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Family Honor (NC-17) Print

Written by Mcguffan

14 July 2006 | 162886 words

Chapter 9

The morning came far too quickly and it was with the greatest reluctance that Aragorn and Faramir roused themselves from the warmth of the blankets and one another’s arms. Struggling into his clothes, Faramir watched as Aragorn prepared for the day. As the older man checked over his weapons, Faramir wished again that he could watch his lord compete. Of course, if Aragorn continued until the final rounds, a proposition the younger man regarded as a certainty unless Aragorn voluntarily withdrew, he would get his chance. The day before the archery finals had been held and the various officials, including Faramir, had convened on the field to cheer favorites, bet on the outcome and consider making offers to the various competitors. The fencing competition would, Faramir felt certain, generate similar interest. “Do you anticipate watching the closing ceremonies to the archery tournament?” Faramir asked, straightening his collar. His earlier thought bringing to mind a possible opportunity to see more of his beloved.

“I suspect I shall be about.” Aragorn replied. “It will be interesting to see which tribes the winners choose to join. The crowd will know the details of each transaction and the benefits a tribe offers as an enticement are a good marker for the tribe’s power and prestige.”

Faramir brightened at this news. Though, no official business was planned for the day, Faramir knew that attending the informal, quazi-social events of the Gathering was in the best interests of his cause. If Aragorn also happened to be about and the two men were able to steel a moment together then all the better for Faramir.

Moving to Aragorn, Faramir put his arms about the older man’s waist in a loose embrace. “Perhaps, then, we shall see one another there?’ The sentence was more of a request than general speculation. It would be worthwhile to Faramir if he were only allowed to catch a glimpse of Aragorn through a crowd.

“I hope so, my love.” Aragorn replied, before giving the young man a lingering kiss. One hand cradled the back of Faramir’s head while the other was placed possessively against his backside. “The more I see of you, the better.” Aragorn finished when the kiss ended.

Smiling, Faramir pressed his body harder against his beloved lord’s. “Must you go now, Aragorn?”

“I must either go now or I will remain here all day.” Aragorn whispered, his breath tickling Faramir’s ear. Resigned, Faramir dropped back onto his heels, still standing near Aragorn but no longer pressing against him.

`There was simply not enough time.’ Faramir thought, trying to imagine what an entire day with Aragorn would be like. The thought, however, reminded the younger man that he would soon have to part with Aragorn for an indefinitely long time. Quickly, Faramir pushed the misery that such a prospect always evoked away lest it spoil the time he did have. And with a smile that was hardly even forced, Faramir parted from Aragorn with gentle words and no outward show of the deep regret he felt at even so brief a parting.


The moment Aragorn left the tent, Faramir knew he was on the verge of a great melancholy. Already he had grown to depend on the older man in ways he would hardly have believed possible even a month ago. The thought of separating from Aragorn both terrified and depressed Faramir and to distract himself from the dreadful prospect of loss, the captain turned his attention to paperwork.

Composing reports for the Steward’s perusal was a task that had always required Faramir’s complete attention. He struggled with everything from the salutation to the closing. He revised a half dozen times and spent long minutes deciding if a phrase sounded too pompous, too abrupt or too long-winded. He wasted a great deal of parchment as he obsessed over every stray mark and ink drip. His handwriting, elegantly precise when composing essays, poetry or notes for his own use, tended to degenerate when he was nervous and nothing made him more nervous than the prospect of communicating with the Steward.

These troubles embarrassed Faramir. He knew that Denethor’s opinion of him would not rise or fall appreciably whatever the style and substance of his reports. He also knew that, while Denethor intimidated many of Gondor’s captains, others did not put so much effort in their dispatches. Once Faramir had happened to notice a report Boromir had composed and was preparing to send. Curious he had glanced over it and had been amazed. The report, more like a note really, had read: `Osgiliath, January 7-14. Lord Denethor; Three skirmishes. 21 orcs dead, 3 men injured. –B.’ Faramir had been amused at his brother’s style. He loved Boromir’s forthright and easy manners. Even as he admired his boldness, however, Faramir knew he would never dare emulate it.

Yet, these last few reports had been a bit easier for Faramir. He did not agonize over every detail as in former times and though he could not stop himself from editing what amounted to mundane field reports, he no longer grappled with the work as though he were wrestling an enemy. If he had thought about it before hand, Faramir would have thought that the necessity of obscuring certain detail of his activities in Khand would have made writing reports more difficult. This did not turn out to be the case, however. Denethor while still a figure capable of producing nightmarish anxiety was no longer as important as he had been. The idea that Denethor could have known Aragorn- even in his disguise- and not loved him made the Steward’s judgment suspect in his son’s eyes in a way that all Denethor’s excoriating criticism of Faramir had not. With something akin to shock Faramir realized that he almost pitied his father. His cold pride had made him an object of terror to many who would have adored him given the least opportunity.

Sprinkling drying sand over the third and final draft of his report, Faramir could not help but consider how meeting one’s true love and king in the person of a mysterious and darkly handsome ranger tended to put ink smudges into greater perspective.


The sun flashed blindingly on whirling steel. The air was parched and thick with heat. So thirsty was the earth that though the man swung and jabbed his heavy blade with appalling speed the sweat did not have time to bead on his brow before it was lost to arid land. Aragorn watched the nearly fantastic efforts of his opponent’s movements with some admiration even as he remained nearly still, dodging attacks by the merest shifting of his body. He breathed slowly, guarding his body’s resources even as he began making a rudimentary offense.

Inevitably, Aragorn’s third opponent’s energy burned itself out and Aragorn stepped forward holding his blade to the rapidly beating pulse at the man’s throat. The man was nearly spent and speech representing too great an effort he nodded his surrender. Trying not to stagger the man left the combat area and took great gulps from a waterskin. `It had been a reasonable strategy.’ Aragorn thought as he watched the man attempt to slake his thirst with some sympathy. His opponent had assumed that an older man and a foreigner would not have been able to match his endurance. The ranger, though, had not only the advantage of experience in even more severe climates but he had as yet unplumbed depths of endurance. Despite the sincerity and potential of his opponents Aragorn had not yet met a serious challenge.

“Will you drink?” Aragorn was broken from his thoughts by one of the spectators who had, somewhat shyly, come up to offer him a temptingly full canteen. Taking a sip out of courtesy, for the giving of water was no small thing in Khand, he returned the canteen with thanks and the man retreated smiling. Aragorn was gaining some notoriety from his success and his foreign status and he occasionally found himself the topic of whispered conversations as he passed. The murmuring was not hostile but rather speculative and Aragorn suspected that increasingly large sums of money would change hands as he progressed through the tournament. The thought made Aragorn smile a little, as he wondered if it was too soon to seek out Faramir.

The young man had confided to him and Aragorn concurred in his assessment that several of the tribes were willing to agree to allow Gondor to send historical research missions into their territory but as such a proposition was unprecedented the leaders needed time to adjust to the idea before committing themselves. Thus, Faramir did not attempt to push for an immediate agreement, instead he allowed the Khandrihm to become better acquainted with him personally so that they could assure themselves of his sincerity. While this was an excellent strategy, Aragorn felt certain that he could safely snatch Faramir away from the throng for a private walk or a quiet drink in some shade. Finally deciding that the tribal leaders had had their fair share of his beloved’s attention, Aragorn made his way toward the archery grounds.

Aragorn’s eyes were drawn instantly to Faramir amid the darker-skinned Khandrim. The leaders and dignitaries clustered together around a large pavilion, set apart from the common men and women. The young captain stood among the other nobles, his stance communicating poise and dignity. Aragorn felt a fierce pride grip his heart as he watched Faramir. He did not speak often but when he did the others quieted and gave him their full attention. His manner was courteous to all, with no hint of either servility or condescension and many of the Khandrim watched him with wonder and respect, regarding him as a new phenomenon in their experience.

For long moments Aragorn was content to be an observer. Faramir’s confidence and the reactions of others to that confidence were wonderful to behold. Though, the triteness of the metaphor was hard on Aragorn’s aesthetic sensibilities (Bilbo would most certainly have laughed at him) Faramir was blossoming. Eventually, however, Aragorn grew jealous for Faramir’s attention and he made sure to cross the younger man’s line of sight. Aragorn could not resist the satisfaction he felt as Faramir noticed him and exuberance overtook the young man.

Politely extricating himself from the discussion of arrow fletching, that had until that moment been passably interesting, Faramir made his way to the perimeter of the nobles’ enclave. Faramir meant to wander casually but considered himself lucky that he was able to forbear sprinting toward Aragorn. Rather than throwing his arms about his lord’s neck as he wished when the two came together, Faramir only smiled and turned to walk with Aragorn as though they were but casually acquainted.

“How fare the Khandrim lords?” Aragorn inquired, a smile in his voice.

“Everyone is full of archery commentary.” Faramir replied, brushing his shoulder against Aragorn’s and hoping it looked as though the touch had been only the accidental result of the unevenness of the ground. “The winner and the men in second and third place, all declared their allegiance to the Variags. Apparently, the Variags always manage to claim the winners. They don’t bother recruiting anyone else. Lord Vokun is disappointed, though. He thought he had nearly convinced the second place man to join his tribe. There was a brief ceremony where the fresco was presented to the winner who then lay it at the feet of the chief Variag representative. I hope the fighting champion does not join the Variags, I should hate to think of the Harp of Figno in their custody.”

“If the harp has endured this long, there is hope it may survive the Variags’ neglect.”

“That is certainly to be hoped. I confess that I am excited that I will get to see it.” Faramir fell silent then. He was considering how best to propose that they retire from the Gathering for a time- just an hour or so. He did not wish to seem remiss in his obligations but surely he could take an hour. Before Faramir was able to convince himself that he could indeed take an hour and that Aragorn would not mind sharing the time with him, he became aware that Halbarad was approaching them, wearing an even grimmer expression than usual.

Faramir was about to comment upon the ranger’s approach when Halbarad seemed to see something that caused his expression to register alarm for a moment before he quickened his step. Curious, Faramir turned in the direction in which Halbarad had seen whatever had apparently alarmed him. He saw nothing, though, to warrant distress.

“Halbarad,” Aragorn greeted his friend warmly. “I was getting ready to suggest to Faramir that-” But whatever he had been getting ready to suggest was lost as Halbarad interrupted leaning in close and taking a firm hold on his chieftain’s arm.

“We should leave here, `Strider’, now.” Halbarad put deliberate emphasis on Aragorn’s pseudonym.

“What is it? What has happened?” Aragorn demanded softly, his hand moving to his sword hilt.

“That man,” Halbarad indicated the direction with his eyes. “is the Variag officer I met on the way here, the one that let me go. I do not think it wise that he should see you.” Both Aragorn and Faramir made an effort to appear as though they were casually surveying the crowd even as their gazes flew in the direction Halbarad had indicated.

The man, Faramir had seen him the first time he had followed Halbarad’s stare but not taken particular note of him, was wearing a helmet so that one did not really see his face unless one was really looking. Now that Faramir was really looking he understood the reason behind the helmet. The man was impossibly ugly. His nose was nearly flat with the nostrils clearly visible. His skin looked like leather and if Faramir was not mistaken his cheekbones came up from his face in ridges. He had so many features in common with an orc that Faramir realized it was not impossible that the man was indeed part orc. Shivering he turned away and reached for Aragorn’s other arm, as desperate as Halbarad to get their lord away.

“I fear it is too late for that.” Aragorn replied calmly, chilling Faramir’s blood. “The man has been in attendance at my last two tournament combats. Ah, besides he has just now seen us and I believe he may wish to have a word.”

Turning back to the orc-man, Faramir saw that it was true. He was approaching and his eyes were locked on Aragorn. Feeling the same rush of fear and adrenaline as he felt on the battlefield, Faramir stepped in front of Aragorn right into the Variag’s path. The man seemed a little startled and he paused to look Faramir up and down. His gaze made the Steward’s son feel like a hog being sized up for slaughter.

“Congratulations, sir. Your tribe has made some fine acquisitions today.” Faramir’s voice started out louder than he intended, but he gamely stood his ground. Whatever the Variags’ purposes if they wanted aught to do with Aragorn then they would have to go through Faramir.

After gazing at Faramir a few moments in the vain hope that the man would disappear the Variag shrugged. “We always take the best. It is our way.”

“Such a policy must lead to contention among the other tribes.”

“Without contention there can be no triumph. But I was not aware Gondor took an interest in recruits from the tournament.” The officer looked pointedly at Aragorn over Faramir’s shoulder.

“Gondor is always interested in talented men.” Faramir swallowed in a dry throat. Why was this Varaig interested in Aragorn? How much did he know?

“So you have begun wooing in the third round?”

“I have heard the Variag Tribe always take the best and I thought if I am to make a claim for Gondor then it would be prudent to begin discussions with the most promising combatants as early as possible.”

“These negotiations must have begun early indeed for I understand master Strider arrived with your party. Certainly, for the Khandrim, it is not entirely clear the difference between a man of Gondor and a northern forest-runner.” There was no precise translation for `ranger’ in the language of Khand and it took Faramir a moment to decipher the officer’s meaning.

“Such is the blindness of those only concerned for themselves. But it is a universal fault, I confess that there are many in Gondor who could not distinguish between a Variag and an Eldooling.” Faramir felt a small sense of satisfaction as the officer’s mouth compressed at the analogy and he continued with greater confidence. “Few Westerners travel east and it was a matter of convenience for those few to journey together.”

“A pity not all the forest-runners with their ambitions set upon the tournament could travel with you.” The Variag replied, turning his attention to Halbarad. “I was sorry to see that you had not entered any contest, though I understood that was your intention the last time we spoke.”

Halbarad faced the officer’s nasty smile with a stony expression. “As you know, I was delayed and when I arrived I found myself too weary from… travel to compete effectively.”

“Ah well, the Eastern roads are often wearying for the Westerner. I suggest you avoid them in future. But perhaps the delay was all to the good. After all, your countryman is having success and, in the end, there can be only one winner.” Having finished with Halbarad, the officer again turned his attention to Aragorn. It was difficult for the Variag to address him, however, since Halbarad and Faramir had become a human wall between them. The officer managed to ignore the others, though, and spoke directly to Aragorn. “You have great skill, master Strider. The Variags believe you are marked for great things and our eye is upon you. I wish you good fortune.” Without further speech the officer left the three men without bothering to look back.

“Let’s go.” Halbarad whispered as soon as the officer was out of earshot. This time Aragorn made no protest as both Halbarad and Faramir urged him away from the Gathering.


In the relative safety of Faramir’s tent, Halbarad paced in an agitated circle as Aragorn watched and Faramir- still feeling a little shaky- stood at his shoulder, trying rather unsuccessfully to keep from hovering. No one had spoken on their hurried retreat. Faramir was not entirely certain he understood what the encounter with the Variag signified but he knew he didn’t like it. The officer’s parting words still rang in his ears `our eye is upon you.’ The implications of that simple phrase made Faramir sick to his stomach.

“Whatever the damned glove is, it is not worth it.” Halbarad finally asserted coming to an abrupt halt in front of Aragorn.

“It does not occur to you that if the Enemy greatly desires the `Killing Fist’ then we should do everything we can to keep it out of his hands.” Aragorn spoke mildly. He, too, had found the confrontation with the Variag officer unnerving but as long as the risks of the adventure fell only upon him, he could not justify abandoning the quest. In truth, he was intrigued and unless Halbarad could make an argument that did not depend on concern for Aragorn’s safety he would remain unmoved.

“We don’t know anything about this gauntlet except that the wizard expressed a passing interest in it and the Enemy’s thugs seem intent upon winning it- or just intent on winning. If there is magic to this artifact- and it seems to me that there is a distinct possibility that the only thing at stake here is bragging rights- it is not as important as you are.” Halbarad knew that his chieftain would resist the truth of his last sentence but to lose Aragorn would be to lose the entire game.

“Halbarad, think on the tools the Enemy has lost and consider what price we must be willing to pay to keep him from recovering them. If this glove contains even the shadow of the power of another seemingly small trinket and I let it slip into his hands the resulting horror would be upon my head. There is enough on my conscience already, my friend.”

Halbarad could not immediately formulate a reply to this and while he struggled to put his thoughts in some order Faramir spoke: “The circumstances, though, seem to favor master Halbarad’s interpretation. Recall, my lord, that the Variags did not kill Halbarad when they had the chance. Why let him live unless their planned victory was only symbolic and thus depended on an audience? Besides, if this gauntlet truly contained great power then surely Gandalf or you or even I would have heard something more of it.” Faramir gazed at Aragorn, eyes pleading with him to be cautious while Halbarad nodded a vigorous affirmation of the young captain’s reasoning.

“I am now well-placed to prevent the gauntlet from going to the Variags. Besides a few ominous words, there is no proof of danger. I suspect the Variags always do their best to intimidate or suborn the potential winners in any contest in which they have the least stake. Tribal custom is too important for the Variags to openly interfere with the tournament or with anyone in attendance at the Gathering. I recommend we concentrate our efforts on devising a means for returning safely to Gondor once the tournament has ended and the `Killing Fist’ is acquired.”

Faramir still believed that pursuing the `Killing Fist’ was not worth any risk to Aragorn and he felt rather disappointed in himself that he had not been able to furnish a solution that would keep his lord safe and accomplish Gandalf’s mission. Nonetheless, the young man dutifully turned his thoughts in the direction Aragorn indicated. Aragorn registered the look of resignation on his beloved’s face and turned to Halbarad expecting to see similar acquiescence. The ranger’s formally animated face, however, had gone quiet as though in deep thought and Aragorn recognized that his friend had more to say.

“What if the gauntlet could be won by someone else who would claim the prize for Gondor?” Though Halbarad was looking at Aragorn his gaze flicked back to Faramir periodically, as though wishing to gauge the captain’s reaction to something.

“How so?”

Again Halbarad stole a glance at Faramir. He believed what he had to say would be a surprise to the young man but he wanted to see for himself. “I was seeking you earlier to tell you, Aragorn, but the Variag provided a distraction. There are two of lord Faramir’s Gondorhim in the tournament. Second round entries were purchased for them and this morning I witnessed one of them fight.” If Halbarad had harbored even the least doubt that Faramir had known this, the expression of shock on the captain’s face destroyed it utterly. Aragorn, by contrast, looked rather more disappointed than surprised.

“Who?” Faramir demanded, as soon as he was able. Halbarad told him the names for he had been scouting Aragorn’s potential opponents and it had not taken long before the two Gondor men were mentioned to him. He had even seen a few moments of Hilo’s third round match. Despite their captain’s instructions to the contrary two men from this very camp were also in competition for the gauntlet.

“I- I don’t…” Faramir trailed off as movement was heard outside. Drawn by the unusual circumstance of their captain’s early return both Flyn and Gildel had come to investigate. Having signaled his presence with a quick wrap on the post near the tent entrance Lieutenant Flyn strode boldly in. Gildel followed with somewhat more circumspection. Halbarad looked to Aragorn briefly then both rangers moved to flank the lieutenants, hovering at the edge of their peripheral vision.

Flyn surveyed the scene. Why was Faramir always with the rangers? He was supposed to be in one of those interminable meeting, wasn’t he? Flyn who was still angry about the list of tasks the captain had assigned him did his best to look disgusted by the wild men’s proximity to a nobleman of Gondor. Despite his wishes, however, Flyn found that he was intimidated. Strider had always carried an aura of danger and hidden power but it was not until this new vagabond had joined him that Flyn realized that there was also something inherently safe and reasonable in Strider. Strider, Flyn did not doubt would be a ruthlessly efficient killer, but he would not kill without a purpose and he would not inflict gratuitous suffering. He might disdain mercy but never justice. The other ranger, though, was a different story. He looked as though he would endure any misery or inflict any agony and count it as nothing if he was thus able to accomplish his ends. A fierce fanatical light shone in his eyes sometimes and though Flyn did not know what drove the ranger he feared the ranger’s zeal as he feared all manifestations of insanity. Amid these thoughts, Flyn found himself suddenly wondering if these two wild men shared his captain or if Strider kept the meaner one back from his prize.

Still uncertain as to the reason as well as the extent to which his trusted men had disobeyed him, Faramir struggled to formulate an intelligent strategy. Flyn was nervously eyeing Aragorn and Halbarad but Gildel was looking at Faramir with an air of quiet resignation. `He knows he has done wrong and he suspects that I now know, too.’ Faramir felt disappointment at this for he had wanted to believe no matter how absurd the possibility that there had only been a mistake or miscommunication. Sadness weighted his racing thoughts and he was able to speak calmly.

“Why are two men of Gondor enrolled in Khandrim tournament when I gave orders forbidding it?”

Flyn had to restrain himself from sighing with relief. He had somehow expected something more sinister and menacing, perhaps some new crisis from the Variags. “It is unfortunate, my lord. We only found out ourselves yesterday. That was the true explanation for my absence from camp that disgruntled you so. I was checking myself if the rumors were true. They were but it seemed impossible to reprimand the men for they had not been told they were not to enter the tournament. Perhaps Gildel and I were remiss in not publishing your wishes concerning the matter but it honestly did not occur to either of us that any of our men would spontaneously enroll themselves. As I say an unfortunate circumstance but it would be wrong to force Hilo and Gorm to withdraw now that they have started.”

Aragorn’s face grew ever grimmer as Flyn spoke and Halbarad, who was quite aware that he scared Flyn, did his best to look even more the conscienceless psychopath. Faramir’s features, however, remained impassive. Beneath the careful neutrality of his expression, however, Faramir felt the kindling of great anger within him. When Flyn finished his speech, his captain turned his calm countenance on Lieutenant Gildel.

The other lieutenant could meet Faramir’s eyes for only a few moments before his gaze dropped to the ground and he began speaking in a low subdued tone: “We sought to get our best men into the tournament as soon as we arrived. We were able to obtain for them entry into the second round by using some of the merchandise that did not appear on the official inventory. We have done everything we can to see that one of our men wins the gauntlet, but Captain, I swear we are no traitors. We were following orders.” Only at the end did Gildel raise his eyes to look pleadingly at Faramir.

“Whose orders?” Even as he asked, though, Faramir knew.

“The Steward of Gondor, himself; the lord Denethor; your father.” Flyn answered almost gleefully. He had been very unhappy that Gildel had crumbled like that giving him the lie to his face but perhaps this was better after all. Flyn needed to take charge now. He had had enough of nursing the brat’s ego. “Did he not tell you himself that he intended for you to heed us? He has given us a mission that we will accomplish. It seemed good because of your position to permit you the illusion that you were in charge but my colleague is correct.” Here Flyn spared Gildel a disgusted look but the other lieutenant was staring at the ground once more. “It is time we all understood each other better.”

It had taken all Faramir’s will not to flinch as Flyn’s words fell upon him like blows. Though the anger that had been lit within him now licked fiercely at his heart, he answered mildly. “The Steward rules in the White City. He should be obeyed. Show me his orders and I will comply as I am able.”

“He would not commit such instructions to paper.” Flyn replied contemptuously. Did not the bookish Faramir understand anything?

“Then I have only the word of subordinates that have already proven themselves untrustworthy.” Faramir said steadily.

“You know it is the truth.” Flyn cried angrily.

“I find myself in a dilemma. You are probably lying but I wish to see that Gondor is always served. Your claim is that Lord Denethor desires the gauntlet. Very well, I will attempt to secure it. But you master Flyn will not give another order in this camp. I relieve you of all command responsibility and I forbid you leave camp. If this is injustice you must rely upon the Steward to vindicate you. Now get out.”

Aragorn rejoiced to hear the unanswerable command in Faramir’s voice. He was further gratified to see Flyn gaping like a fish before turning to Gildel for aid. Finding none, the former lieutenant glared at Faramir in a way that spoke more of resentment than challenge then strode angrily from the tent. Aragorn gave Halbarad a barely perceptible nod and the ranger slipped out after Flyn. Halbarad would see that Faramir’s orders were enforced until the captain’s wishes became publicly known. There was a coldness to Faramir’s eyes, though, that damped some of Aragorn’s sense of vicarious victory. The coldness spoke of the building of barriers and the concealment of self.

“What of me, lord?” Gildel asked quietly after a moment’s silence. The coldness vanished from Faramir and he regarded his remaining lieutenant with something akin to compassion.

“Are you content to leave the matter of the gauntlet to me and take no further interest of political concerns?”

“Yes, lord.” Oh, in the name of all the Valar, Yes!

“Then resume your accustomed duties. We will speak soon about who shall replace Flyn.”

“Yes, lord. Thank you.” Feeling profound relief Gildel had turned to go but Faramir’s voice arrested him.

“Lieutenant, don’t ever lie to me again.”

“I will not, I swear it.” And with that, Gildel was gone.


As soon as Gildel had departed, Faramir’s breath hitched and his legs seemed to lose all their strength. Stumbling a little, the young man made his way to a campstool and sat heavily. Aragorn was by his side in a moment and Faramir pressed his face against Aragorn’s stomach, clinging tightly to the older man as strong hands stroked his hair. Inhaling Aragorn’s scent calmed Faramir a little. He was comforted by the warm solid presence of his lord, yet despite all his efforts

savage misery assailed him.

The disappointment and shame that were sluicing through Faramir at the knowledge of how much contempt his father had for him was familiar to Faramir. He believed he might have endured these emotions alone, but what shredded his sense of self-control was the truth that he had never even suspected it. He had believed he had been doing well. He had worked so hard and it had almost seemed as though his men were growing to respect him, that an alliance with Khand might be forged, that he would be useful to his country and to his king but it had all been a farce. Aragorn now knew with what respect Faramir was held in the Steward’s house. Worst of all was that because of Denethor’s games; Faramir did not know all he should about the gauntlet and its importance.

“Please Sire, forgive me for being such a fool.” The words were barely audible as Faramir murmured them into Aragorn’s shirt.

“You are not a fool, Faramir. This does not reflect upon you but upon Denethor.”

“I am a fool, though. He would not wish to humiliate me so if I were not so weak.” It was a reflection on him; Faramir thought. He felt angry with his father. He felt ashamed of him, too, and such emotions were new to him. Faramir remembered with sudden clarity the tales he had heard of the enmity between Denethor and Thorongil. How could any in the Steward’s line harbor malice against the king- even the disguised king? Then, also, what reason beside petty cruelty could Denethor have had for keeping his son so completely in the dark? What had Faramir done that his father should find so much satisfaction in hurting him? Worse though, than all these questions was the fear that Denethor’s petty betrayal would result in a greater treason. If Faramir had had Denethor’s respect then perhaps he would now know why the gauntlet was being sought so desperately. If harm came to Aragorn because of information Denethor possessed but had not shared with Faramir then Faramir would… The thought was left unfinished for Faramir’s mind balked at considering such ideas.

“Faramir, love, sweet one, does it not occur to you that Denethor might be jealous?” Kneading Faramir’s shoulders Aragorn voiced the opinion that had been growing within him for many days now.

“He can have no cause for jealousy.” Faramir stated pushing himself from Aragorn in the desire to inflict punishment upon himself. “Sire, forgive me I must… I must ask Gildel to tell me all he knows of Denethor’s intentions. I should choose someone to replace Flyn. I- I have to go.” Forcing himself up from the campstool, Faramir ran his hands over his face in a desperate attempt to compose himself. Even as he was angry with his father he also felt guilt for those emotions. Aragorn was wonderful but Faramir was not worthy of his kindness. He had duties to perform. He had been a very poor captain. If he ever hoped to deserve as much as a kind look from Aragorn again then he would need to try a great deal harder.

Before Faramir could flee the tent Aragorn caught his arm. Faramir did not struggle as Aragorn half-expected but rather he became utterly passive in the older man’s grip. When Aragorn turned the young captain to face him, Faramir moved without resistance but his eyes sought the ground. `Does he expect I shall strike him?’ Aragorn wondered, horrified by the thought. Releasing his beloved’s arm Aragorn lifted his chin. Such sadness was reflected in the light blue eyes that Aragorn could have wept. All he said though was: “I shall be here, love, when you are ready to return.”

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

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10 Comment(s)

Ah, a story with a real plot and real character does stupid dances... I´m so thankful for that ;)
Very nice so far and I´m looking forward to learn more about Khand and our mysterios ranger xD…
Please write more and update as soon as posible.

Greetings,
Elivyan

— elivyan    Saturday 15 July 2006, 4:38    #

Have read Trial and Judgement (although the beginning of it was mangled and I have no idea how much of it I missed) and anticipate another fine story here.

— Bell Witch    Saturday 15 July 2006, 11:36    #

i’m in deep trouble now, just can’t will myself to leave the wonderful little world you created thought i should have gone back to work long time ago…totally hooked! *sigh*

— traveller    Sunday 16 July 2006, 0:28    #

Great story! Thanks for sharing it with us.

— Mandy    Sunday 16 July 2006, 23:50    #

Read through Chapter 20 in one night and then no time to finish until now. You weave a fine story with plot and character details and cultural concepts that made those first twenty chapters a butt-hurtin’ necessity. Your Halbarad is especially interesting.

Damn fine story.

— Bell Witch    Monday 17 July 2006, 4:36    #

Read this over the past couple of weeks. This is a brilliant story. Your characterizations have sploiled me for the rest of the slash world – so resplendent and nuianced, grave and sweet in their integrity. The rich community of supporting characters itself was thrilling. What I value most is the simple layered craft of each chapter. Thank you!

— stillwell    Saturday 29 July 2006, 3:09    #

Wonderful – simply wonderful. A grand story. I will look for your work always. Wonderful.

— EJ    Saturday 14 April 2007, 22:34    #

very good story. Love it. I hope you write a sequel to it.

— kijo    Monday 3 November 2008, 6:58    #

I so love your stories, please, can you gifted us with a sequel or another marvelous story ?
Thanks for sharing!

— camille    Tuesday 30 December 2008, 15:28    #

Wow, I just came across your story and spend the whole night reading it! This is one of the few really fantastic LotR stories that I have found over the years.
I love the writing style and the character developement in this piece! Somehow I love the characterisation of Flyn … while I still dislike him personally :-)
There are many more reasons why I love this story, but I cant list them all here … instead, I think, I am going to reread this story immediately after I have finished this comment :-)

Thanks for sharing it with us!
(Please forgive any misspelling. English isn’t my first language)

— Mikkalea Luna    Saturday 14 May 2011, 19:39    #

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