Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 8: Tending

More than a full day passed before king and steward awoke again, the strain of their excursion into the wild mingling with the sheer emotional drain each had endured in their confrontation. But when they did open their eyes, they felt refreshed as they never had before, and the late summer morning held a promise so rich neither dared speak for a long time after the sun had roused them into wakefulness.

So they stayed nestled in the warm sheets, savoring the feeling of having each other so close, and both were loathe to leave the intimate nest they had woven about them. But then Faramir’s knee bumped against Aragorn’s boot-clad shin, and the yelp of pain brought them back into the reality of their situation.

Immediately, Aragorn slipped into the role of the healer, and reluctantly dislodged himself from Faramir’s arms to inspect the wounds. He carefully unwrapped the seeping bandages to reveal the raw tissue, and marveled at Arwen’s skilled work. She had spent hours painstakingly removing every last sliver of glass from the skin, and cleaned the cuts so thoroughly they had not infected at all. But despite her great care, the injury was still severe, and it would be at least a week before the Steward would be able to walk again without re-tearing the mending flesh.

“I am afraid you will have to remain in bed for a few days,” Aragorn broke the news to Faramir, his face grim.

Faramir sighed, letting his head fall back onto the pillow.

“How am I supposed to finish my work if I cannot get to the library?” he asked crossly, more to himself than the King, “I suppose I could assign a page to serve as a courier, to fetch me my materials—”

“You are taking a break,” Aragorn voice was gently commanding, though it held a note of exasperation, “I forbid you to even entertain the notion of work while you are under my charge.”

Faramir’s protests died on his lips when he saw the determination on Elessar’s face, and he frowned in answer, though the fullness of his lips made it appear more like a childish pout.

“You can use all the time you want to finish your report when you have taken some time to heal yourself,” Aragorn’s voice was casual, though Faramir did not miss the undertone of gravity in his words. The king was speaking of more than his flesh wounds.

“It will take more than a few days, Aragorn,” Faramir said softly, suddenly unsure of himself. It was odd for him to speak openly of something he had so long held secret, and even more disquieting to know someone else shared it with him.

“I know, my friend,” the king replied, and he reached out for Faramir’s drawn face, gently cupping his bearded chin in his palm to pull Faramir’s eyes up to his, “and I am willing to help you with this for as long as it takes.”

“But what it if takes the rest of my life?” Faramir asked hesitantly, his eyes flickering nervously away from Aragorn’s intensely loving gaze.

“I expect it will. But it will not be so bad the longer we work on it.” Aragorn replied, his quiet confidence renewing Faramir’s freshly found strength.

With a tender squeeze, Aragorn release the steward’s face to finish bandaging his knees in the clean strips of white cloth Arwen had left for them. Aragorn moved on to Faramir’s forehead, and was relieved to find the wounds there not quite as severe as the ones on his knees. He knew that even the smallest facial wounds bleed mightily, and only a dozen or so small red marks dotted Faramir’s face. He would be free of that bandage within a day or so.

“There,” Aragorn said as he tied the fabric around Faramir’s freshly-tended forehead, “that should take care of all the wounds.”

“No,” Faramir said, his voice quiet, but sure.

Slowly, not daring meet Aragorn in the eye, he pulled up the sleeves of his long shirt and presented the two cuts he had carved into his arms at the campfire. Though the scars were thick and healing, the skin had become an angry red for negligence through the night. “These need to be bandaged again.”

Aragorn could scarcely breathe, his heart was so filled with awe for the great trust Faramir had just placed in him. The King knew at that moment the true depth of Faramir’s love for him. An action such as this was a testament beyond words.

With trembling hands, Aragorn gently smoothed a little ointment on the long cuts, and did not miss the tears that welled in Faramir’s eyes as he touched them.

“Those were yours,” Faramir said, his confession barely loud enough to be heard.

The King’s heart clenched at the knowledge, his guilt rising to form a knot in his throat. Had he been more vigilant, had he known of Faramir’s affliction earlier, he might have been able to help him sooner…

But he knew now. That was what truly mattered.

“And they will be my last,” Faramir’s voice was suddenly filled with a quiet conviction, and he met his friend’s eyes with a fragile clarity that Aragorn had never seen before. This was going to be so hard for Faramir, but he was strong. He had survived so much before, Aragorn did not doubt the prince would pull through this.

“I want you to have something,” Faramir said carefully after Aragorn had tied the last knot on the bandage, his eyes roving the room for what he sought, “can you bring that to me?”

He gestured to the black velvet bundle upon the dresser, and with a slightly puzzled look Aragorn rose and fetched it. By the time he had returned to Faramir’s side he had guessed what lay wrapped in it, but he held his tongue and waited for the prince to slowly unfurl the old cloth.

The silver knife winked in the morning light, its razor-sharp blade both a threat and an invitation to the steward, as he let his eyes drink in it’s cold beauty one last time. This blade had served him long, and it had done it’s job with an unmatched efficiency. But now he no longer needed it, and though he felt it in his heart of hearts, he knew the temptation would always be with him as long as the blade served as a reminder of his true weakness.

“Keep this for me, Aragorn,” Faramir said, and reverently handed him the instrument of his long denial, “keep it until I can look upon it without wanting to…” his lips still could not form the dreadful truth. The admission was still too fresh to speak in the light of day.

“I will care for it for you, Faramir,” Aragorn rescued the prince by taking the knife, wrapping it tightly in its cloth, “until you know what you wish to do with it.”

Faramir nodded, his throat suddenly tight. Saying goodbye to his old friend was the hardest thing he had ever done.

But then his sadness was chased away by Aragorn’s soft lips upon his, a kiss so gentle it was almost a whisper, and Faramir was reminded for the first time of not what he was leaving behind…but what lay before him.

Hope.

Epilogue: Convergence

Faramir did not wake alone for the third time that week. He did not need to reach his hand out to feel Aragorn’s sleeping form beside him still, the sheets surrounding his strong body still warm as sunlight.

The morning light had just begun to tint the sky above the White City, and Faramir wondered what had woken him in this lavender predawn. Dismissing it as him getting used to the sleeping rhythms of his new bedmate, he nestled closer to Aragorn as he closed his eyes, spooning him carefully so as not to bump his healing knees against the backs of the King’s thighs.

Faramir’s eyelids shot open again as he heard the door to his bed-chamber slowly open, and he held his breath as his beloved’s wife, the Queen of Gondor, whispered into the room. So intent was she on closing the door silently behind her that she did not notice Faramir watching her raptly from the bed, nor her husband’s subtle shift as he pressed himself closer to his prince in his sleep.

Arwen stopped at the doorway, smiling as she watched the two men entwined languidly on the bed. They looked so peaceful, so content, she was loathe to wake them, but she bore such powerful news she knew it could not wait until they woke. The way they’d been sleeping lately, she might not get her chance until well into the afternoon.

She knew Faramir was awake before she had made her way across the room to the bed; she could tell by the way he pulled away a bit from Aragorn as she approached. He was still so uncertain of her approval, for it was such a foreign idea to him that a man could have two loves without deceit or jealousy. It would take time. Time she was willing to give.

She stopped when she reached the bed, and to Faramir’s bewilderment she silently gestured to him if she could join them. Unsure of her motives, but not wanting to seem rude, he nodded slowly, catching on to her desire not to wake Aragorn quite yet.

But rather than pull herself under the covers, she laid down across the summer coverlet beside her husband. She leaned forward and kissed his lips softly, a waking kiss, and Faramir was pleased to realize he still felt no pang of envy. Perhaps he could indeed get used to this.

“Estel,” she whispered in elvish, stroking Aragorn’s stubbly cheek, “wake up, my love.”

The king’s eyelids fluttered open, and he regarded his wife with a look of groggy surprise. He had expected to wake to Faramir’s gentle kiss, and though he was always happy to see his beloved, it puzzled him to find her here in the Steward’s bed with them.

“Hello, Arwen,” Aragorn said in the western tongue as he smiled sleepily, “did you miss me so much that you decided to join us?”

Faramir blushed a little to hear Aragorn referrer to them as us, especially to his own wife. But she seemed to take no offense, and laughed a little instead, smiling all the wider to see the pink tinting the prince’s cheeks as his face peered over Aragorn’s shoulder.

“It is more than a cold bed that drives me to invade your privacy,” she gave Faramir a respectful nod before turning back to Aragorn, “I bring news that could not wait even for the sun.” Arwen took a deep breath before continuing with a radiant smile, “I am with child.”

All traces of sleepiness left the king as the full knowledge of her words sunk in.

“You, you’re with child?” he stuttered, almost unsure if this was not some strange and beautiful dream into which he had drifted, “Truly? You are sure?”

Arwen nodded vigorously.

“I have suspected for many weeks, for my cycle had been late in coming this year. But I was not sure until I woke with the moonrise and his name became known to me…”

Aragorn pulled his wife into a tight embrace, kissing her fiercely, his joy so hot he felt as if his heart would burst. They had feared it would be long before they would be able to conceive, for the blood-cycles of elven women ran over the course of years rather than weeks. To know that it was his heir that she carried in her womb was a gift as great as the Evenstar he still wore about his neck.

Faramir was silent in the bed beside them, suddenly feeling very small and out of place. This was a private happiness the king and queen were sharing, and though he did not begrudge them this long-awaited joy, it left him hollow with the knowledge that it was something that would always be denied to him…

“Faramir?” Arwen’s quiet voice pulled the prince from his dark thoughts, and again, it was as if she had reached into his mind and translated his thoughts as easily as if they had been written across his eyes. Aragorn turned to his friend as well, and the sheer elation beaming from his face was almost enough to make the prince’s eyes well with jealous tears.

He fought to hold them. Now was not the time.

“Congratulations to you both,” Faramir said as he forced a smile, pulling away a little more from Aragorn as he watched the king clasp Arwen in his arms, “you will make wonderful parents.”

“Thank you,” Arwen said with a gentle smile, and her eyes softened suddenly to see such restrained pain again in the Steward’s face. She would have to be quick, lest this news undo all the good they had all worked for so hard in the past weeks.

“I have something I would like to ask, Faramir,” Arwen continued, and she reached out to touch the back of Faramir’s hand as it lay on the bed between he and Aragorn, “and you may think on it before you answer. For it a difficult thing I ask of you, and I know you have been through much already.”

She paused, suddenly shy under the prince’s cool gaze as he arched his eyebrows in guarded curiosity.

“I know the bond you share with my husband is strong, and that you love him powerfully. I want to know if you would consider extending that love to his son, and if you would let him call you father as well.”

Faramir was stunned. He had anticipated that Arwen would ask him to leave Aragorn now that the King was about to be a parent, as he would soon need to face his new duties unhindered by an outside relationship. He had not expected her to ask him to be a part of their new family.

“The weight of kingship will often pull a man from the those he most wishes to attend to,” Arwen continued, taking in the shocked look on the Steward’s face, “and if such duties pull him away for long, or if Valar forbid, to the grave, I would have my son still know a father who is strong and wise, who will show him the beauty and light in this world while teaching him how to overcome its darkness and trials. I can think of no finer man suited for this job than you, Faramir. If you would have it.”

Faramir did not know what to say, and his eyes darted between the King and Queen’s hopeful faces, their eyes bright with excitement. A small lick of realization fluttered in his heart, like a moth slowly breaking from it’s carefully spun cocoon to try it’s luminous wings for the first time.

“You would trust me with the life of your child?” Faramir asked, looking to Aragorn, still not daring believe in the power of Arwen’s request.

“Without question.” Aragorn replied, and he opened his free arm to Faramir in invitation.

The prince hesitated only a second before returning to Aragorn’s side again, the king’s strong arm wrapping around his shoulder to pull him close.

“Not only would you be my friend and love,” Aragorn said softly, looking intently into Faramir’s bewildered eyes, “but you would be my son’s second father. I can think of no greater honor you could give me, Faramir.”

And there, without any reluctance before his wife, he kissed the prince deeply, tasting the sweetness of Faramir’s wonder and disbelieving joy on his trembling lips.

The breathy sound of a little sigh pulled Faramir from the kiss, and he flushed fiercely to notice that Arwen was watching them intently, a deliciously wicked smile upon her lips.

“Have I told you, my good prince,” Arwen said slyly as she crept closer to Faramir, their faces only inches from each other across the span of Aragorn’s chest, “how simply endearing you are when you blush like that?”

To Faramir’s surprise she closed the distance between them and planted a little kiss on the tip of his nose.

Faramir’s head was swimming, all these new revelations swirling through him to create a whirlwind of emotions so potent he could not have describe them if he tried. Locked as he was in Aragorn’s embrace with Arwen so close and so encouraging, he could not recall ever feeling so openly loved in his entire life.

The Queen took Faramir’s hand and clasped it tightly in hers, kissing the rough back before lowering their joined hands to rest over Aragorn’s heart. Through flesh and fabric the Steward could feel its powerful rhythm: beating for his wife, beating for his prince. Cradling this new love like an old friend, Faramir released his happiness the only way he knew how.

He wept with joy.

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