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"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!' said Aragorn. 'You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.' 'I will, lord,' said Faramir. 'For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"
[from: Return of the King; The Houses of Healing]
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Title: The King and The Ranger Chapters 1-5 (see also 6-12, 13-17)
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.

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jump to chapter 1 · 2 · 3 · 4 · 5 · 6 · 7 · 8 · 9 · 10 · 11· 12 · 13 · 14 · 15 · 16 · 17

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 Numenor. 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.”

 

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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 Numenorean 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.

 

back to top


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.”

 

back to top


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.

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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.

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

 

On to Chapter 6

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