Why Faramir Is Not A Bar of Soap

Arwen often complained that her husband did not care about personal hygiene. And she was right, partly, seeing as the ex-Ranger did not know what the term meant, and it was impossible to care about something you didn't know the meaning of.

Still, it was not a pleasant experience, having to share a bed with a man whose next bath was scheduled to be taken in three years time. It was busy work, being King, but that didn't mean that there wasn't enough time to make himself smell nice.

So, taking a leaf out of her grandmother's book (see previous chapter), Arwen had told Aragorn that if he didn't take a bath at least once every three days, she would refuse to have sex with him.

Aragorn was perhaps the first man to be threatened like this (but he sure as hell wasn't the last); normally it was only the elven kind who had to deal with that- elven males have come up with failsafe ways to get around the problem, but they weren't ready to share their trade secrets with humans just yet- so Aragorn had no choice but to do as his wife demanded.

The first few baths were rather peculiar experiences, but he got used to them soon. The prickly sensation he got whenever he used his special Kingly soap quickly subsided to a pleasant tickle. Baths really weren't so bad, Aragorn mused as he scrubbed between his toes with his special Kingly soap, and being clean was definitely a positive experience- he had gotten rid of the dirt, and could almost see the real colour of his skin now; he was just as surprised as the next person to find that he wasn't naturally tanned.

It wasn't long before Aragorn got addicted to bathing, and started to take daily ones. Arwen wouldn't have minded, normally, until he started to spend more time in the bath than he spent in the bedroom. Plus she really was not a fan of wrinkly fingers and toes.

When confronted by the Queen, Aragorn just tapped his nose in a very knowing way and evaded her questioning, which annoyed her a lot.

So in the end she decided that she would take a bath with Aragorn, just to see why he liked it so much.

The next day, Arwen waited until Aragorn rose to take a bath, then followed him to his Kingly bathing chambers, where she watched him take off all his clothing, then went through the door to a steamy room.

At first she thought the steam was making her see double, but the next moment it became clear to her that she was not seeing two Aragorns, but rather, one Aragorn… with another man!

Before she could open her mouth to screech at that pathetic, cheating, filthy piece of scum, Aragorn spotted her, and gave her a smile. The nerve of that man, Arwen thought as she stomped over, eyeing the King with malice in her eyes. "What is the meaning of this?" She tapped her foot, waiting to hear his excuse.

Aragorn was still grinning. He pointed at the other man, who had strawberry blond hair and had done nothing so far except sit there with a nervous smile on his face. "This was a present from your father," he started to explain, and cut Arwen off as she opened her mouth to say something. "It is from a foreign land, a place called 'Australia', wherever that may be.

"Elrond said that it was only fit for a King," Aragorn looked smug as he said this. "He also said that this kind of thing was called 'soap'. But I've decided to name mine; it would feel much more personal."

Skeptical still, Arwen glanced at the 'soap'. It did look rather exotic.

Aragorn seemed to sense Arwen's confusion. "Try it," he suggested, taking the hand of the 'soap' and used it to caress his shoulder. A lot of white foam appeared.

Coming to a quick decision, Arwen peeled off her clothes and stepped into the bath. She followed her husband's example and held a limb of the 'soap' to her stomach and rubbed it in gently. It felt lovely, and foam appeared, just like it did for Aragorn. Arwen giggled. The 'soap' looked less nervous now.

"It's shy," Aragorn explained as he slid the 'soap's arm across his chest.

Arwen did the same thing to her back. She was starting to get quite fond of this foreign thing.

"You said you gave it a name," she asked, curious. "What did you name it?"

"Faramir," Aragorn beamed at his wife and the 'soap', which was sitting between them.

"Faramir?" Arwen studied the 'soap' as it beamed back at the King. "It is a very fitting name," she mused.

How many of you wish that you were in Aragorn or Arwen's position? I know I do. If Faramir really was a bar of soap, I'd never come out of my bathroom. Ever. All hell could break loose outside, but everything would be okay as long as I have Faramir the soap with me.

Instead I am sitting in front of my computer, writing a new chapter of my fic that doesn't seem to be going anywhere real soon. It's an enjoyable task, but if Faramir were a bar of soap, the alternative would be so much more enjoyable. So much more.

The Steward of Gondor, better known as Faramir, spawn of Denethor and brother of Boromir, is a person many a fangirl fantasize about on a weekly- if not daily- basis. The object of our affect is a handsome man of great caliber with a head of lovely strawberry blond hair and a pair of gorgeous blue eyes and such kissable lips, as well as a body to put Fabio to shame.

To describe a bar of soap, however, is a great deal less exciting. It's small, and usually rectangular; it has no hair, no eyes- in fact it has to face to speak of, unless you're like me and carve faces onto their soap when they're bored. It gets slippery when wet.

(Public Service Announcement: I am not going to say the words 'Faramir' and 'wet' in the same sentence, as that sentence will be sure to compromise the PG rating of this fanfiction. In fact, I think I've already said too much. Er. Thank you, that is all.)

One of those fancy new age soaps that are all the rage right now may share one or two similarities with Faramir, such as a soap may be the same lovely colour of his hair, or his eyes, or his skin. If we gather enough of these different types of soap, perhaps we can make a Soap Man that looks like Faramir, but it remains that the constructed Soap Man will not be able to eat, drink, take baths, or cuddle people, as the real Faramir is able to do. And if we attempted to stay in the bathroom with Soap Man, after a period of time, he will dissolve, and we hope that such a travesty like that should never occur to Faramir.

As much as it pains me to admit it, with Faramir's hectic lifestyle and the whole 'grr, arrgh I must kill orcs' thing going on, it is quite possible that personal hygiene is not high on his agenda either. It follows that at times, he may get a little… smelly. Soaps, on the other hand, tend to stay smelling satisfactory at all times, because after all, it's what they're made for.

And even though I wish it were true, Faramir is not, has never been, and will never be a bar of soap; it's a fact that I've learnt to accept over the years. For those of you who think otherwise… I can offer you nothing more than a pat on the back and a phrase I've heard from a friend, "Denial is not only a river in Egypt".

End

A/N: Phew. The last chapter of this fic was written how many months ago? Nearly one year, methinks. O.o Can't promise I'll be back full time- this chapter was done because plot bunnies were rampaging and won't leave me alone. Hope you guys like it :)

Edit1: Screwed up the formatting. Yay for that.