Vision Unblemished
Disclaimer: Not mine!
Rating: PG for themes
Notes: I don't know how realistic this story is, but the OFC told me to write it anyway. Feedback is appreciated, as always. And many thanks to Lilan for looking it over!

Faramir watched as hammer struck chisel, tapping away chips of stone from the block. He had been watching for a while, and shape was beginning to appear from it: an upright form, tall and dignified and familiar. The woman who crafted it paused briefly in her work, shaking out her hands and rubbing them together. She turned to him only slightly when she spoke.

"It will not be complete for some time yet, I'm afraid."

He glanced from the half-made statue to the woman. Her eyes were sunken, the lids scarred and closed over empty sockets, but her face was calm, and might, years before, have been beautiful.

"I know. But if it does not bother you, I would enjoy watching you work for a while longer," he said.

She smiled. "Watch, then, if it pleases you."

The steady tapping of her hammer continued. Her work was precise, leisurely, and the folds of a robe began to appear on the rough figure. Every now and then, her hands would explore the stone, seeing it through her touch. It seemed miraculous that the blinded woman could continue in her trade, but even without sight she was among the best in the City.

The City. Outside of the room in which Faramir sat, life continued on. Rebuilding had at last been completed, and Minas Tirith was again as lovely as he had ever seen it. The shattered stone which had rained knife-like splinters into the sculptress' eyes as she glanced up in horror during the siege had long since been carted off and replaced.

And the people of the city were pleased by this renewal, as they had every right to be. The long struggle which had worn away at them all was over. The king had returned. Peace could be enjoyed, and prosperity regained.

But memory remained, as it should, even in the midst of this happiness. Memory, in which the courage of Men had blazed brightly across dark days. Memory, in which lost dear ones still spoke and breathed. Memory, in which the ache of loss lived on. Those would not be paved over like a stretch of broken street.

The sculptress tapped away bits of stone, as if uncovering a figure enclosed within it, and her memory guided her. Her memory of things seen could not be blemished, and the face that she revealed from the stone was the same: Denethor, with his deep eyes fixed in confident far-sight, before despair had come to him. Denethor, as Faramir desired to remember him, untouched by a vision of flames.

-end-