The King and The Ranger | Faramir Fiction Archive

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The King and The Ranger (R)

Written by Minx

30 March 2004 | 60419 words

[ split in pages ]

Title: The King and The Ranger
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: R
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated - greenrivervalley@gmail.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Violence, slash, angst
Summary: Life after the war of the ring is not all roses, as Faramir discovers while trying to come to terms with the changes, losses and his own insecurities, while everyone else around him is celebrating.

Note: Definitely AU, set some months after RoTK, Boromir is alive, Aragorn is betrothed to Arwen but not married yet.

Chapter 1

Pale sunlight streaked its way across the skies above Minas Tirith as the city began to arise and face a new day. Inside one of the rooms of the king’s palace, a slumbering figure stirred the moment the first shaft of light pierced its way through the open window. Grey eyes gazed dully up at the ceiling of the bedchamber, out of a haggard face, as Faramir, captain of the Ithilien rangers sighed soundlessly. Another day was here.

He rose from bed slowly and wearily, for yet again he had had little sleep at night. He went over to the mirror and bowl of water placed in a corner of the chamber and stared dispassionately at the visage reflected back at him. The lack of sleep over so many days showed clearly in the redness tingeing the eyes encircled by dark circles, and it occurred to him rather mirthlessly that he probably had more lines creasing his face than his elder brother Boromir did. From there his thoughts took their natural progression of late. Boromir was alive, something he would remain eternally thankful for. How he had feared when his brother had left on the dangerous quest, how they had come across his broken horn, and assumed him dead, how he dreamt of seeing Boromir floating down the Anduin, how his father had grieved and grieved till his death at the purported loss of his eldest son, not even surviving long enough to confirm with his own eyes the rumour that his favoured son was indeed alive - injured but alive, the second person Faramir had set eyes upon awakening at the houses of healing after falling in battle. The first had been King Elessar.

The king! Faramir hurriedly splashed water on his face and rapidly changed into a fresh set of clothes, grimacing as he realised he had dozed off in the same clothes he had worn all day the day before, not even bothering to change for the night. His books lay strewn over the bed, on the table, everywhere. Ever since he had realised he was having trouble sleeping, he had turned to his books for solace, as always, but unlike earlier he had found none forthcoming this time. Hurriedly he piled them up on the table, and then running a comb quickly through his hair pulled out the tangles. He had no time to tarry for the king had called a council early that morning.

He glanced at his face frowning yet again, and splashed some more water on to it, cursing the dreams that kept him awake. He seemed to be fighting a losing battle. If he slept, he dreamt, terrible dreams that woke him up each night without fail. Dreams of the fire that had consumed his father and almost consumed him alongside, of his brother falling to orcs, of that terrible interview with his father after they had thought Boromir dead, of his ride on the Pelennor to hold out against the forces of darkness, and all compounded by his one recurring dream of the fall of Númenór. He wondered if he should simply take a sleeping draught every night. At least it would banish the strange despair that overtook him every time he woke up, drained and exhausted by his nightmares. Drying his face, he hurried to the council immediately. He still had the same room, far away in one of the lonelier parts of the palace, which he inhabited till the rehabilitation work in Minas Tirith could be finished. Then Boromir would move to the steward’s house, near the citadel, and he would either move to a smaller place, or as seemed more likely simply billet out with his men in Ithilien, where the re-building was to start in earnest soon.

He decided not to bother to get anything to eat. He did not feel very hungry, and had quite forgotten that he had not eaten dinner the previous night, having found himself caught up with paperwork for his troop’s supplies.

He had not minded so much, having found that to him mealtimes now had begun to seem as much a bother as they had when his father had been alive. Then meals had been eaten mostly in an uncomfortable silence. If Boromir had been home, which was seldom, father and elder son would talk, the younger remaining silent and not venturing to speak unless spoken to, and even then carefully so as to not cause offence inadvertently. And when Boromir was not around, silence would prevail, a tense, fragile silence, with Faramir wishing Denethor would say something, anything, even if in rebuke. The rebuke would invariably come, a snap about toying with his food, or some other equally caustic remark, that would always cause a familiar pricking in his eyes. Even the rebukes had stopped as he’d grown older, and any talk between Denethor and Faramir had reduced to just the level absolutely necessary.

Had anything at all changed, he wondered as he strode down the long winding corridors towards the part where most of the household dwelt. Now he found himself excluded from most of the talk at meals with the king, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli for the fervour of the ring war, and the destruction of the one ring was yet to die down. Talk always centred around either the travels of the fellowship of nine, although not so much now that their halfling friends had returned to the shire, or the battle at helm’s deep, or the final battle against Sauron’s forces. And Faramir had not been present at any of those. He had not even been present at the battle of Pelennor fields. He had fallen trying to help the white city hold out until Rohan came to their aid. And that was something he had no desire to talk about, for while they might have held out, he had lost many of his men. He simply maintained a stony silence all through. And as he realised later, it only added to the others’ perception of him as extra-serious.

It appeared no one else shared his predilection regarding food. He was the first to appear at the council room, and had to wait a while before he was joined by Aragorn, who entered looking refreshed and relaxed, and smiled gently at him before proceeding to his place at the head of the table.

“Sire,” Faramir bowed.

“Faramir, you are early,” came Aragorn’ s amused reply, as he poured himself some mead from the jug placed on the table.

Faramir did not know whether to reply to this or not but was saved reacting when the door opened yet again, to let in more people, including Boromir, Legolas, the elven prince of Mirkwood, and his dwarven friend Gimli. The discussion was to centre on the re-building of the land of Ithilien, and proceeded mostly along leisurely lines, barring a little bickering between Gimli and Legolas about the proportion of forest cover to be left intact. Legolas had plans to move some of his people there, and they were already in the process of beginning the resettlement. Faramir, who was there in his capacity as the captain of the Ithilien rangers found little to say, and so sat back contemplating the strange group around the table.

The king, the elf, the dwarf, the councillors, his brother all seemed to be earnestly interested in the discussion. In his father’s day he had had little experience of council meetings, Denethor seeing no reason for his presence in one, unless it was to report on his troops. Even now, after being snubbed badly at an earlier meeting, he found he preferred to remain silent, and not volunteer an opinion. Things had definitely not changed greatly since his father’s day he decided. Boromir sat across him, and looking at him, he realised with a start that they had spent barely minutes in each others presence each day, and the pang in his heart deepened as he noticed the quiet looks of amused resignation exchanged between his brother and the king, as the arguments between elf and dwarf became more vocal and even caused some of the council members to take up cudgels on behalf of one or the other. It was obviously a usual occurrence, one that Aragorn and Boromir both seemed to anticipate and now treated as a bit of a joke, that he was yet to understand. He felt the stirrings of resentment as he realised that there were now others in this world who were as close to his brother as he was.

Faramir sighed silently, wishing he could spend some more time with his brother. He had missed him so much earlier. But Boromir was busy with his duties as steward nowadays, indulging in much hated paperwork, while at the same time keeping up his duties as captain general of the white tower, and what little free time he had he seemed to spend catching up with the young ladies of his acquaintance. After all, since the king was engaged to the enviably beautiful Arwen, daughter of Elrond, the next catch in the market was the tall, well-built, handsome steward of Gondor. Boromir looked extremely happy and as fresh and energetic as the rest of the group.

Was he the only one who felt tired to his bone and weary beyond imagination? And why did everyone else look so happy? What was he missing out on that the happiness refused to overtake him? Was that why he had heard Gimli referring to him as dour and grim, and suggesting to the halflings when they were here, that they play a practical joke or two on him? He still remembered how everyone had laughed at that. Aragorn had smiled, the halflings and Legolas had grinned and Boromir had literally roared with laughter, while he himself had bitten his lip, and then tried to smile it away, but all that had come out was a weird grimace, that had made everyone laugh even more.

He hated what he had become, unable to find pleasure in anything he did, but try as he might, he could not help it. It had annoyed him greatly that Boromir had joined in the laughter. Until that point he had considered telling Boromir something of his worries but after that he had decided against it. Boromir had returned home after long, and he would not bother him with his own stupid nameless worries.

He found himself assailed by memories all the time, and none of them good. His thoughts kept returning to his father, and as each day passed, he felt more and more to blame for his death. If he had not fallen, his father would not have gotten so desperate as to end his own life. If he had only trusted him and not doubted his love. And then he would wonder how his father would have reacted to Aragorn’ s return as king, and feel angry with himself for thinking such thoughts.

In the background the hum of conversation continued, and he simply decided to ignore it. Why was he present here at any rate? He had no role here, among people like the king, or even his brother, the steward, or Legolas soon to be the lord of the elves of Ithilien. He was merely a captain of rangers who should be out captaining his men, but that he had been pulled out while the rebuilding effort went on.

He felt superfluous. When they were growing up, and Gondor had been kingless, he and Boromir had always had an understanding that when the elder one became steward, the younger one would be his chief councillor. For no one could question Faramir’s sharp intellect. But they had a king now. Boromir was the steward, and not only that he had happily offered to continue as captain general, for with a king in place, the steward’s office held little to it but name. Aragorn hardly had a need for councillors; he had more experience than anyone amongst them, and had travelled more widely than anyone else in Gondor. He was not only an excellent warrior but also had a sharp tactical brain, and at the same time, like Faramir, an interest in lore. Growing up in the house of Elrond, he had honed all these skills to perfection, and Faramir had figured out that in front of his king he would rank a poor country cousin in all these matters. He wished he could sit with him, and talk to him of lore, literature, and poetry but after all, Aragorn was king, and he was merely the brother of the steward. Aragorn had a realm to govern, and he could not possibly ask him to take time out of that to spend with him, and cater to what Denethor in a fit of anger had referred to as his foolish pursuits, despite the fact that he himself had been accomplished in all these matters.

Why could he not be happy for the rest of the people? Why was he being so self-centred? After all, the king had returned. That was what they had wanted all these years, hadn’t they. And the steward and the king got along famously; things could only get better for Gondor. Why then did he feel like this?

He should have been happy. Instead he found himself constantly on the edge. Nothing had changed. Instead of having to prove his worth to Denethor, he would have to prove his worth to his king. After all Elessar had never really seen him in action. He knew Aragorn respected Boromir tremendously and loved him like a brother. They had fought together, and Boromir’s opinions held a weightage with the king. The same went for the elf, and the dwarf and even for Éomer , king of Rohan, whenever he visited. Aragorn had fought with all of them, and had even known the elf from years earlier. It was the same thing all over again. The same fight for respect, the desire to be heard and to be heeded. Would it happen? Aragorn usually heard out what he had to say patiently and encouragingly, for Faramir usually spoke slowly and never without thought. But he had spent too many years being snubbed in council meetings, and most of the councillors had spent years watching his opinions being scorned. Old habits died hard. Silence was his only refuge and he welcomed it gladly.

The drone of the conversation got louder, so Faramir tried to stifle his growing disquiet, and pay more attention to the council proceedings. He would not give in to self-pity he told himself.

“When you have the time, Lord Faramir!’ came a sarcastic cry that pulled the young man reluctantly out of his reverie. Reddening slightly, he realised that everyone was looking to him to answer something, and he had no clue what it could be. Looks of scorn and resignation met him from around the table. Lord Eredil, the council member who had called out to him, looked impatient, while Gimli and Legolas seemed to be awaiting his reply, and across the table, Boromir was shaking his head half in resignation, half in disappointment.

Faramir felt the familiar poundings of an intense headache set off in his temples. Unconsciously raising a hand to his head, he bit his lip.

“I’m sorry, I did not –“ he began, and then his eyes fell on the king’s face. Aragorn was looking at him with a strange expression on his face, that Faramir could not entirely decipher. Suddenly the room whirled in front of his eyes, hunger and exhaustion combining with the embarrassment of the situation to make him nauseous.

Aragorn entered the council room mulling over the reports he’d been reading over breakfast. His couriers had come in from news from across the land as they did every few days. Opening the huge doors, he noticed the usual figure he’d come to expect punctually before time, standing by a window. He suddenly remembered the last time they had spoken in this room. After a meeting, he had asked Faramir to stay back and then as tactfully as possible asked him not to visit Ithilien for a few days since the dwarfs there found him getting in their way with the re-building efforts. Faramir had apparently offered perfectly innocently that he and his men could help them out with the rehabilitation work, an offer that some of the dwarfs had taken as an insult. Gimli had wanted to speak to the young captain himself, but Aragorn had rightly guessed that the dwarf’s gruff manner would only cause distress to the ranger and had taken on the job himself. And even his quiet explanation had not managed to keep the worry out of those clear grey eyes.

In hindsight though, it had amused him that Faramir could take such a simple request so much to heart, and he could not keep the smile out of his voice as he greeted the younger man. Faramir had glanced up at him then and with shock Aragorn had noted that he looked more haggard than usual. Compared to Boromir’s boisterous, good-humoured outlook, Faramir came across as the most dour of creatures, but closer inspection had shown the astute king of Gondor that the grimness seemed to be a front to hide a deep-rooted sadness. He never failed to note how often the strained face took on a look of puzzled bewilderment. Before he could inquire further, however, the other attendees had walked in. But it did not escape his notice that Faramir’s thoughts were somewhere very far away all through. He didn’t blame him. His friends’ constant arguments on the building efforts were beginning to get on everyone’s nerves and only the strong bond of people who have fought for each other, prevented him from saying anything. So he contended himself with secretly observing the wan face of his steward’s younger brother, noting with unease that he looked as bad as he had done the day he had seen him battling the fever that had been brought on when he had been injured during the siege.

Gimli’s question shook him out of his reverie. He seemed to be asking Faramir about the requirements for soldiers’ outpost. Faramir was sitting straight backed in his chair gazing blankly out of the window behind Gimli. If he had been an elf, he’d have been taken to be asleep. Heads turned towards the silent ranger who continued to stare out of the window unmindful of the others. Aragorn raised his eyebrows slightly as Lord Eredil repeated the question in a tone laced with sarcasm, in an effort to gain Faramir’s attention. He watched with concern as the young captain dragged himself back into reality, and flushed unbecomingly. The reddish hue turned slightly pale as Faramir raised a hand to his forehead and then stammered out something, the words fading away. Aragorn realised Faramir had caught his gaze, and the other’s grey orbs were now wide open with something akin to fear. Conflicting emotions flitted across a worn face, embarrassment paramount among them. The grey eyes blinked and dropped, and a slight tremor rippled through the hunched shoulders, as the eyes screwed shut.

Aragorn acted swiftly without even realizing what he was doing until he’d put out a hand and tipped over the jug of mead onto the table. All eyes turned away from Faramir to the king and the councillor sitting next to him, as they hurriedly rose, tipping back their chairs noisily, patting away the liquid dripping down the table onto their clothes. Aragorn sneaked a glance towards the young captain at the other end of the table. Faramir had finally opened his eyes and glanced up slowly.

“My apologies, Lord Mardinel,” Aragorn said courteously to the councillor next to him, a pleasing man, much younger than most of the other councillors, on whom most of the liquid had fallen. He himself had escaped with barely a few drops splashing onto his clothes. “I am aware all of us have a busy day ahead. I fear we will have to conclude this meeting at a later time.”

He could make out that his three friends were holding back remarks about his clumsiness with great difficulty, so he took his time with the councillors as they dispersed. When they had all left, his three friends rose. Faramir rose too, slowly, sluggishly, as the other three descended on to him.

“What manner of a ranger were you?” Legolas inquired, and the others followed suit with similar comments. Faramir walked towards him, his expression creased with worry.

“Sire,” he said bowing to take leave of his king.

“Stay, Faramir,” he commanded gently. The furrows on the weary face in front of him deepened.

“I may have spilt the mead, but there is still some good wine. Come, my friends, let us reassemble in the study, and drink to, well, whatever each one of us wants to drink to.”

Chapter 2

The study had not been redecorated at all by its new owner. It remained much the same, Faramir realised as he entered it after everyone else. Legolas, Gimli and Boromir had dropped into comfortable armchairs arranged around a warm fire kindling in the grate. Boromir was already poking at the wood lazily with one booted foot, careful not to let it get too close to the fire. Faramir realised that there had been a few additions - the armchairs. Denethor had usually invited his guests either onto the straight-backed chairs at the table or a small couch in one corner. And he had rarely lit a fire until the winter had truly descended upon the city.

He himself had always sat on the uncomfortable high backed chairs when invited to sit, which was rarely. His visits to the study had always been too short for him to require sitting - a few words from his father, and then he would leave. When there were more than a few words to be said, sitting had never been an option to counter Denethor’s anger. He had lost count of the number of times he had stood in this very room and experienced the strength in his father’s hand when he had been young. As he grew older, Denethor stopped striking him, and simply avoided him instead, resulting in his visits here becoming few and far between.

He stood now, near the door, uncomfortably wondering what to do, and where to sit. Aragorn looked up from behind the table where he was pouring wine into goblets and smiled as he waved him in, vaguely gesturing him to sit somewhere. All that was left to sit on were the tall chairs, so he lowered himself into one, and unconsciously tucked his feet into the rung running through its legs. Placing his hands on his knees, he cupped his chin in his palms and leaned forward listening cursorily to his brother and the elf arguing about something to do with the stables.

“Do you need help with the wine, Aragorn or do you think you can spill it on your own?” Gimli asked, causing Boromir and Legolas to stop arguing and snicker instead. Faramir could never get over the casualness between the four friends. To them, the king was always Aragorn. Aragorn had once asked him too to drop his formality in their interaction, something Faramir had promptly shied away from. He could almost see the disapproving looks on the faces of the councillors and other important people of the land if a mere captain of the Gondorian army were to refer to their king by his name. Thankfully, Aragorn had not pursued the issue.

Through the window he could see that the sun now lay hidden behind clouds. Aragorn came forward with the filled goblets, and handed them around. Watching his movements, Faramir suddenly remembered he had not eaten anything since the day before.

The conversation stopped momentarily as they sipped the wine. Faramir took a very tiny sip. It was the wine that had come over from Dol Amroth, one that his father had particularly liked, a particularly strong variety, good in small doses, but not advisable in large doses. Unfortunately Denethor had a tendency to imbibe it in large doses, especially when dealing with his younger son. Faramir gripped the goblet a little tighter as he took another tiny sip. Why did everything bring back such unpleasant memories?

“Where is that blue vase that used to rest on the mantelpiece?” Boromir’s question caused him to raise his eyes with a start. His brother was looking towards the mantelpiece of the fireplace in consternation, “It was mother’s,” Boromir continued in a soft voice.

“There was no vase there,” Aragorn said frowning.

“I wonder where it went. Perhaps father moved it away somewhere else. I would like to hunt for it.”

“It broke,” Faramir heard a voice blurt out, realizing belatedly that it was his own voice, and promptly regretted having spoken.

Why did I say that? Now he will surely want to know how it broke. The familiar pounding set off in his head, and he found himself gripping the goblet even tighter, as he gazed up to meet the eyes of his brother and king. Legolas and Gimli were half listening to the conversation.

“How?” Boromir asked, aghast, “father had kept that vase for years. It was all he kept of mother. How did it break?”

Faramir felt everyone’s eyes rest on him. Boromir’s near-impassioned outburst had increased the others’ interest in the matter.

He bit his lip, wondering what to say. He was quite incapable of lying, and if he even so much as tried, Boromir would easily catch him out. Besides, men of Gondor were known for their sense of honour.

“I – I – it… it broke, it fell – off the mantelpiece. Slipped – it slipped off, and broke. While you were on the quest,” he stammered rapidly, his heart sinking as he noticed Boromir’s eyes narrowing. Aragorn was watching him with a puzzled expression on his face, while Legolas and Gimli looked on curiously.

“It slipped?” Boromir stated calmly, questioningly.

Faramir took a larger sip of the wine hoping it would help fortify him a little, and then nodded miserably.

“How did it slip?” Boromir asked, an ominously patient undertone lacing his voice.

I fell against it. Faramir said in his mind.

“I am not sure, I did not see it fall,” he said quietly. That was true at any rate. He had been pushed back against the mantelpiece. His eyes had been on his father’s face, not on the vase that had fallen off as his shoulder blade had hit it. He had not even realised what had happened until Denethor had cried out in rage and sorrow when it had crashed into the ground breaking into smithereens. Then he had been shoved away nearly to the ground while Denethor had knelt and lovingly picked up the pieces of a favoured memory of his wife. In a voice so cold that it had frightened Faramir, he bade his younger son to leave and not show himself to him unless requested.

He looked back at Boromir straight into his eyes, noting with distress that his elder brother seemed very upset by the news. A tense silence descended upon the room, broken only by a knock on the door.

“Sire,” the servant bowed to the king, “My lords. Sire, Lieutenant Mablung is here from Ithilien and wishes to see Lord Faramir.”

Mablung! Faramir felt like slapping himself. He had completely forgotten that Mablung was to come down to Minas Tirith today while they went over the supplies to be allocated to their company. He glanced at Aragorn seeking his permission to leave, and receiving it, nodded to the servant.

“I will be there,” he said and sliding off the chair, quaffed the rest of the wine down grimacing as he did so. Placing the empty goblet on the table, he bowed to the others and left. The overwhelming feeling in his heart was one of relief, at not having to explain to his distraught brother the loss of a prized possession.

Aragorn stared at the retreating back of the young captain in puzzlement. He could have sworn that Faramir had looked relieved to be able to leave. When he had entered the room, he had looked shy and unsure, and Aragorn had found himself strangely drawn to this strange young man with a permanently worried face. He wished Faramir would open up a little more to all of them. He spoke mostly to Boromir, and even that was just a little. Boromir had once mentioned that his brother was reserved by nature, and spoke rarely, preferring to listen instead. Even the attempt to reduce the formality between them had backfired as Faramir had given him a totally horrified look when asked to refer to him by name.

Even when he drank, it was moderately, Aragorn realised, as he watched the wine being sipped in small amounts. The grey eyes had clouded over momentarily as though lost in some unpleasant memory, and then Boromir had asked about the vase. And as that conversation proceeded, Faramir’s eyes had a near frantic look as Boromir became more and more distressed. Faramir had stuttered through an explanation lamely and it occurred to Aragorn that no one in the room had missed the desperation mirrored on his visage reflected in his voice. He seemed to calm down a little after sipping some more wine, and a pall of silence descended heavily upon the room. Aragorn wondered if he should say something, but what could he say? His eyes fell upon Boromir and it seemed to him that his friend almost felt like crying. He remembered seeing Finduilas, Denethor’s lady, when he had served in his younger days in Gondor’s army incognito. She had died young, and to her two sons much of her memory probably lay only in inanimate mementoes like the vase. The tension broke with the knock on the door, and he readily gave Faramir grace to leave, inciting the look of sheer relief on that drawn face.

Whatever was bothering Faramir so much? He was sure if the vase had broken by Faramir’s hands the younger man would readily have admitted to it. In the little time he had seen him, he had been extremely impressed by the other’s straightforwardness and integrity.

He sighed and turned his attention back to his friends. The uncomfortable silence still lay over them, for Boromir was now staring at the carpet fixedly, and Legolas and Gimli were wondering what to do, staring glumly at each other, and then at their friend.

He said the only thing he could think of saying, “Some more wine, Boromir? Legolas? Gimli?” It worked. Boromir glanced up nodding, and the conversation on stables resumed, not as animated as earlier, but good enough given the circumstances.

Faramir walked up to his room tiredly. He had spent all day with Mablung, charting out the requirements for the forces in Ithilien. It was a smaller force now, since it was peacetime, but supplies were still needed, and every month, they would draw up the lists and at the same time go through the rolls, seeing how everyone was doing, moving men among companies if required, increasing strength where required, drawing from companies that were over manned as the situation demanded. He knew each and every man under his command, and loved being with all of them, and living as one of them. A ranger. Just a ranger defending his land who chaffed at not getting time enough to spend in the open country on the other side of the river Anduin, for all the captains were required in the city and would be there for the next few months to debate on the various peace treaties and negotiations on hand.

Entering his room, he threw himself onto his bed wearily. He had missed the luncheon meal, and had had to settle for some fruit instead. Having forced himself to concentrate on his work all this while, he now found his mind slipping back into familiar territory.

What a fool he had made of himself earlier in the day, he thought wretchedly. And that too in front of his king. Not only had he been caught daydreaming in the middle of a meeting where his inputs had been required, but also when he had been invited to join him in a cup of wine, instead of apologizing for his behaviour he had simply floundered some more.

The subject he had dreaded so much earlier in the day hit him with a full force. How was he to tell Boromir that their mother’s favourite vase had broken because of him?

Because Denethor in a fury over his elder son’s supposed death had taken all his anger and sorrow out on the younger one. When Faramir had mentioned Boromir’s death, Denethor’s thin veneer of calm had snapped. Grabbing the younger man by the shoulders he had shaken him roughly and angrily, and struck him across his face with a force that belied his age. Faramir had fallen backwards against the fireplace, and knocked the vase over. Denethor had become incensed. Fear had coursed through his veins as he had watched Denethor kneel down and pick one of the broken pieces in his hand. For he had been truly afraid that night, not so much by the physicality of the attack, as by the emotional intensity behind it. He had found himself cowering like a child before the open hostility radiating from Denethor’s eyes. On dismissal, he had literally fled to his room, where he had spent half the night berating himself for his cowardice, and the other half crying openly for his brother.

He still had a tiny scar near his left ear, where the steward’s ring had sliced the skin open, but it had been nothing compared to the unseen scars he had felt in his heart.

The very memory served to bring tears to his eyes now, and he buried his head into his pillow in an effort to prevent them falling. Exhaustion overcame the overburdened mind, and he fell off into an uneasy sleep, not rising even when Boromir pushed his head in later in the evening to see why he had not come down to supper. He heard the scrape of the door, but felt too tired to react. Boromir called out to him softly, but his befuddled brain would not let him reply or even open his eyes, even when Boromir quietly entered the room, covered him with a blanket, and whispering him a good night, left the room.

That night his sleep was plagued by vague dreams of a terrifying nature. He woke up many times that night, sweating profusely despite the cold, unable to recall what exactly he had dreamt that he had awoken so violently, and feeling extremely unsettled, his heart beating rapidly, chest heaving up and down, gasping for breath. When daybreak came he looked worse than he ever had. But he was also feeling hungry, after having eaten next to nothing for more than a day, so he hurriedly washed himself and dressed in fresh clothes, went down for breakfast.

Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were already there, planning their day out. Boromir was planning to check on his troops posted on the outlying areas of the city. These were his own men, handpicked by him, having fought at his side often in the past. Gimli and Legolas were planning a foray into Ithilien, and the three friends were attempting to see how far they could ride out together. When he reached the table, Boromir glanced up and smiled warmly at him, which caused Faramir to heave a silent sigh of relief.

“You slept off early yesterday. I was worried,” the elder man chided, “and the servants said you had not eaten all day.”

Faramir reached for some bread, and shrugged, “I had some food with Mablung,” he said vaguely. He knew Boromir was worried about him, but he wished he’d display that worry away from other people. Aragorn entered when they had almost finished, and looking up in greeting, Faramir felt like a knife was being twisted through him. He suddenly remembered he had had a recurrent dream last night, which he was unable to recall. What he did recall now was that Aragorn was involved in it somehow, and that it had caused him great worry.

“I shall take your leave now, Aragorn,” Boromir said rising, “I must leave early for the day ahead is long.”

“And we shall leave too,” Gimli announced as he and Legolas rose, “It is a fair ride to Ithilien at least for me, on that stubborn horse!”

Aragorn sighed dramatically, “And I shall sit indoors all day poring over dusty treaties and peace agreements!”

Faramir spent a substantial part of the morning ensuring that all the supplies required for his troops had been organized, and stood ready for dispatch. And all the while he kept racking his brain and trying to remember what exactly he had dreamt, that made him feel so uneasy, and why it made him worry for Aragorn. By noon, he was completely on edge, even the tiniest noise almost made him jump, and his nerves were screaming with an indescribable tension.

He finished off his work and walked back towards the palace, still feeling edgy and unreasonably nervous. Something was wrong. He had no idea what but something was certainly most terribly wrong. And somehow it involved the king. He entered the palace through the wide doors, and the uneasiness intensified. Stopping mid-stride on his way to his chambers, he quickly made up his mind, and stopping a servant inquired about the king’s whereabouts, to be told he was in his study. He did not think he would be at peace until he had seen for himself that Aragorn was all right. And he did need to apologise for his terrible behaviour the day before. It was about time he did.

Aragorn however was not inside his study. He was standing instead on the long, large balcony that opened out from a number of rooms and offered a view of the Pelennor stretching out below the remaining levels of the city. Faramir stepped into one of the halls that opened into the balcony and strode towards it. Aragorn stood looking out at the view, his guard nowhere to be seen. Faramir knew from experience that Aragorn insisted he would not have his guard cloistered around him when he was the house. He stood at the entranceway and looked at the older man, marvelling once again at the excellent physique, and the handsome face, that could be both grave and relaxed. Aragorn truly looked like the kings of old, noble of face and bearing, capable of strength and sympathy both, his Númenórean blood ensuring that he looked much younger than he actually was.

Looking at his king, Faramir felt himself tensing up. Something was wrong, he knew that for sure. But what could it be?

“Sire,” he said hesitantly, stepping out into the open and Aragorn turned around sharply. The swishing sound cutting through the air was all the warning that Faramir’s overwrought mind needed. He lunged at Aragorn immediately and pushed him to the ground covering his liege’s body with his own. In the ensuing confusion all that remained clear was the intense pain overwhelming his senses.

Aragorn stood in the balcony enjoying the opportunity to be out in the open after a day spent entirely inside the walls of his study. The sun had made a token appearance through the clouds for a short while and he intended to take full advantage of it. He was going to have a lot of work to do the next few days, reconciling some of the more stubborn old members of the council to the fact that they could attempt for peace with their old enemies. After spending all this while poring over paperwork, he really wanted to go out, perhaps riding, but there was still a little work left with Lord Mardinel from his council. He was wondering whether he should invite Faramir on a ride, after he finished with that. He found himself getting more and more intrigued by the younger man. Whatever could be troubling him so much? He had wondered if he should broach the subject with Boromir, but decided that that would be going out of line. Instead he decided he would have a go at it himself. With a sharp agile mind along with adept skills as a soldier, the young ranger had him decidedly impressed.

The soft voice cut through his reverie, and he swung around in surprise, as the subject of his thoughts suddenly entered the balcony. Something whizzed by his shoulder, and in a shock he realised it was an arrow, and if he hadn’t turned it would have gone straight through his heart. Without warning, he felt himself being pushed down, and instinctively readied himself to fall on his back on the hard stone floor, ensuring he kept his head away from the surface, his cry of surprise muffled by the weight of the body covering him. Somewhere he heard the sound of more arrows, and he knew they had impacted with something but he felt no pain save that from his back hitting the floor.

In the distance, cries and shouts rang out, as he lay winded and half-dazed trying to recover his breath, his eyes closed as his mind tried to process what had occurred. He was lying on the floor and someone was atop him. Someone who lay unmoving. Soft hair pressed against his jaw and neck, and a scent akin to heather wafted up to his nose. Warm breaths of air hit his chest and shoulder at alarmingly rapid intervals. He put his hands on the weight to push it away, and felt the warm liquid on his fingers. Alarmed, his eyes flew open to the sight of the arrow protruding from the shoulder of the slender figure lying protectively over him. He felt the blood from a second wound on Faramir’s side trickle through the soft cloth of the tunic onto his fingers.

Chapter 3

A sharp stinging feeling hit Faramir’s shoulder and he felt the momentum propel him and Aragorn forward.

Cover him! his mind screamed.

Another stab of agony hit his side and he felt the pain course through his exhausted body like a fire, his distraught mind overtaken by the pain. He felt his head slump forward against the strong muscular chest of his king, and as a fresh burst of pain washed over him he unconsciously buried his face deeper against the other man’s chest, taking comfort from the very feeling of proximity, and the reassuring sound of the king’s heartbeat, regular and rhythmic, merely a little rushed from the current excitement.

A grey mist stretched before his eyes. Then he felt someone trying to push him off. Then something brushed against the wound to his side, and the agony intensified. Lifting up his head a little he realised Aragorn was trying to get up. Through the mist he could make out clear grey eyes mired in confusion.

“Stay down, sire!” he hissed out, before his head fell forward again, refusing to stay up as pain shot across his shoulder and through his neck.

He sensed movement around him, sounds of running feet. Hands reached out for him, and he panicked as he felt himself being pulled away from Aragorn. Being moved away from his king. No! his mind screamed and he gritted his teeth determined not to expose Aragorn to any more danger. Struggling to keep his eyes open, he flailed out at the hands holding him, ignoring the red-hot skewers that seemed to be pushing into his shoulder. He heard an unearthly moan, not realizing it came from his own throat. To his befuddled pain-riddled mind it seemed to come from another source. The king! Frantically he tried to pull away from the restraining hands.

“The king,” he managed to whisper, through the pain.

“I am all right,” the gentle, regal voice of his liege filled his heart with relief and joy. Then someone’s arms closed around him in a comforting embrace. Strong arms held him against a strong, reassuring body. A familiar voice was speaking softly and soothingly to him. A soft smell of herbs hit his nostrils and he leaned into the embrace wearily, letting the dense mist overtake him.

Aragorn stared at the blood coating his fingers, and promptly tried to get up. Faramir’s head rose, and grey eyes clouded with pain stared back at him. Before he could realise it, a young ranger captain was practically ordering him, the king of Gondor and Arnor, to stay down! Then to his dismay, the dark head slumped forward again and this time lay there. The sound of running feet made him jerk his head to one side.

“My lord!” he heard the Tarlong, the captain of his guard cry out.

“Sire!” he heard someone else call out in alarm, it sounded like Mardinel, “Sire, are you hurt?” Mardinel knelt by him staring wide-eyed at the arrow embedded in Faramir’s shoulder, “Faramir-?”

“I am unhurt, help Faramir,” Aragorn croaked out, and watched with concern as the captain of the guard and Mardinel gently lifted the ranger off him, taking care not to hurt the injured man further. A pain wracked moan slipped out from the pale lips on the ashen face of the younger man. Aragorn scrambled up in concern as the weight shifted off him, and moved forward as the injured ranger tried to get away from the restraining arms, and called out for him in a voice reflecting his suffering.

He grabbed at the struggling figure careful to avoid the arrow.

“I am all right,” he said soothingly, as he slipped one arm around the almost unconscious man’s uninjured shoulder, and the other around above his wounded waist and tried to calm him down, holding him in his arms as he would have held a young child. He felt Faramir collapse against him with a relived sigh.

“Sire,” Tarlong pleaded, “You must move out of the open.”

“I doubt if the archer will attempt anything again immediately,” Aragorn replied, “We must see to Faramir. He is wounded.”

“I will call a healer,” Mardinel told him.

“Yes, he should not be moved,” Aragorn replied and looking up, he noticed with approval that Tarlong was effectively barking out orders to the guardsmen, dispatching some to search for the would-be assassin and others to guard the entry and exit points in the palace, for it was clear that the arrows had been fired from one of the windows a few levels above the balcony. One of the guards was shutting off the doors to the balcony. Any news of an assassination attempt on the king might lead to panic, and he wanted to ensure the news did not spread if Aragorn did not want it to.

Aragorn stared worriedly at Faramir’s wounds. A thick, wicked looking arrow protruded from the back of the right shoulder and the injury to the waist was still bleeding. The arrow seemed to have merely nicked it, but although it might not have ordinarily been cause for too much concern, the flow would have to be stemmed soon especially given that it was not the only injury Faramir had suffered.

The drawn face was covered in beads of sweat and extremely pale now, in striking contrast to the raven hair that fell over it in disarray, “It was meant for me and you are hurt, my friend. You should not have! “

He gently lowered the inert figure onto his stomach, and examined the arrow in the shoulder, his lips pursed tightly. He looked up as he heard footsteps to notice that one of the healers had entered, with herbs and cloths in hand, his face creased in worry.

“It will have to be removed immediately,” he declared indicating the arrow, “Hold him down. I am going to remove it.”

The healer nodded, well aware that his king was as good at the art as, and maybe even better than, the warden of the houses of healing. He clamped his arms down over Faramir’s uninjured left shoulder and upper body, and watched tensely as Aragorn gripped the arrow’s shaft with both hands and pulled. It came out cleanly, coated in blood that even now dripped off its point, and a pale sticky coating to it that made the healer suck in a deep breath, and Aragorn’ s face take on a stern expression.

“Poison,” the healer muttered needlessly. Blood seeped out of the wound and Faramir gave out a sickly moan, but immediately slipped back into unconsciousness. Aragorn felt a tug at his heart as he realised how much pain the ranger had put himself through merely to save him.

He examined the arrow and the wounds wordlessly, and then heaved a sigh of relief. It was not an uncommon poison and one that they would be able to treat quite easily, fatal if it hit the heart, but in such cases as this merely causing a mild fever and much pain to the victim. Swiftly they stripped Faramir of his tunic and pressed clean cloth against the injuries, to stem the blood loss.

“The poison needs to be cleaned out and the shoulder needs stitching but it would not be wise to move him very far. The wounds are deep, and they have bled much. He will be in considerable pain,” the healer said quietly.

Aragorn nodded, “The nearest rooms are my new chambers. We will shift him there for the time being. And later, when his condition improves he can be moved to his rooms. I would not like to move him to the houses of healing. It is too far away to carry him.” His tone left no room for argument, so that finally the still unconscious Faramir was placed gently and carefully on the bed in Aragorn’ s chambers, so that the healer could finish cleaning out the wounds, stitch up the shoulder and bandage the cut to the waist. Outside, Tarlong informed Aragorn that the archer had not been found yet, his tone making it abundantly clear that Aragorn was going to find himself constantly on guard from now onwards. The captain of the guard was quite distressed by what had happened. After all, the king had almost fallen, and the captain of the Ithilien rangers now lay wounded.

It was a while later that Aragorn entered the chamber, having spoken to Tarlong and also swiftly concluded his meeting with Mardinel, his eyes not missing out on the fact that the guard seemed to have been doubled around the palace. The healer had finished his work and left so Aragorn left orders to have Boromir sent to his chambers the moment he returned, and then came and stood by the wan, still figure reposing on his bed, injured in the effort to protect him. The healer had offered to send someone to sit by Faramir but he had refused, not entirely sure why, but aware somehow that he should be the one to be there. Tarlong had promptly agreed relieved that his king would be indoors, and it was only the circumstances that had prevented Aragorn from pointing out that he would not stay locked within four walls tomorrow or the day after that.

Faramir felt exhausted. Terribly exhausted, and sick. He wanted to get up, but found himself unable to move, unable even to summon enough energy to open his eyes. He buried his face deeper into a soft pillow, taking in the warm deep smell, herby in nature that helped soothe him strangely. It smelt of something, no, someone. Someone like . . . the king! The king was in danger . . . He struggled to get his eyes open. He needed to warn Elessar. Something was very wrong. He tried to rise. How could he lie here sleeping, knowing his liege was in mortal peril? The resultant sharp stab of pain almost sent him hurtling towards an encompassing blackness.

A soft moan escaped from his lips, and almost immediately he felt someone’s hand running through his hair. It felt a familiar feeling, and he knew he must open his eyes. It seemed to take forever, but he finally managed to focus through half-lidded eyes on the hand that was gently stroking his cheek and hair. A strong callused hand, with long fingers. It looked so familiar. And it felt so cool as it ran over his fevered face. He reached out to touch it, but his shoulder seemed to be on fire, and he could not prevent the cry that escaped his lips. He could not move his hand! The thought galvanized him into action and he promptly tried to turn over, but the movement simply sent a wave of pain through his entire being. He was being held down now, those same strong hands were wrapped around his back and holding him down, all the while softly speaking to him.

“Lie still,” the gentle voice spoke into his ear.

“The king . . .” he whispered again, his fevered mind going frantic with worry. He could not let Elessar down. He owed him too much. His own life, and Boromir’s life, for his brother had told him of how Aragorn had healed him of the injuries inflicted by the Uruk Hai during the quest.

“Sshh, it is all right. I am fine,” the voice came through insistent, he knew that voice, “Do not move, you are injured.”

He took a deep breath and turning his neck painfully opened his eyes fully, gazing up at the face bending over him.

Aragorn quietly adjusted the blankets around Faramir’s prone body after the healer had left. Although sweat glistened on Faramir’s exposed body, the weather was so unpredictable these days as the winter was beginning to inch its way through, that in his weakened state, the younger man’s condition could easily worsen. The ripped and bloody tunic lay discarded on the balcony, so he was still bare-chested, his upper body displaying other scars from prior battles. Trophies that all men in Gondor carried as a sign of the years of strife that the realm had had to live through. He sighed as his hand brushed against the bare upper back, and he felt the warmth radiating from the pale, soft flesh. He could feel the guilt surge through him. Faramir’s wounds were not fatal but they were hurtful, and he would not be able to use his right hand for a while yet, and it was all because of him!

All these years Aragorn had been used to defending others as a ranger of the north, as a member of the fellowship. Even as a king he had felt his first duty lay with his realm, his life above the safety of the land. But now it had been borne out to him that he seemed to have entered the class of the defended rather than the defender, a thought that left him bemused. Sitting on the bed, he reached out for the dark mop of hair and stroked it lightly, taking in the pale face underneath.

Faramir turned his face into the pillow, and Aragorn realised the younger man was trying to wake up. A low cry of pain confirmed his suspicions. He gently stroked the ranger’s face trying to get him to relax. He could feel the muscles tense up, and wondered if he might need to use the sleeping draught the healer had left behind. Faramir was obviously confused about his surroundings.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispered softly, still stroking gently, but his words went unheard. Faramir’s injured shoulder twitched and Aragorn realised he was trying to move his hand. He promptly but gently held him down although not soon enough to prevent a pitiable moan from the injured man. Leaning forward to soothe him, he heard him call out once again. Softly, but in a clear voice, he tried to reassure the distraught figure in his arms that he was all right, when the younger man’s eyes opened, and the grey orbs settled on his.

“K –king Elessar,” Faramir gasped out.

Faramir stared back into the deep grey eyes, as he had done all those weeks ago. He had awoken then, pulled out of the darkness where he had been wandering restlessly to see the face of his king. The same face that was giving him a look of – concern? Why? He felt a tug of pain on his shoulder but ignored it as a rush of memories flooded into his mind. An arrow! Aimed at Aragorn. A frightening vision from his dream last night entered his mind. Aragorn lay on the ground, someone over him, blood flowing. A convulsive shiver ran through his body and this time the pain that coursed through him made him sob loudly and harshly.

Aragorn was speaking to him, asking him to lie still.

“No, it is not safe,” he sobbed out, his mind racked by sights from his dream, “I will not let you get hurt.”

“You did not,” Aragorn said soothingly, “It is safe now. Here, drink this.”

He felt himself gently being moved onto his side, and wondered why it caused so much pain. He grunted as the ache intensified. More soft, comforting words were whispered in his ears. What was happening? Where was he? This was not his chamber . . . and where was his tunic? He could feel a firm hand on his bare back, a strange touch, but not totally unwelcome, in fact he liked it. It made him feel secure and at peace for the first time in many months.

Strong hands held him in place, and then something was placed against his mouth and he instinctively swallowed the liquid and the dreams returned.

It was almost an hour later that Aragorn sat back, heaving a sigh of relief. Faramir had blacked out almost immediately after ingesting the sleeping draught, and Aragorn had guessed the injuries and fever had much to do with that. But it had not been enough to keep the dreams away, for the slight body had shivered more than once and the worn face had contorted with spasms, that would not leave until Aragorn had slipped his arms around the sleeping figure and comforted him slowly. It was only now that the young ranger had managed to slip into a peaceful slumber, lying on his side, so that his face was now clearly visible. The small dosage of sleeping draught would keep him out for at least another couple of hours, and he would certainly wake up in a much better state than now.

He stood up stretching himself, thankful that his duties for the day had been dispensed with. He would have been loath to leave Faramir alone in such a condition. He had had his leftover paperwork brought to his chambers, and now he sat on a couch near the bed rifling through it, at the same time wondering whom the would-be assassin might be. He found himself unable to concentrate, his thoughts instead getting diverted to the young man on his bed.

Faramir looked so very young despite the dark circles around the eyes and the lines on his face. The pain he suffered was etched on his face, making him look extremely vulnerable. He remembered the first time he’d seen him, it had been in similar circumstances, for Faramir had been in the throes of a fever that would not abate after being injured while defending the city. It had been a brave effort, a small defensive measure but much needed, and forgotten now in the glory of the following larger battle and the destruction of the ring. He had awoken and given him a look of love and reverence that had made him realise just what being a king would mean and how he would forever carry the aspirations of the people of his realm and reassure them just by his very presence.

He had not progressed very far with his work two hours later when the urgent knocking sounded on the door of the outer chamber, rapid and loud enough to make the sleeping figure on his bed stir a little. He strode out to the door and opened it, presuming it would be Tarlong.

It was Boromir, a very worried and anxious Boromir, followed by Legolas and Gimli both just as worried and anxious.

“Aragorn! You are all right!” his steward cried out, “Tarlong sent us right here, he said you had been attacked!”

“Does anyone else know,” Aragorn asked, letting them into the outer chamber. He had no intention of letting out the fact that the defences in the palace had managed to let an assassin through.

“No,” Gimli assured him in a loud voice that Aragorn felt was sure to wake up the injured man inside, “Tarlong said you would not have the news let out. You are safe then? We were worried.”

Aragorn raised a regal eyebrow, “Did Tarlong not tell you I was all right?” he inquired, his heart sinking a little as he wondered how Boromir would react to his brother’s condition. The last time he had been in a state of near panic.

“Yes, but he was in such a hurry to oversee the changing of the palace guard, we were not sure what he meant when he said you had been inside here all day. He seems to be personally supervising everything today,” Legolas told him, “But what did happen? Who is the assassin, and how did he attack?”

Aragorn said quietly, “We know naught of the assassin yet, save that he is an archer. I am all right. Faramir is not.” He reached for the dismayed steward of Gondor and propelled him towards the inner chamber where Faramir lay.

“Faramir!”

“Ssh… he rests,” Aragorn cautioned him casting a worried glance at the sleeping figure, “Although he should waken soon. The effects of the herbs seem to be wearing off.”

“What happened?” Boromir was as frantic as he had thought he would be, “Is he very badly hurt?”

Aragorn pushed him towards the couch, forced him to sit down, and then quietly related the day’s events to him.

“He will be fine in a day or two. He is in much pain now, but it will abate, as will the fever, though he may feel discomfort from the shoulder injury for a few weeks yet,” he concluded to the worried group.

His clear quiet voice carried through with conviction so that by the time he finished the three listeners were relieved enough to wonder about the assassin. They discussed it quietly, Boromir having moved to the bed, where he sat beside his brother, stroking the dark hair gently, frowning as he felt the slight heat radiating from the skin. They were still talking when Faramir stirred under the touch, and turned his face towards the palm that lay on his hair. Immediately his eyes flew open.

“Boromir,” he gasped out weakly, and Aragorn noted that this time, the grey orbs were clear and lucid, and the pain did not show up so much. The sleeping draught usually worked as an effective painkiller too.

His brother simply nodded, as though not trusting his voice. The sight of Faramir’s face almost as white as the sheets he lay on had obviously hit him hard.

“What happened?” the same weak voice continued.

“Do not try to move,” Aragorn came forward, “You are hurt.”

“How -?” the younger man tried to move, only to be held in place by Boromir.

“You were hit by arrows meant for me,” Aragorn came and knelt by the bed.

Faramir’s eyes widened at the memory, “Are you all right, sire?” he blurted out frantically.

“Yes, my friend, I have not suffered even a scratch,” bemusedly he watched as F

aramir gave a relieved sigh, and then leaning forward gently took his uninjured hand in his two hands and gripped them tightly.

“Thank you Faramir, but you should not have endangered yourself so. You saved my life, but you have hurt yourself and that grieves me,” he said softly. The wan face of the other squirmed in embarrassment. His reply was barely a whisper but in the silence of the room, it reached everyone’s ears clearly.

“I would do anything for you, my liege, you need but ask. I owe you everything. You brought my brother back to me.”

Chapter 4

Faramir felt his voice dying to a croak, but that was not what was uppermost on his mind. What struck him was that Boromir seemed to have frozen in his place, and that Aragorn was clutching his hand tight.

Then the steward suddenly bent and brushed his lips on his forehead, unmindful of the presence of the others in the room. Faramir blinked his eyes in reaction, feeling a wetness in the rims of his eyes, as he smelt the air of the outdoors from him. And of horses, and saddle leather. How glad he was that Boromir was alive!

“It is good to see you are all right, little brother,” Boromir said softly, his own grey eyes shining a little. And then as if aware of the presence of others in the room, he bit his lip, “How fare your wounds?” he asked a little gruffly.

Faramir felt his throat had never been so dry before.

“I am well enough,” he replied his voice not as strong as he would have liked it to be.

Boromir’s eyes narrowed a little at that and he seemed ready to dispute the claim but instead simply placed the back of his palm against Faramir’s cheek.

“You are still fevered,” Aragorn broke in. He was still holding his hand. It felt nice and comfortable and strangely reassuring.

“I feel fine, sire,” he replied flushing a little, feeling the strong rough fingers tighten around his hand.

Aragorn clasped the hand he held tightly. He could feel the pulse racing rapidly in the slender wrist that his fingers were wrapped around. The slender, long fingers entwined around his hand were callused from wielding a bow. He watched as the worn face suddenly transformed with Boromir’s display of affection, showing him a glimpse of what it might have looked like in happier times. When curing Boromir of his near fatal injuries it had never occurred to him that he might have been inadvertently giving joy to more people. Watching the grey eyes blink rapidly, he was suddenly very glad he had used his skills effectively.

“You look not very fine, my young friend,” Gimli said gruffly but with concern as he came and stood over Aragorn’ s shoulder. The king watched with concern as the young ranger coughed, his face grimacing as the movement stretched both his shoulder and waist.

He found Legolas holding out a cup of water and taking it from him, quickly pulled Faramir up in his arms in one swift motion and held the cup against his lips.

A sharp cry of pain escaped from the pale lips at the sudden movement and made Boromir lean forward in concern, but the water was gratefully accepted.

“Should he not eat something?” Legolas asked suddenly, “Are you hungry Faramir?”

“He should be,” Aragorn replied promptly, “He has been sleeping all day long. Some broth and a little bread perhaps.”

“No -,” Faramir murmured weakly.

“Yes,” came Boromir’s emphatic reply.

“I will go and tell the kitchens to prepare some,” Legolas offered. Aragorn gave him a grateful smile, while continuing to hold Faramir in his arms, for it felt to him that he seemed to feel comfortable in his embrace, noting the soft texture of the skin and its warmth. He adjusted the blankets around the trembling frame. It had gotten cooler for the sun was sinking below the horizon outside.

“Did they catch him?” Faramir asked suddenly, his eyes were closed, and his voice slurred, enough indication that he was not yet completely awake.

“No, not yet,” Aragorn admitted.

“Then you are still in peril,” Faramir exclaimed worriedly, and sat up straight, his eyes wide open, only to slump down again with a grunt of pain. Aragorn promptly tightened his grip around the flailing body.

“Do not move!” he said sharply.

Faramir suddenly realised that he was in Aragorn’ s arms. He found himself unconsciously leaning into the embrace. It was unlike Boromir’s hugs. There was a completely different quality about it. One that he could not place anything about, other than the fact that he liked it. One strong arm was wrapped around his chest away from his shoulder, and he could feel the fine cloth of Aragorn’ s sleeve against his bare back, while his hand lay loosely across Faramir’s chest underneath the thick blankets. A strange tingling feeling ran through him, stronger even than the pain that dully throbbed on and on.

And then he realised he was half-undressed. He felt his face redden up, and tried to pull away, causing another jolt of pain to travel through him. And that the room he was in was not his. He glanced around in confusion, the sheets were white, his sheets were grey, the walls – that drapery?

“This is not my room,” he said slowly, sitting up stiffly, ignoring the protests from his injuries, while Aragorn loosened his grip but continued to keep his arms around him.

“No, you were in no condition to be moved too far, so I had them bring you to my chambers,” Aragorn said. Now feeling even more embarrassed, he tried uncomfortably to shift away from the embrace, and the king as though realising it, finally released him, but pushed him back to lean against the pillows, half-sideways to avoid hurting his injured right side.

Boromir spoke up then, “Can he be moved now? I would have him lie in my chambers, in case he is ill at night.”

Faramir stared back at his brother and realised with a start that the older man looked quite worn out. He remembered that Boromir had been out all day seeing to the troops. It must have tired him out.

“You look tired,” he said quietly, his voice still feeling very hoarse, “I would not have you forego your sleep on my account. I will move back to my own chambers.”

“No,” Boromir said angrily, his grey eyes glinting like steel, an expression that Faramir rarely found himself at the receiving end of from his brother, “You are ill. And you know your dreams get worse when you are ill. I will not let you sleep alone.”

Faramir felt his face flush. Why did Boromir have to expose his weaknesses to an audience? There was only one person he could appeal to. He turned to Aragorn who had been watching the exchange quietly.

“Sire?”

Aragorn stared back at both of them appraisingly, “Boromir, you look exhausted. I think your brother is right my friend. Faramir, you will stay the night here. You have not fully recovered.”

“Here?” Faramir felt his heart sink at those words, “But I cannot –“

Aragorn stared sternly back at the protesting young man, “I command you to stay here! Not just as king but as a healer too.”

Grey eyes filled with unhappiness and pain stared back at him as he continued, “I will sleep in the next room.”

“But –“

“Faramir, you take arrows meant for me, but you will not do this little that I request you to?” Aragorn put on his most persuasive tone.

The eyes fell, the long, dark eyelashes a striking contrast to the paleness of the thin, lined face. He spoke even more softly, placing a hand on the uninjured shoulder, “It is merely for a night. If you will eat food you will heal faster.”

Boromir sighed, “Aragorn, I –“

“No, Boromir, you seem to be asleep on your feet!”

“Very well,” the steward retorted a little tensely.

“But you could get Faramir a nightshirt. Something warm. Ah, Legolas, thank you my friend,” this to the blonde elf who had just entered followed by a servant bearing a tray full of food.

Aragorn dispatched the others to get ready for dinner for they had come to his rooms straight from outside. Then he watched the slightly built young man sitting up on his bed, with the blankets tucked around him, toy with his food awhile.

“Eat,” he implored softly. Faramir coloured a little at his words, his eyes still remaining downcast. It took a while but finally the bowl of soup was emptied and the chunks of bread consumed. He watched silently as the young ranger blinked a few times and then closed his eyes and slumped down against the pillows a little, still favouring his left side, while the herbs he had added to the soup began to take effect.

“Sleep well, my friend.”

Boromir returned with a nightshirt of a soft grey fabric, and they swiftly dressed him in it, wincing as the unexpected movements forced the sleeping man to moan unconsciously.

Faramir welcomed the sleep out of sheer tiredness. All that movement had hurt him a lot although he had tried his best not to let it show. And he felt extremely confused about taking up Aragorn’ s room for the night. It was a beautiful gesture on the king’s part, but he surely did not deserve it. But he had no energy to protest, and Aragorn would not let him either. Gondor was truly lucky to have him as her king. He was strong, and intelligent, and well versed in matters of war and strategy and politics and diplomacy, and a very handsome man.

The young man felt himself relax almost instantly as he slumped against the pillows, pillows that Aragorn normally used. He could smell pipeweed, a strange smell he had taken a while to get used to. But now, he welcomed it as a familiar smell. Thoughts turned to dreams and he pictured Aragorn through his closed eyes, as he had first seen him, dressed in a grey travel-stained cloak, worry staining his handsome face, as he had pulled him out of the dark void he had been wandering in. And then the next time he had seen him, as a king in full regalia, with the crown on his head. There had shone then on his face the look of the kings of old, that Faramir had imagined from the tales he had read and heard. Images ran through his head, of Aragorn smiling, Aragorn laughing, Aragorn bending over him in concern, Aragorn holding him up and giving him water, Aragorn’ s hands on his skin, and the strange feeling that it caused in him, the strange but nice feeling, Aragorn’ s hand gripping his fingers intertwining. It kept the nightmares at bay for a while. There were no clear dreams of fire or water. Each time he sighted the star shaped island or saw the endless whiffs of smoke, Aragorn would suddenly appear and hold him in his arms, stroking his hair and face, and whispering soft words into his ear, the steady beating of his heart a constant reassurance to his terrified self. When his father’s stern face dismissed him curtly, Aragorn comforted him, wiping away his tears, and soothing him so that he would not feel the aches that assailed his body.

But then, Aragorn fell… and there was blood everywhere.

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably on the bed in the next chamber. The bedding was too soft for him to sleep properly. After years of living outdoors, he found he slept easiest on hard beds, and had accordingly made a few modifications to the huge bed in his rooms. It suddenly occurred to him that Faramir should be sleeping on the soft mattress instead of him, but he could do nothing about it now. Then he heard the soft cry. He was up in a flash and by the younger man’s sleeping frame within seconds.

He pulled him into his arms carefully, checking underneath the nightshirt to see if the wounds had re-opened. The soft cry came again, and he heard unintelligible words being murmured, interspersed with moans of pain, each time he tried to shift him. Finally he manoeuvred him into a comfortable position, the dark head lying limply against his broad chest, his hands wrapped around the slim torso. He frowned a little as he felt the bony frame. Faramir was slight in build, even more so when compared to Boromir’s burliness or even Aragorn’ s muscled proportions. He was not weak, merely slender with no extra mass on him. But now he seemed to have thinned somewhat.

He quietly held onto the ranger, gently stroking his hair, and telling him to calm down. Then he heard words he though he could make out, talk of fire, and of smoke, and his face cleared a little even as Faramir’s became progressively more clouded.

“It is all right, my friend, it is all right now. You are safe. Do not fear,” he whispered softly, remembering what had been told to him of Denethor’s suicide, and Faramir’s near death. He ran a hand against his cheek, once smooth but now roughened by contact with sun and wind and rain. Faramir did not have the strong handsome features that characterized his brother. But he did have a gentle look, one of culture and patience combined with gravity, something of an elvishness in them, perhaps handed down from his mother’s kin. If he smiled, Aragorn decided, it would be like setting a place alight.

The pale lips continued muttering incoherently, he was calling for his father now, and mentioning his brother, and a boat, and a dream. Aragorn vaguely remembered the steward of Gondor mentioning something about Faramir dreaming of seeing his brother’s body in the Anduin. Tears streamed down from the half-lidded eyes now, wetting the thin fabric of Aragorn’ s tunic. Aragorn felt his heart grow heavy as he heard the pitiful tone begging an unresponsive father for forgiveness.

“I should have gone,” came the quiet voice heavy with tears. He could think of no response, and instead simply hugged the unhappy man close and silently wiped the tears from his cheeks, wondering how to get him to sleep peacefully.

Steadily he rocked the sleeping figure gently, taking care to ensure it did not aggravate his injuries, and then the shout came.

Aragorn!

There was blood everywhere. Aragorn was on the ground. Arrows flew through the air. Then the background blurred. They were outside now, in the open, and Aragorn had fallen to the ground. And Faramir was so far away from him.

Aragorn lay unmoving. So he ran towards his king. Screaming his name, till he reached him. Till he could touch him, feel him.

Till he found himself back in his arms and realised it had been a dream. Merely a dream.

“I’m here,” the king of Gondor whispered into the ears of the young captain of his realm as he cried out for him, anxiety and pain filling his low voice.

“Ssh,” he said softly, as he continued to rock him slightly, and then stroked his hair and face. The gentle face was contorted in sorrow and ache, the effect of the injuries manifested in the lines on the young countenance. Aragorn sighed and felt his heart wrench at the sight of the trembling ranger in his arms, who was clutching at him desperately as though seeking some hold on the real world away from dreams. He hugged him possessively to his chest and brushed his lips lightly against the other man’s forehead.

Aragorn’ s lips hovered over his face and settled on his brow, and he felt he could ask for no more at all from this world. The touch seemed to fill his body with peace, and he felt himself falling back into a deep sleep. A dreamless sleep.

Aragorn awoke the next morning with the sun, as was his wont, feeling a little sleepier than usual, after having spent much time trying to get Faramir to sleep. Only when he was completely sure the ranger slept peacefully, did he himself lie back, and, not in the other chamber but on an armchair in the same room, ready to go back to the younger man should he need him. But the need did not arise.

The sun streamed in through the windows and Faramir slept on, his exhausted body setting off on the path of recovery. He felt the pale forehead, and was happy to find it only moderately clammy.

Outside, he found Boromir and Tarlong in conversation, along with Legolas and Gimli, and joined them. There was no knowledge of the archer whatsoever. The arrows were all they had to go on. A popular local variety that everyone and anyone in Minas Tirith could get hold of and use.

“Except that they were sharpened further and coated with poison,” Tarlong concluded grimly.

“Well, we will just have to look closer, and question everyone yet again. Someone must have seen something!” Boromir declared, “And Aragorn your guard must be doubled.”

Aragorn raised and eyebrow at that but was given no chance to speak, as the rest of the listeners nodded in agreement.

“Is the council meeting to be held today?” Legolas asked him.

“I cannot delay it further. The peace treaties have to be discussed and presented before them. I cannot tarry further,” Aragorn replied.

“Eredil will oppose it, as will some other old-timers,” his steward warned him.

“Yes,” Aragorn sighed in agreement, “Well, that we shall have to see when we meet. Come my friends let us go eat now.”

Legolas and Gimli went ahead while Boromir and he stopped by his room for a few minutes so the steward could see his brother. The warden of the houses of healing too appeared just then, and joined them. After examining the sleeping figure, he looked up satisfied, and gave them permission to move the young ranger back to his rooms.

Chapter 5

Boromir watched quietly as his younger brother ate. His right hand lay in a sling now, and he was sitting propped up against the pillows on his bed where he had been shifted earlier. Boromir had broken his fast with the others and then taken some food to Faramir’s room, where he had found him waking up. Sunlight streamed in through open windows, and a cool breeze played through the drawn curtains. The room was a mess of books as expected. They lay strewn over every surface possible, the subjects varying from an account of a military commander from their grandsire’s grandsire’s time to a slim volume of poems in elvish to a more recent play by a rising author from Dol Amroth.

Faramir’s love for the written word was well known. And something that Boromir had grown to accept and understand, for he had not let it stand in the way of his duty towards the realm. The captain general of the white tower was well aware that his brother was one of the best soldiers in the land and an excellent leader of men. It was a proven fact now. Faramir had defended Minas Tirith against the forces of Sauron, helping the white city hold out till Rohan could ride to their aid. He had been so proud of him.

He smiled suddenly as the sun played on the younger man’s face, which had more colour in it now. The stormy grey eyes glanced up from the tray of food balanced carefully atop crossed legs, reflecting the gentle answering smile.

“You look much better now. I was worried last night,” Boromir explained, “you seem to have slept well.”

“I did,” Faramir smiled a little wider now.

Aragorn drummed his fingers softly but impatiently on the wooden arm of his chair. He had called a council on one matter and instead they were discussing another. Peace treaties lay forgotten as the members of the august body argued over the identity of the previous day’s interloper. Nothing he would say would induce the men to change the subject.

Eredil was forcefully repeating yet again that the man would have to be an outsider, possibly from Harad or Khand, and that any peace proposal from either place should be rejected. At the other end of the table, Lord Firiel saw no reason to accept why the assassin could not be from Gondor itself.

“We may have a traitor amongst our people, it is not impossible,” he stated.

“You are suggesting one of our people would betray the king? What manner of speaking is that?” Eredil seemed to take the statement as a personal affront.

“I see nothing wrong with the assumption,” Boromir stated calmly.

“My lord steward –,” spoke yet another councillor.

“Lord Firiel makes a very realistic statement. Every man has his price,” Mardinel spoke up.

Near Eredil, another councillor snorted loudly, “The likelihood of it being an outsider is higher. What better way to throw Gondor into disarray than launch an attack at her newly crowned king? Why, just news of this can demoralize our people.”

“Which is why I ask you once again to refrain from mentioning this matter,” Aragorn spoke up, “I cannot doubt that the citizenry know something has happened, but the extent I am told is unknown to them. Let it not get beyond the fact that an intruder was caught in the palace. Now, if we may turn to the matters at hand?”

“My liege,” Eredil spoke with a slow drawl, “Surely you do not think of signing peace with a land that may at this very moment be plotting to rid Gondor of her ruler?”

“I cannot let mere suspicions come in the way of the work at hand, Lord Eredil. Let it be proven that either of these nations has a hand in an attack that has injured one of my captains, and I myself will react harshly. But until then, we must discuss these.”

After ten minutes he began to wonder if he had indeed made the right decision by changing the topic of discussion. Firiel had been speaking about Haradrim customs all this while, in a slow monotonous tone, and showed no signs of quietening down in the near future.

He found his thoughts wandering to Faramir. It still troubled him that the ranger should be lying ailing in bed right now because he had been hurt trying to protect him. If Faramir had not pushed him away in time, the arrow he had taken in his shoulder would have hit Aragorn in the heart. And here he was, hale and hearty while the younger man endured pain and fever on his account. He hoped he was sleeping easier today. Boromir had told him he had put him to bed immediately after giving him something to eat. Aragorn decided he would visit Faramir’s room and check for himself as soon as this meeting got over. If it ever got over . . .

He directed his gaze idly towards the open window, wishing he were outside and not in a stuffy room where everyone loved the sound of their own voice. His guard had been doubled now, after the incident, and it only served to stifle him some more. Silently sighing he remembered his plans for a ride with Faramir. That was definitely off now, the healers had said his arm would be immobilized for a few weeks at least, and he was sorry for it. The experience of calming down the younger man after his dreams only served to intrigue him more. There was much he wanted to learn about him; much he wanted to probe for. And Faramir’s quiet, moderate speech would be welcome after listening to his councillors in session.

Firiel continued to speak, and he soon realised he was not the only one twitching uncomfortably. Boromir looked openly bored, and he had a tough time trying not to chuckle. His steward took his duties as the captain general to be more important than his duties as the steward. As he often reminded Aragorn, the king was here now. It struck him once again that there was a great difference between the two brothers. Boromir was boisterously friendly, he had been formal in the beginning but later had eased up as their friendship had grown and they had fought side by side. He wore his loyalty to his realm and his king on his sleeve. A warrior, if ever there was one. To him Aragorn was king, friend and fellow soldier all rolled in one, worthy of respect, love and loyalty all together.

But Faramir was intensely formal. Aragorn was the king, worthy of his respect, and no more, no less. As he had proven, his loyalty was unquestionable. He was a soldier and a scholar, and one that Aragorn longed to know better, and to talk to. He was sure they could find much to talk of, and much in common.

Firiel paused finally, a small pause, probably to take a swig from the cup in front of him, and Boromir seized the opportunity with both hands, “So, it is decided then?” he asked, turning towards Aragorn, “We invite the envoy from Harad into Minas Tirith to discuss this further?”

His statement was met with an overall assent but the negative rumblings were not altogether silent.

It was already evening when they finished. Aragorn remained seated in his chair and waited for the councillors to filter out till only his friends remained.

“How does the lad fare?” Gimli asked Boromir, as the door closed behind the last man to leave the room.

“He is much better now. I made him eat a little food before going back to sleep,” Boromir replied.

“Is he still in much pain?” Aragorn asked, “Does he sleep well?”

“The pain is still there, though he will not say it,” Boromir’s face creased a little, in worry, “But he seems to have slept well last night. I was worried for him. He tends to sleep badly at such times. He did not disturb you last night, did he?”

Aragorn shook his head gently, “I would not consider it a disturbance.”

“I am grateful, Aragorn,” the steward said, his usually booming voice much softer.

Faramir stood leaning heavily against the pillar on his balcony watching the stars start to appear in the evening sky. Boromir had been over for a short visit some time earlier. He wondered why he felt so fatigued when he had lain in bed so long. The healer had put his right arm into a sling, and he could not move it at all, adding to his irritability. At least Boromir had helped him clean up a little and change into fresh clothes that morning. It didn’t occur to him that his would be a natural reaction from one who had lost some amount of blood and suffered a mild fever from poisoning. To him, it seemed he was indulging in a criminal waste of time. And, as he realised it was not just his time he was wasting. His memories of that day before and the night were slowly returning. Aragorn had spent all day with him, by his bed. He remembered hearing his voice, and most of the night. He had no right to impose on Aragorn like this. But it had felt so nice, he heard a small voice pipe up inside him. Warm and comfortable and nice. He had felt loved in Aragorn’ s arms.

Shutting his eyes, he sighed in confusion. He could not get the thought of those strong arms wrapped around him, out of his head. The smell of pipeweed as the older man whispered softly in his ear, the gentle voice, the touch of his fingers, everything seemed imprinted hard and fast in his mind, and refused to go way.

He had kept the dreams away last night. Driven them away from Faramir’s head by his mere presence. He knew it. He knew it because he had dreamed again today, and this time there had been no one to drive the monsters away, and he had woken in a cold sweat, scared by all he had seen but with no clear memory of what he had seen. It was not one of his old dreams and that scared him.

“Faramir!”

Aragorn wound his way through the long passages and corridors to Faramir’s room. He had meant to come earlier, but there had been much work to handle, and Tarlong had come up with an entirely new set of plans regarding the defence of the palace much to Aragorn’ s amazement. He had thrown his hands up in despair but had been persuaded by Boromir and Legolas to hear them out, and then approve them. Boromir had told him his brother had been sleeping when he had taken his lunch up to him, so he had decided not to disturb him.

He stopped short at the doorway when he saw the empty bed. It had been made rather cursorily, with some semblance of neatness as though the owner had tried to make it neatly but found himself unable to. He took in the sight of books and manuscripts lying on every spare surface.

Is this a library or a room? And where is Faramir!

Then he realised the papers were fluttering in the breeze created by the curtains drawn across the door leading to the balcony, and quietly walked over. Faramir’s slender figure was leaning against the pillar, and neither the slump in the lean shoulders nor the tired tilt of the dark head went unnoticed by the king.

“Faramir!” he called out softly.

The younger man straightened and turned, slowly, still using the pillar for support, revealing a drawn face and sunken eyes.

“You are meant to be resting,” Aragorn chided gently, as he walked towards the slim figure.

“Sire,” Faramir’s voice held a strange tone to it, one Aragorn could just not place. He was wearing a deep wine red tunic and light grey leggings that along with his raven hair only accentuated his pallor.

“You look tired,” Aragorn commented, as he clasped him by his other shoulder, taking on the weight the pillar had supported. Faramir held himself stiffly. He seemed reluctant to rest his weight on him.

“Have you slept well?” Aragorn inquired.

The dark lashes dropped, and then quickly rose again as Faramir made a non-committal noise.

“Very well, then. I take it you have not. Come back to bed. You were not supposed to get back on your feet so soon. You had a fever.”

“B-but I am well now,” Faramir finally seemed to have found his voice, and searching his desperate face, Aragorn saw something he recognised only too well. His young friend had no wish to be tied down to a bed. The wind rustled through their hair.

“Very well, then just for today. Rest and recover your strength and tomorrow you can rise, although I deem it too early! Perhaps you will join us at the table for your meals?” Aragorn suggested, still holding onto the ranger, “I’ll have some food sent up for you now and you must eat it and then sleep.”

Faramir didn’t respond, so Aragorn took his silence to be assent and pulled him back into the room.

“I do not wish to take up so much of your time,” Faramir began only to be cut short.

“I’m going to tell someone in the kitchen to send you something. Get into bed, and stay there,” came the stern command, as his king stepped over the books on his way out.

Faramir sat at the edge of the bed, trying to combat the strange dizziness he felt. Aragorn’ s nearness seemed to induce unknown feelings in him. He couldn’t place them, merely that they seemed to make him feel like he had been through a minor upheaval. His breathing had quickened, and he tried to calm himself down first. Aragorn had been right, he was tired. And perhaps, if he listened to him, he could leave his room the next day. He was beginning to hate it here. The walls seemed to close in on him.

Feeling thirsty, he looked around the room for the water jug, still wondering why it was that Aragorn’ s very presence made him so nervous. In front of the king he did not feel like a captain of rangers, a grown man with a command. He felt inexplicably different, as though after years he had found someone to lean against and to confide in, to reveal fears he would reveal to no one. But that was foolishness, he screamed back at himself, as he reached for the jug and the cup next to it.

In his troubled state, and unused to holding his food in his left hand, he ended up spilling the water on himself. The balcony was still open, and a cold gust of wind told him he would have to change his clothes if he wished to get healthier soon. The water had splashed onto the front of his tunic and his leggings. He would have to change. He decided he might as well change into his nightclothes, and began unfastening the string holding his leggings with one hand. It took some effort to do it one handed.

When Aragorn returned, Faramir was sitting on his bed, his sling removed and legs bare, trying to take off his tunic with one hand. It was a very loose shirt reaching down till his thighs, with buttons halfway down it, but with only one hand in working condition, the young ranger seemed to be having trouble not just unbuttoning it, but also pulling it off. He had been able to open only half the buttons, revealing a smooth slender chest. And now he was trying to pull it over his head, unable to stretch around much, hampered by the injury to his waist. A sharp hiss of pain sounded from the struggling figure.

“Do you need help?” Aragorn asked, stepping through the doorway.

The young man looked up at the sudden voice in his doorway, his face reddening a little.

“N- no, I was just –“

“Come, let me help you. You do not want to hurt yourself further, do you?” he gave him a critical once-over taking in with satisfaction the colour in the cheeks. Moving forward he helped Faramir unbutton the remaining buttons, reaching down till his midriff, pulled his uninjured arm out of the sleeve, and then carefully, helped slide the right sleeve over the other arm, while looking at the now healing wound. The long fingers roughened by years of rough living and weapon yielding brushed against his bare skin countless times, a feeling he yearned for more and more.

Each touch of skin by skin sent unseen shivers through his slight frame, confusing him greatly. The tunic slid down slowly, over his body, exposing his skin inch by inch till it lay bunched around his lap.

He was breathing with no little ease now, a fact that did not escape the king’s keen grey eyes.

“Does it hurt?” came the prompt demand.

Dumbly, he shook his head, wondering what these strange feelings assaulting him were.

“Now where are your nightshirts? These?” Aragorn opened the closet door, and picked out the first robe that came to his hand, and a towelling cloth.

Faramir shivered suddenly as a cold gust of air blew through the curtains drawn across the open balcony, and hit his naked chest and back. He had managed to stand up, and slip the tunic down and step out of it. Sitting down swiftly, he had covered his nakedness with the sheets, but his embarrassment at the situation had no shield. His body was reacting in a completely unfit manner, and he had no idea why it was happening so. At first he thought it was due to the chill, but then he realised it had been the touch of the other on his body. He was not used to hands as caring as these coming in such close contact with his body.

Aragorn came up to him and dabbed at his wet skin with the towelling cloth. Faramir felt his mouth go dry as the hands ran across his chest and stomach. Then Aragorn helped him slip on the sleeping robe. His hand brushed against Faramir’s throbbing lower body and the young man felt a heat begin to spread out from between his thighs, and shivered half in excitement at the intensity of the feelings that were running through him.

“You are cold!” Aragorn exclaimed, frowning, “back into bed now!”

Faramir tried shaking his head as Aragorn gently pulled his right hand through the sleeve, and replaced the sling, but the pain that that act set off was so intense he found himself stifling his voice with a groan instead. He felt himself fall into Aragorn and being caught by the other man’s arms. Lifting his head, he looked at the curve of Aragorn’ s lips as if in a daze. Those lips had kissed him last night. They were beautiful, he decided. Pink and full, and shaped exquisitely. What did they taste like, he wondered idly, and what did they feel like. His hand twitched to finger them, to feel them, to trace out their shape slowly and imprint the feeling forever in his mind.

Kiss him, a voice spoke up in his head, he has done so much for you, show him how much you care, kiss him now . . . Aragorn was whispering something, but his own mind was speaking too loudly for him to hear anything else. Slowly he raised his uninjured hand to reach for that entrancing mouth . . .

The sharp rapping on the door made him sit upright, sending pain shooting through his shoulder and waist both this time. He stifled another cry, as Aragorn rose, and patting him reassuringly went to the door. He returned soon with a tray full of food in his hands, while Faramir tried to reign in his overwhelming emotions. He had almost kissed Aragorn. What would the king have thought? He would have been disgusted with him, and would probably never step near him again. He could not do that!

If he wanted Aragorn nearby, he must never let him know these terrible feelings that had begun to assail him. He must keep his emotions in check. If Aragorn turned away from him, he would be unable to stand it! He found himself being helped back against his pillows and the food being thrust into his hands.

“Eat now,” Aragorn said softly, and sat by him while he ate.

“Will you like me to stay till you have slept?” the king asked, as he took the tray away from him when he had finished.

“No. You have done more than enough,” Faramir said quietly, “I cannot impose on you like this.” Every fibre in his being seemed to be on an alert, as he waited for Aragorn’ s reply.

“Faramir, I will stay till you sleep, do not worry about my time, I will just catch up on my – reading!”

“N- no, they must need you for other business. I would not have the work of the realm held up on my account.”

“Ssh, you are here in the first place because of me,” Aragorn said caressing his face gently, and the touch nearly took his breath away this time.

Emboldened, he gently took Aragorn’ s hand in his and pressed his lips against his ring, “My liege, I am yours to command.”

“Then sleep now,” Aragorn said sighing, “you need it. And always remember that there are many here who love you and are loathe to see you hurt, and I count myself among them.” He squeezed Faramir hand tightly and lightly kissed the bunched up fist before laying down his hand and helping him cover himself up. Then he left.

Chapter 6

Aragorn came down to eat the next morning to find that Faramir had taken him at his word on joining the others for breakfast. It was as yet early, and the quiet dark-haired man was the only person there, in a black tunic and cream leggings, hair still damp, and arm still in a sling. From the stiff manner in which he held his injured hand, Aragorn concluded he must have changed into fresh clothes on his own. Idly he wondered why Denethor’s younger son had a strange affinity for such dark colours that made him look unhealthier by accentuating his pallor. Then he reminded himself that the pallor was after all not his usual look.

Faramir glanced up at his entrance, and his face coloured a little, making Aragorn wonder about it. He smiled in greeting and sat down.

“How do you fare this morning,” he asked pleasantly, all the while observing the other.

“Very well, thank you, sire,” Faramir replied softly and almost, or so it seemed to Aragorn, shyly. He dismissed it as Faramir’s intrinsic formality in all their dealings. Except of course, when he was sleeping. A small smile played on his lips as he remembered how Faramir had leant into his embrace the other night and taken all the comfort he had to offer.

“You are awake early. Have you slept well?” he asked, as he seated himself next to him.

Faramir raised his head slightly, the colour still tingeing his sharp cheekbones. After a slight pause, he spoke slowly and with some deliberation, “I slept as usual, sire, and awoke early.”

The phrasing of the words did not fool Aragorn. Faramir prided himself on his honesty, but he was not beyond playing with words while still maintaining the intrinsic truth in the statement. If the dark circles that stood more prominent now were any indication, the usual, as he termed it, could not be good. He said nothing however, and for a while the only sound to be heard was of plates and spoons.

The arrival of the others banished the silence. Boisterous greetings gave way to exclamations at Faramir’s presence, and the younger man squirmed in his chair, as he was chided in turn by Boromir, Legolas and Gimli for rising from bed.

“But I am fine now,” he protested weakly.

“You took a poisoned arrow,” Boromir retorted.

“It was a very mild poison,” there was a faint trace of defiance in the quiet voice.

“And your wounds?” Gimli growled out, as he sat down.

“I have hurt my shoulder, not my leg, there is naught to prevent me from rising from bed," Faramir said flatly, in a tone brooking little opposition. Faramir, at that particular moment, looked to be very much Denethor’s son.

Boromir’s bristled at the brusque note in his brother’s voice, “I think you should return to your room after you have eaten,” he said, clearly annoyed.

A single eyebrow arched up mutinously, and for a second it seemed Faramir were about to reply, but then he appeared to realise they were with company and instead turned to Gimli, “I am sorry, Gimli. I did not mean to sound impolite, but the healers did say I need not remain in my rooms.”

“I suppose the healers know what they do,” Legolas murmured attempting to rid the room of the sense of disquiet. The rest of the meal continued for the most part in silence, except for a little talk of the day’s schedules. Aragorn quietly updated Faramir on the decisions of the council the day before, and was very surprised to receive a look of astonished gratitude in return.

“It is kind of you to let me know, my liege,” the younger man replied formally.

“Call me Aragorn,” Aragorn suggested.

The faintest tinge of rose re-appeared on the pallid cheeks, “I – but, - it is not the custom in Gondor for captains to refer to their liege lord thus, my lord,” he said quietly.

“And what so the custom to address a friend?” Aragorn asked smiling at him.

“By name, sire, but when you are my king, you are my king first, and not my friend,” Faramir seemed a little flustered.

“Very well, then when it is not the occasion for me to act your king, such as now, will you not call me by name?”

Faramir chewed at his lip irresolutely, and then nodded hesitantly, “As you wish, sire.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Aragorn’ s eyes twinkled in response.

Faramir found himself reddening every time he spoke to Aragorn. He had had a restless night, dreams had plagued him while asleep and while awake, his mind plagued him – he could not forget the way he had felt like kissing Aragorn. He kept fingering his hand where Aragorn had kissed him. And he hung onto to the tiny shred of memory of a peck to his forehead two nights ago.

He had spent most of his waking hours trying to analyse the strange feelings he had felt building up inside him. He liked being close to Aragorn, he liked feeling his touch, and hearing his voice, and seeing the grey eyes of the king rest upon him while the lips curved in a gentle smile. To his eyes, Aragorn’ s face had as much of an ageless beauty as any elf’s. He had never felt like this for anyone else, man or woman. Once he had been inducted into Gondor’s ranks, there had been no time to build a close relationship with anyone at all. The only person he was close to in an emotional sense was his brother, a fact made all the more necessary as their mother had passed away in their childhood.

And then Aragorn had come, and Faramir found himself feeling extremely unsettled. Here was someone whose company he craved. A man who was brave and noble and kind and gentle all at the same time. A man of duty and honour. A man who was soldier and scholar. A man who was the best king the land could ask for.

Aragorn respected everyone around him. For here he sat telling Denethor’s youngest son the details of the decisions taken by the council. In his father’s time he had considered himself lucky to receive even news concerning his own command. And then Aragorn wanted him to call him by name.

Some deep recess in his mind already did that all day and night, especially night, when he was awake, unable to sleep from restlessness. Somewhere it kept repeating that seemingly magic name. His heart was singing by the end of it all. Aragorn had called him a friend!

Trying to maintain the seriousness of the situation he uttered the only question he could think of, “What news of the archer?”

“None,” Boromir replied from across the table, “None at all. But, Tarlong has sent some of his people into the markets and the streets to pick up some intelligence on the matter. So, perhaps we shall learn more. Until then, Aragorn, Tarlong insists your guard will remain doubled and on alert at all times.”

Faramir frowned unhappily, “That does not bode well. The man is still at large.”

Aragorn shrugged. He was still annoyed about the over protective steps Tarlong had implemented and found that thinking about it simply made him more annoyed.

“How did he enter?” Faramir asked.

“It would not have been very difficult,” Legolas replied, “He would have entered in a dark cloak similar to what the soldiers wear, and would have passed the gates unhindered. ‘Tis only now that they apply more caution.”

“After the horse has bolted,” Gimli muttered darkly.

“They are unused to such underhand dealings,” Faramir said in defence, “We have long been at open war, and yearned for peace. They thought it had come at last.”

“It will,” Aragorn said suddenly, in his well-modulated sincere voice, his eyes locked with Faramir’s, the promise of his statement shining out clearly.

Later in the day, the emissaries Aragorn had sent into Harad, Khand and Rhun returned with their reports, and he found himself closeted with those matters until late into the night. Boromir sat with him too, and king and steward read the lengthy exhaustive dispatches in detail, and spoke long to the envoys to gauge the situation.

“Harad has requested that they send over an envoy to call on you, sire,” the man who had been sent to Harad said.

“And we have decided to extend him an invitation,” Boromir told him, “but at the same time we will increase vigilance in Ithilien.”

The reports were long an detailed covering nearly everything about each of the lands from their military strength, as could be observed by the emissaries, to notes on various important personages of the land. When they had finished both Aragorn and Boromir were tired, the steward more so because he had spent the entire day indoors. It was not that he disliked reading. He had read most of the books on military and strategic issues that the city had to offer, but a breath of fresh air was something he craved.

They had lunched with the emissaries and partaken a small dinner later in Aragorn’ s study so as to complete reading the reports for another council had been convened the next day. Boromir had inquired news of Faramir’s whereabouts from the servants who had brought the food, and had been told he was in his room. Before retiring Boromir had mentioned he would check on him, and almost on impulse, Aragorn joined him too. Opening the door to the younger brother’s room, they observed his reposing figure on the bed, blankets drawn to his chin, face against the pillows, so that the only thing lit up in the moonlight streaming through the chinks in the curtained windows was a dark mop of hair. Unwilling to disturb his sleep, they left silently.

And Faramir released a long breath, opened his eyes, and went back to watching the pattern the stray moonbeams made around his room.

The council was short and precise as they deliberated over breakfast. Faramir had come too, his arm still in a sling and his face a little pale as he politely brushed aside queries about his health. Aragorn noticed he was the last to arrive, probably deliberately so that he would not have to spend too much time in exchanging pleasantries with the others, most of which would consist of replies to questions about his health.

The emissaries spoke quickly and precisely laying down all the pertinent facts, and the one who had returned from Harad reiterated their request.

“I am sure we can agree to that,” Boromir said and mentioned their plans regarding the envoy as also the precautionary steps they would take including watching the situation in Ithilien carefully, as the road from Harad ran through it forests and dales.

His statement was not met with overall approval. There were many frowns, for the memories of the war still lingered heavily on everyone’s minds as they slowly ate their meal. But with both Aragorn and Boromir favouring the proposal, the dissenting voices were not vocalized, and more than once in the days to come, Faramir wondered if that had swayed the turn of events in days to come.

Faramir was still feeling immensely tired. He had quietly seated himself in a place away from the windows, in the shadows, knowing his face still looked haggard. His wounds were healing slowly, his waist throbbed a little and his arm hurt him every time he took off the sling. He supposed it was due to a lack of rest, but he could not afford to lie idle any longer. He had meant to finish his long overdue paperwork the day before, but had found himself tiring out midway, even though he had used a scribe for the actual writing as his arm was immobilized. He had finished reciting everything to be written and then dismissed the man, deciding to go through them later. He suspected he was more drained from the experience of slowly reciting everything for the man to write.

Once the short meeting was over, he slipped out quickly and went through the papers carefully and methodically, checking them for accuracy. There were many requirements to be seen to for his troop, especially if they were to be put on alert on the Harad road, and if he could finish the paperwork now, he could tender it to Boromir, who received all such requests as captain general. And then, in a day or two, he could journey down himself, perhaps. Or by the end of the week. After partaking of his noon meal, he collected the prepared papers and wended his way through the corridors till he reached the room Boromir used as some sort of a makeshift study, next door to Aragorn’ s. He was rarely found there, preferring to be out most of the time, but he was there now, looking through the requisitions another captain had dropped in.

“Faramir,” he exclaimed in a pleased tone, “Where did you vanish earlier? I searched for you!”

“I have brought you the requirements for the Ithilien company for the next three months,” Faramir handed him the sheaf of papers.

“You were working?” Boromir’s eyes narrowed, as he drew forward a comfortable chair for his brother to sit on, “you were to be resting!”

“Nay, I had a scribe write them out for me,” Faramir said quietly, as he sat on the proffered chair.

“And I will ride out to Ithilien as soon as I may remove this sling,” he continued.

Boromir stopped rifling through the papers and slipped off the table he had been half sitting on.

“Ithilien? You wish to ride to Ithilien?”

“Yes,” Faramir relied simply, “I have not visited my company for well nigh a few weeks now. They are few and scattered while the rebuilding progresses but all I have seen of them of late is Mablung when he came here two days ago.”

“You will do no such thing of course,” Boromir snapped back at him.

Faramir raised his head in surprise, and stared back at his brother’s face in surprise. Boromir seemed – angry? And upset?

“If the Ithilien Company needs to be visited I will do it. You will stay home for a few weeks as per the healer’s advice. If you wish to ride, you may – till the Rammas. To Ithilien? Definitely not! You have not the strength.”

“But it is my company. I command it. I cannot stay away so long!”

“Whether you can or you cannot is not the issue. I say that you may not.”

“But, Boromir, I am fine now, and it is not a very long ride. And I do not ride out for a few days yet. I will be completely fine by then.”

“In a few days? Were you not listening to the healers? Your arm will take a few weeks to heal! And your other wound is not minor either.”

“But the company needs-“

“I will go in your stead.”

“No!” Faramir raised his voice angrily.

It was loud enough to be heard by Aragorn in the study next door, and he raised his head in surprise. Through the walls floated the rest of the argument, as both brothers had raised their voices greatly without realising it.

“It is my order that you may not!” there was an undercurrent of frustration in Boromir’s voice, reminding Aragorn that his steward had slept late and risen early like him and was probably feeling as irritated as he was.

“And need I remind you, Captain Faramir, of the penalty for refusing to obey one ranked senior to you in Gondor’s army?” the loud voice continued.

“You would not – but - but Boromir, I will not let you go in my stead,” Faramir’s voice took on a pleading note, “It is not yet altogether safe in those parts. Harad road runs through it, and the times are still uncertain.”

“Safe! You stop me on the grounds of my safety?”

The sound of a chair being scraped back reached Aragorn’ s unwilling ears as he placed his papers down unable to concentrate as the voices floated in. Against all the etiquette and polite behaviour he had been taught, he listened, as his instinct told him to.

“I do not need you to take my stead yet again! You have done that once, and it was once too many to my mind,” someone was pacing up and down, and from the sound of the hitched voice that spoke, it must have been Faramir.

Aragorn obeyed instinct yet again and striding to the other room, pulled the door open. Neither brother noticed him.

“It is merely a short trip to Ithilien,” Faramir was saying, “You make too much of it!” his dark hair flopped over his face. The grey eyes were flashing with annoyance, but the circles underneath remained and had gone a little deeper it seemed. He came to a stop by the fireplace.

Boromir suddenly moved towards him in a swift motion, and grabbed his arms, inadvertently pushing him back against the fireplace, “I will not see you get hurt ever! Do you hear me?” When the smaller figure pinned against the stone structure spoke, his voice came out in hitches.

“Nor I you,” Faramir said closing his eyes a little. All of a sudden he was reminded of his conversations with his father, except that he would never have dared to reply so to him. He would have obeyed implicitly.

Boromir had not finished his say, however, and his next words struck Faramir deep, “Father is dead, Faramir!” he said quietly, “Do you not understand? You need no longer risk so much for so little. You need no longer indulge in senseless ventures searching for a few pitiful words of acknowledgement. Do you understand, brother?”

Aragorn stood frozen in the doorway, and watched the range of emotions flicker across the ranger’s face. Then Faramir heaved his brother’s hands off his shoulder, straightened himself up, and spoke equally quietly, “And you need no longer take on such ventures either, and cement your place in his heart!”

Leaving a shocked brother standing in front of the hearth, he walked out, brushing past Aragorn as he left, and realizing for the first time, that his king had heard every word. His countenance took on a horrified look and he backed away muttering incoherent apologies, and then, turning away, he swiftly walked down the hallway, almost racing away.

Aragorn stared at him a moment and then at Boromir who too had realised his presence, “What have I done? What have I said?” came the anguished whisper, “I must find him.”

“Not now,” Aragorn blocked the doorway, “for now, my friend, you get some rest, and let your brother do the same, you are both weary and spoke with little thought.”

“I should not have,” came the unheeding reply.

“Nay, but you are tired, and so is he. Leave him be and speak to him when you have greater control of your emotions, and he of his,” Aragorn urged. Boromir finally glanced up into his face, and then nodded slowly.

“You speak words of wisdom. Much like he did. I would be a fool not to heed you. I will see him later as you say.”

Dinner was a lonely affair for the king. None of his friends joined him. Boromir he knew, had spent the rest of the day working out his anger at himself by practicing his swordplay, and had retired early in a fit of despondency. Of Faramir there was no news. Legolas was tending to Arod, after the magnificent horse had sustained a slight injury, and Gimli had joined some of his kin for the meal.

It was a very bored Aragorn who finally rose a little grumpily from the table, and decided to see if he could find any of them. Boromir he found sleeping, as also Legolas, while Gimli, he deduced, had not returned from his night in town.

He decided he would pay Faramir a visit, and his lips curved in a small smile. He hoped the younger man was in a better frame of mind now, for he realised he had come to be quite fond of him. He had heard much of him from Boromir, and found all he had heard of to be true, and much more. His steward’s younger brother seemed to be one of the most endearing people he had ever met, and one whose company he liked. Now that he had gotten Faramir to be a little less formal with him, they might spend more time together. The thought pleased him greatly. Stopping the boy lighting the candles along one of the hallways, he inquired for Faramir’s whereabouts, and received a hesitant reply that he might find him in his chambers.

The chamber was a little neater now. The books had been piled away somewhere. It was a partly cloudy night outside, but the moon was still spectacular. The light shone through the open windows and balconies of the room illuminating the light grey sheets on an empty bed, when he entered.

He heard the soft breathing first before he saw the resting figure, dark hair splayed out over the papers, cheek resting against the yellowed pages of a large book, while the shoulders leant against the edge of the heavy wooden table. One leg was curled up on the chair. A quill and some ink lay nearby, along with a half-written parchment. A small spot of ink rested on the tip of Faramir’s nose but it was the faint tear streaks lining the cheeks that caught his eye.

“Faramir,” he called out softly, gently placing a hand on one bony shoulder.

The grey eyes flew open alert and watchful, and then bewildered as the ranger found himself not lying in bed but sitting at a table. Unmistakable tinges of red surrounded now fully open orbs as the younger man stiffly straightened up and stood.

“Sire.”

“Will you not be more comfortable lying in bed?” Aragorn said lightly.

Faramir continued to stand stiffly even as his face fell a little, and then he nodded slowly. Aragorn stepped forward, and clasping him by one good shoulder steered him into a small couch near the open balcony. He nudged the surprised man into it and then sat by him, as a cloud flitted over the moon and dimmed the light.

“You were crying,” he stated simply.

Embarrassment flooded across the anguished face in front of him, “Nay,” came the weak response.

“It will be all right,” Aragorn suddenly said, not even sure himself why he said it.

Faramir bit his lip uncertainly. Aragorn slowly lifted a hand to his hair and watched the colourless face with concern. Faramir sniffed and bent his face yet again.

“He is not angry with you,” Aragorn said, trusting entirely to his finely honed instincts to provide him the correct words.

The grey eyes looked back at him hopefully, “No?”

“No,” the king said softly, stroking the soft dark hair beneath his hand. The cloud must have flitted away from the moon because the pale silvery glow suddenly shone through the window they sat by, and lit up the younger man’s quiet face, marking out the furrows, ridges and lines, the circles dark against the chalky face. But none of it took away from the ethereal beauty of the young man, and Aragorn almost gasped at the sight.

“How could anyone be angry with you?” he demanded softly, and was dismayed to note the grey orbs turn bright, as they filled up. He continued to stroke his hair softly, and observed the tense face. Faramir seemed confused and almost distressed, his eyes were held shut, and he was breathing a little raggedly. A thin scar stood out under the left eye, and Aragorn fingered it lightly. At the touch, Faramir gasped suddenly and the shining eyes brimmed over as tears flowed down unchecked and he seemed to crumple within himself. Aragorn grabbed him in his arms, surprised at the reaction, and held him there till he had cried himself out; the silent sobs wetting his shirt as the younger man folded into his embrace completely.

It stopped as suddenly as it had started. Faramir jerked away suddenly and began stammering his apologies, “I –I do not know what came over me, my liege – please, please – f-forgive me, I was tired and –“

“There is something on your nose,” Aragorn heard himself say.

Faramir stared back at him in confusion as Aragorn hooked a finger under his chin and pulled his face forward and wiped away the ink spot. He continued to hold his chin, while slipping the other arm carefully around his shoulder, mindful of the injuries.

Grey eyes stared back at grey eyes in close proximity. Faramir sniffed again, and Aragorn tightened his hold around his shoulder, still holding the chin up gently. And the moonlight continued to play on their faces. Faramir was looking at him, and the expressions in his eyes could only be described as one of rapture. He had never before noticed how beautiful the younger man was, and instinct took over again. He did not know why he did it, perhaps he felt later, he was drunk in the moonlight. Perhaps they both were.

When their lips met it was with mutual accord, and within seconds Aragorn’ s experience in the matter became apparent so that Faramir simply submitted to him completely, and lost himself in a heated and passionate kiss. He felt himself fall back against the couch, and ignored the pain that shot through his shoulder and waist with the sudden movement, as an immense pleasure flooded through his brain. His lips were being claimed hungrily, and Aragorn’ s tongue was frantically exploring each and every region of his mouth.

They came apart in confusion. Aragorn in dismay and Faramir still dazed from what he felt had been the most wonderful moment of his life to date.

“Forgive me, I should not have,” Aragorn said breathing hard.

Faramir placed a finger on his king’s lips and shook his head gently, “Do not ask for forgiveness, my liege.”

“I should not have – you must – I should leave now,” Aragorn said distractedly, after gently removing Faramir’s hand.

“No!” Faramir cried out, and then taking a deep breath, said softly, and almost pleadingly, “Stay. Please?”

“No –“ Aragorn said weakly, trying to stand up.

The slim hand was gently placed on his, not grasping, not demanding, merely resting gently there, as the soft voice pleaded, “Just- just stay. Please . . . I ask no more than your company, I vow. It is restful. Just this once.”

Grey eyes stared soulfully back at Aragorn, their unfathomable depths seemed such that he felt he thought he could drown in them. He stayed.

Chapter 7

He had never felt such an intense passion build up in him before, as when Aragorn’ s mouth covered his. The pain from his injuries as he fell back with Aragorn over him, went unheeded as his mouth was subjected to touches as never before. He felt a delicious warmness course through his veins, as he returned the kiss with utter compliance. And then it was over. They came apart, and he lay in a daze wondering if he had dreamed it. Could one truly feel as wonderful as he did in real life? Had Aragorn truly kissed him or was he dreaming? And why was he asking to be forgiven?

He reached out for the pink, exquisitely shaped lips, touching them to confirm they were indeed real. They were real. He could feel his heartbeat quicken at the touch. He could not let Aragorn leave.

He stammered out the words begging him to stay. Aragorn stopped, half-standing by him.

Aragorn stood by the seated figure watching the moon continue to play on the pale, drawn face and pleading eyes that glinted with a silver light. Traces of wetness glistened as the lips trembled with each tremulous breath.

“Please stay,” it was almost a whisper, so soft was the voice.

He wanted to hold him in his arms and comfort him, and take away all his worries for it was evident there were many. He wanted to wipe away the tears that streaked the face of one of the bravest young men he knew. He wanted to keep him in his arms and calm him and soothe him, and take away the pain and anguish reflected in the grey depths that looked up to him.

He sat down next to the dejected figure, and reaching for him, pushed a few stray strands of hair off the damp face. Faramir seemed almost to still himself at his touch.

“You will stay?” still soft, as soft as the cold seeping in from outside.

He would. Whether he should or not, he would stay because Faramir needed him. If it took his presence to ensure the peace and quiet of one who had endangered his life for him, then he would provide that.

“I will,” he found himself replying just as softly. The face in front of him lit up with relief and pleasure. A pleasure as understated as every action he had come to expect from the younger man.

“You must not be alone. You are still in danger,” Faramir continued.

“It is cold,” he said quietly, ignoring that statement, “you should sleep now. You have taxed yourself enough today.”

Faramir shook his head unhappily.

“Very well, then I shall take your leave,” he said coldly, and was immediately dismayed to watch how the face fell immediately just by the slight frost in his tone.

“No!” Faramir looked extremely unhappy now. He seemed to have lost his normal eruditeness, and seemed instead to be searching uncomfortably for words. He had turned his head away and Aragorn could no longer see what went through the expressive grey eyes, as the next words tripped out haltingly.

“I had dreams. They wouldn’t stop. I was in a darkness so foul, so deep, it was not until you called me that I saw a light pierce through it. And you were there. You called to me, and I knew you were safe. I knew I should trust you. Now I see other dreams. And they are not as usual. And I – I am – I worry for – “ he suddenly turned towards Aragorn, his eyes laced with anguish, and reached for his face.

Aragorn felt the warm hand touch his face, and immediately felt his muscles tense up.

Faramir was still speaking, “I was worried, and you were standing there alone, and I knew something was wrong, and then the archer . . . it must not happen again. You must not be hurt.”

He had wondered about that. About how Faramir’s quick reflexes had saved him from a fatal disaster. “I was not hurt,” he breathed out covering the thin hand with his, “you were. And for that I am sorry.”

“Nay, you are my king. And I owe you my life and my brother’s.”

He pressed gently on the hand against his and registered their warmth despite the biting chill. The healer in him came to the fore as he placed a palm against Faramir’s forehead, and then neck.

“Nothing will happen,” he said firmly, “the guard is doubled, and all men are on alert. He would be a fool to try anything now. Sleep now, and I assure you there will be no nightmares this time.” He had driven them away once; he could do so a second time.

“I will be there.” Reaching for the younger man, he pulled him up gently, and guided him towards the bed.

“Where will you sleep?” Faramir asked worriedly.

“I will sit by you for a while and then take the chair,” he said firmly.

He was met by a horrified glance, “No. You must take the bed. I will use the chair.”

“No.”

“You – you can use the bed too,” came the hesitant reply, as they edged closer towards it, and then after a slight pause, “It – it is quite large. You can have one side, and I will take the other.”

“I shall see. But first you must sleep.”

He helped him into the bed silently, pulled the covers up to his chin ensuring that he was comfortable and warm, and then sat by his side, watching him.

He saw the dark void that had held him trapped and refused to let him go. And he had not wanted to leave. Fear of what lay outside kept him there. The guilt of his survival preyed on him to convince him that absolution lay in his suffering this unstoppable wandering through an endless void. He felt the heat of a fire licking him while he himself stood and watched with the grim satisfaction of one who welcomes an end to existence. But the end never came. All that came was more darkness, never-ending and terrifying.

Until the light pierced it, and he felt the caress of someone’s hand and awoke to his king’s voice. He dreamt of it often, and each time he awoke breathing hard, his face flushed, to find that none stood over him as had happened that day.

Not this day. The caress was real as were the grey eyes that looked into his face with concern.

Faramir stared back into the grey eyes that he had first beheld when awakening from the darkness that had held him in its sway months ago. The reverence he had felt then upon beholding this noble face had intensified which each future encounter so that now he was no longer aware of what he could attribute the depth and intensity of his feelings to.

But Aragorn was here now, sitting by him, on his bed. He struggled to sit up, gritting against the pain that hit his shoulder as he pressed his hands down in his attempt.

“No, lie back,” Aragorn said worriedly.

He shook his head as he finally managed to sit up, ignoring the little twitches that ran through his aching body. He reached out a hand for the worried face in front of him to reassure himself that this was no dream. Aragorn was staring at him with puzzled eyes. He tentatively put a hand to the cheek, feeling the faint stubble under his fingers.

“Faramir-“ Aragorn seemed to gasp out almost breathlessly. Faramir let his hand remain on the other’s cheek, and leaning forward brushed the full lips with a chaste kiss, before leaning back against his pillows.

“It is you,” he said quietly, his eyes closed now. It was Aragorn here, and no dream. It was Aragorn he had kissed.

“Yes it is. I will stay by you, do not worry.”

Aragorn awoke early the next day, uncomfortably perched on what appeared to be a chair. Awakening fully as the sun sent its first ray out into the dawn sky, he realised he lay in a room not his own. He awoke to the sight of a pair of keen grey eyes resting upon him. He sat up in surprise and stared back at Faramir, and then remembered all that had passed the night before. Faramir lay, staring at him quietly.

“I must leave now,” he said distractedly.

Faramir nodded.

He left trying to analyse what he had done. He had kissed his friend, a man many years younger than him. Fallen on him with a passion he hadn’t exhibited for years now. And he found he had liked it. He didn’t know what to think now.

Breakfast was a quiet meal. Legolas was back with his horse, Gimli had not woken up yet and Boromir and Faramir spoke the bare minimum to each other. They had exchanged a few words before eating. Boromir had apologized for his outburst, and Faramir for his. Then they had argued over going to Ithilien again. Both looked angry now.

“It is to the king to decide then,” Boromir said flatly with an air of finality.

Aragorn had tried to get out of it but could not. The Ithilien Company had become strategically very important now that messages had been sent to Harad inviting their envoy into Minas Tirith for discussions. He could not honestly say that all his councillors were behind his decision. Ithilien was situated on the road that wound towards Harad, and that made the rangers’ duty even more important. Increased skirmishes were being reported against stray bands and reports were coming in of orc sightings. There were still many surviving after the war of the ring, in little groups hiding away in dark caves and mountains, more of a nuisance than a major problem. But they could not let the problem escalate at such a critical time. Action was needed there and soon.

Faramir was very vocal in his insistence that he be allowed to re-join his company. It was, as he pointed out, his company, and he was their captain.

But, as Boromir was quick to point out, he was an injured captain, and therefore more likely to be a bother to his men than a help - A fact that did not go down well with the younger brother. The affection resulting from the mutual forgiveness earlier vanished into air. They stared each other down stubbornly, while Aragorn drummed his fingers on the table. All three of them were in his study and the matter had not progressed beyond the stage of argument. Unable to take the sight of the bickering any longer, he finally raised his voice.

“Enough! Have the requisite supplies sent over to the company. I will see the reports on the their deployment and movement and decide by tomorrow what our next step should be. Until then, let them remain under your lieutenant’s command,” this to Faramir.

“Very well,” Boromir replied formally.

Faramir promptly protested, “But sire!”

“That will be all,” Aragorn said coolly, glancing back at the straight-backed reddening figure. None of the vulnerability of the previous night showed here. It was the soldier standing before him now, the fighter, and not a very happy one.

“Boromir, I need to talk to you,” he continued.

Faramir stood his ground resolutely, “Sire, I still think –“

“Tomorrow, Faramir,” he said firmly.

At the quartermaster’s to ensure the supplies were going through, as were his messages to his lieutenants, Faramir was feeling furious. He felt like a child. He had spent the last night crying in Aragorn’ s arms like an infant, and then had gone and kissed him. And then childishly insisted that he stay with him the night, when it was obvious Aragorn wanted to leave. Then he had argued with Boromir over breakfast, almost argued with Aragorn, and now been summarily dismissed like a child. And this when he was simply trying to do his duty. He flexed his arm a little. The sling was off now, even though the healer had said he mustn’t exert his arm for a few weeks. His waist injury was merely a niggling feeling now. It twinged every now and then if he bent too far, but it had not required stitches, and seemed to be healing well. If he held his hand at the right angle, his shoulder felt just fine. He was fine now.

But it was obvious Boromir would convince Aragorn to force him to stay here. He could not let that happen.

They needed him in Ithilien. That was his company there. He had learnt to fight with them, grown as a soldier with them, eaten with them, defended Gondor with them, led them with skill and intelligence. It was his duty to be there, and not here in Minas Tirith where he was hardly needed.

Where he could be near Aragorn and dream of his lips on his, as they had been last night. He sat at his table idly fingering his lips, trying to make sense of the night’s happenings. They had kissed and he had liked it. But had Aragorn? Aragorn did not seem angry or disgusted. When he had awoken in the morning, the king had been sleeping in his chair curled up uncomfortably, looking years younger, handsome and intelligent. The light of day had brought a new meaning to the passion that had emerged in the cover of the night. They had given in to sudden stirrings then, but should they have? He could feel a growing attraction for Aragorn, and he had realised with dismay that it was not a platonic attraction, for otherwise the sight of his king would not send a heat coursing through his body. He would not feel his lower body tense up in reaction, and he would not fight to control himself each time. He had not felt such a way for many years now.

And Aragorn had not withdrawn. Could it be that Aragorn felt something too? He would find out.

And . . . he would show him he was no snivelling child who needed to be protected always. Had he not defended the city during its siege? He would show him.

In the gathering dusk, Aragorn stood in his room after finishing with his duties for the day, finally letting his mind wander back to the events in Faramir’s bedroom. He had been avoiding thinking about it because it confused him. He was no novice to making love to men, he had been a soldier and ranger, and these things were not uncommon. And he was sure they were not uncommon to Faramir either. In the war-filled days they had lived through, often the only succour to be obtained was in the arms of another man. The womenfolk were often away in refuge.

But this was time of peace, and he was king of Gondor, betrothed to a beautiful maiden who was giving up much for him, and as king he had to provide an heir. But, Faramir . . .

Faramir was different. He felt himself yearn for the strange young man who could be so complex as to be so many things all at one time, soldier, scholar, child, and adult. The same man who had wept like a child could in the space of a few hours become a proud upright soldier. He turned as the rapping sounded through the wooden door.

It was Faramir.

The younger man strode into his room, when he beckoned to him to enter, slowly but not diffidently. He did look a little nervous though.

He raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

“I have come to ask you something,” Faramir began.

He knew what it was about. What else could it be about?

The question never came. Faramir advanced upon him, and caught him by the waist. The pale lips touched his, at first hesitantly, and then with enthusiasm. He felt himself fall back onto his bed, his mind racing, his heart beating furiously as the other’s mouth submitted to him completely. He sent his tongue into the other’s mouth, exploring each spot leisurely, caressingly, lovingly as his mind abandoned logic in favour of the lust his body was filling up with.

Faramir was running his arms up and down his chest now, and pressing down on him. He felt himself begin to harden, as he wrapped his arms around the slender figure atop him, running his hands over the slim back like a feather, down his rump, over his thighs. He slipped his hands under the tunic, and touched the soft skin underneath, and then through the string holding up the leggings. He ran his hands lightly under the cloth, letting his fingers dip down the little crevice. Faramir moaned, and their lips came apart.

They stayed that way entangled in each other, for a few seconds, his shirt half open and Faramir’s hands resting on his chest. His own hands he slipped out from under Faramir’s now loosened leggings, as they stared into each other’s eyes. They were gasping heavily, each feeling the other’s hardness press against his body.

The Faramir bent down and nuzzled his neck. Aragorn gasped as he felt his neck being nibbled gently, then the material of his shirt was pushed away, as wet lips closed over his nipple and toyed gently with it, sucking and teasing. He closed his eyes and breathed raggedly. It had been so long, so long since he had had anyone give him pleasure in such a way. The mouth wandered over his chest, pressing down on his own hair, and scratching him, until it reached the other nipple, and teased him once again.

“Did you like that?” Faramir asked huskily, lifting his head, and staring back into Aragorn. Such a different Faramir from the one in his arms the night before.

He simply gasped in response. The face looming over him was flushed with sweat, surrounded by a messy clump of hair that straggled over it, and the effect was seductively maddening. Those lips could make him beg and plead for more, he felt, as he realised their powerful appeal. He felt the throbbing in his lower body intensify as he reached for the other man’s neck and pulled him down, claiming his alluring lips hungrily. Expertly he rolled over so that the younger man lay underneath him now.

All thoughts of his betrothal and the heir to the throne had flown out long ago. All that lay in his mind was that an exquisite young man lay on his bed.

“I did like that,” he replied throatily, “you are quite talented, young one. I did not realise that.”

“There is much you have to realise, sire,” came the husky reply.

“Call me Aragorn,” he offered. There was a strange expression in Faramir’s eyes, one he could not place.

Faramir’s hands reached for the bindings of his leggings, “Would you like to see what else it is I know?” he asked softly, almost purring into Aragorn’ s ears. The touch of those fingers almost made him cry out.

He grabbed the younger man by his shoulders but Faramir instead of responding, suddenly backed away.

Aragorn had grabbed his injured shoulder unknowingly. He could not possibly scream out, but it hurt him. Unbearably. And so he flinched away.

And the spell of madness was over. Aragorn pulled away and sat down on his bed, while he lay there a little dazed and in pain, but saying nothing.

“You came to ask me something,” Aragorn said quietly.

Faramir sat up slowly and shook his head, “This is not the time for it,” he said finally.

“Very well,” Aragorn said as he stood up and straightened his clothes. They were both up now, and very flustered, and unsure of how to proceed.

Sounds of footsteps came from outside.

“The guard is changing,” Faramir said unnecessarily, and Aragorn nodded in reply.

“What have you thought of Ithilien?”

He knew he should have waited. Waited for a better time, but the question preyed on his mind.

“I will let you know tomorrow.”

It was a long night, and a fairly wretched one.

And morning brought more unpleasantness.

“I have decided,” Aragorn announced after the morning meal, this time to an audience that included Faramir, Boromir, Gimli, Legolas and Tarlong.

“I will go to Ithilien,” he said. Five pairs of surprised eyes stared back at him incredulously as he continued, “I want to see how things stand for myself.”

“I shall ride out tomorrow.”

“You cannot leave the city!” Boromir cried out, “How can the king leave the city? Who will govern in your stead?”

“You will. You are the steward.”

“But Sire, there is an assassin on the loose,” Tarlong said.

“Yes, and it will be the last thing he will expect me to do,” Aragorn said smugly.

The chorus of protest was drowned out by a voice like a whiplash, “It is by the order of the king of Gondor and Arnor.”

“Very well, I will inform the escort.” Tarlong replied in a subdued tone.

“No, they will attract too much attention,” Aragorn said firmly.

“But how can you travel escortless?”

“I shall go as a ranger. Let not the news spread abroad that the king is travelling. I shall return in a days’ time after all.”

“We will come with you, of course,” Legolas.

“With respect, that would only attract attention,” Faramir pointed out.

“He’s right,” that was Boromir,” Aragorn, surely you do not intend to –“

“I do.”

“I will accompany you then,” Faramir said calmly.

“No.”

“You wish to travel alone? Boromir cannot come with you. King and Steward cannot leave the city like this at the same time. It is unheard of.”

“It is unheard of that kings rush into suchlike, while the captain general sits back,” Boromir muttered.

“It is unheard of that kings do not know the situation on ground in their realm,” Aragorn snapped back.

“Then Faramir had better go with you. And, he will return with you. Mablung will handle the rangers until he can return to active duty,” Boromir retorted.

Chapter 8

The entire day went into preparing for the ride. Aragorn had to inform some of his closest councillors and none of them were happy. Faramir, in turn stayed away from everyone, poring over some maps. He could use his injured hand fairly well now, if he ignored the twitches of pain. Boromir was unhappy, but he had pointed out he was capable of riding, that it was just for a day, and Aragorn would be there too. And as Boromir made no mention of the injury to his side he too did not speak of it. It would hurt while he rode but he was sure it would be tolerable.

The warden of the houses of healing however had plenty to say on the issue. But Faramir had had plenty of experience dealing with him in recent months and managed to prevent him from going to either Boromir or Aragorn and telling them to stop him from riding.

The preparations tired him out so that he retired early, and for once, slept easily. They set off the next afternoon with minimal fuss, using two ordinary horses borrowed from the stables. Aragorn was dressed in a faded green ranger outfit, and his usual grey travelling cloak, while Faramir wore the green and brown garb of the Ithilien Company. They would have no problem blending into the background if the need arose.

They rode in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts. The events two nights ago had left both of them extremely uncomfortable in each other’s presence but they could not have refused to travel together. Both wanted to make the journey anyway. Aragorn kept thinking back to the way he had thrown himself on the younger man. He could distinctly remember the other’s lips roving over his body and how it had aroused him. Never before had anyone else evoked such passion through his body that he had forgotten everything. He felt odd now. In the light of the day, he felt very odd. He should not have done that. They had almost crossed a point in his bedchamber that night, and he was unsure how such a thing had happened. Not that he was a stranger to bedding a man, but that had merely been to satisfy stray urges of a younger man, when there was no other choice.

But now the choice was there, and he was older, but he still found himself irresistibly drawn to a man less than half his age, and that man seemed drawn to him too. What had they done? He should forget about it, and not mention it at all. He was to get married soon, after all.

Faramir’s thoughts rested more on enjoying the land he was re-visiting after a few months now. He had spent enough time thinking about the events of the night, and like Aragorn he had reached no clear conclusion, other than that perhaps, it would be better to try and forget what had happened, because Aragorn certainly seemed to prefer not to remember it.

They were barely halfway to Ithilien and the sun was fairly low in the sky, when the saddle strap on Aragorn’ s horse broke. It was only his excellent riding skills that prevented him from falling headfirst. A cursory examination revealed that the straps had been frayed.

“Almost as though someone had run a knife at them for a while,” Faramir said quietly, “For I am sure, the stable does would not utilize such old equipment that it starts tearing and fraying. Someone has done this, sire.”

“And we have no way of finding out whom until we get back.”

“Then do we turn back?” Faramir asked.

“No, we can ride your horse together,” Aragorn decided, “I see anyway, that you have trouble riding.”

“No! I mean, yes, of course we can ride together, but I do not have trouble on horseback,” Faramir stammered out worriedly.

“You are a terrible liar, young one,” Aragorn said, as he mounted Faramir’s horse, and then motioned for the younger man to join him.

“No, I-“ Faramir protested as he moved to mount the horse too. Aragorn reached down and grasping him by his shoulders and waist yanked him up, not roughly, but not delicately either. And Faramir feeling his injured shoulder and side wrench by the movement had to bite at his slip to stifle the cry of pain.

“I suppose that did not hurt at all?” Aragorn asked smiling wickedly.

Faramir had no reply.

They rode on quietly, and Aragorn gently wrapped an arm around the younger man’s waist as he controlled the horse. The other horse followed them saddle less, they had decided they could get equipment for it from the rangers, who kept some horses with them, although they did most of their scouting on foot. Aragorn smiled to himself as he noted how comfortable Faramir seemed to be in his arms. The ranger was leaning back against him, his head resting against Aragorn’ s broad chest and shoulder, as they rode on in companionable silence, each contemplating the nearness of the other.

Somehow when Faramir was this near to him, all Aragorn’ s doubts vanished. He loved holding the younger man near him. He loved the touch of his skin, the soft scent of his hair, and he loved the feel of the supple, slender body in his arms. And all doubts about enjoying the very feel of Faramir vanished from his mind. His decision to forget all that had passed between them vanished the moment he felt Faramir’s closeness to him.

And from the way the other leaned back against his chest peacefully, he knew his feelings did not go unreciprocated. He found he regretted breaking away from Faramir just then. He knew the younger man had withdrawn slightly. It must have been from inexperience he decided. He was scared! Of course he would be. Aragorn, you are a fool. He is still young. You should not have hurried him like that!

When they returned to Minas Tirith, perhaps if he went a little slowly, perhaps then they could . . . Faramir wanted it. There was no doubt about that. He lightly stroked his hand across the man’s stomach and smiled to himself as he heard a contented sigh from the half -sleeping figure in front of him. Just a little lower maybe, he decided.

Faramir absorbed the warmth of Aragorn’ s proximity, and revelled in it. He had certainly found the long ride getting uncomfortable and his healing muscles had begun to protest at the exercise, but now he could just sit back restfully. Even though twitches of pain did exist, Aragorn’ s arms around him seemed to push them away. He leaned back against the chest he had let his lips rove over two nights ago, and found to his surprise that he felt no sense of wrong over it. He craved the experience and knew Aragorn felt the same way.

If only Aragorn had not grabbed his aching shoulder so hard, they might have gone further. He did not how much further, but he found he did not mind however far it went. Somehow the cover of the night had given him a boldness he had never before possessed in such matters, and he found he still retained it. His mind refused to let go of the picture of Aragorn’ s bare chest.

Then he felt the hand across his waist move, slowly, circularly over his taut stomach. Then the reins of the horse were handed to him, and another hand joined the one on his now tense midriff. The rough cloth of his tunic scraped against his increasingly sensitive skin, and a fire sparked up in his groin.

He stroked the lower belly now, and slowly drew his hands lower. Faramir was wide-awake now. He could feel him tensing up. But, he was making no move to stop him. And Aragorn realised he had no desire at all to stop doing what he was doing.

He moved his hands along slowly, then slipped one under the short tunic, and ran it lightly over the soft material of the green leggings, smiling as his roving hand encountered a bulge. Smiling wider now, he ran his hand over the bulge once and pressed it lightly, and Faramir stiffened slightly. Then he removed his hand promptly and his smile widened as a sharp hiss came out of the younger man’s mouth. He moved his hands upwards, onto the smooth flesh of the stomach, up along the chest, underneath the tunic. His fingers roved easily, pinching lightly all along. Faramir was breathing in small gasps now. He felt his own arousal grow, and the movement of the horse they sat upon only aided him on as he lightly pinched one of Faramir’s aroused nipples.

Slowly he reached his hands down lower and lower to the bindings of Faramir’s leggings and tugged at the string, loosening it, all the while blowing soft breaths onto the back of Faramir’s neck. He pushed his roving hands in through the loosened string, feeling the warmth radiating off the soft skin of the lower belly. Faramir shivered in anticipation, his eyes closed now.

Bending his head a little he lightly kissed Faramir on his neck. His hands groped the flesh of the young man’s groin, till finally the fingers closed around what they sought, hot and damp now. And that was when the other gasped loudly and let go of the reins, sending their horse into near-panic state.

Aragorn reacted with near elven speed and yanking his hands free grabbed the reins and took control. The rearing steed was calmed down. He climbed slowly down, and then reaching for the softly panting younger man still atop the steed, knotted up his leggings for him.

“Not on a horse ever again, I think,” he chuckled suddenly.

Faramir was blushing furiously now.

He too slid off the horse, and they were soon standing face-to-face, lips almost touching, still a little breathless after their experience. Faramir looked particularly dishevelled, his face red, hair wild and clothes unkempt. Aragorn too looked a little excited but his clothes and hair were as normal. He sighed softly at the sight.

“We had better tidy up, I suppose,” and guided his companion towards the tiny stream nearby where the horses had wandered off to drink water.

Faramir found he was still breathing very raggedly and spent a while at the water’s edge trying to regain his senses. It was very difficult. He could still feel the touch of Aragorn’ s hands across his body, and the wetness where the lips had touched his neck. Distracted by his thoughts he did not hear Aragorn’ s shouts until too late.

They were being ambushed by a party of Orcs. Aragorn’ s horse had run away chased off by their arrows, as had his own, and they stood now on foot to defend themselves against the foul creatures. There were five of them and the two men soon found themselves set upon, with barely enough time to unsheathe their weapons.

The Orcs attacking Faramir had soon realised he was not at his best. They attacked him with greater ferocity, knocking his sword from his hands. They soon had him almost down on the ground in a daze, near the water’s edge as they attacked him with ferocity.

“This is a good piece of man flesh. He will be fun,” the first Orc’s mouth dripped as he spoke. Before Faramir could realise it, he was down on the ground with the stink of the Orcs looming over him. He kicked out, catching the kneeling Orc on his chest. There was a loud yell, and then the other one pounced upon him.

He tried to roll away, getting himself covered in mud and grass. A fist landed on his injured shoulder and he screamed out in pain. His shirt was almost ripped off him. He gave one painful thrust and rolled a little distance away towards the water, finally getting a look at his surroundings. He could hear shouts and noises further up the bank, and looking up he realised Aragorn was still standing up to the three Orcs single-handedly, but would need help soon.

He struggled to get up to his feet, only to be thrown to the ground by the foul creature. He clawed desperately at the ground trying to throw the beast off, when his fingers closed around a stone. He had no other weapon, so he used it effectively knocking out his attacker. Picking up his sword he disposed off his two fallen opponents and then launched himself at the remaining, helping Aragorn breathe a little easier. They were at the water’s edge now, and the ground was slippery. Trying to maintain a foothold in the wet mud, he didn’t notice the second Orc fighting Aragorn suddenly throw himself in his direction. Three flailing figures fell into the water with a tremendous splash. In the ensuing confusion Aragorn managed to dispose off his opponent, before running to help Faramir who was now struggling with one of the foul creatures in the water. Andúril glinted in the light of the setting sun, as Aragorn promptly came to his friend’s rescue.

Their five opponents lay dead around them on land and in water when Aragorn dragged the dripping figure up the bank.

Aragorn yanked the shivering, dripping figure out of the stream, none too gently. Faramir winced at the jerky movements.

“The horses,” he said slowly.

“We’ve lost them,” Aragorn muttered angrily.

“We will have to walk,” Faramir stated tiredly.

“Not any longer today. We will set off again in the morning after getting some rest,” Aragorn said, raising a hand to cut off Faramir’s protest, “We should find a place to spend the night.”

“I know of one not far from here,” Faramir said slowly, “The old refuges built in these lands still stand. We use them often, and one is not far from here. It is a small rock formation. We can spend the night there.”

The days were getting shorter, so the sun was slowly sinking and the cold had started to set in, causing him to shiver as he spoke. He clamped his teeth down as he spoke trying to prevent the sporadic tremors that ran through his aching body.

“You are cold,” Aragorn said, distressed, “take my cloak.”

“No, it will get wet just like mine has,” Faramir said unhappily, “I will have to put up with the wet clothes till we reach the caves. It will be a little warmer inside them,” he added reassuringly.

The two of them set off together with Faramir leading the way.

The little rock formation was a system of tunnels and caves that Faramir led them into slowly. Aragorn could make out that he was quite exhausted and cold. The sun had long gone below the horizon and it was quite dark now, with just a few stars shimmering in the sky.

“The tunnels are built so we can hear the approach of anyone at the entrance even this far back,” Faramir had explained tiredly before sinking to the ground in a dazed stupor. Aragorn let him sit there while he explored the place thoroughly. A small opening in the roof let light through, as did another small opening, some distance away which seemed to lead to a dank little pool surrounded by mossy rock.

He returned to his exhausted companion to find him leaning against a rock with his eyes closed, the water dripping down from his clothes and forming a puddle around him. Shaking his head slightly, he tried to rouse him. Faramir stirred a little, but the eyes remained half-closed.

“Sleepy . . .,” he muttered tiredly, as his head dipped against Aragorn’ s arm.

Aragorn put a hand to his head, and finding it a little clammy, promptly set about redressing it. He decided he’d have to get Faramir out of his wet clothes, and wrap him up in something warm for the rest of the night.

He pulled the damp clothes off with no little difficulty. It was increasingly cold, and the tiny tremors that ran through the slim figure were of no help either. He pulled him up to get the hands out of the sleeves of the wet tunic, and winced at the resulting whimper of pain. The bandage covering the shoulder was no longer white but covered in grime. Seeing no other option, he untied it exposing the healing stitches. He also noticed the bruises around the now healed cut in the side, and shook his head resignedly. Faramir was covered in dirt and scratches just as he himself was.

He took off his tunic and undershirt. Pulling the tunic back on he tore the soft material of the undershirt, and dipping the strips in the water of the pool, he cleaned himself up cursorily, and then went over to the other man, and pulled off his wet leggings tugging at the cloth as it clung to the other’s skin, and using the wet strips of cloth cleaned him up a little. He spread the wet clothes out to dry near the opening.

The only light to be had was that of the early stars pouring in through the opening in the roof, and when Aragorn lay the younger man’s naked body gently upon the ground, the starlight played upon the bare, pale skin, marred by bluing bruises, and red scratches, making it look seemingly enchanted. The tiny droplets of water that clung to the still wet frame glistened like hundreds of precious stones. Aragorn sat by quietly for a moment entranced by the sight. He let his eyes rove over the entire frame, the lanky body with a slender chest, slim hips, and long legs, and the curly mass of hair between them, where his hands had gone exploring earlier, before he picked up what remained of the undershirt and rubbed him dry, ignoring his pained murmuring. He ran the cloth over each and every part of the younger man, revelling in the feel of him. Gathering him up in his arms ensuring he avoided his healing shoulder, he sighed and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead, before, bringing him closer, and wrapping his heavy warm cloak around them. Faramir’s body was cold to touch, which was no surprise after the drenching he had received.

“Poor dear,” he murmured softly to the unconscious young man, “Why does so much have to happen to you? And all on my account.”

Faramir was still shivering intermittently. He hugged him closer and felt idiotically pleased when the younger man snuggled against him and buried his face in his chest. They sat wrapped in each other with the cloak wound around them waiting for the night to completes its passage. He gently ran a finger down one arm under the thick cloth, and watched as the younger man awoke slowly and lifted his head, and turned glazed grey eyes upon him. The only light available was that of the stars above, faint but enough to make out Faramir’s face staring up at him. He eased himself up a little, and the cloak fell away a bit, revealing the naked shoulder his arm was wrapped around.

Smooth and pale, it stood out over the dark cloak covering the rest of the body, and just the sight of it was enough for the king of Gondor. He craved to take that mouth in his again. How beautifully Faramir submitted to him always, even if on horseback. He could clearly remember how it felt to have Faramir under him.

He gently ran a finger over the exposed collarbone, lightly, bringing it to rest at the little dip under the throat. Faramir’s eyes were closed and he was gasping hoarsely now, the warmth of each breath hitting Aragorn’ s neck at regular intervals. He pushed the cloak further down, and took the finger exploring over the gleaming white of the naked chest that could just about be seen. He drew circles, lines, triangles, all manner of shapes, sometimes with his fingertip, sometimes lightly with his nail. He dragged the single finger slowly down over the taut stomach, all the while working it over the skin. And the effect it had on the younger ranger in his arms was surprising. Faramir was crooning in delight at the touch, his neck thrown back, head resting in the crook of Aragorn’ s other arm.

Aragorn continued exploring the supple body in his arms with his finger, while simultaneously plunging his mouth into the exposed shoulder and neck. He kissed, nipped and licked the soft skin, tugging at it gently with his teeth at times, and felt himself grow hard just listening to the soft, delighted squeals coming from the younger man’s mouth. Faramir’s hands were now wrapped around his back, his legs wound around Aragorn’ s legs, and his head was thrown back, eyes closed in the ecstasy of Aragorn’ s mere touch. Aragorn smiled at the delighted figure in his arms, and brought his hands up to stroke his face. His finger brushed the scar underneath the left eye briefly.

Faramir’s eyes shot open suddenly, briefly filled with a plethora of emotions ranging from fear to pain, and he tried to pull away. The cloak fell off, and he scrambled away on the rocky floor trying to back off, but instead ended up slipping on the water that had pooled from his own clothes and falling painfully on his rump, his eyes glazed and his hand on his cheek. The fall however seemed to wake him up, and he stared at the floor.

“I am sorry, you startled me,” he said quietly, shivering a little as cold air hit his bare skin, “Wh – where are my clothes.”

“They are wet. Come back under the cloak, I cannot have you falling ill again.”

Silently the dejected young man slipped underneath the thick old cloak, and let Aragorn hold him.

“How did it happen?”

The question went ignored.

“Someone hit you, didn’t they? Who was it?” Aragorn asked quietly. He held Faramir tight against his chest to ensure he wouldn’t escape his grasp again and examined the scar with his fingers in the dim light, “It looks like a scar caused by something small and sharp, not a knife or an arrow, but too deep to be just a fist. It looks like – a –ring.”

Faramir turned his head away and tried to wriggle out of Aragorn’ s grasp. Aragorn ruthlessly held him in place, ignoring the grunt of pain as the pressure fell on the healing cut on the waist.

“A sharp ring,” Aragorn continued, his eyes narrowing, and he sucked his breath in sharply as he realised that only one person could have done it.

“Dene –“ he started off and stopped as Faramir raised a pair of alarmed eyes to his face, enough to tell him he had deduced correctly, “Why did he hit you? And that too so hard that it cut deep enough to leave a scar.”

The distraught face turned away again, seeking the comfort of his body.

“He thought Boromir had died,” came the muffled reply.

“He was angry with you because of that?” Aragorn knew Denethor could be unreasonable but this seemed going too far.

The quiet voice came filled with sorrow, “No, he was angry with himself for sending Boromir. He wished he had sent me, but he hadn’t you see, so he thought if Boromir had not gone, he would be alive. He was – he was - grieving deeply.”

So much to wish you were dead instead! Aragorn thought to himself angrily. Faramir had not said it, but the words he had not said were only too clear to Aragorn, who had come to understand each expression and gesture that the man in his arms delivered.

“And then what did he do?” he asked gently, hoping Denethor had had the sense to realise his error.

“He sent me away.”

“He sent you away?” Aragorn demanded, “Did he say nothing else?”

Faramir’s face remained buried in his chest, “I fell against the mantelpiece, and my mother’s vase fell off it. He was so - angry. He told me – to –to leave and not return until he called.”

His tunic felt wet and he realised it was the wetness of tears. He had no words to say. Denethor had died soon after by his own hand, and almost taken Faramir along, an experience that had left the younger son both comforted and bitter. Comforted that his father’s love had finally shone through, and bitter at the method it had taken to show through. They had told him of it after the war. Mithrandir, the grey pilgrim had told him softly of everything, while his uncle and Boromir had sat by. But, any reaction Faramir had shown had been in private, to himself.

Aragorn had heard of the tense relationships in the steward’s family, and of how Denethor and Faramir had rarely got along well, and he had been very glad to see the closeness between the two brothers. Aragorn had been very young when his own father had died but Elrond the lord of Imaldris had taken him under his wing and brought him up as a son and never let him feel the loss. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how it might feel to have a father who preferred to ignore the existence of his own son.

Faramir was still sobbing silently into his tunic.

“I let Boromir get hurt. If it were not for me, father would still be alive. I should have gone in Boromir’s stead. It is my fault. I should not have listened.”

“Ssh,” Aragorn said helplessly. His simple question had taken an unexpected turn, one he had no idea how to handle.

They finally fell asleep in each other’s arms under the light of the few stars that lingered in the sky.

Faramir woke first. The sun had yet to rise, but the sky was lightening above them. He gently pushed away Aragorn’ s arms and stood up, realising suddenly that he had somehow been divested of his clothes. The previous night’s memories returned to him, and he groaned as he remembered what had happened. He was still confused, half ecstatic from the memory of Aragorn’ s kisses and touches, and very annoyed with himself for weeping like a babe in his arms.

He rose wincing as his sore muscles protested, and picked up his damp clothes from near the opening. They were damp but still drier than the night before. The chill in the air made him shiver so he wanted to cover up as soon as possible. He heard a soft footfall behind him as he knelt down to pick up his clothes. Before he could turn around however, the softness of an old cloak fell across his shoulders and back, and he looked up into Aragorn’ s gently smiling face.

“How do you feel now?”

He nodded quietly. Aragorn’ s arms still lay over his shoulder. And their faces were at brushing distance. Two hungry mouths met and they fell against the moss-lined floor near the pool. The cloak fell to the ground and Aragorn was on top of him, ruthlessly kissing him. He felt the soft, damp moss against his back but ignored it. Aragorn’ s kiss spread warmth through him such as he had never experienced before. The other man’s rough clothes rubbed against his skin, adding to his excitement. The surface under him was sticky and wet, but he ignored it even as it clung to his skin.

“Aragorn,” he murmured reverentially, as they rolled over on the floor, his legs wrapping themselves around the other man.

Aragorn groaned suddenly, “What is this thing?” he asked staring at the green residue sticking to his fingers.

“Moss.”

Aragorn sighed and pulled himself loose. Then he leant over him and kissed him lightly all over his face. Above them through the opening, the first light of day began to shine through, falling on his upturned face. Aragorn brought his hand to the youthful face, and lightly stroked the soft cheek. Faramir rose to a sitting position with a sigh, making a face as he realised his bare body was now covered in the slimy green mix. Aragorn stood up, and searched for the strips of cloth he had used the night before. Wetting them, he helped Faramir move onto a dry rock and clean up, checking the healing injuries from the arrows thoroughly to see that they had not been affected by the moss before he sent his strong hands lingering over each spot on the younger man’s lower back and thighs that the green residue clung to.

They had just finished getting Faramir into his damp clothing when the faint sounds filtered in through the tunnel. Someone was approaching the rock formation.

Chapter 9

Aragorn reached for his sword, but Faramir stayed his hand, as voices floated along the tunnel.

“Mablung! Damord! Anborn!” he called out.

Soon, the little cave had become a reunion point for a small group of Ithilien rangers with their captain, a move that almost left their king happily ignored. Aragorn watched with a loving smile as the young man he had grown so fond of was greeted with delight by his men. Faramir responded with characteristic quiet happiness, until all of them noticed their liege too stood there with them, and dropped onto their knees, even as Aragorn smiled widely, and waved his hand at them to rise.

Greetings and explanations were hurriedly exchanged as the men left the cave for the ranger’s camp near another refuge. All through the morning, Aragorn and Faramir sat in the camp and listened to the rangers report the level of activity they faced due to renewed Orc attacks or from stray groups of outsiders. Aragorn watched as Faramir spoke to his men with his usual quiet efficiency intermingled with the obvious pride he felt for them. And the obvious regard in which his men held him. After sending the rangers off to their duties, Faramir requested Mablung to stay back so that they could decide on troop requirements and other logistic issues.

The camp was in a different refuge - another cave, which Faramir told Aragorn was as large as the one at Henneth Annûn. But this one was simply hidden in the rocks and had no ponds or lakes nearby. The ground, Aragorn noted, absently was completely dry and hard. As they talked to Mablung, he noted that the tiredness was creeping back into the younger man’s voice. And he noticed that Mablung seemed to have noted the same thing.

Around noon, after they had had some food and ale, he turned to Faramir, “That’s enough for now. Get some rest. You will need it before we return.”

Faramir seemed ready to protest when Mablung spoke up, “Yes Captain, there’s a pallet at the back of the cave. You could lie down for a while.”

“I don’t –”

“You should. The water was very cold, and so is the air,” declared Aragorn and Mablung gave him a thankful glance.

Faramir didn’t protest again, and Aragorn realised with not little worry that he probably was quite exhausted. Placing a hand against his forehead he was relieved to see that it felt alright. Tucking the younger man under the blankets, he joined Mablung at a makeshift table, and continued the discussion they had been having, in a very soft tone. When they were done, he adroitly steered the conversation towards Faramir and spent the next hour and a half listening to the lieutenant talk about how he’d see Faramir grow from an inexperienced young man into a captain of rangers. Mablung had been with the company even before Faramir had joined, and had been like a mentor to him.

He spoke of Faramir’s maturing as a soldier, of the day he first killed someone, and how he had reacted to it, of how much he loved his life in Ithilien and how much he loved his brother. And Aragorn found he was listening attentively and learning a few more things about the sleeping man, and getting fonder of him by each minute.

When Faramir awoke two hour later, he felt refreshed and much more energetic, and found to his consternation that he had no work to do because all the plans they had discussed for the company’s requirements had been drafted out while he was sleeping and now the papers lay stacked in front of the king who was happily smoking his pipe and listening to Mablung talk. And to his horror, he realised that Mablung was talking of the day he had fallen at Osgiliath, while Minas Tirith held out against the dark forces, waiting for Rohan to come to their aid. Aragorn listened gravely as Mablung spoke of fighting the fell forces, until Faramir interrupted them. He was still uncomfortable speaking of it. They had feted him as a hero for leading his forces in that battle, but as far as he was concerned the real heroes were two halflings from the north and the king and steward of the realm.

Aragorn smiled at him as he joined them, “We should leave soon, sire” he said without preamble, “Boromir will probably send out half the army if we are even half a minute later than the time we said we would return.”

They borrowed horses from the rangers, fast steeds that moved at twice the speed their horses had taken the day before, and reached the city as dusk fell over it. Lamps were being lit all over. At the gate, Boromir and the others greeted them. Their changed horses were not commented upon; as everyone assumed the other pair had been too tired to undertake the return journey. When they all sat down to eat, Faramir spoke of the broken saddle strap. Seeing the servants enter with the food, he became quiet, and Aragorn suggested they talk of it after food in his study. So, they spoke instead of the Orc attack, while the others listened with worry.

“How do you think it happened?” Boromir said, as soon as they had gathered there.

“It was cut,” Faramir stated emphatically, “It looked frayed, but it was clear someone had made a cut to the strap first to weaken it.”

“Someone who has easy access to the stables,” Legolas pondered.

“All the city does, these were not from the royal stables,” Faramir told him.

“But local knowledge is still needed is it not?” Legolas asked.

Boromir nodded slowly, “So, it was either a local or a spy. Which one?”

“A spy? From Harad, do you think?” Gimli asked.

“Yes. Or even Khand, but my worry is if it is one of the locals. Why?” Boromir asked suddenly, “Why target Aragorn?”

“Because he’s the king,” Gimli said.

“Yes, so why target the king? What can one of the subjects have against Aragorn?”

Aragorn maintained silence all through listening to everyone, but contributing nothing.

“It cannot be an objection to having a king at all,” Faramir voiced the thought uppermost in all their minds, “Or they would have acted earlier. All this has happened very recently. So it must be instigated by some recent action that someone in the city disapproves of.”

“And if there is no such action?” Gimli asked.

“Then it is the work of spy. Whoever this person is had access into the palace, we must remember that, and knew that we were going to use horses from outside the royal stables. It is someone either in the household or in the higher ranks of Gondor.”

“But why?” Gimli persisted, “What could have happened that has suddenly induced someone to try and hurt Aragorn?”

“Harad!” Boromir cried out, “the peace talks.”

Everyone turned to him, and Aragorn leant forward frowning, “You think someone is opposed to peace?”

“With Harad? Yes,” Boromir stated, “Do you not remember how most of your council is against it. All those old fogies like Eredil will never trust Harad enough to want peace with them.”

“Eredil,” Gimli said thoughtfully stroking his chin.

“It could be anyone,” Faramir reminded him.

“But Eredil is most vocal about his disapproval,” Legolas stated.

“Well, what do we do? We cannot have the councillors being shadowed all day. It would cause an uproar if they were to find out,” Faramir said.

“No, we cannot,” Aragorn said firmly, “We have no conclusive proof against anyone. These acts could be by anyone in this household.”

“Not the household. We know all the servants,” Boromir said promptly.

“Reasoning can change,” Faramir told him.

“On the day the arrows were shot at you, Eredil was in the citadel at the same time,” Boromir said.

“So were Mardinel, and Firiel, and Tarlong and many I do not remember of now. It is not enough,” Aragorn said emphatically.

“And someone like Eredil would not do such a thing himself. He would get another to do it for him,” Faramir said.

“Yes, but even if it was someone else, he would still have to enter the citadel with ease, would he not?” Boromir mused.

“Whatever you say, but I will certainly keep a closer eye on the council members from today,” Legolas declared, and Gimli added consent.

“And I will get some my most trusted men to start checking into the actions of the entire household and the council,” Boromir said.

“If this is indeed Harad, there might be trouble when their envoy comes,” Faramir said suddenly.

“We will have to sort the issue out before he comes then,” Aragorn said calmly, “now let us discuss Ithilien.”

When they finally withdrew for bed at night, Faramir was the last one to slip out. Aragorn smiled at him gently, and taking his weary face in his hands, told him to go to sleep. Faramir obeyed, his arm was hurting him again. When he reached his chamber, he found Boromir waiting for him.

“How do you feel?” his brother demanded, “Aragorn said you might feel fevered because you fell into the water, and that you fought those Orcs despite your injury, and you have ridden very fast today.”

“I shall be fine,” he replied reassuringly, happy to see that his brother did not seem angry with him. He grasped Boromir’s arm gently knowing that his brother hated any display of emotion. To his surprise, Boromir suddenly gave him a small hug, and gently ran his hand through his hair, an action he had not displayed since Faramir’s early childhood.

“Sleep well,” he said softly and then left.

The next day, feeling much better than he had for the past week and more, he watched as Tarlong and Boromir sat and discussed strengthening Aragorn’ s guard some more. Aragorn simply groaned and left the room. Legolas and Gimli entered at the same time, and stared after their friend as he left shaking his head, followed by two armed guards. After Tarlong had left, the three sat and talked while Faramir listened. They listed out each person in the household and in the council, listened as Boromir discussed what he knew of their past history, and wondered if he or she could be the assassin since by now they had concluded that the archer was definitely one who could enter and leave easily. Within a short while the exercise had reduced to a joke as Boromir’s recollection of one particular councillor took on a particularly sordid hue, and soon all of them were laughing madly.

Finally when they had calmed somewhat, Faramir turned to his brother, “Have you spoken to the men?”

Boromir nodded, “For the next two days they will be intensively following the movements of all within suspicion. After all it is barely thirty people, ten councillors and twenty of the household staff, including the kitchen staff. I have also learned something from some of the old army records. Lord Eredil was at one time the best archer Minas Tirith boasted of.”

“That does not say anything,” Faramir protested.

“No, unfortunately, it does not,” Boromir sighed, “For, some years later, that title went to another, Lord Saracel from the council,” he rose at that, “I must leave shortly.”

The new battlements had been built in the port of Cair Andros and Boromir had wanted to check on them personally. He was to return the next morning and had meanwhile even told Aragorn that he should not leave the citadel at all.

Aragorn had raised an eyebrow at him and then when Legolas and Gimli had joined Boromir in his chorus glared at all three of them. Faramir had simply watched the proceedings bemused. Finally, Legolas rode out with Boromir to Cair Andros after the noon meal, and Gimli joined his kin for another night out in town. Aragorn had had enough of them hovering around him, and had threatened to ride off escortless unless they stopped behaving like his personal guard, of which, as he pointed out, he already had two. Seeing him in a foul mood, his friends had left him alone for the night, after requesting Faramir to keep an eye on him. And Faramir had solemnly promised that he would, inducing a gleam in his king’s eye that he found very exciting.

Later in the evening as the shadows began to fall, Faramir returned after finishing his work at the quartermaster’s to find the palace quiet and nearly empty. Aragorn had requested an early meal, and dismissed the servants. They ate quietly, just the two of them. After they had eaten, Aragorn rose, “Would you join me for some wine, Faramir?”

“Certainly sire,” Faramir replied, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. He would join Aragorn for a lot more, if he would just ask. And Aragorn did.

“In my bedchamber,” he said softly. Faramir nodded silently.

They sat with empty wine glasses in hand; neither had had more than a spot to drink. Taking Faramir’s glass and placing it away, Aragorn pulled him up from his chair gently and stood in front of him. They stood in front of each other silently for a few seconds just drinking in each other’s sight.

And then Aragorn moved. He reached out and tugged at the bindings of Faramir’s tunic, pulling them loose, and then helped him remove the tunic. Then he undid the string of the leggings, and pulled them swiftly down even as Faramir stood with his eyes half-closed, a rapt expression on his face as Aragorn deliberately ran a finger lightly along his inner thigh. Rising up he motioned for him to step out of the fallen clothes, and watched as the younger man obeyed, showing just a slight trace of self-consciousness at having his entirely naked body exposed to another man. Aragorn stared back at the figure he had held in his arms in that cave for an entire night.

His heart fluttering a little, Faramir silently moved towards Aragorn, and reached for the long robe he wore. Aragorn gently pried his fingers away. Faramir stared back at him in dismay, and opened his mouth to speak. Aragorn tenderly placed a finger on the pale lips to silence him, and then lowered him with great care against the pillows. Sitting by Faramir, he ran a hand through his hair, before leaning down to kiss him lightly on the lips. With infinite care, he then moved on to kiss him first on his neck, then his shoulder, then across his chest and stomach. Straightening up, he glanced at his beloved’s face, and smiled as he noticed the mingled expression of anticipation and desire.

He stood up, and shrugged himself out of the robe, letting it slide to the floor in one fluid motion revealing himself for the first time to the younger man whose eyes devoured the sight of his naked body hungrily. Faramir stared at him, and then sat up reaching for him. Aragorn came and stood by the bed while Faramir knelt on it and ran his hands all over his skin. Tentative fingers roamed his chest and stomach and down his back, before the hungry eyes settled on his lower body. The hesitant hands rested along his muscled flanks, and well-sculpted backside before coming to his throbbing erection. Aragorn shuddered briefly at the touch, and grabbing Faramir by his bony shoulders pivoted him a little before joining him on the bed. The younger man moved forward, and began to slide his hands over Aragorn’ s shaft. He stroked it hesitantly at first and then as he realised what the touch was doing to Aragorn, his movements became more skilful, the long, dexterous fingers running lovingly up and down the engorged length, until Aragorn finally spilt his seed all over his fingers, softly muttering Faramir’s name over and over again.

The king moaned passionately and pulled his lover down onto the bed with him and began kissing him, sucking at his mouth. He wrapped his arms around his slender lover, hugging him tight and set to explore his body with his hands once again. His splayed fingers came to rest over the Faramir’s taut backside, and pushing him onto his back, he began to spread the legs apart while stroking his arousal gently.

Faramir felt the strong, callused hands run over his lower body and gently take his length in them and stroke him before letting him go, as the fingers began exploring lower. Each touch of those wonderful fingers sent him to a new height of ecstasy. He was breathing with difficulty now as Aragorn’ s very presence began to overwhelm him. Aragorn teased his hand in between his legs, and began fingering him lightly with almost feather like touches.

“Aragorn,” he cried out a full-throated cry, as he clutched at the sheets. He felt he could bear into longer; he was going to burst, “Please, Aragorn, do not make me wait, I cannot.”

“Ssh, love. We must go slowly,” Aragorn admonished him gently, as he spread his legs further apart, and continued sliding his finger up and down the crack, “I must prepare you properly, or it will hurt.”

“Hurry!” Faramir almost sobbed out, staring at Aragorn out of large grey eyes, still clutching the sheets with his fingers.

Aragorn smiled, and then swung off the bed. Faramir groaned loudly, a guttural sound filled with desire and want, that simply sent a fire racing through Aragorn’ s own aroused body. Quickly he went over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a small vial. Pouring the liquid onto his fingers, he reclaimed his position on the bed, and then gently, once more, slid his finger along the crack.

“Have you ever before -?” Aragorn asked him.

“Not – not this far,” Faramir murmured softly. He had touched and been touched by other men, and sometimes laid close to them at night all in his soldiering days when the tensions of war made men turn to those closest for succour. But he had never been made love to by one or made love to one himself. Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.

“Turn around,” he suggested.

Faramir obeyed, keeping his head turned sideways so that Aragorn could see his profile, and the desire clearly written on his face. Aragorn rubbed the oil all over his hands, and pushing the legs apart, set to applying it along his crack. Faramir moaned deeply. Aragorn bent and gently kissed the scar on his shoulder, and then began a series of kisses all the way down the spine. Slowly, tentatively, he placed a fingertip against the tight entrance, and gently rubbed the oil in. Another guttural moan came out of the figure under him. As tenderly as he could, he slid the finger in little by little, all the while kissing Faramir’s back. His finger was soon completely inside the tight, hot tract, and Faramir looked rapturous. A second finger followed the first causing just a little twinge of sweat on the pale brow, even as the kisses caused the lips to crease into a marvelling smile. A third finger however caused a small cry of pain that made him reach up and stroke the thin face. He thrust his fingers in slower and slower, painfully stretching the muscles. Beads of sweat stood out on Faramir’s brow as he sucked his breath in.

Aragorn watched in concern, and stopped thrusting.

“No! Go on!” Faramir cried out, gasping.

Aragorn smiled, and then pulled out his fingers. Stooping to brush Faramir’s head with his lips, he pulled him up, and turning him around, lifted his hips off the bed with one hand, forcing him to wrap his legs tightly around him. Pulling him close, he prepared to enter him, resting the tip of his shaft lightly against Faramir’s entrance. He wrapped one arm around his back, and used the other to tease Faramir’s throbbing erection. The younger man’s breathing was coming out in short heavy rasps now, and his head was thrown back, exposing a long bony neck that Aragorn immediately started kissing.

“Hurry, please!” Faramir wailed out as Aragorn continued to tease him by hovering and not penetrating. Slowly and steadily, still kissing lightly, Aragorn pushed in a little, and closed his eyes as the tight muscles closed around the tip of his inflamed member, and aroused him even further.

A sharp rapping sounded on the outside door. Almost by reflex, the lovers pulled apart, Faramir grimacing at the sudden, painful movement. They stared at each other nearly frozen. The knocking sounded again.

“Who is it?” Aragorn called out in an irritated tone while Faramir gave out a groan that was almost a sob, as he curled over hugging himself.

“Sire, an urgent missive from Rohan has arrived,” came the voice from the other side of the closed door.

They stared at each other again, and then Faramir nodded silently. Missives from Rohan, and urgent ones could not be ignored lightly. Aragorn sighed, and gently stroking Faramir’s face called out, “I will be there.”

He pulled on his robe even as Faramir slid off the bed slowly, flushing a little and looking extremely disappointed.

“Soon, dear heart,” Aragorn said gently and reassuringly. Faramir gave him a small, almost shy smile, and pulled on a robe he found lying near the bed. He coloured slightly as he realised he had just soiled Aragorn’ s sheets.

When Aragorn returned from the door, he had a strange look on his face, and a piece of parchment in his hand. Faramir moved towards him worried. Aragorn did not seem to notice him as he stood reading the parchment, his face creased in thought. Faramir came and stood by him, his glance straying onto the parchment.

A single word leapt out at him, and heart beating mercilessly, he read the whole missive.

Aragorn suddenly realised warm breath was falling on his neck and looked up to Faramir’s almost white face. And then back at the message that he realised the younger man had also read. The missive from Edoras to inform them that Lady Arwen and her escort had reached their court, and would set out soon to arrive in Minas Tirith for her wedding with Aragorn.

Faramir backed away towards the door, his face a mask of desperation. Aragorn stared at him silently, rooted to the spot, as the younger man finally backed up against the heavy wooden door, and then turned and stumbled out.

Faramir’s last thought as he fell asleep was to wonder how those entrancingly beautiful lips would feel on the rest of his body.

Chapter 10

Aragorn continued to stare at the wooden door that had now swung shut. He suddenly felt his legs wobble and stumbled over to his bed, his mind thrown into utter confusion. Arwen! Arwen was coming. Why did he keep forgetting that? He stared at his bed forlornly, and realised suddenly that the sheets were damp. Faramir! He stared at the soiled sheets and then sank his head into his hands, his mind in complete turmoil.

Faramir threw himself onto his bed breathing heavily. He had had to maintain a stoic appearance all through the distance between his room and Aragorn’ s especially when he came across the guard in the king’s hallway. Thankfully the light had been too dim for the soldier to notice anything untoward in Faramir’s appearance. They had simply nodded at each other and gone their way.

He still could not believe it. How could he have forgotten the king was betrothed? Why had he entertained such a hope? Had he but thought with greater clarity, he would have realised that to fall in love with Aragorn was the stupidest thing he could do. He loved another. He had probably just realised how Faramir felt about him after the way he had wantonly thrown himself onto him so many times. Aragorn was just being his usual generous self and giving him what he desired. How could he been so foolish as to think they could take it any further? The king loved Arwen. Everyone knew their tale. It had endeared the future queen greatly to the female populace because they considered it very romantic.

What had he done? He had almost tried to destroy a marriage. He sat up and hugged his knees to his chest resting his head on them wearily. Part of his mind kept screaming at him for his stupidity in falling in love with one who was unobtainable while the other part simply replayed the sensation of being with Aragorn, the feel of his lips on his, of his hands touching him, of giving him pleasure, of almost being made love to by such a wonderful person. He loved Aragorn, there was no doubt of that in his mind. His heart kept screaming it out every second.

But Aragorn loved Arwen.

He suddenly realised he wearing one of Aragorn’ s robes. Standing up trembling all the while, he pulled it off and held it in his hands, staring at it, his eyes filling up. He brought the robes close to his face. It smelt of the man he loved. He would know that smell anywhere. It reminded him of the warmth he could find in the king’s arms, of the affection that radiated from the grey eyes when he looked at them, of the feel of strong arms wrapped protectively around him.

He would never feel all of those again. He could not! He threw the robe angrily into a corner of the room, cleaned himself up and pulling on a nightshirt decided to try and sleep.

Faramir’s clothes lay on the floor – a dark olive green tunic and black leggings. He picked up the tunic, fingering the almost invisible embroidery on the collar. He hadn’t noticed it earlier because Faramir’s shoulder-length hair had fallen over the collar. He closed his eyes wearily still holding the tunic, feeling the fine, soft material under his fingers.

These last few days, he had held Faramir close to him so often and he had enjoyed it. Enjoyed it so much that Arwen had slipped from his mind. It needed just one look at the younger man to set his heart racing and make him want to wrap his arms around him. Faramir had originally intrigued him. The assassination attempt and its aftermath had simply confirmed everything he’d seen and guessed about him. And the closer they got to each other, he found his feelings caught up in a maelstrom. Now, he wanted nothing more than to hold him in his arms forever and kiss him and make love to him. And he knew Faramir liked it too. He could not forget how Faramir had literally screamed in desire. He remembered the raw want in the eyes, the hoarse voice that had demanded him.

Faramir had trusted him enough to let him go so far. He had seen it in the other man’s eyes. And now how betrayed he must be feeling. Aragorn knew he should do something, he just didn’t know what. Arwen was giving up her immortality for him. They had dreamt of this day, of making a life together in happier times. And now when that day was drawing near he found his heart drawn towards another, but at the same time he still seemed to love Arwen.

Aragorn was terribly, terribly confused.

Faramir found he couldn’t sleep. He just kept remembering Aragorn’ s arms around him, warm and comforting. He had always been used to hiding his feelings and retreating into a shell when hurt. But the last few days with Aragorn had spoilt him and he craved the comfort of having someone near him.

Knowing he would never get any sleep this way, and knowing there would be work to attend to attend to once Boromir returned on the morrow, he rose and rummaged in the store of herbs he had in his room. He found what he wanted easily, although he usually preferred not to use it.

Aragorn finally arose tiredly from where he sat. He would have to return the clothes to Faramir’s room. He left his room silently, noticing with no little annoyance that he was still being heavily guarded.

He knocked softly on Faramir’s door but there was no response from inside. Finding the door unlocked, he pushed it slightly and poked his head in. Faramir lay curled up on the bed, his eyes closed and his breathing relaxed. Finding him asleep gave Aragorn greater courage to enter. He draped the tunic and leggings over a chair and walked up to the bed, and knelt down by it. His eyes took in the herbs lying by the bedside and he deduced that Faramir had taken recourse to a sleeping draught. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully, his dark lashes standing out against his skin, and the traces of what looked like a stray tear lining his cheek. Aragorn lifted a hand to brush his cheek but hovered indecisively not wanting to awaken him. Finally he sighed softly and sat back on his heels awhile just watching the rise and fall of his chest.

The blankets had slipped to his waist, and Aragorn realised that there was a draught in the room. He pulled the thick blanket over the sleeping man, careful not to wake him. Faramir murmured something unintelligible, but didn’t wake up. Aragorn stood indecisively for a minute. He really wanted to hold Faramir again and kiss him. He wanted to run his hand through his soft hair and let him rest his head against his chest as he had done earlier. He wanted to slip off that nightshirt and run his hands up and down the bare body, shower kisses upon it and complete what had been interrupted.

Then the reason for the interruption came back to him. He sighed softly again and let his eyes rove the room, until they fell upon the robe thrown carelessly in the corner. He felt his breath catch.

“You must have been angry at me,” he said a little sadly, to the sleeping figure, “And well you should be. Sleep well, dear one.”

Picking up the robe, he walked quietly out of the room.

Boromir and Legolas returned the next day in time for the noon meal. Faramir had spent the morning talking to Tarlong who seemed to be getting increasingly frustrated at the fact that the assassin still remained free. He had however managed to make a list of all who had been in the citadel the day the attack had taken place and tried to draw some sort of a pattern of who had been where.

He was looking at it while waiting for the others to join him at the table, and groaning loudly when Boromir and Legolas returned, followed by Gimli who had met them outside.

“What is it?” Boromir asked a little amused, for Faramir had thrown the parchment onto the table and sat frowning angrily now.

Legolas picked up the long parchment filled out in Tarlong’s neat and tiny handwriting.

“A list of all within the citadel on the day of the attack?” Gimli asked as he read over his friend’s shoulder.

“Yes!” Faramir ran a hand through his hair.

“This is practically everyone in the council! And almost all of the servants. And many names I cannot recognise. So many people?”

“It is a large building,” Gimli said in a wise tone.

Faramir scowled at him before replying, “And most of them have none to vouch for where they were during the attack.”

“But should it not be possible to find out who was near the rooms during the attack. Most of these people it appears were at the other side of the citadel, in the courts outside or in the meeting rooms downstairs. The archer fired from one of the upper floors in the living quarters, did he not?”

“It will be difficult. We are the only people inhabiting those rooms currently. That is five of us,” Boromir said, “they are deserted otherwise, and there would have been no one on the look-out.”

“Eredil and Saracel are both mentioned, I see,” Legolas said thoughtfully.

“And Eredil claims to have been in one of the studies looking at land reports while Saracel claims he was in the library annex. And there was no one with them who would know.”

“Your men are keeping an eye on them?” Legolas asked Boromir.

“Yes, I should be hearing from them by this evening.”

“The sooner we find him the better,” Gimli muttered.

“We will,” Boromir assured him, “But until then, we should look out for Aragorn.”

“He will certainly like that!” Gimli quipped sarcastically.

Legolas shook his head resignedly and turned to Faramir, “do you remember who the first people were to reach Aragorn’ s side after the attack.”

Faramir knitted his brow in confusion. He remembered there had been someone trying to pull him away from Aragorn, no to help him up. There had been voices around him but he had been in pain and he had been so worried for Aragorn that he had not really noticed. And the next few days had been so confusing, he had never really found out who else had been on the balcony with them.

“Tarlong, I think,” he said remembering the man’s voice, and Legolas nodded, for Tarlong had been the one to inform them that day, “and –“

“Boromir, Legolas, you are back from Cair Andros!”

They turned as Aragorn entered the room and greeted him. Faramir looked away feeling his heart catch at the sight. He had not seen the king in the morning as they had eaten separately and he had been partly glad. But he also knew he could not entirely avoid Aragorn all the time and the sooner he faced him the better. But he still wasn’t prepared for the way he felt when his eyes fell on his king. He could never forget how beautiful Aragorn had looked last night.

“I hear the escort has set out from Rohan?” Gimli asked with a wicked smile. Faramir felt his heart lurch. He knew which escort Gimli referred to, and hearing about did not help him.

“I suppose all the city of it knows by now?” Aragorn asked seemingly carelessly, “Yes they have left. And will arrive here in a week’s time. They travel at a very fast speed it seems to me.”

“Arwen apparently cannot wait to see you,” Legolas teased him as the food began to be served.

“And Aragorn pretends to be unmoved but we know he cannot wait either,” Boromir added cunningly.

Faramir placed his hands on his lap as the soup was served.

“And Boromir when will you get married?” Gimli asked his voice booming across at the steward.

“Soon, I hope. I look forward to having some fun at his expense,” Aragorn muttered.

“Marriage? Nay, my friend, I am a warrior, us warriors are married to our weapons,” he said to a chorus of groans from Legolas and Gimli, “Ask the elf to get married. He is far too old.”

Legolas raised a carefully crafted eyebrow, “I am still considered young among our kind. Now the dwarf-“

“Then that leaves Faramir,” Gimli interposed hastily.

“Ah yes, Faramir. He will surely make some girl very happy,” Boromir said affectionately as his brother glanced up confused at suddenly becoming the topic of conversation.

Faramir’s gaze fell upon Aragorn who looked completely inscrutable. He turned his head away unhappily and tried to head off a conversation that was making him increasingly uncomfortable. He had found the one he wanted to spend his life with, but how could he reveal that it was a man and not just any man, but the king himself.

“Is not Éomer’s sister a good friend of his?” Legolas was asking Boromir with mock innocence. Faramir nearly spilt the soup on himself.

“Aye I heard they spent much time together in the gardens of healing,” that was Gimli again.

“There was nothing else we could do,” Faramir found himself protesting, “The warden would not let us leave the premises.”

All he got in reply was a chorus of coughs and sniggers.

Aragorn watched Faramir being teased. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable and had almost splashed his soup onto his clothes at least twice. The more he saw his discomfort, the more he wanted to talk to him. Having slept over the events of the last night, he had come to the conclusion that Faramir trusted him greatly and felt for him. And he knew he himself felt something for the younger man. He was till confused. And Faramir was refusing to meet his gaze. They needed to talk. It was important that he explain things to Faramir, but explain exactly what he did not know. And how he could explain what was happening, he definitely did not know. But he had to talk to Faramir. He had acted on impulse without thinking rationally and Faramir was hurt because of that. If he didn’t sort out the matter he would end up hurting everyone involved.

The teasing around him continued mercilessly, only to stop near the end of the meal when a messenger entered. Aragorn sighed as he took the missive, remembering how another missive last night had created such turmoil. He read it swiftly and turned to his expectant friends.

“The emissary from Harad will be arriving with his party in a week’s time,” he said flatly.

“The same time as -?” Gimli started off.

“Yes,” Aragorn nodded, “We cannot put them off. We’ll just have to fix the discussions after the wedding.”

“But Aragorn, his arrival will only goad anyone against the treaty to act,” Boromir said.

“We will have to be prepared for all eventualities then,” Aragorn said with finality. It seemed to him that his friends were exchanging looks and deciding on something, but he was in no mood to bother.

Pushing away his plate he stood, “Boromir, Legolas if you could let me know of the news from Cair Andros? Shall we meet in half an hour in my study?”

They left the room and discarding the normal practice of leading them out of the room, Aragorn tarried a little. He slipped into a quiet hallway nearby and waited. As he had expected, Faramir had been the last to leave. He grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him into an empty room. Kicking the door shut behind him, he turned towards Faramir.

“Faramir, I –“ grey eyes stared apprehensively back at him and he realised he was still gripping the younger man’s arm tight. He maintained the hold and stared back into Faramir’s eyes. The younger man held the gaze for a fraction of a second and then dropped his face forward.

“Oh Faramir,” he said softly, cupping the chin in his other hand and lifting it. Faramir tried to turn his face away but he wouldn’t let him, “Look at me.” He carefully avoided adding any endearments much as he would have liked to.

Aragorn thought he could see wetness glistening in the corners of his eyes. The lower lip seemed to tremble a little. He let go of the elbow and slinked his arm around Faramir’s waist instead, still holding his chin up. They were standing within a hair’s breadth of each other, so close that he could feel the warmth of Faramir’s breath on his face. Any closer and their lips would be touching. Faramir’s eyes gazed back at him warily; they had the same apprehensive look as that of a tiny animal cornered in a trap.

Gently, he kissed the creased forehead, “I am sorry, Faramir. I -“ he rubbed one hand across Faramir’s lower back soothingly, and stroked his hair with the other as he spoke softly.

“No,” said Faramir very quietly, pushing away his hand, “We should not have.”

Aragorn took in the reddening face and slightly hitched breathing and silently cursed their ill-fated predicament. He was not sure what he was going to say so he had decided to speak whatever came to mind. But Faramir, it seemed, was not going to give him that chance.

“Lady Arwen arrives in a week,” Faramir continued, his tone completely flat.

“Yes,” Aragorn said dully, in agreement.

“May I leave now, Sire? My services will be required. There is still much work to be done,” it was his earlier polite and formal tone.

“Yes, you may,” Aragorn said quietly.

When he left the room a few seconds after Faramir, he came across a very annoyed trio of elf, dwarf and steward.

“Where did you vanish?” Boromir demanded, “We thought you might be with Faramir but he was alone.”

He suddenly guessed he was probably going to have someone around him at all times and groaned inwardly at the prospect.

Chapter 11

Faramir stumbled back to his room where he sat heavily on his bed and took a few deep breaths. He could still feel the tingling sensation on his forehead where Aragorn had just kissed him.

And the touch of those wonderful hands on his back. He gave out a strangled sob at the thought. Once the effect of the herbs had worn out the night before, he had woken up, and found his memories full of Aragorn. When he tried to go back to sleep he dreamt of Aragorn’ s kisses on his back, of Aragorn’ s hands on his chest and of Aragorn’ s fingers inside him. Just the thought of that sent a wave of pleasure through his body and he found himself cursing. He did not want that1 He did not want to be reminded of the wonderful things Aragorn had done to him. He could never have those again.

“I need to go back to Ithilien,” he found himself rasping out to himself as silent sobs wracked his figure.

He curled up across his bed, heaving unhappily, letting his fingers clench the sheets for support.

All he had now were memories of Aragorn’ s little ‘indiscretion’ with him, for what other word could he give it? But even that indiscretion had remained incomplete.

The rest of the day brought little respite from the bleakness. Boromir called in the men he had deputed to track the movements of the people in the citadel had nothing to report as yet. No one had done anything extraordinary. They now had reams of useless information on the personal habits of all those men, but as Boromir had pointed out, most of such information, their father had already gathered. That at least three councillors spent more time with certain women from the cream of Gondor’s society was a fact recorded in a thin file in what was now Aragorn’ s study. That one of the eldest counsellors, a man who had never shown interest in taking a wife, now had a frequent female visitor half his age was a new fact but not one of much use.

“All we have learnt of is of their love lives,” Boromir snorted, when he met the others, “I had thirty people shadowed for two days, and that is what we learn. Cheating husbands and wedding bells-to-be!”

“It will take time I suppose,” Legolas said but his tone held a note of worry to it.

Did they have enough time?

“Nothing else at all?” Faramir asked despairingly, “No visits outside the city or to a different level than they usually frequent. No lords seen at those pubs in the lowest level where they say no self-respecting people are seen after sundown?”

“None! In fact few have left this circle or the one below, where most of the counsellors live. One of the cooks went out for a while yesterday but that was too meet his grandmother. Mardinel was away briefly today but that was to visit his father’s grave. Eredil it seems simply wandered the streets in the lower levels awhile yesterday in the evening, doing nothing particular. Saracel rode out of the city for a short period but again merely seemed to be seeking air. Another councillor, Gelardos rode out yesterday. We have nothing concrete to go on.”

“What do we do?” Faramir asked worriedly.

“Wait,” Legolas said.

“That is difficult,” Boromir opined, “We have an assassin on the loose.”

“There is no other choice,” the elf repeated unhappily, “but to guard Aragorn closely.”

Then Legolas questioned Faramir again on the events on the day of the assassination attempt, forcing him to think back carefully over whether he had noticed anything untoward.

“I had a feeling,” Faramir said wearily, “Something seemed wrong.”

“But you must have seen something to make you feel so,” Gimli said for what might have been the twentieth time, unable to accept that mere intuition had led Faramir to the balcony, “how could you know he was in danger? Is it not possible that you might have seen something and not realised it?”

“I just knew,” Faramir snapped out finally, “The same way I knew Boromir was in danger when he was attacked by the Orcs.”

Then Boromir made him recount the entire sequence of events yet again, and Faramir shut his eyes trying to string together disjointed vague memories of an immense pain, a tender voice and a loving embrace. Aragorn’ s embrace taking away the pain, Aragorn’ s touch acting as a soothing balm to cover his worry and the immense ache that had filled him then, Aragorn’ s voice full of love and tenderness . . .

He opened his eyes and realised that he was breathing heavily, while Boromir sat by him looking at him out of concerned eyes.

He sank back unhappily as Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “I am sorry. You were hurt badly and the memory must be an unpleasant one. We will not trouble you anymore. You could not have noticed anything.”

Aragorn stood reading the piece of parchment in his hands, trying to concentrate on it. But his head felt heavy and ponderous. So he moved near the window and opened it to let in some fresh air. It was cold outside. There would be no one outside in such weather, he knew, so he wondered if he might not take a small stroll outside to clear his head.

A closer glance however did reveal that someone was there.

He watched the silent figure sitting unmoving upon a cold wooden bench. Just watching him made Aragorn’ s heart ache strongly. But so did the letter he held in his hands, the one that had come with the missives from Rohan, a letter from Arwen.

His eyes strayed toward the garden again. Faramir was still seated there hunched miserably in the cold. A cool breeze flitted through the leaves and he thought he saw the signs of a tremor ripple through the bent shoulders.

His feet moved of their own accord, and he soon found himself silently walking through the small shrubbery that led to the garden Faramir was seated in. He stopped behind a tree when he heard the faint murmuring. Apparently he had not been the only one to notice Faramir’s presence there. The steward of Gondor now sat with his younger brother.

He could hear their words clearly; faint though they were.

“But I do not see why you want to return to Ithilien so soon,” Boromir was saying.

“I need to,” came the reply.

“Why?”

“I cannot stay here, Boromir. The city is – it is stifling. I don’t-“

“Stifling?” Boromir’s voice sounded incredulous at that.

“I can’t take it any longer!”

“You cannot take what?” the steward’s voice still sounded surprised.

“The memories,” came the faint reply, “There are too many memories here. It is – it is hurtful,” came the halting reply.

“Memories, Faramir? What memories are these you speak of that hurt you so much. We have had nothing but good times in our life here!”

“Good times?” Faramir sounded surprised, “Yes, perhaps we have. But not of late.”

Aragorn stiffened at that.

“I do not understand you at all,” Boromir fumed, “are you telling me that you are tiring of the White City?”

“No,” came the response in a shuddering tone, “I tire of being reminded constantly of – of -,” he paused uncertainly before continuing, “I see the fire in my dreams.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Faramir had turned away from his brother’s gaze and Boromir in turn seemed unable to say anything.

“How was it for you while I was away?” the question seemed very sudden.

Faramir must have felt the same way for he did not respond immediately. Aragorn could see him turn towards Boromir in surprise.

“Was it very bad?” Boromir asked softly, “Did father say anything to you?”

“He missed you greatly,” Faramir replied in a colourless tone.

“Did he say anything to you?” Boromir repeated.

“Many things,” Faramir said tiredly, “but why bother with that now? What is over is over.”

“Faramir, what did he say?” the steward’s voice was firm.

“He wished he had not sent you on the quest,” Faramir said dully.

“And?” Boromir prompted, knowing there was more that his brother was not telling him.

“He wished you were not dead, that is all,” with that the younger man turned away from his brother again and continued watching the night sky, “Mithrandir said you had survived when he reached here just before the siege but he thought that was a falsehood.”

Faramir almost cried out as he felt his shoulders being wrenched around. Standing in the shrubbery, Aragorn nearly jumped out, intending to scold Boromir for such rough treatment, but stopped himself just in time.

Faramir was staring back at his brother, his face set.

“What else did he say? Tell me,” commanded Boromir.

“Why, Boromir? Why do you wish to know what will only hurt you?”

“Tell me.”

“Do you really wish to hear that father struck me when I told him I had dreamt of seeing you upon a boat? That he hit me so hard it scarred? That I fell so hard it broke the vase you loved so much? That he wished I had gone in your stead because he thought you were dead? That I agreed to lead the defence of the river because I had no desire to live after that?” there were tears choking through Faramir’s distraught voice.

Aragorn found himself clenching his fists. The younger man’s voice reflected nothing but complete despair.

So did the steward’s, “Faramir, I-“

“If I had not been so rash, he might still be alive, Boromir. My stupidity worsened his mind. It was my fault. If I had not been struck, he might have held on a little longer, at least till your return. If only he had seen you, he would have recovered from his mood. Oh, Boromir, forgive me! It is my fault!”

“No! It is not,” Boromir cried out in horror, and wrapped his arms around his brother’s trembling figure.

“Yes, it is,” came the sobbing voice, “I am useless.”

“No, you’re not!”

“Let me leave,” came the desperate plea, “I cannot take it here anymore.”

“Very well, after the treaty is signed then.”

“Can I not leave earlier?”

“You know you cannot be away during Aragorn’ s wedding! He will be sorely hurt if you do that.”

There was no reply to that statement. Just silence.

Chapter 12

It seemed for the next few days there was talk of nothing but the upcoming wedding. Whether it was the gossip in the local inns or the chatter among the palace servants or the small talk among council members, everything invariably came back to the wedding. Talk of the treaties invariably turned to the wedding too. Everyone in the council knew that the envoy from Harad would arrive on the day of the wedding.

Tarlong was literally on tenterhooks, keeping his men posted around Aragorn day in and day out. No new reports reached them about the assassin, and each evening when the friends met, they found themselves simply cooking up more and more theories.

“Is it just one man or a claque of them?” they often wondered but found no answer.

Boromir’s men diligently kept their quarries in sight only to find that like everyone else around the councillors were all caught up with working on negotiations and treaties, while the servants worked round the clock to prepare for the festivities.

Legolas and Gimli stuck to Aragorn all through the week. It annoyed him but their endless arguments kept him occupied. Boromir when he was not busy with his duties stayed near Aragorn too, and at the same time kept a concerned eye on Faramir. His younger brother seemed to be going through his duties in a daze, making the steward wonder if he had erred in getting Faramir to open up to him.

They had sat quietly in the garden after their little talk. Then he had helped his brother up, for Faramir had seemed completely drained. They had come across Aragorn on their way back inside.

Faramir had stared back at him out of tired but impassive grey eyes.

“Aragorn, is something the matter?” Boromir had asked him.

He shook his head in reply, unwilling to tell them he had been listening to their conversation.

“Let him enjoy his little night-time strolls, Boromir,” came Gimli’s booming voice suddenly, as he leaned down from the balcony he stood upon, “In a few days’ time he will be busy doing other things at night,” the dwarf tittered.

“Yes, more productive things,” Legolas walked out of one of the entrances and joined them by the trees. Boromir joined in the laughter. Aragorn gave a half-smile and turned towards the grey eyes.

Faramir’s face seemed pale; paler than he had ever seen it. And he had shut his eyes and was leaning a little against Boromir’s arms. He opened his eyes a second later and then moving away from Boromir, shrugged a little as he said, “I must take your leave now, the hour is late and I need to wake early on the morrow.” His gaze had barely flickered over Aragorn.

Faramir stared at the papers in his hands. He had reams of paperwork to deal with before he could return to Ithilien. The treaty negotiations would begin in a few days. He was sure that would keep all of them more than busy, so he had to finish all his work now. He had sat down with it, hoping it would occupy his mind, and help him forget.

It had not worked so far. He could not forget the one thing that was the most popular topic of discussion all through the city.

He kept telling himself not to think of it, not to think of Aragorn, or the few snatches of time they had spent together. But he could not. In Aragorn’ s bed a few nights ago, he had been filled with emotions and feelings he had never felt before. And he had thought Aragorn had felt similarly.

All it had taken was one letter to shatter their illusions. What they felt mattered no more. All that mattered was that Aragorn marry and beget an heir. Even that he might have dealt with, but Aragorn loved Arwen. And that only worsened the whole situation.

Or perhaps he was wrong and Aragorn had felt nothing for him barring perhaps, sympathy? Had he been the one to throw himself on his king unnecessarily. Maybe all that Aragorn wanted to do was not hurt him?

Finding himself going nowhere in his thoughts and having not done even a tenth of his work by the time evening had fallen, he finally stacked his papers away and decided to take a weak in the gardens.

He was walking through the hallways with his head bowed down, annoyed with himself for feeling so miserable. But he didn’t have the strength to feel otherwise. Sleeplessness had returned with a vengeance to plague him as though to make up for all the nights of calming sleep he had had. He clamped his teeth purposefully. Those nights were not nights he wished to think of, anymore. They left him feeling bereft as the knowledge of what he was to lose dug deeper and deeper into him. The more he tried to stay away from Aragorn the worse it became when he caught even so much as a glimpse of him. To him it felt like a knife was twisting itself into the core of his heart.

He never realised it when he collided full tilt with a tall figure rounding the passageway.

Aragorn pushed out his hands to balance himself as he felt someone bump right into him. For an entire half-second he wondered if he was being attacked, before his eyes fell on the familiar grey eyes that were riddled in confusion. A small gasp sounded from the younger man’s lips.

Aragorn realised he had one hand against the wall, and the other against Faramir’s back. Faramir’s eyes were still riveted on his face as though hungrily drinking in his sight. He stared back into them, then at the curve of his lips. They were standing within a hair’s breadth of each other. He could feel a heat swirling in his lower belly, at the thought of Faramir’s nearness. Every hair on his body seemed to stand up.

Then the dark head bowed and Faramir stepped a few paces back.

“Faramir,” he began, uncertain of what he wanted to say, unsure of the maelstrom of emotions choking him from within.

“Sire?” came the bland reply. The face remained bowed.

He did not know what to say. What could he say after all? What right had he to say anything at all? He could do nothing in the current situation.

“Sire? Can I be of help?” came the expressionless murmur. This time he looked up as he spoke, his features as blank as his voice.

“No.”

There was no help he could see. Faramir seemed to have decided what to do, so he must simply follow his example. They should forget their few hours together. He would marry Arwen, Faramir would marry someone else, and all this would be forgotten.

“Sire, is that you?” one of his guards rounded the corner, “I thought I saw someone –“

“It is all right,” Aragorn told him as the guard recognised Faramir and bowed to him in greeting.

They departed wordlessly and Aragorn found himself clenching his fists for no reason. Suddenly coming across Faramir had left him feeling very tense. He sighed soundlessly. He loved Arwen. This was Arwen, whom he had pledged himself too, so many years ago, Arwen who would provide him his heir, Arwen whom he had once wanted to spend all his life with.

Thinking of Arwen calmed him but then Faramir would enter his thoughts and he would tense up again. He felt a fire racing through his veins. He could not think of Faramir. He had to be practical. He was a king and he had to marry.

And he knew somehow that Faramir would know and would understand. But that thought gave him no solace. And he knew it would not give Faramir any solace either.

The day of the wedding dawned warm and clear. The streets were bedecked with banners and flowers to welcome the elves who had accompanied Lady Arwen to Minas Tirith. People had gathered to watch them and exclaim over their flawless looks. But the one to capture everyone’s imagination was their future queen herself.

The wedding was to take place later in the day. The preparations had reached a frenzy. Those close to the king were soon tearing their hair in frustration as preparations for the ceremony began to collide with preparations for the envoy’s visit. Aragorn had very wisely been packed off with his foster-father Elrond so that he at least would have no such worries.

In Aragorn’ s study, his friends sat trying to do two or three things at one time. Boromir was going through the envoy’s schedule as well as the daily reports of the commanders. Faramir was rapidly going through the paperwork he had been stalling all these days and at the same time trying to combat the weariness in his limbs from long hours spent lying awake in each night. Gimli and Legolas were reading through the reports from Boromir’s men and at the same time discussing the ale drinking session that had taken place the night before in celebration.

Ale had flowed like water. And no ordinary ale either, but instead the strong variety that Gimli had stockpiled in Minas Tirith especially for such occasions. Faramir had debated over whether to join in or not but had realised that avoiding Aragorn was not going to be the solution.

Instead, avoiding his feelings towards Aragorn he had decided would be the best solution. He was the only one to drink sparingly there. There were only two choices before them – dwarven ale and wine from Dol Amroth. The wine he had never liked. Childhood memories of his father’s breath reeking of that same wine as he ranted at some other minor misdemeanour of his were too strong. Dwarven ale he did not mind, although it was strong. But for some reason, on that day, he was in no mood to drink. He thought later that he might have subconsciously been trying to avoid any loss of control, especially around Aragorn.

Whatever the reason may have been, it took barely an hour for two men, a dwarf and an elf to drink themselves absolutely silly. They cracked absurd jokes and laughed themselves mad over them Faramir found himself laughing along too, for a while able to get away from the emotions that tormented him.

It was while talk centred on the quest that Gimli suddenly asked Aragorn if he’d remembered a song he had been singing in his sleep.

“I don’t sing in my sleep,” Aragorn protested.

“Oh, but you did – something about long hair and the look of Luthien –“

“Nonsense,” Aragorn said hurriedly.

“Oh, is that the poem you once wrote for Arwen,” Legolas asked with big huge eyes.

“Poem?” Boromir nearly choked over his mug.

Faramir turned away from the window where he had been standing.

“Let me see,” Legolas started, “how did it go now – My – my – no – love – no - beloved – my only – oh! Aragorn, you must tell us, I cannot remember how it went.”

“I wrote no poem,” the king of Gondor mumbled refusing to look up at his friends.

“I’m sure we can ask Elladan or Elrohir tomorrow, they will surely remember,” Legolas said wickedly.

Aragorn paled visibly, “You must not! It took me so long to make them stop reciting it every time they saw me. I never found out how they got to read a poem meant for Arwen – Legolas – did you -?” Legolas!”

“I remember how it went!” Legolas announced suddenly.

“My dear and only love, I walk here –“

“Stand here –“ Aragorn said with a sigh.

Faramir poured himself another mug of ale and shut his eyes and leaned against the window. Between Legolas and a now completely drunk Aragorn the poem was recited in entirety. It was long and dwelt with loving detail on the virtues of Arwen Undómiel.

Then Gimli asked for an encore.

And this time Aragorn sang it to the tune of an old well-known love ballad.

Then Boromir asked for an encore.

Legolas and Gimli were busy arguing over the merits and demerits of the wine and the ale. Legolas had wisely stuck to the wine, claiming it to be very like the ones they got in Mirkwood and therefore better than the ‘vile concoction Gimli brewed in his caves’.

“The envoy needs an escort from the Rammas to the city,” Boromir said suddenly.

“I could do that,” Faramir offered softly, laying down his quill.

“Very well, after the ceremony is over, get ready to leave.”

“Should I not leave earlier?” Faramir asked dully, “We cannot have him waiting.”

“No, it is all sorted out. He sails up the Anduin from Pelargir and the boat does not arrive until at least two hours after the ceremony is scheduled to end.”

“And he will join us in the dinner in honour of the queen tonight.”

“When do the negotiations start?” Legolas asked, “Does Aragorn have time to fulfil his duties?” he smirked.

“What duties?” Faramir asked confusedly as he rifled through the pile of parchments and papers searching for a requisition form. He was feeling extremely tired.

“Why, his duties as a husband, of course,” Gimli said grinning broadly while the other two burst out laughing, “Do you think Aragorn’ s room is filled with roses from the vales every day?”

“Oh,” Faramir stared down at his the desk. His hands were almost shaking as he remembered how Gimli and he had bumped into one of the palace housekeepers who had been carrying a big basket of roses up the stairs. She had shaken her head at him as she had often done when he was a child but instead of chiding him softly, had smiled broadly as he had picked up one of the roses that had fallen on him and stared at it surprise.

“What are these for?” he had asked in confusion.

Instead of replying, the woman tittered and shaking her head once again excused herself saying she had tarried too long. Faramir looked to Gimli confusedly and all he got was a smirk.

The rose he had picked up lay on the table in front of him.

They grabbed a hurried noon meal before leaving to prepare for the wedding ceremony. Boromir and Legolas took it upon themselves to help Aragorn get ready, with the aid of his twin foster brothers. Having met them and spoken to them during the noon meal, Faramir had a feeling Aragorn was going to be in for a chaotic time. He felt a slight pang hit him at the thought.

Aragorn was getting married. It was a fact that was sinking in very, very slowly.

Accept it, he told himself sternly, He must marry; he is king. And if marry he must, it must be with a woman. He is marrying one he loves.

When he reached the place where the ceremony was to take place, it was well nigh evening. Aragorn was already there, dressed in beautiful silken robes, his face grave and handsome. The Lady Arwen joined him, resplendent in a beautiful gown and decked with flowers. No one could miss the happiness in Aragorn’ s face when he saw her or in her face when she saw Aragorn. It was a short and simple ceremony. Faramir sat through it, his heart pounding furiously, trying desperately to think of something else. He tried to divert his thoughts by reciting poems he had learnt as a child, in his head, and somehow all he could remember were the ones about romance and undying love. He tried to count the number of banners wound around the tall trees around them, but that was of no help either.

Aragorn is getting married, he thought to himself dumbly.

He felt his heart constrict as he watched the handsome king speaking solemnly. The lips moved and words came out but he never heard them. He merely saw the lips move and remembered how they had felt on his bare skin.

The cheering around him pulled him back to where he was with a jolt. The ceremony was over.

Gondor now had a queen.

Chapter 13

A grand meal rounded off the celebrations. Numerous dignitaries from various places were in attendance and a huge feast had been prepared. The married couple sat at the centre of it all, their faces flush with joy. Faramir watched them dully. Aragorn looked happy, he decided. Every time the queen spoke to him, he would smile and his eyes would light up with an expression that Faramir could only assume to be love.

He could feel a headache coming on. He stared at the elaborate plates and dishes filled with mouth-watering food, and then sought out Boromir to tell him he was leaving to escort the envoy from Harad back to the city.

Faramir saddled his horse in silence. He was to be accompanied by one of Boromir’s lieutenant’s a man he knew from before, and a small troop of cavalrymen. They were to meet up with the Haradrim envoy at the quays and escort him into the city where he would be met by the Steward at the gates. He found his hands working the straps automatically. He kept trying to focus on the task ahead, and not on anything else.

Walking his horse out of the stables, he glanced up once again at the citadel. It was easy to see that it was being guarded even more heavily than earlier. The streets were empty for people will still celebrating. Sweet, lilting music could be heard, and he knew people must have started dancing. They rode out of the city and headed for the quay.

Faramir remembered little of the ride later. His mind was somewhere else, and worked on instinct without even realising what he was doing. The envoy’s craft reached the quay, at the same time as they did. They exchanged polite greetings. Faramir tried his best to maintain his composure and act as a gracious host. At any other time he would have been very interested in talking to the envoy and asking him about Harad but now he found he had nothing to say. His mind was in a complete daze.

By the time they returned, the celebrations had mostly died out for the hour was late, and Boromir was waiting for them with another cavalry troop behind him. Boromir took over after that, leaving Faramir with nothing to do but return to his room.

He met three snickering elves and a dwarf on his way there; and also the king and queen of Gondor. Aragorn and Arwen were walking towards Aragorn’ s room, with Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli right behind them, singing a series of bawdy songs that were more likely to be heard in a tavern than in the palace.

“I am surprised!” Aragorn was saying, as he faced them, “Why is my Steward not a party to this?”

“He is receiving the envoy from Harad,” Faramir found himself saying softly.

Aragorn turned sharply and the younger man felt sharp grey eyes bore into him. He avoided the gaze, by inclining his head in a respectful greeting at his new queen instead.

She smiled back at him, before turning to Aragorn, “Will you not be needed there, Estel?” The grey eyes moved towards her now.

“Oh no, he will not. Boromir left very specific orders that the envoy would rest tonight. And so shall you,” Legolas declared airily.

He was greeted by a series of whoops and laughs.

“Rest!” screamed Elrohir, before dissolving in a flurry of giggles.

“I have often doubted whether my brothers have truly attained their majority or not,” Arwen said with great dignity, “Now, I fear I entertain such doubts about you too, Legolas!”

With that, she pulled Aragorn into the room, and shut the door behind her, leaving behind four giggling friends and one young man trying very hard to dismiss the scene with a casual smile.

Faramir returned to his room and threw himself wearily onto his bed, and spent the rest of the night trying not to think of Aragorn. But he could not help but think that his king had looked extremely happy during the wedding. And Aragorn looked very handsome when he smiled. The skin under his eyes would crinkle up, and his lips would curve up. Faramir groaned at the thought, and pounded his pillow in frustration trying to get rid of the mental picture of Aragorn’s smiling face hovering over him. The thought of that full pink mouth that smelt of pipewood coming in contact with his quivering skin sent a fire racing through his veins. Just the memory of the touch of those lips on his neck and his back, and the feel of skilful hands roving his body, of slick fingers entering him had him clutching at his sheets in desperation.

I have to forget, he kept repeating over and over again.

He rose and walked over to the open window hoping the cold draught of air would help him. Instead it reminded him of how much warmth he had found in Aragorn’ s embrace. He finally took a sleeping draught and let sleep claim him.

Aragorn smiled back at the only woman he had ever loved in all his life, as the door shut behind him. They had looked forward to this day for years now. He moved towards the bed where his bride awaited him, and for the briefest second, he could not help but remember the last person who had been there. His heart had almost wrenched when he had seen Faramir outside, but the younger man had refused to meet his gaze. Part of Aragorn was glad. Faramir meant a lot to him, but so did Arwen. And his duty as a king demanded that he provide an heir. Faramir would understand.

He knew that. He knew if anyone would understand it would be Faramir.

He moved towards Arwen and gathered her in his arms. Night fell over Minas Tirith as they consummated their marriage.

The negotiations started the next afternoon. Elrond and his family, as well as the other elves, had left in the morning. The mood around the council table was sombre and wary. The envoy had congratulated Aragorn on his wedding and expressed gratitude that he had spared himself for their meeting in so short a while.

Tarlong was still very much on the edge. And his attitude had passed onto Boromir too. Faramir found himself equally worried. If their theories had been correct, then this would be an opportune moment for the assassin or assassins to strike. However nothing untoward happened as the talks continued. The older councillors maintained their disapproving looks all through. Eredil specially, was more than polite to the envoy - a sign, Faramir knew, of his contempt for the Haradrim.

He was the one person in the room who continued to radiate open hostility towards the envoy and whenever the council met alone, continued to express disapproval over signing a peace treaty. The other councillors were slowly and steadily coming round to the fact that the times had changed but Eredil maintained with stubborn insistence that they were rushing things.

The meetings were long and full of verbal parleys that Faramir would have ordinarily enjoyed. But the sight of Aragorn so near him all through the day left him feeling distracted, a feeling that he had hardly ever known till date. Aragorn and he had done their utmost to act towards each other normally, and he wondered if it was his imagination that there seemed to be some degree of strain showing through the king’s voice when he addressed him. He had noticed Aragorn bestowing upon him more than one unreadable glance during the meetings.

Their eyes had met just once, very briefly. There had been warmth directed towards him, Faramir was sure. They had had little opportunity to speak but there was little that could be said. He had formally congratulated the couple the morning after the wedding as the rest of the court had done. He had knelt and offered fealty to his queen. And glancing up at her serene face, he found he was glad at least of the fact that she did truly love Aragorn, and would keep him happy.

Aragorn deserved that.

He had formally greeted Aragorn too, and received an unreadable look in return. There had seemed to be some measure of sadness in it. It hurt him immensely to see even such a faint trace of sadness, and for a moment his heart almost leapt at the thought that Aragorn too regretted the state of affairs, but he quelled the thought immediately.

Even if Aragorn regretted their predicament, there was nothing they could do. He regretted it too. But he knew now that what he desired was not possible. It never had been.

He slept without a sleeping draught after the first day’s negotiations had ended, mainly because the talks had gone very late into the night and he had been exhausted from reading some very long reports after that.

It was at the end of the second day that Gimli voiced a thought that had occurred to them more than once, “You should keep a closer watch on Eredil,” he said as he, Legolas and the two brothers ate a quiet meal in Boromir’s study.

Boromir looked up from the papers he was studying, “I have,” he said calmly.

“You think this is his doing, then?” Faramir asked, rubbing his tired eyes. The effort of trying to concentrate on the negotiations rather than on the gnawing ache in his heart for the last two days had left him feeling quite drained.

“He is the only one who is opposing the treaty now. Even Saracel is beginning to agree that we would be better off signing it,” Boromir said.

“He is the only one who is opposing it openly,” Faramir said softly, as he read through the reports Boromir’s spies had brought for them.

“What do you mean?” Gimli asked curiously.

“Is there any reason why Eredil would not want the peace treaty signed?” Faramir stared at one of the reports, reading it again. There was something he thought he had read. He needed to check it again.

“He doesn’t trust Harad,” came Boromir’s matter of fact answer.

“Why not?”

“Faramir! Do I need to remind you how long we have been warring against them? Longer than you or I have lived. Eredil is of the older generation!” Boromir said impatiently.

“And you think that is reason enough?” Faramir queried softly.

The entry of Aragorn and Arwen left that question unanswered and for a while the talk covered more general maters. Faramir inclined his head in a silent greeting at Aragorn and a shyer one at Arwen, before returning to the paper that was puzzling him. There was something troubling his memory. Something he felt he ought to remember.

Boromir and Legolas were meanwhile discussing their latest theory with a very reluctant Aragorn.

“I know Eredil of old,” Aragorn stated quietly, “He would hardly –“

“Eredil has the skill too,” Boromir added.

“There are many who have the skill to aim arrows. I do not have to remind you that each of my councillors is also a military man. And many of the younger ones still command regiments just as you and Faramir do.”

“Very well. But there is no harm in watching your back with extra care for the next few days,” Gimli was saying.

Faramir found himself thinking wryly that he would like to watch Aragorn’ s back a great deal, before biting his lip in annoyance.

Aragorn watched the tense shoulders hunched over a sheaf of papers, and felt his own fists clench unhappily. He had a feeling Faramir would ask for leave to return to Ithilien soon. And he knew Boromir would not persuade him to stay back this time. Perhaps it was for the better. Then they could pretend nothing had happened between them.

Except that a strange empty feeling that had been experiencing for some days now would never leave him. Even Arwen could not take it away from him. He continued to watch the slumped shoulders and head and felt some of the emptiness lift away, while the others around him conversed desultorily over wine.

When they all rose, intending to head for bed, Faramir glanced up a little confused as though unsure of his surroundings. Dark circles stood out under his eyes.

“A good night to you, Aragorn,” three sniggering friends said to him. He had been hearing these words each night. Invariably Faramir would be around, his face completely expressionless. Today, however, the younger man seemed to be somewhere far away, and as they neared the doorway, it was apparent that he was not returning to his chambers as yet.

“Faramir, are you not going to retire for the night?” Boromir called out exasperatedly.

His brother looked up at him distractedly, “I have some work in the library.”

“What?” Boromir stopped short.

“I know he is supposed to be a scholar of repute, but surely to visit the library at such a late hour-?” Gimli expostulated, “Boromir, your brother needs a wife. ”

“Indeed,” Legolas smirked, “Look at Aragorn, he is in such a hurry to leave to bed!”

Aragorn glared at his friend but also noticed with curiosity that Faramir had not really heard Legolas’ words. He was busy putting away the papers. Then he realised Arwen was glaring at Legolas and telling him to stop behaving like an immature elfling.

As they all left the room, she suddenly stopped and waited for Faramir to near her. The others had already left. Aragorn waited puzzled, as Faramir stopped and looked up at his wife, almost nervously.

“I heard you saved Estel from an assassin’s arrows,” she said softly and gently, “I cannot thank you enough for that.”

“It was my duty, my lady,” Faramir murmured, his cheeks reddening a little.

“He is lucky to have friends who go to such lengths for him,” she said quietly.

“Such lengths that they harm themselves,” Aragorn found himself saying, “I would not wish a friend to get hurt merely to protect me.”

“Gondor has her king after many years, Sire. You will find your friends will do much to ensure that it will have you as king for many years to come,” came the quiet reply.

Aragorn stared back at the clear grey eyes, as Faramir bowed a little before excusing himself. It was all he could do to not brush the wan cheek with his fingers and assure the weary figure in front of him that everything would be all right.

“He seems troubled,” Arwen commented as they watched Faramir walk away. Aragorn did not notice the sharp gaze that accompanied those words. He was too busy staring at the retreating figure.

Faramir ignored the tiredness that was weighing him down and diligently sifted through the old records that were archived in the libraries. There seemed to be mounds and mounds of them, and it had not taken him long to realise that this particular section completely lacked organization, probably because no one used it any more. The sky outside was lightening when he finally found the records he wanted. He stared through bleary eyes at the parchment in his hands, wondering if he could be correct in his surmise. He had a vague memory of an event and the words in front of him confirmed that. He had a possible motive now.

But he needed proof, not a motive. Anyone could have a motive; he tried to reason with himself. On the other hand there were other factors that he could not entirely overlook. He tried to decide on his next step. Instead he ended up resting his aching head on the books and closing his eyes. He awoke a few hours later as the sun rose, still as tired as before, and his muscles aching from the discomfort they had been subjected to. However, his head seemed to feel a little clearer. He went back to his room purposefully, and washed up and changed into fresh clothes. There was still time before the council today. He could try and confirm his suspicion somewhat. Perhaps he need not confront his quarry, he could merely try and talk to him.

The house he wanted to visit was not far from the citadel. He walked up to the door calmly. Around him the city had come awake. He could smell the fresh bread from a nearby baker’s shop. Ignoring the hunger pangs that the aroma induced, he glanced around, taking in the sight of the broken down house next door. The building had been a casualty of the war, and the only option left was for it to be torn down and a new house rebuilt in its place. Gimli’s people had been helping with that across the city. He could see that the structure was almost torn down, as he knocked on the door in front of him.

He was shown in by a servant and informed that the morning meal was underway. He offered calmly to wait and was shown into a spacious study lined with bookshelves. The walls were adorned with paintings and weaponry, and he remembered that the family had a long tradition in the military as well as in scholastic pursuits. He studied the weapons carefully but gleaned nothing of import and instead moved closer to the fireplace to examine the portraits that hung over it.

Is that the motive? he wondered silently, as he moved towards the bookcases.

The wood was carved in an intricate pattern that immediately caught his eye, and he found himself automatically reaching out a hand to finger it. He traced a perfectly shaped floral pattern, and almost gasped as wood creaked, and the section of the bookcase above him shifted ponderously to reveal a tiny alcove. He almost felt like kicking himself for getting startled. Everyone had such hidden stores, after all. There was one in Aragorn’ s study, although it was better concealed than this one. His eyes fell on the objects lying inside. He did not have to pull them out to recognise them as arrows. Locally made arrows, easily available across the city.

And yet, secreted away like this. He did not need very sharp eyesight to figure out why it was so. The arrows were the local produce but they had modifications in them. Modifications that he knew of from close experience. He could see the tips sharpened to a fine point that was not the practice unless the arrows were made for the army’s archers. But these were not army provisions. Those were a different colour and made by specialized craftsmen.

He stared at them closer and noticed the tiny groove at the tip, just deep enough so that when dipped into a liquid, it would retain traces of it; a liquid such as poison. He could almost feel the searing pain in his shoulder again. He knew his surmise had been correct. The arrows that had hit him were from here.

He heard footsteps near the door but it was too late.

“I thought, my Lord Faramir, that you would be above sneaking around through another’s rooms like this,” said the entrant from behind him. Faramir gritted his teeth and berated himself for getting over-engrossed in his findings. He turned around quietly.

“I hoped I was wrong,” he said, and realised that he was still hoping that was so. That the king might be attacked by one of his own objects was suddenly very hard to stomach. It had been easy to speak of it, but now that it seemed to have actually occurred it was difficult to take.

But his hopes were dashed. Cold, hard eyes bore down upon him, “I am sorry to belie your hopes. Have you brought your men with you? Are they the same fools who have been following me around all these days?”

Faramir shook his head, weariness and sorrow clouding his thoughts. He suddenly felt really tired. So much had happened these last few days, “I wanted to be sure before I told anyone,” he whispered before he even realised what he was saying.

“Then perhaps my cause is not lost,” came the silky reply.

With a sinking heart Faramir cursed his own stupidity. He had just let on that he was here alone and without having informed anyone. It was a gross error on his part. He of all people should have realised how valuable an alert state of mind would be in such a situation, and he had slipped up there. He had let lack of sleep and weariness overtake him.

He reached for his sword as the other advanced towards him. But the man in front of him did not reach for a weapon. Instead he kept his hands folded behind his back as he had all through and stopped a few steps in front of him and then casually said, “I wonder now . . . could our king perhaps be persuaded not to sign the treaty in return for your life? After all you are the king’s whore, are you not?”

It was the last line that completely broke Faramir’s concentration. He gaped back in consternation at the words and never noticed the fist coming up. Something hard hit him on the side of his face and he gasped in pain as he sank to his knees. He scrambled up dazedly but could not avoid the bunched fist coming at him again. This time he could make out the fact that a heavy iron chain was wrapped around the fingers.

He had forgotten another important lesson. He should have paid attention to the fact that the other man’s hands were hidden behind his back, he realised, as he fell again.

A sift sigh sounded through the room, “What kind of a man are you, Faramir? You fight like a wench and you let a man bed you and not for soldier’s comfort either!”

Faramir stared back at him in dismay. How had he known?

The other man seemed to have guessed what he was thinking, “I have been keeping an eye on the king’s movements. It is not difficult. And it was not difficult to see that he spent a night in your chambers and you spent one in his.”

Faramir rose unsteadily and tried to reach for his sword again, but it was of no use. The other man was taller and heavier, and although Faramir was younger, he was not at his best. His head was already pounding, when he felt his arm being grabbed and wrenched behind him in a swift movement.

“Isn’t that where my arrow struck you?” came the grating words.

Faramir could only cry out from the sudden pain as his much abused shoulder was subjected to the agony.

It invited another smirk from his attacker, “You cannot even defend yourself properly and you cry like a girl, Captain.”

Faramir gritted his teeth at the inflexion on the last word. He reached out his free hand and tried to garb at the man behind him. He even tried kicking out in an ungainly fashion, but he was completely overpowered. The man behind him was not just a councillor but also an experienced warrior with soldiers under his command.

He was shoved roughly forward. To his utter and complete remorse, he tripped over the edge of a rug, and found himself flying forward into a square table. The sharp edged corner hit his unprotected stomach as he slammed into it and he groaned loudly this time. He clutched his abdomen in pain as he tried to get up using the table for support.

The other man continued to taunt him, “I would have preferred to give you a fair chance so that we might fight as soldiers must, but you have proven yourself unworthy of such a title.”

This time the rolled up chain hit the side of his half-turned head, and he fell heavily into the table once again, the sharp edge hitting his stomach a second time. He moaned in pain and sank to the ground.

Chapter 14

As he fell to the ground, clutching his stomach, Faramir wondered vaguely through a pain-stricken mind where the servant who had let him in had disappeared. Surely the noise they were making could be heard across the house? He let out a harsh sob as a booted foot struck his curled up body, and sent a sharp stab of pain shooting up from his ribs. He thought he could hear a door open. His head was pounding now. The heavy iron chain had struck him just above his ear, and slowly but steadily he could feel the effects.

He heard voices, one slightly alarmed. The servant, he thought hopefully. Too late he remembered that the servant had been an old one who had served the family for years faithfully, and had even fought with some of them in battle. His worst suspicions were soon confirmed.

“He knows?” that was the servant’s voice.

“He saw the arrows,” came the calm voice, “He is still unable to fight. It is of no matter. If we lock him away somewhere, I shall finish off things today. I was loath to delay matters any further, anyway. This fool’s appearance here necessitates that I hurry it forward.”

Faramir lifted his throbbing head slowly, “Don’t do it,” he pleaded painfully, “Please! Please . . . forget matters of the past.”

He cringed as long fingers wrapped around his hair and pulled his head up violently. Steel-like eyes glinted at him, “I will not let this treaty be signed! Do you understand? We cannot and we must not trust Harad. They will let us down just as they did the last time. You do not remember. You do not know what it was like!”

“I –“ Faramir started but got no further as his attacker, suddenly dashed his head against the ground in a rage. Bright lights seemed to spark off in front of Faramir’s head and he felt a strange sensation overcome him, as he tried desperately to not lose consciousness. Pain reverberated through his head now, and the strong fingers were still clutching his hair, pulling at it. He began to wonder if the need for vengeance had not slowly eaten away the other man’s reason for nothing else could explain this sudden display of anger and violence.

“Should we lock him up in the wine cellar?” the servant asked.

“No, I have a better idea, get me some rope. Oh, and Faramir, my man here, he can do worse things to you than this, so be careful you do not irk him while I am away.” A vicious tug at his hair followed the words and he felt a dense fog overtake him.

He struggled to stay awake for he could feel his arms being wrenched behind once again. A thick rope was wound around his wrists, and knotted up tightly, the coarse fibres digging into the raw skin. Faramir tried his utmost to fight against the combined efforts of the two men, but he could do nothing, and soon his feet were bound too. Faramir gritted his teeth as another wave of pain swept through his head. His stomach was throbbing incessantly and his ribs felt bruised, and his vision was blurring.

“King’s wench!” his attacker spat out at him, “Eru be thanked Denethor cannot see what his sons are doing to Gondor. The elder would let the king sign us all away to Harad, and the younger is nothing more than a royal bed warmer, now discarded because the queen is here.”

Faramir continued to struggle against his bonds ignoring his aches and pains; the words were making him angry. He would not let anyone cast a slur on either Aragorn or Boromir, no matter what was said about him.

“You are getting late for the council,” the servant’s voice interrupted the tirade.

“Yes, I am. It is a pity,” the silken voice continued, “I would certainly like to know what our king saw in this one here.” A finger traced a line along Faramir’s bruised cheek bringing him back to reality, but it was not the pain that made him tense up. It was the voice and the touch. He suddenly felt scared and stared back into the other man’s face. Reason had obviously deserted him. He had known this man for many years now and never once seen him behave so. Could anger and frustration really change a person so much?

“I wonder now, do you throw yourself at every man who shows the slightest interest in you? Or was it because Elessar is king that you let him bed you?” Another hand rested on the back of his legs and the fingers stroked his inner thighs lazily, “And what does he see in you? What skills do you possess? How far will he go to get you back?”

“You cannot –“ Faramir started, but got no further for he was suddenly pulled up and given an open-handed slap across his cheek. He felt himself sag forward. He knew his face was probably swollen by now. And then much to his shock he was slung over the servant’s shoulders like a bag of coals, even as his ribs and stomach protested. He gave into the blackness.

He came awake still in pain and after a very short interval. He was falling, hitting the ground. His head hit something hard, again and again and again. Steps, a painful voice spoke in his head. He was rolling down stone steps, his head impacting against them, and his ribs and back and legs, and arms. Every part of his body was on fire now. It seemed the fall would never end.

When it did, the feeling was worse. He landed heavily on level ground. It was hard and cold, and full of things strewn all over. Something sharp pressed against his side. He tried rolling over only to feel something hitting his smaller back.

Stones. There were pieces of stone cast around all over. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings through a film of haze. It was dark and damp. A few odd beams of light filtered in somewhere, barely enough for him too see two shapes bending over him, and then he felt something cold and wet on his face. He though it was water at first and then realised it was wine.

“No one should find you here, but if they do, let them think you were drunk and that is how you fell in,” came the mocking voice of the archer, “But I doubt you can come out unless I wish it. Soon the king and I shall confer in one of the gardens and then I shall return and decide what to do with you.”

This time the fingers brushed his lips gently making him shudder almost out of fear, before running lightly over his chest and his stomach, a gesture that induced a gasp of pain. They finally came to a stop discomfortingly between his legs where the hand rested gently even as a soft voice continued to speak, “I suppose I could just attack the envoy instead.”

Faramir started at that, forgetting his fear of the hands and gaze that roved his tense body. He had never considered that! If that happened, Gondor was in danger of facing war . . .

The hand came back to his face and stroked his bruises again, “But I shall not. I love Gondor. I cannot risk the impact of such an action. Our king must be persuaded.” Then the man rose, “And scream all you like. No one shall hear you. There is merely the wall to one side of you and my house to the other. You are all alone.”

And then as a parting shot, “Do not move around too much. The structure is very weak. You do not want to be trapped in the wine cellar of a damaged house, do you? Strange is it not? This building is as it is now, because of the Haradrim.”

And then something hit the side of his head and he knew no more.

Aragorn was standing outside the large chamber where the council was being held, with Boromir next to him. Most of the councillors were already inside but there was still some time to go before the meeting would start so the king and his steward stood outside softly discussing various matters. Voices filtered out from the room, until finally the hum of conversation was broken by a forceful voice.

“We should not be doing this!” It was Eredil’s voice, “Do you not remember we once sent envoys into Harad searching for peace? That accord lasted barely months. And they broke it. You forget it was our men that they ambushed and killed in such a foul manner. You must have seen them when they were brought back by the scouts.”

“I do not forget,” Saracel replied heavily, “It was horrific, but it was the work of a few men, and you cannot blame an entire country for that. And that was many years ago. It is better to forget and look for a new start.”

“When was that?” Aragorn asked softly. It must have been after he had left Gondor, he decided.

Boromir looked at Aragorn with a troubled gaze, “I remember that I had just joined the army then. My father had spies in Harad and Khand and Rhun. There was some news from Harad of a new ruler with radical thoughts, so he thought talk of peace could be attempted. They indicated their willingness but apparently there were some in their court too then who found the idea deplorable. A small band of our men were found tortured badly and killed near Harad Road by a patrol. And then we got news that the treaty was no longer considered valid for there was a new ruler in place now. I believe they faced the trouble of kinslaying too. There was memorial for those men, I remember attending it. Faramir was there too,” Boromir continued musing, “And most of our councillors. I remember Eredil storming about in a council meeting the next day. He was younger and more forceful.”

“But I do not believe that would be reason enough for him to wish to attack me over it,” Aragorn said, “Is there anyone with a deeper involvement. I fear there might be an attack on our guest, and then all will be destroyed. There might be open war then!”

“He is being guarded with extra care and precaution,” Boromir assured him, but even he could not keep the tense note out of his voice.

They entered the room where the meetings were being held, the last councillor entering alongside them. Aragorn acknowledged Mardinel’s greeting as they walked through the doorway.

Eredil was still speaking, “Did it work? Mardinel, you tell me, did it work? You were affected too, were you not?” he asked the younger man.

“No,” Mardinel agreed softly, as he seated himself.

“You have not yet told us your opinion, Lord Mardinel,” somebody else asked, “Do you favour this treaty or do you not?”

“My lords, there is no time to discuss individual opinions,” Aragorn said calmly, “the envoy will be here shortly, and . . . we seem to be short by – where is Faramir?”

“I doubt if the envoy will appreciate it if we tarry proceedings for the sake of Lord Faramir,” Eredil said acidly.

Boromir glanced up sharply at the caustic statement, while Aragorn frowned.

“I am sure he would not be late without reason,” one of the other councillors stated calmly, to soothe Eredil’s irascible mood. Boromir glanced across the table and realised that it was Mardinel. He gave him a small smile, and got a sympathetic nod in return. Mardinel was not many years older than him, and they had often fought together. Mardinel in fact had even been one of his trainers in the army. Boromir wondered if he should consider discussing Eredil with him. He might have fresh insights on the issue, having worked with Eredil for some years now.

Faramir still hadn’t made an appearance when they started. Both king and steward decided he must have been working late. He was not crucial to the meeting and secretly, Aragorn had no intention of depriving the younger man of much needed rest.

The tension in the air refused to disperse all through. They were closer and closer to formalizing the terms of the treaty, and it was obvious to everyone that there was a lot of anger and ill feeling in the air. The closer they came to finalization; the more doubts seemed to be creeping in. Boromir stared around the table. The councillors in favour looked relieved but those who had their doubts had expressions ranging from outright anger to plain resignation. And still others looked simple stone faced. Eredil in particular looked furious.

During a small lull in proceedings, Boromir turned to Mardinel sitting next to him, “What do you think? Will Lord Eredil ever reconcile to this notion?”

The councillor looked across at the older man and then at his steward, then spoke slowly, “It is always difficult. We have all lost much over the years. It is not easy to forget. But he channels his ire in the wrong direction. Sitting here and talking of the past will not help matters.”

“Do you not think he might have done more than talk?” Boromir muttered.

Mardinel gave him a sharp glance at that, as if about to ask him more, but he finally said nothing and Boromir, too, decided not to pursue the matter further.

Faramir groaned as he came awake in a mire of confusion and pain. It took him a while to realise where he was and remember what had occurred. The cold draughts of wind blowing in through the opening above him helped revive him somewhat. He had already guessed he was in the broken-down house next door, probably in the cellar. He bit his lip as a fresh burst of ache assailed his battered body. He was having great difficulty staying awake and he knew his head had been hit quite hard and more than once. He had already realised that his sword must have been removed while he had been unconscious, and he realised with dismay that the knife he carried tucked in his boot as all rangers did was missing too. Struggling with the tight bonds was only serving to hurt him greatly and his wrists were already feeling chaffed. With each passing second the weight of what he knew pressed down upon him adding worry to physical pain.

He wondered how long he had been unconscious. It seemed like a while from the light filtering in from above. He had to get out! Anything could have happened. Rolling around in frustration, his bound hands scraped against something sharp. The stones!

He grabbed at it and then spent the next few minutes concentrating intently on grasping it in such a manner as to work on the coarse, thick rope with it. It was slow and painful. The stone kept slipping out of his fingers and more often that not it missed the rope and scraped against his skin instead. Finally he managed to loosen the ropes a little, and gasped as the circulation was restored to his now numb fingers. Finally he was able to loosen the ropes enough to slip his hands out. He hugged them tight around him trying to overcome the tingling ache. Through the dim light he could see that his wrists were now red and swollen angrily. He bent down to untie his ankles and felt a stab of pain through his back from where it had hit against the stone steps. Gritting his teeth he worked on the bonds with almost numb fingers and faced the same problem as with his wrists once he had got them loose.

He stayed down for a few seconds breathing heavily and rapidly. Even lifting his head hurt tremendously. A nauseous feeling rushed over him and he found himself heaving but the movement sent pain shooting through his bruised stomach so he simply lay slumped on his hands and knees trying desperately not to simply collapse from pain and exhaustion. But he knew he could not do that. So, ignoring his protesting body, he tried to stand up. The little cellar seemed to revolve around him and he swayed awkwardly.

“What are you doing?” Footsteps came thundering down the stone steps, “How did you free yourself?”

It was the servant.

Faramir fell forward. He could not stop himself. Luckily, his fall was broken by the other man. They crashed down in a noisy heap, and the only factor that prevented Faramir from further injuring himself was that the other man had cushioned his fall while himself taking a blow to the head. Faramir arose uncertainly, almost staggering to his feet. He had to get out, and the only way out was up the steps. He almost groaned aloud at the thought, and then he decided he could not leave the servant lying in here, whatever the man had done. He should at least take him outside and leave him there till he could alert the guards. It took a tremendous effort but he finally managed to get out of the cellar heaving and panting as he dragged the other man’s deadweight along.

It was light outside, but the city had quietened as people had settled into their routines. This particular area was a popular one among the more well off citizens mainly because of its peace and quiet. A stiff breeze blew around him, and he shivered as he realised his cloak was missing, and all he had on was a thin tunic and leggings. He had not time however, so he dragged the servant away from the walls and left him lying in a safe corner.

Then he dragged his exhausted, aching body to the path to the citadel. He decided it would be better for him to be as secretive as possible until he could get hold of one of his friends and warn them. Something told him it was not yet too late, but he must hurry. He hurt all over but he could not let that impede him. His head pounded furiously and his stomach and back seemed on fire.

The path to the citadel led through a set of gardens but their beauty eluded the figure that stumbled through the trees as quickly as he could, clutching his stomach in pain, berating himself all the while for his slowness. Why had he not thought on the matter earlier? He of all people should have known how much grief could result from loss, grief enough to drive one to such calculated measures in such a cold-blooded yet almost insane manner. The man had obviously been festering over this ever since Aragorn had sent emissaries to Harad. Why had they not realised it? And everything fit in perfectly! He had been there in the citadel the day of the attempt and they had known it! Faramir just hoped he could reach the citadel in time now.

Aragorn took a few puffs of his pipe as he watched the clouds gather over the winter sky. Boromir stood next to him. The meeting had just finished and they were both standing near an open window watching the view.

“Another few hours and the treaty will be signed,” he said, “Eredil still looks annoyed.”

“I still feel you are wrong in suspecting him,” Aragorn said calmly, “He is not the sort. He wishes to speak to me again on the matter”

“I do not like the sound of that,” Boromir exclaimed worriedly, “Who else could it be Aragorn? Who else could have such strong feelings about the matter? Are you going to see him now?”

“Eredil shows his feelings. Perhaps others do not,” Aragorn mused, “Whatever it may be, I will see this treaty signed and that is all there is to it. But, yes, I am going speak to him about it.”

He paused as a figure moved from the shadows of the columns near them and Boromir stood tensely by, his hand reaching for his sword. Both relaxed when they noticed that it was Mardinel, who nodded in greeting.

“Have you seen Eredil? I should like to speak to him,” Aragorn said pleasantly.

“I saw him in the gardens by the wall,” Mardinel told them.

“I shall come along,” Boromir told Aragorn.

“I see no reason you need to,” the king started off, then stopped when eh saw Boromir’s expression, “Oh, very well!”

The garden was a small one that few frequented located as it was in a quiet corner and with no view to speak of. And especially in winter there was little reason to be there. When they reached it there was no one to be seen.

“Well, he is not here, is he?” Aragorn exclaimed impatiently and turned towards Boromir who had been walking some paces behind him, only to find his steward lying facedown on the ground.

The figure leaning over him sighed softly, “I always knew he would never make a good ranger. Open soldiering was better for him. Not like that brother of his. Do you know where Faramir is now, Sire?”

Aragorn stared back in surprise at his councillor before the last few words registered in his head, “Faramir? Where is he?” he asked raggedly.

“Later!” said the harsh voice, “First let us settle our business your majesty! Would you please hand me your sword before I do something I might regret to your steward. I do like him. He is misguided as you are, but I am sure both of you can be brought to see the error of your ways. You have no other choice. You are away from the citadel, your guards have been informed that you are in your study and no one will disturb us for a while.”

Aragorn had no choice but to do as requested. He maintained his calm however and handed over his sword. Boromir groaned suddenly and came awake.

“My lord steward,” the man mocked at him as he tried to rise. Boromir gaped at him.

“Why?” Aragorn asked.

“I want your reassurance you will not sign this treaty.”

“The treaty will be signed,” Aragorn said, watching with concern as Boromir rose to his feet unsteadily.

“Never! I will not allow it!”

“You can do nothing now,” Aragorn said quietly.

“I can and I will. I erred once in acting without thought. I should not have shot at you so hastily. And Faramir spoilt it anyway. But I have thought it out now.”

“I doubt that,” Boromir snapped out angrily. He was cursing himself soundly for falling for his inattentiveness, and the fact that he had no means to defend himself. Without his sword, he felt incomplete, “You are insane! I suggest you let us go!”

“You are both fools!” the man hissed angrily, “And you especially My Lord Steward! Peace with Harad? Never!”

“You are insane!” Boromir repeated, “Let us go now. This stupidity has been carried too far.”

“No! They destroyed my family! Gondor is all I have left and I will not let them destroy that too. And I will not let you destroy Gondor!” the man screamed out, and before either man could stop him, the glint of steel flashed through air as he swung out his sword and advanced on Aragorn.

“There is nothing you can do. Kill me now, but the treaty shall still be signed. I have made enough provisions for that!” Aragorn stated calmly

Boromir took a deep breath. He finally began to understand why this man was acting so. It had been years before and he had forgotten how the man before him had lost his brothers in the attack by the Haradrim during the so-called truce then. He reined in his temper and forced himself to think calmly. They might outnumber the councillor two to one, but he was armed and they were not and He did not want to anger him into taking a rash step. No matter what Aragorn might say, he was not going to sit back and let him be harmed. “Stop this madness, Mardinel,” he said quietly.

His words went ignored as Mardinel addressed Aragorn, “I do not have to kill you Sire. But, yes, if you want to see your dear Faramir alive, do not sign the treaty.” The sword hovered at the shocked king’s chest, almost resting at his heart.

Chapter 15

Faramir wove his way through the trees concentrating on reaching the citadel and trying to block everything else out of his head. He kept his eyes on the path and on nothing else, and lent his entire thought to simply putting one foot in front of the other over and over again. They had never even considered Mardinel, and he kept cursing himself for having overlooked him.

Then he heard the voices. Mardinel – he sounded snide. A fragment of his words to him came floating back to his mind. The gardens . . . then Aragorn’ s voice cut through, and Boromir’s. He felt his heart constrain and his already hitched breathing seemed to desert him completely. Black spots swam in front of his eyes as he lurched to a stop and almost fell. He grabbed at the nearest tree trunk for support and gasped for breath, while hiss mind raced.

Aragorn and Boromir and Mardinel! He had to hurry now. He heaved himself forward and followed the voices till he reached the trio. Mardinel had his back to him, and the others couldn’t see him as he stood in the shadow of the trees, frozen for a moment. His king and his brother were unarmed and possibly hurt from the way Boromir was leaning against a stone wall. But what really scared him was the sword hovering at Aragorn’ s chest.

He could not hear what was being spoken. All he could hear was a ringing in his ears. But he clearly heard the word ‘kill’ and there was sword over Aragorn’ s heart. Faramir could not see Aragorn’ s reaction, but he thought he heard a gasp, and it sounded like his brother. His heart seemed to thunder in his ears at the thought that Aragorn’ s life could be in danger. His head felt dense, the pain had become a dull, incessant throb and his limbs felt heavy. He stumbled forward out of the trees towards the three men.

“No!” the word left his mouth without his even realising it.

Mardinel whirled around in surprise, and the sword in his hand automatically slashed at Faramir, who had neither the time nor the strength to duck out its way.

“You!”

To the utter horror of both the king and the steward who stood frozen behind Mardinel, the sword lashed at Faramir’s chest, and a thin line of red appeared against a soiled white tunic.

“Leave him be,” Faramir said hoarsely and lunged at the other man, ignoring his pain as well as the fact that he was unarmed.

The force and unexpectedness of the action drove Mardinel down as Faramir’s weight bore down on him. The sword clattered out of his hand and came to land at Aragorn’ s feet, a thin trace of fresh blood clinging to it. That seemed to bring both him and Boromir to their senses as they moved towards the two struggling figures rolling around on the ground near the wall. Faramir was trying desperately to pin down the councillor but he was obviously too far gone to be able to do that. The two of them rolled into the wall, and Mardinel took the opportunity to slam Faramir against it violently. He rolled away only to find his king standing over him, sword in hand. Boromir stood next to him, a thunderous expression covering his face.

”Get up,” came the icy voice, “And get away from him. Boromir, call the guards.”

Boromir looked towards his brother anxiously even as Aragorn added, “And alert the healers.” He raced off towards the citadel.

Mardinel watched his Aragorn dispassionately and then shrugged. Aragorn glared at him. The other man simply crossed his arms and then glanced at Faramir’s curled up figure lying still, eyes closed. Aragorn followed his gaze and his heart wrenched at the sight. He wanted nothing more than to tend to the younger man but he could not let Mardinel go after what he had done. The guards reached them right then and the councillor was handed over to a shocked Tarlong, leaving Aragorn to tend to Faramir till Boromir returned.

He grabbed him in his arms, “Faramir!” he cried out urgently to the white-faced figure in his arms, “Are you alright? What has he done to you?” He stared in shock at the bruises that covered one side of the face, and the marks on the wrists, and he knew there were more injuries. He could see where the sword had cut through the tunic. Blood dripped onto the floor in a puddle beneath them.

There was a sudden soft moan, “My head – hurts,” Faramir mumbled incoherently, his eyes fluttering open as the warmth of the embrace surrounded him.

“Faramir,” he called out again as the eyes focused on him in confusion and fear. It was happening all over again. His worst fear was coming true. One he cared tremendously for was lying hurt and it was because of him.

“Aragorn!” came the almost soundless whisper, as fingers clutched at his tunic desperately.

It was a tone full of reverence and love that almost hit the king with a force. He pulled the injured man in closer and hugged him tight, ignoring the painful grimace that crossed the wan countenance.

“You’re hurt,” he whispered incoherently, “Again . . . Why do you do this always?”

“Aragorn – love -” it was the softest voice, a mumble, but to Aragorn the words seemed to have been shouted out loud and clear. Then it died away and the dazed eyes fluttered shut and the pale face lolled against his chest, even as Boromir, Legolas and Gimli came running towards them.

Faramir was taken to a large, comfortable room in the houses of healing. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli watched as one of the healers’ assistants laid him down gently on the bed and then departed. Boromir was with the warden.

Aragorn knelt by the bedside and gently pushing away the hair strewn over Faramir’s cheek, gave him a small kiss on his brow. Looking up, he noticed Legolas watching him curiously but ignored it. He carefully pulled the blankets up over the slight frame. Boromir arrived with the warden of the houses of healing and, as Aragorn noticed with amusement, Ioreth, still her usual voluble self.

“Now what has he done to himself?” she exclaimed as she saw Faramir’s swollen and bruised face.

The warden pursed his lips tightly and then looked to Aragorn before sending Ioreth off for the herbs. He then tried to pack off everyone from the room but they refused to budge. Legolas and Gimli left with great reluctance but Boromir refused to leave, while Aragorn seated himself on a chair by the bed. Left with no option, the warden set to undressing his patient so that he could see what other injuries he had. They turned out to be quite a few.

The cut to the torso that had so worried Aragorn and Boromir turned out to be merely a mild scratch, and the least of the warden’s worries. Purpling bruises covered the entire torso and back and half his abdomen was covered by a particularly ugly looking discoloration. A few ribs seemed to be bruised too. The arms and chest were a riot of small cuts and scrapes caused by the sharp stones. The entire left side of his face was a collage of discoloured yellow, blue and red skin. At least three large bumps were easily felt on the back of his head, and the large bruise over the right temple was only too clearly visible. The wrists and ankles were inflamed and they were easily able to deduce that it must have been caused by rope burn.

Boromir winced at the sight of the discolorations and bruises colouring his brother’s pale flesh and looked at the healer in worry, “Is he going to be alright? Why has he not woken up yet?”

“He has hurt his head in more than one place. It is better he be allowed to sleep a while. When he wakes up I will know if it is serious or not. The other injuries look worse than they actually are,” the warden opined, “He will be in discomfort but if he rests as required he will be on his feet again soon.”

Aragorn watched on, his eyes hard as steel. He knew Faramir had been hurt but to see the extent of the injuries angered him greatly. That anyone could even think of raising a hand on the young man had him seething with fury. And that all this had occurred because Faramir had sought to protect him once again made his heart constrict.

When the salves had been applied and bandages tied, they dressed their patient in a thin robe and covered him up with blankets to ward off the cold. The healers left while Aragorn and Boromir stayed behind. Both were suddenly feeling very tired after everything that had happened. Aragorn moved to the bed and sat by the prone figure. He picked a lock of dark hair and twirled it around his fingers as he watched the steady rise and fall of the younger man’s chest under the thick blanket. Arwen came by soon after, gave Boromir a reassuring look, and then gently squeezed Aragorn’ s shoulder, as he gave her an unhappy look.

They had to leave shortly afterwards since the council meetings would still have to go on, and the treaty would be signed in an hour’s time. The warden assured them that Faramir would probably sleep peacefully for some more hours. Leaving strict orders to be informed should he awaken earlier, the two men left reluctantly to return to their duties.

It was only after everything was finalised with the envoy in the presence of a rather strained group of advisors that Aragorn met Mardinel.

“I know why you did what you did,” he said without preamble, “And I can understand but your methods I do not care for,” he said trying to keep his temper in check. He would have forgiven this man if it had not been for what he had done to Faramir.

“I do not regret it,” came the reply.

“I did not think you would,” Aragorn replied coolly.

“They massacred that band of soldiers,” came the reflective reply, “My brothers were among them. My father died soon after. He never recovered from the grief. I will never regret what I did. I can only regret that I failed in it.”

“I am going to exile you from Gondor,” Aragorn said quietly.

“Exile!” Mardinel stared at him disgustedly, “I would rather face execution!”

“I know. That is why I prefer to exile you from this land you love so much,” his king said a little harshly.

Mardinel glared at him, “Is that all I get for injuring your dear lover?”

Aragorn almost spilled the ink at his table at that, but managed to maintain his composure and stared back at the other man levelly.

The councillor sighed and shook his head, “I did not mean to,” he said softly.

When Aragorn returned to the houses of healing, he found Faramir still asleep.

“You look so peaceful when you sleep quietly,” Aragorn murmured as he bent over the sleeping form and brushed the stray strands of hair off his face. The gesture woke up the younger man. His eyes flew open and the face took on a frantic expression.

Aragorn knelt by his side quietly, “’Tis just me,” he said softly.

“Sire,” came the weak whisper, accompanied by what seemed like a flinch away from the touch. Aragorn moved his hand away, and the expression changed to one of disappointment mingled with craving.

“You are alright,” it was not a question, just a statement said with great relief.

Aragorn nodded reassuringly and walking to the door called out to a passing attendant, “Send for the Steward.”

He came back and sat by Faramir, “He did this to you,” he said in a steady voice.

“Is he alright?” came the fearful question.

He nodded, “Everyone is all right, save for you,” he chided softly.

Faramir stared at his sheets. He suddenly felt like a weakling over what had happened. He had been so stupid, he thought miserably. Aragorn was sitting by him now and looking at his face closely. He looked away unhappily.

“He hit you?” it was a clam but steely voice.

“He knew,” Faramir whispered.

“What -?” Aragorn stared at him confused.

“About us – I mean – that we – that night – your chamber, he thought I, he –“ Faramir muttered brokenly still staring at his sheets.

“I know,” Aragorn told him quietly, “I spoke to him. He will not say anything if that is what you fear. He does not want anything to happen to Gondor.”

“He – he seemed insane. He said - he touched – “

His next words dissolved in the strong hug that enveloped him as his tired mind finally broke down. He collapsed against his king, exhaustion finally overwhelming him completely. They were sitting like that when Boromir, Legolas and Gimli reached the room. Faramir broke away from the embrace with great reluctance, and once again, Aragorn had an uncomfortable feeling that Legolas’s keen eyes lingered on them a fraction longer. As did Boromir’s. But neither said anything, preferring instead on greeting Faramir with relief. He rose and let Boromir take his place knowing his steward had spent all day worrying over his brother’s health, and watched indulgently as Boromir fussed over his brother tenderly.

“What happened?” Gimli asked finally, “How did he get hold of you.”

“Later,” Aragorn said firmly, noting the dark circles and sheer lines of exhaustion.

Faramir however shrugged and said, “There isn’t much to tell.”

In his quiet, soft voice, quietly explained what had happened, omitting just the words Mardinel had said about him and the king as well as Mardinel’s touches. But even then, what he revealed was enough to anger the others. Boromir especially was noticeably furious.

“I know that house,” Gimli growled, “It was on the verge of collapse!”

“What about the servant?” Faramir asked suddenly, “I left him nearby.”

“He is well,” he was told.

Ioreth came soon after to drive them out so Faramir could sleep. When they, Aragorn lingered on at the door till he was sure he slept. The others gave him a curious glance but said nothing.

The warden’s calculations on Faramir’s recovery proved wrong when he developed a fever the next day. The exposure to the cold had caused it and it only slowed down the healing process. He spent the next three days unable to sleep or eat properly. He was unable to eat solid food and had to be content with broths and healing potions, all of which left him irritable. His sleep was clouded by the fever and dreams causing him to thrash out and increased his aches. Movement of any kind always involved one part or the other of his body protesting in pain.

Boromir sat by him at night, and every now and then Aragorn took over for a few hours watching the suffering figure disconsolately and wishing he could comfort him forever. But each night, he would be forced by one of his friends to return to Arwen.

When the fever abated, Faramir was able to sit up and move around with greater ease but still not allowed to leave his bed. He chaffed greatly at that, but discovered after attempting to leave the room once that the healers were right. His injuries were very slow to heal.

The healers had blamed it on his recent run of ill-health and injury. Or as the warden had said, “If Lord Faramir would obey the healers and allow himself to recover completely before injuring himself or falling ill again, he might heal faster each time!”

He had not had the strength to argue.

His friends came to visit him regularly. In fact they were in his room all his waking hours. He put up with them as good-humouredly as possible. But there was only one he liked to see. And when that one came, his eyes would light up, but then he would remember that he must not react like that and promptly distance himself. Aragorn’ s eyes would cloud over at that but there was nothing either could do. Aragorn’ s very presence sent his heart racing and it took all his control to not fling himself at the older man and ask to be just held in those arms, to just be close to him and feel his touch. He knew if he so much as touched Aragorn he would lose control. So they maintained their distance. After the day he had first woken up, they had not come physically close to each other again. Aragorn had tried to stroke his face once, but he had turned away, and to his sorrow, his king had understood and had withdrawn his hand.

Arwen visited him often too and at such occasions he always found himself embarrassed. Thankfully, she and the others passed his reaction off as inherent shyness. She would smile gently at him and speak softly, something he welcomed because both Gimli and Boromir could be loud and boisterous and in their company Legolas too could be quite loud. Aragorn usually stayed silent. Faramir craved to hear his voice but kept telling himself it was better that way.

He had been cooped inside feeling miserable for more than a week, still in pain and still wont to feel feverish and ill when Arwen came by with some books. Aragorn and Boromir came just then to visit him. Seeing her smile cheerfully at them and noticing the love that lit up in her eyes when she spotted Aragorn made Faramir hit himself mentally for even thinking of the king. When Aragorn neared him, he steeled himself and glanced back at him expressionlessly. Aragorn stopped in his tracks and after a few cursory words, left with Arwen. Boromir stayed back and sat watching over him. Faramir wanted to be alone. But his brother would have none of that. So he gave in and went off to sleep his mind heavy with sadness.

They had spent a quiet night in each other’s arms. Their nights were usually like that – quiet. So was their lovemaking. It was just as quiet, there was no hurry about it. Aragorn knew their nights together would always be like that. Even if she had given up her immortality, his wife still was an elf. There was no hurry to jump into bed and make love each night. Most nights they just lay content in each other’s presence. She still had that patience that her kind had developed after having lived for so many years. There was no hurry. That they had each other meant enough to her.

Most nights he worried about another too.

Aragorn sighed as he leaned against his pillows, taking comfort from the feel of just holding his wife in his arms. His head was still a mire of confusion. Dawn had just broken outside.

“You worry for him,” she spoke suddenly.

He nodded quietly, “His recovery is slow. And he would not be there but for me. I can see he is unwell and it hurts me that he is so because of me.”

Arwen sighed, “I do not think he would like to hear you speak like that. He thinks much of you. If he hurts, comfort him,” she said in a pragmatic tone, “You are a healer.”

Aragorn looked up at her, “I do not think I can offer him the comfort he needs. He needs more than a healer of wounds.”

“You are right. He needs a healer of hearts,” his wife said as she rose for the day.

Aragorn stared after her, even more confused now.

Faramir sighed and tried to sit up on his own but his back hurt him too much. The bruises were healing very slowly. He tried once again to ease himself up, releasing an involuntarily loud groan.

“What are you trying to do?” he looked up to see Legolas hurrying in through the doorway.

“I was just trying to get up,” he said lamely as he sank back against the pillows tiredly.

“You are supposed to stay in bed for another week at the least!” Legolas chided, “And you are lucky Boromir did not see you like this. He was about to come here but he had another errand so he asked me to stop by on my way to the stables.”

“Is something the matter?” he asked, a little worried.

“Yes, Arod has hurt his foreleg.”

Faramir raised a brow in resignation.

“Oh, you meant Boromir? Nay, he is just irked that he could not come and see you this morning.”

“Oh.”

Legolas watched as the younger man turned his face towards the window. The look of yearning did not escape the Elf’s keen eyes, neither did the meaning of the expression. He knew what the look said and he could understand it. Having grown up in the woods himself, too much time within stone enclosures bothered him too.

“It looks beautiful outside,” came the wistful words.

“Nay, it is quite cold,” he said calmly.

Faramir raised an eyebrow at that, “I thought elves did not feel the cold,” he said with a faint hint of a smile.

Legolas smiled back at him and went over to the window. Looking out at the quiet gardens below, he noticed Aragorn walking there. Then he glanced back at the forlorn young man who was twisting the hem of his blanket in his hands and sighed silently.

“It will still be beautiful outside in a few more days when you feel better,” he tried.

“I need to return to Ithilien,” came the morose reply.

Legolas sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder gently, “Then rest and get better soon.”

When Legolas had left, Faramir bit his lip, and looked out of the window. It was probably cold but the thought of stepping outside overruled that, and he made up his mind quickly. The room was stuffy and left him feeling stifled. He could not think of a place he now hated more than the houses of healing. They would not even let him move to his own chambers, stating that he was too weak to be moved.

He rose with no little difficulty and somehow managed to drag himself out to the gardens of healing thankful for the fact that one of the doors outside was right next to his room. It was not a path much frequented so he had no fear of being spotted by any of the healers. He was breathing heavily from the effort but the fresh air and the sound of birds chirping made him feel much better.

It was then that he noticed the tall figure striding towards the healing houses, stopping short at the sight of him.

“Should you even be outside?” Aragorn chided, as he turned and walked towards him.

Faramir looked away unhappily, “It is tiring to be inside all day,” he said softly.

Aragorn sighed at that, “Yes, but –“ He stopped as he noticed the younger man slump a little and darted forward.

Faramir felt his knees buckle under him. His back was hurting him once again. Walking out had exerted him too much. Aragorn hastily draped an arm around him, inadvertently brushing his bruises. He gasped in pain, for the injuries were raw and even a slight touch made him wince. Aragorn cursed under his breath, and shifted his arm down to Faramir’s waist.

That hurt too, but much less. Faramir drank in the familiar smell of Aragorn’ s nearness almost eagerly. The feel of the hands around his waist made him tremble slightly. Aragorn noticed the tremble and mistook the reason thinking the cold was causing it.

“Back inside now, I think. You know the warden told you not to get up for a week at least!” Aragorn said sternly, as he tightened his grip around the slim waist.

Faramir nodded weakly. His head was beginning to swim and he felt extremely nauseous. The healers were right, he should not have tried standing up and walking about so soon.

“Come,” Aragorn said with great tenderness, “Let me take you back to the room.”

He took a step forward very slowly. His back was on fire now and a dull ache had started up in his abdomen. His head began to hurt.

“Can you walk?” Aragorn inquired worriedly.

He tried to reassure him but all that came out was a pain-filled whimper, and he felt himself slouch forward. He could see worry light up his king’s eyes at his reaction.

“You look very tired,” the king murmured softly, as he brushed his head with his hand.

“It is nothing. Merely a –“

“Oh dear one, this is all because of me!” Aragorn said softly, still holding onto him.

It was the endearment that brought the wetness to his eyes, and he found himself gulping softly, as Aragorn continued to gaze tenderly at him.

“I miss you so much,” he blurted out suddenly.

Aragorn stared back at him for a second, still holding him around his waist. Their lips brushed. Faramir gave out raspy sigh as he felt a delicious warmness course through his jaded limbs from just that slight touch. How he had longed for this through each long, lonely night! His aches lay forgotten as his head clouded over with desire. The taut, firm muscular body enveloped his own slender figure as he stared at Aragorn’ s deep grey eyes. Their lips were almost touching. He could think of nothing but how those lips would feel over his mouth.

A sharp gust of wind brought them both back to reality. Faramir turned his head away reflexively from the icy cold breeze, even as Aragorn loosened the grip around his waist a little. The moved a little apart even as Aragorn continued to support Faramir’s weight.

Faramir stared at the ground berating himself for what had almost occurred. The backache returned with a vengeance and he bit his lip in agony.

A soft cough sounded. He looked up and noticed Arwen standing at the entrance to the houses.

Chapter 16

Faramir stared at the queen in alarm, his heart racing furiously. How long had she been there?

“Arwen!” Aragorn spoke first, and Faramir marvelled at how steady his voice seemed to be, even as the hand around his waist faltered a little.

“My queen,” Faramir began, “I – I was –“

She smiled gently at them, “Here you are! They are searching for you inside, Faramir. Your brother is quite distraught,” she chided gently.

“You sneaked out!” Aragorn said reprovingly. The hand remained around his waist.

“I – I just wanted some fresh air,” Faramir murmured unhappily.

“I know,” Aragorn said reassuringly.

He dropped his eyes to the ground. His head began to swim again. The queen didn’t seem angry. Perhaps she hadn’t seen anything then. He shivered slightly as another cold draught of wind rustled through the trees. The only thing that was keeping him standing was Aragorn’ s grip, else he would probably have fallen to the ground. He heard faint voices around him, and felt Aragorn tighten his grip around him and lead him back inside. By the time he reached the room, he was exhausted and seemed to have aggravated every injury he had sustained.

Outside his room, the warden, his brother and Legolas came forward to meet them. The warden snorted at the sight, while Boromir groaned.

“Where did you find him?” Boromir asked with a sigh.

The warden stood with his lips pursed in disapproval.

“In the garden,” Aragorn said as he swept past them, into the room and helped his now half-conscious charge into the bed.

“You had us all worried!” Boromir chided him.

“I told you it was cold outside!” Legolas added from behind Boromir.

Aragorn gave them a stern look as he sat down by Faramir on the bed, “I think he should sleep now. He looks weary to me.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be if he listened to the healers, would he?” Legolas pointed out reasonably.

“That was extremely irresponsible of you,” Boromir scolded, “You know they do this only so you may get better soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Faramir whispered. He was beginning to regret having gone outside himself. Then he wouldn’t have met Aragorn and he would not be feeling as confused and dazed as he did now. Aragorn had a hand wrapped protectively around his shoulder and try as he might, Faramir could not draw away.

Having tasted the nearness of the king after so long, he could not give it up so soon. And yet, he knew he would have to sooner or later. Aragorn’ s grip around his shoulder tightened and he looked up into the grey eyes.

“Rest now,” Aragorn said to him softly as he rose. He then eased Faramir against the pillows and helped him cover up. The warden shooed them all away after that, except Boromir who insisted on staying back and sitting with Faramir a while.

As the other three left, they could hear the warden muttering something about barring the houses of healing to the steward’s family.

“How’s the lad?” Gimli asked Boromir when they met for the evening meal.

“A little tired, but otherwise, he is as well as can be,” the steward replied as he filled his plate, “And annoying the healers excessively.”

“I thought Ioreth enjoyed having him around to mother him?” Legolas asked grinning.

“Even she is annoyed with his restlessness,” Boromir sighed, “Perhaps I should be a little strict with him and force him to obey their orders.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that, “You were stern enough with him today. Surely that was enough?” he remembered how small Faramir’s voice had become at his brother’s chiding.

Boromir stared at him in surprise, “He has heard stern words before this, Aragorn. And he knows well what he did was not right.”

“He would not have heard such words from those he loves,” Aragorn retorted, “And that when he is so unwell.”

His friends stared at him in surprise. Only Arwen maintained her composure.

“You are right,” Boromir agreed after a pause, “I did not mean to scold him so. But it was very childish of him to exert himself so when he has been told to rest.

“He’s tired of the city,” Legolas mused, “He told me so himself.”

“Tired of the city?” Gimli exclaimed, “but this is such a lovely city you have my friend and did he not, like you grow up here?”

“He did,” Boromir hesitated slightly, “But – Faramir had a – he preferred to spend his time away, mostly in Ithilien. Aragorn, he wishes to rejoin the rangers.”

“He is yet to recover,” Aragorn pointed out, knowing well that he was one of the reasons the younger man wanted to go away from the city.

“I think he will recover better should he be in Ithilien.” Legolas said in a serious tone.

The others turned to him in confusion. He sighed and began to explain, “He seems to crave fresh air and trees. I can understand. Living within walls – can be – difficult. Aragorn, you have been a ranger, you should realise, and Boromir, you have been a soldier too. He is used to open spaces.”

Aragorn stared at his plate unhappily. He knew what Faramir’s difficulty was. He had seen it in his eyes, and heard it in his half murmured words days ago.

The rest of the week went by in a whirl for the peace treaty with Harad had opened up trade between the two lands and the court found itself swamped with requests to send and receive trade delegations and resolve related issues. A new tax was creating problems and at the same time, Gimli’s people had more or less finished work on some of the new establishments in Emyn Arnen in Ithilien so that those who wished to return there would have somewhere to set up in. As of now, it was mostly being used by the company of rangers and it seemed logical to now allow their families to move there too.

Faramir obeyed the healers implicitly but still with reluctance and stayed indoors all the while, eating what he was given, and doing as told to. It helped him get better physically but did nothing to improve his mood, until finally, he was allowed to return to his chambers but still with strict orders to limit his movements for some days.

Aragorn had little time to spend with him, given the amount of work he now found himself loaded with but whenever he did not miss the open craving in the grey eyes that beheld him.

A week later, Boromir asked him if Faramir could leave for Ithilien.

“The work there is as yet entirely administrative. There is not much physical labour involved and I have spoken to Mablung and his other men,” Boromir said calmly, “Any sign that he is not recovering and they will let me know. And the warden agrees with Legolas. He thinks the air would aid him better there than here.”

“Do you truly think he will be happy there, away from you and all his friends?” Aragorn asked.

“He can always return whenever he feels like it. It is hardly that far. But I do know he likes it better there, Aragorn,” came the steward’s reply.

Aragorn stared down at his papers unseeingly, unsure whether he liked the idea of not having Faramir within his sight each moment. And then winced at the thought. There was little he could do even then. And he was merely hurting him by doing that.

“Aragorn?” Boromir was speaking. He looked up at him.

“Faramir did not have a very happy childhood,” Boromir spoke hesitantly, “It was not that it was unhappy. But it was not happy either. My father was a stern man. And sometimes he was sterner with some more so than with others. But then, you know this. You knew him.”

Aragorn nodded silently, watching Boromir’s face curiously.

“He is my brother. We are different, yes, but he is very dear to me,” Boromir said softly, “He is hurting now. And it is not just the memories that do that to him. There is more and he cannot cope with it. And I cannot see him getting hurt anymore,”

“He will not be. Ever.”

Boromir looked at him closely then turned away with a nod, “As long as he is happy, it matters not to me what he does.”

“He will be,” Aragorn stated though he knew he was merely being hopeful.

“I hope so,” Boromir smiled almost wistfully, “I cannot remember the last time I have seen him smile. And I had not even realised it.”

Aragorn could not either.

It had been almost a month since Faramir had left for Ithilien. A long month where Aragorn had ended up immersing himself in tedious reports that he normally passed onto one of his secretaries. The entire functioning of the king’s household changed. He never spared a moment for himself. If he wasn’t seeing to his duties or with Arwen, he would indulge in archery or swordsmanship. He did his best to keep his mind occupied at all times, and not think of a man who was now in Ithilien.

Every two days, reports came from Emyn Arnen with a courier. They were blunt and short listing the information required. There would also be letters for Boromir every now and then. And each time, Aragorn would wonder if there would be any other missive for him. Each time he would shake through the reports searching for an extra piece of paper that might have something else inscribed in it. Anything.

He knew what was written in the letters because invariably Arwen or Legolas would ask Boromir if Faramir had anything to say.

“He used to write more entertaining letters, “Boromir sighed one day after reading through the short missive.

Aragorn kissed his wife gently. When they pulled apart, she ran a hand through his hair and brought it down to his cheek, “I love you,” she said softly.

“I love you too,” he replied quietly. And he did, he knew that.

“I know,” she said smiling, as she wrapped her arms around him. He leant his tired head against her shoulder, and let her play with his hair.

“It is different,” she said suddenly.

He stared up in surprise. She continued as she saw his puzzlement, “When one lives so many years, one makes things go slowly. It is different now,” she said almost sadly.

“I-,” he stared down not knowing what to say.

“It is different but as long as I know you are there, I am happy,” she said softly.

He leaned into her embrace.

“But I cannot give you all you desire, can I?”

He sat up at that, “I desire you greatly,” he said after the slightest of pauses.

“You need him. And he needs you,” she said.

“Arwen -,” he gaped at his wife as she looked serenely out of the window.

“It is different for mortals, Estel. I understand that now. The years are not many and much has to be done. Do you not love him?”

He stared back at her almost in shock.

“You do, do you not?”

He nodded soundlessly.

“Tell him then. He has hurt enough all these years. Anyone can see that. Heal him now.”

“I love you too,” Aragorn whispered softly.

“I know.”

“And I love him too –“ he continued dazedly.

“I know, love,” his wife replied softly, “But does he know that? He needs you Aragorn.”

“I cannot do that to you!” he gasped out shocked.

“Do what to me?” she asked calmly.

“I would be cheating you!”

“No. I cannot give you all you desire. But he can give you something of what you want. And that will make you happy. Would you rather be unhappy and have everyone else around you saddened. If he makes you happy, it should delight me, love. And it is better done this way, than you keeping it secret from me.”

“I would never hide anything from you.”

“Yes, that is why he pines away for you in Ithilien and you pine for him here.”

“I do not understand –“ he mumbled.

“You will not,” she said with a sigh, “He is young. Let him not face such sorrow that he is left grief-stricken and broken-hearted.”

Aragorn continued to stare at her confusedly.

“You give me all I need, Estel,” she said softly, “But you do not get all you need.”

“I should have told you,” he muttered brokenly.

“It would have achieved nothing,” she said calmly, “And what would you have told me? That you have two loves in your life?”

“I do love you,” he repeated.

“Oh, Estel, love . . . I know that! But you love another at the same time, and I have accepted that. I am happy, though, that it is not another woman!” she said trying to get him to smile.

He smiled a little at that and she was glad. His morose expression troubled her.

And he stayed just as unhappy the next week, when they journeyed to South Ithilien where Legolas’ kin had started arriving to build their settlement. They would stop by Emyn Arnen for a short while on their way back to change their horses.

Boromir was to stay back in the city, since Aragorn would be travelling, and when Aragorn arrived at the stables to mount his horse he found his steward and wife in conversation. Boromir looked a little doubtful, and the smile he gave him seemed a little strained.

Arwen led her horse off leaving Boromir to speak to Aragorn.

“Would you have any messages for Faramir?” he asked.

“Just my wishes,” came the reply.

The visit to South Ithilien went well and everything seemed to be progressing finely. But Aragorn could not forget that their return journey would take them through Emyn Arnen.

When they reached there, they found Faramir waiting for them on horseback to escort them along. It was a small settlement, still being built, and his quarters were not very large. But the rooms were airy and spacious and stood on the topmost spur of the hills, commanding a view of all the land around.

They waited there while the new horses were readied by the escort and the old ones taken off to the larger stables at the bottom of the hill. It had been a long ride and since it had been chilly outside, the warmth of the indoors was a welcome change. Faramir met Aragorn’ s gaze briefly, a polite inscrutable look, but it was a look that lingered upon the king, a brief second more than usual. Aragorn watched him quietly, taking in the lines of strain around the mouth and eyes, not realising that his face too held similar marks of anguish.

They talked in strained tones without so much as meeting each other’s eyes, of desultory things such as when the snowfall might start until they were informed that the horses were ready.

Arwen rose after the messenger had left, and brushing down her clothes smiled at her husband saying, “I shall see you in Minas Tirith then, my lord?”

They glanced at her blankly for a while.

“It was felt, Estel,” she said patiently, “That you must spend a few days in Ithilien, so you can learn more of it. Your secretaries must have forgotten to tell you. Faramir, you will take care of him will you not?”

Faramir continued to look blank. Inwardly however his heart was setting up a furious beat, as she smiled gently at him.

“I know you will,” she said softly, “You cannot see him unhappy and neither can I.”

Chapter 17

Faramir looked dazedly at Aragorn who seemed as confused as he was, and then nodded dazedly. He vaguely heard Arwen say something cheerfully and then realised she was leaving.

They stood in shocked surprise even after Arwen had left. Neither moved at first. They could hear the horses of the queen and her escort thundering away.

It seemed an eternity before Aragorn found himself moving forward. He was completely befuddled. He knew Arwen had seemed not to mind his feelings for Faramir, but that she would let him act on them left him as surprised as the whole sequence of events had left Faramir.

He wondered in distress whether Faramir still felt anything for him. But he need not have worried. The moment he stepped towards him, Faramir moved forward too. He could see he was breathing heavily. Then Faramir launched himself into his arms and Aragorn found himself holding onto the younger man who seemed to be clutching to him for dear life.

“I missed you so much,” came the broken voice, “So much.”

He rested his cheek against the dark head resting on his chest and sighed contentedly. To be able to wrap his arms around Faramir like this was all he had dreamed of for many days now. He stroked his back gently, and his hair and simply held him, as he heaved dry sobs against him.

Then Faramir lifted his head up and looked at him as though to search his eyes for any sign of disapproval.

“And I missed you,” Aragorn whispered.

The wary expression changed to one of complete relief. Their lips met, brushing lightly at first, but as each realised how much the other wanted it, it turned deeper and more passionate as they kissed each other frantically. They came apart flushed and breathing raggedly. Faramir found himself shivering in anticipation from just the nearness of Aragorn’ s body, after so many days of being deprived of even his presence.

Aragorn stared back at Faramir’s trembling figure, wanting nothing more than to make love to him all night. But he needed to be sure that was what the younger man wanted too. Moving closer, he took his face in his hands and gave him a questioning look.

Faramir leaned into his touch and placed his own hands against Aragorn’ s chest tentatively, “Aragorn,” he breathed softly and then lapsed into silence as the king hugged him close.

It was all that the older man needed. Faramir’s tone of voice left him in no doubt as to what he wanted. And if that wasn’t enough, the bulge that rubbed against his body spoke volumes.

“I think you wear too many clothes,” he said in an amused tone.

Faramir lowered his lashes embarrassed at first, and then glanced up, a slight grin playing on his lips, “Then perhaps I should get rid of them?”

“An excellent idea!” the king replied beaming, “But perhaps in your chambers?”

When they reached Faramir’s bedroom, he helped him pull off his tunic and leggings taking in the sight of the sight of the completely naked, slight figure before him, noting with relief that all the injuries seemed to have healed completely. There was nothing more than a few faint markings left. He grasped him by the waist and pulling him forward, placed his lips on Faramir’s mouth once again. Faramir reciprocated and this time they indulged in the passion of a slow and tender kiss, their tongues exploring each other’s mouths intimately while Aragorn caressed the familiar body with his hands. They roved the soft flesh under him hungrily. He had never realised how much he would miss Faramir and the feeling was obviously reciprocated for his actions were causing Faramir to react by brushing his naked flesh against the rough cloth of Aragorn’ s outfit. They pulled apart only when breathless and with great reluctance. Aragorn found himself looking at the adoring expression on the face of the younger man.

“Are you ready for this now?” he asked gently, gazing into the clear grey eyes.

Faramir nodded, “I have never wanted anything more,” he replied sincerely.

Aragorn smiled and then suddenly swept him into his arms.

“What are you doing?” came the answering gasp.

Aragorn simply smiled as Faramir instinctively leaned into his hold. He then carried him over to the bed and lowered him against the pillows tenderly. Looking around the room, he found a box of saddle oil on the table and picked it up. Pulling off his own clothes swiftly, he lay down by him.

“This time, my love, nothing will stop us,” he declared passionately. Faramir blushed a little and smiled almost shyly as Aragorn pulled him forward and kissed him again on his lips while he awkwardly let his hands run all over his king’s back pressing his bulging groin against Aragorn’ s erection. They caressed each other all over revelling in the nearness and in the touch of skin to skin and lip to lip. Then Aragorn slowly and steadily began kissing Faramir all over his body, on his cheeks, on his neck, along his arms, his chest, and his stomach. Faramir found himself quivering with each kiss. His lips were parted and he was moaning silently. A wet tongue flicked over his chest, dancing lightly over the skin, teasing his hardening nipples almost inducing tears from his eyes. His own hands roved Aragorn’ s muscular back, pressing down onto the flesh as ripples of want ran through his aching body

Aragorn’ s hands were on his erect member now and he gasped at the touch as the fingers closed around it. The stroking motion sent him into raptures as he breathed Aragorn’ s name over and over again. Aragorn looked into his eyes once again for confirmation and he nodded breathlessly. As gently as possible Aragorn set about preparing the inexperienced man, careful to ensure that Faramir would not be hurt even the slightest bit. After everything that had happened he never wanted to see pain in Faramir’s eyes ever again.

He reached for the box, and rubbed the oil from it all over his hands. Faramir meanwhile turned over so as to lie on his stomach. He suddenly felt Aragorn gently turn him around and stared back at him out of half-curious, half-apprehensive eyes. What if Aragorn had changed his mind about them?

“I want to look into your eyes as we make love,” Aragorn whispered into his ear, “And I want you to be able to look into my eyes.”

Faramir felt a shudder of desire course through his body. Trembling with excitement and anticipation he nodded eagerly as the strong hands caressed his face with deliberate slowness.

Aragorn made Faramir lie back comfortably with his legs splayed apart, placing a pillow under his waist to keep his hips raised. Faramir moaned passionately as the king’s skilful fingers worked on his arousal stroking it up and down much to his pleasure, and then found their way down to his tight entrance.

“Relax,” he said softly, keeping his eyes on his lover’s face.

Faramir hissed slightly as Aragorn’ s oil-slicked fingers slowly and lovingly worked their way into him one by one, stretching lightly.

“What is it, love? Am I hurting you?” he asked worriedly.

“No, go on! Hurry!” came the answering moan, as Faramir eagerly responded to the touch.

“Ssh, be patient, young one,” Aragorn said soothingly, as he pulled his fingers out and bending over, brushed Faramir’s lips with his own. He got a groan in reply causing him to grin wickedly.

Teasingly, he once more poised his fingers against Faramir’s entrance, but didn’t push them in. Instead he massaged the sensitised flesh with deliberate movements, watching with unbridled glee as Faramir’s expression became more and more enraptured. The younger man began to squirm and his breathing became ragged. He moaned loudly, the lust in his tone clearly evident.

Aragorn’ s free hand landed across his chest to keep him in place. Every sinew in Faramir’s lithe figure stood out tensed up, taut as a bowstring and animalistic groans came out from between his parted lips. Faramir was now almost breathless with desire. Each touch sent him into raptures and by now his groin seemed to be on fire. His erect member was aching for release and all he wanted was for Aragorn to make love to him.

“Patience,” Aragorn said again.

Faramir seemed on the verge of collapse now. Finally relenting, Aragorn released him and pulled him up closer. He entered him gently and lovingly, caressing him all the while, kissing him all over his chest and stomach to calm him. One hand was circled around Faramir’s waist while the other toyed with his throbbing erection. Faramir gritted his teeth silently against the sudden piercing pain that erupted through his lower body and but managed somehow to keep himself relaxed. He could feel Aragorn’ s breaths on his sensitive skin and the hot gasps of air were causing his nipples to react on their own accord. His legs and arms were wrapped around Aragorn and he took comfort in the warm touch of the other’s flesh knowing that the twinges of pain he was feeling would soon vanish to be replaced by something he had desired ever since he had seen Aragorn. As tenderly as ever, Aragorn continued to thrust into him, stretching his tight muscles.

And then finally it happened - a feeling such as Faramir had never known before erupted inside him. He knew they were both nearing release and the very thought excited him even more. When they climaxed, Faramir was almost in tears. His knees were digging into Aragorn’ s waist and the older man’s back and arms were covered with a small pattern of scratches now where Faramir’s nails had reacted to the ecstasy.

“My love?” Aragorn looked at him anxiously as he gently pulled himself out. Raising the quivering younger man up, he wrapped his arms around him.

“You were wonderful,” came the adoring reply even as tears poured down the radiantly smiling face. Aragorn smiled in return and held him closer, deciding that the younger man should smile a lot more in future.

They finally lay back against the pillows, Faramir resting his head on Aragorn’ s broad chest.

“My dear, sweet one,” Aragorn whispered as he lovingly ran his hand through the sweat-dampened hair splayed across his torso.

“I love you,” Faramir said softly, glancing up at his king’s face.

Aragorn could see unshed tears glistening in the grey eyes. He gently pulled the slender figure up and kissed him lightly, “And I love you, dearest.”

Faramir stared up at him open-mouthed for a few seconds and then nestled his head shakily on Aragorn’ s shoulder, “Y-you do?” he mumbled tremulously.

“Of course I do!” Aragorn said running a hand over Faramir’s back. He sent a feathery touch up and down the spinal column and grinned as Faramir gasped slightly.

“I have loved you ever since you called me out of the shadows,” Faramir said softly as he ran a hand over Aragorn’ s chest, revelling in the feel of the well-developed muscles.

“You fought them so long and hard, I knew you had to be a very special person,” Aragorn told him smiling.

“I am not special,” Faramir protested, “It is you. You are the most wonderful person I have ever known. I still cannot believe that you might – feel something for me,” he stumbled over the words, still unable to believe that Aragorn loved him.

“I love you, dearest,” Aragorn said sincerely, “Why would I not? You are special. You are noble and honourable and brave, yet so full of gentleness and love. All who know you like you, my love. And I love you and adore you so much. And I feel honoured that you reciprocate that feeling.”

Faramir’s head shot up at that. He tried to squirm out of Aragorn’ s grasp, still a little flushed, “You-you feel honoured? But you are the king! Nay, it is I who am honoured that you would bother about my feelings and care for one such as me!”

“Oh Faramir,” Aragorn pulled him close, “One such as you, darling? You are no less than anyone. I love you, dearest, and I will never tire of telling you that. Why do you cry, my love?” he asked shocked to see a tear roll down the soft cheek he now held in his hands.

“You are so good,” Faramir whispered hoarsely.

“I love you,” Aragorn repeated and pulled him into a passionate embrace, kissing him long and hard.

“How do you feel?” he asked anxiously after they came apart, “Do you hurt anywhere?” He had taken great care to ensure that there had been no tearing when he made love to the younger man but he was sure Faramir would still be feeling very sore.

“How could it hurt at all when you’re there? To think that all these days –“ Faramir broke off with a despairing gulp.

“What is it, my love?” Aragorn asked worriedly.

“If we’ve loved each other since the day we first met, why did it take so long?” Faramir asked morosely, “All these days! So many days . . . we could have had such pleasure days ago. I was so blind and so stupid!”

Aragorn sighed, “It was not just you, dearest. But, do not worry we’ll just have to make up for it, won’t we,” he whispered wickedly and kissed Faramir gently on his forehead.

Then he pulled him closer and held him possessively to his chest watching over him as he fell into an exhausted sleep.

“We should clean up,” Faramir slurred before his head drooped against Aragorn’ s chest. The king smiled and continued to hold him, stroking his back gently. It felt so good to hold Faramir in his arms like this, to just be able to touch him and caress him. He ran a hand lightly over the younger man’s arms and legs, sighing contentedly as Faramir buried his face deeper into his chest and slept on peacefully. He pulled the blankets up to cover them. Then he closed his eyes and leaned back revelling on the warm breathing that seemed to caress his torso.

Aragorn awoke to the feel of someone nuzzling his neck and shoulder and a hand stroking his chest and stomach. He sighed softly.

“I did not mean to awaken you,” Faramir said apologetically, his head still resting against Aragorn’ s shoulder, while his hands worked their way down to Aragorn’ s now aroused shaft.

“I am glad you did,” Aragorn smiled at him, before attacking the half-parted mouth passionately. Faramir had just about enough time to manage a squeal of delight before falling back under Aragorn’ s weight. They rolled over the soft bed in delight, caressing and stroking and completely abandoning themselves to each other, stopping only when they got entangled in the sheets. They managed to free themselves somehow, laughing softly all the while.

“You said we would make up for all the time we have lost,” Faramir said softly.

“Yes, we will,” Aragorn promised.

“We will?” Faramir’s eyes shined with an almost feral gleam.

“Oh yes!”

“Now?” Faramir was almost purring seductively now and his fingers were running a little pattern on Aragorn’ s chest.

“Right now? Once again?” Aragorn asked grinning, “but we just – and your first time too. You are not too weary?”

“I am sorry. I should have realised you were tired,” came the remorseful reply.

Aragorn hooked a finger under the drooped chin, “I might be getting old, dearest, but I shall never be too tired to love you.”

He was almost flattered to see the way grey eyes lit up with a mix of delight and want as he lowered his lover onto the pillows once again, marvelling at how the energy seemed to have returned to him at the very thought of making love to Faramir once again.

And it seemed to have returned two-fold for this time he gave in to Faramir’s urge and their lovemaking was fast and furious and passionate, ending with both of them almost screaming in delight as they derived satisfaction from each other.

When it was over, they lay stretched out languorously upon the bed, wrapped in each other’s arms.

“Well, there is yet time before we rise for the day. I wonder what we should do now?” Aragorn asked smiling, “Clean up perhaps,” he said as he remembered what Faramir had muttered just before falling asleep.

“Why bother?” Faramir replied as he lightly fingered Aragorn’ s lips, “We’re only going to mess it all up again, aren’t we?”

“I suppose we are?” Aragorn said amusedly, glad to see him lose his shyness, “What do you suggest we do then, darling?”

I’m sure we’ll find a way to pass the time,” Faramir replied raising himself on one elbow and tracing a pattern with his hand down Aragorn’ s chest and lower belly.

“I can think of many things I’d like to do. But why don’t you tell me what you want to do,” Aragorn suggested grinning. Faramir’s body stretched out in front of him seemed to offer endless possibilities to pleasure them both. He stretched out his arm to caress the bare skin.

His lover rose with a feline grace and before the king realised it his arm was being showered with passionate kisses.

“You were gong to tell me what you wanted to do,” he gasped out teasingly as Faramir suddenly began sucking at his fingers one by one.

Faramir raised his head and said calmly, “I thought we could go for a ride.”

Aragorn gaped at him, and then after a pause said in a flat tone, “A ride?” He had really wished they Faramir would select a more intimate way to pass time.

“Yes,” Faramir replied as he stood up, “We can take a horse from the private stables.” He added picking up his clothes.

That left Aragorn even more puzzled, “But there is only one horse in the stables.” He remembered seeing a rather bored grey horse chewing hay in Faramir’s stables.

“One horse was all we needed the last time,” Faramir said calmly as he began putting on his tunic, “This time I promise I will have greater control over the reins,” he added turning to look at Aragorn with a grin playing on his lips, “And you can do whatever you like,” he purred seductively.

Aragorn arose and quirked an eyebrow as he smiled broadly and flicked the tunic off Faramir’s hands, “I did not see much use for your clothes either last time,” he said as he enveloped the younger man in a loving hug and covered his lips in a fervent kiss, even as they sank to the floor, entwined around each other.

They never made it to the stables.

The End

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

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/the-king-and-the-ranger. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!

11 Comment(s)

This story was AMAZING! I loved how
1) There WAS a plot!
2) There was actual chracter development between Faramir and Aragorn…my FAV couple!

Great Job! Keep it up!

— FA4ever! Monday 15 December 2008, 5:16 #

Hi FA4ever! Thank you for your kind comments. I’m really, really delighted that you liked this story so much!:)

— minx Thursday 18 December 2008, 21:06 #

Hi! I loved your story! =) It’s really great, Faramir and Aragorn are perfect, so are the other characters. Especially Legolas who is wonderful! ^^ (Arwen is scary! XD)
I read other fanfics you wrote, and I loved them as well. Your writing is very good!

(hum… Sorry, English is not my first language! :S )
Bye, Lily

— Lily Of the West Wednesday 11 February 2009, 20:16 #

Thanks Lily! I’m very glad you liked the fics.

Thanks for reading and taking the time out to comment!

— minx Thursday 12 February 2009, 19:10 #

I so love your fics!!! I am very addicted to Fara/Ara stories. Perhaps is there a sequel awaiting. Please, say yes!!!!!!
Hugs
Ca.

— camille Tuesday 24 February 2009, 18:16 #

Thank you Camille:) I’m not sure of a sequel to this one but yes, there are lots of A/F stories on their way:) thank you for reading this!

— Minx Sunday 1 March 2009, 17:42 #

Oh! It was gorgeous! It was simply unique! Especially the ending! You are a great writer!
Oh, poor Faramir… No, poor Aragorn… How long he waited that!!!
Thank you very much, Minx!

— Anastasiya Thursday 10 September 2009, 15:08 #

Thank you Anastasiya:) I’m really glad you liked it.

— minx Saturday 12 September 2009, 20:22 #

Wonderful story! Thank you for posting it!!

(Even though I know it’s been awhile…)

— Radical Friday 28 May 2010, 2:46 #

Thank you Radical! I’m very glad you liked it:)

— Minx Friday 4 June 2010, 19:19 #

Hello, just wanted to stop by and say how much I adore this fic. I must have read it a dozen times over the years. I hope Aragorn has been making it up to our sweet Fara all this time ;-)

— Laurelote Sunday 19 August 2012, 18:32 #

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Faramir Fiction Archive

Warning

The King and The Ranger (R)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

11 Comment(s)

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Faramir Fiction Archive

Warning

The King and The Ranger (R)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

11 Comment(s)

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