-From the Ashes-
-By: Aerlinnuial (and the fickle plot bunnies)-
-Disclaimer: I own nothing, Faramir owns nothing. Pertaining to Tolkien's precious, that is. The rabid lawyers can leave now. *twitch*-
-A/N: This series would happen to be my first. Praise me or flame me, or choose the middle ground, I care not. Just review!
Summary: Faramir struggles to overcome the grief over the loss of his parents and Boromir as he builds a new life with Éowyn.
Rating: PG, it might rise later. The plot bunnies have yet to give a verdict.
-1: The Passing of Boromir-
I watched the cold gray-blue torrent of the Anduin, as I had done so often, rush past, picturing the path of the water in my mind as it roared on its course, heedless of me and my transfixed state that enveloped my consciousness, though I had viewed the Great River of Gondor so many times previous.
This time it was not the feeling of my insignificance (or that of the concerns that overwhelmed me, and troubled my sleep) that drew me to the riverbank, as many recalled after glimpsing the watery pride of Gondor (for in truth I needed to look no farther than my father to willingly supply that emotion) nor the beauty or symbolism of the Anduin. Not the history, the tales of Gondor throughout its existence that echoed in the gurgling of the water. In fact, I knew not why exactly I stood spellbound at Anduin's edge, save that another force was willing me there among the wind-swayed reeds.
Suddenly, an aura of awe and reverence came over me, and my eyes, gifted with Numenorean far sight, fastened themselves to the flow from the north, upstream. As I strained them, to see what might occasion the silence and abrupt stillness that had even mastered Anduin, a vessel came into my view.
As the radiant silver moonlight glimmered on the small boat (for such I could just barely make it out to be) the hue of the Elvish wood (even in the distance, I could discern this was no craft made by mortal man, for not even the Numemorean shipwrights of old could match this vessel) glittered gray.
I hesitated but a moment before I (although still rather tentatively) stepped into the now calm and silent river, almost as if a trance, save for the early tentativeness, which had departed as I lifted my booted foot in preparation for the next step that would take me further into the water.
I reached out my now pale hand to touch the craft (which had slowed its rapid pace with the slowing of the river) for a sensation of foreboding had come upon me now as well and removed any healthy coloration of my skin, which was now ghostly white and had taken on the dreamlike quality of the river and the boat that radiated so many atmospheres.
The supple, glowing wood felt cool to my touch, yet inviting and calming, and I felt myself releasing my timid hold on the boat, and my hand sinking loosely about my side - until my enthralled eye peered at the Elven vessel's burden, cradled in the ethereal substance. My wondering gaze widened in disbelief, my hold on the boat tightened in mournful agony, my knuckles pure white from the strain, I sensed my countenance turn ashen, my blood ran cold, and I thought my heart had stopped its continual, life-sustaining beat, or that it had been torn asunder, from the sheer grief that overcame me.
For in the gliding, heavy-laden boat (which had no turned in my direction so that I could easily view the treasure contained in it) that seemed to gather all the radiance of Anor and Ithil to it and project it out unto the crystal blue-gray water and its enclosing terrain, my shocked eyes beheld my brother.
I had for a moment thought he did naught but sleep undisturbed by the water that weighed the vessel down so, for he looked not as one would imagine a warrior wounded to the death to appear when his spirit had left its battered house. He seemed so calm, so much more peaceful than his fiery, restless, and proud nature (especially vehement in battle of sword or word when it came to the White City we loved so) had ever permitted him to be in life.
But my eyes strayed to the shattered sword on his knee, the uncountable wounds, many still with broken arrows remaining amidst the blood and flesh of Gondor, and the scattered and maimed weapons, apparently of vanquished foes, that lay strewn about his feet. His gear was travel-worn, yet recognizable as the articles they had originally been when Boromir had taken his leave from the country whose people had longed for his return ever since. My eyes turned to the belt around his waist, which was of Gondorian make, on which he bore always his most treasured possession, the silver-tipped horn that had been passed down to the heir of the Stewardship throughout untold generations of the House of Húrin.
But rather than the usual leather, his belt had transformed into a girdle of linked golden leaves, which I wondered at. A horn was not there. And its absence was the final proof that he walked this world no longer, for Boromir would die (and mayhap he had) before he would surrender it.
My eyes brimmed with tears, and however unmanly they were, I no longer cared. My brother. My protector. The man I looked up to more than any other. The will that shielded my fragile soul from our father's bitterness and the loss of our mother. The pride and captain of Gondor. Boromir. How such a man be dead? How would Gondor survive? And how would I? The void he left was too great to fill, and I would spend what remained of my days struggling to breach the chasm that was my despair and emptiness.
As if reminding me of what was lost to me, memories of him, of us, sprang to my mind. In the thirty-five years I had grown and shared with Boromir, there were many, and it seemed as if my grief intended to intensify itself by reliving every instant of every instant we had together as the boat drifted on past me, shining on through the dreamy twilight.
I cried out numbly, not even realizing what I had uttered. "Boromir! Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? Oh Boromir!" I heard myself say, as if he could answer, my voice echoing hollowly around me, Boromir, Boromir!
But the boat had disappeared from my sight. And so my brother was gone, never to return to the White City of Gondor he had loved.
A/N: I realize it says (if any of you are fanatical enough to notice) in The Two Towers' Window on the West, Faramir himself says he did not actually touch the boat, but I tweaked this (and possibly other minor details I neglected to spot)... for purposes of enhancing the story.
-By: Aerlinnuial (and the fickle plot bunnies)-
-Disclaimer: I own nothing, Faramir owns nothing. Pertaining to Tolkien's precious, that is. The rabid lawyers can leave now. *twitch*-
-A/N: This series would happen to be my first. Praise me or flame me, or choose the middle ground, I care not. Just review!
Summary: Faramir struggles to overcome the grief over the loss of his parents and Boromir as he builds a new life with Éowyn.
Rating: PG, it might rise later. The plot bunnies have yet to give a verdict.
-1: The Passing of Boromir-
I watched the cold gray-blue torrent of the Anduin, as I had done so often, rush past, picturing the path of the water in my mind as it roared on its course, heedless of me and my transfixed state that enveloped my consciousness, though I had viewed the Great River of Gondor so many times previous.
This time it was not the feeling of my insignificance (or that of the concerns that overwhelmed me, and troubled my sleep) that drew me to the riverbank, as many recalled after glimpsing the watery pride of Gondor (for in truth I needed to look no farther than my father to willingly supply that emotion) nor the beauty or symbolism of the Anduin. Not the history, the tales of Gondor throughout its existence that echoed in the gurgling of the water. In fact, I knew not why exactly I stood spellbound at Anduin's edge, save that another force was willing me there among the wind-swayed reeds.
Suddenly, an aura of awe and reverence came over me, and my eyes, gifted with Numenorean far sight, fastened themselves to the flow from the north, upstream. As I strained them, to see what might occasion the silence and abrupt stillness that had even mastered Anduin, a vessel came into my view.
As the radiant silver moonlight glimmered on the small boat (for such I could just barely make it out to be) the hue of the Elvish wood (even in the distance, I could discern this was no craft made by mortal man, for not even the Numemorean shipwrights of old could match this vessel) glittered gray.
I hesitated but a moment before I (although still rather tentatively) stepped into the now calm and silent river, almost as if a trance, save for the early tentativeness, which had departed as I lifted my booted foot in preparation for the next step that would take me further into the water.
I reached out my now pale hand to touch the craft (which had slowed its rapid pace with the slowing of the river) for a sensation of foreboding had come upon me now as well and removed any healthy coloration of my skin, which was now ghostly white and had taken on the dreamlike quality of the river and the boat that radiated so many atmospheres.
The supple, glowing wood felt cool to my touch, yet inviting and calming, and I felt myself releasing my timid hold on the boat, and my hand sinking loosely about my side - until my enthralled eye peered at the Elven vessel's burden, cradled in the ethereal substance. My wondering gaze widened in disbelief, my hold on the boat tightened in mournful agony, my knuckles pure white from the strain, I sensed my countenance turn ashen, my blood ran cold, and I thought my heart had stopped its continual, life-sustaining beat, or that it had been torn asunder, from the sheer grief that overcame me.
For in the gliding, heavy-laden boat (which had no turned in my direction so that I could easily view the treasure contained in it) that seemed to gather all the radiance of Anor and Ithil to it and project it out unto the crystal blue-gray water and its enclosing terrain, my shocked eyes beheld my brother.
I had for a moment thought he did naught but sleep undisturbed by the water that weighed the vessel down so, for he looked not as one would imagine a warrior wounded to the death to appear when his spirit had left its battered house. He seemed so calm, so much more peaceful than his fiery, restless, and proud nature (especially vehement in battle of sword or word when it came to the White City we loved so) had ever permitted him to be in life.
But my eyes strayed to the shattered sword on his knee, the uncountable wounds, many still with broken arrows remaining amidst the blood and flesh of Gondor, and the scattered and maimed weapons, apparently of vanquished foes, that lay strewn about his feet. His gear was travel-worn, yet recognizable as the articles they had originally been when Boromir had taken his leave from the country whose people had longed for his return ever since. My eyes turned to the belt around his waist, which was of Gondorian make, on which he bore always his most treasured possession, the silver-tipped horn that had been passed down to the heir of the Stewardship throughout untold generations of the House of Húrin.
But rather than the usual leather, his belt had transformed into a girdle of linked golden leaves, which I wondered at. A horn was not there. And its absence was the final proof that he walked this world no longer, for Boromir would die (and mayhap he had) before he would surrender it.
My eyes brimmed with tears, and however unmanly they were, I no longer cared. My brother. My protector. The man I looked up to more than any other. The will that shielded my fragile soul from our father's bitterness and the loss of our mother. The pride and captain of Gondor. Boromir. How such a man be dead? How would Gondor survive? And how would I? The void he left was too great to fill, and I would spend what remained of my days struggling to breach the chasm that was my despair and emptiness.
As if reminding me of what was lost to me, memories of him, of us, sprang to my mind. In the thirty-five years I had grown and shared with Boromir, there were many, and it seemed as if my grief intended to intensify itself by reliving every instant of every instant we had together as the boat drifted on past me, shining on through the dreamy twilight.
I cried out numbly, not even realizing what I had uttered. "Boromir! Where is thy horn? Whither goest thou? Oh Boromir!" I heard myself say, as if he could answer, my voice echoing hollowly around me, Boromir, Boromir!
But the boat had disappeared from my sight. And so my brother was gone, never to return to the White City of Gondor he had loved.
A/N: I realize it says (if any of you are fanatical enough to notice) in The Two Towers' Window on the West, Faramir himself says he did not actually touch the boat, but I tweaked this (and possibly other minor details I neglected to spot)... for purposes of enhancing the story.