The summers are warmer than it once was, the Prince of Ithilien reflects as he reclines comfortably on a soft woollen blanket, a pillow cushioning his back leaning against the trunk of a gnarled old oak. His weathered, calloused hands rest upon an open page of a forgotten book. The sunshine filtering through the green leaves casts a greenish, dappled light across the page - a curious pattern indeed! - and Faramir finds himself nearly drowsing off. Shaking his head, he chuckles softly. The trees grow old, and so does I. But the saplings will thrive in this cleansed land, untainted by the dark days that we had once battled against and won. And things are better left this way; our children need not know of the pains, sorrows and heartbreaks.
Faramir looks back, to the twenty and a hundred years that he had lived, all the changes he had seen. The five children that had been born into his and Eowyn's lives, and he had nurtured them carefully, and seen them grow strong and healthy, just as Ithilien flourished under Eowyn's healing hands. Then he looks forwards, and sees a future bright and glorious, his heirs proudly ruling this land that he had nourished.
Let us plant a garden in this land, the land of the Rising Moon, he once proposed eagerly to Eowyn, his White Lady, his gentle Shieldmaiden. Let us plant a garden, you and I, and we will both live in it and grow old together as the years pass by. And they had succeeded in their task. The rewards of their toils could be seen clearly; green with grass and saplings and thousands of trees that now shades this once unkempt land, blue with the bubbling streams and rivers that had dried up once, pink with stonecrops that had once crowned the old stone-king's head, white with simbelmyne and gold with ripening barley. And black, not with ashes or coal, but fertile soil.
Faramir is brought back to the present when he hears the sweet lilting tones of a singing thrush. Childlike laughter mingles with the melodious birdsong, a wonderful sound that Faramir will never forget. Fair and raven-haired children, his own brood and the King's, chase around gaily in the garden that he and Eowyn had cultivated. Memories of the Darkness seemed as distant as the deserted Elven-havens up west, ironic in the fact that Ithilien was once the closest base of defense to Mordor in the dark days of Sauron.
Aragorn, with more than a few silver streaks in his hair now, is sharing his blanket with Isilme, Faramir's youngest daughter, both talking animatedly (and pointing around the garden, for Aragorn's part), and Isilme is eagerly taking down notes in her grey leather-bound sketchbook. Most likely about herbs, Faramir guesses, smiling. That girl is absolutely nuts about herbs. Her son Isildur is hiding shyly behind his mother, something Faramir noted with a light chuckle. That boy was not unlike himself when he was young. Arwen was nowhere to be seen here, probably inside the kitchen supervising the maids that are preparing iced juice for them all. Elboron was standing beside Eldarion, two best friends watching and smiling as their young sons sparred with each other playfully. Just as they themselves once did, and Aragorn and I watched them, Faramir thought wistfully.
There are so many beloved ones gathered here, Faramir thought with an underlying sense of melancholy. Yet there are some who had not lived to see this. His mother and his brother had died before their times; and more than two decades ago, his Eowyn had also left him. His third daughter Elenwe, sickly in birth and died in a ravaging fever when she was six. His uncle, Imrahil had died a few years ago, of old age and in utter peace. His grandfather, Ecthelion, even though Faramir's memories of him were blurred, will always be remembered as a kind, loving and doting grandfather.
And, last but not least, there was his father. Maddened, crazed, Denethor had almost burned his own son alive on a pyre. But Faramir had already forgiven him, long ago. Why should he harbour resentment or hatred towards his own father? In the end, Faramir had forgiven his father for everything. He held no grudges against his own sire.
As the warm summer winds rustled the leaves of the trees, Faramir fancies that he could smell a faint whiff of cinnamon, as well as mint, in the warm, caressing breeze. It reminds him of Eowyn somehow, the fact that she loves cinnamon and mint.
Now, as if in a dream, Faramir espied those who had once passed by in this fair garden. His wife was leaning against the stone statue of a rearing horse, wearing her trademark straw hat and soiled gloves, but the hair that flowed from under her hat was golden again, with no threads of white in it.
She eagerly beckoned at him, an unspeakable joy twinkling in her eyes.
A movement at the corner of his left eye caught his attention. He turned, and to his astonishment, saw his daughter Elenwe running and laughing, her silken raven hair fanning out in the wind, bedecked with a circlet woven of white simbelmyne. She turned to face him with a cheeky expression that drew a chuckle out of Faramir. She had never been so lively before; she was always the weakest one of all his children, the easiest to fall prey to sickness.
Faramir stands up, and scans the whole garden. Is that Imrahil, too, walking there, or is it a trick of the light filtered through the leaves and sparkling in the fountain? Oh, and there goes his mother and his father, hand in hand and smiling at him, their faces dappled by the light shining through the leaves. Faramir had never seen Denethor smile after his mother passed away. And now there he is, the kindly grandfather Faramir never knew much, eyes twinkling merrily, his lips curled back in laughter! Gods almighty, was he going mad?!
"Do you still wake, or are you already asleep?" asks a familiar, well-remembered voice, filled with warmth and mirth, as it had once been on another day long past, a day not unlike today. Faramir feels his heart leap in joy as his eyes find Boromir standing beside Elboron, winking impishly at him. Close up, Elboron resembles his uncle, the kinsman he never knew.
It is truly amazing to behold them together, his brother and his son, two different individuals who looks so alike. Do I dream? Faramir murmurs to himself. Or do I wake? He feels drowsy, and yawns sleepily. The dappled sunlight shines in his eyes. All is peaceful. His eyelids flutter close.
"Faramir!"
"Ada!"
Faramir's eyelids flew up, and he rubbed his sleepy eyes. Aragorn was kneeling beside him, a smile on his lips. He sits down and lights his pipe when he sees that Faramir is awake. "Hmmmhhh?" Faramir mumbles. He knows not how it came to that the sun is already in the west, a blaze of fire and light sinking under the horizon. "How...?" He wonders. It is his son that answers him.
"You have been asleep for ages, ada. The King got worried and called you. The children have already gone inside with their mothers." Elboron has a wistful look in his eyes as he gazes in the direction of the house. "How we have grown, Eldarion and I. It seemed like only a moment ago that we had sparred in this very same garden as our sons now do."
Faramir smiles softly. He knows what his son means. But he also knows another thing for sure - his time will come soon. He has seen it in his beloved Eowyn's eyes, be it a dream or a vision, the joy of being reunited soon. Perhaps that was what the dream meant - reunion with his already-dead family.
"Come, Faramir. We should go into the house soon; for fear that you could catch a cold. Summer is ending and soon the breezes will be colder." Aragorn advises as he gets up stiffly, with the help of Elboron. The years have also laid their claim on his liege-lord, Faramir notes sadly as he watches Aragorn's stiff pace. Elboron turned over and holds out a hand to his father.
"I am coming." Faramir whispers to the western breeze and he accepts Elboron's hand and gets up stiffly. "Soon, beloved. Soon." They walk back into the house.
A faded leaf floats down and settles on the forgotten blanket. Autumn is coming, and summer is fading. A colder wind rattles and shakes the leaves briskly.
Soon, when the ground is carpeted with leaves of gold and brown and red, but the winter-clouds have not yet rolled in to shed their white cloak, Faramir will be reunited at last with those long gone before him.
Yeah, so I tried writing Faramir this time. But dunno if I got his age right, I hadn't checked, but I think it's 120, last time I read upon his dying age in another author's story. So, yup, please rate and review! Those few sentences that you throw in would make my day! And it what's more, it doesn't take a whole day to write it! All you have to do is just type a few words, click that tiny silver button, and then you're done!