6-28-04: I am in the process of self editing, looking back on my writing
with a new perspective.
Author's Note: I shall try to keep this short and sweet (this note) which may prove impossible for me who loves to ramble on quite pointlessly. This is an ode to the romance of Eowyn and Faramir. This is told from Faramir's point of view and I strive to remain as close to the text as ever. Most quotes are directly from the book though may be elaborated on. I plan on adding more, some even from Eowyn's point of view. I am terribly sorry for the punctuation and grammatical errors I know exist, grammar is not exactly one of my strong points. Read and review, if you please.
Lauren
And much to my dismay I own nothing, least of which is my beloved Faramir who I wish was mine every time I read about him. Alas it can not be so as he does not exist and belongs to Eowyn. Sigh.
Faramir
For an endless time, for what seemed to be eternity I wandered in the valley of death, so near to falling into the black abyss of ceasing to be. They called my name. My sires, my forebearers of the line of the Stewards of Gondor were beckoning me. I glimpsed the sorrowful look of my mother Finduilas whose image has long grown hazy in my memory, whose face I scarcely can recall. She said nothing save pleading with me to endure, to turn away from the shadow of death.
Boromir.
I saw my brother, not as he appeared in the elven boat ere the winds drew him into the sea but as he was in life, full of vigor and strength. He clasped his horn, whole once again and was clad in the elven cloak of a grey hue that I found his lifeless, limp body wrapped in. He spoke to me.
"Brother, brother," he called, "be not afraid. Do not turn to death quite yet for there is work yet to be done. Return, younger brother, for our father needs you, Minas Tirith needs you, Gondor needs you."
Then as swiftly as he arrived he departed, giving one last blow on his mighty horn, passed down through the ages from generation to generation to the eldest son of each Steward.
I would know nothing of the deeds of my father, of the desperate fight on Pelennor Fields if it had not been told to me. I am told that just as Mithrandir carried my body, plagued by a fever that would not abate from my father's pyre, I cried out to my father. I called for him, the man who scorned my judgment, lamenting over the lose of Boromir. It was his disdain for me that had driven me on the errand, suicide though it may have seemed. I recalled what Mithrandir said to me, as I saddled my horse to ride into the growing darkness.
"Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end," he said.
I was silent, doubting his words, the words of one so wise, the words of one my father accused me of giving all my love to. Nay, my father did not love me, he had love only for my brother, though dead he may be. And I had no love for him, no love for his criticism, no love for his condemning of my yearning for knowledge and lore. Yet I cried out for him, just as I stood, faltering between life and death. In the deepest confines of my soul, with every scorn of my father buried deeper, there resides a love for him, a foundation none can shake. For though for countless years I endured his cruelty, his mockery, there remained a love for him, in the depths of my heart. I only regret that I never could tell him ere the end.
All was onyx, at last the torment of the voices had ceased, they had left me alone to die in the shadow, utterly alone. Fear had passed, I no longer dreaded death, actually yearned for it to take me away from the suffocating, pure darkness. It had been long since I had felt pain, I was numb, resigned to my approaching death. All I was aware of was the beat of my heart and with each shaky breath I drew I wondered if it would be my last, expected it to be my last. I was beyond the reach of any mortal, not deceased, yet not living. It was over.
"Faramir, Faramir, Faramir."
A voice came from the abyss that surrounded me, beckoning me. This time, however, it was not calling me to my ultimate demise but to life, to the pain and suffering of life.
Sweet air, air from a time when all was young, I deem, filled my lungs and with each sharp intake of breath the utter ebony pressing down upon me dimmed ever so slightly until gradually I saw light. I opened up my grey eyes, my vision still hazy, my perception still flawed, and I beheld my healer, my king.
"My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake," he said to me, his grey gaze beholding me, pity stirring in it. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."
"I will, lord," I said. "For who would lie idle when the king as returned?" At this fatigue overwhelmed me and once more I closed my eyes but this time to blissful dreams not the paths to afterlife. Ere sleep carried me away I heard the voice of my king one last time.
"Farewell then for a while."
Author's Note: I shall try to keep this short and sweet (this note) which may prove impossible for me who loves to ramble on quite pointlessly. This is an ode to the romance of Eowyn and Faramir. This is told from Faramir's point of view and I strive to remain as close to the text as ever. Most quotes are directly from the book though may be elaborated on. I plan on adding more, some even from Eowyn's point of view. I am terribly sorry for the punctuation and grammatical errors I know exist, grammar is not exactly one of my strong points. Read and review, if you please.
Lauren
And much to my dismay I own nothing, least of which is my beloved Faramir who I wish was mine every time I read about him. Alas it can not be so as he does not exist and belongs to Eowyn. Sigh.
Faramir
For an endless time, for what seemed to be eternity I wandered in the valley of death, so near to falling into the black abyss of ceasing to be. They called my name. My sires, my forebearers of the line of the Stewards of Gondor were beckoning me. I glimpsed the sorrowful look of my mother Finduilas whose image has long grown hazy in my memory, whose face I scarcely can recall. She said nothing save pleading with me to endure, to turn away from the shadow of death.
Boromir.
I saw my brother, not as he appeared in the elven boat ere the winds drew him into the sea but as he was in life, full of vigor and strength. He clasped his horn, whole once again and was clad in the elven cloak of a grey hue that I found his lifeless, limp body wrapped in. He spoke to me.
"Brother, brother," he called, "be not afraid. Do not turn to death quite yet for there is work yet to be done. Return, younger brother, for our father needs you, Minas Tirith needs you, Gondor needs you."
Then as swiftly as he arrived he departed, giving one last blow on his mighty horn, passed down through the ages from generation to generation to the eldest son of each Steward.
I would know nothing of the deeds of my father, of the desperate fight on Pelennor Fields if it had not been told to me. I am told that just as Mithrandir carried my body, plagued by a fever that would not abate from my father's pyre, I cried out to my father. I called for him, the man who scorned my judgment, lamenting over the lose of Boromir. It was his disdain for me that had driven me on the errand, suicide though it may have seemed. I recalled what Mithrandir said to me, as I saddled my horse to ride into the growing darkness.
"Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end," he said.
I was silent, doubting his words, the words of one so wise, the words of one my father accused me of giving all my love to. Nay, my father did not love me, he had love only for my brother, though dead he may be. And I had no love for him, no love for his criticism, no love for his condemning of my yearning for knowledge and lore. Yet I cried out for him, just as I stood, faltering between life and death. In the deepest confines of my soul, with every scorn of my father buried deeper, there resides a love for him, a foundation none can shake. For though for countless years I endured his cruelty, his mockery, there remained a love for him, in the depths of my heart. I only regret that I never could tell him ere the end.
All was onyx, at last the torment of the voices had ceased, they had left me alone to die in the shadow, utterly alone. Fear had passed, I no longer dreaded death, actually yearned for it to take me away from the suffocating, pure darkness. It had been long since I had felt pain, I was numb, resigned to my approaching death. All I was aware of was the beat of my heart and with each shaky breath I drew I wondered if it would be my last, expected it to be my last. I was beyond the reach of any mortal, not deceased, yet not living. It was over.
"Faramir, Faramir, Faramir."
A voice came from the abyss that surrounded me, beckoning me. This time, however, it was not calling me to my ultimate demise but to life, to the pain and suffering of life.
Sweet air, air from a time when all was young, I deem, filled my lungs and with each sharp intake of breath the utter ebony pressing down upon me dimmed ever so slightly until gradually I saw light. I opened up my grey eyes, my vision still hazy, my perception still flawed, and I beheld my healer, my king.
"My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" I asked, my voice catching in my throat.
"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake," he said to me, his grey gaze beholding me, pity stirring in it. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."
"I will, lord," I said. "For who would lie idle when the king as returned?" At this fatigue overwhelmed me and once more I closed my eyes but this time to blissful dreams not the paths to afterlife. Ere sleep carried me away I heard the voice of my king one last time.
"Farewell then for a while."