Heart Shadows, 1

[claudia603]

Title: Heart Shadows
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Author: Claudia
Rating: varies, this chapter R
Summary: After the War, Frodo and Faramir reunite…
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I make nothing…
A/N: This is a birthday present for my dear aprilkat!!! (A little early, but I'll no doubt be rushed in the morning)


An Age had passed, and the sky, cleared now from Mordor’s shadows, which had broken and scattered, was a brilliant azure. A new sun had risen, brilliant and strong. All that could not endure its light would soon be destined to fade.

The stone wall around the Citadel came to a point, much like the keel of a ship, and there one could stand on its edge and peer straight down a dizzying distance to the Great Gates far, far below. The guards on duty there appeared like tiny beetles with shiny armor, scuttling about in the stone rubble.

On the edge of this wall, at this very embrasure, Frodo Baggins stood, holding his arms outward at his sides. His toes curled over the brink. Heart pounding, he tilted forward just a little, then some more. Why did he hesitate? If he allowed himself to fall, to plummet to the Great Gates, he would come to a quick and merciful death. He would likely lose his senses even before he smashed into the ground. There would be no pain.

Only end.

In his heart, he had bid his farewells that morning. His dear friends would be grief-stricken and bewildered, and this he regretted. Everyone would wonder why the Ringbearer, after all he had endured, would take his own life, when he had been healed and brought back from the edge of death to witness the joy and laughter, rewards that came with the fall of Sauron. But while the King’s healing hands were nothing less than miraculous, he had healed only the shell, and only barely. Frodo’s wounds were deep and cold, Gandalf would tell his grieving friends, and perhaps it is a mercy that he died with so little pain. Frodo would again be proclaimed as hero, savior of all, just because his feet had mostly carried him to the cracks of Mount Doom.

It was Gollum who deserved the true honor, and he had been allowed to end his pain. For him, death had been mercy.

During recent long and sleepless nights, Frodo had lain in bed, bathed in moonlight, and regretted that he had not leaped into the fire after Gollum. How many months or years would it be before his longing for the Ring, even while the sun shone bright in the sky, clutched his heart with icy fingers? How long before he changed into a groveling, wretched creature who was kicked out of the way and hidden like a shameful secret by his faithful friends?

The other hobbits gladly donned their hero cloaks and basked in the new sun. Frodo watched the fierce light that had been kindled in their eyes. Their natures had been changed by all they had endured, but the end of the War signaled a new beginning for them, not an end. Pippin wore his Guard of the Citadel garb and performed his duties with fervor, Merry had earned honor in battle, and was held in great honor by King Eomer, and Sam waited patiently to return to the Shire so that he could marry his Rosie and settle down like a proper, respectable hobbit. He would plant his garden, and he would become what had made the Shire worth saving and would teach his children to cherish it.

But Frodo saw his own future as clearly as he now saw the silver glint of the Anduin wrapping the horizon like a strewn ribbon. He would fade into the shadows until nobody remembered who he was, including himself. There was no future for him in the Shire, no comfort in honor, and no place to rest for the remainder of his days.

During those last days in Mordor, as he had stumbled over blistering rocks, overcome by burden and wheel of fire, he had carried one flickering hope in his heart. He had protected it from the cold nights and cruel whispers like a trembling hand over a candle.

He was safe now and healed, the shadows scattered, but this one hope had been cruelly blown out.

It was foolish of me, Frodo thought. Far better to have tucked away the memory of that night in my heart and to have never expected more.

He raised his arms above his head, and the warm spring wind flapped his sleeves and caressed his cheeks. He had only to tilt forward just a little more and it would be over - the pain and the shadows and the outlook of the gray years before him, cold and lonely.

The sun had begun to sink behind him, leaving bright fingers of orange and pink streaked across the sky. And still he stood, motionless, waiting for the courage to fall forward.

“My friend…”

Aragorn’s voice was quiet; he had used stealth, hard-practiced during his years of wandering, and Frodo had heard nothing of his approach. His voice was calm and low, clearly so as not to startle one in such a perilous position. Frodo did not turn.

The day of the King’s coronation, Aragorn had gifted Frodo a moment in the sun, an honor before the good people of Minas Tirith and Rohan. Frodo had been uncomfortable. He had kept his head tucked down, overwhelmed by the stares and whispers and reverent bows. But as the days passed, he wished that he had allowed himself to fully feel gratitude for that moment. At least then he had felt that he was alive and noticed, not pitied and invisible, failing. He had held Aragorn’s crown in trembling hands, his heart bursting with pride that his dear friend and guide who had wandered the wild for so many years, never thanked and often scorned, had at last earned his full honor. If anything good had come out of this business of losing the Ring, this had made it all worth it.

That had been over two months ago. Frodo had barely seen Aragorn since that day, and it was said that he now waited for a sign of some event that had been long in coming and for which he wished his dear friends present. Some speculated that it was an Elvish gift for his labors, some of the wiser among them thought it might be a token of their passing. Gandalf would say nothing, although he clearly knew.

“The view of the Anduin is wondrous from here, is it not?” Aragorn’s voice sounded closer now, near enough that he could grab Frodo should he decide to fall.

“I am not here for the view,” Frodo answered. “Although it is indeed wondrous.”

“I thought the rumor that hobbits have wings was myth.”

Frodo hid a reluctant smile. “You are mocking me.”

“Or perhaps the air in our fair city is not foul enough for one accustomed to breathing in the air of Mordor.”

“Strider…” Frodo turned around at last, careful now not to lose his balance, although he was certain that Aragorn was quick and strong enough to catch him. Just being around him was enough to brighten the shadows, for a brief time at least. He eased himself down so that now he sat on the edge of the stone wall, facing the Citadel. “My King, that is.” He bent forward in a good-natured bow, hand across his breast. “I will never get used to my dear friend Strider being King.” He laughed, a sound hollow even to himself, and allowed Aragorn to help him down from the wall. Once on his feet, he walked with Aragorn across the grassy courtyard and past the tree, of the line of Nimloth, that Aragorn had recently planted. Already it had shown mighty growth and it was said that soon it would bloom again.

Aragorn rested his arm around Frodo’s shoulder, guiding and supporting him. Not minding the curious stares of several guards that passed them, Frodo leaned into Aragorn’s embrace as they walked, grateful now to be alive.

“I’ve not much of a mind to return to the other hobbits,” Frodo said, looking up at Aragorn. “They’ll wonder where I’ve been. I’ve not the heart to explain.”

“Let us go to the King’s House. There we shall visit undisturbed.” Aragorn clasped Frodo’s shoulder. “I have missed you, my friend, and it seems that my absence has nearly proved disastrous.”

“Do you not have kingly duties?” Frodo asked, smiling. “You need not spend this time with me, as flattered as I am that you wish to. I am afraid I am not good company as of late.”

Aragorn paused a moment. “It is true there are duties. There are always duties. This life is not one that I am yet accustomed to. As we speak, a band of Southron prisoners await judgment from me.”

“You should go to them now and ease their worry. Surely they expect the worst.”

“And there are many who wish the worst upon them. But these Southrons from Umbar and Haradwaith were only, after all, slaves under Sauron. Who can tell what lies or deceit led them from their homes? It could have happened to any of the free peoples.”

“Even hobbits,” Frodo said.

“Yes,” Aragorn said after a pause, “even hobbits. And that would have been an especially grievous blow to the world.”

They made their way to the King’s house, which was nearly empty, save for servants and guards on the bottom floor, all scrambling to clean and polish and dust. Aragorn spoke to some of the servants, giving quiet instructions. He then led Frodo through a maze of corridors and up several winding steps. At last they entered a roomy chamber, airy and sunny, that led onto a terrace.

“Are these your quarters?” Frodo asked in wonder.

“Indeed. Although they have not been fully prepared yet.” Aragorn smiled ruefully. “I do not mind. I have slept in far worse places.” He settled on a chair on the terrace and gestured for Frodo to do the same.

“It is peaceful here,” Frodo said, breathing in the fresh air, glad that he could. Had he leaned forward just a bit more on the stone wall, he would be no more by now. His senses felt heightened now, and his heart stirred with love for things as simple as evening birdsong and drifting clouds.

“Faramir will be dining here with me tonight,” Aragorn said. “I expect him in about an hour’s time. Would you care to join us? Of course, we will be discussing some matters of grave importance for the future of Ithilien, which may be of little interest to you, but I don’t imagine it will take the whole evening.”

Frodo smiled but inside, his heart squeezed and turned cold. He had last seen Faramir at the coronation. They had watched each other with cautious, searching glances, each wondering if the other still remembered with any tenderness the night in Henneth Annun.

But Faramir had not sought Frodo out since then.

As the days passed after the coronation, Frodo’s heart ached with deep disappointment. Things happened in times of war, and comfort was sought in ways not normally taken. Perhaps to Faramir that night had been a way to ward off the fear and cold and nothing more.

And then last night, word had come to him of Faramir and Eowyn’s betrothal, and the small flickering hope in Frodo’s heart died, leaving him in darkness.

Since the War had ended, Faramir had set aside the rough greens and browns befitting a Ranger of Ithilien. He now wore silks and a tunic bearing a silver tree and stars. He was no longer masked and husky-voiced with suspicion and desire. He laughed more now, or at least it seemed so, from the distance.

He was golden and beautiful, more so than ever - dangerous like the lions that are said to roam in Southern Ithilien, but Faramir was tamed now, no longer wild and unharnessed.

Frodo swallowed and tried to sound offhand. “Faramir seems happy now that the fighting and war is over. A time of peace suits him well, does it not?”

“He no longer lives under the shadow of either his father or brother,” Aragorn said. “I have high hopes of what he can do to rebuild Ithilien.”

Frodo sighed, and he had not meant for it to come out so pitifully. The sun had fully set, and bright stars filled the sky. He could see the moon reflected on the Anduin far, far away.

“Frodo…” Aragorn took Frodo’s hand. “What ails your heart? It is no small matter that took you to the edge of our wall today.”

But they were interrupted when a servant entered with tea and biscuits and thinly sliced cheese. He set the steaming teapot, the platters of dainties, and the cups on the table. Aragorn nodded, the servant bowed, and Frodo smiled and thanked him in a soft voice as he left.

Frodo took advantage of the interruption and deftly changed the subject. He chattered about this and that, beginning with a commentary on the cheese and moving on to foolish antics of Merry and Pippin, laughing merrily at times and with such skill that even Aragorn soon became diverted from his worry for his friend.

“We should step inside,” Aragorn finally said. “Faramir should arrive at any moment.”

“Oh…” Frodo felt suddenly cold and uncertain. He should leave immediately. But he longed to once again to be within touching distance, to see Faramir again, to hear his voice, to feel his warm gaze. “I do not know if I should.”

“Please stay,” Aragorn said. “This shall be a different meal - a specialty prepared by a manservant who comes from Umbar. With your taste for the outlandish, I should very much think you will enjoy it.”

“Oh…well, all right.” Frodo smiled. “I shall stay.” A buzzing swept through him. Soon enough he would once again be in the same room as Faramir. He knew there was no real hope for anything. In Henneth Annun, they had both been weary and tormented by war and desperate grief and worry, and there had been raw attraction. They had fallen into one another’s arms, unable to keep their hands from each other all the night. It had been magical and whimsical, and time had slowed to a crawl and yet sped with alarming speed toward the dawn, and it was all bewildering and disorienting, as if Frodo had stepped out of his journey into an enchanted realm.

Frodo and Aragorn moved from the terrace into the main living area of the King’s quarters. While Aragorn moved to light candles on the dining table, Frodo busied himself by wandering the room, losing himself in paintings and artifacts, many from the time of Elendil. At any other time, Frodo would have barraged Aragorn with endless questions. But now it was all he could do to focus on any one object. His shoulders tensed, waiting for the knock at the door.

At last it came. The sharp knock, while expected, startled him, and he clutched his hands together and braced himself to look upon Faramir’s face.

“My King,” said the servant outside the door “Captain Faramir has arrived.”

“Please come in,” Aragorn said.

The door opened, and in walked Faramir, his hand splayed over the hilt of his sword. When he saw Frodo, he paused with a light intake of breath.

Then he bowed rather stiffly. “Ringbearer.”

Frodo bowed in return, at a loss for words. He did not know what he had expected in greeting, but Faramir’s stiff formality made his heart ache. Being so close to him again, for the first time since that night in Henneth Annun, shook him badly. Blood rushed to his cheeks, and he clutched his hands together until he could no longer feel the pulse of blood there. Aragorn looked from one to the other, his gaze keen.

“Please,” he finally said. “Do sit down and help yourself to wine.”

Faramir and Frodo settled into cushioned seats surrounding a low table. Faramir reached for the carafe of wine. He held it questioningly over Frodo’s goblet. Frodo nodded, still unable to speak, and Faramir poured the rich red wine into his goblet.

“Thank you,” he finally managed to whisper. Faramir nodded and poured wine into his own goblet. Aragorn joined them on a third cushioned seat. The three faced each other around the diminutive round table, which Aragorn had purposely commanded be set up for this dinner, for the benefit of his smaller guest. For the time, the table held only the carafe and their goblets.

Frodo glanced sideways at Faramir, unprepared for the vicious pain in his heart that being so close to Faramir caused. When gazing at him from a distance, such as during the coronation, there had been only a hitch in his stomach and a slight lifting of his heart when Faramir smiled at him. Then, for all he knew, Faramir’s heart had been free and there was hope.

Now he belonged to someone else.

Faramir was so close that if Frodo wished, he could reach over and take his hand, and he could breathe in his scent, leather and soap. His hair flowed free about his shoulders, and Frodo shivered at a sudden and vivid memory of that rust-gold hair brushing his bare shoulders as he planted gentle kisses on his neck.

Faramir turned to Frodo and smiled.

“I have been remiss, Frodo.” He sipped his wine. “Since you awakened, I have fully intended to pay you a visit, to thank you for all you have done.”

“No harm done,” Frodo said.

“There’s been so much afoot in the city,” Aragorn said. “It is a wonder that any of us have had the time to spend with dear friends. It is a pity.”

Frodo offered Faramir a weak smile, but Faramir could not hold his gaze. He looked suddenly flustered, uncomfortable. Frodo’s hand trembled, and he set down his goblet, for fear of spilling wine over himself. Perhaps staying for dinner had not been wise.

Several servants bustled in with the meal. Frodo stared in wonder, and for the time, the pain in his heart dulled. Never before had he seen anything like it. The servants had brought in a three-tiered silver platter. On each platter lay rolls of what looked like tiny slices of fish wrapped in green leaf and white, sticky grain. Along with the three-tiered platter came sea-green bowls. One was filled with dark liquid, another held thinly sliced vegetables of a pale beige color that smelled sharp and clean and tickled his nose. In yet another was a glob of green sauce.

Aragorn chuckled when he saw his friends’ curious stares. “I explained to Frodo that one of my manservants hails from Umbar, far to the south, from a fishing village. He has proven to be a most unique cook. I beg of you to try this with an open heart. If it does not please, we have plenty of cold meat and cheese in the pantry as well.”

“Well…” Frodo shrugged and met Faramir’s rather cautious smile, and it made Frodo feel good, as if they were conspirators. “At any rate, as a hobbit who was deprived of food for far too long, I feel rather obliged to at least taste it.” Faramir’s smile faded and Frodo noticed that his eyes lingered on him for too long. His cheeks grew hot again. He looked away and took a drawn out sip of his wine.

“I agree,” Faramir finally said. “Tonight I shall be an honorary hobbit.”

“Let me first demonstrate how this food is eaten,” Aragorn said. “There is an art to it.” He picked one of the fish rolls up between thumb and forefinger. First he put a thin slice of the pale beige vegetable on its top. “This is ginger in its raw form.” Frodo was surprised. He had certainly drunk ginger tea when sick to his stomach, but he had never seen it raw.

Then Aragorn rubbed a small amount of the green sauce on the slice of ginger. “A little of this goes a long way. It is very pungent.”

After that, Aragorn dipped the roll in the dark sauce. Frodo watched with fascination as he put the whole roll in his mouth.

Faramir chuckled and gestured toward the three-tiered plate. “Frodo?”

“All right then. I will be brave.” Frodo reached for a roll, and as he did, so did Faramir, and their hands brushed against one another. Frodo’s heart lifted and fluttered. He took a roll, which felt cool and sticky in his fingers. Like Aragorn had done, he dipped the roll into the dark liquid, which had a sharp, salty smell, almost like sea water. He fingered a thin slice of ginger and put it on the roll.

“How fares the Lady Eowyn?” Aragorn asked Faramir, and Frodo felt a sudden chill that even the wine could not dispel. So quick it had happened, like the sun sinking behind a cloud.

“She is well,” Faramir said, keeping his gaze on Aragorn. “She is giving aid to her brother in matters of state.”

“When…when will you take up your duties in Ithilien?” Frodo asked.

Faramir swallowed and now when he looked at Frodo, there was sadness in his eyes. Frodo dipped his roll in the green sauce, barely noting how much he put on. “As soon as the King bids it.”

“When will the wedding occur?” Aragorn asked, his voice low and teasing. Frodo’s stomach hitched. His lips tingled and he felt his appetite leave him. Still, he felt obliged to at least eat one roll. Aragorn was so proud of his outlandish meal.

“We think…” Faramir swallowed, glancing quickly at Frodo. “We think at the end of the summer.” Frodo shoveled the roll into his mouth.

Fire filled his mouth. It streamed up his nose like the flames of a dragon, bringing tears to his eyes. He covered his nose with a cloth napkin and staggered to his feet.

“Frodo, what ails you?” Aragorn asked, reaching for him. “Are you all right?”

Frodo gulped several sips of wine and then fled to the terrace, holding his head in his hands until the fiery misery passed. He heard the low voices of the men, and then Faramir was behind him, holding his shoulders, massaging them.

“Frodo?”

“I am sorry.” Frodo coughed. “I am unused to such spice, I’m afraid. Aragorn said it was pungent, but I’m afraid that was too much for me.”

Faramir sat beside Frodo, taking the hobbit’s hand in both of his. “I…I should have come to see you earlier. I’ve been a coward. I should have told you myself.”

Frodo kept his eyes down. He did not want to discuss this further. His heart had already broken. He glanced inside, toward where he guessed Aragorn to be. “You do not need to-”

“Aragorn has gone on a brief errand. You need not fear that he will overhear.”

“I do not care if he does,” Frodo said, keeping his voice steady. This had been a dreadful mistake, staying for this dinner and seeing Faramir again.

Faramir continued. “I had no notion that you still…well, dark times bring strange bedfellows. I have caused you grief, and that I regret.”

Frodo swallowed against an urge to laugh and say it was the fire in his mouth that made him flee the table, not talk of Faramir’s betrothal. But he stayed silent because now he wanted Faramir to squirm a little. He wanted to know what had been going through Faramir’s mind when he had bound himself to Eowyn not but a few weeks after he and Frodo had fallen into bed with such fire and had vowed to find one another again under the new sun.

“I know.”

“Perhaps even if we were both free, we should not still feel the same. Perhaps it was only dire circumstances that kindled our ardor that night.”

Frodo’s chest heated with sudden ire. “Do you believe that?” His nostrils still burned from that awful, awful green sauce.

Faramir touched Frodo’s cheek. “Frodo.”

Frodo looked up, and he knew his eyes expressed all his raw pain and Faramir moved toward him, and suddenly their lips came together with coarse hunger. Frodo’s hands sought the back of Faramir’s thick neck, and he clutched, his heart battering with joy, that all his daydreams had come true, that Faramir had returned to him. He never wanted the kiss to end, because he knew that as soon as Faramir pulled away, he would regret this moment of weakness, that he would never want to see Frodo again, that he would be noble and honorable.

But Faramir’s kisses became more urgent, and his mouth traveled down Frodo’s neck. Frodo panted as he felt himself grow stiff. Oh, how he wished they were in Faramir’s private quarters, where they could move to his bed and spend the night together. What bliss it would be! In contrast to the last night they shared, they need have no worries of Gollum or darkness or Mordor or the Ring.

Suddenly Faramir pulled away.

“No,” he uttered, clutching Frodo’s shoulders, his fingers digging in until Frodo cringed with pain. “No. I will not do this.”

“This is a cruel stroke of fate,” Frodo swallowed, panting still. He imagined Eowyn, with her golden hair and warrior eyes, so fortunate to have captured Faramir’s heart.

“I should never have…” Faramir released Frodo and turned away. “There is attraction between us, but nothing more. I want only to touch you, to hold you, to have you, but that is no life for us. I must think of my duties, of honor, of the future of Ithilien.”

Frodo nodded, pretending to agree, although each word stabbed him. Far better if they had never met this evening. Far better if they had continued to keep distance from one another. There was little more painful in the world than giving one’s entire heart to one who did not return the same feelings.

“I am sorry,” Faramir continued. “I am…well, as you know, there is Eowyn-”

“I know,” Frodo said, a little too harshly. “Betrothed. All of Minas Tirith knows it. If I have not yet congratulated you, I am sorry. I beg your pardon.” He bowed stiffly. “I wish you happiness. Both of you.”

Faramir closed his eyes. “If I had known…”

“If you had known what?” Frodo asked. “Did you expect I should perish? Are you disappointed that I live?”

“Frodo…” Faramir had grown pale. “It was beyond my wildest hopes that you survived.”

“At any rate,” Frodo said, standing and trying to keep his voice as cold as possible. “I should be on my way.” He stood and held out his hand toward Faramir. “It was good to see you. Perhaps it is better that we no longer encounter one another. Please give Aragorn my regrets.”

With his eyes blurring, Frodo left him on the terrace.

He was surprised to find Aragorn there, leafing through a book. Frodo wondered if he had overheard or seen anything.

“I must go,” Frodo said to him. “Please forgive me.”

“Is everything all right?” Aragorn asked, glancing toward the terrace, where Faramir remained.

“It is a long tale, but I wish to go home now.”

Aragorn nodded. “I shall send for one of the guards to accompany you.”

“That is not necessary.”

“I insist. It is late and you look weary.”

Frodo complied, only because he was indeed weary, and he might very well end up turned around and lost if someone did not see that he reached home safely.

***

Faramir’s heart ached as he walked home from the King’s House. He had barely focused on the business of Ithilien that he and Aragorn had discussed after Frodo’s quick departure. Aragorn had said nothing to him of that, thankfully, although he was certain he must have guessed or seen much of what had happened between himself and Frodo on the terrace. Faramir had handled it badly, this he knew. He thought back to all he had said to Frodo after they kissed, and now he realized that it made it seem as if he did not care, as if that night in Henneth Annun had not mattered to him at all. When he had looked upon Frodo on the terrace this eve, his pale skin ethereal under the moonlight, it had stirred his heart in a way that Eowyn never could. It left him trembling and sent his senses careening out of control. He wanted only to hold Frodo again, to disappear with him into a hidden chamber far from prying eyes and spend every moment with him under the covers, exploring, talking, touching, loving, and staring long into those vivid eyes.

After Henneth Annun, after he had bid farewell to Frodo and Sam, he had been bowed by a terrible grief. He had fallen in love with no warning and with such violence, and the next day he had been forced to send his love to his apparent death, into the land of the Enemy. His grief had been tempered by the knowledge that the end was coming for them all, but that was of little comfort. And indeed, it had almost come for him.

When he had met Eowyn in the Houses of Healing, he had not loved her. Certainly she was beautiful and noble, deeply tragic. There was something in her demeanor that had reminded him of Frodo, how she had willingly gone to her death. And he was moved to pity. Feeling with utmost certainty that Frodo was dead, this feeling of pity for Eowyn soon blossomed into a noble urge to stay with her, to protect her, to make her smile as he might have done for Frodo under more peaceful circumstances.

Eowyn’s lips had tasted like honey when they kissed, and when her breasts pressed against him, he was aroused. Yes, he had decided, he could grow to love her.

But now he could not sleep. He kept seeing Frodo as he had seen him that evening. His cheeks had been flushed, he had been dressed in a silver brocaded vest that made his eyes shine like rare gems. His skin when it had brushed against his by accident was like silk, his lips, unspeakably soft.

The hour had been late, the time unspeakably dark, when he and his men had captured the two halflings in the woods of Ithilien. Lord Denethor’s orders were for him to slay anyone not there by the leave of the White Tower. But Faramir’s heart had always been moved easily by pity, and he could not and would not slay needlessly, not unless to defend himself or his men against attack.

So even in Gondor’s darkest hour, he could not slay these halflings, as defenseless and desperate as they were. They had stepped into his life out of tales and dreams, and from the moment he had laid eyes on Frodo, although he buried it with harsh words, he had been enchanted, stricken to the heart.

Faramir had bid them bound and blindfolded, and once they reached the caves of Henneth Annun, he set to interrogate Frodo. Frodo, clearly weary beyond reckoning, fainted under his questioning, and Faramir himself carried him to his own personal sleeping alcove, separated from the rest of the caves by a fur curtain. The other halfling, Samwise, he commanded be put elsewhere, under the guard of two trustworthy men.

Faramir placed Frodo in the furred wrappings and felt his brow. “Frodo…” He rubbed his soft cheek and was rewarded by Frodo’s eyes opening, wide and soft. But then his eyes flickered in fear, and his hand groped weakly for his chest, as if protecting something. When he felt it still there (Isildur’s Bane…let it rest), his face relaxed and he closed his eyes again.

“Rest now. I shall decide your fate come morning.” Faramir began to stand, but Frodo pulled his hand with surprising strength.

“Please…stay…” Those expressive eyes, so full of trust and…something else that stirred warmth in his groin. Faramir had never felt such fiery allure toward anyone, man or woman.

“Stay?” Faramir asked. He did indeed want to stay. He had met many maidens that he thought were lovely, but nothing that caused such quickening in his heart and warmth in his groin. And something in Frodo’s eyes mirrored his own hot desire. He needed to touch that silky skin again, to run his fingers through his curls.

“I cannot sleep,” Frodo said. “And it is dark here. I am weary...Where is Sam?”

“He is safe,” Faramir said. He hoped that Frodo would not beg for the company of Sam.

“Come…” Frodo pulled Faramir’s hand again and held his gaze. “I am cold. And I think…I think you want to as much as I want you to.”

Faramir felt himself immediately aroused by Frodo’s boldness, and he crawled under the furs and wrapped his arms around this small stranger who had walked into his life only this day, bringing hope and sorrow to men. Earlier, while interrogating him, Faramir had been utterly enchanted by Frodo’s voice, by his grave, attentive gaze while Faramir talked about Elves and the history of Gondor. He was brave and strong, yet never once had he slain with sword, save perhaps an Orc in Moria. And he had been sent into Mordor with the heaviest burden one could ask of anyone, much less one so innocent and merry.

Frodo squirmed until he fit neatly in the crook of Faramir’s arm and faced him so that they lay chest to chest.

Then Frodo moved toward him and captured his lips in his.
Faramir had never before tasted any lips so exquisite. Boromir had often spoken of fair maidens in the White City, but nothing matched this. Faramir’s grizzled face pressed against Frodo’s softer skin, his hands groped and fondled under Frodo’s travel-soiled clothing, and soon he became so hard that he could scarcely contain it. He needed to be inside him, thrusting all his desire inside the one who kindled it, claiming him for his own. Frodo clung to him, whispering in his ear, and his gentle, lyrical voice turned guttural.

“Take me hard, be mine tonight…”

“Can I? Am I not too large…?” But Faramir wanted to - needed to. Pressing Frodo close was not enough to relieve the desperate itch.

“Fear not,” Frodo whispered. “I’ve had two men before and one of them was your brother.”

Faramir felt taken aback at first, as if someone had slapped him hard - and he paused. Boromir had never gone for the lads, but Frodo was…well, it did not matter whether Frodo was lad or lass. He was beautiful and ethereal and gentle and kind, and anyone in the world could fall in love with him.

And so then he understood and he no longer hesitated.

Faramir might have thought the idea of his brother having already taken this enchanting creature would have soiled it forever for him, but it didn’t. Instead, the idea of Frodo panting under his brother’s desperate lust made him harder than ever, so much so that it was painful.

Somehow, and Faramir hadn’t seen nor felt it, Frodo had already relieved himself of his breeches and was working to untie the lacings of Faramir’s leggings. Soon there would be naught but skin between them.

On that blissful, dreamy night, Faramir had Frodo not just once, but over and over. They would rest only a short while, dozing in each other’s arms, speaking quietly and with such comfort, as if they had known one another for years instead of just hours, trembling from exhaustion and need, their seed drying on their thighs. But soon enough they would start rubbing again, skin against skin until lips clashed again and Faramir took him again…and again…and again.

Now Faramir lay in bed in Minas Tirith, clasping his hands together behind his head. His arousal was stiff again, unrelieved. He could have had Frodo again this night. He could have him forever if he wished it. That night in Henneth Annun had meant the world to Frodo, possibly more so than to Faramir, although that hardly seemed possible.

Faramir knew that if he asked Frodo to come with him to Ithilien, to start a new life with him there, it would be done.

He needed to break with Eowyn.

And this would be no easy matter. Faramir was a noble man, and the idea of doing dishonor or causing hurt to anyone he loved, and he did indeed love Eowyn, crushed his heart. He had thawed the frost in her eyes by his love, and now he would put it back?

Eowyn came to see him the next day, her face bright with smile, her blue eyes dancing with new life.

“Faramir,” she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the mouth. “I have missed you dearly.”

“And I you,” Faramir added. But he had not missed her. He had thought of nothing but Frodo since he had awakened that morning.

It is utterly deceitful of me to go through with this, he thought. I cannot.

If he married Eowyn, he would be fooling himself into false happiness. And indeed, there could be no happiness with anyone else while Frodo still lived in the world. Eowyn ran her fingers through her hair, laughing.

“And how do you feel today, my Faramir? I have heard that your wounds have been bothering you.”

“Much better, thank you, but Eowyn, there is something I must-”

“What is it?” She looked concerned, her face sweet and dedicated. Faramir did not understand how he had won this shieldmaiden’s heart with hardly any effort. Only that she had loved Aragorn and had been unable to have him.

The thought brushed Faramir’s mind that perhaps Aragorn had been the other man to have Frodo, and this was indeed quite likely. Frodo had traveled leagues upon leagues with him, and they shared a deep affection now.

“My brother will be back some time today. He wishes to speak to you.”

“We cannot wed,” Faramir said. He had hoped not to speak so bluntly, but it had come out before he could stop himself.

Eowyn’s eyes widened, and she looked like a startled gazelle. She did not speak for several moments. “I do not understand.”

Take it back.

Faramir could not do this now. He had not the strength to deal with the repercussions that would come from breaking with Eowyn. He thought about Eomer and Aragorn and the alliance between Rohan and Gondor, always fragile, that his marriage with Eowyn would help seal. He must give this more thought before he did it. And he did not feel coherent at the moment.

He took a breath. “At the end of the summer,” he finished.

Eowyn stared at him, stunned for a moment, and then suddenly she laughed with relief, and her eyes were merry once again. “It matters not when,” she said. She threw her arms around him and kissed him with open relief.

Coward. Coward.

There is time enough later. You were not ready. Not yet.

Eowyn stayed for a time, speaking about her time working with her brother.

Finally she said, “I hear you dined with the King and the Ringbearer last night. How is Frodo? He has had such a rough time of it.”

Faramir cleared his throat. Even the mere mention of Frodo’s name flustered him. “He seems well. We enjoyed a rather interesting meal last night.” And Faramir told her about the odd fish rolls that Aragorn’s servant had made for them.

Naturally he said nothing else about Frodo, nothing of the terrace or of his quick departure.

Long after Eowyn left, Faramir sat on the edge of his bed, his strength utterly spent. At last, he found himself walking down the street to the cottage where he knew Frodo to be.

He had to speak to him. He had to see him again.

The cottage where the hobbits stayed was only one level down, carved into the mountain, as were most buildings in Minas Tirith. The building had been one left untouched by the war, and bright curtains brightened the dark windows.

He knocked, and his heart flopped against his chest.

The door opened, and he was looking into the glaring, suspicious eyes of Samwise Gamgee. “Captain Faramir.”

Faramir wondered how much Sam knew about what had happened in Henneth Annun, whether Frodo had said anything to him.

“Good afternoon, Samwise. I came to see Frodo. Is he here?”

“Well…we were just about to have our evening meal.” No move to invite him in, just a cold stare. Perhaps he knew everything. Certainly Frodo would have spoken to his dearest friend what was in his heart during such a long, treacherous journey. And now Sam despised him. Perhaps he could read his cowardly heart and know that he still needed Frodo, even while still betrothed to Eowyn. Perhaps Frodo had confided his deep hurt to Sam.

“I see. Should I come back another time?”

“Perhaps that would be best. Mr. Frodo ain’t feeling well.”

There was something guarded about Sam, uncomfortable.

But Faramir was in no mood for games.

“I will just stay a moment, Samwise.” No longer waiting for an invitation, he brushed past Sam, heading for the staircase.

“Wait!” called Sam. “There’s something you should know.”

Faramir stopped and turned toward Sam.

“Mr. Frodo…he’s not been himself lately.”

“I know -“

Sam’s demeanor softened, and Faramir suddenly realized that Sam was not upset with him. “Something happened…well, last night. I don’t know exactly what. But I know he had … well, he had an incident with one of the King’s guards.” Sam pursed his lips in clear disapproval, and suddenly Faramir wondered just what Sam did know. He seemed to know nothing at all about what had happened between them last night.

“I will speak to him.” Faramir’s heart thudded with a sickening mix of jealousy and fear for Frodo. He knew well many of the men who worked as guards, and not all of them were honorable or noble men, no matter how much praise might have been bestowed on the Ringbearer publicly. If any of them had hurt him -

Faramir clenched his fists as he walked up the stairs.

Frodo was lying curled on his bed and he barely looked up when Faramir came in, although his eyes did widen in surprise and flush covered his cheeks. “Captain Faramir,” he whispered. “Why-”

His normally pale skin looked sickly, and for the first time, Faramir noticed harshly carved cheekbones. He wasn’t eating enough, and he was far from recovered. Faramir had thought he looked healthy and well last night. But seeing him in harsh daylight gave him an unhealthy hue. Just looking at him, curled up on the bed, vulnerable, brought on more lust again.

“My Frodo…” Faramir said and took his hand, sitting on the bed beside him. “Why do you grieve? Samwise said you’ve had some trouble…Is there anything I can do?”

Frodo blinked. And then he looked away, and his eyes grew dark with anger. “Sam had no business telling you anything. I have not told anyone but him of this embarrassment. All right then. Aragorn’s guard accompanied me home last night and I…well, I invited him to bed, and he spurned me. Does this satisfy your curiosity?” His voice was bitter, filled with bile, and it sent Faramir’s heart beating rapidly. But he felt utter relief that Frodo had not lain with the guard and that the guard had not hurt him.

“All right then,” Faramir said. “I do not wish to pry in matters that are none of my business, but I would do much to see you happy once again.”

Frodo sat still and silently for many more minutes. “How can you bear to be in here with me?” he finally asked. “Do you not know…?”

“I know nothing,” Faramir answered. “I only know that my Frodo is unhappy, he who deserves all the praise of Middle-earth.”

“I am not your Frodo, am I?” Frodo asked. “But you really know nothing, do you?”

“I suppose not, until you tell me.” Faramir took Frodo’s cold hands in his and rubbed. Frodo leaned into him, trembling, and now Faramir wished desperately that he had had the courage to break with Eowyn that day. He wished that he was free to give his heart fully. For it was not only pity that moved him, but the modest grief in this gentle creature who had saved all of Middle earth. He wanted so little and Faramir could give him everything.

He cautiously put his arm around Frodo’s shoulder, pulling him in and holding him close, rubbing his shoulders, rubbing his arms, trying to warm all the coldness inside him. This was right. He would gladly do this until the end of his days - make sure that Frodo was not cold, that he was not hungry, that all his needs were taken care of.

It seemed they sat that way for hours upon hours, but in reality, close to an hour had passed. At last, Faramir moved Frodo so that he lay back on his bed. He barely acknowledged the movement.

“I am weak, Faramir,” he whispered. “At the end, I failed. I let you down, I let Sam down, I let Aragorn down, I let Gandalf down especially. And all of Middle-earth. If not for the creature Gollum, the world would still be in darkness.”

“But if not for the creature Frodo, who took pity on Gollum and begged his life be spared, then what?”

“You would have taken pity on him,” Frodo said with a cautious smile.

“I am not as wise as Frodo son of Drogo. I was repulsed by that creature. I wished to slay him. Only by your mercy did I not.”

“Now you jest,” Frodo said. “And I am not in the mind for jests.”

“Come then,” Faramir said. “Let us go down to eat. I smell something wondrous down there.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You may not be, but I am.” Faramir stood.

Frodo wiped his face free from tears. “All right then.”

They made their way downstairs and joined Sam at the table. The other hobbits and Gandalf were gone. Sam had already begun to eat, having despaired of getting Frodo downstairs to join him.

“Please have a seat, Captain Faramir…or Prince Faramir, I should say,” Sam said, eyeing Faramir still with some suspicion. Faramir served himself large helpings of the chicken in wine sauce, cold meats, cheese, and everything else.

“Have some cheese, Mr. Frodo,” Sam asked. Frodo nodded, and Sam served him as if he were a child incapable of doing anything for himself. He forked a few pieces of cheese and meat and put them on Frodo’s plate. “How ‘bout some green vegetables?”

“Sam,” Faramir said gently. “I’m sure Frodo knows what he wants to eat.”

Sam glared at him. “That’s none of your affair.”

“It’s all right, both of you,” Frodo said, his cheeks growing red. “I told you I’m not much hungry. What I have right now on my plate will do.”

Faramir noted that Frodo had begun to eat in small, pitiful mouthfuls, but at least he was eating. He could see now why Sam served his food and hovered over him like a mother hen. He could see now that Frodo was nowhere near to healed, and he wondered if the King was aware of it. His hands had pulled Frodo back from the brink of death, but inside, he was still dying, and Faramir could see this now with dismaying accuracy.

“Captain Faramir,” Sam said. “I would like to offer my congratulations on your betrothal.”

Frodo paused and looked up, trembling slightly, and then he dropped his fork.

Sam really did know nothing.

“Yes, thank you,” Faramir said, wishing that the topic of Eowyn had not come up.

“You will be going on to Ithilien then, sir?” Sam asked.

“Er…well, yes. The King has been gracious and kind.”

“That I can see,” Sam said. “It is a fine land, Ithilien. Too bad the Enemy did it so much damage.”

“There will be time enough to once again bring it back to the beauty that once was there. I should very much like to see it settled once again.” Faramir paused and asked a question very much close to his heart. “How long will you hobbits stay here in Gondor?”

Sam shrugged. “I am ready to move on home as soon as possible. I have a sweetheart of my own, you see, waiting, and I don’t expect she’ll wait forever.”

“Rosie is a stubborn lass,” Frodo said with more spirit than Faramir had seen from him since he had arrived.

“Aye, but she’s pretty, too, and if I don’t get back, someone else will win her heart.”

“I doubt that,” Faramir said.

“I only hope,” Sam said. “That we find the Shire in the same state it was when we left.”

“What will you do when you get home?” Faramir asked them both, but he really ached to hear Frodo’s answer. A vicious part of him wanted to hear from Frodo that there was nothing for him at home, that there was no reason for him to go home.

“I suppose I shall go back to what I was doing before I set off on the quest. Back to my books and my home.” He smiled. “But mostly I want to stop by Rivendell and see Bilbo. My heart yearns to see him again.”

“He must miss you.”

“He is very old,” Frodo said. “But in my heart, I know he still lives and I miss him very much.”

“We’d set off right away, sir, but Strider, King Aragorn that is, seems to want us to wait around for something.”

“And he’s being very secretive about it, almost like Gandalf.”

“Ah,” Faramir said. “This is strange indeed. We shall have to get to the bottom of it. Perhaps there is a sweetheart for him as well.”

Frodo paused again and Sam let out a sigh. Again, Faramir had the feeling that there were too many things he knew nothing about and again he wondered if perhaps Frodo and Aragorn had lain together during their many leagues of travel together.

“Frodo, you told me once,” Faramir said, and he knew he was on sticky territory, bringing up anything to do with Henneth Annun. “You told me that there was a book, a diary you were to keep for Bilbo. Will you work on that here while you’re waiting to depart?”

Frodo laughed a little. “If it was up to my cousins, they would lock me in a tower. Right now? I have not the heart to do it. I hope that everything remains in my memory and heart. I should very much hate to let Bilbo down.”

“And I very much doubt that is possible,” Faramir said with a gentle smile.

Frodo answered with a sad smile. “It may be, Faramir. He, well, he is very old, and he held the Ring for a great many years. I do not think he ever fully understood how serious it all was. He offered to go on this quest, but he did not really understand it.”

“Frodo,” Faramir said, looking at him and avoiding the hard gaze of Samwise. “I should very much like to invite you out with me tomorrow so I can show you our city. Will you come with me? I know you have not been well lately, not up to walking, anyway, and I have a wonderful idea of how we can see the city.” His heart thudded. He was reaching out now, for the moon and sun, and everything that he was not entitled to have, but he did not care. He only wanted to be with Frodo, to have a chance to be with him alone, far from the prying eyes of the others.

“Will Eowyn be joining you?” Sam asked.

“No, Master Samwise,” Faramir said. “She has duties of her own with her family.”

“I am not sure it is a good idea,” Frodo said, looking down and looking miserable.

“Please say that you will.”

Frodo met his gaze, and his lips turned up slightly. Then he nodded. “Yes. Yes, I will go with you tomorrow. I am too weak to decline.”

Later that night, Aragorn came to see Faramir.

“Have you been to visit Frodo?”

“Yes, my King. Just now. I dined with Frodo and Sam. The other hobbits were not there.”

Something eased in Aragorn’s face, almost as if he were relieved by Sam’s presence. “I should like to be frank. Why did you go there?”

There was more to this than a casual visit, and Faramir felt uncomfortable, mouth-dry. He remembered wondering if there was something that had happened between the King and Frodo on their quest, but neither had said anything. There had only been that declaration from Frodo in Henneth Annun that he had had other men before, one of which being Boromir.

Aragorn had most likely perceived something between them at the dinner the night before. It was far better to come clean now.

“Aragorn, I fear I have made an error in binding myself to Eowyn.”

“An error?”

“I cannot wed her. It would not be honest. I do not love her. No…that is not true. I do love her, just as I love many things of beauty. But she is not…Frodo.”

Aragorn was silent. “And Frodo?”

“I believe he loves me,” Faramir said, meeting Aragorn’s stern gaze.

Aragorn was silent for many moments. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, but stern. “There is no reason you should wed one you do not love, but Faramir…it does not seem like you to make impulsive decisions and then back off on them. This is rather a delicate thing, this alliance between Gondor and Rohan.”

“It was not impulsive, my King. Our vows were made at the coming of the end of the world, and it seemed right, the only path then, and -”

“Everything seemed lost.”

“Yes.”

“And Eowyn was beautiful and hurt and it was natural that you should cleave to her.”

“Yes,” Faramir said, relieved. Aragorn understood.

“Just as Frodo was when he came to you in Ithilien,” Aragorn said. “I know well the affect Frodo has. How was he today?”

“He seemed … a little weak, perhaps. He wept in my arms for a time."

“You yearn for his flesh, to touch him.”

“What…my lord? What makes…” Faramir looked at Aragorn, surprised by his candid words.

“You wish to have him. I am certain he will give you this. He gives of his love freely. But do not hurt him, Faramir. You would do well to examine your heart.” And Aragorn’s eyes were fierce and dark, and Faramir was left speechless.

Faramir had hired the driver and had purposefully chosen one who was so hard of hearing that one had to shout to be heard. He wanted to be able to talk to Frodo without barriers. He knocked on the door to the hobbits’ cottage, and this time, all the hobbits were enjoying breakfast. Frodo even seemed lively, far more so than the night before. There was a flush to his cheeks, and he had dressed with more care. He wore a silk shirt, clearly tailor made of deep blue and a vest of deep mahogany velvet.

“Good morning, Captain Faramir!” Pippin said. He was already dressed in his captain of the guard uniform. “It’s wonderful to see you again!”

Faramir bowed to him, and again he was utterly entranced, watching these merry but brave hobbits move about and relate with one another with so much cheer and open emotion was balm to his heart.

“Frodo, have you eaten as much as you wished for the morning?” Faramir asked lightly, his eyebrows raising.

“You do tease, don’t you?” Frodo laughed. “Yes…I am quite ready, thank you! I have already eaten my two morning meals, although the last was quite forced on me by Sam.” He nodded toward Sam with affection. Sam grunted and looked away.

At last Faramir and Frodo settled in the back of the carriage, careful not to sit too close to one another.

For a long time, they sat in silence, resting against the cushioned seats of the carriage, each enjoying the clear blue sky, the sun - warm but not uncomfortably so, and the gentle breeze on their faces. They passed down through the streets of Minas Tirith, winding down the stony road until at last they passed through the Great Gates and out of the city.

Only then did Faramir turn to Frodo, his heart full. He knew now with utmost certainty that he could not wed Eowyn, not when Frodo was in this world. He was utterly dizzy with love and lust.

His hand sought Frodo’s and their fingers intertwined.

Still, they did not speak. Frodo rested his head against Faramir’s arm, and Faramir shifted so that his arm was around Frodo’s shoulders, pressing him close. With his other hand, he stroked Frodo’s curls, pausing occasionally to kiss the top of his head.

“You are not taking me about to view the city, are you?” Frodo murmured with a half smile.

“Nay.” He had told the driver only to drive outward, away from the city until told to turn back. He cared not where.

Frodo looked up to meet his gaze, and just as it had happened on the terrace of Aragorn’s quarters, Faramir bent and pressed his mouth over Frodo’s, drinking in soft lips with mad need. He felt like a thirsty man who has found water after days in the desert. He needed more, and harder. His tongue delved inside Frodo’s mouth, which opened willingly. Eowyn became a pale distant shadow at the back of his mind. His coming duties in Ithilien seemed tiresome, a burden. He felt himself spinning out of control, dizzy with his need for Frodo, and he no longer cared to fight it.

Go on to next part