The Fourteen Things that Always Happen to Faramir and Éowyn
Chapter Five: Ridiculously Immature Songfic
You know the songfics I'm talking about— the ones to horrible songs by preteen Disney artists or whiny "alternative" bands that, y'know, like totally describe the love between two complex, non-twelve-year-olds. If you want juvenile, you can have juvenile, and please do keep it. The song is centuries old and in the public domain, I should think. And 'tis not as good as the previous chapters, sorry. :/
Faramir wiped the tears from his eyes, staring blankly at the verdant garden in which he'd loitered for the past ten hours sans an actual purpose. Such sights before him, in times of despiséd war, were all too beautiful for his tormented heart to treasure, for said war would simply ravish that corner of the miserable world of which he was an indistinguishable part. And it hurt Faramir. It hurt him so that all in his life had come to naught, that he was a highborn Steward's son, yet he wept in the garden of the Houses of Healing like a lovesick preteen girl who had just read Romeo and Juliet in simplified English and thought its passions becoming to her piteous adolescence.
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
But Faramir had no passions. Faramir was dead, at least in spirit, and his body would soon follow, or so he hoped. O, to be thrown into Sweeney Todd's meat grinder would be the grandest bliss of all!, he silently wailed, rivulets of hot tears flooding from his lake-grey eyes. O, that I should be dead, that I should feel no more, and exist only as a pie! O, I would feed myself to my cruel father, and he should gorge himself on my roasted flesh…
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.
Sniffling, Faramir realised that he had absolutely no idea from whence the strange music about sheep played, and also that his father had crazily set himself on fire not long ago.
One for the master,
One for the dame,
His tears, now, were salty and pleasurably hot, like the fire that raged in his loins when he thought of John Denver's sexy glasses. But John Denver, like Denethor, was so lucky to be dead, and whatever became of his glasses was lost to Faramir, as was all hope of earthly bliss. Besides, one could not romance a deceased singer's eyewear, he reminded himself with a saddened groan, nor could he romance anything or anyone else, for none would love abhorrent Faramir, the unloved, diseased man who collected his own bogeys and often pranced about Minas Tirith in a gold lamé leotard, intent on stalking Winston Churchill.
And one for the little boy
Who lives down the lane.
Suddenly, almost out of nowhere, a figure stepped forth into the garden from the blurry shades that clouded Faramir's eyes. She was beauty personified; her long golden hair was tangled and crawling with lice, and her eyes must, he thought, be pale blue or grey or something underneath that bloodshot, drugged gaze. His heart fluttered as he beheld her clumsily sauntering towards him, a stick of butter in one hand, the other intent on groping Faramir as she tumbled into his waiting arms in her sodded daze.
Baa, baa, black sheep,
Have you any wool?
"H-h-h-hi," the woman stuttered, blushing furiously. "Do you happen to have any South American pack animals?"
Faramir smiled, his spirit stirring with renewed life. He knew right then and there that he loved this random stranger, and his soul unshackled itself from its despair and joined in the flowing melody that streamed through the winter air:
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags full.