Faramir was enjoying a leisurely breakfast with Éowyn when the summons came. "The King would like to see you in his study."

"Sorry, my love."

"It is well, Faramir. Go and see what the king needs."

Faramir walked to his father’s old study—the king’s study now.  He took a few slow breaths and wiped his sweaty palms off on his outer robe. This room did not hold the dearest of memories for him. Lightly, he knocked on the door.

"Enter!"

Faramir stood at attention before his king. "What does my lord require?"

"At ease, Faramir. Take a seat."

"Thank you, my lord."

"We've discussed this before, Faramir. I don't need to be 'my lorded' in private."

"Sorry, my lo--Aragorn."

"Would you care for a cup of tea? I know that I have interrupted your morning routine by summoning you."

"Thank you, Aragorn."

"Now, you must be wondering what this is about. I've discovered some facts from your father's time that have...disturbed me."

He pulled out a thick leather tome.

Faramir visibly paled. This was his father's punishment book. Any who incurred the wrath of the Steward, be he servant, soldier, or son, was made to record the details of his offense and the resulting punishment in this book. Faramir's name appeared several times, but one was the most memorable...

"Sire, do you wish me to resign my office?"

"NO, Faramir. That is not why I called you here. You have my affection and respect as you have since we first met."

Faramir let out a breath. "My father told me my honour could be restored in part, but that it would never be the same. Thank you, my lord, for your mercy."

"Faramir, you are not in need of my mercy. You may, however, be in need of my healing."

"I am well, Sire. My shoulders do not trouble me anymore, except when I injure them anew."

"And your back? May I see the scars?"

"Are you sure you want to see such, Sire?"

"Yes, Faramir. I do not ask this of you to shame you. I am concerned for your health, and the legacy left by your father."

"Very well."

Slowly, hesitantly, Faramir removed his outer robe, then his tunic, turning his back to his lord so the king could see the damage.

"Ai, Faramir! Your own father did such to you?"

Aragorn lightly traced his fingers over the thin white lines which protruded ever so slightly from the surrounding skin.

"He said it would help to restore my honor. I always wanted to be a good soldier, more like Boromir. I wanted to make my father proud. He did love me, in his own way."

"I doubt it not, but his mind was poisoned indeed! Rest assured, Faramir, your honor was never lost. Will you tell me of the incident that led to this...consequence?"

"I never meant to be cowardly, my lord. I only wanted the best for my Rangers, and we were sore over-wrought!"

"Peace, my young Steward. I do not doubt it. Start the story from the beginning, if you will."

*** 10 years earlier ***

"Sir, the squad at the edge of the wood has sent for backup."

"Thank you, Celegnir. See that all who are on duty have ample provisions. I will lead them myself."

"Yes, sir."

They took no horses, for they would only be a hindrance in the woods, not to mention the additional noise they would make. Instead, a dozen Ithillien rangers armed with bows and swords made their way on foot, searching for the outpost of their comrades. The stench hit them before any visible sign was found. The overpowering odor of smoke and rotten meat could mean only one thing---orcs.

Faramir motioned for a halt and indicated that Mablung should scout ahead. The rest of the small party seemed to melt into the woods, hands on their weapons in preparation for battle.

It did not take long for the scout to return. “Sir, there are too many for us. Nearly two hundred, I should say, and we but a dozen.”

“And our men?”

Mablung swallowed. “No sign of them, sir, although…they do have a pot of stew over the fire.”

Faramir swallowed the vomit that rose in his throat. His jaw tightened. This outrage would not go unanswered! With a sigh, he gazed into the distance. The land was beautiful, despite being ravaged by war. Ithillien yet boasted of trees and shrubs, flowers and berries…

Berries? Faramir took a closer look. Belladonna. There was an idea…

“The orcs shall not live to rue the day they made this stew!”

** Present Day **

“My father said it was cowardice to poison our enemies rather than facing them in battle, and that I had dishonored my fallen men. He ordered me hung by my wrists and flogged, then left overnight. My shoulders were wrenched from their sockets by the strain.”

“Oh, Faramir. You made the best decision you could in a difficult situation. You are no coward. Samwise had the right of it---you are a man of quality!”

“Thank you, my lord.” Faramir ducked his head, blushing.

“Aragorn.”

“Thank you…Aragorn.”

Aragorn squeezed his steward’s shoulder with a fond smile. “No, thank you, Faramir. Thank you for persevering in your service to Gondor even when all seemed lost. I’m proud to have you as my Steward…and as my friend.”

Faramir put his tunic and outer robe back on, tears slipping down his face at the horrid memories. He allowed himself to be pulled into a warm embrace.

“The Shadow is vanquished, Faramir. Your sacrifices and those of your men have not been in vain. Be at peace.”

As his king’s lips brushed against his brow, Faramir allowed the tension to seep out of his neck and shoulders. Perhaps he still had honour, after all.