Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 3: Fear and Ghosts

They had rolled apart in their sleep, and Faramir awoke curled up in his dew-dappled cloak with his King’s back pressed against his own. He gingerly sat up, feeling each ache from the unorthodox sleeping position more fully now than he would had even five years before. The star-speckled blackness of the eastern horizon had just begun to pale into deep blue, the color of Aragorn’s eyes last night right after…

After what? Was there a name for what had passed between them? All grogginess fled Faramir with the first blush that tinged his cheeks at the memory, and he watched the sleeping form beside him, studying the curve of his side as Aragorn had also had curled up in his cloak against the early-morning chill.

The kiss had come unexpectedly, the manifestation of an intimacy so real that Faramir had never even dared to hope to experience something so good again. He reached a tentative hand out to Aragorn, almost needing to prove to himself that the old ranger indeed lay beside him, and was not another dream of happiness sent to torment him in his days of despair.

‘But this is torment, sweet Faramir. The pleasure you seek will be bought at a price more dear that you are willing to face.’ A familiar voice rasped inside Faramir’s mind; a voice not unlike his own, but filled with gleeful venom. It was a voice that had followed him all his life, whispered to him in his moments of weakness, filling him with self-loathing as he lay helplessly under it’s whip of lies.

The tips of his fingers had barely brushed the damp, rough cloth that covered Aragorn’s shoulder when he recoiled them sharply, consumed utterly by the foul words that oozed through the dark channels of his mind.

‘ Elessar, high King of the reunited Kingdoms, will abandon all reason in pursuit of his lust for you, his loyal Steward and prince. Do not believe it is anything more, for at the first chance he will have you on your knees, serving him like a common whore, relieving himself of a need that he had long repressed within himself. He will call upon you simply to feast upon your flesh; and you, like a long-beaten dog, will blindly follow the master who offers a single kind hand against his scarred flanks, calling it love, for you no longer know what love is unless it is tainted with pain and betrayal…’

Faramir had curled up against himself again; rocking himself as he clutched his arms around his head, as if he could shield himself from the toxic voice ringing in his skull.

‘No,’ a tiny voice argued back, its voice like a whisper against a howling storm, ‘that was not lust last night. That was too pure, to good…’

The wicked voice cackled. ‘You really think that Elessar, most noble and hardened of all men, would lower himself to love a weakling prince? A sniveling boy who could never make a single person happy in his entire life?’

Faramir had risen, and was stumbling towards the gurgling river, trying to drown out the caustic malice that had quickly eaten away the tranquility he had felt in the King’s arms. He sank to his knees on the graveled beach as he brought his hands to his face, his breathing ragged. Faramir felt moisture on his fingertips, coursing down his cheeks, and he wiped furiously at the tears with his dirty hands. He would not cry!

Cursing himself as he felt another pair of hot tears racing towards his chin, he fumbled with the knife at his side. He had cleaned it carefully after his dinner, and the steel blade seemed to almost glow in the growing light. He stole a quick glance to Aragorn’s form back at the camp, who had not shifted; and Faramir choked down his sorrow as an pang of longing for what could never be ran through him again. He knew that in the end, the voice was right. It was always right.

Slowly he removed his vanbracers—Boromir’s armor passed on to him by Aragorn not long after his ascension to the throne—and neatly rolled up his sleeves. The brisk air caressed the skin of Faramir’s forearms, and he stopped momentarily to gently finger the countless scars that lay in neat, horizontal ranks down the inside lengths of each arm. Some were old and pale, others still angry red and fresh. These were not scars left by battle-foes: they were far to numerous, far to methodical. No, these were casualties of the private war that had raged inside Faramir for almost his entire life, and he selected a spot on his arm near the crook of his elbow for his next sacrifice.

The knife-blade did not cut too deeply, for Faramir had mastered the art of the shallow stroke. He shuddered as a familiar bliss rushed over him at the first bite of steel; and his tears stopped cold in his eyes as his grief bled down his arm, leaving bright, crimson splashed upon the tiny rocks below. He savored the moment, the evil voice sighing once before falling into stillness, and Faramir was glad that no matter what happened, no matter who he lost, he still had this peace to fall back upon…

The minute Aragorn awoke, he knew something was not right. He sat up smoothly, looking about him, and realized with a start that Faramir was not in camp. Standing, he reached for the sword at his side, squinting against the lavender sky to find the trouble he was sure was afoot.

He felt the hoof beats of Faramir’s horse through the soil before he saw the beast and rider crest a nearby hill, coming from the direction of the guard’s camp, and Aragorn’s heart swelled at how striking the prince looked against the infant daylight. His reaction surprised him as much as it pleased him, reminding him once again that what had passed between them in the night had not been a fleeting encounter, but the beginning of something infinitely more precious…

“Good morning, sire,” Faramir nodded his head solemnly to his King, not dismounting from his horse even after he had entered their camp, “The sun has almost risen, and it is time for us to return to Minas Tirith.”

Aragorn was taken aback by the overnight change in his friend. This grave, hard Faramir that stared coldly down at him looked nothing like the man that had just hours ago shared his deepest secrets, and a sweet, intimate beauty with Aragorn. What had brought about so sudden a shift?

“Good morning, Faramir.” Aragorn replied, puzzled, “the ride back is not so far that we need set out so early.”

“No, it is not, my Lord, but I have pressing business I neglected to remember when I accepted your invitation yesterday. I did not realize we would be staying the night, and scheduled an afternoon meeting today that I cannot ignore.” Faramir was almost too insistent, and Aragorn was suddenly unsure as to the truth of Faramir’s words.

“I have alerted the guard,” Faramir continued, his tone leaving no room for argument, “and if you wish to remain they will stay behind with you. I beg your pardon, my liege, but I must be off.”

“Faramir…” Aragorn trailed off, unsure what to say. He was confused, and more than a little hurt at this change of events. He thought he had reached Faramir, opened his heart. Indeed, it seemed that there was much about his prince that he did not know.

Seeing the injury in Aragorn’s eyes, Faramir was almost overcome with the desire to jump off his horse and take his King in his arms, taste Aragorn’s lips one last time, reassure him that what he did, he did for the good of both of them. But his old wall held him back, his brightness trapped behind bricks of ice cemented by the dried blood crusting under the hidden bandage on his arm.

“I thank you, my Lord, for everything you did for me last night. I will not forget this birthday for as long as I live.” Faramir said softly, his roiling emotions finding a small chink in his armor, much to his mutual surprise and disappointment. Before Aragorn could reply, Faramir dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and rode away from his King, leaving Elessar alone in the chilled dawn with only the memory of Faramir’s warmth.

Aragorn’s heart felt as if it had been squeezed by a giant fist as he rode back to Minas Tirith in the company of his guards, his mind flooded with thoughts that threw themselves against each other into a painful jumble. He could not see Faramir before him, although he had set out almost immediately after his departure, and Aragorn suspected that his Steward had raced away as quickly as his steed could carry him in the hopes of not being caught by the King.

‘You should not have kissed him so, you fool. You sought to offer his comfort and friendship, and instead have driven him from you further with your own confused longings,’ a cold voice rang in his head.

‘But he desired it as much as I did,’ Aragorn replied to himself, ‘there was no doubt, no regret in his eyes after our lips parted. Something changed him in the morning.’

‘He had time to think, and realized that the taste of men is not to his liking.’

‘He seemed hungry enough for it when he left. I noticed how he stared at my lips as he spoke his parting words, the flicker of tenderness as he thanked me…’

‘Or are you imagining things again, Aragorn,’ the voice hissed low, pricking at the freshly revealed nerve of his own past, ‘you see yourself as a reader of people, but when it comes to the riddle of their desires you have always found yourself unable to decipher their hearts and bodies…’

‘I was young,’ Aragorn’s inner voice suddenly sounded small, filled with the tremble of one whose innocence is only a further sweetness for those who would devour him willingly, ‘I didn’t know any better.’

‘No you didn’t,’ the voice mercilessly fed off his uncertainty, ‘you were so green, so eager to please, that you believed him when he told you he loved you, ignoring the warnings of deception that came from all sides, because you needed that illusion. That was your first lesson in betrayal, sweet Aragorn, or should I call you—’

“Enough!” Aragorn hadn’t realized he had spoke aloud until his guardsmen had pulled all their horses into a standstill, looking on their King in bewilderment. The treacherous voice gave a final pleased growl before falling into silence, and Elessar quickly composed himself before speaking again. “My horse needs water.” He guided his horse to the river, hoping he was indeed thirsty, or Aragorn would feel even more foolish in front of his men.

It was only when he held the reins still as the stallion drank did he realize that his hands shook. He had not heard that voice for so long, his doubts rising against him to assail him with his past weaknesses. He had tried so hard to forget those years, to lock away the memories and all they signified in the darkest recesses of his soul. He had not even spoken of them with his wife, with whom he shared almost every other thought and secret, too ashamed to recount to her the heartbreak and humiliation he had borne for the false promise of a great one’s love.

Gritting his teeth, he spurred his horse forward, riding harder now than he had when he had broken camp hours before. He would not let himself be mastered by fear and ghosts. There was something so different about what he had felt with Faramir, something so purely light that he could not bear the thought of not sharing it with him again. This was not a blind pursuit for love disguised as lust…

But what it was Aragorn truly could not say.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/chronicle-of-scars-cuts. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!