Fear of Fire, Chapter Fifteen: Sacrifice.
Chapter Summary: Faramir forces himself to force Aragorn away.
WARNING: This chapter contains a self-inflicted injury. Don't read if you can't handle.
A/N: Hope this chapter makes up for the long wait for it. Don't worry, everything turns around in the next one.

For a moment after Amlach left, Faramir was paralyzed. He was aware of the slowly smoldering fire by his side; indeed, he was aware of little else. But he could not move.

Throughout all of Amlach's accusations, one theme had rung clear to him. You burden him as you burdened your brother...

The fire was drawing closer to him, showing no signs of burning out.

The King will become attendant upon you...forgetting his duties and coddling you...

Faramir thought with sudden horror of the piles of unviewed papers burying his and Aragorn's desks, of the diplomats who had been put off, the Council breaks spent kissing instead of planning their next move.

Someone must recall you to your duty before it is too late... better that is should end now...

And if Amlach was correct about that, as it seemed so suddenly obvious that he was, shouldn't it stand to reason that he was right about all of it? About Faramir's weaknesses, his unworthiness to be next to the King?

Faramir could not take his eyes from the fire. It was as sickeningly entrancing as it had ever been. Now that the thought of Aragorn was bringing greater distress instead of comfort, Faramir was powerless against the flames. He was swimming in a sea of fire, once more hearing the cool voice of his father calling for wood and oil. Despair closed around his heart. He could not move; his limbs were icy immobile, his eyes were sealed shut. In vain he reached out for someone stronger than himself - seeking Boromir, seeking Eowyn, seeking anyone who could save him. But it was not his part to be saved; it was his part to burn.

Faramir cried out as a sudden pain rippled through his palm, sharp, searing his skin and wrenching him from his trance. He blinked and looked down dumbly at his left palm, the skin already bubbling up with blisters, red and harsh and soot-smeared, in a streak across it. Then he turned and looked at the torch, lying unassuming on its side, a thin trickle of smoke from the smothered head ascending to the ceiling.

Faramir dizzily pushed himself to his feet, holding his hand out in front of him. There. It was your part to burn, after all; you just took your own sweet time doing it.

He stumbled to his desk, disconnectedly wondering if he had any healing supplies in it. He found he was having trouble of thinking past anything but the agonizing pain in his palm. A memory came to him of Boromir, sixteen and fresh from his first summer with the army, trying to impress his younger brother with his knowledge. Burns, Boromir had said confidently, were the worst kind of pain, worse than wounds from arrows or swords or spears. So it would make sense that it is the pain I am destined for.

He opened a few drawers and dug through them with his good hand without caring what a mess he was making, searching for medical supplies. Nothing. Well, he would just go down to the Houses of--

No. No, Faramir realized with sudden clarity, he would not be able to go down to the Houses of Healing. How could he explain his injury away? He had to keep it hidden. Oh, gods... how will I keep it from Aragorn? From Eowyn?

Faramir left the study in a daze and made his way to his rooms. Eowyn was thankfully elsewhere. He went into their washroom and stared at the herbs and ointments there blankly, as though he couldn't conceive of their purpose.

The bell announcing dinner rang.

Faramir swept the ointments away. He took a bandage out and clumsily wrapped it around his left hand, fumbling and dropping the roll as he went. His aim was not so much to heal as to conceal, but it was nonetheless difficult to wrap one's own hand and it took him longer than it should have. When he finally tied the bandage off he immediately stripped off his tunic and searched through his closet for one with over-long sleeves that might help hide the damage. Then he hurried down the corridor.

He was only a little late taking his place at the table; nearly everyone else had assembled, but the food had not yet been served. Aragorn smiled at him as he sat. Faramir found he could not return the smile, and Aragorn's expression shifted to concern.

Faramir forced a shrug and a half-smile and immediately turned his attention towards Eowyn, infinitely less dangerous for the moment. He would have to come up with something to tell Aragorn before dinner was over - some plausible excuse for ending the relationship, before it was too late.

Fortunately, they were entertaining one of Eowyn and Eomer's louder and more opinionated cousins that night, and he was speaking at great length and demanding the King's attention for himself. All Faramir had to do was assume an expression of interest and not look very closely at anyone but the speaker, and he was safe to think.

But nothing came. He was used to creating subtle lies and evasions to keep people from getting too close to his emotions, but he'd never attempted something this large before. And what he was trying to think of was so completely foreign to what he wanted that he didn't know where to begin. Even sitting there in front of the whole court, he had to fight the desire to throw himself into Aragorn's arms and cling to him, to tell him everything that had happened, to cry and beg for his sympathy, his reassurance, to be told none of it was true. But he sat woodenly, nodding when everyone else nodded, and his heart and mind were numb.

When the dishes were cleared away, Aragorn invited Faramir to his study with a nod of his head. It was more or less a habit for them to retire together after dinner, so no on commented as Faramir rose and followed him, his heart pounding.

As soon as they were behind closed doors, Aragorn reached out to embrace Faramir. "You look sad," he commented, trying to kiss him.

Faramir ducked out of range. Aragorn's arms dropped, his brow creasing. "What's wrong?"

Nothing came into Faramir's mind to say. "I don't feel well," he finally mumbled. He desperately wished he had been able to come up with something to push Aragorn away, but he didn't even know how to begin.

Wordlessly, Aragorn held his arms out. Faramir moved into them without conscious thought; his body just went. Aragorn's arms wrapped around his waist; Faramir leaned his head on the older man's shoulder, sadly putting his arms around Aragorn's neck. At least I ought to be able to hold him - one last time, before it ends.

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Aragorn felt that there was something wrong with Faramir's hand when it brushed against the back of his neck. He frowned, but didn't say anything right away. Clearly Faramir had had a hard day.

Aragorn smoothed his hair and rocked him silently, hoping that Faramir would open up and tell him what was wrong without prompting. But his Steward was quiet. Aragorn nuzzled his hair affectionately, making his tone casual. "What happened to your hand?"

After a pause, Faramir replied in a tired, dead tone. "I burned myself."

Aragorn pulled back slightly, looking at Faramir with shock. "Deliberately?"

Faramir wouldn't look at him. He looked tired - as tired as he had seemed on his wedding day, when there had been misunderstanding and hurt feelings between them. He nodded mutely.

Aragorn was at a loss for a moment. All he could do was stare and think how miserable Faramir looked, and how uncharacteristic it was for him to admit to what he had done instead of trying to evade the issue, trying to spare Aragorn the knowledge.

Aragorn swallowed and gently led Faramir over to sit against the edge of his desk. Faramir went docilely, still not looking at him. Slowly, Aragorn removed the bandage clumsily wrapped around Faramir's left hand.

When he saw the extent of the damage, Aragorn got dizzy for a moment. "Oh, honey," he said softly.

Faramir flinched, and a few tears trickled down his cheeks, but he said nothing.

Aragorn swallowed again. He tried to assess the wound as a healer, not as a concerned lover, and decided to let Faramir keep his silence for the moment. He brought supplies out of his desk and cleaned Faramir's hand as gently as he could, for the wound was still fresh. Then he covered it with a light herbal paste and rewound the bandage much more efficiently. When he was through he did not relinquish Faramir's hand, but held it lightly in both of his own.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

Faramir still would not look at him. "I've just had a bad day," he finally murmured.

"Is there anything I can do?" Aragorn asked eagerly, reaching out to put an arm over Faramir's shoulders.

"No," Faramir said quickly. Aragorn froze just before his arm would have touched Faramir. Faramir had flinched again, but this time it was away from his touch.

Aragorn took a deep breath. He didn't want to, but he had to ask. "Is this-- is this because of me?" he asked haltingly, touching the bandage.

Faramir hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes," he said quietly.

Aragorn's hand dropped like lead. There was dead silence for a moment. Faramir would not look at him; he sat listlessly on the desk, not fidgeting or showing signs of discomfort, just sitting there with his head turned away.

Aragorn took a deep breath. "What-- what can I do?" Nothing. "How can I fix this, Faramir?"

Faramir looked at him for the first time since coming into the study. His face was a mask. "I think we shouldn't see each other," he said calmly. "As anything but King and Steward, that is."

Aragorn managed to keep his face composed. "If that's what you wish," he said equally calmly, even though his throat had gone dry.

"It's for the best," Faramir said with conviction.

Silence. Aragorn now felt like Faramir looked: too worn out to care about anything, emotionally dead for the time being. They sat against the edge of the desk like two zombies. Then Faramir stirred.

"Thank you for being kind to me," he said, with the first hint of real emotion in his voice all evening. "But it wouldn't have worked out." He rose from the desk, bowed slightly, and left the room.