FIC: King's Night for escribej (LotR, Aragorn/Faramir)
Title: King's Night
Author: ribby
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: On King's Night, anything can happen--and usually does.
Notes: Much of this is due to too much re-reading; of Diane Duane's wonderful Tale of the Five series--the idea of the ruler walking unarmed and unprotected among their people is based on a scene from that series--and of Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman's Fall of the Kings, which provided the idea for the chase through the City. If you haven't read either of those books (Tale of Five starts with The Door into Fire), do--they're wonderful, and slashy! This is for escribej, for the sons_of_gondor Halloween fic swap.
Midwinter night, year's-turning. The longest night of the year, and the king's night. An old, almost forgotten custom, now revived by Gondor's new king.
Aragorn dresses slowly, reverently, in his old ranger garb--leggings, undertunic, leather coat, boots, half-gloves... and from a trunk, he removes the bracers, leather ties broken and replaced more times than he can count. The bracers of the son of Gondor. Boromir.
As for the other son of Gondor, the Steward... he smiles wryly as he remembers their earlier conversation.
"My lord," says Faramir, "I do not like this. What if something should happen?"
Aragorn smiles. "That is why I come to you, Faramir. You are the Land, as I am the King, and in the King's absence, you must care for the people. Besides," he comments, smiling again, "if I should fall by the hand of one of my people, who better to rule?"
Faramir catches his hand, his voice grave. "Do not take this night lightly, my lord. The custom was forgotten by many, but not by some. There may be ... events you are not prepared for. No," he holds up his hand as Aragorn begins to question him, "I cannot speak of it. Be wary, lord."
Aragorn smiles again, gravely. "You worry too much... but I am blessed for that." He brings Faramir's hand to his lips, lightly lays a kiss on the knuckles. "A king's blessing, Faramir. May it keep you safe this night." He releases his Steward's hand and walks from the room, leaving a frowning, befuddled man behind him.
King's night--the one night every year when the king walks the streets of his city unarmored, unguarded, to be judged as his people see fit. Aragorn has left Faramir ruling in his stead, and should one of his people consider him unfit and exercise the right they hold for this night only, Faramir will be King upon his death. He hopes it will not come to that, but if it does, Aragorn is prepared. He only hopes Faramir will be, as well.
**********
He walks through streets lively with Midwinter fires, children running, chasing, catching each other in the shadows. He speaks but little, greeting those who greet him in turn, but saying no more.
The great bonfire in the heart of the city lies waiting for the torch; one of the men presses the flaming brand into Aragorn's hand. "Light it for luck, my lord. For the new year." Aragorn flings the torch into the pile, which bursts into flame. A cheer goes up from the crowd as the flames leap into the chill air, and they begin to caper, canter, dance around the fire, dragging their king willingly into the celebration.
He dances, drinks, dances more... and finally, slips off into the shadows to watch his people at play. He walks without direction, without thought.
"The King! The King!" comes the cry, and a swirl of masked revelers engulfs him. Their clothes are artful tatters, green and gold and scarlet, their masks fantastical animals.
"Run!" a voice whispers, and he does, not for fear but for joy, for pure feeling, leading them a merry chase.
They bring him to ground on the highest circle of the city, in front of the great Tree, now flourishing where it was once dead.
A figure steps from behind the Tree, cloaked in green, wearing a stag-head mask as if it were his own face. In long-fingered, fine-boned hands he holds a jeweled cup, which he offers to the King. "Drink, my Lord. Drink of the past, of the present, and of the future. Drink of your land and your people." Aragorn accepts the cup tipped to his lips, drinks deeply of the rich, heady draught.
Dizzily, he thinks he must know the voice, the blue eyes behind the mask... but the drink takes him deep, and he is grateful for the strong arms and warm body supporting him.
Later, he will be told what he says... but now all he knows is the spinning gold of the fire, and the warmth of the Stag against him, above him, around him. He loses his name in the rush of pleasure, gives up all that he is, all the names he has held falling away into sensation, until there is nothing left but his body, and the body of the man who claims him.
The King gives himself freely to the Land, and the Land takes what is rightfully his.
**********
It is the light of dawn that awakens Aragorn. He comes fully awake, the one legacy of his Ranger years he cannot shed, and finds himself looking into concerned blue eyes. Faramir, in his bedroom? What oddity was this?
A hand comes down to restrain him. "No, don't try to sit up... drink this first." Faramir helps him up enough to drink from the cup he holds... and Aragorn suddenly realizes he has a truly astonishing headache. What did he *do* last night? A few sips of the cup's contents dull the pain enough for him to prop himself up on a few pillows, and he takes the cup from Faramir's hands and drinks slowly.
"I hadn't realized that you had knowledge of herb-lore, Faramir."
Faramir smiles wryly. "Only a few select cures, my lord." He catches Aragorn's eyes briefly, then looks away. As he makes to leave, Aragorn snatches at his hand.
"Faramir. Don't leave, please." His own smile is wry, at Faramir's surprised look. "As much as I think I don't wish to know, please tell me what it was I did last night? Why I have this terrible headache, and why you're in my chambers?"
Faramir flushes to the roots of his hair, and will not meet his king's eyes. "I did warn you, my lord. What do you remember?"
"I remember walking among the people... there was a hunt? Someone...chasing me?" Aragorn's words are slow, halting as he teases nuggets of memory from his slowly-clearing brain. "The Stag. I remember the Stag, and the wine."
Faramir looks up at that, and his face and voice are grave. "The Stag. Yes, you would remember him, champion that you are. What happened last night was part of the old ritual, the final claiming of the King. You offered yourself to the Land and to your people... and they have accepted you. The wine...opened you to that possibility. And others."
"Others?"
"After you drank, you spoke of many things--the past, the future, even my brother. Hush," he raised a hand to quell Aragorn's apology, "it was praise, and much-needed. No blame to you for that. I know you loved him, and will likely all your life. I do not begrudge him that. But you spoke of a land united, a peaceful land where knowledge is shared, and what skirmishes there are are small and quickly resolved. Whether it will come or no, that is a powerful vision, fitting for a strong King."
Aragorn falls silent, considering what he has heard; but he does not let go of Faramir's hand, and will not let him break away of his own accord.
"You were there, weren't you? This is not a second-hand account." As much as Aragorn would wish otherwise, he cannot keep the barest tone of command out of his voice.
Faramir flushes again, and drops his head to hide his expression. "I...yes. I was."
Aragorn gently cups Faramir's chin in his hand and tilts it up, surprised by the slightly shamed expression in his Steward's face. And then he has a flash of the night before, of familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face, and a voice he thought he should know... "The Stag. Of course... for the Steward is the caretaker of the Land, is he not? You were the Stag."
"I was." Again, Faramir sounds... shamed.
Aragorn laughs, and has to gentle the tone when Faramir looks at him almost angrily. "Peace, peace, Faramir, I was not laughing at you, but at your shame. For what shame is there in the ritual, when it is freely given and freely taken, when the proper forms are observed and the gods stand witness? I lay no burden upon you, nor have no regrets in what we did. I did not then, when I knew not who held me, who made me one with the Land I serve, and do not now that I know."
Faramir lets out a deep breath. "Thank you. I wanted to be here this morning to... well, to see that you were well, and that what had happened had not harmed you. But I confess I was frightened, too, that you would find it all loathsome, and perhaps even dismiss me from your service. And that, my lord, would be the worst of all."
Aragorn turns Faramir's hand, the one he holds, palm up, and lays a gentle kiss in its center. "I could never do so, Faramir... for now we are joined, Land and King, Steward and Ruler. And more importantly, Aragorn and Faramir. Oaths bind us, ceremonies hold us, but friendship and love will endure beyond all oath and ceremony."
Faramir, wordless, smiles, and in his eyes is the Land, and his King.
Aragorn draws Faramir down to the bed, and rolls so that Faramir is under him. Their first kiss (for there was no time for kisses the previous night) begins softly, but becomes deeper, more intense as they explore each other this way.
It is Faramir who falls this time, losing all that he is but his most essential being in pleasure. Behind his closed eyes tumble white Stars of Gondor, and when he opens them, the stars are still shining in Aragorn's eyes.
As the Land has claimed the King, so the King renews his ties to the land, spilling his seed. And Faramir feels that connection close and take root, and knows that whatever this life may bring him, he will always have Aragorn--and Aragorn will always have him.
Author: ribby
Fandom: LOTR
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: R
Summary: On King's Night, anything can happen--and usually does.
Notes: Much of this is due to too much re-reading; of Diane Duane's wonderful Tale of the Five series--the idea of the ruler walking unarmed and unprotected among their people is based on a scene from that series--and of Ellen Kushner and Delia Sherman's Fall of the Kings, which provided the idea for the chase through the City. If you haven't read either of those books (Tale of Five starts with The Door into Fire), do--they're wonderful, and slashy! This is for escribej, for the sons_of_gondor Halloween fic swap.
Midwinter night, year's-turning. The longest night of the year, and the king's night. An old, almost forgotten custom, now revived by Gondor's new king.
Aragorn dresses slowly, reverently, in his old ranger garb--leggings, undertunic, leather coat, boots, half-gloves... and from a trunk, he removes the bracers, leather ties broken and replaced more times than he can count. The bracers of the son of Gondor. Boromir.
As for the other son of Gondor, the Steward... he smiles wryly as he remembers their earlier conversation.
"My lord," says Faramir, "I do not like this. What if something should happen?"
Aragorn smiles. "That is why I come to you, Faramir. You are the Land, as I am the King, and in the King's absence, you must care for the people. Besides," he comments, smiling again, "if I should fall by the hand of one of my people, who better to rule?"
Faramir catches his hand, his voice grave. "Do not take this night lightly, my lord. The custom was forgotten by many, but not by some. There may be ... events you are not prepared for. No," he holds up his hand as Aragorn begins to question him, "I cannot speak of it. Be wary, lord."
Aragorn smiles again, gravely. "You worry too much... but I am blessed for that." He brings Faramir's hand to his lips, lightly lays a kiss on the knuckles. "A king's blessing, Faramir. May it keep you safe this night." He releases his Steward's hand and walks from the room, leaving a frowning, befuddled man behind him.
King's night--the one night every year when the king walks the streets of his city unarmored, unguarded, to be judged as his people see fit. Aragorn has left Faramir ruling in his stead, and should one of his people consider him unfit and exercise the right they hold for this night only, Faramir will be King upon his death. He hopes it will not come to that, but if it does, Aragorn is prepared. He only hopes Faramir will be, as well.
**********
He walks through streets lively with Midwinter fires, children running, chasing, catching each other in the shadows. He speaks but little, greeting those who greet him in turn, but saying no more.
The great bonfire in the heart of the city lies waiting for the torch; one of the men presses the flaming brand into Aragorn's hand. "Light it for luck, my lord. For the new year." Aragorn flings the torch into the pile, which bursts into flame. A cheer goes up from the crowd as the flames leap into the chill air, and they begin to caper, canter, dance around the fire, dragging their king willingly into the celebration.
He dances, drinks, dances more... and finally, slips off into the shadows to watch his people at play. He walks without direction, without thought.
"The King! The King!" comes the cry, and a swirl of masked revelers engulfs him. Their clothes are artful tatters, green and gold and scarlet, their masks fantastical animals.
"Run!" a voice whispers, and he does, not for fear but for joy, for pure feeling, leading them a merry chase.
They bring him to ground on the highest circle of the city, in front of the great Tree, now flourishing where it was once dead.
A figure steps from behind the Tree, cloaked in green, wearing a stag-head mask as if it were his own face. In long-fingered, fine-boned hands he holds a jeweled cup, which he offers to the King. "Drink, my Lord. Drink of the past, of the present, and of the future. Drink of your land and your people." Aragorn accepts the cup tipped to his lips, drinks deeply of the rich, heady draught.
Dizzily, he thinks he must know the voice, the blue eyes behind the mask... but the drink takes him deep, and he is grateful for the strong arms and warm body supporting him.
Later, he will be told what he says... but now all he knows is the spinning gold of the fire, and the warmth of the Stag against him, above him, around him. He loses his name in the rush of pleasure, gives up all that he is, all the names he has held falling away into sensation, until there is nothing left but his body, and the body of the man who claims him.
The King gives himself freely to the Land, and the Land takes what is rightfully his.
**********
It is the light of dawn that awakens Aragorn. He comes fully awake, the one legacy of his Ranger years he cannot shed, and finds himself looking into concerned blue eyes. Faramir, in his bedroom? What oddity was this?
A hand comes down to restrain him. "No, don't try to sit up... drink this first." Faramir helps him up enough to drink from the cup he holds... and Aragorn suddenly realizes he has a truly astonishing headache. What did he *do* last night? A few sips of the cup's contents dull the pain enough for him to prop himself up on a few pillows, and he takes the cup from Faramir's hands and drinks slowly.
"I hadn't realized that you had knowledge of herb-lore, Faramir."
Faramir smiles wryly. "Only a few select cures, my lord." He catches Aragorn's eyes briefly, then looks away. As he makes to leave, Aragorn snatches at his hand.
"Faramir. Don't leave, please." His own smile is wry, at Faramir's surprised look. "As much as I think I don't wish to know, please tell me what it was I did last night? Why I have this terrible headache, and why you're in my chambers?"
Faramir flushes to the roots of his hair, and will not meet his king's eyes. "I did warn you, my lord. What do you remember?"
"I remember walking among the people... there was a hunt? Someone...chasing me?" Aragorn's words are slow, halting as he teases nuggets of memory from his slowly-clearing brain. "The Stag. I remember the Stag, and the wine."
Faramir looks up at that, and his face and voice are grave. "The Stag. Yes, you would remember him, champion that you are. What happened last night was part of the old ritual, the final claiming of the King. You offered yourself to the Land and to your people... and they have accepted you. The wine...opened you to that possibility. And others."
"Others?"
"After you drank, you spoke of many things--the past, the future, even my brother. Hush," he raised a hand to quell Aragorn's apology, "it was praise, and much-needed. No blame to you for that. I know you loved him, and will likely all your life. I do not begrudge him that. But you spoke of a land united, a peaceful land where knowledge is shared, and what skirmishes there are are small and quickly resolved. Whether it will come or no, that is a powerful vision, fitting for a strong King."
Aragorn falls silent, considering what he has heard; but he does not let go of Faramir's hand, and will not let him break away of his own accord.
"You were there, weren't you? This is not a second-hand account." As much as Aragorn would wish otherwise, he cannot keep the barest tone of command out of his voice.
Faramir flushes again, and drops his head to hide his expression. "I...yes. I was."
Aragorn gently cups Faramir's chin in his hand and tilts it up, surprised by the slightly shamed expression in his Steward's face. And then he has a flash of the night before, of familiar eyes in an unfamiliar face, and a voice he thought he should know... "The Stag. Of course... for the Steward is the caretaker of the Land, is he not? You were the Stag."
"I was." Again, Faramir sounds... shamed.
Aragorn laughs, and has to gentle the tone when Faramir looks at him almost angrily. "Peace, peace, Faramir, I was not laughing at you, but at your shame. For what shame is there in the ritual, when it is freely given and freely taken, when the proper forms are observed and the gods stand witness? I lay no burden upon you, nor have no regrets in what we did. I did not then, when I knew not who held me, who made me one with the Land I serve, and do not now that I know."
Faramir lets out a deep breath. "Thank you. I wanted to be here this morning to... well, to see that you were well, and that what had happened had not harmed you. But I confess I was frightened, too, that you would find it all loathsome, and perhaps even dismiss me from your service. And that, my lord, would be the worst of all."
Aragorn turns Faramir's hand, the one he holds, palm up, and lays a gentle kiss in its center. "I could never do so, Faramir... for now we are joined, Land and King, Steward and Ruler. And more importantly, Aragorn and Faramir. Oaths bind us, ceremonies hold us, but friendship and love will endure beyond all oath and ceremony."
Faramir, wordless, smiles, and in his eyes is the Land, and his King.
Aragorn draws Faramir down to the bed, and rolls so that Faramir is under him. Their first kiss (for there was no time for kisses the previous night) begins softly, but becomes deeper, more intense as they explore each other this way.
It is Faramir who falls this time, losing all that he is but his most essential being in pleasure. Behind his closed eyes tumble white Stars of Gondor, and when he opens them, the stars are still shining in Aragorn's eyes.
As the Land has claimed the King, so the King renews his ties to the land, spilling his seed. And Faramir feels that connection close and take root, and knows that whatever this life may bring him, he will always have Aragorn--and Aragorn will always have him.