Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

Let’s have another change of perspective – this is from Faramir’s POV.

Chapter 14 — Missing

Faramir spent the rest of the afternoon in the library. After he returned the scrolls and documents to their proper places, he picked up a book and settled down near the fire. He was a reader and incapable of denying it.

There was little to do for him other than that, he figured. The City itself was continuously seen to, no recent reports had reached them from the surrounding lands and therefore, he decided, he was entitled to some time of his own.

Soon though, his mind strayed and his thoughts turned to Aragorn. The King had looked so tired during council but hopefully he was resting, or even sleeping soundly, in his chambers by now, and that was another reason for why Faramir stayed where he was. He deemed his lover’s – still it felt strange to call him so, strange but wonderful – slumber would be more restful without another person in his bed to disturb him.

Chasing away the sting of loneliness that hit him at that thought, Faramir slid down lower in his armchair; he hoped there would be plenty of time to make up for a lonely afternoon later.

He had not been reading for long but already the written words blurred before him and he yawned. Maybe it was not only Aragorn who needed some sleep? With a smile, he closed his eyes.

Several hours later he awoke, with the signs of a headache coming on and to a library that lay in a gloomy darkness. The dim twilight filtered through the thick masses of snow that were now cast down from the skies and brutally hurled towards the windows. Cool air crept lazily about the room, slicing through the layers of clothes he wore, and seeping through to his skin.

Shivering he stood and replaced the book on its shelf. On another day it might have interested him – now was not the season for growing crops anyhow – another day and another time of day. Night, even evening, coming early during winter, would not tell him the hour but he judged it was much later than he would have wished.

It was only his promise to Aragorn that made him head towards the dining hall. Wincing as the pounding in his head did not cease, he heartily wished he could forget about eating and replace it with a long, warm bath. However, he had told Aragorn he would join him – providing it was not already past suppertime and everyone had left already.

His heart sank as he walked; he had slept too long, which in the first place was not acceptable for a Steward, and now Aragorn had been forced to entertain his guests by himself. Some of the old worries mercilessly surfaced; the insecurities he believed had been eternally buried, stirred ominously. His headache did not go away.

Upon arriving in the dining hall he realised it was indeed dinnertime, but not too late. The chatter of mingled voices floated around him as he entered; the wood-fires were sizzling contentedly in their places and several torches were lit and hung on the walls. The room was warm and welcoming, and through it drifted a rich aroma of spices.

Faramir looked over to the table and a pair of shining eyes immediately locked with his, and he was offered a beaming smile.

He smiled back, automatically. His eyes darted over the table, taking in the eating and drinking men.

“We thought you had abandoned us, Faramir!”

He continued to smile – they both did – since it seemed there was nothing else to do.

“Come, sit here!”

A hand pulled out a chair and Faramir nodded absentmindedly. The persistent hammering behind his eyes would not abate. He slid down into the chair, and was rewarded with an even broader smile.

“Good. It is far too long since we had time to speak to one another.”

Faramir turned to look properly at the man beside him. The Steward could not decide if the flames were more radiant than the smile, or if it was the other way around. All the colours and flickering lights annoyed his already sensitive eyes. Deren’s blond hair caught the glow of the candles on the table.

He felt his mind retreat from its duties, and the thinking process slowed down. Once more he looked around the table which was laden with food and wine and gleaming cutlery. The men were laughing and debating, their animated body language letting him know they had been drinking for some time. Everyone seemed drawn into their respective discussions; there was no sign of Aragorn.

“Will you have some wine?” Deren asked even as he poured a glass.

Faramir accepted. He had never thought of alcohol as a remedy for headaches, but he did not care. Aragorn was missing, and he had no idea what to believe.

His first instinct was to become worried, his second was to quench his first. After all, Aragorn was a grown man and he did not need Faramir to check on him constantly. Had the King not, at several occasions, told him he was fine and could make it on his own? Sure, he was grateful for the support Faramir could give, but he was not reliant on him. And why should he be? Aragorn had fought in many battles, he was strong-willed and very independent.

Also, they had spent a lot of time together in the past days, and maybe this was his way of showing his Steward just how independent he was?

But he said he would see you at dinner…

Faramir almost laughed at the small voice in his mind. A bitter laugh it would have been. Yes, he had said so – requested, even – but then, people said a lot of things they did not mean.

He marvelled at the ease with which his resentment arose. Closely following it, was disappointment, which brought with it a painful sinking feeling that haunted his stomach.

He drank.

Despair appeared on the scene.

He stared at Aragorn’s empty chair.

Rejection.

Of course. He really should not be surprised.

“Faramir, are you alright?”

Numbly he turned to look at Deren who was watching him with a worried expression.

“Yes, all is well,” he lied. “Headache.” He tried a smile. It turned out very weak.

Deren visibly relaxed. He too glanced over at Aragorn’s vacant seat, but if he had any opinions on the matter, he kept them to himself. Faramir was thankful, for if the Steward himself could not explain their King’s absence, who could? It would look bad indeed. And furthermore, he did not want to speak of it to anyone – not while his feelings were warring inside.

“Then perhaps you ought not to drink?” the younger man asked him, full of concern.

“I need the drink, to be sure,” Faramir muttered.

His words brought forth a new smile from Deren’s lips. “To… to this night then!” he said, raising his glass a little.

Some night.

“This night,” Faramir echoed, hearing himself the lack of spirit in his voice.

He spoke to no one else, and since no one else spoke to him he was content. Deren did not press him, but let him sit drinking in silence.

After his second glass, he was beginning to welcome the relentless pounding in his head. He imagined it helped turn his thoughts away from Aragorn.

The servants came in and cleared the table, leaving only the wine and glasses. Faramir had not eaten anything but he saw no point in it – an empty stomach meant the alcohol would have a greater affect on him and that was all he wanted. He was no drinker, but tonight was different.

Some night indeed.

The snowy winds were battering the windows and he was happy to be inside. Only a fool would venture outdoors in this weather, he mused. If he concentrated really hard, he could almost conjure the sensation of the bitter cold that raged outside… or maybe all he felt was plain bitterness.

Where had it gone wrong? What had he done? When he had last seen Aragorn – after the council – all had been well. If the King had not wished to see him tonight, why had he asked in the first place?

Memories of their last conversation slipped into his mind, and between the poundings, he could clearly recall Aragorn ask him about dinner…

“And afterwards?”

“Definitely afterwards.”

Smiles and promises. So much for smiles and promises! So much for words of love…

Faramir drank down the rest of his wine in one swift movement.

So much for not thinking about Aragorn.

A small part of his mind argued that he saw things in a rawer light than he ought to, but he argued back, telling his own mind that he had proof enough before him. If Aragorn was not by his side, well, then he probably had other, more interesting engagements. After all, Faramir knew how much Aragorn disliked entertaining these particular guests, and since all discussions regarding the infrastructure were now ended, maybe he had decided to leave them, along with his unwanted Steward, alone.

Maybe he was just really tired and still sleeping?

Faramir dismissed the idea. He knew rejection when he saw it. The Gods – if there were any – knew he had struggled for years to be accepted. This was his curse – face it and live with it.

With that, he shut down his mind, not even bothering to scold himself for debating with his own thoughts.

Live with it.

He reached for the pitcher and poured another glass of wine.

It was much later that the party rose from their seats and, bid each other a good night, and began making their way back to their rooms.

Faramir stood as well, seeing the walls swim before him and feeling the floor sway beneath his feet. He barely noticed when Deren took his arm and dragged him towards the doorway.

“Shall we walk together?”

Faramir nodded. It seemed a good thing to do. If Deren was less drunk he might be able to steer them in the right direction. Faramir vaguely recalled that the blond man had been given a room not too far from his own.

As they exited the dining hall, Faramir caught sight of one of the servants he knew sometimes was called upon by Aragorn. If he remembered correctly, she was one of the two women who had been waiting upon them in the small antechamber the previous night. This was his last chance, and he seized it.

With Deren at his side, he beckoned her over.

“Have you seen the King?” he blurted out, trying to fix his eyes on hers.

A slight frown passed over her face. “No, sir, I have not,” she said.

Faramir swallowed, hundreds of confused thoughts flashed through his newly awakened mind.

“I have not seen the King,” she hurriedly continued, “I have spoken to him though.”

“You have spoken to him?”

Deren shifted by his side.

“Yes, but only through his door. I came to the King’s rooms to summon him for dinner, but he called to me that he would not eat and would not be disturbed.”

Faramir absorbed the words slowly. “Anything else?”

She hesitated, he could see that. “Yes,” she said finally, “he would not be disturbed – under any circumstances.” She gave a quick bow and left the two men by the door.

The world stopped turning for a moment. Then it resumed its spinning. Faster and faster it spun, until Faramir was sure he would be cast out into the universe with nothing to hold on to, and no one to pull him back.

Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on Deren’s arm and the younger man willingly supported him. All the colours from before merged before him in a terrible firework, which soon gave way to a despised blackness. He clang to Deren, desperately trying to stay on his feet as the floor shook and disappeared under his feet.

It was Deren’s voice that eventually steadied him:

“Let us go.”

There was an unbearable ringing in his ears, but at least he could walk. He followed without blinking as Deren pulled him out into the corridor and away from the dining hall. His mind was completely blank as he gradually integrated what he had been told.

No, Aragorn did not want to see him. He was not wanted. He was, and he would always be, alone.

They stopped somewhere, outside some door in some corridor. Deren stood to face him, placing a hand on each of his shoulders to steady him again.

“Faramir?”

Damn, the hammering in his head was nearly overwhelming him; the image of Deren’s face was hazy. He made an effort.

“Yes?”

“Forget him.”

Frowning, Faramir tried to understand. “What?”

“Forget the King, forget Aragorn. He does not deserve you.”

“Aragorn…”

Aragorn had forsaken him.

“Yes, he does not deserve you,” Deren pressed.

Faramir writhed uncomfortably in his grip. The other man was wrong, he knew. This was how things were meant to be – it had nothing to do with Aragorn really. Faramir was simply not worth it… him… his time… whatever. He was not good enough, had not his father told him so, over and over and over again? Denethor may be dead, but that did not mean he had not been right while he lived.

“Forget him.” Deren’s voice was calmer now, gentler. It soothed the pain, made him feel taken care of.

A hand ghosted over his cheek and he leaned into the touch. He was so tired! His already muddled vision blurred even more and uncontrolled tears left a shimmering trail on his skin. The hand carefully wiped them away.

“Sssch…” the soft voice enfolded him in a warm embrace, “there now…”

An arm brought him closer to the body with the voice. It felt secure and he calmed down a little. Now a hand was stroking his hair and he recognised the sensation. He felt loved and he desperately needed to be loved.

“You should not be alone tonight,” the voice murmured.

He did not know – he knew nothing. Only that it was comforting to stay in the embrace.

“I…” he began, but was tenderly interrupted.

“No, not alone. Stay in here, in this room.”

Faramir lifted his head and saw the door. It looked like any other door he knew, save for one, but that door was no longer open to him.

“Yes, this door,” he agreed, letting his head fall back on the shoulder upon which it had been resting.

“This door,” the voice confirmed.

He was led inside the darkened room and wordlessly urged to lie down on the bed. Gratefully he sank back, feeling the world finally settling down around him. He closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. The door clicked and footsteps approached. After some hustle, the bed dipped as someone joined him.

He felt empty and lost, succumbing to the night. He had been falling and flying, whirling and spiralling for hours, and now he was exhausted. A sorrow he did not understand welled up inside and filled him mercilessly where he lay.

Finally, it was with a sense of gratitude he accepted the arm that snaked around his waist and pulled him close. He deserved nothing, he understood as his senses tangled and lost themselves to the great void which threatened to swallow him.

“Aragorn,” he whispered before giving in to the darkness.

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