Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 9

Faramir stared at the king, and then nodded belatedly.

“Y-yes, certainly,” he stuttered, “I-in the council room?”

“No, you may come to my study. The council starts at nine, so perhaps a quarter to the hour?” the king suggested.

“Estel!” the queen’s voice sounded out again, impatient this time.

The king turned away even as Faramir stuttered his agreement.

“It is our last night together for a month,” the queen’s mellifluous tones reached his ears quite clearly. “I wish you would not waste time over insignificant matters.”

Faramir returned to his rooms in a daze, his mind jumbled with a riot of thoughts. He kept repeating Elessar’s words in his mind, but all that stood out was the king wanted to meet him alone tomorrow! He couldn’t hold back the excitement that this thought caused, although he did find himself worrying at the same time.

What if the king had merely called him to speak of his report on Ithilien.
Denethor had said he had passed it onto the king. After all, he seemed to have quite forgotten the one night they’d shared. Even though he’d said they may share such a night again. But then, Faramir reminded himself, he had said too that he knew not when.

Faramir sighed, as he continued pacing up and down his small room, trying to prevent himself from thinking further on this. He should go to sleep now, he told himself, and wake up early and meet the king. That was all. He would have his answers then. He walked out onto the small balcony hoping the fresh air would help. He looked down at the gardens spread below. He could see the lights from the queen’s party from here and hear the faint strains of the lilting sounds of elven music.

He leaned against the wall, listening to the calm and soothing sounds, letting his mind wander away with the music. It took him back to his days in Ithilien, the gentle sounds reminiscent of wild brooks, the soft breeze through the trees, distant bird songs, the fresh, calming fragrances of the outdoors. He sank down to the floor, and closed his eyes, thinking of the rare but treasured moments of calm he had had in those days… of lying on the warm grass of a clearing with the sun filtering through the leaves, bathing in a hot spring hidden in a glade, walking through meadows filled with fragrant flowers.

How nice it would have been if he could have had the time to show Elessar those little treasured nooks, he thought drowsily. The music continued to wash over his tired senses as he curled into the floor, dreaming of Elessar’s naked body, hardened planes gleaming in the afternoon sun, covering his in the meadow of flowers.

Faramir came awake at dawn and groaned. The floor was hard and cold and damp and he had been lying in an awkward position. He stared around in confusion and then groaned again as he realised that he’d spent the night on the floor of his balcony, and he thought ruefully, as he glanced down at his clothes, he’d dreamt of Elesser again. At the thought of the king, he sat up suddenly remembering the summons, and then cried out as his stiff muscles protested. He grunted, and rose off the floor with difficulty.

Faramir hesitated at the door to the king’s study. He ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the hurried bath he’d managed, and smoothened down the fabric of his tunic. He felt strangely nervous as he knocked.

“Enter!” the king’s voice sounded curt, as Faramir pushed the door open.

The king’s study was a large, but comfortable looking room, furnished with a table, large cushioned chairs, and a huge grate with a pile of rugs and furs spread in front of it. A huge window, overlooking the courtyard below framed most of one wall. Elessar stood by the window, adjusting the sleeves of his long formal robes.

“You’re early. Sit,” he said smiling, “Would you like some breakfast?”

Faramir hadn’t eaten in the morning but he felt far too nervous right now.

“No, thank you Sire,” he said softly.

The king looked more handsome than ever this morning, standing in the sunlight. He wore deep blue robes, embellished only with very subtle golden thread work at the edges. Faramir found his eyes drawn towards the open bindings, displaying the tanned, hard chest underneath. He noticed a mark rather like a bite under the collarbone. The queen’s remarks from the previous night returned to him and he felt his face flush.

The king sat across the table from Faramir and began glancing through some papers.

“Are you sure? I’ve asked for some for myself.”

Faramir chanced a look at the king’s face. It seemed to him that the king’s lips seemed just that little bit more swollen and reddened.

“I read your report on Ithilien,” the king said.

Faramir blinked and dragged his eyes away from the tempting lips, as he finally caught what was being was said. The Ithilien report, of course, he thought. His fingers were trembling, he realised and clasped his hands together under the table. He shouldn’t react like this, he chided himself; he had expected it. He knew he had been wrong to come in with any other expectation. That one night in Ithilien must have been a strange night, perhaps a result of the air or perhaps… he felt himself tremble a little.

The king continued speaking, “And I spoke to Denethor of it as well. But since we travelled together I thought I may as well discuss it with you directly.”

Faramir clasped his hands tighter. He felt his neck and face heating up, as he stared at the notes the king was going through. The maps he’d marked out were there too. He had made the changes Denethor had suggested. But he’d also left in his additional notes, the ones that Denethor had raged at him over – the details on the soil consistency, the tree cover density and the river width and current with the relevant maps; aspects that he thought could come in useful when the work on roads and bridges would start. He wondered if he should say something about that – explain why he’d added in all those details, but his voice seemed to be caught in his throat.

“It is very well done,” the king said.

Faramir blinked again.

“There is much in it that I think will be very useful when we begin the resettlement.”

“Oh,” Faramir managed to say and then winced as he realised how shrill his voice sounded in its nervousness. His confused and tired mind was still trying to process the fact that he was not being criticised for those details after all.

The king looked up, a gentle and warm smile playing across his face. Faramir flushed, and bit his lip.

“I wondered if you could help further there,” Elessar said, “I have some of the other reports from the journey here. And I think it would be useful if you could go through them. You might have some more inputs on the suggestions that are given.”

“Y-yes, certainly,” Faramir said, a little surprised. It was not often that he was asked for suggestions, and in the last few months, almost never.

“There is this section for example,” the king said, reaching out for another set of papers, “There are some recommendations on aligning the construction to the troop requirements,” he passed across a few sheets to Faramir, “What do you think?”

Faramir took the papers. There was a map attached. He was familiar with the area marked out. He sat back a little and started reading.

Aragorn watched the younger man sitting across him, reading the sheet diligently, his forehead furrowing as he kept glancing at the map for reference. He wondered why he’d seemed so tense earlier. His thoughts wandered back to the conversation he’d had with Denethor the previous day on these reports.

“I have been going through Faramir’s report on Ithilien,” he had started, when they had sat down over wine after the council meeting, “And I must say I’m quite surprised.”

Denethor had sighed, “I expect it is not quite up to the mark. Forgive me. I have told him what is needed. But you know how he is. He is increasingly becoming shoddy in his work and insolent and disrespectful in his behaviour!
I would much rather go by Ardahil’s report. It is likely to be far more useful and precise. You know I felt Faramir would be of little use on your journey.”

Aragorn had been struck by the vehemence of the steward’s remarks. He had some idea by now that Denethor and Faramir had a somewhat strained relationship. But the near contempt in Denethor’s tone left him a little shocked.
He started to allay the older man’s concerns and assure him that Faramir had in fact given a very good report.

But Denethor had continued, “I shall speak to him again. However, I expect little improvement.”

“Oh no!” Aragorn managed to interpose, “No, indeed. There is no need to fear… I meant to tell you that the report is quite good, and I feel it would be extremely useful to resettlement council.”

“Oh!” Denethor said the surprise evident on his face, “That is good to hear.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence as he studied the goblet in his hand.

“You are worried about him” Aragorn said gently, as he took in the Steward’s slumped posture.

Denethor started, and then spoken slowly. “Forgive me for speaking so. It is merely that… well… were Boromir here, he would have been such a great help.
And for Andreth too. He needs someone younger than I. But Faramir is lost in his own devices all the time.”

Aragorn had nodded understandingly.

He wondered a little about the Steward’s family as he watched Faramir place the papers on the table. But he knew too that it often took families months to recover from loss and grieving.

“Well?” he asked.

Faramir looked a little nervous, “It’s a very good report,” he said, “And a very sound suggestion.”

Aragorn waited. Faramir shifted uncomfortably and bit his lip again. And then spoke rather hesitantly.

“I – I think though, perhaps… the road route suggested here… it is excellent of course. Very strategic. And useful for the traders as well.”

He paused and glanced up.

The king nodded to him to continue.

“The valley here,” he said hurriedly, “It is prone to flooding, we would need to keep it at a higher level. And – and the bridge suggested on this stream here, perhaps we could move it a little further downstream where it diverges… it is safer and not too much of a detour…”

“That is an excellent thought,” Aragorn said approvingly. Faramir’s eyes darted towards him,, and the king was struck by the mix of surprise and gratification that he could see on the younger man’s face.

“The resettlement committee convenes in a fortnight,” Aragorn said, “And I would like for them to have a very clear idea of what is needed and the expenditure this will demand. Would you be willing to assist me in keeping that ready for them. I’m afraid it will mean a lot of work, and I shall need a lot of your time –”

“Y-yes,” Faramir interrupted, and winced inwardly as he realised what an inadequate reply he was going. He felt a fluttering sensation in his chest as the words rang in his ears… assisting the king… a lot of his time…

“I – I mean, I would be honoured, Sire,” he said softly.

“Excellent,” Aragorn said approvingly, and rose, “I must get ready for the council now. Can we begin from this afternoon, once the council is over?”

“Yes,” Faramir said again, rising hastily with the king, trying not to let the excitement show in his voice. Today after the council, he would be the one with the king.

“I am most grateful to you for this Faramir,” Aragorn said, “I know you have other duties, but I feel with all your experience in Ithilien, you are the best person to aid me in this.”

“I am honoured,” Faramir repeated as he left.

He walked out of the king’s study, down the long corridor that would lead him to the meeting, feeling rather lightheaded but happy. He couldn’t wait for the evening. The council that day seemed to him to drag on interminably, but he bore up with it, ignoring the customary bickering and a few barbs thrown his way by Denethor and some of the others.

He joined the king in his study after a late noon meal. Elessar sat sprawled on a large chair reading through a sheaf of papers when he entered. He looked up and smiled, waving Faramir to a chair nearby.

Faramir stiffened as the king leaned close to him and explained what needed to be done, his gentle, clear voice sounding musical to Faramir’s ears. He could smell the mixed fragrances of heather, pipeweed and musk; they seemed to travel straight through his nose to his groin. And the long fingers that ran over the written sheets and traced points on the map – he wished they would trace such lines on his bare skin instead.

Biting his lip he tried to clear his mind of such thoughts and so he could concentrate on what he was to do. It was difficult but he realised soon that the king really cared that the committee should get accurate and detailed information. His own love for Ithilien came to the fore and he quickly picked up what was required. They worked through the afternoon, referencing maps and notes; jotting down points that Faramir thought might find mention in older records or journals. For the most part they worked in a quiet, comfortable silence.

As the late afternoon light dimmed, the servants came in with a pitcher of wine and a basket of fruits, and lit the lanterns and the fire in the grate.
After they left, Elessar rose and stretched, bending his tall, lean muscles back.

“It is getting cold,” he remarked, “Come join me for some warm wine by the grate.”

Faramir obeyed and took the proffered goblet of wine. He tried not to remember the last occasion they had had wine by the firelight. The liquor still tasted acrid in his mouth and he still found it unpleasant but said nothing.

“I am glad we have accomplished so much today,” the king said pleasantly, “I think we might finish with this well before I thought we could. Merely a few days more perhaps. Your help has been invaluable!”

A few more days, Faramir thought bleakly. “You are very kind,” he said softly.

Looking up at the king, he thought he looked even more beautiful in the lamplight, his sun-bronzed skin gleaming a golden hue, the grey eyes glittering tawny and enchanting. The king had removed his ceremonial robes, and wore only his tunic and trousers. He had undone the topmost bindings of the tunic as he stood in front of the fire. Faramir stared at the small portion of golden skin visible under the dark blue fabric.

He would like to lick that, he thought dreamily, and sipped some more of the wine.

A few more days, he thought again… the king had not been displeased the last time… perhaps…

He moved forward swiftly, towards Elessar, rising on his toes, bringing his lips to the king’s. He felt his lips brush the king’s jaw, coarse bristles imparting a tingling sensation, instead of the soft lips and the wet heat of the mouth he had sought.

And then he realised that the king had moved, and was even now moving back, his hands stretched forward to hold Faramir back.

He stared up in shock, his lips still pursed. Elessar was staring at him, his expression strangely inscrutable, his palms resting on Faramir’s shoulders.

Whatever had he done!

“F-forgive me,” he gasped out.

“No,” Elessar said moving forward, “There is nothing to forgive.”

“I thought – you said – I hoped,” Faramir continued babbling, unsure of what to say. He’d hoped after their night in Ithilien that this action would not be seen as untoward. Forward perhaps, but surely not unpleasant? And yet there was nothing in the king’s face to indicate that he welcomed this move.
He found himself gasping softly for breath. His hands flew to his face as shame flooded through him.

“Forgive me,” he repeated, “I should not have. It will not be remiss of you to declare me unwelcome in your presence. I shall leave now,” he continued blurting out the words, through the cover of his hands.

“Faramir! Hush!”

Elessar grasped Faramir’s hands, pulling them away. “Look at me,” he commanded.

Faramir raised his downcast eyes. The king’s grey eyes seemed warm and friendly, his expression bemused rather than angry. His touch on Faramir’s wrists was warm and soothing as ever.

“You startled me, that is all,” he said gently.

“Oh.”

“Your touch was not – unwelcome.”

“I hoped we could … continue … w-what we started at Ithilien,” Faramir stammered, wincing at his sudden shyness.

“As did I,” the king responded agreeably, “And I am most glad to find you of similar mind, even after a fortnight and more. I hoped your passion had not been for just that night, ignited merely by closeness.”

“We will … lie together again then?” Faramir blushed as he spoke. Matters of the bedchamber were not meant to be discussed in a study!

“I see no reason why we should not. I should be most glad of the opportunity to enjoy more trysts with you. Especially now that our work has lightened and Arwen too is away.”

Faramir tried not to let any expression show on his face at that last line.
He had been with other betrothed men, a substitute for their absent companions, a few hurried couplings under the cover of a private tent or even a few bushes.

He would willingly lie with Elessar again, even if only this once. He swallowed visibly and leaned forward again.

Elessar’s hands tightened around his wrists, and he pulled him closer. He ran his gaze over the younger man’s slender frame, before releasing his hands.

Faramir reached for the king’s tunics to open the bindings… he wanted so much to run his hands over the bare patch of skin. Elessar gently tugged his hands downwards however to the waistband of his pants.

“Touch me,” he said quietly.

Faramir immediately knelt down, excitement coursing through him. He undid the bindings, fumbling in his hurry. He could see the swell of the fabric between the king’s legs. Finally the ties came undone. He pulled the pants down, revealing the swollen length nestled in a thick patch of black curls.

He reached for the hardening length, looking closely at it; it had been too dark the other night. The king was large, endowed with length and girth both, and Faramir felt his own arousal stiffen some more as he wrapped his fingers around the thickness. It seemed near impossible that he had had this inside him merely weeks ago! It was no wonder he had felt so completely filled, he thought, pleasure tingling through his body at the memory.

He ran his fingers over the entire length, stroking, pressing down his knuckles gently, lightly raking his nails on the soft folds of skin. Some of his other bedmates had liked that, he remembered.

The king too seemed to like it, for he let out a soft sound. His eyes were closed and he had put a hand out onto the mantelpiece of the hearth for balance.
“Perhaps we should move to the bedchamber,” he mumbled.

Tiny, beads of semen glistened at the tip of his penis. Faramir swiped one with his finger and licked it. Elessar let out a louder noise this time.

“That is not needed. We could use the table,” Faramir suggested, and then blushed as the king let out a strange sound, much like a strangled moan.

“I should like that I think,” the king replied in a hoarse voice in response to Faramir’s look of inquiry, “I should like very much to see you bent over the table… . it will be worth tidying it just for that… what a shock people would have when they walk in…”

Faramir blushed even deeper then, shocked at the word. He was about to protest saying that Aragorn could surely not mean he would let anyone see them, when a loud gong sounded through the citadel. He jumped slightly, his hands loosening from around the king’s shaft.

“Don’ t worry… that is just to warn us that dinner will be ready in a half hour,” Elessar said smiling, “Oh! … Oh dear!”

Faramir let go and rose as he heard the note of desperation in the king’s voice.

“Sire,” he said anxiously, “Is aught the matter?”

“Nay, I forgot,” Elessar groaned, and pulled up his pants, “I am promised to dinner tonight with some of the council. Your father will be reaching my rooms shortly, to accompany me to the dining chamber.”

“Oh,” Faramir said rather bleakly, and then composed his features again, “P-perhaps we can continue later.”

“Not tonight,” Elessar grunted, “Iriel is there and he can talk till the sun rises tomorrow!” He looked down pointedly at his lower body, his erect shaft clearly outlined against the fabric of the loosened pants. He sighed and moved, not without difficulty, “I’ll go take care of that in my chambers. It will delay me, but that is all right I suppose. I shall see you tomorrow Faramir.”

“P-perhaps, I could help take care of that?” Faramir suggested.

Elessar frowned.

“We do not have the time.”

“It will take less time, if I do it for you with – with my mouth,” Faramir mumbled, wondering if the wine had gone to his head. He had never spoken before of these things, even the technique of what to do.

He got down to his knees again swiftly and reached for the king’s erection, gently tugging it out of his trousers and wrapping his fingers around it.

Aragorn moaned as his swollen, painful shaft was freed, and then again as it was grasped in the same gentle but knowing grip. Faramir’s fingers moved skilfully up and down, more rapidly this time and Aragorn found himself slipping into a blissfully happy state.

Faramir stared almost dreamily at the king’s shaft hardening under the ministrations of his fingers. He bent his head closer and stuck out his tongue.

A wet sensation at the tip of his aching arousal had Aragorn thrusting up eagerly. The younger man’s tongue played on his tip, dipping into him, inching through the tiny slit, seemingly licking him inside! And then the tongue withdrew but the mouth opened wider to take him in; pink lips went further and further down, even as the fingers and nails continued running over his length, slipping down to play with his balls, gently scratching the tender skin that led to his hole. .

Faramir continued to suck at the king’s substantial erection. It had been many months since he had done this with another man, and he found it a little difficult at first as the hardness filled his mouth. His jaw and throat hurt as his mouth stretched to accommodate the girth and length, but he soon found himself responding with practised ease. He took a deep breath and continued working his tongue down the thick shaft, humming softly as it hit the back of his throat.

Aragorn stretched his legs further apart, and leaned back against the wall, placing his palms against the wall behind him for support. He watched Faramir’s bowed frame through lidded eyes, as he took him in completely the convulsive motions of the younger man’s throat arousing him even more. He gazed dreamily at the dark head, the beads of sweat on the pale forehead, the sharply defined nose brushing the curly tendrils of hair. His sharp ears took in the soft moans emanating from Faramir’s throat, it enticed him to know that he was the cause of that seductive sound,

He felt the tightness in his groin, and knew he should warn Faramir.

“You can pull out,” he grunted, “I’m going to –”

Faramir’s mouth seemed to clamp down harder around him, sheathing him completely. He felt himself release. Waves of pleasure continued to course through him as he realised Faramir was not moving away, continuing to suck at him.

Some minutes later, Aragorn sat back on the floor, his tunic in disarray and his pants lying loosely at his groin, his shaft limp and limbs loose.
Faramir rose unsteadily, and gave him an uncertain smile. Aragorn glanced at the younger man’s face. A sheen of sweat coated the pale forehead, and the grey eyes seemed glassy. White fluid trickled out of his mouth, and flecks of white coated his hair, face, tunic, neck and throat, sending a strange thrill through Aragorn’s body. Faramir had swallowed most of his release!

“You were right,” Aragorn murmured, “That was quick. But most satisfying.”

He had been with other men, but never had he experienced such a swift yet completely fulfilling and intense encounter. Faramir had had much practice, he thought suddenly. It was well known, although he had noticed not much mentioned, that the younger man had little interest in women. The soldiers he had lain with earlier, even Boromir, so close to him and loved greatly by him, sought little but a temporary relief, and they just as himself, would have sufficed with a few licks and their hands.

His gaze strayed downwards to Faramir’s groin, and the evident strain there.

“Thank you,” the younger man was saying. Aragorn moved forward slowly, forcing his reluctantly loose limbs to action , although he felt quite wonderful, and swiftly grasped Faramir’s arm.

Faramir gasped at the touch. The smell of heather, pipewood and musk intermingled with sex filled his nose. Elessar’s lips were close to his and he craved their feel. But his face was soaked with sweat, he knew and soiled.

He gasped again as the king reached for his pants.

“Let me help you,” Elessar said roughly in his ear. He thrust his hand through the loosened waistband, and grasped the thickness.

He nodded mutely, desperately and pushed into the touch of the long and elegant fingers, still marked by the roughness of constant sword handling.

Aragorn didn’t suppose he could move as elegantly as Faramir had done. His fingers had merely curled around the hardness, however, when Faramir let out a keening sound and released himself. He felt the warm sticky fluid spurt on to his hand, and looked up in surprise. That hadn’t taken much effort, he thought wryly.

Faramir evidently thought so too for his face turned a dull red and he mumbled a soft apology..

“Well,” Aragorn said, as he quickly washed up in the antechamber adjoining his study, “That was – nice.” He had decided to wash up and change here, and encouraged Faramir to do the same.

“Thank you,” he added after a pause. He felt quite wonderful and energised, “Perhaps… the next time we could indeed bend you over my table.”

Faramir blushed again, as he quietly wiped at his own face and chest with a wet cloth. He turned away from the king to wipe his groin and Aragorn found himself smirking in amusement. Surely Faramir realised he had seen all there was to be seen of him! And that even now his pants had slipped low enough to provide him an enticing view of his buttocks. The sight brought back the memory of their night in Ithilien and he couldn’t help but remember the tight heat of the younger man’s channel around his shaft.

“Or we could use my bedchambers,” he murmured.

“Oh no!” Faramir said, quite horrified, turning around, and clutching at the wet towel and his pants to keep them up.

“No?” Aragorn queried, in muffled accents as he pulled off his tunic. He rubbed his torso briskly and watched with satisfaction as Faramir stared at his bare chest with obvious interest. He deliberately slowed down his movements teasingly.

“The servants know the queen is away!” Faramir said in horrified accents, trying not to get distracted by the sight of the king’s fingers resting over his nipple. Desperately he burst out, “They would know you had someone else there!”

“Surely I am allowed a paramour or two too,” Aragorn said in a tone of mock injury.

It was a little vicious of him, he supposed but he found Gondor highly prudish, and Faramir for such a young man seemed to be full of the most ridiculous notions of propriety. He had pulled on his pants properly now, and much to Aragorn’s bemusement, was checking over the study to see if there were any signs of their coupling, wiping away the specks of white fluid on the floor where they had been standing.

“I know for one Lord Iriel has at least three ladies who favour him with their attentions!” Aragorn called out as he picked up a fresh tunic from the wardrobe in his study.

“Well, perhaps,” Faramir conceded, wiping at the spots on the wall.

“Do you not think they would find it acceptable if they were to know you had lain with me?”

“Oh no!” Faramir said. His voice turned a little shrill and he began to wring the wet cloth in his hands as he continued a little desperately, “And you must never mention this to anyone. It is not approved in Gondor for men to sleep with other men.”

“But that’s silly. I know of many men here who sleep with other men.”

“Yes, but –”

Faramir had meant to say it was merely for pleasure, as a flirtatious interlude… but he realised just in time that this could be no more than that for the king. Whatever his feelings were, and he was terrified at the thought of delving deeper into those, he was well aware that they would be unreciprocated by a king who was happily married to a beautiful elven lady and had fathered with her a delightful child. And, added his persistently painful mind, had declared not so long ago that he had been uncommonly fond of Boromir.

“But it is still frowned upon,” he responded lamely, “And they do not talk of such things publicly.”

There would be no long relaxing trysts here filled with the tender lovemaking he had read of in books. This would be an affair like all his others, full of short, quick, furtive meetings in obscure hidden corners.

“I see,” the king responded slowly.

“If we are to have another tryst,” he plunged on desperately, trying not to let it out that this was the foremost question in his head, “We should be careful, the servants do not get to know what we do.”

“Very well,” Elessar said calmly, “Meet me here tomorrow afternoon then. The servants have instructions never to enter the study without my leave, so we will not be interrupted. I look forward to continuing what we have started… or rather started again!”

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