This is set in the same universe as Not Forgetting About This and Bridge, which I am henceforth referring to as the NFAB-verse. And yes, I know that, in canon, Aragorn is about the same age as Denethor; however, for the purposes of this AU universe, I wanted him to be a contemporary of Boromir's (And, by extension, Théodred, who does not appear in this fic but will in future fics). Also, Elphir is, in-canon, Imrahil's oldest son. He's a bit younger than Boromir and Faramir, about fifteen years old in this story.
I own nothing.
Aragorn had won five tickets to a re-enactment of the Great Battle of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men through a radio contest. It was supposed to be at the base of Mount Doom itself; the festivities were lasting for four days, and Aragorn characterized it as "something you don't want to miss." He'd given one of the other tickets to Arwen, his foster-sister, and another to Boromir. Elladan and Elrohir, Aragorn's foster-brothers, would have liked to go but the Lothlórien division of the Ranger Corps was short on instructors for the new recruits this season, so they'd gone to help their grandparents and Haldir with the recruits. Théodred was in much the same position; his father needed him at work, he said, and couldn't take the time off. But as Boromir pointed out, it wasn't like Faramir had anything to do that summer, and Elphir was hopping to go ever since he heard of the contest.
Faramir did not at all appreciate being volunteered by his brother. No, Faramir was not fond of traveling long distances (In this case, 'long' being a distance that took any longer than about four hours to get to). They had never done a great deal of traveling as children; Denethor was no more fond of traveling than he was. Faramir's first long trip had come last summer, going south with friends. The trip, which was to be two weeks long, left him horribly homesick for Dol Amroth within about two days, and subsequently incapable of enjoying anything, even when admitting that the scenery was beautiful and the weather even better. It had startled him to realize that he dreamt of Dol Amroth and not the city where he was born, startled him to realize just how quickly he'd come to think of Uncle Imrahil's house as home, only a year after he'd come to live there on a permanent basis.
Granted, the re-enactment itself sounded interesting, but Faramir also knew that such an event would likely be televised, and that the ride to Mordor would take several days. He had no desire to go down the highway in Aragorn's old van (because Faramir knew that thatrickety old death trap would be what ended up transporting them, one way or another) to the erstwhile land of evil. If he didn't die of homesickness on the way, he'd probably go stir-crazy in the van and murder someone. Given Faramir's luck, that someone would probably end up being Boromir, who hadn't done anything to deserve it.
So Faramir attempted to argue when Aragorn and Arwen arrived at Imrahil's house late last night, the night before they were heading off to Mordor. He absolutely did not wish to go. However, the moment he made this opinion clear, everyone else started arguing with him. Arwen told him that he'd surely find the experience much richer for having seen it in person. Aragorn told him it would do him some good to see the world, even if the part of the world they were going to was the erstwhile land of evil. Boromir said they barely ever spent time together anymore and Look, it'll be fun. Traveling really can be enjoyable, believe it or not. You've just not done any traveling in the right sort of company.
All these arguments were made, but it was the one made by Imrahil that finally tipped the scales. I don't want Elphir going on this trip without someone I trust watching out for him.
What, am I not someone you trust, Uncle? Boromir exclaimed, hurt, to which Imrahil had replied that, after his misadventure in Mirkwood a few years back, no, he did not especially trust Boromir to stay safe. Given that Aragorn had been with Boromir at the time and had gotten into the mess with Boromir, Imrahil claimed that Aragorn couldn't be trusted either. And while Imrahil meant no disrespect to Arwen, he claimed that he did not know her at all, and thus could not be sure if she was the sort of person he wanted to entrust his eldest son to.
No, Faramir, you are the only member of this party I feel remotely comfortable leaving Elphir with.
Between all of these arguments and the way Elphir's face fell when he realized that he might not be going after all, Faramir had to give in. What choice did he have? Elphir never would have let him hear the end of it if he hadn't consented to go, and in all honesty, it didn't strike Faramir as fair that his cousin would have to stay at home just because he didn't want to go driving into Mordor.
It was for this reason that Faramir was up at the very crack of dawn (five forty-five in the morning, to be precise), hefting a decidedly swollen duffel bag over his shoulder as he followed Boromir and Elphir out the door. Aragorn and Arwen were already in the van, which Faramir had noticed had had some modifications made to the interior since the last time he was inside. The second row of seats was gone, leaving only the front driver and passenger seat, and the bench-like (thankfully cushioned) seat in the very back. We're going to need room for everything we're taking with us, Aragorn pointed out, which Faramir supposed made sense, but he still couldn't help but think that this was going to adversely affect the weight distribution in the van, or something.
"Come on!" Elphir shouted, one foot already inside the van as he waved to Faramir, who hung back on the front porch, frowning slightly. "Mordor's not going to get any closer on its own!"
"Amazing." Faramir looked round to see his uncle leaning against the doorframe, taking a deep draught out of his coffee mug. "Even at fifteen, I don't think I had that sort of energy. Especially not at this forsaken time of morning." Despite the somewhat sardonic tone in his voice, Imrahil smiled over the top of his mug. Whether because he was still tired (Faramir might have been more of a morning person than his uncle, but not by much), or because he was still having misgivings about going on this trip at all, Faramir didn't return the smile. "Enjoy yourselves," Imrahil told him. "Be safe. Don't drive drunk, don't let anyone else drive drunk, don't pick up hitch-hikers, unless it's Gandalf, in which case you'll probably be alright, that sort of thing."
Now Faramir could smile, even if only faintly. The idea of Gandalf joining them actually sounded somewhat enjoyable, even if it would lead to the van being even more cramped than it was already going to be. At least they'd get some good stories out of it; they'd just have to keep Gandalf from lighting up his pipe while they were in the van. Everybody knew how Aragorn felt about smoke fumes clinging to the upholstery… "I will. We will."
As he headed towards the van, Imrahil shouted after them all, "Don't do anything stupid! Call me if anything goes wrong!"
They drove out of sight, down the dusty road into the hot, bright world.
-0-0-0-
June 24, 3003 TA
Uncle Imrahil suggested to me that if I thought boredom would overwhelm me, I should keep a travel log to stave it off. Given that I haven't got anything better to be doing (I brought books with me, and I filched a book of crossword puzzles from the basket under the coffee table, but I don't want to run through them on the first), I decided I may as well. This is being written on the left-over pages of the notebook I used to take notes in Calculus II, so if anyone who might happen upon this journal is wonder why there's a summer diary in the back, that's why. I imagine it will be the most interesting thing anyone's ever found in the back of a Calculus II notebook.
Aragorn said it would take us five days to get to Mount Doom. When I asked him if he meant that it would take five days to get there including our arrival, or if he meant that it would take us five days to get to Mordor, and we'd arrive at our destination. He went with the "I say five days but I really mean six days" route. He says we're going to take the road skirting the beach until we get to the mouth of the Anduin; the road through the mountains might be more direct, but there are less people there, and less chance of finding help if we break down. So in order to take "the scenic route", we've added a good day and a half onto our journey. Delightful.
Boromir, Aragorn and I drove in four-hour shifts today. It was actually quite practical; Boromir surprised me by saying that it was his idea, considering that I imagined him as the sort to insist on driving the whole way by himself. (In retrospect, I should have known better; Aragorn loves this van far too much to suffer a rival behind the steering wheel for more than a few hours at a time) The idea was that it would keep anyone from getting too tired or too sick of driving.
And, yes, it's just the three of us driving. Elphir hasn't got his driver's license yet; he hasn't even got a learner's permit. Arwen confided, somewhat shame-faced I think, that in all the years since cars were invented in Middle Earth, she's never been able to pass the driving exam for one. "You see, when I was your age, relatively speaking, I learned how to ride a horse and drive a wagon. Whenever I wished to travel I rode in carriages; I was not expected to drive anything. I only learned to drive a wagon because I wished to and Father indulged me. Cars have been around for less than one hundred years, and anyone who tells you that Elves have a hard time adjusting to new technology was not speaking in jest. Not in the case of this Elf, at least."
I found that rather fascinating, and though I am truly ashamed to admit it, I spent the better part of the next half-hour questioning Arwen on what it was like to be alive when she was "our age, relatively speaking." I've read about it from history books, but given that Arwen was actually there to see a great deal of it happen, somehow her story seemed the more fascinating tale. I may or may not have made a complete fool out of myself, but she didn't seem to mind, not really; she put up with my questions with good grace. She's very kind, I've noticed, is Arwen. I also think she doesn't get people showing genuine interest in her past and the past in general very often.
I suppose if I had been alive back then, I'd have been calling her "Lady Arwen." That sounds odd. Very odd. I noticed that she and Aragorn made eyes at each other all through lunch today when we stopped; I wonder if Master Elrond knows.
We've stopped at hideously cheap roadside motel. I think I saw rats scurry away when I turned on the light to the room I'm sharing with Elphir, but then again, they may well have been cockroaches, and I'm not sure which alternative I like least. Above us the ceiling vibrates every once in a while with footsteps. The windowpanes rattle from the blaring of car stereos in the parking lot outside. I think I will be stuffing tissue in my ears this night, if only to keep out the racket.
Something just occurred to me: my birthday falls on the first day of our journey back once we're done in Mordor. Fine way to spend my twentieth.
-0-0-0-
On the second morning of their journey, the inevitable happened, but that didn't stop Faramir from being amazed with the speed with which it happened.
"What's wrong with this thing?" Boromir snapped at Aragorn, who had opened the steaming hood of his van an hour earlier in the hopes of answering that very question, and did not respond to him now. It was a blisteringly hot late June morning the van had chosen to break down on, and even having a view of the beach wasn't helping Boromir's temper any. It probably wasn't doing anything for Aragorn's temper either, but then again Faramir hadn't exactly gotten a good look at Aragorn's face in the hour since he'd opened the hood of the car. Aragorn's face was invariably centered downwards on the engine, trying to discern just what had gone wrong.
Personally, Faramir's suspicion that what had gone wrong was, quite simply, time. The van was a rusting relic of a bygone age of motor vehicles; Faramir knew quite well that there was not a single piece of machinery in the engine that had been there when the van had first come down off the assembly line (Aragorn had told him so, with some sort of misplaced pride).
It had lived a long life, it was true. The van was Aragorn's first and as of now only car. Faramir had no doubt that it had belonged to many people before Aragorn, and supposed that it might have trucked children back and forth from school. But it was old now, and decrepit; it clearly could not carry its own weight any longer. It was time to let the van die. Faramir would have made a joke about getting some driftwood and building a funeral pyre for the van, except that he found jokes about funeral pyres abhorrent and wouldn't make them at any cost. As it was…
"Aragorn, the van is dead," Faramir told him dryly. "It's dead and gone; stop trying to resurrect it. All we can do at this point is give it a proper funeral. I say we push it into the water and let the waves drag it down."
Aragorn looked up long enough to glare at him and say "No", before going back to poring over the engine.
"I could give an excellent eulogy for it."
"No."
Boromir shook his head, lip twitching; his brother's jibes against the car seem to have improved his temper some, at least. "Nice try, little brother. I don't think the second coming of Morgoth himself could part Aragorn from this rattling clunker."
"Could the people who are trying to help me kindly either actually help me, or at least cut the chatter so I can do my work?" Aragorn asked testily.
Boromir scowled down at the owner of said rattling clunker, and Faramir decided he wasn't going to get anything useful done over here. He knew nothing about cars or vehicle repair, and regardless of Aragorn's remarks, it wasn't like he was actually allowing either Boromir or Faramir to touch anything. The most he would let either of them do was hold a flashlight over the engine so he could see more clearly, and considering that the sun was high in the sky and blazing down on their necks, Faramir wasn't sure how much the presence of a flashlight actually altered the light quality.
As a result of feeling completely useless, Faramir crossed the road, watching out for the cars that always passed them by but never, ever stopped to help, pried off his shoes, and walked down the sand dunes to the beach where Elphir and Arwen, who had no more mechanical expertise than Faramir, had been amusing themselves since the van broke down earlier that morning. Elphir was crouched down where the sand just started to get moist, trying to prise something out of the ground. There were mounds of up-ended sand all around him, and grit all up his arms. "How goes the repairs, cousin?" Elphir asked, huffing as he further attempted to wrench his find from the sand and sounding remarkably unconcerned about the fact that they could very well end up marooned on this beach.
"Very poorly," Faramir replied shortly, blinking grit out of his eyes. "I already wish we were back at home," he muttered.
Elphir looked up at him, smiling out of a heavily-freckled face. "Don't be like that, Faramir. Help me get this out of the sand." He tugged at his find for emphasis.
Frowning, Faramir crouched down besides Elphir, craning his head to figure out exactly what it was his cousin had his hands on. The glint of glass, green and translucent, flashed in the sunlight. "What is it?" he asked curiously.
"Not…sure," Elphir huffed, pulling at the green glass. Faramir added his efforts to that of his cousin's, digging his fingers down into the soft, moist sand. "But…it must be… big."
With a great, wet squelching sound, they wrested Elphir's find from the jealous, sucking sand. Elphir turned it over in his hands and grinned; they had found an enormous green glass bottle, with a long, narrow neck. "This could be from anywhere!" Elphir exclaimed, beaming, inordinately pleased with himself. "It could be some Númenorean relic, or an Elvish bottle, or—"
Faramir unceremoniously took the bottle from his cousin, and held it up to the light so he could get a good look at the still highly-visible stamp on the bottom. "Or it could be an extra-large jug of Old Shire ale from Green Dragon, Incorporated."
At that, Elphir gaped at him as though he'd spoken some incantation in the Black Speech. "What?" he demanded, appalled. Ah yes, the pain of having your bubble burst. How often have I felt it? "What do you mean?"
Deciding that the least he could do was burst Elphir's bubble gently, Faramir held the bottle so Elphir could get a good look at the design stamped onto the bottom of the bottle. "See?" He tapped the logo. "That's the logo of the Green Dragon Corporation; it's a Hobbit-run corporation, very successful. And someone on this beach is a litterer," Faramir added under his breath, shooting his gaze around at the sparse gathering of beachgoers present and wondering if any of them looked like the sort to bury their old ale bottles beneath the sand rather than actually take the time to walk the roughly twenty feet to the nearest garbage bin.
"Oh." Elphir stared down at the bottle, back in his hands, brow knitted, trying to appear nonchalant. Deep down, though, Faramir knew he must have been crestfallen. Elphir had been trying to dig up Númenorean relics on the beach since he was old enough to know what a Númenorean relic was. He reached over and clapped Elphir on the shoulder, knowing that his cousin no longer welcomed attempts to ruffle his hair. Elphir shook his head, tossed the bottle to the side and smiled ruefully up at Faramir. "I suppose I should content myself searching for conch shells instead."
"Perhaps." Sometimes, to Faramir being with Elphir felt like being in the past, or being someone else. Elphir had copper-red hair, bright blue eyes and a warm, ruddy complexion, as did his father and their aunt Ivriniel. Faramir would look at some of the old photos in Imrahil's house, of his mother and her siblings, and even though the old photos were all in black and white, Faramir couldn't help but think that pale, dark-haired Finduilas looked out of place next to her red-headed siblings. Sometimes, he felt out of place next to his cousins in much the same way, though the differences ran deeper than their appearances. But beyond that, Faramir still felt fondness for his cousin, four years his junior, and felt as though his relationship with Elphir possibly gave him some insight into how Boromir looked at him (This certainly helped in regards of Faramir being able to keep his patience with his brother when Boromir was being especially over-protective, or trying too hard to get Faramir to be more sociable than he was comfortable being). "Maybe you can just keep searching for relics, Elphir."
Elphir snorted. "I'll certainly have time to go searching in the dunes, given the sort of progress Aragorn and Boromir are making with the van."
Something dark caught Faramir's eyes, and he turned his gaze out towards the sea. The ocean was a bright, gleaming blue, so bright it nearly hurt to look at it; Faramir took a deep breath of the salt-smell in the air, the clean smell of water, and his throat nearly swelled up with some strange emotion, his eyes stinging, but not from surf. The waters seemed to melt into the horizon, equally blue. And standing out in the water, staring out towards that horizon, was Arwen.
Her long, black hair fanned out behind her like a billowing cloak. Though Arwen, like many of the younger Elves of Middle Earth, had adopted modern fashions in order to fit in better, her clothing was what most would term "conservative", and she had had to roll up her trousers a great deal to stand as far out in the water as she was, past her knees. She stood, stock-still and silent, staring out at the great expanse, her arms wrapped around her chest as though cold.
"Has she been standing out there this whole time?" Faramir asked quietly.
Elphir followed his cousin's gaze, and nodded slowly. "Yes. It's rather unsettling, to be honest; I don't think she's moved at all." Then, he frowned, narrowing his eyes. "Faramir, do you know if Elves can get sunburned? Because I've never actually seen an Elf with a sunburn, and Arwen's been standing out there for more than an hour now."
"Elphir, how often have you seen an Elf on the beach in Dol Amroth, really?"
"Well… Not often. Alright, not at all. The idea of an Elf lying on the beach trying to get a tan fascinates me, though."
-0-0-0-
June 25, 3003 TA
The ocean, or more specifically today, the sight of Arwen standing in the ocean, looking West, reminds me of my mother.
I don't have many clear memories of Mother. In the past, if I have had questions about her, I've asked Boromir, or Gandalf, or Uncle Imrahil, or Grandfather (Mother's father, not my paternal grandfather) when he was still living, or Aunt Ivriniel when she's in a good mood. But I remember how she would talk about the ocean. Only to me would she recall the ocean and how much she missed it. She would speak of it often, every day in fact, and so passionately when there was so little room left for passion in her frail body that I wonder nowadays if she was not obsessed. She was so ill, but for a few minutes a sick, feverish gleam would come into her eyes. It was a secret we shared, though I have never understood why it was a secret. Was she ashamed? Did she simply not wish to burden others with the pain of remembrance? Why did she tell me, then? Why only me?
Mother wasted away with the ocean in her dreams, and now, for two years now, I've dreamt of the black wave of Númenor. I wonder if that means something. I hope it doesn't.
Anyway, about the car.
Another van, this one full of Hobbits, stopped on the side of the road beside us shortly before noon. They didn't know anything about van repair, they said, but they did have a great deal of food with them, and if we had any to share, we were welcome to share luncheon with them. I think we were all surprise how sociable they were around the "Bigfolk", considering that most of the Hobbits that any of us had met in the past were typically quite shy of Men, but didn't complain.
We ate on several blue-and-white checkered picnic blankets the Hobbits had provided, down on the beach. From the Hobbits we had cold ham-and-cheese sandwiches, scones and strawberry preserves. We supplied beef jerky, trail mix and granola bars (It was all we could do to persuade Aragorn that bringing out the k-rations and the spam wouldn't be appropriate). We all drank water, and I don't think this would have been anything resembling a pleasant lunch without the company of the Hobbits, all of whom were quite young and cheery, not to mention chatty.
Arwen only came up from the ocean when Aragorn called for lunch. When he asked her what she'd been doing out there for so long, she only said "Thinking, remembering." I thought she sounded rather sad when she said it. She peeled the ham off of her sandwich, telling the Hobbits that she was a vegetarian. Boromir was quite happy to be the recipient of her discarded cold-cut.
While we were eating, I asked the Hobbits where they were going. After all, where we are now is hundreds of miles from the nearest Hobbit-haven, and from what I understand Hobbits like traveling long distances even less than I do. The Hobbit who seemed to be in charge, a smiling young man with brown curls, explained that they were traveling home from having gone to the sea of Rhûn for a holiday. Elphir asked about the jug he and I had found in the sand earlier today and they started to get a bit shifty looking.
Finally, someone stopped with the intent of actually helping us at about four in the afternoon. Our rescuers were a trio of Dwarves from the Lonely Mountain. We didn't ask them where they were going; we were so happy to see anyone with some mechanical expertise stop to help us that we didn't care. The Dwarves looked a little funny at Arwen for a minute, but when they seemed to realize that she was completely harmless and had no intent of harming them, they put aside their wariness of Elves and got down to fixing our van.
So the car lives. Yes, I know, it surprised me too.
We got back on the road shortly after five, having lost more than eight hours due to this misadventure. Aragorn says we're going to have to drive through the night if we want to get to Mount Doom on time. We'll take it in shifts, as we have done during the day; Aragorn has first shift, Boromir second, and I take the last one before dawn.
Elphir is asleep on the back seat; he, Arwen (well, as much as Arwen is capable of arguing with anyone) and I argued at length about who should sleep there, eventually going so far as to play Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide, and he won. Lucky brat. I should get some sleep myself; my wake-up call isn't going to be pleasant, I think.
-0-0-0-
Faramir dreamt of the waves crashing over him, and was jostled awake to a jolting bump in the road. He had just enough time to reflect that Aragorn, or Boromir, whichever one of them was driving at this point, seemed incapable of avoiding potholes and bumps in the road, before they hit another bump, this time even greater than the last, and something heavy fell on top of him.
It took Faramir a moment to realize that that something was Elphir.
"Elphir." Faramir could barely breathe from the full weight of his cousin, now bearing down on him, but Elphir didn't seem to hear his breathless gasp. "Elphir?" Still nothing. "Elphir!" Faramir shouted unevenly, and every syllable was like a stab straight to the chest. "Get off me!"
At this, Elphir jolted awake and rolled off him, telling him not to shout, he heard him. Unfortunately, everyone else woke up too. Aragorn, who had apparently been asleep in the passenger's seat, wasted no effort in complaining about disrupted rest. Boromir told him that he should have just pushed Elphir off without resorting to "screaming at the top of your lungs." Even Arwen, who had fallen asleep in a sitting position leaning into the bags stacked against the front seats, frowned reproachfully at him.
Himself, Faramir struggled to his feet and, back bent nearly double, carefully picked his way through luggage and warm bodies until he was able to poke his head through the gap between the front seats and glare blearily at his brother, who was indeed the driver who had led the van into pothole after pothole. "Do you really have to drive over every single obstacle that crosses your path, Boromir?"
"Hey, it's not full light," Boromir said defensively. "I can't see the road that well."
"That's what head lamps are for." Then, Faramir frowned. It was nearly dawn; gentle yellow sunlight was starting to peak over the gently rolling hills and the sparse dotting of trees around the coastline. He peered at the car clock, and saw that it read 5:42 in the morning. "Boromir… Wasn't I supposed to be the one driving by this time?"
At this, Boromir shrugged, deliberately trying to appear nonchalant, or so Faramir thought; there was that familiar gleam in his brother's gray eyes that spoke of tense situations and the searching for ways out of them. "Yes, I think you were. I just decided not to wake you."
"What?! Why?!"
"I… I just thought you needed to sleep."
Faramir glowered at him. Here we go again. "I am not a child, Boromir. I wish you'd stop making exceptions for me and treating me like some fragile creature that needs coddling. Especially at your own expense. Nothing's served by this, except that you lose several hours that could have been spent resting." And you'll be groggy all day. Boromir had never handled all-nighters well; frankly, he didn't handle part-of-the-nighters very well either. Where some people were somewhat flexible with their sleep schedules, if Boromir missed one night of sleep he was more or less completely useless until he got some more.
"Hey, I didn't—"
"Ahem." It was only Aragorn clearing his throat that brought the brothers back to the reality that they arguing in front of an audience. Both immediately fell silent. "We should stop somewhere," Aragorn said sensibly, nodding at the road sign that advertised a rest stop just three miles away, and his tone brooked absolutely no disagreement.
-0-0-0-
Once they were at the rest stop, Aragorn wrested Boromir away from the steering wheel (No, you are not good to keep driving; don't pull something like that again, your brother's right, there's no use in it) and filled the petrol tank back up with the emergency can of petrol he always took with him on long journeys. They all brushed their teeth and freshened up in the rest stop bathrooms, stiff and silent and bleary-eyed, not saying much to one another. It was decided that Faramir would take the first driving shift, since Boromir had let him sleep through the one he ought to have taken. He drove until a little before ten; just as Faramir had thought he would, Boromir slept in the passenger's seat the entire time. Good thing, too; otherwise he would have been able to get a good look at his brother glaring death and destruction at him.
Now, it was afternoon. Boromir was still drifting in and out of sleep, and Elphir was napping on the floor of the van, his head pressed against a travel pillow Arwen had brought with her. One of his legs lay on top of Aragorn's travel-stained duffel bag. The radio was turned to some old northern folk song station, the volume turned down so that the sleepers could rest peacefully. Faramir and Arwen sat in silence on the back bench.
Faramir had given in and was filling out a puzzle in the book of crosswords he'd taken from the basket under the coffee table in his uncle's house; he didn't feel like reading and writing in his travel log was more of an evening, right-before-bed activity than a middle-of-the-afternoon activity. He was currently trying to think of an eight-letter word for "bitter", not entirely sure that one actually existed. That was the way with crosswords; half of the time Faramir was sure the directions were asking for words that couldn't actually exist in real life. However, he certainly wasn't going to let something like his misgivings get in the way of solving a puzzle, so he worked diligently, and anything he couldn't think of or guess he would save until later, until he could get his hands on a dictionary and a thesaurus.
They had reached the mouth of the Anduin, and were steadily driving up the road that would, for nearly a hundred miles, run parallel to it; Aragorn was taking full advantage of the greater speed limit allowed on the highway that ran inland. The sea was steadily becoming a glittering blue haze on the horizon, ever more remote, and Faramir caught sight of Arwen craning her neck so she could stare out the back window on the ocean one more time, before going to stare out the left-hand window pensively, her eyes glazed. If Faramir stared long enough at her, he thought he could catch sadness or some lingering melancholy in her gaze.
"Can humans get the sea-longing?"
The question was out of his mouth and into the air nearly before Faramir even realized that he wished to ask it. Once it was in the air, he felt like an idiot for asking it and almost hoped that Arwen wouldn't hear. I could just as easily have gotten the information from books. After all, I've seen books written on the sea-longing in the library; there must be something in one of them on whether or not humans can be afflicted with the sea-longing. There was no need to ask her about it.
Alas (or so it seemed to Faramir), Arwen did hear him, though it took her what seemed an eternity to tear her gaze away from the window. Her dark gray, nearly black eyes were slightly abstracted, but Arwen blinked her eyes, tossed her head ever so slightly, and the film was gone, and she seemed more like herself. "Why do you ask?" Arwen kept her already soft voice low, as though this was some private conversation that needed to be kept secret, as though the only other person in the van who was actually awake would actually care to report what they said to a shared enemy (If Arwen even had any enemies, which Faramir somehow doubted).
Faramir found that he couldn't quite bring himself to communicate to Arwen why he was asking. He knew that if he described the situation he had in mind to her, she was more likely to be able to tell him if what he was think of was indeed a case of the sea-longing, or it was something else, something more mundane. Also did Faramir know that hoarding knowledge, of letting others know as little as was possible and keeping the rest to himself, was one of his father's traits, one of his father's worst traits, and not a trait he wished to emulate. He could tell himself all this, but it didn't change the fact that even if he wanted to elaborate, his tongue still would have stuck to the roof of his mouth. "I was just curious," he said cagily. "I believe I have heard somewhere that humans can be afflicted with the sea-longing."
Arwen fixed him intensely in her gaze, and it was all Faramir could do to maintain eye contact. Her dark eyes felt piercing, scouring; it was almost as though she was peeling back his skin and reading words written on the ridges of his brain, all secrets and dark thoughts exposed. The air around them felt as though it was crackling with electricity. He felt exposed, vulnerable, naked, decided he didn't like the feeling even remotely, and wished Arwen would stop, but his tongue was tied and he couldn't make a sound. Perhaps, Arwen was actually doing something, or perhaps it was just Faramir's imagination running away with him, yet again. Who knew which it could be, when it came to Elves?
Finally, the air around them seemed to clear, and her face visibly softened. Faramir didn't know if Arwen had stopped doing whatever it was she'd been doing, or if she hadn't been doing anything at all and he'd just finally regained control of his imagination. Somehow, he felt as if there would have been some sort of tell if she had been using Elvish magic to pick his brain. "Do not call it an affliction, Faramir," she told him gently. "While great suffering can indeed come from it, the sea-longing is not a curse, and should not be maligned as such."
And yet, we have seen that people can die from it.
"The sea-longing is mostly felt by Elves, though not all of my people have or will feel it," Arwen went on. "However, cases of the sea-longing have been documented in those of other races, usually Men. From what I understand, usually those among the sons and daughters of Men who feel the sea-longing are themselves the descendents of Elves."
Faramir nodded absently, and turned away to stare out the window. He tried to put his mind, but somehow he could not erase an image from his early childhood, that of his grandfather, Adrahil, relating to a group of his grandchildren, Faramir among them, the story of Mithrellas and Imrazôr…
The feather-light touch of fingers on the back of his hand drew his attention back to the present. Arwen smiled at him kindly. "Have no fear, Faramir. I do not believe you to have the sea-longing, and even if you were to come to have it, there is nothing there to fear in it. No one dies from the sea-longing." Something flickered in her eyes. "Days of doubt never last." She spoke those words almost as though needing to convince herself of the truth in them.
Faramir did not know if she knew what was in his heart, if she had guessed, or if she knew not at all. Her words could mean a great deal or little to nothing at all. But maybe there was something to be said of the wisdom of Elves after all, for his heart felt a little lighter.
-0-0-0-
June 26, 3003 TA
Aragorn and Arwen booked the same hotel room! Did they do this the first night of our journey?! Did they stay in the same room when they were staying at our house in Dol Amroth?! How long has this been going on?! Am I the first one to notice it?! Am I the last?!
Excuse me.
I think I've forgiven Boromir. It happened sometime between lunch and two in the afternoon, probably when he woke for a few moments in the van and started asking if anyone had any aspirin on him. Yes, I know, an odd thing on which to base my forgiveness, but I just don't think I'm cut out for grudges, and my digging him out some aspirin seemed like a convenient moment to forgive him for this night (Or should I call it 'this morning'?).
I also think I might not be hating this road trip as much as I thought I would. That moment came when we had pulled over on the side of the road and were staring at the ruins of Pelargir and I demanded that someone go and get a camera. In a way it's almost a relief to let go of the state of constant irritation. Constantly hating the situation you find yourself in can be very exhausting.
Anyway, Aragorn says we're going to take the Minas Tirith bypass tomorrow instead of driving through the city itself. The traffic's supposed to be horrible and the cost of petrol and hotel rooms exorbitant, and besides, I get the impression from the latest news that if they were to find out where we were going and why, things could get pretty ugly. It's funny. I remember Father telling me that when he was a small boy, he and his family moved away from Minas Tirith. Apparently my paternal grandfather was of the opinion that Minas Tirith was no longer a safe or suitable place to live. I've heard Father calling it a glorified tourist trap, or a debauched den of iniquity, or some other slur when he was in a particularly foul mood. I wonder what he will say if I tell him of my trip.
-0-0-0-
While the band of travelers bypassed Minas Tirith, Aragorn's route took them directly through the middle of the ruined city of Osgiliath, over the restored bridge and under the shadows of the ruins.
They'd stopped so that Aragorn could pump some air into a flat tire; he wouldn't let anyone else help him or do it for him. The weather was as bright and hot as it had been when they had left Dol Amroth, but now there was a distinctly humid haze to the air as well; sweat stuck to the skin instead of evaporating in the heat. Aragorn hissed profanities under his breath while pressing furiously on the pump. Arwen stood over him, looking sympathetic and telling him not to get too angry, he'd just lose his temper and it would take that much longer to get the tire pumped full of air. Elphir was leaning against the rails of the bridge, dropping stones into the Anduin languidly. Boromir and Faramir paced up and down the bridge together, staring out in awed wonder on the ruined citadel of the host of the stars.
"So this used to be the capital of Gondor," Boromir said in a hushed voice. "It's like driving through a tomb."
Faramir nodded, saying nothing himself. He wasn't sure if 'driving through a tomb' was quite the term he would have used, though, to be sure, being in Osgiliath gave him the same eerie feeling that being in a cemetery or a funeral home gave him. Osgiliath felt eerie, made him feel as though he should speak quietly for fear of angering some unseen, but ever-present Lord out of the forgotten days, but it did not bring his mind to thoughts of a tomb.
Osgiliath was, on first examination, far too quiet. No one lived there anymore; there weren't even that many birds living in the ruins. Faramir had spied a few stray cats, scrawny brown and gray creatures, slinking among the rocks, but that was it. It was jarringly quiet; this had once been a great metropolis, but now it was bereft of people and life, bereft of the spark of life itself.
It still had the memories, though. On closer examination, Faramir could hear whispering wherever he went. It was the walls that whispered, murmuring with the great host of history on its breath, whispering out their memories to those who could decipher the language. Faramir was not among the lucky few who understood the language of the dead and gone, but he could hear the memories imprinted on the crumbling walls, even if it was only as sporadic breaths of wind breaking apart the sultry haze of high summer.
Osgiliath left Faramir unsettled, feeling as though there was something about this city that should have more significance to him than it did. He was glad to leave when Aragorn called them back to the van.
-0-0-0-
That evening they didn't find a motel on the highway until nearly midnight and Faramir again dozed off on the floor of the van, head pressed against somebody's travel bag. He was woken not by a bump in the road or a jolt of the van, but by an itching in his side. Faramir bit back a sigh; the scar on his side from the fire was itching again. He knew from experience that scratching it wouldn't help. Even if he scratched and pulled at his skin until it bled, the itching would still be there, lurking somewhere beyond the reach of his fingernails. So, he instead lied still on the floor of the van, trying to ignore the itching and hoping it would leave him be with time.
Perhaps because he was still a bit groggy, Faramir did not at first realize that the van wasn't moving nor that the usually humming motor was silent. But as the cool, almost chilly moments passed, Faramir did realize that the floor wasn't vibrating, and that the pale, milky light streaming down on him through the windows wasn't flickering. Have we finally found a motel? He didn't stir, didn't rise from his place next to still-sleeping Elphir (Arwen had won the bench this time). Faramir couldn't find the energy in him with which to get up.
"—I just…"
No longer groggy, Faramir jolted wide awake at the sound of muffled voices, holding some half-whispered conversation outside the van. What was said for the next half-minute was completely indecipherable, but Faramir, still lying stock-still on the floor of the van, quickly identified the two speakers. He would have known Boromir's voice anywhere, and Aragorn's voice had a highly distinctive lilt to it, the inflection of one who spoke Westron flawlessly, but had been taught to speak it by the Elves.
"…sick of always having to be the adult…"
Aragorn had asked a question that, thanks to his softer voice, was inaudible, and this was Boromir's reply, the bitterness in his words unmistakable even through a screen of glass and metal. "Sometimes, I wonder if we wouldn't be better off if Father hadn't just…" Boromir broke off abruptly.
If Father had just what? Faramir could hear his heart thudding in his chest. He wondered, half-anticipatory, half-dreading, what he would hear his brother say next. He wondered if he wanted to know what Boromir would say, if he had finished that sentence. But Faramir never found out what might have been. At that moment, the van door slid open, and Aragorn reached over him to gently shake Arwen awake.
-0-0-0-
June 27, 3003 TA
May I just say that eavesdropping, even eavesdropping that's impossible to avoid, has always raised more unsettling questions for me than it's answered? What did Boromir mean? What were he and Aragorn talking about? Why were they having the conversation in the first place? Aragorn and Arwen stayed in the same hotel room again, but I couldn't bring myself to be curious as to what exactly they're doing.
Aragorn says we'll stay in a hotel outside of the Black Gate tomorrow and while the festivities are going on at Mount Doom. Apparently there are absolutely no hotels in Mordor. That or he just wasn't willing to part with the sort of money required to book one.
-0-0-0-
The landscape now was rocky and harsh, the only plants visible hardy little shrubs and flowers growing up through the rocks. The sun beat down mercilessly on the blasted landscape, its long, hot rays bleaching the rocks white. It was starting to get a bit monotonous to Faramir, who would have liked some variety to what he was staring out of the window at (And would have liked for the air conditioning to have worked a little better). Arwen seemed to feel the same way. She sat, staring down at her hands, and cast eyes out of the window only to frown and turn them back down on herself instead. No joy did she take from looking on the landscape of the borders of Mordor.
They passed by a road sign, and Faramir saw Aragorn grin in the rear-view mirror.
"Do you all know what I love most about the highways in this part of the world?"
Arwen stared at the back of his head, eyes narrowing. "What?" she asked suspiciously.
"No speed limits."
Faramir cringed. Of course Aragorn would be trying that on a crowded freeway. "Elphir, get off the floor. Come sit up here with us, and buckle yourself in. Tightly."
Elphir barely managed to do as his cousin told him before Aragorn slammed down on the accelerator pedal, and the van started rocketing down the open highway at nearly one hundred miles an hour. In the next half hour, everyone apart from the driver, up to and including Boromir, watched the world pass them by from the cracks in between their fingers. Aragorn sideswiped an SUV and was nearly knocked off the road by an eighteen-wheeler twice. Several cyclists had to pull over and were last seen shaking their fists at the van speeding off towards the horizon.
-0-0-0-
June 28, 3003 TA
You know, I've asked him, and I am honestly astounded that Aragorn has never been arrested for vehicular manslaughter. After today's performance, he probably causes more crashes than he thinks, though in his defense, I've never seen him drive like he did today on any highway with sane road laws. However, he also implied that he has been on a highway with insane road laws before, so I will be quite surprised indeed if he lives his entire life without running someone down. I suppose the van is a death trap after all, just not for us.
Anyways, we reached the Black Gate around one in the afternoon, early enough that Aragorn retracted his earlier statement of staying a hotel outside of it until tomorrow. The traffic there is terrible, and we quickly found out why. Every car going through the Black Gate is pulled over and searched, its occupants IDed, searched themselves, and all-around interrogated.
It took them the better part of an hour to get through our van, once we even got that far. My poor notebook, which I only write in now by the grace of all the Valar combined, was nearly confiscated and taken from me. Evidently my Calculus equations looked threatening. Or something.
Eventually, I felt compelled to ask the guards practically tearing the van apart (Aragorn grew increasingly gray-faced throughout the search) exactly what the need for all of this was, the only one who actually heard me looked at me as though I was the most dull-witted young man in the world. "Do you know how many bomb threats we get each year? Do you know how often we find explosives in these searches? I'm not sure either, but it's quite a lot!"
I am so sure.
Anyway, we finally got moving again around sunset. There really are no hotels in Mordor, though there are plenty of filling stations and diners and cheap gift shops. I find that rather odd; given how popular a tourist spot Mordor is, you would think there would be more accommodations of the hotel sort. We may or may not be sleeping in the car again tonight.
Also, I saw flowers on the side of the road after we got through the Black Gate. And grass. I've even seen a tree once or twice, though they are small and scraggly things. I suppose the "wasting, malevolent influence of evil incarnate" doesn't blight a land forever.
-0-0-0-
After another night indeed spent sleeping in the car (though this time they pulled over at a truck stop rather than drive through the night), the company woke with the crack of dawn. Faramir got up out of the van and was stunned to be greeted with a site that had eluded him during the night. He saw Mount Doom, nearly fifty miles in the distance, and dwarfing anything that stood within sight of it. That old volcano, dormant but not dead, loomed so high in the sky that it eclipsed the setting sun; it cast a shadow for miles around. Faramir immediately felt the presence of the mount in his heart, like a shadow clawing at that frail, precious organ.
Aragorn took a long look at it and didn't look much as though he enjoyed the sight either. All of them were shooting shifty glances at Mount Doom, ambivalence written all over their faces. "At least there's no mistaking where we need to go," Aragorn muttered as he locked the doors to the van.
They lingered long at the truck stop diner, eating slowly. There was no need to rush; Mount Doom was, after all, within sight, and today's re-enactment didn't start for another three hours. Now that he was within sight of their destination, Faramir felt the old lack of enthusiasm creeping back up on him. Perhaps the journey truly is a richer experience than the destination itself. Or maybe I wasn't as interested in this as I thought I would be.
Reaching Mount Doom itself only cemented that feeling in Faramir's mind.
The area around the site where the re-enactments (there were several to be taking place over the course of the next four days) was crowded claustrophobically with tents and stands and all sorts of things that you could imagine. All of it was the sort of thing you could find at a gift shop, unless it was food, and even that had a distinct air of the tourist trap about it—Faramir did not see a single wholesome thing to eat anywhere, and instead saw nothing but popcorn and funnel cakes liberally dribbled with syrup or confectioner's sugar, and a host of other empty, sugary foods. The tents, the stands, the shops set up out of the back of people's cars, they sold t-shirts, hats, sunglasses, knick-knacks, and other small, unimportant, ultimately valueless things.
The five stood in the middle of this crowd, looking around, feeling rather isolated, and more than a little disappointed. Faramir supposed he should have known better; of course this was going to turn into some sort of tourist trap circus, how could it not have? I would have been better off just staying at home after all. What will a re-enactment be like given this sort of atmosphere before it even begins?
If Faramir was disgruntled, Arwen looked upset, for a moment or two nearly to the point of tears. She drew a deep breath to gather up her composure, and said, "Faramir, may I look at the program the man at the gate gave you?"
He handed it over, brow furrowed, and they all watched as Arwen's face grew ever paler as she flipped the pages, back and forth, faster and faster. Finally she snapped the booklet shut and shook her head violently, eyes screwed shut, swallowing hard. "I… I am sorry, truly, but I don't think I could stomach watching any of this. I know this seems like ancient history to all of you, but many of the people involved in the events that are going to be re-enacted here were my close kin. My father…" Her voice nearly caught, and she reached up to rest her hand over Aragorn's when he put a hand on her shoulder "…my father played an active part during many of the events mentioned in this program. After what I have seen here, I am not certain how much respect shall be paid, either to the living or to the dead."
No one knew quite what to say to this. They all felt disappointed with what they had found here, and no one bothered to ask Arwen why she had come in the first place, if she had had even the faintest inkling that things would be like this. They all knew why Arwen came. It had been for the same reason as them, sheer curiosity. Curiosity to see how such a thing would be handled. Arwen could not be faulted for becoming upset with the spectacle made out of what for her was still recent family history, and the others could not be faulted for being disappointed. They all had expected more.
After a few moments of silence, Aragorn, his hand still on Arwen's shoulder, finally spoke up. "I take it that no one wishes to stay here?"
The sharp nodding that greeted this question told him what he needed to know. "Well, where do we go from here, then? Back to Dol Amroth?"
No one wanted to just go home. They'd driven for nearly a week, after all, and no one, not even Faramir at this point, wanted to just go back to the van and drive back home. They had come too far and expected too much for such a decision to be feasible.
Then, Aragorn grinned unexpectedly, his lips unfurling to reveal large, white teeth. "You know, I have always wanted to see the Sea of Rhûn." Boromir grinned in response to this suggestion. Elphir's head bobbed up and down. Arwen smiled and so did Faramir, in spite of himself. More traveling. "Do you all think we could get there and back here in four days."
"No," came the resounding response.
"Well, we'll just have to make some calls, won't we, to let those at home know that we'll be back a bit late."
-0-0-0-
June 30, 3003 TA
After three days of driving up and down winding roads at perilous speeds, we have reached the Sea of Rhûn. I have never been this far east before, had never thought I would want to be this far east, and never anticipated finding myself so far from home for any earthly reason. However, I find that I am not all that opposed to being here, or camping here for the next two days or so as Aragorn and my brother suggested we might. The Kine of Araw are supposed to graze on the shoes of the sea; we might see some while we're here. Even if we don't, the landscape is surprisingly beautiful. We've camped at the base of a mountain range that skirts the southwestern shore of the sea.
Last night, everyone came out of the store at the filling station we'd stopped at with plastic bags in hand, but none of them would take what they'd bought from their bags. I wonder what—
"Faramir!"
Faramir, sitting on the ground by the van, looked up when he heard Elphir calling his name.
Aragorn and Boromir, between them, had finally gotten a campfire going, the reflection of the flames rippling on the surface of the massive inland sea. "Come on!" Elphir called. "Or else we'll eat all your food!"
Smiling slightly, Faramir set his journal down and went to join them.