Author's note: Hell-o once again. Thank you for all the lovely reviews! Again I shall burn in hell becasue I lack the abilty to spell. Thank Valar and Eru for spell check!
Warning: Contains MOME (pronounce Mommy) Moments Of Manly Emotion.
Chapter 3
Faramir
I have sensed it for a time, the hushed whispers, the sighs and veiled laments I am exposed to every time I venture near my fatherÕs name, which is not often as it is a difficult subject to brooch. I am no fool, his death could not be shrouded from me long but there is much none would tell me, exchanging glances, begging me to rest a while. But I will not, can not, close my eyes. For to sleep is to let my mind wander, to contemplate, to analyze all I know, driving my self mad.
So today as a matron in the house is laboring over my wound I grasp her wrist, desperate for some knowledge of my father. ÒTell me, for I much desire to know and believe it should not be kept a secret to me, his closest of kin.Ó
ÒMy lord, I do not consider it my place to tell you the minute amount that I know,Ó she said as she bustles out of the room leaving me alone with the suffocating walls and my imagination, visualizing every possible scenario my meager information will allow.
When my mind wearies of my father I turn to images of the king, old beyond my count of years, the undiluted blood of of Numenor flowing in his veins, possessing a veiled power like no other. He shall reclaim the throne of Gondor to the joy of all, but where shall that leave me? Kin less and alone, my new found position gone ere I had time to even think about being Steward, I shall be. Where do I go once I am free of these suffocating walls? Yet I hold no bitterness for Lord Aragorn, no fury or loathing towards him at all. My heart contains only love for him, my healer, my king. Never has even the gnawing thought of jealously penetrated my mind. Yet I wonder about my future, my fate. All is uncertain now, nothing is known. I have passed out of shadow and ebony only to be at the forks of journey of my life, having not the slightest notion which path I should choose, if there is even a clear path laid in front of me. All is uncertain.
* * * * * * *
He told me, haltingly, stuttering, his eyes darting every where but not meeting my gaze.
ÒFaramir, I sense you are troubled and for a just reason. We can not veil things for long, we should never have attempted to shield you for your fatherÕs rash actions,Ó Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth said, staring down at the floor.
ÒI have known long of my fatherÕs death and even suspected it was by his own hand, but tell me what you so feverently tried to keep hidden,Ó I urged him.
ÒNot only did he take his own life but he, he endeavored to bring him with you into afterlife. And you would be laid beside him in an everlasting sleep if not for the courage of one hobbit and the traitorous actions of one Guard of the Citadel,Ó he stammered.
The world suddenly shifted out of focus, images swirling, blurring around me, me spiraling downward once again in the onyx, desolate abyss at the edge of my feet. I struggled to hold on to the light that was fast evaporating. It took all the willpower I possessed to pull myself away from the overwhelming shadow that is grief and despair but I emerged.
ÒThat is regrettable,Ó I said, desperately trying to mask my emotion but my voice belied me, cracking with emotion. Then I shuddered, shaking with dry sobs, my face in my hands as the prince stroked my hair.
He was gone. The father I loved despite his mockery and scorn. The father I remained as a cold indifference to since my mother departed was gone. And all I could do was cry.
* * * * * * *
I contemplate now the anguish of being alone, utterly, purely solitary, isolated not just by the the walls and healers who bind me here but by my situation, my lack of knowledge. At times I yearn for someone to speak to, to pour out my dreams, fears, desires to. Someone who shall listen. I have lost my one and only confidant to the poisoned arrows of the Uruk-Hai. Even he, my brother, would hardly listen, staring into the hearth, sharpening his sword, the twangs echoing throughout the great empty all we sat in. He would merely nod, hearing but not truly listening , his mind occupied with plots of battle and lore of warfare. In Mithrandir I found wisdom, a friendship, a bound though his visits were few and far between. Always he seemed to ride with disaster licking at his heels, bringing ill news. My father, the Steward of Gondor, resented, scorned . mocked my unity with the wizard, hiding much power in his simple, undistinguished ways.
Ò I have ruled the realm of Gondor in the lost blood lineÕs steed but I am unable to control my youngest son, or even have him love me,Ó the Steward ranted, the memory as unmarred as if the event transpired yesterday eve.
ÒThat is folly, father,Ó I muttered, bowing my head, relying as always on Boromir to fight my battles with my sire. I could face down a Southron or slay a mighty orc but could not affront my own malicious father.
Boromir had spoken to him many a time, quietly in the shadows, where they naively thought I could not hear as their whispers rose to aggravated calls and eventually to shouts that echoed through the citadel.
ÒHe love you, Father. And you him, if you would only remember it!Ó Boromir raved. ÒAll he ever does is only done in the hopes of pleasing you but you shall never be pleased with him! And yet he still loves you!Ó
ÒHis flaws and faults outweigh his meager, few redeeming qualities. Thank Valor for you, Boromir. My first born shall never betray me the way my second, lesser son has,Ó my father waged.
I yearn for someone,anyone, who I could reiterate his mockery and favoritism to. Someone, anyone who would allow me to tell of endless nights I spent awake, frantically, desperately searching for a way to make him forget his grudge against me and love me again, hunting for a path once more into his heart. I desired, no needed someone, anyone who would understand, hark to my words and erase the feeling of sorrow, of regret that overwhelms me now. I need someone to love me, for who I am, not the son of Denethor II or the younger brother of Boromir II, not the Steward of Gondor but Faramir, merely myself.
* * * * * * *
I wander now in the gardens, an oasis amidst the stone of the White City. I venture down sunlight paths, where all is as simple and routine as the coming of the lilies in early spring and yet my mind and being still remain in the umbra of despair.
It aches to be alone.
ÒLord Faramir?Ó
I turn, seeing the Warden of the House of Healing striding across the dew covered grass towards me. I almost look away but my eye snares a glimpse of white, pure white and the glitter of gold and my eyes are held riveted.
She is transfixing, captivating, enchanting. She is beautiful, devastatingly so, heart wrenchingly so. She is tall, stern and slender, her grey eyes hallow, holding little emotion other than sorrow and despair, despair so great her very life hangs in peril, in their orbs. She is clad in white, immaculate white as unmarred as the snow capped far in the north. Her shield arm is held in a sling, broken I deem and she looks deathly sallow, an alabaster, sickly look only the Black Breath can put upon one. The dimness of her eyes and tautness of her lips as in one wracked with many pressures fails to make her anything but beautiful, fair beyond the measure anything else I have ever beheld.
ÒMy lord, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan.Ó
She looked up and met my gaze, becoming suddenly more pallid and I detected a slight tremble in her stern bearing. But, nay, it must have been my fancy because she once again bowed her head, becoming more remote than ever before.
Eowyn. Eowyn.
Something in my heart stirred and I knew I had found my someone.
Warning: Contains MOME (pronounce Mommy) Moments Of Manly Emotion.
Chapter 3
Faramir
I have sensed it for a time, the hushed whispers, the sighs and veiled laments I am exposed to every time I venture near my fatherÕs name, which is not often as it is a difficult subject to brooch. I am no fool, his death could not be shrouded from me long but there is much none would tell me, exchanging glances, begging me to rest a while. But I will not, can not, close my eyes. For to sleep is to let my mind wander, to contemplate, to analyze all I know, driving my self mad.
So today as a matron in the house is laboring over my wound I grasp her wrist, desperate for some knowledge of my father. ÒTell me, for I much desire to know and believe it should not be kept a secret to me, his closest of kin.Ó
ÒMy lord, I do not consider it my place to tell you the minute amount that I know,Ó she said as she bustles out of the room leaving me alone with the suffocating walls and my imagination, visualizing every possible scenario my meager information will allow.
When my mind wearies of my father I turn to images of the king, old beyond my count of years, the undiluted blood of of Numenor flowing in his veins, possessing a veiled power like no other. He shall reclaim the throne of Gondor to the joy of all, but where shall that leave me? Kin less and alone, my new found position gone ere I had time to even think about being Steward, I shall be. Where do I go once I am free of these suffocating walls? Yet I hold no bitterness for Lord Aragorn, no fury or loathing towards him at all. My heart contains only love for him, my healer, my king. Never has even the gnawing thought of jealously penetrated my mind. Yet I wonder about my future, my fate. All is uncertain now, nothing is known. I have passed out of shadow and ebony only to be at the forks of journey of my life, having not the slightest notion which path I should choose, if there is even a clear path laid in front of me. All is uncertain.
* * * * * * *
He told me, haltingly, stuttering, his eyes darting every where but not meeting my gaze.
ÒFaramir, I sense you are troubled and for a just reason. We can not veil things for long, we should never have attempted to shield you for your fatherÕs rash actions,Ó Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth said, staring down at the floor.
ÒI have known long of my fatherÕs death and even suspected it was by his own hand, but tell me what you so feverently tried to keep hidden,Ó I urged him.
ÒNot only did he take his own life but he, he endeavored to bring him with you into afterlife. And you would be laid beside him in an everlasting sleep if not for the courage of one hobbit and the traitorous actions of one Guard of the Citadel,Ó he stammered.
The world suddenly shifted out of focus, images swirling, blurring around me, me spiraling downward once again in the onyx, desolate abyss at the edge of my feet. I struggled to hold on to the light that was fast evaporating. It took all the willpower I possessed to pull myself away from the overwhelming shadow that is grief and despair but I emerged.
ÒThat is regrettable,Ó I said, desperately trying to mask my emotion but my voice belied me, cracking with emotion. Then I shuddered, shaking with dry sobs, my face in my hands as the prince stroked my hair.
He was gone. The father I loved despite his mockery and scorn. The father I remained as a cold indifference to since my mother departed was gone. And all I could do was cry.
* * * * * * *
I contemplate now the anguish of being alone, utterly, purely solitary, isolated not just by the the walls and healers who bind me here but by my situation, my lack of knowledge. At times I yearn for someone to speak to, to pour out my dreams, fears, desires to. Someone who shall listen. I have lost my one and only confidant to the poisoned arrows of the Uruk-Hai. Even he, my brother, would hardly listen, staring into the hearth, sharpening his sword, the twangs echoing throughout the great empty all we sat in. He would merely nod, hearing but not truly listening , his mind occupied with plots of battle and lore of warfare. In Mithrandir I found wisdom, a friendship, a bound though his visits were few and far between. Always he seemed to ride with disaster licking at his heels, bringing ill news. My father, the Steward of Gondor, resented, scorned . mocked my unity with the wizard, hiding much power in his simple, undistinguished ways.
Ò I have ruled the realm of Gondor in the lost blood lineÕs steed but I am unable to control my youngest son, or even have him love me,Ó the Steward ranted, the memory as unmarred as if the event transpired yesterday eve.
ÒThat is folly, father,Ó I muttered, bowing my head, relying as always on Boromir to fight my battles with my sire. I could face down a Southron or slay a mighty orc but could not affront my own malicious father.
Boromir had spoken to him many a time, quietly in the shadows, where they naively thought I could not hear as their whispers rose to aggravated calls and eventually to shouts that echoed through the citadel.
ÒHe love you, Father. And you him, if you would only remember it!Ó Boromir raved. ÒAll he ever does is only done in the hopes of pleasing you but you shall never be pleased with him! And yet he still loves you!Ó
ÒHis flaws and faults outweigh his meager, few redeeming qualities. Thank Valor for you, Boromir. My first born shall never betray me the way my second, lesser son has,Ó my father waged.
I yearn for someone,anyone, who I could reiterate his mockery and favoritism to. Someone, anyone who would allow me to tell of endless nights I spent awake, frantically, desperately searching for a way to make him forget his grudge against me and love me again, hunting for a path once more into his heart. I desired, no needed someone, anyone who would understand, hark to my words and erase the feeling of sorrow, of regret that overwhelms me now. I need someone to love me, for who I am, not the son of Denethor II or the younger brother of Boromir II, not the Steward of Gondor but Faramir, merely myself.
* * * * * * *
I wander now in the gardens, an oasis amidst the stone of the White City. I venture down sunlight paths, where all is as simple and routine as the coming of the lilies in early spring and yet my mind and being still remain in the umbra of despair.
It aches to be alone.
ÒLord Faramir?Ó
I turn, seeing the Warden of the House of Healing striding across the dew covered grass towards me. I almost look away but my eye snares a glimpse of white, pure white and the glitter of gold and my eyes are held riveted.
She is transfixing, captivating, enchanting. She is beautiful, devastatingly so, heart wrenchingly so. She is tall, stern and slender, her grey eyes hallow, holding little emotion other than sorrow and despair, despair so great her very life hangs in peril, in their orbs. She is clad in white, immaculate white as unmarred as the snow capped far in the north. Her shield arm is held in a sling, broken I deem and she looks deathly sallow, an alabaster, sickly look only the Black Breath can put upon one. The dimness of her eyes and tautness of her lips as in one wracked with many pressures fails to make her anything but beautiful, fair beyond the measure anything else I have ever beheld.
ÒMy lord, here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan.Ó
She looked up and met my gaze, becoming suddenly more pallid and I detected a slight tremble in her stern bearing. But, nay, it must have been my fancy because she once again bowed her head, becoming more remote than ever before.
Eowyn. Eowyn.
Something in my heart stirred and I knew I had found my someone.