Work Text:
Protect the king. Faramir is sure those are the words screaming in everyone’s mind. Those are the words in his mind, drowning out any semblance of battlelust or of fear for his life. Most of the battlefield seems to almost melt away, even himself, as he searches for Aragorn. He’s sure the rest of the kingsguard is as well - but if Faramir is to be a good steward how could he not prioritise his king's life?
Swords begin to clash again, but Faramir still moves through them; avoiding them while forever keeping the mission of getting closer. Some enemies fall, but Faramir doesn’t notice them as much. Not as much as he is hyperware of the five surrounding Aragorn, the five that have not yet fallen. Now four, as Andúril cuts through one as he falls. The red splattering around the ground is not his king's, and he has not failed in his duties. He is still doing well, keeping off enemies and trying to get there. He will get there soon, only a few more soldiers. Five more soldiers. Four.
Faramir does not know why Aragorn does not see the blade (probably because it is behind him) but Faramir does. The king is almost certainly better equipped to handle being run-through with a blade, chain still glinting in the sun, but that is not a risk Faramir will take. His body moves on his own - moving in two ways. To push his king out of the way but, mostly, to put himself in front of the sword.
The thrust is strong, and in a moment of painful clarity Faramir is glad that he has taken this blow. And that this would have pierced Aragorn, in such a way that would have possibly killed him. The sword has gone all the way through him, and Faramir cannot resist the sharp intake of breath. Then he raises his sword again, and begins to defend his king. Normally Faramir cannot feel the adrenaline, just calm purpose, but some must be flowing through his veins because he is not in nearly enough pain for the damage that has been inflicted onto him.
As another soldier falls down, and Aragorn can see the ambush begin to clear. Kingsguard taking care of the remaining stragglers, ones retreating that Aragorn cannot bring himself to chase down. At least not without consulting his steward. But the battle is not over until the battle is won, and so Aragorn spins to check his surroundings. To see his next opponent.
The first thing he sees is the tip of a sword, pushing out of leather - leather that is quickly being stained red from the blood. A sword stuck so deep into this soldier it has come out of the other side. Then, he watches them attempt to take another step before falling to their knees, a sword clattering out of their hand. It takes such a short time that, for a second, Aragorn cannot identify them. It must be a kingsguard - he assumes - one who has been, much to his displeasure, conditioned to give up their life for him should a situation like this occur. And then he sees their familiar hair, light brown and gently curled. Falling over their shoulders, drooping just enough to cover the first plane of his armour.
And Aragorn knows exactly who has tried to throw away their life for his.
Not just in appearance, although now he can so clearly see his dearest friend, but also in duty. In morality. The same way he has watched Boromir fall, refusing to give up fighting. This time Aragorn will not be too late. Aragorn is not entirely sure what cry he calls out, one for a medic and one to protect him. He knows some will listen, and goes directly to his prince. Leaning beside him in the same manner he did long ago, except this time there must be a different outcome.
“Faramir?” There is no chiding in Aragorn’s voice, just a desperate call - a desperate plea to keep that light of consciousness in Faramir’s eyes. He hates how it already flickers, although something seems renewed when he hears the voice.
“My- my king.” Faramir’s voice is already ragged, but he stays on. Instinctively grasping out for Aragorn, before reaching back slightly. As if afraid to sully his king with blood, blood that’s still pouring out. His hands going to it, Aragorn tries not to think about the slick, warm feeling and instead focuses on not moving the blade anymore.
“What were you thinking?”
“Of you.” There is no apology in Faramir’s voice, almost a sense of pride. “I cannot allow you to die, to let Gondor fall into ruin or-”
“And what of you?” Aragorn does not mean to interrupt him, but he understands why Faramir has done this. Why he is so willing to throw his life away. And he hates it, “Gondor has had stewards for much longer than it has had kings.”
“Only in recent times.” Faramir corrects. “And Gondor-”
The sentence cuts off slightly, and Aragorn can see the light slip out of Faramir’s eyes again. Can feel his consciousness slip away from under his fingers in this flow of cherry red. But there is still determination in the steward, and Aragorn will not let him die. Is not even willing to let him slip away for a second.
“Gondor needs its king more.”
The words take effort, too much effort. He can see that the pain is beginning to go into numbness, and Aragorn takes one of his hands away to feel for his steward’s pulse. The blood is tacky, although still too recent to thicken, and Aragorn feels through it. Faramir is alive. At least he is alive for now.