Title: The King and the Ranger
Author: Minx
Pairing: Faramir/Aragorn
Rating: NC17
Disclaimer: LOTR and all its characters belong to Tolkien
Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated - greenrivervalley@lycos.com
Archiving: Drop me a line before you do
Warnings: Violence, slash, angst
Summary: Life after the war of the ring is not all roses, as Faramir discovers 
while trying to come to terms with the changes, losses and his own insecurities, 
while everyone else around him is celebrating. 
Note: Definitely AU, set some months after RoTK, Boromir is alive, Aragorn is 
betrothed to Arwen but not married yet. 

Chapter 1

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

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

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

He glanced at his face frowning yet again, and splashed some more water on to 
it, cursing the dreams that kept him awake. He seemed to be fighting a losing 
battle. If he slept, he dreamt, terrible dreams that woke him up each night without 
fail. Dreams of the fire that had consumed his father and almost consumed him 
alongside, of his brother falling to orcs, of that terrible interview with his father 
after they had thought Boromir dead, of his ride on the Pelennor to hold out 
against the forces of darkness, and all compounded by his one recurring dream of 
the fall of 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 councilors, 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 councilor. 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 councilors; he had more experience than anyone amongst them, and had 
traveled 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 
Eomer, 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 
councilors 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 councilor 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 councilor next 
to him, a pleasing man, much younger than most of the other councilors, 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 councilors 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.”

To be continued….


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 
councilors 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, marveling 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.

To be continued…



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 loathe 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 defenses 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 
Faramir 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.”

To be continued . . .


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 maneuvered 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.

To be continued…


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 councilor.

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

Near Eredil, another councilor 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 councilors 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 councilors 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 defense 
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 toweling 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 toweling 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 fiber 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.

To be continued . . .
Chapter 6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You took a poisoned arrow,” Boromir retorted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Call me Aragorn,” Aragorn suggested.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How did he enter?” Faramir asked.

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ithilien? You wish to ride to Ithilien?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But the company needs-“

“I will go in your stead.”

“No!” Faramir raised his voice angrily.

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sire.”

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

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

“You were crying,” he stated simply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued . . .


Chapter 7

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir shook his head unhappily.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where will you sleep?” Faramir asked worriedly.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

*****

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

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

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

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