The One Who Came Not Home
Beneath his silks, his velvet robes,
The steward's skin is warm;
He shivers under kingly hands
Whose fingers trace his form.
His body moves to meet the touch,
A thrust which knows its mark:
The king's lips close: a kiss like fire
Consumes them in the dark.
And neither man can quite recall
How fortune brought him here;
The war was not what bound them close,
Nor peace what pressed them near.
One took the throne, and one the chair:
It seemed a fitting thing
That these should be together now,
The steward and the king.
Yet Aragorn remembers,
When his lover breathes his name,
How other breath, so trembling,
Broke beneath him, just the same;
How other hips, so arching,
Spoke a deeper ache than lust:
Those lips that said: I'm willing,
While the eyes confessed: I trust.
He knows it that the steward
Will submit for him alone,
Full seals his reign as sovereign
Firmer here than on the throne;
And yet, tonight, he hesitates,
As memories retrace
Another voice, another name,
A long-forgotten face...
Another man who loved him
In the dark of distant nights;
Whose footsteps knew this tower well,
Whose banners soared its heights;
Who called these stones to echo
With the ringing of his blade—
Even now the king can hear them,
Clear and sharp: and he's afraid.
Then the lamplight, hissing, flickers,
And the silent room falls chill;
Wary, slowing, both men shiver;
Waiting, Faramir lies still.
But the spectral presence lingers,
And the king's eyes, shifting, roam:
For he feels it now: the shadow
Of the one who came not home.
He remembers—how that stony pride
Would bow, at first, for none;
But though Boromir was bolder,
He was still his father's son.
Captured by the ageless power
In the Ranger's steely eyes,
Soon he offered his devotion:
And the warmth between his thighs.
Like to Faramir's, his hair hung black,
His eyes gleamed winter gray,
And his chiseled hands, like marble,
Battle-weathered, knew their way:
Slow unwinding leather laces,
Sharp unclasping iron rings,
He confessed his place as steward,
So to taste the sword of kings.
But for him no rule awaited,
For his faithful days were few:
When he faltered in betrayal,
His contrition pierced him through,
And the river took his body,
All transgression to erase:
So his lover took his kingdom—
And his brother took his place.
And now Aragorn, withdrawing,
Shifts his weight upon the bed,
Where the steward, lying shaken,
Closes legs that trust had spread;
But the king extends no comfort;
He is distant, lost in doubt;
So the steward draws the blankets up,
And blows the lantern out.
And the silent men in darkness
Lie together, but apart,
For the chill has left the tower,
Yet it stills the Ranger's heart.
Is he lord, or still a stranger,
To this City, to these halls,
Where the echo, Gondor needs no king
Still whispers in the walls?