Blood is really quite an interesting object of affection. The way it looks.
The way it feels. The way it smells. Even the way it tastes is different to
what you would expect. How could a simple fluid be so endearing? How could
it capture him so? Why did it capture him so?
It's really just a red liquid. Not really any different from any other in the world. It drips, ripples, freezes, boils and falls in the exact same way as all the others.
So what makes it so special?
Glancing at the dagger no solutions presented themselves to Faramir. All he could see was the beauty of the crimson river blooming from his wrist. It truly was a stunning sight.
To be able to watch as your life simply dripped away from you, being given such an honour as to see the very life of yourself filter away from unwanted flesh.
That's all he had ever been, to anyone, unwanted. His father hadn't wanted him; Gondor didn't want a worthless Steward now that the King had returned, even worse, the King didn't want him either. What good was a Steward? The only real person that had given him a place in this world was Boromir, and now he was gone. There was truly no place for him.
For once in his miserable life he was doing the right thing. Not getting in the way of somebody else, not stealing the glory, out of the way and making it permanent. He could feel the tears in his eyes but refused to let them fall, there was no reason to cry. This was an honour.
Seeing the scarlet river well up on his milky white skin, before becoming a drop on the surface only to plummet from it's resting place and collide with the smooth marble of the palace floor. At the start there was barely even a mark, now it had become a pool of crimson. One solitary tear made it's own path down his cheek, an overwhelming sense of stupidity washed over the man. He couldn't even bleed properly. As a ranger he had been taught to cover his tracks, make himself unseen, never to leave evidence of his presence, he had even failed in that.
Suddenly feeling light-headed, he sat on the floor, still holding his arm over the pool. A smile played across his lips as his vision became blurry, and not because of the tears. He was dying. The smile grew into a grin and the grin split as a chuckle escaped his pale lips. He had finally worked out what was so fascinating about his blood.
When it was inside him it was merely a life juice used to keep his body alive, but when it was not inside, when it was free. When he let it free. That was when things changed. All through his life this is what other people had had over him. But now he was almost passing out and it felt right. For once, he was in control.
That's all blood really is. Power.
It's really just a red liquid. Not really any different from any other in the world. It drips, ripples, freezes, boils and falls in the exact same way as all the others.
So what makes it so special?
Glancing at the dagger no solutions presented themselves to Faramir. All he could see was the beauty of the crimson river blooming from his wrist. It truly was a stunning sight.
To be able to watch as your life simply dripped away from you, being given such an honour as to see the very life of yourself filter away from unwanted flesh.
That's all he had ever been, to anyone, unwanted. His father hadn't wanted him; Gondor didn't want a worthless Steward now that the King had returned, even worse, the King didn't want him either. What good was a Steward? The only real person that had given him a place in this world was Boromir, and now he was gone. There was truly no place for him.
For once in his miserable life he was doing the right thing. Not getting in the way of somebody else, not stealing the glory, out of the way and making it permanent. He could feel the tears in his eyes but refused to let them fall, there was no reason to cry. This was an honour.
Seeing the scarlet river well up on his milky white skin, before becoming a drop on the surface only to plummet from it's resting place and collide with the smooth marble of the palace floor. At the start there was barely even a mark, now it had become a pool of crimson. One solitary tear made it's own path down his cheek, an overwhelming sense of stupidity washed over the man. He couldn't even bleed properly. As a ranger he had been taught to cover his tracks, make himself unseen, never to leave evidence of his presence, he had even failed in that.
Suddenly feeling light-headed, he sat on the floor, still holding his arm over the pool. A smile played across his lips as his vision became blurry, and not because of the tears. He was dying. The smile grew into a grin and the grin split as a chuckle escaped his pale lips. He had finally worked out what was so fascinating about his blood.
When it was inside him it was merely a life juice used to keep his body alive, but when it was not inside, when it was free. When he let it free. That was when things changed. All through his life this is what other people had had over him. But now he was almost passing out and it felt right. For once, he was in control.
That's all blood really is. Power.