Rating: R
Pairing: Frodo/Faramir
Disclaimer: Frodo and all recognisable characters are the property of the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No offence is intended, nor profit made.
Summary: In the new Settlement in Ithilien, Frodo and Faramir are creating a life together, when a spring storm brings them something special.

Frodo entered the bedroom and shivered at the sound of wind and rain beating against the walls and roof of the small wood-beamed stone house that he shared with Faramir. He thought the house must once have belonged to a farmer or shepherd. Its design was simple, but it had been built to withstand the rigors of Ithilien's weather. Here in Ithilien, the spring was very young, and still apt to turn cruel with little warning. A storm had come sweeping down from the slopes of the Emyn Arnen early in the afternoon to buffet their little settlement with crashes of thunder and blue-white dazzles of lightning that seemed to split the sky open. The thunder and lightning had finally moved away, but the rain and wind had continued battering the small settlement for hours, and still gave no sign of stopping. The window-rattling of heavy gusts and occasional spats of hail against the roof and walls was unsettling to Frodo's nerves.

"You are cold," Faramir said. He had come to their bedroom earlier, whilst Frodo had helped the cook tidy the kitchen after supper. She and the housekeeper were the only servants they had brought with them from Minas Tirith, and Frodo often helped them with their chores. In this new settlement, even the Prince and his consort had to work.

Faramir had built up the fire to warm their room and he sat before it in his large chair, dressed in a soft, thick, grey robe over a nightshirt. The firelight glowed on his skin and his cheeks were ruddy from wind and sunburn. Golden highlights gleamed in his long brown hair, which was brushed sleek and hung to his shoulders. His eyes were blue-grey and warmed by a smile as he watched Frodo remove his own clothing.

Frodo shivered again and hurriedly slipped his warm white nightshirt over his head. He pattered over to Faramir, leaving his dressing gown lying on the bed. Faramir opened his arms and gathered him onto his lap where Frodo curled up, huddling against his body.

"One would doubt that it was spring, except for the date," Frodo said, and drew Faramir's arm closer round him, curling both of his small hands about the larger one of his lover. Faramir's body was very warm, and he opened his robe and drew Frodo closer, then wrapped the robe over him, enfolding him within the layers of soft fabric. Frodo released a sigh of relief. He was always freezing, it seemed, and this spring storm had brought back all the miseries he had suffered through the winter. His bones ached and his hands were so cold they hurt. It was a blessing to be held so near to his lover's strength and heat.

During the long, bitter months of winter the weather in Ithilien had been rainy, and sometimes ice storms had moved down from the slopes. Twice, snow had fallen and covered the ground with a deep layer of white. But this spring storm seemed to carry a sharper edge than all the winter storms. The house was not airtight and a draft invaded through tiny chinks in its defenses to chill Frodo's thin body and turn his hands stiff and nearly blue with the cold.

"Let us lie down and I will see to it that you are properly warmed, love," Faramir said, and rose with Frodo in his arms and carried him to their bed. They had a deep feather bed atop their straw mattress, and Faramir had had extra blankets and clothing brought from Minas Tirith. The bed was soft and heaped with velvet and woolen coverlets and many pillows. Once they were huddled together beneath the covers, and Faramir began to caress him with gentle, loving hands, Frodo could feel the chill finally driven from his body as his flesh slowly softened and heated.

During the months that they had lived together, they had learned how to please each other, and though they were still nearly new as lovers, they were no longer awkward or shy. When Faramir reached for the hem of Frodo's nightshirt and tugged, Frodo helped him to remove the garment. He pushed Faramir's nightshirt up in turn and moved to kneel astride his lover's thighs. Faramir reached for Frodo's hands, but Frodo withheld them, his smile teasing as he ran his fingers through the wiry curls at the man's groin. Faramir twitched and gasped as Frodo lightly wrapped his hands about the proof of his arousal and stroked it.

"Frodo, come to me."

"In time," Frodo said, and continued to tease him with a grip so gentle it could barely be felt, watching Faramir's body arch up and sink back, watching him roll his head from side to side, and listening to the gasps and smothered cries his ministrations elicited. Faramir had been much less experienced than Frodo when they had first come together, and was still learning all of the ways his body could be given pleasure, and all of the ways that he could give it in return. At times, he was too impatient to indulge in prolonged play, and this was one of those times.

He rolled onto his side, shifting Frodo off him and to his back on the feather mattress. Frodo gasped and laughed, delighted, as Faramir continued to roll until he lay with his hands gripping the hobbit's hips, and he buried his face against Frodo's belly. With lips and tongue he caressed Frodo's aroused member, and it seemed to Frodo that flames were licking him.

In moments, Frodo was whimpering with desire and pleading to be taken. There was a brief space when Faramir must leave him to retrieve the little jar of oil from the drawer of the bedside table, and Frodo lay trembling, hating the distance between them, nearly sobbing in his need. Then Faramir returned to him, and Frodo let his body go loose and open to him, and moaned as he once again felt the fullness of his lover's entrance into him.

He had known other lovers in the past, and he still felt fondness for each of them for the pleasure and the comfort they had given him. But Faramir was the last he would ever want or need, this man who somehow was the twin of his very being, who knew him to his core and loved him for all that he was and all that he could never be. The joining of their bodies was only an outward expression of the entwining of their hearts and spirits, and in Faramir's embrace, Frodo felt himself healed of the wounds the Quest had dealt him. His body might never again know its old strength, but his mind and his heart were whole and free in the love he had found with Faramir.

And, not least of all, there was the joy of their physical joining, the utter banishment of all pain and all sorrow in the moments when they were together, and in the release that took them and wrung soft, gasping cries and broken words from them at the end. They fell asleep tangled in each others' arms, warm and sated in the fading firelight.

Frodo awoke to the sound of pounding, and realized groggily that someone was knocking at their door. He searched beneath the covers for his nightshirt as Faramir got up and padded over to answer the summons.

Frodo heard the voice of the night guard. He must have left his post at their front door to wake them, and the low, urgent tone of his voice as he spoke to Faramir alarmed Frodo. He strained to hear what the guard was saying.

"My lord, a messenger has come," the man said. "Two wains with more settlers were on their way here yesterday, but they were attacked in the pass from the valley to the settlement." He stopped, and Frodo, who had finally managed to put on his nightshirt and get up, quickly shrugged into his dressing gown. There was something in the guard's voice that sent a shudder through him.

"Tell me, Eigon," Faramir said quietly.

"My lord, the brigands slaughtered nearly all of those who were in the wains. Three men, two women, and a young lad."

Frodo gasped. This was terrible news indeed. The outlaws had robbed and beaten travelers, but never before had they done murder. And to attack families. . . Such bitter anger came upon him that he hardly recognized himself. A feeling of hopelessness quickly replaced it. Had it been for this that he and Sam had suffered and struggled to reach the cracks of Doom? Had Boromir died to preserve this? Had poor, lost Smeagol died in vain, and all of the soldiers who had given their lives in battle? Had they done so little to banish evil from the world?

He resisted his despair, knowing it was useless and could only cause him pain, and he could be of no help to anyone while it possessed him. The guard had lowered his voice even more, so that Frodo did not catch his next words, but he heard Faramir curse, a thing so rare that it shocked him. He hurried to his lover's side, tying the sash of his dressing gown as he did. He did not touch Faramir, but stood near him, and Faramir lowered his gaze to him, his eyes glittering.

"What is it?" Frodo asked. "What could be worse than what has already been told?"

"There is another child," Faramir said. "A boy not even two years of age. The man who survived the attack brought the little one here before he himself succumbed to his injuries. The child has a wound, and has been exposed to the cold and rain for hours. He may not survive."

"Bring him to me," Frodo said. "And wake Eleyne. She must warm some of the broth she made for dinner."

Faramir turned to him, brows knitted in surprise. "Frodo, you are no healer."

"No, but I have some skill in caring for sick faunts," Frodo replied. "I sometimes helped to care for Merry and Pip when they were little and got sick or hurt. It is mostly a matter of common sense. I think I have my share of that."

Faramir inclined his head in agreement and spoke to the guard, who bowed and hurried away.

"Faramir, we need to warm the room." Frodo went to the clothes press for clean clothing. "We must have the fire built up, and I believe I saw a child's cradle in the store room. It will have to be brought in here. And we will need two folded quilts to pad it, and a small blanket."

"Yes, Frodo." And Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, knelt and added wood to the fire, then went quickly to obey his orders.

Frodo had warm clothing that had been made especially for him; breeches that were longer and fit closer than those he had been wont to wear, shirts and underclothing made of soft flannelette, and a waistcoat of blue wool with buttons of silver. He dressed swiftly and got out one of his new shirts to clothe the child. He was not really thinking as he did all those things, simply moving from task to task as it occurred to him.

The guard returned, gingerly carrying a little bundle wrapped in a thick brown blanket, a leather bag dangling from his hand by its strap. Frodo hurried to take the bag from him and put it down by the bed, then accepted the bundle from the obviously relieved guard. The blanket-wrapped parcel was small and soft and weighed very little, but he could feel the weak movements of the child within it. At least the boy was still alive and strong enough to move.

"Thank you, Eigon," Frodo said, carrying the silent bundle to the bed where he laid it down on the velvet coverlet and began to undo the blanket's folds. "Will you go and ask Eleyne to make tea for us? I have need of it and I am sure that all of us would be better for a cup."

"Yes, my lord." Eigon bowed slightly, without the customary concealed sneer with which he generally answered Frodo's requests. He had been shaken, as had they all, by the murder of the travelers.

Frodo finally found the baby amidst the layers of cloth, and saw a tiny, rather scrawny child with skin as white as milk. Wet, dark hair clung to his face and neck and his limbs were moving only weakly. A small, bloody scratch marked the flesh of his upper arm. The babe's eyes were shut, his little mouth pale and lax, but the shallow rise and fall of his narrow chest told Frodo that he yet lived. He wore only a napkin about his loins, and that was wet and his skin felt as cold as the clay from the banks of the nearby river. Frodo removed the wet napkin first, and dropped it into the waste receptacle by the bed, then opened his dressing gown and lifted the baby, wrapping the dressing gown over it, much as Faramir had wrapped him in the folds of his robe earlier.

Holding the child with one arm, Frodo picked up the leather bag, hoping it held supplies for the little one's care, and was relieved to find that it contained clean napkins, small shirts and gowns, and even a little blanket. There was no food, of course, but he was sure that Eleyne would be able to think of a way of feeding the child. The first thing needed was to warm the baby. He was quite sure that would be his Aunt Esme's assessment of the situation.

On the fireplace hob was a teakettle, and when he lifted and shook it, he heard the gurgle of hot water. He had to lay the baby down on the bed again, and he quickly doffed his dressing gown to cover the boy, then went to fetch Faramir's washbowl, careful not to let the heavy, awkward thing slip out of his hands. He set it in front of the fireplace on the thick rug, then poured in the hot water from the kettle.

Faramir had returned by then, carrying the simply carved wooden cradle from the storeroom, with folded quilts tucked under his arm. He set the cradle down in the corner and laid the quilts inside it.

"I need cold water to cool the bath," Frodo said, and Faramir took the washstand pitcher into the nearby bathroom and brought it back filled with cold water, which he added, a bit at a time, to the washbowl, until Frodo judged that the water was an acceptable temperature for a baby.

Frodo picked the baby up again and was heartened when the little one moved and whimpered faintly. He gathered the child into his arms and carried him to the bowl, knelt carefully on the rug and laid the little body down in the warm water. The bowl was not quite large enough to be used as a bath, but most of the child's body was submerged, and he thought it would be enough. He looked up as Faramir brought him a flannel and the cake of sweet-scented soap from the washstand.

"Thank you, Faramir. Would you go and hurry Eleyne along? We need to get some warm broth into him as soon as we can."

"Yes. Are you sure that you do not wish me to fetch one of the women of the settlement, Frodo?" Faramir asked.

"I am sure. Let them sleep. I can care for this little one."

He bathed the baby gently, but he rubbed the small limbs briskly enough to restore warmth to them, then wrapped the child in a towel and carried him back to the bed where he pushed the brown blanket off onto the floor. It had made a damp spot on the coverlet, but Frodo turned that back to disclose the soft white woolen cover underneath, and there he laid the little one down. The boy had begun to revive in the warmth and he squirmed a little and sobbed, but he was still quiet enough that Frodo was able to put the fresh napkin on him and slip one of the small shirts on with no difficulty. The wound had stopped bleeding, and was so slight that it needed little treatment. He thought the cleansing with water and soap would suffice, but he reminded himself to ask the village's healer for a healing ointment to use on the scratch.

As he was putting his own shirt on the baby, the little boy opened his eyes and looked up at him. To his surprise the baby's eyes were blue-grey, like Faramir's. As his fine dark hair dried, it had begun to curl into ringlets all over his round head. Warmth had brought a bit of color to the soft cheeks, and the little mouth was no longer pale, but a rosy bow that reminded Frodo strongly of Pippin as a child. The baby grasped Frodo's finger and clung to him.

"Hello, little one," Frodo said, watching bewilderment and pain, fear and loss flit like cloud shadows over the small face. He kept his voice low and soothing and took the tiny, flower-like hands into his own, clasping them gently. "You have been frightened and hurt, and I expect you are very hungry too. I am sorry that I cannot bring your mother back to you. But I promise you that I will do all I can to make sure that you are never hurt again."

He picked up the baby, who nuzzled into him as though they were old friends, and he rocked a little, as he had once done with Pippin when he had been stung by a bee, or had been suffering with a cold. The softness of the little body, the trust of the child's nestling to him, moved his heart strongly.

"Never fear," he told the little one. "You are in the house of the Prince of Ithilien, and it is my house as well, and I promise you that if you are truly an orphan, you need never leave it again, for it will be your home too."

He looked round at the soft shuffle of footsteps, startled to realize that he was not alone with the child. Faramir had returned, carrying a tray with a teapot and cups, and behind him was Eleyne bearing a pot of broth and a smaller cup, and the guard, Eigon was with her.

Eleyne's brown and gray hair was covered with a ruffled sleeping cap and she wore a shapeless old brown robe over her nightdress, and slippers on her big feet, and for once her face was not hard and judgmental, but softened by a smile.

Faramir looked at Frodo with his tender heart in his eyes. The baby had come to them like a gift from the storm, like the spring itself embodied, and Frodo hoped they would be allowed to keep him with them, and he saw that Faramir's desire echoed his own.

"If this child has no other family, we will keep him," Frodo said. "We will bring him up as our own. Do you agree?"

"Yes," Faramir replied. "We know, you and I, what it is to be orphaned. If there is no family left to this child in Minas Tirith, he will have a home here with us for as long as he wishes."

"We do not know his name," Frodo said, cradling the boy to his shoulder and patting his soft little back when he sniffled and hiccupped.

"The man who brought him to us said that his mother called him Owyn," Eigon said, his tone almost shy. He gave Frodo a tentative smile.

Frodo held the baby up so that he could look into his face. "Owyn?" he said softly, and was rewarded by a wide-eyed look, and then a faint curving of the small mouth. "Hello, Owyn. I am Frodo."

Faramir came to him and put his arms around them both, looking down into the little one's upturned face.

"And I am Faramir," he said. "Welcome Owyn. Welcome home."

The End