Summary:
Short intense character piece. Early morning thoughts from one Son of Gondor, unable to sleep in Lothlorien. Brooding about Aragorn the not-king, hope and despair. Thought-cameos for the Fellowship, Faramir, Denethor, and last but not least, the White Lady of Gondor herself, Minas Tirith.
Disclaimer:
The Lord of the Rings and its characters are property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No profit is intended or made from this story.
Author's Notes (updated Dec 6, 2003):
Just a re-post of an ages-ago fic which frankly I'm afraid to even read over so I am trying to edit this page without actually looking at the story...
If you've read this story before, hello! If you haven't: hey there, hope you enjoy.
Och, that Boromir - Faramir story I was talking about writing ... It's been more than a year and the damn thing is still being planned! Admittedly I haven't been able to work on it as much as I would like, but I have acres of sketches, notes, chronologies, character lists, vocab lists, and other references, and I'm now afraid to go near them because their combined mass exerts a force of gravity which light itself cannot escape. In short, I am now scared of it and am putting it on hold. I'll probably be back to work on it after spending some time in Peter Jackson's Minas Tirith this December. I still haven't seen the extended TTT, so hopefully that flashback sequence I've heard so much about (Boromir! Faramir! In the SAME FRAME!!!) will also provide a little emotional fuel for the writing. :)
Author's Notes (updated Sept 14, 2002):
I would say angst, but Boromir would probably hate the word, and so do I, come to think of it. Title refers to Boromir's state of mind. This takes place in Lothlorien, late February, 3019. Boromir has been away from Minas Tirith for about eight months. For all he knows Aragorn intends to follow Frodo to Mordor. Yeah, I was thinking of the movie when I wrote this.
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Restless
The nights are not as cold here as in the White City. Perhaps it is the cover of these immense trees, but one does not feel the frigidity of the mountain-winds as one does at home.
Of course, I would much rather be there, regardless.
Perhaps not. I am not sure. And how it galls me to say that: "I am not sure."
I can hear Faramir laughing at me. I would be glad of the sound now.
The stars fade slowly in the whitening sky. It is very quiet here - remarkably quiet, even with the sounds of birds, and various other subtle sounds belonging to the forest. The city is never this quiet except in the dead of night, which is when I like it least. The others will be stirring by now, perhaps. The elf rises early and easily, as does Aragorn, who wakes with a start, always. Gimli and the little ones will remain abed at least an hour more, or until breakfast is served, now that they have the luxury of doing so for a little while.
As for the last of us, who knows if he sleeps or rises still? I hear his voice: Annon edhellen, edro hi ammen! If only it had been left there.
Faramir will grieve as well when he learns.
Nay, these thoughts are foolish. We could not have stayed. And move on still we must.
But for now there is the forest. The quiet here is not wholly unpleasant.
Aragorn comes this way. It is early even for him. Ah, the errant king, the regal vagabond. I have come to be loyal to him, but it is a loyalty given against my better judgement. Not because he is not honourable, or valiant, or worthy of Gondor - and these are judgements which will ever be hard-won from me, when it concerns Her - but because the man is all of these things. And yet he will not yet allow me enough assurance from which to forge something truly resembling hope for my city, something that can be grasped rather than vainly gazed after in this near-helpless manner. If he would but indicate, in some way, no matter how small, that he intended to return with me --
It chafes at me, this unfamiliar urge to rely on another man thus who is not my brother or my father. Yet where my city is concerned, I feel compelled to retain that little bit of hope - the shadow of a shade of hope - no matter how it wounds my pride, or how sorely it tests what strength I am still possessor of.
For what else is there?
If I hoped for myself alone, I would say: let it go, and find relief. Even pride such as yours will concede that trying to be strong - to hold on to something so thin and yet so sharp - is not worth the cost of the pain it brings.
Yes, brother, in the end it will not be wisdom that sees an end to this fault of mine for which you have so often rebuked me. Not wisdom, or anything of true worth, but pain, and fear, and interminable weariness. The thought that I should know these things as I now do was once foreign to me. I would never have dwelled upon the notion of such. I would have thought it weak. I still do.
Hope like this is cruel - most cruel and beautiful and cursed - to one who is desperate.
But it is not for me alone. So hope I must, and guard well that little spark, no matter how weak and wavering, no matter how pathetic it seems.
What are you doing now, Faramir? Do you stand upon the Tower to greet the morning? Do your steps fall silently or heavily upon the level white stones? Do you know hope or despair this morning? Are you watching as the sun first touches Her, lights warmly upon the white spires? Is your eye drawn inexorably east, as you think of all those we know and love?
It is good that I am not home. I would no doubt be thinking of Osgiliath still. I have most certainly been indulgent in this place, and this night in particular. Yet I cannot help but think that the days that lie ahead are darker still. For all. How many of us will be left standing when this is over? How shall my people bear these times out? How many will be lost to despair?
Father, do you think of me as you walk across the Court? I almost wish you did not.
I myself have to grasp at what little I know of hope still - to try see it through to whatever end it comes - but for all the strength I like to think is in me, I fear now that I am not that strong.
How many of us are?
The one who is not king opens his mouth. Ever solicitous of the Company - perhaps more so than ever now that one of us is fallen - he tells me to rest.
In a little while, perhaps. Not now.