Measure Of A Man

“How was the audience?” Imrahil asked quietly, his gray eyes scanning the slumped shoulders, as Faramir exited the hall where Denethor sat day in and day out.

Faramir turned his troubled gaze to Imrahil and smiled weakly. “There is to be an assault on Osgiliath on the morrow. Lord Denethor wants us to retake the ruined city. I am going now to see who will volunteer.”

“Everyone,” replied Imrahil without thinking. When Faramir gave him a lopsided smile, his heart nearly stopped beating. Although he was twenty-eight years his senior, Imrahil always thought Faramir to be the handsomest man alive and longed to share more than friendship. He did not dare voice this to his friend for fear of his reaction. “The men love you, Faramir, and will willingly follow you to Death’s Door if need be.”

The smile vanished from Faramir’s face. “Indeed, Prince Imrahil, if they join me on the field tomorrow, they will face death and worse, I fear. I do not believe it is possible to retake Osgiliath. Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps father is correct and I am a coward and ill-suited as captain.”

“You are not,” snapped Imrahil. “Denethor is a fool. He has lost one son and seems intent on losing another.” He held up his hand and shook his head. “Forgive me, Faramir, for I know the love you bear your father. As a Steward, I respect him. As a tactician and a father, I have my doubts. Have you eaten today?” He changed the subject, knowing he was on dangerous ground, for despite everything, Faramir’s loyalty to Denethor ran deep.

“No, I have been otherwise occupied.” Unconsciously, Faramir raised his hand to his hair and brushed it back from his face.

“Come, then, let me find you something to eat. And you should rest while you can. I’ll have one of my men send word through the ranks of a dawn assault. I insist,” he said when Faramir seemed on the verge of protesting. “You need to eat and rest.”

Faramir laid his hand atop Imrahil’s shoulder and smiled again. “I am grateful for your care, Prince Imrahil.”

For a moment Imrahil’s heart stopped beating and his gray eyes could not quite meet Faramir’s. “You are most welcome, my lord.”

Faramir allowed Imrahil to guide him to a part of the Tower he was not usually in. The guest wings were farther away from the private quarters, and subsequently, farther away from the hall where Denethor sat day in and day out. Imrahil knew he should escort Faramir to the kitchens or even to his own rooms in the family wing, but he did not, simply because he knew that, left unattended Faramir would choose warrior’s fare—what there was of it—and say nothing. Imrahil, on the other hand, was a prince and had access to more substantial food, though not in the quantities once known in Minas Tirith. Still, it was better than stale bread and wizened apples.

He opened the door to his one room apartment and pushed Faramir through the door. “I have a few things that I brought with me and, while you enjoy that, I’ll see what can be found in the kitchens at this hour.”

“I could not—“ Faramir began as he was pushed into a wooden chair beside a small table.

“You will,” Imrahil declared firmly as he left Faramir’s side to go to a large chest at the foot of his single bed. He lifted the lid of the iron bound box and pulled out a bottle of wine that he turned and placed on the floor beside him. Next he removed a leather pouch and opened it. Inside were strips of dried venison and beef. He laid them next to the wine. A round of cloth wrapped cheese followed the meat. Imrahil gathered the food and brought it to the small wooden table and placed it before Faramir with hands that trembled ever so slightly.

Faramir gave the prince a bemused stare. “Did you leave any food in Dol Amroth?”

“I knew Minas Tirith would not be able to provision my knights and made arrangements for them.” Imrahil self-consciously passed off his hoard. “What’s missing?”

Faramir gave the laden table a curious glance. “Company.”

“Bread,” Imrahil said at the same time.

The grinned and laughed easily. “I doubt I’ll miss it.” Faramir picked up a sample of the jerked venison and bit into the corner. He chewed and swallowed. “Excellent.”

“Good. While you eat, I’m going to send some of my men to gather up volunteers for the assault.” He strode to the door and exited quickly before he made a fool of himself. With Faramir so close and in his room, Imrahil found his thoughts wandering further and further from battles and tactics. He composed himself as best he could and went in search of one of his own captains. Knowing instinctively that his knights would volunteer, along with half of Gondor’s army, Imrahil hoped there would be men enough to hold the city if the attempt to retake Osgiliath failed. He spent perhaps twenty minutes searching for one of his knights and another five explaining the situation. Then he stole to the main kitchens, where food was prepared for Denethor and his family, and found a cook still about. He weaseled bread, honey, and a small measure of clotted cream from her pathetic stores. Mission complete, Imrahil returned to his room and stopped still in the open door.

Faramir had finished his repast and, while waiting for Imrahil’s return, had lain down on the bed. The light boned red head was on his back, with arms and legs sprawled, snoring softly. He’d loosened his tunic and it hung open to his waist, exposing the soft patch of curling hair on his chest that ran down beyond the waistband of his leggings. Imrahil meant to keep his eyes on the rise and fall of Faramir’s chest, but he couldn’t help himself. His eyes strayed lower, despite his efforts, and he stared longingly at the bulge between Faramir’s thighs. Faramir’s member lay outlined along the length of his inner thigh and Imrahil tore his eyes hastily away from the sight.

Blindly, he turned towards the table and grimaced. Faramir had devoured the meat and most of the cheese. Only a large part of the wine remained. He smiled as he put away the leftovers, leaving out only the bread, honey, butter, and wine. Closing the lid, he sat down atop it and watched Faramir sleep. He longed to reach out and brush the curls lying on the high forehead. He remembered when he first saw Faramir and his brother, Boromir, at Boromir’s coming of age celebration. Boromir had kept pulling his younger sibling to his side, insisting that he share the glory and limelight. Five years his brother’s junior, Faramir had been petrified as Denethor’s disapproving gaze had settled upon him. Imrahil shook his head. That was the moment, though he hated himself for admitting it, that he came to love Faramir. At first he told himself it was the affection of an uncle for a nephew. Then he told himself it was the kind of love the old feel for the young. By the time Faramir had reached his majority, Imrahil could not deny that his heart had been stolen by a gangling colt of a boy with auburn hair and warm green eyes; that colt grew into a long, clean limbed man of unquestionable integrity and drive and, at thirty-eight, showed every signs of maturing into an unparalleled leader. And Imrahil felt dirty and unclean for lusting after the boy, even as much as he loved the man.

The man in question groaned in his sleep and Imrahil looked up. The brows were furrowed and the mouth compressed into a thin, pained line. The prince wondered what dreams intruded into the much needed sleep. He rose quietly and went to stand by the bed and looked down into the troubled face. Unthinking, he reached out and pushed the offending lock of hair off Faramir’s forehead. The skin was warm, the hair soft.

At the first touch, Faramir jerked upright and glared around with one hand on the dagger at his waist. He relaxed as he saw Imrahil looking down at him. “What happened?”

Abashed, Imrahil stepped back and dropped his hand to his side. “You were having a bad dream, I think.”

Faramir cocked his head to one side and stared at the prince without saying anything. He’d often felt an electric tingle when he’d come near the prince of Dol Amroth and sometimes felt the gray eyes watching him at moments. He’d always thought he was imaging those things, but as he sat on Imrahil’s bed with Imrahil standing over him and looking guilty, he had to wonder. “Is anything the matter?”

Soundlessly, Imrahil shook his head, distantly aware that he looked like a fool. “Nothing,” he whispered into the narrowing green eyes.

Faramir looked around and saw that Imrahil had cleaned up the remains of his meal but left out bread and wine on the table. “How long have I been asleep?”

Shaking his head, Imrahil cleared his throat. “Not long. Maybe ten minutes.”

“I should return to my own rooms and leave you to yours.” Faramir rose from the bed and started pulling closed his tunic. He heard a strangled noise and glanced up expectantly. Faramir blinked as he watched Imrahil’s gray eyes stare at his chest and he looked down, wondering what could have attracted so much attention. There were no marks or blemishes on the pale skin; the curling hairs on his chest were slightly damp. His dusky nipples were slightly puckered.

Imrahil’s brain swam in a thick fog. He wanted to delay Faramir’s departure, but did not know how to begin. His body, on the other hand, knew exactly where to start and he felt his erection growing. Hopefully, Faramir was not aware of his growing desire.

“Imrahil?” Faramir frowned at he stared at the prince’s face. His face was pale, highlighted by bright red smudges on his cheeks. The gray eyes were overly bright and moist, almost feverish. “You do not look well. Perhaps you should sit down? Let me help you.” Faramir moved forward with his hand outstretched and watched in astonishment as Imrahil leapt back and collided with the wall. Faramir froze, uncertain what prompted such a reaction and what to do about it.

“I’m fine,” Imrahil said, his gray eyes scanning everywhere at once, but avoiding Faramir.

“You do not look fine at all. You look—“ Faramir searched for the right word even as his eyes searched Imrahil. At last his gaze rested on the tight bulge between Imrahil’s thighs and understanding came swiftly. His breath caught. Could it be his old friend felt an attraction to him? Dare he hope? Casually, he pulled at his open tunic, watching as Imrahil’s eyes shifted and stared avidly at his exposed chest. Stepping forward, Faramir pinned the prince in place as he stood just inches from him. “Aroused.” He at last finished his sentence and smiled as Imrahil’s face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Nay, the heat—“ Imrahil began and then, catching sight of Faramir’s wickedly curving lips, stopped. Was the captain playing with him? “I can see that even you are warm.”

Faramir tilted his head and moved just a little closer so that their knees touched. “Indeed, this tunic is heavy.” His fingers pried the laces further apart, revealing the length of his torso down to his navel. Faramir’s hands moved forward and ghosted over the laces of Imrahil’s tunic. “You are over dressed. Allow me to help you.”

Imrahil watched the fingers move over his tunic and slowly unlace the bindings. Faramir’s fingers grazed over his chest and stomach as he pulled the material open from throat to hem and Imrahil licked lips that were suddenly dry. Faramir slid his hands inside the tunic and ran his flat palms up and over Imrahil’s flushed skin, pushing the tunic off the prince’s shoulders at the same time. The garment hit the floor with a soft hiss.

“Isn’t that better?” Purred the captain, pushing his knee between Imrahil’s thighs.

“Almost,” whispered Imrahil as his own hands fumbled their way inside Faramir’s tunic, feeling the softly furred chest beneath his fingers. Without even thinking, he clamped his fingers to a dusky nipple and pinched.

The pinch stung and Faramir was startled by it. Imrahil’s sudden aggression excited him and before he even realized it, he had pinned the prince to the wall. He held Imrahil’s head in place as his lips sought the prince’s and his tongue slid deep into Imrahil’s mouth. He rubbed against Imrahil with a sudden and fierce hunger. After a moment, he pulled away, dimly wondering at his own behavior. He respected and like Imrahil, though he’d never thought of him as a potential lover. He was handsome, certainly, and the age difference did not matter. He wondered what the older man might have to teach him if he allowed it.

Faramir was eager to learn everything that Imrahil had to offer and immediately demonstrated his studious nature.

*~*

Dawn crept slowly through the open window, as if hesitant to awaken those who slept in the narrow bed. As the first red-gold streamers peeked into the room, the lovers stirred. The light moved upwards, over the patchwork quilt, illuminating bared torsos and long limbs made strong by training and practice. The light grew brighter and dust motes danced in the air. Green eyes fluttered open and narrowed thoughtfully before turning to the one beside him. Long dark hair fanned the pillow and Faramir could not resist running a strand through his fingers. Last night had been everything Faramir expected and then more. Imrahil had been commanding and masterful, but also loving and giving. Faramir had never had a more exquisite lover. He longed to repeat the night’s activities, but as sunbeams danced over the bed, he knew he must leave. Dawn was already turning into day and he had troops to command and ruins to retake, if he could. Rising so as not to awaken the sleeping prince, Faramir leaned down and briefly touched his lips to Imrahil’s and then grabbed his clothes.

Imrahil opened his eyes when he heard the door latch catch. Faramir’s kiss still lingered on his lips and he smiled grimly. Whatever Faramir faced on the Pelennor Field, he would not face alone. The prince rose from his bed and took up his own clothing.