Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 7: Stone and Carnage

The path was easy to find, for this was the second time in his life Aragorn had deliberately followed it into the tempest of Faramir’s soul. The first, when Faramir had lain inches from the abyss of death, Aragorn had tracked the prince through the whorls and eddies that had constructed his fevered dreamscape. That had been the first time they had ever met, there in the labyrinth of Faramir’s mind, and it had been the Steward’s joy at recognizing the true King, the figure of his prophetic visions, that had enabled Faramir to pull himself from the talons of the poisonous demons that had held him captive.

But this was much different. It was not a venom-barbed arrow that had caused this retreat, no weapon of a dark lord. This was far more insidious, and infinitely more perilous. Faramir was fighting against himself, and by the looks of the landscape that revealed itself to Aragorn, the battle did not go in his favor.

As Aragorn slipped into the realm between flesh and spirit, the hazy mist of consciousness parted slowly, like a dusty stage curtain being pulled back, exposing a gruesome, yet familiar sight. The currents of Faramir’s being had formed themselves into an abandoned warfield, corpses clad in leather and chain and steel littering the ground as far as the eye could see. Which was not very far, as a cold, gray fog had settled over the field, the only funeral shroud large enough to cover hundreds of fallen armies.

The old warrior’s hand instinctively moved towards his sword—which was now such a part of him that he could bring it with him into this dreamscape—as he watched the bodies for sign of threatening movement, slowly making his way through the carrion field. His boots sank into the blood-soaked earth underfoot, as he carefully stepped over and around the dead warriors, trying to see through the wet fog for a sign of life.

“Faramir! Where are you?” Aragorn’s cry was swallowed by the mists almost as soon as it had left his dry lips. How would he find Faramir in such conditions? The soil was churned so that tracking the footsteps of one man would be nigh impossible, even for a ranger of Aragorn’s rank. The pervasive haze clouded all but a few feet in every direction, and the only thing the king could do was stumble onwards, hoping for a sign to lead him to his quarry.

He watched the bodies carefully as he passed, more now for clues than for threats. Despite the long abandoned look of the battlefield, the corpses seemed fresh, the blood still crimson as it tricked from gaping wounds that would never heal. He realized, also, that the races of the fallen were mixed: here a swarthy man of Harad lay beside an gold-clad Easterling, there a group of broken Orcs were scattered around a large stone, obviously the victims of a catapult’s siege. There were Gondorians beyond count amid the bodies of their foes: the army, in their once-shining armor now dented and caked with gore and mud, the rangers, almost indistinguishable from the ground in their dark leathers, riddled with black-feathered arrows.

He understood what he saw, though it made his heart ache with pity for what it meant for Faramir. Aragorn did not forget that the entirety of the Steward’s life had been defined by war and battle. From the moment he had learned to walk he had been trained to be a warrior. Faramir had never been given a choice in the matter. Born a man of Gondor, he was expected to guard his country with steel and blood in those troubled times, and as the son of the Steward he had been groomed from youth to be a captain of men.

Aragorn knew that in his prime, there had been no finer bowman in all of Gondor than Faramir, and the only thing more deadly about the captain of the Ithilien rangers was his sharp mind, his talent for strategy. The king recalled one night not too long after the end of the war when he had persuaded Faramir to show him the plans he had drawn up for the defenses of Osgiliath when the city had been in his charge. The design was flawless, and the city would have been held easily, had Denethor not impulsively relocated almost half of the captain’s troops back to the already-defended outpost of Pelargir.

But despite his natural talents and years of training, Faramir had never had any great love of war. Unlike Boromir, who had lived for the clash of arms and the taste of enemy blood, Faramir at heart had always been a scholar. Indeed, his deepest regret was never having had the opportunity to study at the great university in Minas Tirith, for as soon as he had come of age his classroom had been the battle field, and his professors had been his generals.

Judging from the damage around him, it seemed Faramir had never been able to pull himself out of those days, unravel his identity from that of the ceaseless fighter. The war was over now, and though there was still a call to arms now and again, Gondor was in a state peace unseen in long ages. True, war had robbed Faramir of his youth and innocence. But it need not rob him of his future as well.

Almost as if in response to Aragorn’s thoughts, a flicker of movement finally appeared through the mists, a form approaching slowly in the distance.

“Faramir?” the king called, gripping Anduril’s hilt as he squinted against the gloom.

He was greeted in kind by silence, but the figure did not slow or turn back. He had not truly expected an answer, for his first call had also gone unheeded, and he could tell his visitor was still a long way off, judging by the small size of the human form.

Much to his surprise, the figure became clear to him with only a few more steps, and to Aragorn’s wonder it was a child, no older than five, who met him on that blood-stained field. He knew at once who it was, for though he had never known Faramir as a boy, he recognized the piercing intensity of the prince’s eyes. Despite Faramir’s apparent age he still carried himself in the manner of grown man, and the boy regarded the King somberly, his round face peering from underneath a mop of curls so babyishly blond they was almost white. His skin was so pale against the black velvet tunic he wore, he would have appeared an apparition devoid of color, if his pale blue eyes had not stood out so brightly, meeting Aragorn’s without flinching.

The king went down on one knee, feeling it was important he look Faramir in the eye when addressing him. Why had the prince chosen this form to appear to Aragorn in?

“Hello Faramir,” Aragorn said gently. He tried not to sound condescending, as many adults do when addressing children. He could not forget that this boy before him was a warrior and a prince, fully entitled to the respect that the King would have shown him had he appeared in his true state.

“Hello, Elessar,” Faramir said, and though his voice was sweet and youthful, his tone was grave, “I am to lead you to Him.”

Aragorn could tell by the way the boy had said “Him,” that it was a title in and of itself, the only identifying marker of something that truly did not have name.

“I would like to speak with Him,” Aragorn replied, “but first you must tell me if you are alright, Faramir.”

The child looked blankly at Aragorn.

“I am to lead you to Him.” He repeated, and extended his small hand to the King in emphasis.

A knot twisted in Aragorn’s stomach. Was this Faramir nothing more than an empty puppet, a messenger sent to fetch him? Had Faramir been fractured into so many pieces that each could only represent a fragment of his true being?

There was only one way to find out.

Sighing a little in his frustration, the king stood, and took the child Faramir’s hand. He was struck at once by how the skin felt, for though the fingers were small and chubby, they were still calloused and rough, just as they had been when Aragorn had taken Faramir’s hand in his at the campfire last night. It unnerved him greatly, though he kept his resolve. He must let the prince guide him to where he was most needed.

Faramir led him in silence through the field, and the way seemed clearer now that Aragorn had a guide. The mists had thinned a bit, allowing his eyes a longer view at the landscape in which they traveled. The battlefield seemed to stretch ever onward, and the further they walked the higher the body count rose. But Faramir made his way easily, scampering over severed limbs and pools of clotted gore as smoothly as any child would over fallen logs and mud puddles.

Finally, the horizon loomed through the fog, taking the shape of a large foothill, a half-mountain covered in a thick layer of bright green moss, the first sign of natural life Aragorn had seen in this barren place. When they were a bit closer, Aragorn noticed the large iron door embedded in the lichen-covered stone, long rusted from gray to brown.

This was the source, then. The core of Faramir’s being. Aragorn swallowed his nervousness as he drew nearer. Indeed, he had been inside Faramir’s soul before, but on both occurrences he had flitted on the edges, luring Faramir out slowly like a crab from its shell. Never had he been invited to delve straight into the heart darkness like this before, and he did not know what to expect on the other side of that battered gate. The door seemed almost as thick as it was high, and Aragorn felt dwarfed next to its cold strength. His hand instinctively reached for the large ring that served as a handle, but he stopped himself before his fingertips had even brushed the rusted metal.

“After you.” Aragorn stepped aside, gesturing to Faramir with a little nod of his head. This was the prince’s domain, after all, and though he had been invited, it seemed suddenly unspeakably rude to wrench open the door to Faramir’s soul while he stood by and watched.

The boy arched his eyebrows as if pleased. It was the first characteristic of the Steward Aragorn had seen this child-manifestation demonstrate, and it brought a little hope him.

Faramir grabbed the handle, standing on his toes to reach, and pulled the door open as effortlessly as if it had been made of hollow wood. It seemed that only darkness awaited on the other side, but a warm wind seemed to breeze from the depths, smelling faintly of sandalwood. Aragorn was intrigued, for he had not expected such a sweet odor to emit from such a black place, and the dichotomy further increased his unrest.

But before they could step into the beyond, Faramir placed his little hand on Aragorn’s right arm.

“Your sword.” the boy extended his arms, almost as if he were asking for an embrace. But with his palms faced upwards, Aragorn understood his meaning.

“Why can I not carry my own sword?” the king asked, a hint of challenge in his voice, “I will not use it to cause harm.”

“I am the only one who may carry arms in this place,” Faramir replied, his voice cold despite its childish timbre, “it is the rules.”

Aragorn was tempted to argue, for he was loathe to go into the unknown so unarmed. Anduril was an extension of himself, just as much a part of him as his hands or his eyes. But if he was to help Faramir, he must respect his terms. How could he expect the prince to trust him if he himself did not trust Faramir?

With more than a little reluctance, Aragorn unbuckled his sword from his waist, and wrapping the loose ends of leather around the scabbard, he handed Anduril to the child. Carefully, and with great reverence, Faramir took the sword with both hands, cradling it as if it were a living being. It would have looked almost comical had the situation not been so strange, this child carrying a blade that was almost twice his height, but Faramir’s pale face looked so serious Aragorn did not dare even crack a smile.

With Anduril firmly in his grip, Faramir nodded once more at Aragorn in a beaconing manner before turning and walking into the darkness. The king hesitated only a moment, readying himself for what lay beyond, before following the boy Faramir into the perfumed darkness, his heart thundering in his chest.

It took a minute for Aragorn’s ranger-trained eyes to adjust to the dimness, and only when the already scant light from the misty battlefield had been shut out by the closing of the door behind them, could he fully gather where they were.

A long corridor stretched before the man and boy, lined with great marble columns that met in graceful arches against the high ceiling. From each arch hung a large chandelier, dozens of candles flickering amid the black metal spirals, throwing dancing shadows against the polished walls. Small brass braziers hung from arches between the pillars, emitting soft wisps of scented smoke, just enough to sweeten the air without making it cloying in the stillness.

But it was not the grand architecture of the chamber itself that drew Aragorn’s attention. It was what the chamber held, and the sight chilled Elessar to his core.

Countless tombs lined the hall, each resting between a pair of pillars, carved of the same pale marble. It gave the impression that the entire room had been cut from a single, massive stone. Though designed in the same style, each coffin was slightly different; some were older than others, some longer, some larger. Each bore a name, or the impression of name too old to decipher any longer.

As Aragorn walked slowly past their silent ranks, taking in the white against white, they suddenly gave the impression in his mind of Faramir’s scars, the unnumbered rows of pale wounds lining the prince’s forearms. The comparison made his heart clench. The cuts went so deep they were visible here at Faramir’s core…or was it the other way around?

The boy led him wordlessly through the long corridor, as unfazed by the absolute silence of the crypt as he had been by the carnage of the battlefield. They walked for so long, past so many tombs, the king began to wonder if there was an end to this room, or if this was some sort of endless loop Faramir had lured him into in hopes of distracting him.

Finally there was a change in the room as the hall widened and the distance between the tombs grew. Here the coffins were different, each displaying grander designs than the ones in the long hall behind them. Upon one there were detailed etching of Rohirrim cavalry carved into every inch of its polished surface, another had been made in the semblance of a cocoon of woven vines. Many names were familiar to Aragorn, either from his own experiences or from Faramir’s stories, and it struck him to see the painstaking detail that had been taken, the personality of each occupant reflected in the style of their grave. These were people that had mattered dearly to Faramir, whose loss was felt most keenly by the prince.

The boy-Faramir escorted Aragorn past these without slowing, giving Aragorn little opportunity to search the names properly. There was one, at least, he knew he should find here…

He was so intent on his search that he did not notice when they had reached the end of the great crypt, passing through a final archway and into large, circular chamber.

If Aragorn had been impressed by the design of the tombs in the hall behind him, he was awestruck now by the majestic memorials that lay in this final room. Five large sarcophagi rested here, carved in the intricate style of the Gondorian kings of old. Such was their splendor that they could only ever truly exist in the heart of a man, for no stone could ever pay tribute such as Faramir’s sorrow had constructed for the ones he had loved deeply.

Aragorn did not need to look at the names upon the tombs to know who lay here at the core of Faramir’s grief: one tomb for a mother long lost, one for a father poisoned by his own madness, one for a brother fallen far from home, and one for a wife with a heart to wild to hold. But the fifth? He looked closer, and realized that it was still only half-built, surrounded by blocks of uncut stone laying in neat piles. No lid was fashioned for the high walls, no scrollwork carved into the flawless marble. Only a name, and when Aragorn read it, it sent a dagger of ice through his heart.

Elessar.

“Hello, your Majesty,” a cool voice said behind him, and the king turned quickly to find Faramir, a grown man now, seated in a low throne in the center of the room. Across his lap lay Anduril, still in its fine scabbard, his hands resting across it almost possessively, though they did not grip the hilt. He was dressed as the boy had been, in fine black velvet, and Aragorn realized when he could no longer see the child that a transformation had taken place when his back had been turned. The rules of this place were changing, then.

“Hello, my friend,” Aragorn said softly, “I have come to help you.”

“Then I regret to inform you that you have wasted your time,” Faramir replied, his frigid voice raking over Aragorn, “for I do not need your help.”

The king knew at once which Faramir he was speaking to, for this man was so cold and distant he could have been a statue carved from the same ubiquitous white marble that defined the hall.

“I want to speak with my Faramir,” Aragorn said, taking a step closer to the carven chair.

“Your Faramir?” the figure on the throne sneered, “Faramir is no one’s. Not even his own.”

It was odd to listen to Faramir speak of himself in as if he were someone else, and it unnerved the King greatly.

“Then I will speak with you, demon,” Aragorn’s voice became harsh, “and I will ask you to leave Faramir in peace, to stop hurting him as you do. He has suffered enough, and I will not allow you to further torment him!”

Faramir laughed, and the sound was like a blizzard wind across Aragorn’s soul.

“So you came here to save him? To slay the dragon holding your prince captive? You still don’t understand, do you Elessar? I am Faramir! I am Faramir’s strength! I am the one who protects him, who pushes him, who gives him the will to survive. You say I hurt him, but if it were not for my actions he would have crumbled long ago under the horrors that have built up the path of his life!”

“But this is not all of you, Faramir!” Aragorn argued, deliberately addressing the prince directly now, “If I know you, then this place also holds a library grander than any known in all the lands of men. Where are the forests? For what ranger does not feel the trees and the growing things to the core of him? I know there is more to you than stone and carnage!”

Faramir let out a low, bitter chuckle at Elessar’s impassioned speech. “What are forests and libraries but pretty tinder for the unstoppable fires of time? In the end, everything falls to ashes,” Faramir leaned forward in his intensity, his eyes sparking a deep and dangerous blue, “everything burns, everything dies. I am tired of planting trees just to see them burn just as they grow to saplings, so tired of opening myself just to be met with abuse and abandonment.”

“No, it is best to remain closed,” Faramir concluded, leaning back in his seat, sagging a bit as if to demonstrate his exhaustion, “it is best you left me in peace.”

“What peace is this, Faramir, if it drives you to hurt yourself so?” Aragorn insisted, before dropping his voice into a near-whisper, “I have seen your scars, my friend, and they do not speak of a mind at rest.”

The Steward regarded Aragorn with iron in his eyes as his jaw clenched; the King’s words hanging in the air between them as heavily as the sandalwood smoke.

“It is the only peace I have, Elessar,” Faramir’s voice trembled with barely restrained rage, “and it would do you well not to judge me for my methods of survival. You have no idea what I have been through.”

“I understand better than you think, Faramir,” Aragorn said softly. He knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he was slowly reaching Faramir, he could see it by the shine of Faramir’s eyes.

“You understand nothing,” the steward spat.

“Don’t I?” Aragorn said quietly, “I know the losses you have suffered. I know the abuse you survived. I also know the true strength in you, the great knowledge and beauty. There is so much more to you than loss and sorrow. That is why I love you, Faramir.”

Aragorn’s words seemed to wound Faramir physically, and he flinched mightily. But no, it was more than a flinch. For a second, the king was able to see a flicker of the Faramir he sought through the stern veneer, but it was as evanescent as his child-form in the mists of the battlefield, and as soon as Aragorn realized what he had seen it was gone.

“That word again,” Faramir said, the temperature of his voice dropping, “you really have no idea how I loathe it. You claim to love me,” Faramir’s tone turned the word into a curse, “but I know better. You are trying to use it manipulate me. For how could you love me after only a day? It is only your lust that has been enflamed, and you use the oldest bait known to lure me into your bed.”

“I would not use such a potent word for lustful treachery,” Aragorn’s eyes flashed in challenge, “for I have been trapped by it before, and know there is no greater deception. I would not do that to you Faramir. Even if you never came to my bed, even if our lips never touched again, even if you never wanted to shake my hand, I would still love you.” The king’s heart pounded as he spoke. His honesty was almost painful, for the revelation of his feelings was still fresh to him, and it was a trial beyond reckoning to open his heart so in the face of such malice.

“It has only been one day since I’ve let my feelings be known,” Aragorn pressed on, “but I have loved you from the day I met you, though I did not have the courage to admit it to myself. When you left Minas Tirith for Ithilien, I thought my heart would break for not having you near me each day. So I sent for you Faramir, not knowing why, feeling only that I needed to see you again. I would have been content to love you in silence for the rest of my life, but it was your valiant honesty last night Faramir, that gave me the strength to finally show you.”

Faramir would have been completely still had it not been for the slight tremble of his hand as it gripped Anduril’s scabbard. His face was unreadable, but his eyes, yes his eyes, were shining, like a thin layer of water over melting ice.

“There is much that still awaits you Faramir. You are still young, and your heart is strong. Let me help you heal your wounds. Let me help you tear down this crypt and plant a garden in it’s stead. Let me love you, Faramir.”

“Stop saying that!” Faramir hissed, though there was a measure of uncertainty in his voice, “love is nothing but another weapon that can be turned against you just when you are at your weakest. Love will always fail, be it by malicious intent or the will of the Valar. I was not meant to be loved, Elessar. I was meant to stand alone. For if not, then why has everyone been taken from me so?”

“Not everyone,” Aragorn said softly, “Beregond, your captain, who would have traded his life for yours, still lives and honors you; Éomer Éadig, the king of Rohan, calls you brother and cares for you as such despite the choices of his sister; Arwen, the queen of Gondor, who at this very moment stays by your side to pull shards of glass from your flesh and bandage your wounds. I am not the only one who loves you Faramir. But I am the one who offers you my heart.”

Oh, he was so close! Faramir had the tremulous air of a building on the verge of collapse, and was no longer able to look the King in the eye. Instead, he stared at the sword in his lap, his knuckles white as they gripped the smooth brown leather.

“But I cannot accept it.” Faramir’s voice was low, and Aragorn detected for the first time a hint of regret in his words, “I would rather live in the certainty of solitude rather risk the pain again. For if I were to lose your love, were I to indeed accept it, then it would destroy me.”

“You will not lose me, Faramir!” Aragorn insisted, his passion running hot, trying to press his advantage, “I cannot speak for what the future will hold, but I swear to you now, I will be yours until the day I die.”

“Those are only hasty words!” Faramir’s own heated emotions flared in response to Aragorn’s, “Words mean nothing! You speak the vows my wife promised on our wedding day, and you see how well she kept them.” Faramir had turned to stone once again, and Aragorn cursed himself for his misstep. He feared, looking at the bitterness freezing Faramir’s eyes again, that he had just lost the battle.

“No, my Liege, I will not accept your love. But do not worry, Elessar, your memorial is well underway, and you will always hold a place of honor in here.” Faramir’s voice was cold and dismissive, and he waved his hand casually at the half-constructed tomb behind Aragorn. “Now please, go, before you cause me any more grief.”

The king was at a loss for words. He had not expected the argument to turn back around so sharply against him, and he could think of no recourse.

“Elessar, I will only ask you politely once more,” Faramir said, his gentle tone making his words all the more threatening, “leave me alone.”

Aragorn’s frustration finally boiled up to the surface, and he met Faramir’s icy gaze with a look of fire.

“No.” he said simply, but the strength of his words obviously shocked Faramir.

“Leave!” Faramir’s voice rose angrily.

“No.” Aragorn turned around, and walked to his tomb. Barely conscious of what he was doing, he picked up a large block of polished stone, and placed it in the space waiting for it in the structure, without another word or look at Faramir.

“What are you doing?” Faramir was shocked and enraged, “do not touch that!”

“Why not!” Aragorn shouted back, still not looking at Faramir, “it’s mine, after all. Seems only fitting I should build my own tomb, as this is where I am going to stay.”

“You are leaving,” Faramir growled, stepping from his seat for the first time since Aragorn had entered.

“No, I’m not,” Aragorn retorted, and they sounded like two beasts challenging each other for a prize mate, “I would rather stay here in the crypt with you than return to the land beyond without you. I’m not going anywhere unless you come with me.”

Aragorn surprised himself with his reckless gambit, but it was born of desperation. This was his last chance to save Faramir.

The ring of steel echoing off the stone walls stopped Aragorn short. He turned back to Faramir, who had drawn Anduril and held it aloft, the glittering tip pointed at the King. Aragorn had never seen Faramir so furious, and a thrill of real fear shot through him for the first time. He had no idea what the prince was capable of in this state.

“I give you a final warning,” Faramir’s voice was deadly soft as he closed the distance between them, “Leave, or—”

“Or you will run your King through with his own sword, my Steward?” Aragorn repressed any sign of dread, not flinching as the sharp tip of his sword came to rest upon his tightening throat, “if you would truly rather kill me than love me, then please do.”

Faramir’s eyes fluttered wide in disbelief. This had not been the reaction he’d be expecting.

“All of these graves here are empty, Faramir. All their spirits have passed from this world. You have constructed yourself a crypt of memory, nothing more. But, I would remain here as a ghost for you. I would rest in this tomb for you, so you would know at least one of these graves laid filled. Be it with my eyes open or my heart run through with steel, I will not leave you alone in this prison, Faramir.”

Aragorn felt the blade press harder against his jugular vein, and he prepared himself, closing his eyes and letting his face fall into a mask of serenity. He did not know what would happen to him when Faramir sank the blade in, whether he would simply return to the land above, or if he would indeed die. He would know soon enough.

The sword fell to the ground with a loud clang, a bell ringing to hail Aragorn’s victory. The king opened his eyes, and there before him again stood the boy, shaking as he struggled not to cry, hugging himself tightly as if trying to hold himself together.

“My Faramir,” Aragorn breathed as he went down on his knees and pulled the child tightly into his arms, feeling the boy Faramir quaver against him, “do not hold back your tears. Let them cleanse you, let them make you whole again.”

The room was still for a moment, as if the very stones held their breath. And then a wail split the silence, as keen as a wind howling through jagged mountains. It was muffled as Faramir buried his face into Aragorn’s shoulder, and huge sobs wracked his tiny body so powerfully all the king could do was hold him, stroking the soft curls, murmuring words of encouragement.

In all his life, Faramir had never allowed himself to cry such as he was now. He had been taught early that tears were a weakness, a sign of fragility that brought nothing but scorn and ridicule. So he had learned to repress his grief, channeling it into action, and only when the pain had become too great had he allowed himself his cruel relief…

Aragorn closed his eyes, letting all his love and grace flow into Faramir, relishing his own tears as they fell unnoticed onto Faramir’s velvet-clad back.

He could feel the shift, the change in Faramir, though he dared not open his eyes to watch. Though the form he held was still small, it was different, less frail, and clung to him with greater strength and assurance. Then Aragorn felt the pull, the familiar slipping, consciousness fluttering back to him, and he knew they had returned to the realm of flesh when the sobs he heard were no longer in the voice of a child.

He must have knelt beside the bed in his state, for he embraced Faramir as he lay wounded, the prince’s tears still coming hot and wild against Aragorn’s neck. Strong arms gripped the King tightly, Faramir still shivering and clinging to the king as if he had just pulled him from drowning in a deep, cold pool.

They stayed like that for a long time, locked together in love and relief, Faramir’s sobs the only sound filling the quiet room. Aragorn did not stop him, even now that they had returned, for he knew that the prince was healing himself in ways he could not help with anymore. Aragorn had done enough; he had given Faramir the strength he needed to mend himself.

It seemed long hours before the prince finally quieted, slowly going limp in Aragorn’s arms as his weariness took over. It was only then that the King opened his eyes as he gently released Faramir, letting the tired form sag back upon the bed.

They were alone in the room, for Arwen was nowhere to be seen. But the dawn greeted them instead, pale pink light filtering in through the window to bathe Faramir’s cleaned and bandaged face. Aragorn stroked Faramir’s wet cheek, and the Steward opened his eyes at the caress. The King could not repress a smile when Faramir’s eyes met his, and he swallowed the lump in his throat lest he start the prince’s tears anew.

Faramir’s eyes were clear and bright, a new light shining from the depths as pure as the glow of mithril ore cutting through the darkness of a mine. He seemed reborn, and the look brought to Aragorn’s mind the thought of the forest after it has been washed clean by a tremendous storm, all the living things as green and vibrant as they ever could be.

A great fatigue washed through Aragorn then, and he tried to stand to reach his chair. But his legs were stiff, and refused to budge. Faramir, seeing his struggle, wordlessly pulled Aragorn into the bed beside him, using the last of his own strength. His own exhaustion was hard upon him, and all he wanted was to fall into sleep with his guide and healer beside him.

So, without a word, the two men curled about each other, Aragorn cautiously avoiding the prince’s neatly bandaged knees, and fell into a deep sleep that could only have been interrupted by the ending of the world itself. For each had found a deep and lasting peace that wrapped about them both like a soft cloak, bound together by a love that words could not do justice.

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