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Storm clouds were rushing in over the Bay on the late October afternoon when Faramir returned home from his trip east. Fat raindrops splashed on his cloak as he hurried from the stables through the winding street leading to the house he shared with Frodo. Though his talks with the Harad representatives had been conducted with a formal cordiality that promised improved relations with the proud desert folk, always part of his mind had been on Frodo. The bitter words of parting they had spoken to each other had beaten a steady tattoo of regret and guilt that he had been unfair, had said too much. Now all he wanted was to find Frodo; he would not rest until the hobbit smiled at him and reassured him with hungry kisses that he was forgiven.
The glitter of crystal in dim light caught Faramir's eye as he strode quickly through the quiet house into his and Frodo's bed chamber, eager to see his lover after far too long an absence. Frodo's pendant lay on the bedside table, the fine chain hanging over the table's edge as though it had been cast aside carelessly. How odd. Frodo always took such care of it … though … Faramir bit back a quick burst of hope and pleasure. Frodo had not needed it; perhaps he would never need it again. Even after the way they had parted.
Frodo's hand steals inside his shirt, caressing the pendant that hangs out of sight though Faramir knows it's there. Sometimes it stabs him when he embraces Frodo, its sharp points digging into his chest.
This time, Faramir cannot grit his teeth and keep silent; the words slip out thick and sullen between them. "I don't see what it does for you … why you have to wear it all the time."
Frodo flinches hard, as though Faramir's words are a slap on his cheek now flaring with color. "It helps me … makes me feel calmer, more peaceful … you know that."
"Do I? I think not."
They stare at each other, appalled, silence unfurling between them in a bitter wall. Faramir wants to take back his harsh words but cannot find his voice. It has never been this bad between them; he does not know why he said these things. It's just that he wants to be everything to Frodo and does not understand why he cannot be. He can't accept it. Not yet. He hates that pendant and all it represents.
It is Frodo who finally breaks the silence, though his words only thicken the wall of incomprehension. "What does it matter now? You're leaving … won't be here, will you?" The blue flash in Frodo's eyes makes Faramir step back a pace, but Frodo is not finished. "What does it matter to you that it gives me comfort? Would you deny me that … leave me without it?"
Faramir shakes his head and stretches out one hand, his palm raised upward in token of surrender. "No," he whispers. "Of course not." Guilt rushes in on him that he must be away on October 6. "I'm sorry … this trip … I must go …" Kneeling in front of Frodo, Faramir looks up into his lover's closed face and shivers. He tries again, his voice breaking a little with vain hope. "You could come with me?"
If the silence had been hurtful, Frodo's harsh laughter is more painful to Faramir's ears. "Right … I would make a fine sight, wouldn't I, when … when it starts …"
Faramir is nothing if not persistent, and so he smiles at Frodo. "I know. You're right … sorry." He wants to stroke Frodo's cheek but doesn't dare. "I'll miss you, love … I've still a day or two before I leave … we'll have to make the most of them … not fight anymore …" His pleading voice trails off, his hope frozen by the ice in Frodo's eyes.
"Who's fighting? You started it." The hobbit is not much for arguing, but when he does he gives no quarter. He jerks his chin toward the open trunk half full with the things Faramir will need on his journey. "Why don't you leave today … you don't want to be late for your meeting."
With that, Faramir snaps, all his recovered patience and understanding gone in a searing flash of new injury. "All right," he hisses, clenching his fists against his sides as he stands up and stalks to the trunk, throwing shirts and leggings willy nilly into it. "Have it your way … you always do."
The absolute silence increased his nervousness as Faramir glanced at the bed, noting with dismay that the covers were rumpled, the sheets rolled into a wrinkled ball on the bare mattress. It made no sense for the bed to be disheveled like that in the middle of the day. A little noise from across the room—perhaps a sigh or low moan—drew him from his contemplation of the unmade bed, and he turned to face the sound.
There was a moss-green velvet couch in the alcove across the room; many were the mornings when Frodo and Faramir sat on its worn cushions to talk about the day ahead or gossip about the evening just passed. The alcove had a broad window that looked out over the Bay; it was one of their favorite places in their little house. They had congratulated each other many times that they had chosen this house instead of the far grander one that lay just across the road up the hill. Aragorn and Arwen would stay there when the time was judged right for them to visit.
Now was not the time to linger on such pleasant thoughts. Faramir let out a low cry of distress when he saw Frodo huddled on the couch, a blanket drawn tight to his chin. Oh, no. Faramir cursed softly under his breath at his foolishness in thinking that all had gone well while he had been away—that this time October 6 had come and gone without any suffering for Frodo.
"Frodo?" Faramir knelt by the couch and reached out to caress Frodo's face, his stomach knotting at the sight of his lover lying there so pale and drawn, purple smudges beneath his eyes. My fault. I should not have gone.
"My Lord?"
Faramir looked up to see their housekeeper, Lilas, standing in the doorway. He gestured toward Frodo and shook his head but said nothing.
"Good … you're back." The plump woman walked briskly to the bed and gathered up the sheets in her arms before moving about the room, lighting lamps against the darkness of the gloomy afternoon. Faramir returned his attention to Frodo, unable to drag his eyes away again. The hobbit slept restlessly but did not wake while Faramir and Lilas spoke quietly.
"How long has he been like this?" Faramir felt Lilas standing behind him but did not turn around.
"A few days after you left."
"Has the doctor been round?"
"Oh, yes … every day … sometimes all night to watch him during the worst part." Lilas sighed and patted Faramir's shoulder. "He's better now … he's just sleeping."
"Better?" Faramir's voice cracked. When he stroked Frodo's matted hair, his fingers catching in greasy snarls, Frodo arched toward his hand but slept on. Faramir leaned down to kiss Frodo's brow, relieved at least that the hobbit's skin was cool under his lips. He sniffed, surprised at the smell of stale sweat and unwashed flesh.
"When is the last time he's been bathed?" Faramir asked, his voice sharp.
"Before he fell ill." Lilas licked her lips nervously before continuing. "We've tried … tried to give him sponge baths but he fought us. I know he doesn't look strong, but he is … he fought us like a wild thing … my Lord."
Faramir sighed, his quick anger washed away. "I know," he said softly. "Thank you … I know how you look after him … after both of us. Don't think I'm not appreciative." Glancing quickly over at the discarded pendant, he asked, "Why isn't he wearing his crystal?"
Lilas sat on the edge of the couch and straightened Frodo's blanket before speaking again. "I don't know… it was very strange, but …" She shook her head, her hand covering Frodo's shoulder gently.
"Yes?"
"He wore it until the worst passed, but then one night … he was so restless, not quite delirious, but calling for you … oh, he called for you something fierce the entire time, my Lord … yes, one night he just pulled it off all of a sudden." Lilas touched her hand to Frodo's throat but drew no response. "I tried to put it back on him, but he wouldn't have it though I did not understand what he meant …"
"Did he say something?"
"Yes … something about 'he doesn't like it' … what can he have meant?"
Hot tears filled Faramir's eyes, but he did not tell Lilas the meaning of Frodo's words though they were as clear to him as the crystal sparkling across the room. My fault. I should not have gone.
"My Lord … Faramir?"
Blinking away his tears and swallowing the hard lump in his throat, Faramir answered Lilas briskly. "I don't know … you say he's better? He doesn't look it." Faramir looked anxiously between Frodo and the kind housekeeper.
Lilas spoke softly, soothingly. "Ah, but he is. Truly he is but sleeping … heavily, I know, but there are so many days and nights to make up for when he could not … he will be very glad to see you."
"I hope so …" Faramir could not suppress the little quaver in his voice.
The housekeeper's brown eyes were soft with kindness and understanding. "I know it is so … believe me …"
Faramir nodded, determined to focus on what was needful in the moment. "Draw a bath, please … I think it's about time ... he may be strong, but not that strong …"
Standing up, Lilas smiled at Faramir crookedly and tucked a few stray wisps of gray hair behind her ears. "Oh … I shouldn't think he'd want to fight you … very well, it will be ready in a few minutes. Do you want me to help you undress him?"
"No … I'll do it."
The warmth of the bathwater was what really brought Frodo out of his heavy sleep, if that's what you called the sensation of unconsciousness weighting you down like a wet bag of grain, weighting down your chest and limbs so you could barely move. Frodo had been slightly aware of lying on the couch and feeling a remembered hand stroking his face with long, cool fingers. He had tried to wake but had succeeded only in resting his cheek against the beloved hand. How he had missed Faramir during the long, dark days when he wandered down roads that cut his feet. The man's voice was soft and low now, just a little gravelly, as it was whenever he was worried or aroused. Though Frodo could not follow what was being said, nevertheless the sound comforted him. He came back … even after I was so mean to him.
Frodo had a sudden sense of flying, of weightlessness kept in check only by the two strong arms that he nestled happily into, rubbing his face against the soft hair on Faramir's chest. The voice continued murmuring to him; the words didn't matter, only the result--the sense of ease after so many days and nights of restless fear, of seeking but not finding, of berating himself for having virtually pushed Faramir out the door. The panic had risen thick in his throat from his shrunken belly whenever he remembered how cruelly he had spoken to the one he loved the most.
The air was chilly against Frodo's bare skin as his nightshirt was stripped off quickly, and he mumbled a wordless protest.
"Sshh …it's all right …"
Just as quickly, the cold air was replaced by water hot, and Frodo yelped in surprise, now truly waking at last. He squirmed to escape the sudden heat, but strong hands stopped him.
"No … no … it's all right … just a bath … you like baths …"
Opening his eyes, Frodo looked up and saw Faramir smiling down at him; everything was all right and nothing would be wrong ever again. He came back.
"I'm here … just sit back … lean against me …"
Faramir's advice seemed suddenly exactly what Frodo wanted to do, truly the only sensible thing to do, and so the hobbit leaned against his lover's chest and let the warmth and steam and wetness take him. He closed his eyes again and drifted, but lightly this time, so lightly it almost brought tears to his eyes that he was able to feel such ease again. Limp and boneless, he let Faramir wash him thoroughly and without further protest. It was the best bath of his life.
After a few minutes of having his bottom scrubbed and his arms and legs raised and lowered so Faramir could get at every inch of him, Frodo murmured, "Am I terribly dirty?"
Faramir laughed, and it sent a thrill through Frodo's entire body in a little jolt that started at his toes and rushed in a split-second up through each nerve to the top of his curly (if a bit bedraggled at the moment) head. "Yes … quite …"
"Oh, dear … am I smelly?"
"Not so much any more … hold your breath, I'm going to dunk your head … your hair is a mess, sweet heart."
By the time Faramir finished washing Frodo's hair, his long fingers massaging the hobbit's scalp for long blissful minutes, Frodo was practically purring with contentment. If it had not been for the dizziness that swept through him when he tried to sit up straighter in Faramir's lap, he might almost have been able to convince himself that he had not been ill. As it was, the pain and fear were slipping away seemingly as easily as the dirt sloughed off his skin.
Though Frodo wanted to sit up tall, instead he settled for just lifting his head to gaze at Faramir. Startled at what he saw, he raised his hand and traced his lover's jaw gently.
"Why are you crying?"
Faramir sniffed loudly and smiled though the corners of his mouth trembled. "I'm just glad to be home, my love."
Frodo blinked hard when his own eyes filled. "Do I get kiss, then?" he asked and opened his mouth hungrily when Faramir lowered his head and pressed his lips tenderly against the hobbit's.
The night had settled fully over the Bay, the rain thrumming steadily on the little house's terrace, when Faramir and Frodo finally got into bed, both of them exhausted but in a comfortable, cozy sort of way.
Just before Faramir snuffed out the light, he slipped the pendant over Frodo's neck. "Please … I know you need it … I was wrong to say what I did … please … don't be without it."
The light in Frodo's eyes told Faramir everything he needed to know, but Frodo said the words anyway, needed to say them. He said, "I don't intend to …" but he didn't touch it, didn't look at it. He kept his eyes fully on Faramir until the light was out and the warm darkness covered them. Resting his head on Faramir's shoulder, he threw his leg over the man's hip in a familiar gesture of ownership and comfort that made Faramir smile into the darkness and pull his treasure closer. Home again.