A/N: Credit for the inspiration for this little ramble goes to the lovely berenshand on tumblr and her glorious lotr/narnia crossover headcanons. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. (Please excuse the messiness of the whole thing: aside from a few small edits for clarity, it was all written from midnight to two in the morning after two weeks of very little sleep.)
(Also I swear there will be a sequel for YW,P. I swear. One day. In the meantime, enjoy this.)
Perhaps you have heard the story, of the man with enough heart for ten soldiers, the one who craved acceptance from one man over any honor he could receive, the one called worthless and mediocre and hated by the one who should have loved him most. And perhaps you know the story of the great Lion, who awakens stone with one breath and fells witches with one bite and sends armies fleeing with one mighty roar; the great Lion who dies for those who betray him, who is love and power and mercy. But listen a moment, dear reader, and I will tell the story of how that man found his worth in that Lion, and how he became alive because of it.
Close your eyes. There is a wood to your left, and in that wood there is a camp. There has been a great battle fought today; it is sunset now, and these are the victors. See the rock, there on the far edge? The young man there, balancing his sword on his knee, that is our Faramir.
He is polishing the blade, tongue poking between his teeth as he works, favoring his right arm slightly. He was wounded in the battle, though he would never have admitted it. It was Edmund who saw the blood soaking Faramir's shirt sleeve, who caught him as he started to sway and called for Lucy. Faramir protested—he was fine, Ed, really, t'was just a scratch—but Edmund wouldn't hear of it, and little Lucy was so tender and warm as she tended the wound and then dripped on her cordial that Faramir could barely stammer out a thanks before he escaped, not wanting her to see the tears in his eyes.
Nearby, now, is the Lion, Aslan himself, prowling through the camp, pausing to thank Lucy for her tenderness toward all the wounded, congratulating Peter and Aragorn on the strategy that led them to victory, nudging the dozing Edmund into Boromir's side and chuckling warmly at the indignant splutters from both. Look closely: our Faramir is casting glances at the Lion, and there is longing in his eyes. When Aslan turns, though, Faramir returns to cleaning his weapon, scrubbing harder than strictly necessary.
Watch, now, for Aslan is approaching Faramir, and Faramir falters in his task. Yes, his hands are shaking, but do not judge him too harshly; he has not experienced much love, and what he expects is anything but gentleness.
When Aslan is so near that Faramir can no longer pretend he is not there, Faramir slides from the rock and drops to one knee, head bowed low enough that his tangled hair can shield his eyes. He sees sorrow in Aslan's gaze, sorrow and another something he cannot define—yes, reader, yes. It is pride, indeed, but Faramir has never seen pride directed at him, and he cannot recognize that it is there.
Listen, now, lean in if you must; Aslan is speaking, and his words are not to be ignored.
"You fought well today, Faramir," he rumbles.
Reader, watch our Faramir now: do you see the stiffness in the shoulders, the flinch he suppresses? Aslan, he is thinking in that moment, is worse even than Denethor, for at least Denethor spat out hatred and insults exclusively. The rebuke that will follow will be ten times worse, led by such a honeyed lie.
Of course, reader, of course you know Aslan cannot lie. You must forgive our Faramir; his oversight will soon be corrected.
"I thank you, my Lord," Faramir replies, pushing the words one after another through trembling lips, letting them drop like stones and rest hard and cold between them. And then he waits for what he thinks will follow; some snarl about how, if he'd been more careful, more talented, more like his sainted brother, he wouldn't have been wounded, or fewer of their men would have died, or they would have won the battle more quickly.
Creep forward, dear reader, and watch. What follows is not a rebuke at all, but a sigh of grief so deep and raw that our Faramir will shake down to his very core.
"Oh, child, why do you fear me so?"
Faramir does not dare raise his head, but see, he does glance, shyly, hesitantly, at the Lion. Child? Child he has only heard used as a slur, spat at him across a room—"stupid, useless child, had you died at birth it would have been a happier time for everyone"—and followed by a hand stinging across his cheek. This, though, is soft and sweet and melts something deep inside him.
He cannot reply, but watch: his shoulders heave once. He thinks his heart will burst with the pain of this.
Look, my reader, at Aslan now. Yes, those are tears; he wants this boy to trust him, not await a blow. The Lion steps forward, and his muzzle brushes the top of Faramir's bowed head. Our Faramir quivers in anticipation, and it is hard to say which one is more broken by the fear that pounds through his veins.
"Come close, my son," Aslan says. "You have nothing to fear."
And our Faramir breaks. He crawls two faltering steps forward, and with a thin whimper—"Me?"—buckles, crumpling into Aslan's mane. His fingers curl into the thick golden strands, clutching as though they are a lifeline—what's that? Why, yes, dear reader, I suppose to him they are.
For you see, before that moment, no one had ever desired to claim him as a son.
Of course, he is crying. Wouldn't you be?
Watch Aslan, now; he sinks to the ground, curling himself around the boy—for if you could see our Faramir's face, you would indeed think him a boy, not a man, a boy frightened and hopeful and broken and healing all at once. Faramir still clings, and he sobs now, sobs away every angry word, every hateful glare that Denethor ever dealt him. And the Lion does nothing but whisper the Truth to Faramir, words that start to stitch together the wounds that have bled him dry for so long.
If you can, dear reader, take your eyes off this scene and turn around, for little Lucy has happened upon the two, and she is beckoning frantically for Boromir. And Boromir, who loves his little brother with all the love he is able to give, is buckling now; watch him fall against that tree. His face is in his hands, and he believes he might burst with the joy that overflows in him. Edmund and Aragorn are arriving now; Aragorn takes one glance at Faramir and Aslan and beams white and wide before sliding down the tree trunk to sit at Boromir's side. Edmund stands still and quiet, tears streaming down his own face as well. He is recalling in vivid memory the first time he felt the Lion's love, and is whispering a prayer of thanks. Now he will take his seat on Boromir's other side, and watch contentedly.
Faramir is breathing deeply now, and his trembling has eased. Our Lucy, smiling a smile of one who knows this forgiveness, comes forward with a blanket. She knows, as I'm sure you do, that one can never be cold at Aslan's side, but she also knows that Faramir needs as much love as he can hold, even chipped and cracked as he is, so at Aslan's approving nod she tucks the blanket around his shoulders and kisses his head before retreating to curl in Aragorn's lap.
Faramir sleeps, then, at peace for the first time he can remember.
If you were to watch through the night, reader, you would see, when Faramir stirs and whimpers, Aslan nuzzle him gently, and Faramir relax. You would see Lucy slip over three times to adjust the blanket, and you would see Susan, poor, jealous, hardened Susan give the two one longing glance before hurrying to her tent.
And in the morning, dear reader, watch; kneel at their sides if you must, do not miss a thing. Our Faramir wakes and sits up to yawn; his face is smooth and carefree, and his eyes no longer darkened. He is warm and groggy and he is feeling something and he thinks that something is love—and yes, this time he is right. The Lion lifts his head, and there is a smile.
"Good morning, child," Aslan rumbles, and Faramir quickly glances away, cheeks flushing with pleasure. This is new, and this is beautiful.
"Sir," he responds, shyly.
"Look at me," Aslan says, and Faramir does so, still nervous, but more trusting, this time.
"Are you braver now, my son?"
Faramir's chest swells at these few words, that mean so much. He cannot speak, but he nods, and Aslan purrs softly in response. One more time, reader, Faramir's head goes back into Aslan's mane, this time to breathe in the safety, and to whisper a trembly "Thank you."
He stands now, and nods, and collects his sword from the ground nearby. The blanket he scoops up and slings across his shoulders; he guesses where it came from, and if you look closely, he will swipe under his nose.
Aslan murmurs after him, "You are welcome, my child."
So see, dear reader, you needn't fear. Our Faramir is loved, indeed.