"When there's a shadow you look for the sun/When there is love then you
look for the one." --Enya, Paint the Sky with Stars
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof
Author's note: /. . ./ denotes a memory
*****
Faramir rested his head on his fist, squashing up the flesh about his right eye and making it completely impossible to focus on the book before him: that was all right, he meant to focus elsewhere. In only moments a glaze had come over the man's eyes, and though they flickered about as though searching, what ever he pursued clearly would not be found in the library around him.
Stories, as Faramir often found himself guilty reading when something more productive might easily take the place of these, were more than words and sentences: they were plain joy. Never had the man known anything so pleasing as a good story.
No, perhaps a good story was not the most pleasing thing in the world, perhaps the word Faramir sought was not "tale" but "love." Never needing to close his eyes to dream, Faramir saw a day many years ago, before his brother sought the Elven haven Imladris, when though he knew of the growing darkness it weighed not so heavily upon his mind.
/"Faramir! So I have found you, little brother!" Boromir exclaimed, smiling, only his head and red-clad shoulders visible to Faramir, who elected to remain lying on his back and gazing at nothing in particular. "Anything of interest?" asked Boromir, hauling himself up and throwing himself into the hay beside his brother.
"There," Faramir replied, pointing.
"Wood," Boromir replied. "I wonder what type it is, and from whence it is come. What interests you in it?"
Moving his arm, Faramir drew an outline for Boromir. "See the face in the grain? What a wicked smile! I think a wizard imprisoned him in this wood to punish him, for he was truly a terrible man!"
Boromir laughed. "Indeed, brother? Does Mithrandir say this is possible?"
"I have not yet asked him." Faramir turned his head. Boromir gazed at him strangely, "Why do you look at me in this way, Boromir?"
"Because, little brother, you are so like to our mother. Do you recall the glorious tales she wove?"
The younger boy turned away. "I remember her very little. Whoever killed Mama must be in wood somewhere, also."
Boromir shifted in the hay, leaning on one elbow to watch his brother from a different angle. "Why do you say someone killed Mama, Faramir?"
"Because," Faramir replied, whose memories of his mother were gay and filled with life, "she should not have died. Someone. . .someone killed her, because she was not meant to die."
"Oh, Faramir." Boromir had sixteen years, and although he had always looked after his little brother sooner or later, and likely sooner, Boromir knew he would be dispatched to serve his country somewhere where he would be unable to play with or talk to his brother, lonely and serious at only eleven years. Shifting again, Boromir wrapped his arms around his brother and, holding the boy, said, "Things happen we cannot explain nor seek blame for, Faramir. Mama loved me and she loved you and her love will always be with us."
"Then why would she leave us?" asked Faramir stubbornly.
Later, Boromir would ask Faramir, 'Would you want Mama to know the darkening world?' but that day, he said, "Let me tell you where Mama is now, Faramir." Innocence is a terrible thing to lose. Grief is an awful fate to suffer. Boromir wished to protect his brother from these things, so he invented a story then. "Where Mama is now, all the days are sunny and the skies eternally blue. The grass never dies and has the strength to make a perfect whistle. In this place, no one knows grief or pain or sorrow, but is glad."
Faramir, contented to act the child, snuggled against his brother's chest, and muttered into Boromir's tunic, "Does Mama miss us?"
"No, she does not miss us, for she is watching over us. She is with us, Faramir."
A pleasing answer, Faramir switched the subject again, "What does she do all day, Boromir?"
"What does she do all day?" Boromir was surprised by the question; then, his brother did love to ask questions. "Well, every morning she watches the sun rise. . ."/
The chiming of a clocktower not far away brought Faramir back to the present. Counting the bells, Faramir noted pleasantly that he had yet time before the twelfth hour, when he was to join the audience at the throne. Politics were all well and good, but when they interrupted reading and stories, Faramir found himself easily tired of them.
Later, another chime alerted Faramir to a most terrible fact: his daydreams had drowned the first chime of the earlier session, and now the hour was not twelve--but one.
*****
To be continued
Author's note: I'm just indulging a plot bunny here. Let me know what you think!
Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places thereof
Author's note: /. . ./ denotes a memory
*****
Faramir rested his head on his fist, squashing up the flesh about his right eye and making it completely impossible to focus on the book before him: that was all right, he meant to focus elsewhere. In only moments a glaze had come over the man's eyes, and though they flickered about as though searching, what ever he pursued clearly would not be found in the library around him.
Stories, as Faramir often found himself guilty reading when something more productive might easily take the place of these, were more than words and sentences: they were plain joy. Never had the man known anything so pleasing as a good story.
No, perhaps a good story was not the most pleasing thing in the world, perhaps the word Faramir sought was not "tale" but "love." Never needing to close his eyes to dream, Faramir saw a day many years ago, before his brother sought the Elven haven Imladris, when though he knew of the growing darkness it weighed not so heavily upon his mind.
/"Faramir! So I have found you, little brother!" Boromir exclaimed, smiling, only his head and red-clad shoulders visible to Faramir, who elected to remain lying on his back and gazing at nothing in particular. "Anything of interest?" asked Boromir, hauling himself up and throwing himself into the hay beside his brother.
"There," Faramir replied, pointing.
"Wood," Boromir replied. "I wonder what type it is, and from whence it is come. What interests you in it?"
Moving his arm, Faramir drew an outline for Boromir. "See the face in the grain? What a wicked smile! I think a wizard imprisoned him in this wood to punish him, for he was truly a terrible man!"
Boromir laughed. "Indeed, brother? Does Mithrandir say this is possible?"
"I have not yet asked him." Faramir turned his head. Boromir gazed at him strangely, "Why do you look at me in this way, Boromir?"
"Because, little brother, you are so like to our mother. Do you recall the glorious tales she wove?"
The younger boy turned away. "I remember her very little. Whoever killed Mama must be in wood somewhere, also."
Boromir shifted in the hay, leaning on one elbow to watch his brother from a different angle. "Why do you say someone killed Mama, Faramir?"
"Because," Faramir replied, whose memories of his mother were gay and filled with life, "she should not have died. Someone. . .someone killed her, because she was not meant to die."
"Oh, Faramir." Boromir had sixteen years, and although he had always looked after his little brother sooner or later, and likely sooner, Boromir knew he would be dispatched to serve his country somewhere where he would be unable to play with or talk to his brother, lonely and serious at only eleven years. Shifting again, Boromir wrapped his arms around his brother and, holding the boy, said, "Things happen we cannot explain nor seek blame for, Faramir. Mama loved me and she loved you and her love will always be with us."
"Then why would she leave us?" asked Faramir stubbornly.
Later, Boromir would ask Faramir, 'Would you want Mama to know the darkening world?' but that day, he said, "Let me tell you where Mama is now, Faramir." Innocence is a terrible thing to lose. Grief is an awful fate to suffer. Boromir wished to protect his brother from these things, so he invented a story then. "Where Mama is now, all the days are sunny and the skies eternally blue. The grass never dies and has the strength to make a perfect whistle. In this place, no one knows grief or pain or sorrow, but is glad."
Faramir, contented to act the child, snuggled against his brother's chest, and muttered into Boromir's tunic, "Does Mama miss us?"
"No, she does not miss us, for she is watching over us. She is with us, Faramir."
A pleasing answer, Faramir switched the subject again, "What does she do all day, Boromir?"
"What does she do all day?" Boromir was surprised by the question; then, his brother did love to ask questions. "Well, every morning she watches the sun rise. . ."/
The chiming of a clocktower not far away brought Faramir back to the present. Counting the bells, Faramir noted pleasantly that he had yet time before the twelfth hour, when he was to join the audience at the throne. Politics were all well and good, but when they interrupted reading and stories, Faramir found himself easily tired of them.
Later, another chime alerted Faramir to a most terrible fact: his daydreams had drowned the first chime of the earlier session, and now the hour was not twelve--but one.
*****
To be continued
Author's note: I'm just indulging a plot bunny here. Let me know what you think!