grateful to accept.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t. To reduce you, Faramir, to some – some kind of what? A needy old man’s plaything for between dinner and bedtime, a pleasure pony to forget in the paddock once I’ve had my ride – is that all you think you’re worth?”

Faramir shudders. He shuts his eyes to ward off the sudden sensation of shame.

“It would be nothing like that, I do not doubt your love.”

“So you say now. No, don’t argue, Master Steward, I know you mean it. But live on stolen kisses for a year, wonder at night why even your body-servant is the light of someone’s life while all you get is scraps – and I’ll see how much trust you put in my love then.”

Faramir stares into the dead of night for a long time.

His heart beats with luminous devotion, golden, blissful. But the rest of his body is as though left behind. He is utterly bare, stripped, another man’s dried-up seed worked into the skin of his face, into his hair, into Valar know where. His knee is in the wet spot, his entire bed no longer fit for sleeping in.

A great loneliness envelops him like a thick blanket.

He is reminded, with a sharp, sinking ache, of all those who are now gone. Stubborn, hot-headed Boromir, his fiercest protector, his first hero, his longest love. His father, whose frosty disappointment still smarts. His wife, pale as the winter dawn. The gentle mother he had not known long enough to remember. The friends slain beside him amid the ruins of Osgiliath and on the Pelennor fields. His teacher the great wizard, the hobbits his unlikely companions, all departed to better places now.

The breath of the night is cold and dark on his bare back.

“They say the king knows what is to come,” he utters at last.

Aragorn snorts. “Oh, I wish. If I did, then none… Oh, enough of that.” He sighs, pulls himself to his feet, begins to dress.

“It is decided then.”

“It seems to me now that it always has been,” Aragorn says, gentler now. “It was not your decision then, Faramir, and neither is it now – nor your burden to bear. We met, and were bonded, in a different age. The Elven Rings held sway – I did not even know at the time! You would not know it either – it had felt so right and true. A clearer reality, concentrated, profound, majestic, where everything is distilled to its essence. Through twilit woods untouched by the ageing of the world we could stroll unshod, in reverie, in dreamy silence, and in our starry-eyed ambition make-believe that we were like unto Beren and Luthien, alone in the morning of Arda. That world is no more, Faramir. Not this side of the sundering seas.”

He heaves a heavy, muffled sigh that sounds like he is rubbing his face with his hands. “I am rambling now. Don’t listen to me.”

Faramir aches to touch him. With an innocent, comforting touch. A sympathetic caress on the shoulder, nothing more.

He dares not. For fear that Aragorn would shy away. For fear that Aragorn would not.

Aragorn’s footsteps sound different, and Faramir knows he has put his boots back on.

“There is still time, Faramir, the white ships have not yet sailed. This, you see, this joy you have shown me, this hope you ignited – asking nothing of me, only giving, accepting of everything that I have not enough and of everything that I have in excess… Everyone should have a chance to find love like this.”

He hears Aragorn turn to him in the dark. “I shall go now, to set things right. And I would like to know, when that is done – can… may I come back here, to you?”

“But of course.”

“Do you understand what I am asking of you? Would you have the people say, there goes the high lord who seduced the King, and stole him from his lady wife, and lies with him in her stead?”

“I would. Let them say what they will.”

The door clicks shut, and he is alone again.

Faramir’s chest hurts.

He feels for the candle on the bedside table, and his hands are not quite like his own as he labours to strike the little flame to life.

The silence is so loud inside his head, the cold stone of the floor so hard under his bare feet.

Walking is awkward and strange. The new strain in the hip ligaments, the raw, tender warmth up his backside, the cool slickness rubbing on his inner thighs.

In the bathing room, he grips the edges of the basin and stares into the pale, wide-eyed face in the mirror.

This man who has just slept with the King Elessar, he looks familiar enough. It must be him. Faramir knows this and yet does not quite feel it.

So strange to be one on one with himself again. Everything has changed since the last time he was alone.

He shuts his eyes, exhales, slowly, forcing the breath to empty out completely.

Careful not to look down his body, not to pay too much attention to what his hands are feeling, he washes himself down. The cold water makes him tense up, the washcloth is too textured, the floor tiles undulating and unsteady.

He lathers up his palms, bends his knees for better reach, and rubs thoroughly, unceremoniously, between the legs, from underneath, from behind.

Afterwards, he lies in bed flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. Trying to keep his mind blank.

He lowers his eyelids, though he knows sleep will not come.

It does not.

He can still smell Aragorn on his skin.

Time is not moving, like a dragonfly stuck in crystallising sap.

What has he done.

Stirring him out of a dream that never was, comes a half-alive knock. As one made by a hand that had only just the strength to reach the door.

He scrambles up, grabs for the pile that is his nightshirt, pulls it on without looking.

Faramir throws the doors open, and Aragorn all but falls on him, as though he had swum a hundred miles through the raging seas to get here.

He does not remember how they make it back to the bed so Aragorn can lie down, but he does notice that Aragorn’s tunic is inside out.

Aragorn tucks his nose against Faramir’s shoulder. The king’s eyes are shut tight, and every time he draws a shallow, convulsive breath, it seems a great feat of willpower.

Faramir wants to stroke his back, but it feels like too much, too soon. He only allows his palms to spread over the expanse of the older man’s shoulders, to encompass as much of him as can be permissible.

After a long, long time, Aragorn suddenly shudders, gasps, and the rigid tension in his frame dissipates.

The candle is burning very low by now, sputtering, doomed to drown in itself.

Faramir takes a cautious breath and brushes a strand of hair from Aragorn’s face.

Aragorn sighs, pulls him in even closer.

“Thank you.”

Faramir smiles at him even though he knows his king cannot see it. The world is whole again.

“Of course.”

Before he knows it, he leans and kisses the top of Aragorn’s head.

Aragorn laughs at this, then chokes on his laughter, and cuts himself off before it turns to tears.

“Seventy years, Faramir. For nearly seventy years…”

Faramir only nods, presses his lips to his hair again, holds him, as Aragorn holds him back. His heart is so full.

“You must be exhausted,” Aragorn says as though it is not he who looks half-dead. “Shall we try to get a sliver of rest before daybreak?”

He shifts so as to let Faramir take a more comfortable position in which it would be possible to actually sleep.

Faramir acknowledges their sorry state with a smile, before his gaze falls on the other man’s collar. All the workings of the stitching stick out in full view. He hesitates, but it seems somehow important. “Your… your shirt. It is on the other way.”

Aragorn looks down his front.

With a defeated grin, he sits up and pulls the tunic off over his head. He is about to turn it the right side out, when his ensuant semi-nakedness becomes apparent to him. His shoulders heave, he purses his lips, and looks over at Faramir with an apprehensive half-question in his eyes.

Faramir accepts the unspoken invitation, turns his gaze to his lover’s body he has only touched in the dark.

There it is, that tuft of hair in the middle of Aragorn’s chest. Some of it is indeed silver. Also a narrow trail running down from his navel, promising to broaden and darken as it disappears under the waistband of his breeches.

Faramir’s mouth goes hot and dry.

He remembers exactly the joy that private place has the power to bring them both. He remembers he is wearing nothing under his loose nightshirt.

He feels Aragorn’s eyes on him like he would feel the heat of the summer sun through his clothes.

He reaches over and watches the progress of his own hand as it moves up Aragorn’s bare flank. On to the lean rise of his breast muscle, across the flat male nipple and to the strong line of his collarbone. He shifts over to put more weight into his touch, slide his palm further up to hold the man behind the nape of his neck.

“Even more beautiful than I had imagined.”

Aragorn snorts and rolls his eyes, but Faramir can tell he is pleased.

Faramir’s smile broadens as Aragorn holds his gaze with a calm, deep intensity. Long enough to blink, and look again. Then the king’s chest rises, his eyes drop to his steward’s mouth, and Faramir’s smile retreats in anticipation of more pressing business. Aragorn’s own lips part and he as though makes to tilt his head, to move forward.

“Faramir, you are very tired,” he murmurs as though to convince himself.

“Terribly tired,” Faramir agrees, leaning in to feel the heat of Aragorn’s breath against his lips.

Aragorn sighs.

Faramir’s breath catches as his king’s hand lands firmly on his hip.

“I want you,” Aragorn warns him.

How could he, possibly, after everything. Surely Aragorn is not ready. It is unkind to tempt him.

But Aragorn has already gone over him, and pins him down. The heat of his body… An animal thrill flushes through Faramir’s blood. If his lord prefers this to the gentler comforts, who is he to tell him otherwise.

He pushes up and rolls them over, straddling Aragorn’s hips, to which the older man makes a noise or surprised approval.

Aragorn tugs at the hem of his nightshirt. “This thing does not please me. Take it off.”

Faramir’s bare skin is kissed by the night air as the discarded garment slides to the floor.

The king’s eyes are dark as he takes in the sight, his fingers kneading the younger man’s hips.

The candle hisses, blinks once, twice, and dies.

Faramir leans in, and the hungry softness of Aragorn’s mouth already tastes like home.

He feels Aragorn grin against his lips. “But first, let us make some light.”

The End.

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