Written for the Aragorn Angst weekly prompt: Warm

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Warm

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The lesser son of the steward was lying in a daze. His hold on his surroundings was feeble and twisted, as if his mind's fingers were broken. Muffled sounds grew louder and softer in waves. Actions registered in jerky, delayed intervals. Colors slurred and swirled.

He felt his father's welcome presence at his side. The steward was shouting in a distorted voice; Faramir was so used to his rants that he tuned out the words. Somewhere far away, a rough surface dug into the back of his sprawling body.

His sense of smell remained surprisingly intact. He recognized the sourness of blood and sweat, and the fertile, tangy aroma of olive oil.

Something bright and blurred fell through his field of vision and past it. Delay. Then orange swirls leapt up all around.

It was warm, so warm that his skin tingled and his lips cracked and his bile rose at the stench of burnt hair.

He'd never felt so cold in his life.