A/N: Thank you so much for the feedback! I'll probably do one on Gimli next but hey, we'll see what happens. By the way, it's my birthday in about an hour! Yeah! Woohoo! Go me! ^_____^
A/N: one more thing. Green Spanking Monkeys –. Like I said, don't like it, don't read or review it. Like normal human beings, we make mistakes. I'll be careful about my ratings in later chapters or whatever but dude, just go get yourself something useful to do. But hey, since your helpful reviews drive me to write more, your choice anyway.
Moving along with the fic! This one is on the lighter side, nothing as dark and gothic as my previous chapter. The next villainy-element-person-thing-ish we shall delve into is…Faramir! ^_^
Summary: Faramir has had it with Éowyn's horrific cooking. Now he has to face his greatest peril yet – The Roast Fowl. Facing horrid food every day is one issue, but dealing with the wrath of your wife is another. What will he do about it? It's all about Element 3 of course – Devotion.
Disclaimer: No, really, ya think?
'Italics' denote sarcasm, basically. No seriously, they're characters' thoughts.
[] mean that I'll be putting in sound effects.
… ++…|| Elements of the Antagonist ||… ++ …
Element 3 – Devotion
"He lets me pulverize, marinate, and kill that bird a thousand times and still eats it just like it's food. May Ilúvatar bless him!" Éowyn sighed. It was true; she can't cook to save her life, so she kills instead. Handles pointy things very well, I might add.
"Aye, milady, he is a devoted man, an' loves you too much to care fer 'is own life," answered one of her maids, the one she was closest to. "May The Lord bless 'im!" she continued, and soon left Éowyn to her own demise in The Kitchen [growling thunder appears], or otherwise known more notoriously as Hell, as the other maidservants call it.
Disaster wreaks when the witch stirs malice in her brew. In this case, roast chicken. The smell of burnt fowl reeks throughout the entire household but Éowyn obstinately assures that it 'needs a few more minutes'. Really, Faramir is a devoted man.
He retires to his quarters like Death with a pleasant smile after dealing with a horrendous day, and his wife greets him with the most atrocious dishes. The last time they had pig, he could've sworn in mercy that a skilled veterinarian could still save it, being so undercooked. Faramir eats it pleasantly and with trying delight; as if his mother-in-law was upon his left shoulder, and Ilúvatar on his right. He cleans the plate bone dry, compliments Éowyn for the lovely dinner, kisses her, and goes on doing his daily sacraments as if nothing happened. He sits through what seems like the cursed judgement of Morgoth upon him, with almost impending necessity to go through it, and compliments the spawn herself with an unduly smile. Simply remarkable.
That had been his daily ritual and he had been gregariously religious for the past years. But not today. No, not today.
Not the day when Éowyn 'cooks' a large, very dead chicken for her husband.
Not this day.
There will be no dawn for men.
Faramir returns home and walks heavily into The Kitchen [growling thunder appears] seeing the beautiful White Lady of Rohan gazing back at him, a slow smile curving her lips; as slow and deadly as the patience evil uses in baiting human souls. he gulped.
"Mmm, what is that delicious scent?" Faramir could almost choke in his lie, or even in the clouds of burnt bird smoke that stifled the household.
"Oh, that's just a little something special I made for you," She came close to him, encircling her arms about his shoulder, hauling him close. 'You mean used to be special? Used to be alive and roaming free and happy?' he thought.
"Love, you really shouldn't have," answered Faramir. 'Really, I mean it.'
"I'm making this especially for you because—I love you!" she smiled, and Faramir returned her gesture with an earnest kiss. 'Éowyn, sometimes I wonder if you really do.'
Éowyn dragged him to the dining table and sat her husband down, while she skedaddled her way into The Kitchen [growling thunder appears] and soon returned with a great, blackened used-to-be bird in a clean, white dish. Faramir gulped again.
With Éowyn sitting right across him, he knew it was his sworn duty to christen the chicken. Taking his fork, he tried piercing it into the dish but it came to no avail. The fork bent lamely, and the chicken was intact. As a rock. Faramir became anxious.
"Anything wrong, love?" an innocent voice called from the other end of the table.
"Oh nothing, nothing." 'The texture is wonderful, by the way.'
Taking his knife, he thrust it into the fowl and after a great wrestle he finally succeeded with a huge, chunky slice in his fork. Too chunky, if you ask me. Is he really going to eat that up? Burnt crisp inside and out, its skin slowly crumbling away with the wind like dust. Really, Faramir felt a wince of pity in his heart for the dead chicken, but moreover he felt a bit of pity for himself. Is he really, going to eat that?
Taking up the fork he examined it at a safe range, and until all he could see was the piece of chicken, with Éowyn's beaming face in the background. Finally, he spoke. He decided to make his move. If not now, when ever?
"Éowyn, my dear, before all else I want you to heed what I have to say."
"Anything, love. What is it? Is there anything wrong?"
"I just want to tell you…that…"
"Yes?"
He gulped again. "…that I love you very, very much."
And with that, he shoved the piece of meat into his mouth, guileless and brave. He gnawed the disgusting gravel that was in his mouth like a hero, along with all the love in the world for Éowyn as he saw her beaming; being the devoted man that he is.
* * *
A/N: I just couldn't give it a sad ending. Review if you wish!