Faramir Fiction Archive

The Coldest Winter (R)

Written by Geale

09 January 2009 | 77501 words

So, after things took a little turn due to our most dearly beloved delegation from Erelas, let’s twist it some more and venture inside Faramir’s mind again. Properly in place? Let’s begin.

Chapter 8 – Claiming

Yes. Fine. It was heinously cold. And he did not need to be standing on the balcony with snow battering his face and brutally blinding him. He did not need to be here, shivering and trembling, with teeth that would surely clatter to pieces. He could have stayed inside, sought out a fireplace and turned his back to Aragorn’s searching glances and done his best to ignore Deren’s very existence. But he had not.

How had everything become so complicated? What was more, why did it seem like he always waded through life confused and uncertain of what happened around him? In his personal life, that was. As a Captain, Ranger and Steward he was in control, but as soon as it came to personal relationships he was completely lost.

Also, he had no idea why anyone would be interested in him… He was a man among Men, nothing special as far as he could see. He had been happy, living far away from Minas Tirith in the days of his father’s stewardship. When he had been thrown into the War of the One Ring he had tried – in vain – to save Osgiliath from the claws of the Dark, but all he had really succeeded in was ending up in the Houses of Healing – while the battle was going on below. Honestly, where was the glory in that?

Then Aragorn. A King had shown interest in him, the son who should have been sacrificed in his brother’s stead. Aragorn had called him beautiful, but he had been drunk. Faramir on the other hand, he had fallen in love.

Damn that love now! Time had rushed after that night; it was summer, then the first gooseberries had shown, then blackberries and apples and golden leaves and raspberries and he and Aragorn had walked in the gardens, and then – then, after only a few moments it seemed: the accident. And there was no more.

Faramir shifted on the balcony and attempted to revive his frozen legs, stamping his feet against the floor and trying to reestablish contact with his toes.

No, that was untrue. There had been more, only a couple of weeks ago. He had finally broken through Aragon’s defences and spent the night with him, and by the gods, it was brilliant. But reality was never far away, was it?

Nine men had arrived in the White City and among them was one who had-

There was a hard knock on the window. He opened the door that separated him from these very people. A servant was gesturing towards the dining hall. With a heavy sigh, Faramir left his refuge and stepped inside.

Melting snow wet his windblown hair and weighed down his coat. He shrugged it off and hung it over the back of the nearest chair. It was not his usual custom to leave things for others to clean up, but somehow he had lost his energy to care. The small antechamber was warm and inviting; without any regret, he would have loved to stay there by himself all evening. He could sit in another chair by the fire and give himself credit for his great talent: wallowing in misery and self-doubt. However, he had all night to do that. Only dinner left now and then he was free to do whatever he chose and wallow as much as he liked.

Reluctantly he made his way to the dining hall where everyone except the King stood gathered. He hoped he could slip inside unnoticed, and preferably remain invisible throughout the whole meal. It proved impossible immediately, though, for Deren spotted him before he had even walked into the room.

“Faramir,” he called out, a befuddled look on his face. “What in the world have you been up to?”

Faramir ran a hand through his dripping wet hair. “I needed some air,” he shrugged.

Deren walked up to him with a smile growing on his lips, and in doing so, separating them from the others. “Some tension in council today… I understand you.”

“Hm,” offered Faramir.

“What if you catch a cold? Who would deal with everything then?”

Faramir shot him a quizzical glance and frowned. “Deren, we have a King. Gondor is well taken care of.”

“Yes, of course,” the other man said and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Of course. I simply mean, Faramir, that you are very important. You must not expose yourself to those harsh winds like that.” He smiled. “Really, are you not the one who runs things around here?”

“I? I am merely the Steward. Aragorn is King.”

“True, true…” Deren lowered his voice. “Still, it seems to me that he is quite… weak.” He raised his eyebrows in a questioning manner.

The frown on Faramir’s face deepened. “How can you even suggest that?” he hissed. He would not listen to Deren speaking ill of Aragorn.

“Very well,” Deren was once more smiling. “I meant no offence – ‘twas only an unprofessional observation.” His grip on Faramir’s shoulder strengthened and he directed them further away from the others. “Listen, Faramir, on another note…”

They were now on the other side of the room and there was still no sign of Aragorn. Faramir would prefer it if he had time to step away from Deren before the King entered.

“What can I do for you,” he asked.

Deren laughed softly. “As I said, on another note… Faramir, I made a proposal to you last night if you remember…”

Faramir stiffened at the words but Deren continued, “I know not what kind of arrangement you have with the King…”

“What?!” The Steward spun around to face the blond man, breaking free from their body contact. “What are you implying?” he cried out, trying to keep his voice down, but earning himself a few glances from the other guests.

Deren only laughed that soft laugh again. “It is obvious, Faramir. But I can see you are not happy with the deal.”

“This is not an appropriate conversation,” Faramir warned him.

“Then I shall say no more.” Deren held up his hand disarmingly.

“Good.” Faramir gave a curt nod.

“Only,” Deren gently placed his hand on the Steward’s arm, “I wish you would reconsider.”

In that moment a loud voice cut through the air. Dinner was announced and Aragorn was standing in the doorway, eyes fixed on Faramir and Deren.

Whatever happened to the days of peace and quiet?

As soon as that thought had crossed his mind, Faramir knew he was fooling himself. His so called ‘relationship’ with Aragorn had not been easy – not two months ago, not six, but do we not tend to glorify the past when the present is troubling us? And troubled he was; he had no idea what Aragorn was thinking.

The table had been pushed nearer to one of the fireplaces and Aragorn had lent his usual chair at the head of the table to Forn. The elderly man had protested for some time, but Aragorn had insisted, claiming that the other seat which he had chosen for himself would do his aching back good as it was closer to the warming fire. Finally, Forn had accepted the King’s offer and sat down and Aragorn visibly relaxed – he even flashed a smile.

Faramir desperately wanted to ask him if he was in pain and if he could be of assistance in some way, but he found he lacked the courage to do so. Instead he stood by, silently observing the scene.

Aragorn did not appear to be in too much pain. In fact, there was a different air about him, and he looked like he had dressed with care; his tunic and leggings were made of dark, almost black, cloth and around his shoulders he had draped a light cloak in a warm purple colour, reminding Faramir of ripe plums. The fabric fell around the King softly, all the way to the floor; it worked as a sharp reminder of his royal status. Perhaps, Faramir thought, Aragorn was feeling festive – even happy to see him with Deren like that… maybe he was actually glad to be rid of him.

“Faramir?”

The Steward’s eyes shot up to Aragorn’s face but the King was not looking at him directly, rather, he was speaking to wall behind him.

“I would have you sit here,” he gestured to the chair beside his own. Then he turned back to the others.

With a sense of dread, Faramir stepped up to the chair, pulled it out and seated himself on Aragorn’s left hand side. Opposite him sat Deren as ordered by the King, and at least he was quiet.

As they began eating, Aragorn who had apparently settled for a mood change, entered into an animated conversation about trade and farming with Forn. It soon sparked an interest among the other guests as well and soon there was a lively debate going on in the dining hall. The King’s new energy spurred the men, and the atmosphere was far merrier than it had been for days, with one exception: Gondor’s Steward.

Faramir picked at his food. Normally, he would eat with good appetite, but tonight the vegetables – root crop from last year’s harvest – seemed to have lost all taste. With the fish it was the same. And the wine. Candlelight danced on the glasses’ surfaces, creating a beautiful patchwork of bright glow and dimmed shadow. He was warm again, sitting with his back to the fire, his body having forgotten the icy cold of earlier, and yet…

He was so incredibly tired of thinking! He was sick to death of analysing and contemplating. If he for one moment could just remove his own head and store it away somewhere out of sight – which unfortunately would prove difficult without said head –, it would be such, such, a relief! In an effort to relieve himself from some of this constant pondering, he drained his glass. A servant refilled it for him.

The voices floated across the table and there was some laughter, he registered. He shuffled the potatoes on his plate around for a bit but it did not make them more appealing. He had just decided he might as well give up when a weight landed on his right knee. A hand.

Aragorn’s hand – it had to be – and it simply rested there.

Faramir picked up whatever was left of his courage and glanced to his right. Aragorn was speaking with Forn again and seemed completely ignorant of anything else.

Faramir cast some quick looks around the table but everything went on as it had the second before. Well. Right. Aragorn could have… misplaced his hand? There had been some drinking after all, he suspected – now actually listening to the conversations. Nothing extreme, but the men were slightly louder and more at ease. He looked down but due to Aragorn’s cloak, his arm and consequently his hand was hidden from view. Besides, they were underneath the table anyway.

He sat very still, having no idea what to do. Aragorn was still deep in discussion and the potatoes were less inviting than ever. He settled for some more wine.

“No, no!” one of them cried out. “No, in order to make the best profit you must travel by road. Any other way will definitely delay the journey and the crops turn bad, or they rot or I do not know what!”

“Planning is the key,” Aestor pointed out. “There are several options. And then there is the weather…”

At that, everyone automatically turned to the windows even though the dark night outside made it impossible to see anything at all.

Aragorn spoke up. “There might be a possibility regarding the issue of the roads…”

His words were drowned out by the confusion in Faramir’s mind as the hand on his knee slowly slid along his thigh and came to a rest about halfway up.

He heard Aragorn say something about Rangers and the others commented, but the words made no sense to him. The smallest spark of exhilaration sped through him and awoke dormant butterflies in his stomach. If Aragorn had misplaced his hand and now noticed it, surely he would have removed it if he had no intention of it being there… from the beginning… was it not so?

Servants came to clear the table and Faramir saw without regret his food leave the room. Empty glasses were refilled and dried fruit and sweet cakes brought forth and placed before them. The topic of the discussion changed to horses, specifically the horses of Rohan.

“Aye, to share in their knowledge!” exclaimed Forn.

“We will admire it from here.” Faramir chanced a peek at Aragorn who was smiling broadly as he spoke. “Éomer will keep the secrets of horse breeding to himself and his people.”

“It does seem to me very… impolite, at the very least.” Deren.

Aragorn shook his head. “No, it is as it should be.”

Deren gave a snort and opened his mouth to reply. However, when Aragorn’s hand slipped between Faramir’s thighs and forced them further apart, the Steward lost track once more.

A haze encircled Faramir and he found it amazing how the King managed to keep up with the conversation while his fingers were tracing lines against the fabric of his Steward’s leggings. It was as if the touch stirred Faramir’s blood which began to flow freely once more. His cheeks flushed and he thanked the gods no one was looking at him.

Aragorn’s cloak hid his movements effectively but it could not hide the building excitement in Faramir. He could feel his own heartbeat quicken as resolute fingers worked their way upwards. He heard some exclamations, laughter and desultory words but they could not match the singing in his veins.

Then, all of a sudden, it stopped, and Aragorn placed his hand, palm down, against his inner thigh. Faramir knew somewhere in the back of his head that it was a good thing, that he should gain control over his breathing and calm down, but his body was screaming for Aragorn to continue. He was inches away from touching Faramir in places he definitely should not be touching right now – if any of them saw, Faramir would be humiliated for the rest of his life. All the same, this was torture.

Aragorn’s hand, currently innocent where it lay, sent heated ripples of longing into Faramir’s body. It had been far too long since he felt this way and it made him want more. Images surfaced in his mind, images of Aragorn doing things to him that made him cry out in pleasure. It did not really help his condition.

Forcing his thoughts in another direction, he drew a deep breath and tried to focus on the men around the table. Aestor and a bearded man – Faramir forgot his name – were involved in a discussion regarding stables. Aragorn was sipping his wine, intently listening to their opinions. No one spoke to Faramir. He did not care.

Needing to occupy himself with something, he chose an apple and reached out for it with a shaky hand. Bringing it to his mouth and biting into it, he almost choked when Aragorn yet again began his ministrations. One finger travelled along his thigh, ever so slowly, working its way towards his groin. Faramir leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table, meaning to shield the movements and giving Aragorn an opportunity to continue unseen.

It worked, and maybe a little too well for he was suddenly addressed.

“Farmir, you are very quiet this evening,” Deren smiled, head cocked to one side. “Have you no opinion on horses?”

He meant to answer, he did, but just then, a second questing finger joined the first one and together they savagely tugged at his leggings. Faramir could not help the gasp that escaped him. Deren’s eyes narrowed but he turned to Aragorn.

“My King, they say you indeed own one of that precious breed?”

Aragorn nodded. “I do.”

“And is he as good as one might think?”

“He is. A beautiful creature,” Aragorn said, his fingers now increasing the firmness of their strokes.

Faramir’s head swam. There was tightness now, in his groin. Heat and lust pooled between his legs and the force of arousal swept over him like a tidal wave.

Deren’s voice reached him through the fog that surrounded him:

“I see… May I be bold enough to inquire if you would lend him to me, just once? For some time now, it has been my dream to ride one so – extraordinary.” His eyes were gleaming in the light of the candles.

Aragorn leaned forward as well, looking straight at the blond man. “Deren, I am afraid I am very possessive. He is a dear friend of mine, and you will understand that I do not like to share.”

With that, he placed his hand forcefully against the arousal trapped inside Faramir’s leggings.

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