The Memory of Another
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-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
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Category:
-Multi-Age › Slash - Male/Male
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,191
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own the Lord of the Rings (and associated) book series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.
The Memory of Another
Title: The Memory of Another
Author: Lizzie (ravens_slavegirl@yahoo.co.uk)
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir, with hints of Aragorn/Boromir. If you want to read some Faramir/Boromir into it then feel free, but that wasn't my original intention.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Summary: After the War, haunted by grief over his brother, Faramir decides he needs some time alone to come to terms with what has passed. He's followed.
***
The Memory of Another
***
Pale yellow wine filled the stout silver goblet that sat by the right hand of Faramir, son of Denethor. The silver had tarnished in the months since he las last visited this place, and he had not expected to find a store of the good light wine out of Anórien upon his return. It had been a blessing; Faramir took it as a sign that his journey had not been made in vain.
What he had taken for the last of this Anórien vintage had been drunk in Minas Tirith on the day of the King's coronation. Half a year or more had passed since then and no more yellow wine had passed into the White City. The wine there now was red as blood, a gift from out of Rohan; Faramir found he had no stomach for this new taste, longing instead for the old, for the Anórien wine that he had taken with his father and his brother, with his men in the taverns and the barracks, in days gone by.
His wife had fair been weaned on this new taste, learned early at the table of her uncle, the late King of the Golden Hall. Once a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, her spirits soared in the drinking of it, even as her husband's sank. He watched her dance at court, all ruffled blonde hair, bright smiles, twinkling eyes. It gladdened him somewhat to see her so, but he found in the gladdening no remedy for his own most melancholy state.
Indeed, that was in part the reason for his journey to the Window on the West. His melancholy.
He took the tarnished cup in his hands and left the table, pacing the stone floor slowly. The place was so familiar, perhaps even more so than the rooms and corridors of his own new home. He recognised the cold stone walls, old tables, the perpetual hiss of the waterfall at the mouth of the cave. He had first come there in his youth, no more than eight or nine years old, with his brother and their teacher. The brothers had been close then, thick as thieves, and... yes! There it was still - carved into the living rock were their initials, in the crude scrawl of boys.
He ran his fingertips over the carving, a small smile on his face, before moving on again. He enjoyed that familiarity, pacing there in his old green cloak, hearing the click of his boot heels on the rock strike loud against the silence; it seemed soothing somehow.
And then another click sounded, close by. His hand went to the sword at his waist, only to find a warm hand had come to rest upon its hilt before his. He turned.
"Were I the man I was six months ago, you would have been dead before you set foot in this place", he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "Sire".
"Were we the men we were six months ago, I would have no cause to be here at all", said Aragorn, with a weary smile.
Faramir nodded as Aragorn briefly clasped his shoulders in those warm hands. He had to admit that this new presence was not entirely unwelcome, though it disturbed his quiet. Three days he had been absent, riding here and there without so much as a word passed with any other soul. Perhaps now was not the time for quiet after all.
At length, Faramir fetched a cup of wine for his King and the two sat down, facing one another over the old wooden table. Himself garbed in the green of an Ithilien Ranger, Faramir noted as they talked that Aragorn wore the dark cloths and leathers of a Ranger of the North. The absurdity of the situation, King and Steward both resting there in the caves of Henneth Annun and dressed in such a manner, was not lost on him, or on Aragorn. But it had been anonymity which Faramir sought and found in a Ranger's dress. Strange, considering his whole life before the ascension of Elessar had seemed somewhat anonymous.
At the very least he had been overshadowed, and by the very man to whom the conversation did eventually, inevitably, turn. Faramir had often told himself in ever sterner terms that he was not jealous of his brother, even in death. He had loved Boromir. Without him there was an emptiness in him which would never be filled, because he would never attempt to fill it.
Éowyn could not understand her husband's prolonged grief; to her it was all too simple - Boromir had died an honourable death, a warrior's death, a death worthy of celebration and remembrance, not a death to be so mourned. Faramir wished it could be so simple for himself as it seemed to the White Lady of Rohan. Sometimes in his mind it was, but never in his heart; his head knew that Boromir had died a good death, but his heart... His heart missed his brother. It was a pain that Éowyn would never know. But Aragorn - Aragorn knew such pain.
When Faramir bade him speak of his brother and their time together, he saw the same pain in his eyes.
"I loved and respected your brother", said the King, so easily that the candour took Faramir aback. "I knew him so short a time and yet my grief at his passing is as sincere as your own".
"I do not doubt it", Faramir said, raising his goblet to his lips. "But it startles me that you could love him so well though he would have betrayed you all".
Aragorn smiled then, an odd sort of smile, and looked down into his wine. "It would have been easier if all we had known of your brother was his lust for the Ring", he said softly. "But it was not all. I saw him with Merry and Pippin, the smile on his face as he taught them to fighe khe knew he was perhaps the finest warrior of all Gondor, yet he was not above teaching two halflings the sword, and finding pleasure in it".
The King paused then, taking a mouthful of his wine, something in his eyes telling Faramir that in his heart he was far away, in a time passed. It was a long, quiet moment before he spoke again.
"Boromir understood what the Ring was doing to him", he said at last, eyes still on his wine as his thumb idly traced the line of his lower lip. "I would have you know that. It was not blind lust which he carried for the One; he understood his temptation".
"He wished to protect his people", said Faramir. "The Ring saw that desire within him and drew upon it".
"Yes", replied Aragorn, simply. "It whispered to him of the glory of Gondor and the peace of his people. In his weakest moments he could not see past his desire, that the Ring would betray him and in doing so see Gondor fall. He was blinded to its true purpose.
"But there were times, even toward the end when he lost himself, that he would see clearly. He saw the Ring for what it was and resented himself for what it did to him' he saw his weaknesses laid bare by this thing and he saw that it would claim his life if he let it. It scared him to be so close to the One, I think, when he knew that in spite of his prowess in battle he was powerless against it. The Ring was not something against which he could fight with sword and shield, and within him was such desperation that he could not set aside his desire. I bade him leave us and ride ahead for the White City, but honour bound him to us and he would not part his way from ours.
"In Lórien, one night before we left that place, he came to me and we talked. I will not say I knew your brother well, though I loved him well; I hope you do not think the worse of me for telling you that we were many times bedfellows, as we were that night. He wept when he spoke, and I held him.
"'It should have been my brother', he told me. 'He would not be so tempted'. I could neither agree nor disagree, though I did tell him then of the temptation of Isildur and the kings of old, and that I too felt the call of the Ring in my heart. This seemed to comfort him a while, but at length he went on.
"'It will take me, Aragorn', he told me, with the light of Lórien shining in his eyes. With a hand in his hair and him in my arms I tried to tell him that I would protect him from that end. My intentions were true; I meant to protect him. I would have sworn it on the sword of my ancestors. 'It will take me', was his only reply.
"I loved your brother. There will always be a part of me to love him still, just as you do. Think no ill of him for what we did or for his end. He was the best of Men".
Both men brought the wine to their lips then, and drank. They looked up and their eyes met, eyes shining with unshed tears. As sunset through the mists of the falls did Faramir then see his King, beautiful and sad and distant. When they kissed, the taste of pale wine was still in their mouths.
There was desperation in that kiss, in tugging at their clothing, in the raking of fingernails on bare skin that came after. It was heated despite the chill of winter in the air, with flesh on flesh and lips on lips. Faramir's arms went about the waist of his King and pulled him down, their lustful gazes meeting. Aragorn's fingertips traced the muscles in Faramir's chest, and then they kissed again.
Faramir wondered if the shape of his body beneath Aragorn's felt familiar to the King. He wondered if there was something recognisable in the meeting of their lips, in the touch of his hands, in the taste of his flesh. He wondered if the pleasure he felt as he pushed inside was comparable, if the gasps and the moans and the whimpers were reminiscent of some other time. Sheathed to the hilt, thrusting, skin sweat-slicked and burning, did Aragorn feel his love alive once more? They gasped and clutched and kissed, burning together, and Faramir realised that it did not matter. All he wanted was the moment, even if all Aragorn wanted was another man.
They drew their cloaks over their cooling bodies as they lay close together, the length of them touching on the small bed behind the half-opened curtain. Aragorn stroked back Faramir's unruly hair from his forehead and smiled a wistful smile. Faramir's hand rested at Aragorn's shoulder, his thumb grazing over the slow throb of his pulse.
"You think that you failed him by letting him make the journey North".
Faramir nodded. "It should have been me. He would be alive today if it had been me". He nudged Aragorn's cheek with his lips. "But I do not blame myself for his death. Not as you do".
Aragorn could not bring himself to look at him. "I swore to protect him", he said.
"I do not think he meant for you to protect him". Faramir turned Aragorn's face to his own, meeting his gaze purposefully. "'It will take me', he said. And it did".
Aragorn smiled then, a small smile as he brushed his thumb over Faramir's lips and his fingertips over his cheek before leaving the bed. Faramir watched him dress, then dressed himself. He understood. They were leaving.
As they moved toward the waterfall, shouldering their packs, adjusting their cloaks, Aragorn stopped and turned to him, a look of something akin to fondness in his eyes and curving his lips.
"I see much of your brother in your face", he said.
Faramir smiled. "I see much of my brother in your strength", he replied.
Aragorn returned the smile as Faramir brushed his lips against his own. It was a comfort to both men that there were no illusions between them. They were both thinking of another. They had been all the while.
Faramir never knew why Aragorn had come to the Window. He tried to tell himself that the King had come out of concern for his Steward, but he had to wonder if it did not have more to do with a man come to bury his lover.
And when they kissed before the waterfall, it was if they said goodbye. When they kissed, on their lips was still the taste of Gondor's last pale wine.
***
End
***
Author: Lizzie (ravens_slavegirl@yahoo.co.uk)
Rating: R
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir, with hints of Aragorn/Boromir. If you want to read some Faramir/Boromir into it then feel free, but that wasn't my original intention.
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Summary: After the War, haunted by grief over his brother, Faramir decides he needs some time alone to come to terms with what has passed. He's followed.
***
The Memory of Another
***
Pale yellow wine filled the stout silver goblet that sat by the right hand of Faramir, son of Denethor. The silver had tarnished in the months since he las last visited this place, and he had not expected to find a store of the good light wine out of Anórien upon his return. It had been a blessing; Faramir took it as a sign that his journey had not been made in vain.
What he had taken for the last of this Anórien vintage had been drunk in Minas Tirith on the day of the King's coronation. Half a year or more had passed since then and no more yellow wine had passed into the White City. The wine there now was red as blood, a gift from out of Rohan; Faramir found he had no stomach for this new taste, longing instead for the old, for the Anórien wine that he had taken with his father and his brother, with his men in the taverns and the barracks, in days gone by.
His wife had fair been weaned on this new taste, learned early at the table of her uncle, the late King of the Golden Hall. Once a Shieldmaiden of Rohan, her spirits soared in the drinking of it, even as her husband's sank. He watched her dance at court, all ruffled blonde hair, bright smiles, twinkling eyes. It gladdened him somewhat to see her so, but he found in the gladdening no remedy for his own most melancholy state.
Indeed, that was in part the reason for his journey to the Window on the West. His melancholy.
He took the tarnished cup in his hands and left the table, pacing the stone floor slowly. The place was so familiar, perhaps even more so than the rooms and corridors of his own new home. He recognised the cold stone walls, old tables, the perpetual hiss of the waterfall at the mouth of the cave. He had first come there in his youth, no more than eight or nine years old, with his brother and their teacher. The brothers had been close then, thick as thieves, and... yes! There it was still - carved into the living rock were their initials, in the crude scrawl of boys.
He ran his fingertips over the carving, a small smile on his face, before moving on again. He enjoyed that familiarity, pacing there in his old green cloak, hearing the click of his boot heels on the rock strike loud against the silence; it seemed soothing somehow.
And then another click sounded, close by. His hand went to the sword at his waist, only to find a warm hand had come to rest upon its hilt before his. He turned.
"Were I the man I was six months ago, you would have been dead before you set foot in this place", he said, a twinkle in his eyes. "Sire".
"Were we the men we were six months ago, I would have no cause to be here at all", said Aragorn, with a weary smile.
Faramir nodded as Aragorn briefly clasped his shoulders in those warm hands. He had to admit that this new presence was not entirely unwelcome, though it disturbed his quiet. Three days he had been absent, riding here and there without so much as a word passed with any other soul. Perhaps now was not the time for quiet after all.
At length, Faramir fetched a cup of wine for his King and the two sat down, facing one another over the old wooden table. Himself garbed in the green of an Ithilien Ranger, Faramir noted as they talked that Aragorn wore the dark cloths and leathers of a Ranger of the North. The absurdity of the situation, King and Steward both resting there in the caves of Henneth Annun and dressed in such a manner, was not lost on him, or on Aragorn. But it had been anonymity which Faramir sought and found in a Ranger's dress. Strange, considering his whole life before the ascension of Elessar had seemed somewhat anonymous.
At the very least he had been overshadowed, and by the very man to whom the conversation did eventually, inevitably, turn. Faramir had often told himself in ever sterner terms that he was not jealous of his brother, even in death. He had loved Boromir. Without him there was an emptiness in him which would never be filled, because he would never attempt to fill it.
Éowyn could not understand her husband's prolonged grief; to her it was all too simple - Boromir had died an honourable death, a warrior's death, a death worthy of celebration and remembrance, not a death to be so mourned. Faramir wished it could be so simple for himself as it seemed to the White Lady of Rohan. Sometimes in his mind it was, but never in his heart; his head knew that Boromir had died a good death, but his heart... His heart missed his brother. It was a pain that Éowyn would never know. But Aragorn - Aragorn knew such pain.
When Faramir bade him speak of his brother and their time together, he saw the same pain in his eyes.
"I loved and respected your brother", said the King, so easily that the candour took Faramir aback. "I knew him so short a time and yet my grief at his passing is as sincere as your own".
"I do not doubt it", Faramir said, raising his goblet to his lips. "But it startles me that you could love him so well though he would have betrayed you all".
Aragorn smiled then, an odd sort of smile, and looked down into his wine. "It would have been easier if all we had known of your brother was his lust for the Ring", he said softly. "But it was not all. I saw him with Merry and Pippin, the smile on his face as he taught them to fighe khe knew he was perhaps the finest warrior of all Gondor, yet he was not above teaching two halflings the sword, and finding pleasure in it".
The King paused then, taking a mouthful of his wine, something in his eyes telling Faramir that in his heart he was far away, in a time passed. It was a long, quiet moment before he spoke again.
"Boromir understood what the Ring was doing to him", he said at last, eyes still on his wine as his thumb idly traced the line of his lower lip. "I would have you know that. It was not blind lust which he carried for the One; he understood his temptation".
"He wished to protect his people", said Faramir. "The Ring saw that desire within him and drew upon it".
"Yes", replied Aragorn, simply. "It whispered to him of the glory of Gondor and the peace of his people. In his weakest moments he could not see past his desire, that the Ring would betray him and in doing so see Gondor fall. He was blinded to its true purpose.
"But there were times, even toward the end when he lost himself, that he would see clearly. He saw the Ring for what it was and resented himself for what it did to him' he saw his weaknesses laid bare by this thing and he saw that it would claim his life if he let it. It scared him to be so close to the One, I think, when he knew that in spite of his prowess in battle he was powerless against it. The Ring was not something against which he could fight with sword and shield, and within him was such desperation that he could not set aside his desire. I bade him leave us and ride ahead for the White City, but honour bound him to us and he would not part his way from ours.
"In Lórien, one night before we left that place, he came to me and we talked. I will not say I knew your brother well, though I loved him well; I hope you do not think the worse of me for telling you that we were many times bedfellows, as we were that night. He wept when he spoke, and I held him.
"'It should have been my brother', he told me. 'He would not be so tempted'. I could neither agree nor disagree, though I did tell him then of the temptation of Isildur and the kings of old, and that I too felt the call of the Ring in my heart. This seemed to comfort him a while, but at length he went on.
"'It will take me, Aragorn', he told me, with the light of Lórien shining in his eyes. With a hand in his hair and him in my arms I tried to tell him that I would protect him from that end. My intentions were true; I meant to protect him. I would have sworn it on the sword of my ancestors. 'It will take me', was his only reply.
"I loved your brother. There will always be a part of me to love him still, just as you do. Think no ill of him for what we did or for his end. He was the best of Men".
Both men brought the wine to their lips then, and drank. They looked up and their eyes met, eyes shining with unshed tears. As sunset through the mists of the falls did Faramir then see his King, beautiful and sad and distant. When they kissed, the taste of pale wine was still in their mouths.
There was desperation in that kiss, in tugging at their clothing, in the raking of fingernails on bare skin that came after. It was heated despite the chill of winter in the air, with flesh on flesh and lips on lips. Faramir's arms went about the waist of his King and pulled him down, their lustful gazes meeting. Aragorn's fingertips traced the muscles in Faramir's chest, and then they kissed again.
Faramir wondered if the shape of his body beneath Aragorn's felt familiar to the King. He wondered if there was something recognisable in the meeting of their lips, in the touch of his hands, in the taste of his flesh. He wondered if the pleasure he felt as he pushed inside was comparable, if the gasps and the moans and the whimpers were reminiscent of some other time. Sheathed to the hilt, thrusting, skin sweat-slicked and burning, did Aragorn feel his love alive once more? They gasped and clutched and kissed, burning together, and Faramir realised that it did not matter. All he wanted was the moment, even if all Aragorn wanted was another man.
They drew their cloaks over their cooling bodies as they lay close together, the length of them touching on the small bed behind the half-opened curtain. Aragorn stroked back Faramir's unruly hair from his forehead and smiled a wistful smile. Faramir's hand rested at Aragorn's shoulder, his thumb grazing over the slow throb of his pulse.
"You think that you failed him by letting him make the journey North".
Faramir nodded. "It should have been me. He would be alive today if it had been me". He nudged Aragorn's cheek with his lips. "But I do not blame myself for his death. Not as you do".
Aragorn could not bring himself to look at him. "I swore to protect him", he said.
"I do not think he meant for you to protect him". Faramir turned Aragorn's face to his own, meeting his gaze purposefully. "'It will take me', he said. And it did".
Aragorn smiled then, a small smile as he brushed his thumb over Faramir's lips and his fingertips over his cheek before leaving the bed. Faramir watched him dress, then dressed himself. He understood. They were leaving.
As they moved toward the waterfall, shouldering their packs, adjusting their cloaks, Aragorn stopped and turned to him, a look of something akin to fondness in his eyes and curving his lips.
"I see much of your brother in your face", he said.
Faramir smiled. "I see much of my brother in your strength", he replied.
Aragorn returned the smile as Faramir brushed his lips against his own. It was a comfort to both men that there were no illusions between them. They were both thinking of another. They had been all the while.
Faramir never knew why Aragorn had come to the Window. He tried to tell himself that the King had come out of concern for his Steward, but he had to wonder if it did not have more to do with a man come to bury his lover.
And when they kissed before the waterfall, it was if they said goodbye. When they kissed, on their lips was still the taste of Gondor's last pale wine.
***
End
***