Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

For once, I have not much to say. Here we are.

Chapter 15 – Uncovering

Pain assaulted him the moment he woke up – pain and that feeling of hopelessness he had never wanted to experience ever again. It was clear the Universe had decided to take no pity on him.

The curtains were not drawn so he could easily see how the night had grown old and the westering moon had slipped far down the darkened heavens. Other than that, there was only shadow.

Deren’s soft breathing sifted through the air but did not manage to lull him back to sleep. For a long time he lay still, vaguely wondering how it all had happened, and why. Not that he really believed that it mattered. People changed their minds every day, the world was never a loving place for any lasting time, not for him anyway.

He remembered with a twitch in his heart the songs he had heard as a child, and the songs he had heard the Mirkwood-Elf Legolas sing. Different those songs were but all carried the same message of everlasting love. Songs of fair maidens and fair lords, brave warriors, strong ladies… all of them claimed by a love that seemed to run deeper – and higher – than life itself. Once or twice he had even overheard Aragorn singing… In a mellow voice which had carried straight to his heart. He had never told the King of course, and for that he was grateful now. Such love was not for him.

Dismissing even his headache, he cautiously sat up and then got out of the bed. Despite everything, he could not stay. Deren stirred in his sleep but did not wake.

Leaving was a simple business. Since Faramir had not shed any clothes he only had to walk across the floor to the door, open it, step out into the hallway and close the same door behind him. Still he could sense the weight of Deren’s arm around his waist and the sound of his breathing rose and sank in his ears, rendering him uncomfortable inside his own body.

All the torches in the corridor were extinguished but through the windows filtered the wintry moonlight. Long, pale streaks of light seemed to hold the floor their captive, freezing time itself, as Faramir walked slowly towards his own room.

_On the outside of time… _

Was that not where he – they – had been during the past few, precious days? Maybe he had actually been inside one of those songs for a little while, too engrossed to know it. But now the last note was sung, the music had faded and reality held him in its firm and non-compromising grip again. One day, those days could be a fond memory… perhaps… if everything stopped hurting.

He had a long way left to go, he realised, when he pushed his door open and spotted a dark mound of heavy fabric carefully folded and placed over the back of a chair. Almost reverently Faramir approached it and, swallowing, he placed a hand upon his winter coat.

“Your coat is probably back in your room, washed and dry.”

Pang.

Aragorn.

“Why yes it is! It is here. You were right. It is right here…”

In his mind, the scene played out before him…

“I told you so.”

The King was advancing towards him, a smile on his lips, a smile in his eyes.

Faramir picked up the coat and examined it, pretended to be lost in his discovery.

“Clean and dry,” he confirmed.

Aragorn stood before him now and gently took the coat from his hands. He replaced it on the chair.

“You do not need it at present,” he said softly.

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “And why is that?”

The smile on his lover’s lips grew and turned a bit devilish. “Because I can think of many a reason for why you would want to stay indoors.”

“Yes,” Faramir nodded, fighting a grin. “It is very late – or early if you wish – after all.”

“True, very true…”

Aragorn’s eyes roamed over his face and settled on his mouth.

“Anyone sane enough would be in bed by now,” the King said, his voice taking on a husky note.

“Alas, I only have a Steward’s bed to offer,” Faramir shrugged in mock despair.

“As long as it is this particular Steward’s bed, I shall need no other – ever,” Aragorn assured him and seized his lips in a soul-searing kiss.

He opened his eyes, not even knowing he had closed them. The room was cold and silent. Before him lay the coat, a deadweight on his heart and memories.

Sighing he lifted it up pulled it on. He had no idea whether Aragorn had ever even seen it, let alone touched it, and yet it seemed to him that a part of the King was nestled somewhere among the threads.

Clad in this armour, this shield against the powerful cold, he exited his room and returned to the corridor. His headache had diminished and he was practically drained, but he would not sleep. Not yet.

Fighting time, fighting the oncoming morning when daylight would roll in over the City and bring him face to face with his former lover, Faramir wandered aimlessly through the hallways. He kept his mind in check as he walked in the dead-silence that enwrapped him. Allowing no memories to surface, he passed by the dining hall and the library several times. He was halfway down to the kitchens before he turned back and wound his way back towards the council hall. The heavy doors were firmly closed and probably locked. He stopped in front of them and then turned on his heel like a soldier on patrol, and began walking away from them.

Further down the hallway, he came to a rest in front of a row of windows overlooking the gardens.

“Anyone sane enough would be in bed by now.”

It was certainly not considered sane pacing the palace at this time of night dressed in a winter coat, he observed. But for the life of him, Faramir could not work up sufficient energy to care.

The garden was drenched in snow: trees, bushes and shrubberies were difficult to tell apart. Squinting in the faint light provided, Faramir leaned closer to the window-glass. Despite the snowfall earlier, he could discern footprints leading out into the gardens from – he squinted– from that door a few feet away from him.

It was not as odd as it might seem. The palace of Minas Tirith obviously had servants who were employed to take care of things, be it the coldest winter in living memory or not.

Still, there was something unsettling about them that he could not define. Drawing his coat tighter about him, Faramir walked over to the door and pushed at it. It was not supposed to be unlocked, but it was. However, opening it wider proved nearly impossible as masses of snow had collected on the ground outside.

Suddenly inspired, he welcomed this new task which was something completely different from dwelling upon his own miserable life. He pressed and heaved, used the door as a shovel to push away the snow, and was finally able to force it open.

An icy cold wind attacked his face and his eyes watered in an instant. He welcomed this also, stepping outside into the waning night.

The footprints were easier to see than to follow; with every step his light boots sank down quite a few inches and soon his feet were both wet and cold. It helped, though, that another track had been made. It was almost as if something had been dragged across the snow, and so had whisked away some of it.

He pressed on, battered by the winds that blew up from the north. Low down in the east, a pale greenish-yellow light tainted the sky. He was on the very edge of morning, but this was his quest now and he would not stop.

But then the footprints did so.

Faramir found himself standing in front of a row of high bushes laden with snow. He could go no further and disappointment washed over him. Supposedly the servants had had some errand here but what that might be, he had no idea.

He was about to turn back when he spotted something tucked underneath one of the larger bushes. The snow looked like it had been disturbed, piled up, removed and then piled up again. To Faramir it looked like someone had tried to bury something.

He frowned and took another step, coming just a bit closer. Bending over, he began to brush the snow away. Soon he uncovered some fabric. He tried to unearth it but found only more… and more. Gripped by some incomprehensible necessity to reveal whatever this was, he frantically cleared away what felt like tons of snow.

With numb fingers, Faramir dug, panic hovering at the edge of his senses. There was something beneath the fabric, something that was not soft or possible to remove. He ignored the twigs that rasped his face as he dove underneath the branches of the bushes.

Somewhat shielded from falling snow, the ground beneath the shrubbery was at least less sunken beneath the white blanket. Faramir had not much room to move, but he did not care. His arms and hands pushed and shoved away the snow until he knew nothing else but this task.

Closer to the stem the ground was almost bare. Faramir crept forward and when he beheld what lay before him, he did something he was not known to do: he screamed.

His scream reverberated in the yard. It rang between the walls of the former Citadel and it forcefully hit the windows on every level.

Then all went silent.

In the moments that followed, Faramir absurdly reflected that the vision was almost beautiful: a gentle sprinkle of snow covered the colourless skin and the first light of dawn accentuated the high cheekbones and the soft curve of the full lips. The eyes were closed, and the dark lashes contrasted gracefully against the surrounding whiteness. He lay in peace, in the snow, underneath the sleeping branches of the bushes.

But this was wrong, so wrong, Faramir knew. And he screamed again, screamed for Aragorn.

He was being dragged away against his own will, by someone who was stronger than he. The place had erupted with activity, people were swarming about him and now he was pushed and pulled to the door and forced inside where it was warm and safe. Or so they tried to tell him.

He strained to see what was happening but there were guards and servants and healers in the way. The clamour thrashed his senses and the suddenly lit torches, too many to count, pierced his eyes with their blinding blazes.

Fighting against his restraints, he struggled to get back outside. He had to know what was happening to Aragorn, that he would be alright.

Strong and determined arms held him back. Words he did not care to understand swam around him and urged him to fight even harder. He only stopped when a desperate slap across his face temporarily set stars dancing in front of his eyes.

Staggering backwards he finally sagged to the floor, shaking and trembling. If Aragorn was not okay, what would he do then?

A memory of a night, so long ago it seemed now, brutally surfaced:

_They had eaten the apples and were sitting in front of the fire. Faramir had not been so nervous in a very long time. The great royal bed stood only some feet away but they had still not breached the subject. _

Aragorn looked kingly where he sat, the warm light of the flames played upon his skin. Faramir only breathed because he had to, not because he really dared.

Then the King had leaned forward and touched his hand. Aragorn spoke gently, telling his Steward that he needed to lie down.

“I am an old man, remember?”

Fear welled up inside Faramir where he sat now. Aragorn was not an old man! He was young and strong and he was fine! He must be fine.

Fear mingled with nausea and he fought the urge to throw up.

Aragorn was not old.

Movement at the door caught his attention. People were rushing through and then stepped back to make way for the healers. Faramir shot to his feet so fast that blackness momentarily overcame him. When his vision cleared, he spotted the healers passing through the door.

They were walking very slowly. To Faramir’s eyes they hardly moved. Everything slowed down around him and even the constant shouting seemed to cease.

He watched anxiously as they carried him inside.

He lay on a stretcher, and he was as pale as the first hour of the day.

He was covered with a thick fur but his body’s contours were still discernible. His legs were placed in an odd angle.

Faramir turned away and vomited.

One of the healers hurried to his side and held him as the violent tremors shook his body. The noise mounted once more and everything sprung back to life.

When Faramir finally looked up he met the searching gaze of the blond healer who had come to their aid some nights before. Haggard and exhausted, the healer opened his mouth to speak.

“The King lives.”

Faramir simply watched him, the words only just registering. Then he fell back to the floor, only avoiding the mess he had made because of the healer’s hands steering him away from it. He was crying, shaking and falling.

The healer knelt in front of him and shook his shoulders.

“Listen,” he urged. “The King lives but he has been outside in the snow for a long time… .”

Faramir registered these words as well, somewhere in his mind.

“Also, his legs have been severely hurt. Exactly how, I know not at this point.”

Faramir nodded, devoid of every normal feeling. A sensation of emptiness and blankness was spreading through him.

“I must go to him immediately,” the healer continued, “you may come with me.”

And so it was that Aragorn’s Steward rose to his feet once more that night. As the glow of morning painted the sky in a golden hue and chased the moon away to its slumber, he followed the healer to where all would come to an end, if there were no gods in this world.

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