Title: May I?
Series: Tales of the Telcontars; Desperate Hours AU
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien's
Summary: An early morning exchange between Faramir and Aragorn, in the early days, when the new King and the new Steward were still getting to know one another.
A/N: Set in the spring of T.A. 3019, just a few weeks after Aragorn has become King.
May I?
Eye the target; pull an arrow from the quiver; nock the arrow while re-focusing on the target; pull the string back while aiming; a heartbeat to adjust the aim; and loose.
Faramir's hundredth arrow of the morning thudded into the target, but only into one of the outer rings. The former Captain of the Ithilien Rangers didn't stop to sigh or curse; he was already drawing the bow to loose another arrow, when a quiet voice interrupted, "Very impressive, my Steward. But I think that particular target has seen enough of your arrows, for the nonce. And I am quite sure that your healing shoulder has been exercised enough, as well."
Faramir was exhausted. He'd barely caught a cat-nap the night before (in fact, Whisper, Tabby, and the half-grown kitten Faramir hadn't named yet had all slept longer), and he'd slept less in the past week than he had during, say, the last Battle of Osgiliath, or the Battle for the Pelennor. He was aware that his hand ached, and that his shoulder was very nearly at the end of its endurance. He was also aware of the incipient headache he'd gotten, forcing his eyes to focus and aim in the poor light of dawn and earliest morning. He'd also been aware of the King and his guards joining him and a handful of other early risers on the practice courts. But he'd intended to finish out this quarrel of arrows, before going to bathe and ready himself for another challenging day of dealing with a new King, a fractious council, war-damage, and who-knew-what surprise emergencies, major and minor.
Still, the voice that had addressed him belonged to said new King. So there was really only one answer. Faramir knew enough of chain of command, and the respect due to the man who ruled Gondor, to know that. "Aye, Sire." He replied with a half-bow.
The King sighed. "Please don't do that, Faramir. That...the bowing thing. You know I hate that, from you."
Faramir sighed. "Yes, Sire, I know. I apologize, it is early and I forgot." Faramir gave the King an apologetic look, then had to look away as something in King Elessar's eyes unsettled him, again.
Pretending to yawn, as if he were merely tired and not...unnerved, by the...fond yet perplexed look in his sovereign's eyes, Faramir begged the King's pardon. Then Faramir turned to gently instruct his squire, giving the youth a faint nod and an approving smile as the yawning lad trotted towards the target to collect Faramir's arrows, which were specially made to fit this bow. They were not terribly unique; many of the rangers still used a long-bow similar to the one Faramir had practiced with this morning, such that the stores at Henneth Annun and even the armory here in the city would have spares, but Faramir had learned not to waste arrows at an early age. Faramir himself usually carried an even larger long-bow; this one was his bow from his early twenties, before Faramir had reached his full growth.
The King frowned at Faramir's bow. "'Tis a beautiful bow, and you make good use of it, even in this indifferent light. But it seems that you might be straining yourself. May I?" The King asked,
Faramir blinked in startlement, and handed the King his bow, "Of course, Sire."
King Elessar...or Aragorn, as he had repeatedly asked Faramir to call him, as if he were just any other ranger, smiled faintly and handed the bow to one of his shadows, the light-haired elven Prince from the Mirkwood...the Greenwood, Faramir mentally corrected himself. Prince Legolas got twitchy when his homeland was called "the Mirkwood," and preferred its ancient name of the Greenwood. Which Faramir supposed was fair enough...he hated it when anyone called Ithilien "forsaken," or "barbaric," or any other derogatory term.
The King was giving Faramir that look again, and Faramir fought not to squirm, or turn away, or look away, as King Elessar gently scolded, "I meant your healing shoulder, youngling, not your bow, although I'm sure my gwador Legolas is pleased for an opportunity to admire it."
Prince Legolas smiled, "It is a lovely bow. Well-treated, although it looks like it has been years since anyone used it regularly."
Faramir, startled, nodded again, and then cursed himself as he instinctually drew away as the King reached out to touch him.
"Sorry, Sire," Faramir apologized immediately, before forcing himself to hold still for the King's appraisal.
The King, however, had paused. "I am a healer, you know." He reminded Faramir, with a concerned look on his face. He did not try to touch Faramir again, and even took a careful half-step back, as if Faramir were a skittish young horse.
"Aye, Sire, and rather a good one, as I recall," Faramir remarked with a light, self-deprecating grin, "Fortunately for myself, and Lady Eowyn and Sir Meriadoc, and many others, as well."
"And myself as well, upon occasion." Prince Legolas remarked lightly.
The King gave the blond elf a fond, half-scolding look, an elder brother's expression of...of almost, "I'm glad that I could be there for you, that time, but do try to stay out of trouble in the future, hmm?," and while Faramir appreciated the insight into the relationship between his new King and a long-time friend and ally, it also made him wonder. The King's term for Prince Legolas, "gwador," or sworn brother, was the same that the King used for Faramir's uncle, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. And the King and Legolas seemed to know all about one another's lives. And Faramir's uncle had just learned of a half-dozen or so incidents that Faramir, with the assistance of Adrahil or Boromir, had deemed it wise to keep Imrahil ignorant of. Faramir was vaguely worried that his Uncle, perhaps overwrought at learning of Faramir's mistreatment at the hands of his armsmasters when Faramir had been seven years old, might have mentioned it to the King, and that was why the King was now...giving Faramir space. Sighing inwardly, Faramir decided that he had no control over what the King knew or didn't know, as of this point.
"May I?" The King asked again, and Faramir nodded, overcoming his reluctance to let a healer, or an authority figure, touch him. Faramir extended his arm, as he had once extended his trust, to the newly-returned heir of Isildur.
Elessar Telcontar gave his Steward a warm smile, as his well-trained healer's hands gently manipulated Faramir's shoulder. "No archery practice for you for the next several days, my Prince." The King scolded lightly, "And I think a visit to the healer's may be in order."
Faramir did sigh at that, and Legolas smiled at him in sympathy. The King's voice was chiding, but the look in his eyes was kind, and not without some sympathy.
"I understand that you might be more comfortable with a healer whom you know better," Elessar told Faramir, as his hands gently felt down the length of Faramir's arm, frowning at the lack of a bracer, "But you should see someone. The enemy arrow did a great deal of damage to the muscles and ligaments in your shoulder, and,"
Being nearly burned alive hadn't helped, either. Faramir interjected, "And what happened afterward exacerbated the condition. Yes, the healers mentioned. The Warden will no doubt be glad to see me again." There. Let King Elessar think that Faramir would see the healers. And Faramir would, if he had time and his shoulder actually bothered him. The discomfort he felt now was well within the range of normal, for a healing wound. Faramir didn't want to waste the King's valuable time, or the Warden's. Not to mention that the look in the King's eyes...it reminded Faramir of his mother, or of Boromir, or of some mix of the two. It was unsettling. And Faramir liked to understand what was going on around him. He didn't like unsettling, even good unsettling. Well, except for Eowyn, and King Elessar made him feel nothing like how Eowyn made him feel.
"Very well." The King said, sounding...reluctant? His hands now gently cradled Faramir's hands. "May I?" The King asked, again.
Faramir wasn't sure what the King wanted to do now, but the King had saved Gondor, had helped to save all of men, really. He could have Faramir's hands, if he really wanted them. So Faramir nodded mutely.
The King tsked over the blisters forming on Faramir's hands from the morning's marathon archery session, then his own royal hands magically rubbed the soreness from Faramir's. Faramir couldn't help but sigh in relief.
Legolas smiled knowingly. "He's good at that, isn't he? Elrohir is actually better, though."
The King made a face at his friend, "He has had a bit more practice, Legoas." He rebutted, still ever-so-gently massaging the pain from Faramir's blistered fingers.
"Excuses, excuses..." Legolas murmured loftily, winking at Faramir with a smile.
Faramir smiled back, although he couldn't imagine ever teasing the King with such levity. But it didn't seem to upset the King. As a matter of fact, Elessar Telcontar didn't mind when even his guards teased him.
Now Elessar called to the chiefest amongst his guards, the Dunedain ranger captain Magordan, "Magordan? Could you give me some of that liniment you always carry?"
Magordan frowned, "I do not always carry liniment." He retorted, but as he did so, he tossed a small pouch he'd fished from his belt pouch towards the King.
Elessar just grinned. "Thanks, old friend." He told Magordan, as Prince Legolas began humming a nursery rhyme. Faramir imagined that the implication was that Magoradan was a bit of a nanny goat.
Magordan gave the elven Prince a very dark look,as the King began to rub a small amount of the liniment carefully into Faramir's hands, avoiding the open blisters with infinite skill.
"Legolas." Elessar reprimanded, voice amused, but somehow sharp at the same time, "Stop harassing my guards, and go help Faramir's squire with the few arrows at the top of the target."
Legolas laughed musically, blew Magordan a kiss, and walked cheerfully over to the target.
"Faramir," the King commanded, as he gently released Faramir's hands, "Get some sleep."
"Aye, my liege." Faramir murmured, "Thank you." And Faramir did plan to sleep. Once things were more rested, or for that matter, when he absolutely had to. But for now, he needed to figure out a way to get the Northern lords to propose to share their stores of winter wheat, and in such a manner that they thought it was their own idea, or could at least act like it was their idea. Faramir pondered that, instead of pondering his new sovereign, as he left the practice yard.
(Please review if you enjoyed. Constructive criticism also welcome! And thanks for reading.)
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