Faramir Fiction Archive

Scars (R)

08 October 2005 | 9762 words

Part Two: Burning Touch

Nausea. Faramir closed his eyes against the hot bile that threatened to rise in his throat. “Do not,” he got out before jerking away. “Do not touch...them. I am sorry; I did not mean to offend you, Aragorn.” The steward’s stomach clenched at the thought of this noble man, his closest friend touching such a disgusting thing again. “But you must not do that again. I do not want you to dirty yourself with the marks my father left on me.”

“I would not dirty myself by touching you Faramir!” Aragorn said heatedly. Surely things had not gone unchecked for so long that Faramir truly believed his own words. “I...Faramir, I care for you deeply. Imrahil and I both do, and we worry about your state of health. You are obsessing over this, and it is harming you. I would have it that you ignored this and moved on with your life. For yourself, if not for your uncle and myself.”

Faramir looked at his king and raised an eyebrow, wryly. “Even if I so chose to, it would be impossible to ignore what is clearly there. I do not wish to pretend that they are not there. Indeed, it would be nothing but a farce to go on as if nothing has changed.” He looked down at the ground for a moment and swallowed. “Everything has changed, Aragorn. I...never expected that this would happen. For all my preparing for battle and strategies, why had I never thought that this would occur?”

For that, Aragorn had no answer for there was none to give. “I care for you deeply Faramir. I think you are beautiful; you will always be beautiful to me.” He said simply.

Faramir stared at Aragorn and turned away, walking to the other side of the room. “Why are you doing this? Why say such things, surely you know what impact they can have. Éowyn, she was the one who was beautiful; and she was smart enough to leave someone who looks...” Faramir turned around. “Well look at me. No woman would want to touch this.”

It was true, Aragorn reflected sadly. No woman would, for the scars were foreign to a woman’s experience. True, every soldier carried scars from battle and this was of no surprise to a woman. But Faramir...

Aragorn forced his eyes to note the damage the fire had done to his friend. The marks from the pyre were everywhere on his left side. The arm and leg were covered in scar tissue. The fire had travelled on his side and there seared part of Faramir’s chest. Mercifully, if there was any mercy in this, the man’s stomach and lower regions had remained untouched. A small miracle, for Aragorn had no doubt that had the scars moved any further right, that Faramir would have taken his own life.

“Mithrandir told me what happened when I came to the city; about why the fire was started.” The statement hung in the air between the two men, before Faramir replied.

“Everyone knows, it’s no longer a secret. Especially since my father was a ranting lunatic who flaunted his madness in full view of the public.” The bitter resentment was enough to make Aragorn wince.

“Your father loved you. The reason he,” Aragorn paused to search for words that would not be a lie yet still skirt around the truth. “The reason he acted the way he did was because he could not stand the idea of you eaten alive by orcs. He believed the city was lost, as did many people. You were his last son, and I don’t think he wanted to leave you to a fate such as that.” Aragorn paused, letting the words sink into the Steward’s mind. “What he did, however misguided, was out of love.”

The words were trite, and both men looked a little disgusted with them. Why bother skirting around the truth of the matter, when it was right there in front of them. Aragorn suddenly felt like a coward, pretending that things weren’t as bad as they seemed and that the reason behind the act justified it somehow.

“Oh I know my father loved me. I can see it every morning as I dress; hear it when I pass the kitchen fires.” Faramir walked over to Aragorn, pausing a moment before kneeling before him. “I smelled it when the healers took off the bandages and the stench of burnt human flesh filled the room. I had so much of his love I nearly perished.”

Aragorn put his hands on the top of Faramir’s head and pulled gently forward until his Steward’s forehead was resting on Aragorn’s knees. “You have my love as well; and Imrahil’s. We promise you, both he and I that we shall make sure never to hurt you. Never to give you cause to regret surviving the war.” Aragorn stroked Faramir’s hair, and sighed. “You are beautiful; to have survived so much and remain a good and gentle person. Others would have lost themselves long before now.”

Faramir tried to jerk away but the gentle fingers became like a steel band, restricting his movements. “I am not beautiful, I am scarred and ugly. I have driven the woman I loved away, and cause pain to others. I am-”

Aragorn interrupted him. “Beautiful. Even if you do not see it and all others do. I do, and Imrahil does. I do not care about your scars, I do not care about your father. I care only for you. Can you understand this, Faramir?”

Faramir said nothing for several long moments, before sighing and nodding his head tentatively against Aragorn’s knees. Despite the encouragement, he still shied away from the King’s fingers when they brushed against the small scar on his neck. “Every time they are touched, each time I feel them, it is like being burned all over again.”

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