Heart Shadows, 2/?, Frodo/Faramir, R
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…
“Please…” Frodo wrenched his mouth away from Faramir’s, breathing hard. A late afternoon breeze numbed his bruised lips. He ached to devour Faramir’s mouth again, to sink into warmth and forgetfulness, to lean against his sturdy chest. The chill that had taken his lips seeped down to his heart.
“We must stop.” He strove to calm his breathing. His voice, which he expected to come out weedy, with no conviction, was surprisingly steady.
As much as he wished it otherwise, Eowyn lay between them like a deep, perilous fissure. And as deaf as their driver was, he was not blind and should he choose to glance back at them, he would have an eyeful, if he had not already seen enough.
Faramir held Frodo’s shoulders. “I love you.”
The simplicity of his utterance stole Frodo’s breath and he could do nothing but stare up at him. He had expected flowery mumblings or a noble apology, not this simple admission straight from the heart.
“But…but why?” Frodo asked. It did not seem a fitting reply, but he did not know what else to say. His cheeks heated from a jumble of delight, embarrassment (nobody had made such a frank admission to him before) and heady joy that it was Faramir who had said it. Everything he had longed for, dreamed about during his nightmare journey was happening.
But it was all wrong --
He forced himself to speak. “We knew each other only that one night…in the caves.” His voice trailed off and caught in his throat. Another brisk breeze made Frodo shiver, and Faramir released Frodo’s shoulders so that he could pull the hobbit’s cloak more snugly over him.
If only it could be as simple as a declaration of love. They could go forth to Ithilien and live the remainder of their lives in this time of new peace. He could face the coming shadows and pain with Faramir beside him.
It should have been that simple - the attraction between them had been simple and swift, dizzying. Sometimes it happened that way. An encounter between two people born in lands distant from one another, who under a different sun would never have met - turned out to be a discovery that they had both found the missing half of their hearts.
In Ithilien Faramir’s men had been rough with Frodo, but perhaps it only seemed so because they were so much larger and any force at all used against one Frodo’s size was bound to cause injury. Even so, in the helpless moment after his arms were wrenched tightly behind him and bound but before the blindfold had covered his eyes, he and Faramir ‘s eyes had met, and it had seemed to last far longer than the second or so that it had happened. Faramir’s gray eyes, like the wild sea of Frodo’s dreams, had probed deep, stirring something in Frodo’s breast. Warmth spread down his limbs, down to the blistered tips of his toes.
He had not told anybody, not even Sam, but while the Ranger in charge of him had shoved him along the trail toward Henneth Annun, while he had been weary and nearly sick with worry about the Ring being within grasp of so many men, warrior-like and strong, he had been unable to wholly rid his mind of the fair captain. He imagined that it was Faramir who had tied his hands behind him with rough efficiency and who now pushed him along, none too gently, lifting him when necessary, and pushing him at a pace that he could not possibly withstand for much longer.
When at last the blindfold came off, Faramir was nowhere in sight, and Frodo became aware of dark stares in his direction by the other men. The cave was cool and dank, dark. He rubbed his wrists and glanced sideways at Sam, who looked frightened but defiant. Frodo could not seem to take in enough breath. He was weary beyond anything he had felt before, but he could not risk sitting down. Unexpected movement seemed unwise among these harsh men with all their weapons.
Then Faramir strode into sight, his hood now pushed down, revealing golden-red hair and a kindly face, far fairer than Frodo remembered from their brief encounter. Frodo’s breath caught in his throat. He could not draw his eyes away from Faramir’s face. Nor did it seem wise. Faramir gazed down on him, stern, suspicious, and he did not speak for several moments.
“My men say you are Orc spies,” he finally said, but there was irony in his voice, a slight twist upward of his lips that said that while he found that notion absurd, he wanted a quick answer to who the little strangers were.
Frodo swayed on his feet, so weary but determined to be strong. Faramir made no move to offer him a seat.
Instead, he was harsh in his questioning, always coming back to Isildur’s Bane. Frodo, in his weary state, deflected the questions that hit too close to the mark and focused on Faramir’s eyes, which belied his stern words. They instead reflected curiosity, bewilderment, compassion, and far deeper than that, so deep that Faramir himself likely was unaware, fire and need. Frodo knew then that whatever happened, Faramir would not harm him. He no longer feared that this Captain of Gondor would order him and Sam slain or imprisoned. But he was not so certain that Faramir could withstand the call of the Ring. His brother certainly had not.
Frodo’s heart sank. Boromir had been kind, full of heart and nobility and a deep, rich laugh, and Frodo had lain with him in Lothlorien.
Frodo’s last memory of him was his handsome face wild with lust - but not love-lust for him, not like it had been in Lothlorien under the mallorn trees when Boromir had been determined to taste every inch of him, starting with his pale, bare shoulders. No, the day the fellowship had broken, there had been only cruel lust in his eyes, and if Frodo had not put on the Ring, he was certain now that Boromir would have snapped his neck or sliced his throat.
Already Frodo perceived that Faramir was different from his brother, more thoughtful and tempered in his responses. Frodo longed to be in peaceful times so that he might know more of this man’s mind and heart, which seemed generous and full of unknown depths. Frodo would barrage him with eager questions, just as he once had with Gandalf.
“Frodo Baggins,” Faramir said, and Frodo startled, realizing that the man had asked him a question and he, deep in thought, had missed it entirely. He took comfort in the sound of his name rolling off Faramir’s tongue. He longed again for peaceful dialogue, to sip wine with Faramir, to exchange tales, and to feel safe and warm as a guest in his caves.
“I am sorry,” Frodo said. “I am afraid I missed your question.” He then spread his hands outward in surrender. “Please. We are very weary. What can I do to gain your trust? We are not enemies. Any enemy of the Dark Lord is a friend of mine. Or so it should be.” He had no strength to show pride. He was weary of mistrust by men who fought the same Enemy, and he longed only for friendship and aid. He wanted this grave young man to look upon him with kindness and fellowship.
But Faramir’s demeanor did not soften. “You can begin by being frank with me. Enough parleying and riddling. Come, I must know what Isildur’s Bane is.”
“The council bid that I keep it secret…” Frodo said, and he swayed again on his feet. His vision blurred, and he blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open, to keep his shoulders straight.
“This Elvish council that you speak of is not here deciding your fate,” Faramir said. His voice was stern, and it cut through Frodo’s heart.
It was only much later in the questioning, when Faramir had put them far too much at ease by speaking about Elves and history of Gondor, that Sam blundered by mentioning the Ring, and Faramir proved his quality.
The relief clutched at Frodo, chilling his brow with sweat and seeping down his limbs, weakening and numbing them. He staggered, and this time he clutched Sam’s arm or he might have tumbled to the floor.
Faramir’s eyes flickered with concern. He gestured to two of his men and uttered a low command. Soon enough two stools were set behind Frodo and Sam and they could sit. Frodo collapsed onto it, holding his trembling knees. He did not know how he had managed to remain standing for as long as he had. Faramir ordered wine and breads and meats to be brought.
But Frodo had no chance to sip the wine or taste the food, because stool or not, he could no longer hold himself up. He swayed to one side, and before Sam or Faramir could catch him, he fell, not even feeling the stone as he hit the floor.
It was only later, when he woke in Faramir’s bed, that the night spun into a magical glow. Perhaps this enchantment was fueled by the flickering golden light from the lanterns. Perhaps it was how deeply weary he was, which made every movement slow and sensuous. But at any rate, he felt as if he had slipped into an Elvish realm. He vaguely wondered where Sam was, but when Faramir assured him that he was safe and sleeping, he turned his attention back to Faramir. Covered by furs, he felt warmer and more content than he had since Lothlorien. Faramir had refused the Ring. He could have taken it, and he had refused. He had far more strength than his brother, and far less appreciated. Frodo wondered how events on the quest might have unfolded if Faramir had traveled to Rivendell in place of his brother.
Faramir’s alcove, cut off from the rest of the caves by a heavy curtain, was quiet and sheltered. Faramir had labored to make this transitory shelter comfortable. The bed was low to the ground - nearly hobbit-like. Frodo struggled to keep his eyes open. He needed to sleep, but if he did so, Faramir would leave him, and he did not wish that.
Too fatigued to be coy, he slid his hands behind Faramir’s neck and boldly kissed him. Fire surged down his limbs, and Faramir collapsed beside him, kissing him with hungry ardor, as if they were lovers who had been separated for years and were just now coming together again.
They made love not just once but three, then four, and perhaps even five times, and while Frodo had wriggled out of his breeches with shocking speed, he had not let Faramir touch his shirt. He could not throw away all caution, and a Ring in sight might yield more temptation.
At last Frodo snuggled in the crook of Faramir’s arm, quivering with contentment, Faramir’s seed drying between his thighs.
“Frodo Baggins…” Again, the sound of his name rolling off Faramir’s tongue warmed Frodo to his toes. “You appear so…You are far too young to have such a burden. I should like to know who is in this council and why they were so cruel as to send an innocent to certain death. My heart aches to think of you going into the Black Land.” He stroked Frodo’s cheek with a rough thumb.
“I am not as young as I appear.” Frodo smiled slowly, and his heart swelled. Faramir had called him an innocent, which meant that he no longer doubted him. He traced his fingers down Faramir’s tautly muscled arm. “And I am just as much to blame. I volunteered.”
“I had thought the Elves were wise. They should not have allowed it. How old are you then? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Frodo laughed. “You will never believe it. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I am fifty-one.”
Faramir smiled in disbelief, waiting for Frodo to admit the jest.
When Frodo showed no sign of jesting, Faramir’s disbelief turned to surprise. “Fifty-one? Truly? So are Halflings like the Elves perhaps? Do you not age in quite the same way as Men?”
“We age in much the same way, although we seem to be somewhat longer lived. Although not so much so as the Numenoreans. But I do not age - in body at least -- because of...” His voice trailed off. The Ring pressed against his chest, cold, unyielding.
“I am sorry,” Faramir said. His stern gaze had been replaced by admiration and worry. His changed heart was open in his eyes, and Frodo found it difficult to tear his gaze away. He took note of every detail of Faramir’s appearance, storing them in his mind for the future, when they must part ways and Frodo and Sam must continue into darkness.
If I die or the world should end, at least I’ve found this bit of happiness, tucked in a cave far from my home.
Frodo noted his golden-red hair, thick but straight, so unlike hobbit curls. His hair had brushed Frodo’s pale shoulder (while he had not allowed Faramir to remove his shirt, the top buttons had come undone in the fervent lovemaking and one sleeve had fallen off the shoulder.) Frodo also noted the prickly reddish fuzz on his chin, his gray eyes, so grave and forgiving, and his thick, muscular shoulders. And best of all, his soft mouth - so perfect for kissing. Frodo’s swollen lips were proof of that.
“It torments you,” Faramir said softly, drawing a circle with his finger around Frodo’s nipple through his linen shirt. Frodo shuddered with delight, “and you are so far from your peaceful home, in such a hostile land.”
Frodo swallowed. “I only hope my home still is…peaceful. Although…” He offered Faramir a wry smile. “I’ve never truly fit in there.”
“No?” Faramir did not seem surprised. He stroked Frodo up and down his side, rubbing, massaging. “Are most hobbits closer in nature to…say…Samwise?”
Frodo smiled. “Samwise has good hobbit sense. I do not know what I would do without him.”
“Ah, then I understand. You are exceptional…extraordinary…beautiful…” He kissed Frodo gently on the lips after each describing word. Frodo clutched Faramir’s solid neck, pulling him close, greedy in his return kisses. He pressed his arousal against Faramir.
Faramir felt it - and he grunted with need, and it was only after he had taken Frodo briefly and hard, after which they both panted with pleasure and exhaustion, that Faramir spoke again.
He ran his hand over Frodo’s shoulder, pushing his shirt further down until he came upon a nasty bruise left there by the rough treatment by his men. “Your arm.”
“It is your men that did it,” Frodo said with a teasing smile, “by your orders.”
Faramir did not smile in return. “It is regrettable. Such lovely skin as yours should never be so marred. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like an Elf maid -” He smiled, abashed. “I did not mean--”
“It is not the first time I have heard that,” Frodo said, smiling. Both Aragorn and Boromir had said something similar while they nestled after lovemaking. To men he was Elvish fair, and his skin was smooth and silky. His eyes met Faramir’s again, and his breath caught anew in his throat at the unbridled fervor in the man’s gaze.
“Are you certain you must continue on?” Faramir asked. “Can you not stay? You shall be safe here, even when I am in battle…At least we should spend the ending of the world together. It is cold comfort, but it is all the comfort we can seek in these times.”
“I should very much like this,” Frodo said, and his heart ached. “But go on I must. Or perish trying. It is a fool’s hope, but it is hope.”
“Then it is a cruel fate,” Faramir said. “That brings you to me. I…Please do not think me foolish…” He cupped Frodo’s face in his large hands, splaying his fingers over the hobbit’s cheeks, anchoring him in place. “…But I feel I have known you before, that we are meant to be…” He trailed off and then cleared his throat. “Let me be frank. I have never…I have never been with…I have only ever been with maids.” He released Frodo’s face and fumbled with his wineglass, tripping the stem through his fingers, nearly spilling its contents over the bed cover before he caught it with his other hand. “er…I do not mean the maids that clean the Citadel…I should never take advantage of my position in such a manner…I mean women…er…or perhaps some of them were servants in the Citadel.” He smiled, and Frodo felt delighted at Faramir’s fumbling. “Boromir did not always say…Your eyes are bright with mirth at my expense!”
Frodo kissed Faramir’s upper arm and nestled against him. “There is no shame in lying with a servant, if she is of age and is willing,” Frodo said. He thought about Sam, and how they had at times taken comfort with one another during the quest, although Frodo could not help but think that Sam saw it is nothing more than duty, although he performed all his duties with love.
“Yes…maids are almost always willing with the sons of Gondor.” Faramir said stroking Frodo’s cheek. “Is that not true?” He raised a teasing eyebrow.
Frodo chuckled, but then gasped in pleasure as Faramir cupped his growing arousal. “I am not a maid,” Frodo said. “but from the perspective of a hobbit from the Shire, I say yes.”
Faramir became sober suddenly, regrettably releasing Frodo’s arousal. He grasped Frodo’s shoulders with both hands. “But to have you walk to your death. It is folly!”
Cold fear sliced Frodo’s belly, as if he had been swiped by an icy sword. He pulled out of Faramir’s embrace, clutching at his chest where the Ring lay hidden and cold under his shirt. So like Boromir Faramir had sounded just then, and a frightening gleam had come into his eyes.
Then, just as fast as it had come, the gleam faded. “What? What is it?” Faramir asked in concern. “Have I said something wrong?”
Frodo breathed hard, still clutching his chest. He did not answer, but continued to stare at Faramir in wide-eyed apprehension.
“Frodo…” Faramir whispered, visibly shaken by Frodo’s fear. “You have my word. You have nothing to fear from me. I’d not have it.” His lips trembled. “I’d not have it if I saw it lying before me, in the middle of the road to Minas Tirith.”
And Frodo looked into his sober gray eyes and believed.
Frodo lay now in his bed in Minas Tirith, far from Mordor, far from the cave in Henneth Annun, far from the Shire. Sleep remained far away. Moonlight spilled over his coverlet, maddeningly bright. Hours ago he had blown out the lantern beside his bed. He pressed his hot cheek into the cool fabric of the feather pillow and tried to will himself into sweet forgetfulness. He heard the drunken laughter of Merry and Pippin downstairs and a clatter as one of them dropped cutlery to the floor. They had been to an inn with Gimli and Beregond and several other Guards of the Citadel and had no doubt taken in more ale than was good for them.
Frodo tossed and turned, and his feet tangled in the blankets. Why had he so foolishly turned Faramir away? What harm would there be in lying with Faramir if Eowyn had no knowledge of it?
He knew that such thinking was deceptive, that there was plenty wrong in it, but none of that seemed important compared to his longing, his need, for Faramir. Oh, how he ached to be drowsing in his arms after a rough bout of love.
If Frodo had not pushed Faramir away, if he had not made certain that Faramir behaved as was proper for one betrothed to the sister of the King of Rohan, then perhaps this day might have ended differently. Yes, if he were less scrupulous, then perhaps he would not be so cold and sleepless and alone.
He could still hear his own voice, dull as it had been that afternoon, as he sat upright in the carriage. “Turn back. Take me back.”
“Why?” Faramir asked. “We have luncheon. I had planned that we should dine beside the river…in privacy. I shall not…I shall keep my distance if it would make you more comfortable. I wish to spend time with you, to talk with no interruptions.”
“I can’t,” Frodo said in a strangled voice. “Being around you…too much…Turn back.”
“Very well.”
Faramir leaned forward and shouted and gestured to the deaf driver, who turned the carriage around, back in the direction of Minas Tirith.
Then Faramir settled beside Frodo and nudged a curl out of his eye. “Come with me to Ithilien.”
“Eowyn,” Frodo managed, and the name still caused pain in his chest. “You cannot break your betrothal.”
“I must.”
“She trusts you. She loves you. You cannot betray that.” Frodo spoke the words, but his heart contradicted them with selfish wailing.
Betray her…choose me…I am yours…
Frodo had barely made Eowyn’s acquaintance, although he knew that Merry had become very fond of her and had nearly given his life to defend her.
Why, the three of us have something in common - all of us have been touched by weapons of the Enemy. What a cold and bitter triangle.
All the same, he wanted Faramir fully for himself, and his heart burned when he remembered that Eowyn had been with Faramir at what had seemed to be the ending of the world.
And I. What did I do? I claimed the Ring…I tried to end the world…
Faramir took Frodo’s hand in his, the one with the missing finger. Aragorn had removed the bandage not long ago, but it was still red and swollen, sore to the touch, like a bruise. Frodo flinched at Faramir’s touch, but Faramir said, “Shhh…” and kissed it once. He then rubbed Frodo’s hand, massaging with utmost tenderness, warming him, soothing the pain, until there was nothing but satisfied warmth that seeped down his limbs. Frodo leaned against Faramir, weary and sad, but feeling better in body than he had in days.
“May I ask you something?” Faramir asked. “Was there ever a time when you were tempted by the Ring?”
Frodo froze and clenched his fist, and Faramir paused. A cold lump filled Frodo’s throat. Why ever would Faramir ask such a thing? Surely everybody knew the tale of what had happened at the end, at the brink of Mount Doom, the tale of why his finger was missing.
“You know well the answer to that,” he said, and there was a chill to his voice.
Faramir cupped Frodo’s face in his large hands, forcing the hobbit, with gentle warmth, to look up at him. Oh, how Frodo loved it when he did that - how his long fingers splayed over his cheeks, anchoring him, just as he had done in Henneth Annun. Faramir gazed into Frodo’s eyes, unfazed by his chilly demeanor. “I do not mean when the Ring claimed you. No mortal could have withstood the Ring’s call at the brink of where it was made, so close to its master. That is a different matter. I meant, were you ever tempted by the Ring at any time when you had full claim of your senses? Did you ever think about using it to save the Shire or to help your friends? For in you, the Ring would never tempt you with power or warrior strength. For you…and most Halflings, the Ring would allure you with the power to do good.”
Frodo swallowed. So much of the quest had mercifully faded from memory. He relaxed his fist and Faramir released his face so that he could continue massaging Frodo’s hand wound. Frodo had told nobody about the thoughts that had sometimes flickered like hopeful mirages in his mind. Far before Mount Doom, perhaps even as far back in the quest as lonely Hollin, when the fellowship had still been nine, he had imagined claiming the Ring. In his dream, he had built a mighty fortress around the Shire, to keep it safe against the darkness that would claim him, as he knew it would, as it did all who claimed the Ring. The fortress would be mighty, strong enough to keep even the Dark Lord out. Frodo would never again enjoy the Shire, but knowing it was there, like an oasis of peace, would be enough.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.” And he found it did not sound so evil when his gaze met Faramir’s.
Faramir kissed the bruised spot where Frodo’s finger should have been and then held the hobbit’s hand to his cheek. “And this is why I love you. Your heart is ever reflected in your eyes, although those eyes bear shadows now. You are strong and frail both at once. I know this temptation of the Ring all too well. I heard its siren song in the caves of Henneth Annun. And yet you endured it for leagues upon leagues, into the Black Land itself. There is so much strength in you. And light. Beautiful Elvish light. And if I let you go…” He swallowed and trailed off.
Frodo parted his lips to answer, but he could not speak. Never had anyone spoken such words of adoration and love, not spoken with such fervor. His cheeks heated, and he smiled, his lips trembling with nervous embarrassment. “Faramir…”
“But I suppose you must return home to the Shire soon,” Faramir added.
Before Frodo could stop himself, he blurted. “I don’t want that.”
Faramir looked at him in hopeful surprise. “Pardon?”
“I do want to see my home again, to see with my own eyes that it is safe. But I don’t think I want to return to the Shire to live. There’s nothing for me there. Nothing.”
Faramir looked astounded. “But it’s your home. You nearly perished to save it.”
Frodo was silent for a few moments. Then he added in a halting voice, “you are right. I saved the Shire, but not for me. It has never been for me…”
Faramir leaned in and kissed him. “My brave, brave hobbit.”
Faramir had misunderstood. Frodo had not intended to give him the impression that the quest had been wholly selfless. He had only meant that the Shire had never truly been for him and it was even less so now.
But Frodo allowed the kiss and all shadows, aches, and sorrow scattered and faded, until there was only Faramir and his sturdy warmth.
When Frodo at last fell asleep that night, he dreamed about Faramir’s hands on him, about Faramir taking him with unbridled ardor as he had done in the caves. He then dreamed that Faramir then took him onto a grand terrace that overlooked much of the city of Minas Tirith. A mighty crowd waited in breathless anticipation. Faramir declared to everyone that he planned to bind himself to the Ringbearer. Everyone applauded, and even Eowyn smiled, although tears filled her eyes. Aragorn smiled, too, but his jaw was tense.
Frodo sat at the breakfast table, chewing on a strip of crispy bacon. He was not much hungry, but he had learned that if he found something small to munch on and went through the motions of eating, that his companions were less likely to harass him about eating more. Sun streamed in the arched stone windows, bathing everything in flaxen light. A warm breeze promised a fine spring day, just as the day before had been. Frodo’s stomach sank as he remembered how eager he had been the day before at this time, before Faramir had arrived. And now he was not certain when they would meet again, if ever. When they parted, they had shaken hands with cold formality. Faramir, his eyes filled with pain, had said, “I do hope we shall meet again, Frodo Baggins, before you return to the Shire.” Then he had kissed Frodo’s hand, letting it linger too long at his lips.
Frodo had bowed stiffly. “I wish you contentment in your coming life.” And he had walked away before Faramir could respond.
Frodo now looked around the table at his companions with weary, wry amusement. Pippin and Merry looked dreadful. They sat hunched over plates of dry toast, only half eaten. Dark circles shadowed their eyes. Sam glowered at them, shoveling eggs into his own mouth. Gandalf sat beside the window, smoking his pipe and staring into the street with a thoughtful, serene expression. Today might be a day for tales, Frodo thought. Nothing eased a wounded heart better than tales, and who better to hear tales from than Gandalf. Frodo would beg for his company that day, anything to make him forget that he had loved and lost.
“Ouch but that sun is bright,” Merry said, clutching his head.
“Serves you both right,” Sam said. “Clattering and bumping around in the middle of the night. Take a look at Mr. Frodo. I doubt he got any sleep with all that ruckus.”
“Must you speak so loud, Sam?” Merry groaned. Pippin took a long sip from a cup of black tea.
“The noise did not bother me,” Frodo said, but he did not add that he had had difficulty sleeping. He smiled. “What did you do last night, out with your friends? It sounds like you are becoming quite the men of Gondor!”
Pippin managed a scornful snort, despite his clearly aching head. “Men! Hardly! They can’t hold their ale one bit, for all their large size.
Gandalf turned away from the window to peer at Pippin sternly. “It would seem to me, judging from the pallor of your faces, that hobbits do not fare much better from the overindulgence of ale.”
Pippin managed to laugh, but then he winced, holding his head. “You really should have come, Frodo. Gimli had us laughing like loons all night.” He shrugged. “We really ought to convince him to come back to the Shire with us.”
“Legolas kept him in line,” Merry added. “Nobody can drink him under the table.”
“And there ought to be plenty more debauchery tonight,” Pippin said. He glanced at Frodo and winked. “I should think you’d come tonight for certain, seeing how Faramir is a dear friend of yours.”
“Pardon?” Frodo startled and looked at his cousin, suddenly sickeningly awake. Sam gave him a thoughtful look but said nothing. Gandalf continued to puff smoke out the window.
Merry explained in a low voice. “King Eomer is hosting a betrothal gala tonight for his sister. I’m quite looking forward to it. The horse lords know how to enjoy their leisure time while not at war.” He nudged Pippin and they both laughed.
But Frodo barely heard them. All the air had been stolen from his lungs. The bacon tasted suddenly like wood, splintery and hard and he dropped it. He struggled to finish chewing what he had already in his mouth.
Faramir had said nothing to him about a betrothal gala.
“Oh,” he said. He hoped his voice sounded casual and pleasant. “I should be able to make that.”
He thought back to tasting Faramir’s eager mouth, kissing, drinking in the words that he longed to hear that came from Faramir’s lips. But it had all seemed to mean nothing. Although Frodo had spoken noble words to him about Eowyn and honor, his heart burned for Faramir to break with Eowyn and to take him away, far away.
A dark and unpleasant corner of his mind realized that Faramir’s conduct, as of late, had done nothing to ennoble him. Frodo tried to imagine himself in Faramir’s position, if he, in sensing the end of the world after a grave injury, had met a nice hobbit lass, vowed to marry her, only to have Faramir return, very much alive and to find the world very much intact.
Anyone might say that the right thing to do would be to bury his heart and marry the hobbit lass. Or was it? Had Faramir and Frodo not pledged their hearts to one another first? Would it not be instead proper to give his regrets to the hobbit lass and return to his first lover?
But Faramir’s vow to Eowyn had become more complicated than love. It was an alliance built between two kingdoms with precarious good will.
“You look pale, Frodo,” Merry said with concern. “Are you all right? Gandalf, perhaps you should have a look at Frodo…”
Frodo shook his head, flushing, when Gandalf and Sam turned to him. “Oh, no. I’m all right. Just a bit tired. In fact, perhaps I should give my regrets to Faramir and Eowyn for tonight.”
But he had been unable to stay away from the betrothal gala.
“I am so glad you came,” Eowyn said, taking both Frodo’s hands in hers and laughing joyfully. She wore a lovely silk dress of brocaded silk, and she wore a silver band around her head, although her golden hair fell freely down her back. Her hands were cool and dry, and there was warm affection in her eyes.
“I must offer you my wish for your happiness.”
Eowyn laughed and bent to kiss Frodo’s head. “Thank you, Ringbearer.”
Faramir shook Frodo’s hand with stiff formality. He would not meet Frodo’s gaze.
The gala was in the Citadel’s courtyard, where an enormous tent had been set up. Hundreds of lanterns twinkled like fairy lights. The happy roar of laughter barely drowned out the gentle harp music.
“Thank you for coming…Ringbearer.”
Frodo looked into Faramir’s eyes, feeling cold inside. Faramir was so wooden, so aloof.
Frodo nodded and walked away from him, shoulders straight and stiff.
He should not have come. Far better to sit alone in the cottage, wondering, than to see with his own eyes the tender way in which Faramir gazed at Eowyn and the answering glow in her cheeks as she smiled back. Of course he had to be kind to her. Everyone was there, watching, expecting him to be glad over his betrothal.
Frodo sat at a table, alone, unable to tear his gaze from Faramir and Eowyn. First Faramir brought her a goblet of wine. She said something to him, and he laughed. Then he splayed his large hands over Eowyn’s cheek, lifting her chin upward. Pain ripped through Frodo’s heart, and he had to look away. It was such an intimate gesture, and Frodo had thought that it was his alone.
He sipped a glass of Minas Tirith’s finest wine and nibbling on dainties. He had no idea what he ate, nor did he care, but whatever they were, they tasted bland, and that was what he needed. A balmy breeze caressed his cheeks. Such a fine and peaceful evening, the sort of night that lovers enjoyed.
“Good evening,” Aragorn said, and sat beside him.
“Oh…” Frodo flushed. When he had last seen Aragorn, it had been a few nights earlier, when he had fled Aragorn’s living quarters. He took a large gulp from his glass again. “I…” he began.
“How are you?” Aragorn said at the same time. They laughed, although Frodo’s laugh sounded hollow to his own ears.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said. “Please continue…”
“Oh, it is nothing,” Frodo said. “Well, yes, it is something. I wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly-”
“Do not fret about it,” Aragorn said. He glanced in Faramir’s direction and spoke under his breath, and Frodo was reminded of Aragorn the Ranger, as he had met him in Bree, how his voice had sounded low and dangerous. “May I be frank with you?”
“Please do,” Frodo said, meeting his gaze.
“What exactly has occurred between yourself and Faramir?”
Frodo felt a cold fist in his belly that Aragorn knew. Well, of course he thought he might suspect. It must have been clear from the way they had conducted themselves on the terrace in Aragorn’s quarters.
Aragorn touched Frodo’s shoulder. “It is all right, my friend. There is no shame in it.”
Frodo glanced at Faramir and said, “I love him. I should not, when he has an obligation to another, but I do.”
“It pains my heart to see you hurt like this,” Aragorn said.
“He loves me,” Frodo continued. “But he has made this vow-”
“If you wish it, I will forbid their marriage.”
Frodo looked at him in surprise, laughing a little. “You are jesting now…always jesting…” His voice trailed off, swallowing bitterly.
“I do not jest,” Aragorn said. Although he smiled, Frodo realized that he was serious. “I wish for Eowyn’s happiness. She has earned it with her bravery. Naturally I wish for an alliance between Gondor and Rohan. It seemed it would work exactly to everyone’s liking when Eowyn and Faramir made their vows. But I should gladly break Eowyn’s heart before yours.”
“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered. “You are still the rascally Ranger I met in Bree, aren’t you?” Then he smiled sadly. “While your offer would indeed make it easier, I must decline. This is Faramir’s choice to make. Despite what you saw…” He glanced toward the stone wall on which Aragorn had found him standing. “I am not frail. This will not kill me, not now.”
“This I am glad to know. For there is still joy to be had in this world. And in my heart, I know you shall have it. Farewell for now, my dear friend.” Aragorn bent forward and kissed Frodo’s brow before he stood and made his way toward a crowd of his advisors and guards.
Frodo found himself looking again at Faramir and Eowyn. The lantern light fell on Faramir’s face, bathing it in light, and he looked joyful. But occasionally he sought Frodo out, and his eyes met Frodo’s and there was regret and sorrow reflected in them.
“Fine night, stars high in the sky.” Frodo turned toward the voice in surprise. There he found the Guard of the Citadel who had accompanied him home from the King’s House several days earlier, the same who had refused Frodo when he had thrown himself at him in a fog of grief. His cheeks heated with embarrassment.
“Yes, it is a lovely night.” He clutched his hands together and hoped he would go away.
They were silent. The Guard continued to sit beside him, but he said nothing. Frodo tried to think about anything at all to talk about. This was altogether awkward.
The Guard stroked Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo flinched and moved away. “Sir.”
But the Guard inched toward him again and whispered in his ear. “I’ve been thinking about what you offered the other night. I must apologize for my discourtesy. I’m afraid you took me by surprise. But since then, I’ve not been able to think about anything else.”
“Please forgive me. I’m afraid I was not myself,” Frodo said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He tried to meet Faramir’s eyes, but he was in conversation with three others of the Citadel Guards. “It is no matter. Let us forget it.”
“Come…” the Guard said, chuckling. “We could go for a brief lay, just in one of those alleys nearby, up against the wall. It could be fast, and we’d both get our itches scratched.”
Frodo stared at him, barely able to disguise his disgust at his brazenness. He could not believe he had offered himself to this man, who seemed utterly repulsive to him now. His senses had been addled indeed. “Good sir…please. I should like to be alone right now.”
He did not see Faramir now, and that made him feel bewildered and alone.
The Guard was insistent. He had clearly had more ale than was good for him, and his breath reeked of it. “Quick and hard against the wall…You’d be nice and tight, wouldn’t you?” He ran his hand up Frodo’s thigh and unbelievably, he dug inside Frodo’s breeches, fumbling for his groin. Frodo jumped to his feet and faced him, panting in disgust, and clenched his fists into balls.
“Do not touch me again. If it is necessary for me to call for the King, you will rue this day.”
“That will be unnecessary.”
Frodo turned in joy at the sound of Faramir’s voice. There he stood, tall and forbidding, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes stern.
“Do you disrespect the Ringbearer, Guard?” Faramir demanded.
“Nay…Nay, Captain…Prince Faramir.” The Guard, clearly humbled now, bowed. “I am sorry…just a misunderstanding.”
“If you speak to him again, I will make certain that the King hears of it,” Faramir said. “And the Ringbearer is a dear friend of the King.”
The Guard bowed once again, mumbling inaudibly, and stumbled away.
Faramir released the hilt of his sword and knelt beside Frodo. “Are you all right? Did he harm you?”
“No…” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I am all right.”
“Let us take leave of this place then.”
“But this is a party in your honor,” Frodo said. His heart pounded in wild relief that his lover had rushed in to save him. Although he had been with Eowyn, his attention had clearly been on Frodo.
“I know. And it is tiresome. Come. Let us leave now.”
“Eowyn…”
“She is enjoying the company of her brother and other friends.”
Eowyn was indeed sitting beside Eomer and Merry, laughing gaily at some jest or other.
“You should at least bid her goodnight,” Frodo said.
“I have already done so.”
Frodo smiled then. “Then let us go back to the cottage where I am staying.” None of the other hobbits would be returning for many hours to come. Even Sam was clearly enjoying himself with Legolas and Gimli.
Frodo and Faramir slipped through the first gate and the sounds of the party faded as they walked down quiet stone streets. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Frodo kept his eyes forward.
He must tell Faramir that he could not see him anymore. He must tell him tonight.
But before that, they could lie together one last time. Yes, he would invite Faramir into his bed, and then in the morning, he would tell him not to come back, not to speak to him. If ever his heart would have a chance of mending, he had to make certain that he never saw Faramir again.
Finally Faramir spoke, clearly striving to keep his voice even, “It is appalling the behavior of some of the Guards of this great city. It burns my heart that he treated you so.”
“It is only because I encouraged him not more than a few nights ago.”
Faramir said nothing, and they walked again in silence for several moments.
“It was nothing,” Frodo added after a time. “He refused me. Thank you…for what you did…it saved me from needing to call for aid.”
Faramir sighed. “This gala was not of my doing. I knew nothing of it until this morning.”
Frodo looked at him in relief. So he had not deliberately deceived him.
“I am sorry.”
“You are not to blame,” Frodo said.
They reached the cottage where the hobbits stayed, and Frodo tugged at Faramir’s sleeve, dragging him toward the stairs.
Once inside Frodo’s chamber, Faramir knelt and cupped Frodo’s face in his splayed hands, just as he had Eowyn earlier. Frodo cringed, but he still allowed Faramir to kiss him. It was sweet but oh so bitter. He drank in every detail, again, knowing that he needed to store it in his memory for the remainder of his life. Slowly, he slid his hands behind Faramir’s neck.
“I’m sorry Frodo,” Faramir said, pulling away but still holding Frodo’s cheeks. “I am causing you discomfort.”
“Pardon?” Frodo said, flushing. “No. That is not true. Please…continue.”
Faramir’s lips brushed over Frodo’s again, gentle and soft, yet with barely restrained ardor. Frodo tried to pull back, but this time, Faramir held his cheeks, anchoring him. Even when Frodo pulled away from his lips, Faramir held him close, so that there was barely a tongue’s length between them.
“Faramir…”
“Hush...” Faramir touched his nose. “It’s all right.” He sighed, still holding Frodo’s face in firm hands. “I told her. She knows.”
“She…” Frodo looked at Faramir in bewilderment. “What do you mean by that? You…you told Eowyn?” Ice began to fill his belly, and a buzzing sounded in his ears. “You told her?”
Faramir nodded. “She does not mind.”
Frodo stepped back, pushing Faramir with rare violence. “Get out.”
“Frodo…I do not jest. I told her and she was surprised, but it did not seem to upset her.”
Frodo could not take in enough breath. His breaths came out in jagged pants, and he found himself unable to stand still. He wandered in a circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Go from my sight.”
Faramir touched Frodo’s shoulder. “Eowyn does not mind. We need not hide anything.”
Frodo turned to Faramir in a dull rage. When the Ring had nearly taken him on the blistering rocks of Mordor, particularly in his weakened state after Sam had rescued him from Cirith Ungol, there had been moments that now lay in shadow when he had imagined hurting Sam with pleasurable vividness. Sometimes it was with whips and beatings, in the same way that the Orcs had hurt Frodo in the tower. Sometimes he imagined plunging Sting into Sam’s back or neck, watching him squeal in pain as he died. The small part of him that had remained his true self had been horrified and aware that it was merely the whispers of the Ring, but he had been too weak to fight it, to weak to fully shut his mind from it.
Frodo felt the familiar cruel shadows close in, and a haze fell before his eyes. That Faramir had spoken to this lady, this shield maiden, about something so dear and private shattered everything inside him and he wanted only to maim and hurt. His shoulder throbbed, and a piercing chill seeped down his left arm.
“Get…out.” Frodo said in a snarl, and he struck Faramir hard across the face. Frodo’s wrist wrenched from the impact, but oh it felt marvelous to strike out when he hurt. He had taken Faramir by surprise, for the large man fell backward against the wall, grabbing his nose.
“Frodo…”
“You may have forgotten it, but I am the Ringbearer, still worthy of honor and respect.”
“I erred,” Faramir said. “Frodo, please forgive me. Such a confounded mess I’ve made of this all. I am weak. Please forgive me.”
He crawled back to Frodo and embraced him, clutching him. “A mess…I’ve made a mess of it all.”
“Let us run from it all then,” Frodo whispered, kissing Faramir’s ear. “Let us forget honor and duty and go from this city. There are many corners of the world where we can live in happiness. Nobody shall find us again. Let us go this very night.”
“Yes…yes… My heart is yours and yours alone, Frodo Baggins. I shall be weak no more. Please forgive me. I am yours if you will still have me.”
Frodo kissed Faramir’s lips again and pulled back, examining his face. He laughed hollowly. “I hit you hard.”
“That you did,” Faramir said ruefully. Then he began to laugh. “Perhaps that Guard would have been no match for you.”
“It is likely,” Frodo said, smiling through tears. “Faramir, I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
Faramir drew him to the bed and pulled him down. Frodo did not resist. He could not. Like the evil shadows of the Ring that had whispered to him, he could not resist, could not fight it. Frodo gripped Faramir’s tunic and clung, shivering with need and grief.
They made love, hard and brutal, clothes still mostly on, except that they had tugged their breeches over their bottoms.
Afterward, Frodo fell into a deep sleep, and he was barely aware of anything -- Faramir’s arms around him, his gentle kisses on his head, his sweet whispering. He remembered no dreams from that sleep.
TBC
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…
“Please…” Frodo wrenched his mouth away from Faramir’s, breathing hard. A late afternoon breeze numbed his bruised lips. He ached to devour Faramir’s mouth again, to sink into warmth and forgetfulness, to lean against his sturdy chest. The chill that had taken his lips seeped down to his heart.
“We must stop.” He strove to calm his breathing. His voice, which he expected to come out weedy, with no conviction, was surprisingly steady.
As much as he wished it otherwise, Eowyn lay between them like a deep, perilous fissure. And as deaf as their driver was, he was not blind and should he choose to glance back at them, he would have an eyeful, if he had not already seen enough.
Faramir held Frodo’s shoulders. “I love you.”
The simplicity of his utterance stole Frodo’s breath and he could do nothing but stare up at him. He had expected flowery mumblings or a noble apology, not this simple admission straight from the heart.
“But…but why?” Frodo asked. It did not seem a fitting reply, but he did not know what else to say. His cheeks heated from a jumble of delight, embarrassment (nobody had made such a frank admission to him before) and heady joy that it was Faramir who had said it. Everything he had longed for, dreamed about during his nightmare journey was happening.
But it was all wrong --
He forced himself to speak. “We knew each other only that one night…in the caves.” His voice trailed off and caught in his throat. Another brisk breeze made Frodo shiver, and Faramir released Frodo’s shoulders so that he could pull the hobbit’s cloak more snugly over him.
If only it could be as simple as a declaration of love. They could go forth to Ithilien and live the remainder of their lives in this time of new peace. He could face the coming shadows and pain with Faramir beside him.
It should have been that simple - the attraction between them had been simple and swift, dizzying. Sometimes it happened that way. An encounter between two people born in lands distant from one another, who under a different sun would never have met - turned out to be a discovery that they had both found the missing half of their hearts.
In Ithilien Faramir’s men had been rough with Frodo, but perhaps it only seemed so because they were so much larger and any force at all used against one Frodo’s size was bound to cause injury. Even so, in the helpless moment after his arms were wrenched tightly behind him and bound but before the blindfold had covered his eyes, he and Faramir ‘s eyes had met, and it had seemed to last far longer than the second or so that it had happened. Faramir’s gray eyes, like the wild sea of Frodo’s dreams, had probed deep, stirring something in Frodo’s breast. Warmth spread down his limbs, down to the blistered tips of his toes.
He had not told anybody, not even Sam, but while the Ranger in charge of him had shoved him along the trail toward Henneth Annun, while he had been weary and nearly sick with worry about the Ring being within grasp of so many men, warrior-like and strong, he had been unable to wholly rid his mind of the fair captain. He imagined that it was Faramir who had tied his hands behind him with rough efficiency and who now pushed him along, none too gently, lifting him when necessary, and pushing him at a pace that he could not possibly withstand for much longer.
When at last the blindfold came off, Faramir was nowhere in sight, and Frodo became aware of dark stares in his direction by the other men. The cave was cool and dank, dark. He rubbed his wrists and glanced sideways at Sam, who looked frightened but defiant. Frodo could not seem to take in enough breath. He was weary beyond anything he had felt before, but he could not risk sitting down. Unexpected movement seemed unwise among these harsh men with all their weapons.
Then Faramir strode into sight, his hood now pushed down, revealing golden-red hair and a kindly face, far fairer than Frodo remembered from their brief encounter. Frodo’s breath caught in his throat. He could not draw his eyes away from Faramir’s face. Nor did it seem wise. Faramir gazed down on him, stern, suspicious, and he did not speak for several moments.
“My men say you are Orc spies,” he finally said, but there was irony in his voice, a slight twist upward of his lips that said that while he found that notion absurd, he wanted a quick answer to who the little strangers were.
Frodo swayed on his feet, so weary but determined to be strong. Faramir made no move to offer him a seat.
Instead, he was harsh in his questioning, always coming back to Isildur’s Bane. Frodo, in his weary state, deflected the questions that hit too close to the mark and focused on Faramir’s eyes, which belied his stern words. They instead reflected curiosity, bewilderment, compassion, and far deeper than that, so deep that Faramir himself likely was unaware, fire and need. Frodo knew then that whatever happened, Faramir would not harm him. He no longer feared that this Captain of Gondor would order him and Sam slain or imprisoned. But he was not so certain that Faramir could withstand the call of the Ring. His brother certainly had not.
Frodo’s heart sank. Boromir had been kind, full of heart and nobility and a deep, rich laugh, and Frodo had lain with him in Lothlorien.
Frodo’s last memory of him was his handsome face wild with lust - but not love-lust for him, not like it had been in Lothlorien under the mallorn trees when Boromir had been determined to taste every inch of him, starting with his pale, bare shoulders. No, the day the fellowship had broken, there had been only cruel lust in his eyes, and if Frodo had not put on the Ring, he was certain now that Boromir would have snapped his neck or sliced his throat.
Already Frodo perceived that Faramir was different from his brother, more thoughtful and tempered in his responses. Frodo longed to be in peaceful times so that he might know more of this man’s mind and heart, which seemed generous and full of unknown depths. Frodo would barrage him with eager questions, just as he once had with Gandalf.
“Frodo Baggins,” Faramir said, and Frodo startled, realizing that the man had asked him a question and he, deep in thought, had missed it entirely. He took comfort in the sound of his name rolling off Faramir’s tongue. He longed again for peaceful dialogue, to sip wine with Faramir, to exchange tales, and to feel safe and warm as a guest in his caves.
“I am sorry,” Frodo said. “I am afraid I missed your question.” He then spread his hands outward in surrender. “Please. We are very weary. What can I do to gain your trust? We are not enemies. Any enemy of the Dark Lord is a friend of mine. Or so it should be.” He had no strength to show pride. He was weary of mistrust by men who fought the same Enemy, and he longed only for friendship and aid. He wanted this grave young man to look upon him with kindness and fellowship.
But Faramir’s demeanor did not soften. “You can begin by being frank with me. Enough parleying and riddling. Come, I must know what Isildur’s Bane is.”
“The council bid that I keep it secret…” Frodo said, and he swayed again on his feet. His vision blurred, and he blinked, struggling to keep his eyes open, to keep his shoulders straight.
“This Elvish council that you speak of is not here deciding your fate,” Faramir said. His voice was stern, and it cut through Frodo’s heart.
It was only much later in the questioning, when Faramir had put them far too much at ease by speaking about Elves and history of Gondor, that Sam blundered by mentioning the Ring, and Faramir proved his quality.
The relief clutched at Frodo, chilling his brow with sweat and seeping down his limbs, weakening and numbing them. He staggered, and this time he clutched Sam’s arm or he might have tumbled to the floor.
Faramir’s eyes flickered with concern. He gestured to two of his men and uttered a low command. Soon enough two stools were set behind Frodo and Sam and they could sit. Frodo collapsed onto it, holding his trembling knees. He did not know how he had managed to remain standing for as long as he had. Faramir ordered wine and breads and meats to be brought.
But Frodo had no chance to sip the wine or taste the food, because stool or not, he could no longer hold himself up. He swayed to one side, and before Sam or Faramir could catch him, he fell, not even feeling the stone as he hit the floor.
It was only later, when he woke in Faramir’s bed, that the night spun into a magical glow. Perhaps this enchantment was fueled by the flickering golden light from the lanterns. Perhaps it was how deeply weary he was, which made every movement slow and sensuous. But at any rate, he felt as if he had slipped into an Elvish realm. He vaguely wondered where Sam was, but when Faramir assured him that he was safe and sleeping, he turned his attention back to Faramir. Covered by furs, he felt warmer and more content than he had since Lothlorien. Faramir had refused the Ring. He could have taken it, and he had refused. He had far more strength than his brother, and far less appreciated. Frodo wondered how events on the quest might have unfolded if Faramir had traveled to Rivendell in place of his brother.
Faramir’s alcove, cut off from the rest of the caves by a heavy curtain, was quiet and sheltered. Faramir had labored to make this transitory shelter comfortable. The bed was low to the ground - nearly hobbit-like. Frodo struggled to keep his eyes open. He needed to sleep, but if he did so, Faramir would leave him, and he did not wish that.
Too fatigued to be coy, he slid his hands behind Faramir’s neck and boldly kissed him. Fire surged down his limbs, and Faramir collapsed beside him, kissing him with hungry ardor, as if they were lovers who had been separated for years and were just now coming together again.
They made love not just once but three, then four, and perhaps even five times, and while Frodo had wriggled out of his breeches with shocking speed, he had not let Faramir touch his shirt. He could not throw away all caution, and a Ring in sight might yield more temptation.
At last Frodo snuggled in the crook of Faramir’s arm, quivering with contentment, Faramir’s seed drying between his thighs.
“Frodo Baggins…” Again, the sound of his name rolling off Faramir’s tongue warmed Frodo to his toes. “You appear so…You are far too young to have such a burden. I should like to know who is in this council and why they were so cruel as to send an innocent to certain death. My heart aches to think of you going into the Black Land.” He stroked Frodo’s cheek with a rough thumb.
“I am not as young as I appear.” Frodo smiled slowly, and his heart swelled. Faramir had called him an innocent, which meant that he no longer doubted him. He traced his fingers down Faramir’s tautly muscled arm. “And I am just as much to blame. I volunteered.”
“I had thought the Elves were wise. They should not have allowed it. How old are you then? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
Frodo laughed. “You will never believe it. How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“I am fifty-one.”
Faramir smiled in disbelief, waiting for Frodo to admit the jest.
When Frodo showed no sign of jesting, Faramir’s disbelief turned to surprise. “Fifty-one? Truly? So are Halflings like the Elves perhaps? Do you not age in quite the same way as Men?”
“We age in much the same way, although we seem to be somewhat longer lived. Although not so much so as the Numenoreans. But I do not age - in body at least -- because of...” His voice trailed off. The Ring pressed against his chest, cold, unyielding.
“I am sorry,” Faramir said. His stern gaze had been replaced by admiration and worry. His changed heart was open in his eyes, and Frodo found it difficult to tear his gaze away. He took note of every detail of Faramir’s appearance, storing them in his mind for the future, when they must part ways and Frodo and Sam must continue into darkness.
If I die or the world should end, at least I’ve found this bit of happiness, tucked in a cave far from my home.
Frodo noted his golden-red hair, thick but straight, so unlike hobbit curls. His hair had brushed Frodo’s pale shoulder (while he had not allowed Faramir to remove his shirt, the top buttons had come undone in the fervent lovemaking and one sleeve had fallen off the shoulder.) Frodo also noted the prickly reddish fuzz on his chin, his gray eyes, so grave and forgiving, and his thick, muscular shoulders. And best of all, his soft mouth - so perfect for kissing. Frodo’s swollen lips were proof of that.
“It torments you,” Faramir said softly, drawing a circle with his finger around Frodo’s nipple through his linen shirt. Frodo shuddered with delight, “and you are so far from your peaceful home, in such a hostile land.”
Frodo swallowed. “I only hope my home still is…peaceful. Although…” He offered Faramir a wry smile. “I’ve never truly fit in there.”
“No?” Faramir did not seem surprised. He stroked Frodo up and down his side, rubbing, massaging. “Are most hobbits closer in nature to…say…Samwise?”
Frodo smiled. “Samwise has good hobbit sense. I do not know what I would do without him.”
“Ah, then I understand. You are exceptional…extraordinary…beautiful…” He kissed Frodo gently on the lips after each describing word. Frodo clutched Faramir’s solid neck, pulling him close, greedy in his return kisses. He pressed his arousal against Faramir.
Faramir felt it - and he grunted with need, and it was only after he had taken Frodo briefly and hard, after which they both panted with pleasure and exhaustion, that Faramir spoke again.
He ran his hand over Frodo’s shoulder, pushing his shirt further down until he came upon a nasty bruise left there by the rough treatment by his men. “Your arm.”
“It is your men that did it,” Frodo said with a teasing smile, “by your orders.”
Faramir did not smile in return. “It is regrettable. Such lovely skin as yours should never be so marred. I’ve never seen anything like it. Like an Elf maid -” He smiled, abashed. “I did not mean--”
“It is not the first time I have heard that,” Frodo said, smiling. Both Aragorn and Boromir had said something similar while they nestled after lovemaking. To men he was Elvish fair, and his skin was smooth and silky. His eyes met Faramir’s again, and his breath caught anew in his throat at the unbridled fervor in the man’s gaze.
“Are you certain you must continue on?” Faramir asked. “Can you not stay? You shall be safe here, even when I am in battle…At least we should spend the ending of the world together. It is cold comfort, but it is all the comfort we can seek in these times.”
“I should very much like this,” Frodo said, and his heart ached. “But go on I must. Or perish trying. It is a fool’s hope, but it is hope.”
“Then it is a cruel fate,” Faramir said. “That brings you to me. I…Please do not think me foolish…” He cupped Frodo’s face in his large hands, splaying his fingers over the hobbit’s cheeks, anchoring him in place. “…But I feel I have known you before, that we are meant to be…” He trailed off and then cleared his throat. “Let me be frank. I have never…I have never been with…I have only ever been with maids.” He released Frodo’s face and fumbled with his wineglass, tripping the stem through his fingers, nearly spilling its contents over the bed cover before he caught it with his other hand. “er…I do not mean the maids that clean the Citadel…I should never take advantage of my position in such a manner…I mean women…er…or perhaps some of them were servants in the Citadel.” He smiled, and Frodo felt delighted at Faramir’s fumbling. “Boromir did not always say…Your eyes are bright with mirth at my expense!”
Frodo kissed Faramir’s upper arm and nestled against him. “There is no shame in lying with a servant, if she is of age and is willing,” Frodo said. He thought about Sam, and how they had at times taken comfort with one another during the quest, although Frodo could not help but think that Sam saw it is nothing more than duty, although he performed all his duties with love.
“Yes…maids are almost always willing with the sons of Gondor.” Faramir said stroking Frodo’s cheek. “Is that not true?” He raised a teasing eyebrow.
Frodo chuckled, but then gasped in pleasure as Faramir cupped his growing arousal. “I am not a maid,” Frodo said. “but from the perspective of a hobbit from the Shire, I say yes.”
Faramir became sober suddenly, regrettably releasing Frodo’s arousal. He grasped Frodo’s shoulders with both hands. “But to have you walk to your death. It is folly!”
Cold fear sliced Frodo’s belly, as if he had been swiped by an icy sword. He pulled out of Faramir’s embrace, clutching at his chest where the Ring lay hidden and cold under his shirt. So like Boromir Faramir had sounded just then, and a frightening gleam had come into his eyes.
Then, just as fast as it had come, the gleam faded. “What? What is it?” Faramir asked in concern. “Have I said something wrong?”
Frodo breathed hard, still clutching his chest. He did not answer, but continued to stare at Faramir in wide-eyed apprehension.
“Frodo…” Faramir whispered, visibly shaken by Frodo’s fear. “You have my word. You have nothing to fear from me. I’d not have it.” His lips trembled. “I’d not have it if I saw it lying before me, in the middle of the road to Minas Tirith.”
And Frodo looked into his sober gray eyes and believed.
Frodo lay now in his bed in Minas Tirith, far from Mordor, far from the cave in Henneth Annun, far from the Shire. Sleep remained far away. Moonlight spilled over his coverlet, maddeningly bright. Hours ago he had blown out the lantern beside his bed. He pressed his hot cheek into the cool fabric of the feather pillow and tried to will himself into sweet forgetfulness. He heard the drunken laughter of Merry and Pippin downstairs and a clatter as one of them dropped cutlery to the floor. They had been to an inn with Gimli and Beregond and several other Guards of the Citadel and had no doubt taken in more ale than was good for them.
Frodo tossed and turned, and his feet tangled in the blankets. Why had he so foolishly turned Faramir away? What harm would there be in lying with Faramir if Eowyn had no knowledge of it?
He knew that such thinking was deceptive, that there was plenty wrong in it, but none of that seemed important compared to his longing, his need, for Faramir. Oh, how he ached to be drowsing in his arms after a rough bout of love.
If Frodo had not pushed Faramir away, if he had not made certain that Faramir behaved as was proper for one betrothed to the sister of the King of Rohan, then perhaps this day might have ended differently. Yes, if he were less scrupulous, then perhaps he would not be so cold and sleepless and alone.
He could still hear his own voice, dull as it had been that afternoon, as he sat upright in the carriage. “Turn back. Take me back.”
“Why?” Faramir asked. “We have luncheon. I had planned that we should dine beside the river…in privacy. I shall not…I shall keep my distance if it would make you more comfortable. I wish to spend time with you, to talk with no interruptions.”
“I can’t,” Frodo said in a strangled voice. “Being around you…too much…Turn back.”
“Very well.”
Faramir leaned forward and shouted and gestured to the deaf driver, who turned the carriage around, back in the direction of Minas Tirith.
Then Faramir settled beside Frodo and nudged a curl out of his eye. “Come with me to Ithilien.”
“Eowyn,” Frodo managed, and the name still caused pain in his chest. “You cannot break your betrothal.”
“I must.”
“She trusts you. She loves you. You cannot betray that.” Frodo spoke the words, but his heart contradicted them with selfish wailing.
Betray her…choose me…I am yours…
Frodo had barely made Eowyn’s acquaintance, although he knew that Merry had become very fond of her and had nearly given his life to defend her.
Why, the three of us have something in common - all of us have been touched by weapons of the Enemy. What a cold and bitter triangle.
All the same, he wanted Faramir fully for himself, and his heart burned when he remembered that Eowyn had been with Faramir at what had seemed to be the ending of the world.
And I. What did I do? I claimed the Ring…I tried to end the world…
Faramir took Frodo’s hand in his, the one with the missing finger. Aragorn had removed the bandage not long ago, but it was still red and swollen, sore to the touch, like a bruise. Frodo flinched at Faramir’s touch, but Faramir said, “Shhh…” and kissed it once. He then rubbed Frodo’s hand, massaging with utmost tenderness, warming him, soothing the pain, until there was nothing but satisfied warmth that seeped down his limbs. Frodo leaned against Faramir, weary and sad, but feeling better in body than he had in days.
“May I ask you something?” Faramir asked. “Was there ever a time when you were tempted by the Ring?”
Frodo froze and clenched his fist, and Faramir paused. A cold lump filled Frodo’s throat. Why ever would Faramir ask such a thing? Surely everybody knew the tale of what had happened at the end, at the brink of Mount Doom, the tale of why his finger was missing.
“You know well the answer to that,” he said, and there was a chill to his voice.
Faramir cupped Frodo’s face in his large hands, forcing the hobbit, with gentle warmth, to look up at him. Oh, how Frodo loved it when he did that - how his long fingers splayed over his cheeks, anchoring him, just as he had done in Henneth Annun. Faramir gazed into Frodo’s eyes, unfazed by his chilly demeanor. “I do not mean when the Ring claimed you. No mortal could have withstood the Ring’s call at the brink of where it was made, so close to its master. That is a different matter. I meant, were you ever tempted by the Ring at any time when you had full claim of your senses? Did you ever think about using it to save the Shire or to help your friends? For in you, the Ring would never tempt you with power or warrior strength. For you…and most Halflings, the Ring would allure you with the power to do good.”
Frodo swallowed. So much of the quest had mercifully faded from memory. He relaxed his fist and Faramir released his face so that he could continue massaging Frodo’s hand wound. Frodo had told nobody about the thoughts that had sometimes flickered like hopeful mirages in his mind. Far before Mount Doom, perhaps even as far back in the quest as lonely Hollin, when the fellowship had still been nine, he had imagined claiming the Ring. In his dream, he had built a mighty fortress around the Shire, to keep it safe against the darkness that would claim him, as he knew it would, as it did all who claimed the Ring. The fortress would be mighty, strong enough to keep even the Dark Lord out. Frodo would never again enjoy the Shire, but knowing it was there, like an oasis of peace, would be enough.
“Yes,” he said. “I did.” And he found it did not sound so evil when his gaze met Faramir’s.
Faramir kissed the bruised spot where Frodo’s finger should have been and then held the hobbit’s hand to his cheek. “And this is why I love you. Your heart is ever reflected in your eyes, although those eyes bear shadows now. You are strong and frail both at once. I know this temptation of the Ring all too well. I heard its siren song in the caves of Henneth Annun. And yet you endured it for leagues upon leagues, into the Black Land itself. There is so much strength in you. And light. Beautiful Elvish light. And if I let you go…” He swallowed and trailed off.
Frodo parted his lips to answer, but he could not speak. Never had anyone spoken such words of adoration and love, not spoken with such fervor. His cheeks heated, and he smiled, his lips trembling with nervous embarrassment. “Faramir…”
“But I suppose you must return home to the Shire soon,” Faramir added.
Before Frodo could stop himself, he blurted. “I don’t want that.”
Faramir looked at him in hopeful surprise. “Pardon?”
“I do want to see my home again, to see with my own eyes that it is safe. But I don’t think I want to return to the Shire to live. There’s nothing for me there. Nothing.”
Faramir looked astounded. “But it’s your home. You nearly perished to save it.”
Frodo was silent for a few moments. Then he added in a halting voice, “you are right. I saved the Shire, but not for me. It has never been for me…”
Faramir leaned in and kissed him. “My brave, brave hobbit.”
Faramir had misunderstood. Frodo had not intended to give him the impression that the quest had been wholly selfless. He had only meant that the Shire had never truly been for him and it was even less so now.
But Frodo allowed the kiss and all shadows, aches, and sorrow scattered and faded, until there was only Faramir and his sturdy warmth.
When Frodo at last fell asleep that night, he dreamed about Faramir’s hands on him, about Faramir taking him with unbridled ardor as he had done in the caves. He then dreamed that Faramir then took him onto a grand terrace that overlooked much of the city of Minas Tirith. A mighty crowd waited in breathless anticipation. Faramir declared to everyone that he planned to bind himself to the Ringbearer. Everyone applauded, and even Eowyn smiled, although tears filled her eyes. Aragorn smiled, too, but his jaw was tense.
Frodo sat at the breakfast table, chewing on a strip of crispy bacon. He was not much hungry, but he had learned that if he found something small to munch on and went through the motions of eating, that his companions were less likely to harass him about eating more. Sun streamed in the arched stone windows, bathing everything in flaxen light. A warm breeze promised a fine spring day, just as the day before had been. Frodo’s stomach sank as he remembered how eager he had been the day before at this time, before Faramir had arrived. And now he was not certain when they would meet again, if ever. When they parted, they had shaken hands with cold formality. Faramir, his eyes filled with pain, had said, “I do hope we shall meet again, Frodo Baggins, before you return to the Shire.” Then he had kissed Frodo’s hand, letting it linger too long at his lips.
Frodo had bowed stiffly. “I wish you contentment in your coming life.” And he had walked away before Faramir could respond.
Frodo now looked around the table at his companions with weary, wry amusement. Pippin and Merry looked dreadful. They sat hunched over plates of dry toast, only half eaten. Dark circles shadowed their eyes. Sam glowered at them, shoveling eggs into his own mouth. Gandalf sat beside the window, smoking his pipe and staring into the street with a thoughtful, serene expression. Today might be a day for tales, Frodo thought. Nothing eased a wounded heart better than tales, and who better to hear tales from than Gandalf. Frodo would beg for his company that day, anything to make him forget that he had loved and lost.
“Ouch but that sun is bright,” Merry said, clutching his head.
“Serves you both right,” Sam said. “Clattering and bumping around in the middle of the night. Take a look at Mr. Frodo. I doubt he got any sleep with all that ruckus.”
“Must you speak so loud, Sam?” Merry groaned. Pippin took a long sip from a cup of black tea.
“The noise did not bother me,” Frodo said, but he did not add that he had had difficulty sleeping. He smiled. “What did you do last night, out with your friends? It sounds like you are becoming quite the men of Gondor!”
Pippin managed a scornful snort, despite his clearly aching head. “Men! Hardly! They can’t hold their ale one bit, for all their large size.
Gandalf turned away from the window to peer at Pippin sternly. “It would seem to me, judging from the pallor of your faces, that hobbits do not fare much better from the overindulgence of ale.”
Pippin managed to laugh, but then he winced, holding his head. “You really should have come, Frodo. Gimli had us laughing like loons all night.” He shrugged. “We really ought to convince him to come back to the Shire with us.”
“Legolas kept him in line,” Merry added. “Nobody can drink him under the table.”
“And there ought to be plenty more debauchery tonight,” Pippin said. He glanced at Frodo and winked. “I should think you’d come tonight for certain, seeing how Faramir is a dear friend of yours.”
“Pardon?” Frodo startled and looked at his cousin, suddenly sickeningly awake. Sam gave him a thoughtful look but said nothing. Gandalf continued to puff smoke out the window.
Merry explained in a low voice. “King Eomer is hosting a betrothal gala tonight for his sister. I’m quite looking forward to it. The horse lords know how to enjoy their leisure time while not at war.” He nudged Pippin and they both laughed.
But Frodo barely heard them. All the air had been stolen from his lungs. The bacon tasted suddenly like wood, splintery and hard and he dropped it. He struggled to finish chewing what he had already in his mouth.
Faramir had said nothing to him about a betrothal gala.
“Oh,” he said. He hoped his voice sounded casual and pleasant. “I should be able to make that.”
He thought back to tasting Faramir’s eager mouth, kissing, drinking in the words that he longed to hear that came from Faramir’s lips. But it had all seemed to mean nothing. Although Frodo had spoken noble words to him about Eowyn and honor, his heart burned for Faramir to break with Eowyn and to take him away, far away.
A dark and unpleasant corner of his mind realized that Faramir’s conduct, as of late, had done nothing to ennoble him. Frodo tried to imagine himself in Faramir’s position, if he, in sensing the end of the world after a grave injury, had met a nice hobbit lass, vowed to marry her, only to have Faramir return, very much alive and to find the world very much intact.
Anyone might say that the right thing to do would be to bury his heart and marry the hobbit lass. Or was it? Had Faramir and Frodo not pledged their hearts to one another first? Would it not be instead proper to give his regrets to the hobbit lass and return to his first lover?
But Faramir’s vow to Eowyn had become more complicated than love. It was an alliance built between two kingdoms with precarious good will.
“You look pale, Frodo,” Merry said with concern. “Are you all right? Gandalf, perhaps you should have a look at Frodo…”
Frodo shook his head, flushing, when Gandalf and Sam turned to him. “Oh, no. I’m all right. Just a bit tired. In fact, perhaps I should give my regrets to Faramir and Eowyn for tonight.”
But he had been unable to stay away from the betrothal gala.
“I am so glad you came,” Eowyn said, taking both Frodo’s hands in hers and laughing joyfully. She wore a lovely silk dress of brocaded silk, and she wore a silver band around her head, although her golden hair fell freely down her back. Her hands were cool and dry, and there was warm affection in her eyes.
“I must offer you my wish for your happiness.”
Eowyn laughed and bent to kiss Frodo’s head. “Thank you, Ringbearer.”
Faramir shook Frodo’s hand with stiff formality. He would not meet Frodo’s gaze.
The gala was in the Citadel’s courtyard, where an enormous tent had been set up. Hundreds of lanterns twinkled like fairy lights. The happy roar of laughter barely drowned out the gentle harp music.
“Thank you for coming…Ringbearer.”
Frodo looked into Faramir’s eyes, feeling cold inside. Faramir was so wooden, so aloof.
Frodo nodded and walked away from him, shoulders straight and stiff.
He should not have come. Far better to sit alone in the cottage, wondering, than to see with his own eyes the tender way in which Faramir gazed at Eowyn and the answering glow in her cheeks as she smiled back. Of course he had to be kind to her. Everyone was there, watching, expecting him to be glad over his betrothal.
Frodo sat at a table, alone, unable to tear his gaze from Faramir and Eowyn. First Faramir brought her a goblet of wine. She said something to him, and he laughed. Then he splayed his large hands over Eowyn’s cheek, lifting her chin upward. Pain ripped through Frodo’s heart, and he had to look away. It was such an intimate gesture, and Frodo had thought that it was his alone.
He sipped a glass of Minas Tirith’s finest wine and nibbling on dainties. He had no idea what he ate, nor did he care, but whatever they were, they tasted bland, and that was what he needed. A balmy breeze caressed his cheeks. Such a fine and peaceful evening, the sort of night that lovers enjoyed.
“Good evening,” Aragorn said, and sat beside him.
“Oh…” Frodo flushed. When he had last seen Aragorn, it had been a few nights earlier, when he had fled Aragorn’s living quarters. He took a large gulp from his glass again. “I…” he began.
“How are you?” Aragorn said at the same time. They laughed, although Frodo’s laugh sounded hollow to his own ears.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said. “Please continue…”
“Oh, it is nothing,” Frodo said. “Well, yes, it is something. I wanted to apologize for leaving so abruptly-”
“Do not fret about it,” Aragorn said. He glanced in Faramir’s direction and spoke under his breath, and Frodo was reminded of Aragorn the Ranger, as he had met him in Bree, how his voice had sounded low and dangerous. “May I be frank with you?”
“Please do,” Frodo said, meeting his gaze.
“What exactly has occurred between yourself and Faramir?”
Frodo felt a cold fist in his belly that Aragorn knew. Well, of course he thought he might suspect. It must have been clear from the way they had conducted themselves on the terrace in Aragorn’s quarters.
Aragorn touched Frodo’s shoulder. “It is all right, my friend. There is no shame in it.”
Frodo glanced at Faramir and said, “I love him. I should not, when he has an obligation to another, but I do.”
“It pains my heart to see you hurt like this,” Aragorn said.
“He loves me,” Frodo continued. “But he has made this vow-”
“If you wish it, I will forbid their marriage.”
Frodo looked at him in surprise, laughing a little. “You are jesting now…always jesting…” His voice trailed off, swallowing bitterly.
“I do not jest,” Aragorn said. Although he smiled, Frodo realized that he was serious. “I wish for Eowyn’s happiness. She has earned it with her bravery. Naturally I wish for an alliance between Gondor and Rohan. It seemed it would work exactly to everyone’s liking when Eowyn and Faramir made their vows. But I should gladly break Eowyn’s heart before yours.”
“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered. “You are still the rascally Ranger I met in Bree, aren’t you?” Then he smiled sadly. “While your offer would indeed make it easier, I must decline. This is Faramir’s choice to make. Despite what you saw…” He glanced toward the stone wall on which Aragorn had found him standing. “I am not frail. This will not kill me, not now.”
“This I am glad to know. For there is still joy to be had in this world. And in my heart, I know you shall have it. Farewell for now, my dear friend.” Aragorn bent forward and kissed Frodo’s brow before he stood and made his way toward a crowd of his advisors and guards.
Frodo found himself looking again at Faramir and Eowyn. The lantern light fell on Faramir’s face, bathing it in light, and he looked joyful. But occasionally he sought Frodo out, and his eyes met Frodo’s and there was regret and sorrow reflected in them.
“Fine night, stars high in the sky.” Frodo turned toward the voice in surprise. There he found the Guard of the Citadel who had accompanied him home from the King’s House several days earlier, the same who had refused Frodo when he had thrown himself at him in a fog of grief. His cheeks heated with embarrassment.
“Yes, it is a lovely night.” He clutched his hands together and hoped he would go away.
They were silent. The Guard continued to sit beside him, but he said nothing. Frodo tried to think about anything at all to talk about. This was altogether awkward.
The Guard stroked Frodo’s shoulder, and Frodo flinched and moved away. “Sir.”
But the Guard inched toward him again and whispered in his ear. “I’ve been thinking about what you offered the other night. I must apologize for my discourtesy. I’m afraid you took me by surprise. But since then, I’ve not been able to think about anything else.”
“Please forgive me. I’m afraid I was not myself,” Frodo said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. He tried to meet Faramir’s eyes, but he was in conversation with three others of the Citadel Guards. “It is no matter. Let us forget it.”
“Come…” the Guard said, chuckling. “We could go for a brief lay, just in one of those alleys nearby, up against the wall. It could be fast, and we’d both get our itches scratched.”
Frodo stared at him, barely able to disguise his disgust at his brazenness. He could not believe he had offered himself to this man, who seemed utterly repulsive to him now. His senses had been addled indeed. “Good sir…please. I should like to be alone right now.”
He did not see Faramir now, and that made him feel bewildered and alone.
The Guard was insistent. He had clearly had more ale than was good for him, and his breath reeked of it. “Quick and hard against the wall…You’d be nice and tight, wouldn’t you?” He ran his hand up Frodo’s thigh and unbelievably, he dug inside Frodo’s breeches, fumbling for his groin. Frodo jumped to his feet and faced him, panting in disgust, and clenched his fists into balls.
“Do not touch me again. If it is necessary for me to call for the King, you will rue this day.”
“That will be unnecessary.”
Frodo turned in joy at the sound of Faramir’s voice. There he stood, tall and forbidding, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his eyes stern.
“Do you disrespect the Ringbearer, Guard?” Faramir demanded.
“Nay…Nay, Captain…Prince Faramir.” The Guard, clearly humbled now, bowed. “I am sorry…just a misunderstanding.”
“If you speak to him again, I will make certain that the King hears of it,” Faramir said. “And the Ringbearer is a dear friend of the King.”
The Guard bowed once again, mumbling inaudibly, and stumbled away.
Faramir released the hilt of his sword and knelt beside Frodo. “Are you all right? Did he harm you?”
“No…” Frodo said, shaking his head. “I am all right.”
“Let us take leave of this place then.”
“But this is a party in your honor,” Frodo said. His heart pounded in wild relief that his lover had rushed in to save him. Although he had been with Eowyn, his attention had clearly been on Frodo.
“I know. And it is tiresome. Come. Let us leave now.”
“Eowyn…”
“She is enjoying the company of her brother and other friends.”
Eowyn was indeed sitting beside Eomer and Merry, laughing gaily at some jest or other.
“You should at least bid her goodnight,” Frodo said.
“I have already done so.”
Frodo smiled then. “Then let us go back to the cottage where I am staying.” None of the other hobbits would be returning for many hours to come. Even Sam was clearly enjoying himself with Legolas and Gimli.
Frodo and Faramir slipped through the first gate and the sounds of the party faded as they walked down quiet stone streets. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Frodo kept his eyes forward.
He must tell Faramir that he could not see him anymore. He must tell him tonight.
But before that, they could lie together one last time. Yes, he would invite Faramir into his bed, and then in the morning, he would tell him not to come back, not to speak to him. If ever his heart would have a chance of mending, he had to make certain that he never saw Faramir again.
Finally Faramir spoke, clearly striving to keep his voice even, “It is appalling the behavior of some of the Guards of this great city. It burns my heart that he treated you so.”
“It is only because I encouraged him not more than a few nights ago.”
Faramir said nothing, and they walked again in silence for several moments.
“It was nothing,” Frodo added after a time. “He refused me. Thank you…for what you did…it saved me from needing to call for aid.”
Faramir sighed. “This gala was not of my doing. I knew nothing of it until this morning.”
Frodo looked at him in relief. So he had not deliberately deceived him.
“I am sorry.”
“You are not to blame,” Frodo said.
They reached the cottage where the hobbits stayed, and Frodo tugged at Faramir’s sleeve, dragging him toward the stairs.
Once inside Frodo’s chamber, Faramir knelt and cupped Frodo’s face in his splayed hands, just as he had Eowyn earlier. Frodo cringed, but he still allowed Faramir to kiss him. It was sweet but oh so bitter. He drank in every detail, again, knowing that he needed to store it in his memory for the remainder of his life. Slowly, he slid his hands behind Faramir’s neck.
“I’m sorry Frodo,” Faramir said, pulling away but still holding Frodo’s cheeks. “I am causing you discomfort.”
“Pardon?” Frodo said, flushing. “No. That is not true. Please…continue.”
Faramir’s lips brushed over Frodo’s again, gentle and soft, yet with barely restrained ardor. Frodo tried to pull back, but this time, Faramir held his cheeks, anchoring him. Even when Frodo pulled away from his lips, Faramir held him close, so that there was barely a tongue’s length between them.
“Faramir…”
“Hush...” Faramir touched his nose. “It’s all right.” He sighed, still holding Frodo’s face in firm hands. “I told her. She knows.”
“She…” Frodo looked at Faramir in bewilderment. “What do you mean by that? You…you told Eowyn?” Ice began to fill his belly, and a buzzing sounded in his ears. “You told her?”
Faramir nodded. “She does not mind.”
Frodo stepped back, pushing Faramir with rare violence. “Get out.”
“Frodo…I do not jest. I told her and she was surprised, but it did not seem to upset her.”
Frodo could not take in enough breath. His breaths came out in jagged pants, and he found himself unable to stand still. He wandered in a circle, clenching and unclenching his fists. “Go from my sight.”
Faramir touched Frodo’s shoulder. “Eowyn does not mind. We need not hide anything.”
Frodo turned to Faramir in a dull rage. When the Ring had nearly taken him on the blistering rocks of Mordor, particularly in his weakened state after Sam had rescued him from Cirith Ungol, there had been moments that now lay in shadow when he had imagined hurting Sam with pleasurable vividness. Sometimes it was with whips and beatings, in the same way that the Orcs had hurt Frodo in the tower. Sometimes he imagined plunging Sting into Sam’s back or neck, watching him squeal in pain as he died. The small part of him that had remained his true self had been horrified and aware that it was merely the whispers of the Ring, but he had been too weak to fight it, to weak to fully shut his mind from it.
Frodo felt the familiar cruel shadows close in, and a haze fell before his eyes. That Faramir had spoken to this lady, this shield maiden, about something so dear and private shattered everything inside him and he wanted only to maim and hurt. His shoulder throbbed, and a piercing chill seeped down his left arm.
“Get…out.” Frodo said in a snarl, and he struck Faramir hard across the face. Frodo’s wrist wrenched from the impact, but oh it felt marvelous to strike out when he hurt. He had taken Faramir by surprise, for the large man fell backward against the wall, grabbing his nose.
“Frodo…”
“You may have forgotten it, but I am the Ringbearer, still worthy of honor and respect.”
“I erred,” Faramir said. “Frodo, please forgive me. Such a confounded mess I’ve made of this all. I am weak. Please forgive me.”
He crawled back to Frodo and embraced him, clutching him. “A mess…I’ve made a mess of it all.”
“Let us run from it all then,” Frodo whispered, kissing Faramir’s ear. “Let us forget honor and duty and go from this city. There are many corners of the world where we can live in happiness. Nobody shall find us again. Let us go this very night.”
“Yes…yes… My heart is yours and yours alone, Frodo Baggins. I shall be weak no more. Please forgive me. I am yours if you will still have me.”
Frodo kissed Faramir’s lips again and pulled back, examining his face. He laughed hollowly. “I hit you hard.”
“That you did,” Faramir said ruefully. Then he began to laugh. “Perhaps that Guard would have been no match for you.”
“It is likely,” Frodo said, smiling through tears. “Faramir, I’m sorry I lost my temper.”
Faramir drew him to the bed and pulled him down. Frodo did not resist. He could not. Like the evil shadows of the Ring that had whispered to him, he could not resist, could not fight it. Frodo gripped Faramir’s tunic and clung, shivering with need and grief.
They made love, hard and brutal, clothes still mostly on, except that they had tugged their breeches over their bottoms.
Afterward, Frodo fell into a deep sleep, and he was barely aware of anything -- Faramir’s arms around him, his gentle kisses on his head, his sweet whispering. He remembered no dreams from that sleep.
TBC