A/N: After many days, two showings of ROTK (brings my total up to 3) one foul babysitting experience that will haunt me for the rest of my life, Titanic on TV last nigh (omg, it's Theoden, the King of Rohan as the captain!) and one v. annoying brat sister reading over my sholder I present to you Chapter 8 of the House of Healing. It's quite long for me, infamous for my short chapters. (I actually think it's londer than my last three updates combined!) Because I doubt the sanity of people on this website and also skim stories I've made it painfully obvious when Faramir's flashback begins.
Return of the King today was just peachy being that Brooke (my dah-ling friend) and I could not sop laughing about anything from Denethor's "tea party dress," Frodo's man boobies, Shelob's woman penis, and out growing list of hot guys in Middle Earth. (Brooke: You know, Faramir's pretty cute. Me: (unintelliglbe babble about how I thought that ages ago and he so bloody well is!) Brooke: Him, there, Eomer, he's pretty cute to. Me: Yes... sigh.
My habit of going to bed at the crack of dawn and waking up at the crack of dawn in finally catchig up to me. Tragic, as it's only midnight and normally I get at least three more hours of randomness in ere I collapse from lack of sleep. I blame my 24 hours hyperness of too much sugar and far to much Faramir for my own good. (and the fact that my computer clock 14 hours slow.)
Oh, for Valar (and Faramir's and my!) sake, just read and review!
Lauren
Chapter 8
Faramir (sigh)
ÒTell me, Warden, if you can, all you know of the Lady Eowyn,Ó I demanded, striding into the WardenÕs dank, mean* chamber, cluttered with books of lore, chronicles and the earthy fragrance of drying herbs hanging from the rafters.
ÒMy lord,Ó he stammered, taken aback by my abrupt entrance, setting down his ink stained quill, upsetting a pot of ebony ink all over his writings.
ÒI want you to tell me all you know,Ó I reverberated, echoing myself as I began to pace to and fro, back and forth from on shelved wall of his office to the other, running my hands through my jet-black, raven hair. ÒI yearn to know all you can tell me. I need to know....Ó I said, more to myself than the Warden, riveting by my distress.
ÒWhy, sir?Ó he inquired tentatively.
Wearily I slumped into the chair wedged before his desk and the suffocating wall, burying my head in my hands.
ÒSir?Ó
I glanced up, staring at the Warden through my half closed eyes, devoid of sleep, my fingers obstructing my countenance from his view. ÒI think I may be able to be her salvation,Ó I expressed and now that the syllables had passed through my lips they sounded hollow and frail, foolish utterances from a fatuous mouth. Perhaps Eowyn was accurate, I did cohere to ridiculous hopes. But hopes they were and while there were somethings in the world still bright I fair I would cling to it, though the waves of malice may beat against me, evil seeking, straining to wrench my from my rock of hope.
ÒWhy do you think that?Ó he asked, unaware of the effect his simple words would have upon me.
My shoulders sank and once again I veiled my face from the WardenÕs prying eyes. His meager words echoed in my mind, mocking my intentions. Then the answer, brutally honest, surfaced and how it plagues me. It was clear and unpretentious yet it took supreme effort for me to form the words, to utter them, to bare my soul. Many times I had thought them but vocalizing them, it made it real and true. ÒI- I-,Ó I stuttered, the words ensnare in my tightening throat, my tongue weighting burdensome in my parched, arid mouth. My voice cracked and faltered with oppressed emotion as I forced the words to escape from my clenching throat and dry lips. ÒI love her.Ó
The Warden, engrossed in blotting marred, ink stained papers, suddenly glanced up at me in astonishment, clearly appalled. ÒYou love her?Ó he echoed.
I nodded ere I collapsed on to his cluttered wooden desk, my arms shielding my head, my neck, my emotions.
And I was cognizant of a gentle and vague, yet consoling touch on my shoulder, a touch of sympathy almost.
ÒBreath taking, she is. Haunting in her cold beauty and sorrow. Yet I pity any man whose heart she unknowingly holds in her clutches for he too is doomed to share in her suffering and will be plagued with grief when she finally succumbs to it. I sympathize her brother, Eomer, for he senses that no healing any mortal can give her will suffice. Her fate is sealed, Faramir.Ó
For that time I was not his lord, not the Steward of Gondor, but a distressed friend in need of aid.
ÒBut a heart is not easily swayed. If you are destined to love her, to partake in her woe then so be it. I am not one to meddle in affairs of amour or the passion of a soul,Ó he stated and then, abruptly recalling his place he retreated behind his desk, rifling through sheets of stained and torn parchment. ÒBut I do not doubt, lord, that you would learn more from the Halfling that is with us; for he was in the riding of the kind, and with the Lady at the end, they say.Ó
ÒThe end...Ó I mused. ÒSo was all hope extinct for her then, condemned, damned? Nay, the end as not come but I fear it lurks in wait just around the bend in the journey of life. There is loiters, lingers, tarries ever patiently for her.Ó Then I rose, treading over to the narrow slit of a window in the alabaster rock of the House of Healing. The early morning breeze rustled through the oddly empty and silent White City. It was like the eye of a vicious storm, all was serene and still, yet filled with apprehension and dread. Everything seemed barren and stark in the harsh white streets. I then recalled what agony and heart ache Minas Tirith had once held for me yet it was what I so bitterly fought for...
* * * * * * *
Flashback......
There she was gleaming on the horizon, her unmarred pale stone rising into the sky, the sheer rock face beside her leering menacingly over the plain. Yet she did not falter, stood as pillar of strength in Gondor though he lords had been long absent in her great halls. The White Tree had withered and died, the blood of Numenor was mingled and diluted with each passing generation and just over the Anduin our enemies lurked, biding their time. Yet proud and stern she still stood, an ivory oasis amidst the snowy peaks that scraped the very sky and the rolling plains, their dry grasses waving and snapping that autumn morning ere the sun had even crested the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow. Mountains that had long enclosed our worst nightmares in Mordor but now even the lofty, soaring pinnacles, crowns of arrant stone cold stay the foe. Turning my horse I gave a terminal elongated look of yearning to the wilderness. I could barely glimpse a hair thin, spidery line of green of Ithilien, a domain so perilous yet alive and fair. Often, while walking down a rarely used forest path in the country, hearing only the distant chirping of birds in the lofty trees and the treading of my own feet on the leaf carpeted ground I was apt to forget the imperilment of these lands, now traveled by the enemy, on the very fringe of what is unscathed and what has fully succumbed to the growing evil of Mordor. There is a minute, delicate line between what is good and what it ill. What is sane and what is madness...
I averted my grey eyes back to Minas Tirith, the subtle, diluted light of the breaking dawn painting her walls a flushed rose hue. My tumultuous grey eyes rested upon the Tower of Ecthelion and the Citadel, and I drew in a sudden breath. There he sat, in his straight backed chair, solitary save the alabaster marble statues of the kings of old, the lords of a line long broken, the blood diminished. Great trepidation I had about returning to the City of the Guard, my birthplace and much beloved home, a haven from the perils of Ithilien and Osgiliath yet a dwelling so accursed for me. Within those seamless walls of pure, unmarred, pale stone I was subject to lashes and brutalities greater than those I encountered on the border. Yet is was not the arrow or the sword that pierced my skin and heart within those walls yet the dour, harsh comments of my father, his sullen glares of discontent and apparent loathing, the scathing, stinging lashes of his tongue. Oh, how what was spoken and what was left unspoken, communicated solely in stares and acts of blatant favoritism, could penetrate a manÕs heart, especially the heart of a man who wears it quite openly and honestly. Long have I criticized and mocked for my unobstructed soul which I wore on my sleeve. Quick, was I to pity and if indeed I possessed an fury it was the sole emotion I concealed from the prying eyes of my father. Often, when I was much younger, in days that have long diminished and ceased to be, my fatherÕs stinging words would bring unshed tears to my grey, innocent eyes.
ÒHow I yearn for a son who veils his emotions, a son with courage. You, Faramir, lack the strength even to master your own heart. Why should I trust you leading the hearts and indeed, the bodies of others? But it matters not. By the grace of valor and your deceased mother I was blessed with another son, my eldest who shall receive my place as the Steward of Gondor. You shall be naught but Captain, and even with that task I fear your incompetence shall ensue in disaster,Ó I recalled him articulating.
Years later I would ascertain how to masquerade these emotions but they never ceased to be, ruling me in all I do, determining my fate. Pity, I deem, is both a plague, a curse, and a blessing. I have been told countless times that my pitying shall be my bane, shall lead to the unraveling of my person and indeed Gondor if ever I gained power. Needless to say, these words were just part of the the vile syllables that escaped my fatherÕs mouth in the stretches of time in which we were together. As my age and wisdom advanced my duration in Minas Tirith, in the House of Stewards, grew few and far between, not solely by my own doing. Much of my life was spend crouching the the underbrush of Ithilien, awaiting an unseen foe. My life was reigned by my fatherÕs commands, wishes, and whims. Ever did I yearn to please him but never was he satisfied.
The hushed and benevolent voice of a young Ranger under my command brought me out of my musings that autumn morn on the plains of the Pelannor. ÒIt it breathtaking, sir, is it not?Ó he asked.
ÒAye,Ó I acquiesced.
ÒHow I long to be within her flawless walls once more,Ó he confessed, glancing at my expectedly. Then, spying the stern composure on my face, my grim determination to endure the incessant condemnation from my father, he faltered. ÒYou would rather be in Ithilien, am I not correct, sir? That is where you truly find peace, is it not?Ó
ÒI love the city and its people,Ó I expressed, hoping to alter the conversation ere I said something I would regret. I nudged my horse forward, though wincing with each constant clap of its hooves on the dying grass for each step brought me closer to my fatherÕs harsh words. Do not mistake me, I love my father, only I possess no love for his reprobation of my acts, all done to please him. I audibly sighed as the heavy gates of the city swung open, gates we though none could breach, and entered the walls of Minas Tirith. I was home, but my heart was not yet at ease.
* * * * * * *
ÒSir? Lord Faramir?Ó The WardenÕs benign tone beckoned me back to this time and place.
I finally turned from the window, facing reality once again. He was dead, no more would I suffer from his criticism. Yet, some how, that notion did not bring me the comfort I once thought it would.
ÒBring this Halfling to me,Ó I said. ÒTell him I shall be in the gardens.Ó I stated ere I strode out of the room, my cloak snapping with the swelling wind. To the gardens I went, retreating into the umbra of a willow tree, its branches bowing low with the weight of its leaves, veiling me from the world. I thought back to yesterday, where I stood underneath the bows of this tree and first laid eyes upon the White Lady Rohan, who would haunt both my waking and sleeping mind, however ill at ease it may be.
Then I harked, ringing through the trees, a clear voice sorrowfully singing what I deemed to be once a jolly ditty.
ÒHo! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe.
Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go,
But under a tall tree i will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by.Ó
The songster dejectedly caroled, half heartily singing as the upbeat cadence got away from him and he trailed off in a final bittersweet, poignant note.
Coming across the grass I spied a halfling shuffling and staggering along, his head bent over with worry so all I could see was his curly mane of auburn locks. I sighed, speculating of the fate of the first two hobbits I ever laid my grey orbs upon, Frodo son of Drogo and Samwise son of Hamfast. Then my mind turned to the youthful face of Peregrin Took, who ventured on the vain, futile journey with the captains of West. Abruptly, this perian, glanced up at me, his eyes that of one who once possessed great, irrepressible merriment yet sorrow had vanquished and hollow and woeful his eyes were. Pity overwhelmed me as I gave him a wan, haggard smile of sympathy. The hope that I though had vanished was reinstated in my soul as I gazed upon this perian. I was reminded of why were so acrimoniously struggling against the forces of Mordor. So ones with so much joy, so much innocence could live in an unmarred world. So those truly good at heart would not suffer. So those to come, out children, would not live in world tainted by evil, being slaves to industry. Many have died in this battle, but not in vain. While there is still something to cling to, some good left, we must never let go lest our cause is truly lost. Perhaps we may die in this fight, our waning strength finally failing yet in afterlife we will have some comfort for we tried to save this world. And is not trying enough?
ÒMaster Perian?Ó I called. ÒTell me all you can of Eowyn of Rohan.Ó
Return of the King today was just peachy being that Brooke (my dah-ling friend) and I could not sop laughing about anything from Denethor's "tea party dress," Frodo's man boobies, Shelob's woman penis, and out growing list of hot guys in Middle Earth. (Brooke: You know, Faramir's pretty cute. Me: (unintelliglbe babble about how I thought that ages ago and he so bloody well is!) Brooke: Him, there, Eomer, he's pretty cute to. Me: Yes... sigh.
My habit of going to bed at the crack of dawn and waking up at the crack of dawn in finally catchig up to me. Tragic, as it's only midnight and normally I get at least three more hours of randomness in ere I collapse from lack of sleep. I blame my 24 hours hyperness of too much sugar and far to much Faramir for my own good. (and the fact that my computer clock 14 hours slow.)
Oh, for Valar (and Faramir's and my!) sake, just read and review!
Lauren
Chapter 8
Faramir (sigh)
ÒTell me, Warden, if you can, all you know of the Lady Eowyn,Ó I demanded, striding into the WardenÕs dank, mean* chamber, cluttered with books of lore, chronicles and the earthy fragrance of drying herbs hanging from the rafters.
ÒMy lord,Ó he stammered, taken aback by my abrupt entrance, setting down his ink stained quill, upsetting a pot of ebony ink all over his writings.
ÒI want you to tell me all you know,Ó I reverberated, echoing myself as I began to pace to and fro, back and forth from on shelved wall of his office to the other, running my hands through my jet-black, raven hair. ÒI yearn to know all you can tell me. I need to know....Ó I said, more to myself than the Warden, riveting by my distress.
ÒWhy, sir?Ó he inquired tentatively.
Wearily I slumped into the chair wedged before his desk and the suffocating wall, burying my head in my hands.
ÒSir?Ó
I glanced up, staring at the Warden through my half closed eyes, devoid of sleep, my fingers obstructing my countenance from his view. ÒI think I may be able to be her salvation,Ó I expressed and now that the syllables had passed through my lips they sounded hollow and frail, foolish utterances from a fatuous mouth. Perhaps Eowyn was accurate, I did cohere to ridiculous hopes. But hopes they were and while there were somethings in the world still bright I fair I would cling to it, though the waves of malice may beat against me, evil seeking, straining to wrench my from my rock of hope.
ÒWhy do you think that?Ó he asked, unaware of the effect his simple words would have upon me.
My shoulders sank and once again I veiled my face from the WardenÕs prying eyes. His meager words echoed in my mind, mocking my intentions. Then the answer, brutally honest, surfaced and how it plagues me. It was clear and unpretentious yet it took supreme effort for me to form the words, to utter them, to bare my soul. Many times I had thought them but vocalizing them, it made it real and true. ÒI- I-,Ó I stuttered, the words ensnare in my tightening throat, my tongue weighting burdensome in my parched, arid mouth. My voice cracked and faltered with oppressed emotion as I forced the words to escape from my clenching throat and dry lips. ÒI love her.Ó
The Warden, engrossed in blotting marred, ink stained papers, suddenly glanced up at me in astonishment, clearly appalled. ÒYou love her?Ó he echoed.
I nodded ere I collapsed on to his cluttered wooden desk, my arms shielding my head, my neck, my emotions.
And I was cognizant of a gentle and vague, yet consoling touch on my shoulder, a touch of sympathy almost.
ÒBreath taking, she is. Haunting in her cold beauty and sorrow. Yet I pity any man whose heart she unknowingly holds in her clutches for he too is doomed to share in her suffering and will be plagued with grief when she finally succumbs to it. I sympathize her brother, Eomer, for he senses that no healing any mortal can give her will suffice. Her fate is sealed, Faramir.Ó
For that time I was not his lord, not the Steward of Gondor, but a distressed friend in need of aid.
ÒBut a heart is not easily swayed. If you are destined to love her, to partake in her woe then so be it. I am not one to meddle in affairs of amour or the passion of a soul,Ó he stated and then, abruptly recalling his place he retreated behind his desk, rifling through sheets of stained and torn parchment. ÒBut I do not doubt, lord, that you would learn more from the Halfling that is with us; for he was in the riding of the kind, and with the Lady at the end, they say.Ó
ÒThe end...Ó I mused. ÒSo was all hope extinct for her then, condemned, damned? Nay, the end as not come but I fear it lurks in wait just around the bend in the journey of life. There is loiters, lingers, tarries ever patiently for her.Ó Then I rose, treading over to the narrow slit of a window in the alabaster rock of the House of Healing. The early morning breeze rustled through the oddly empty and silent White City. It was like the eye of a vicious storm, all was serene and still, yet filled with apprehension and dread. Everything seemed barren and stark in the harsh white streets. I then recalled what agony and heart ache Minas Tirith had once held for me yet it was what I so bitterly fought for...
* * * * * * *
Flashback......
There she was gleaming on the horizon, her unmarred pale stone rising into the sky, the sheer rock face beside her leering menacingly over the plain. Yet she did not falter, stood as pillar of strength in Gondor though he lords had been long absent in her great halls. The White Tree had withered and died, the blood of Numenor was mingled and diluted with each passing generation and just over the Anduin our enemies lurked, biding their time. Yet proud and stern she still stood, an ivory oasis amidst the snowy peaks that scraped the very sky and the rolling plains, their dry grasses waving and snapping that autumn morning ere the sun had even crested the Ephel Duath, the Mountains of Shadow. Mountains that had long enclosed our worst nightmares in Mordor but now even the lofty, soaring pinnacles, crowns of arrant stone cold stay the foe. Turning my horse I gave a terminal elongated look of yearning to the wilderness. I could barely glimpse a hair thin, spidery line of green of Ithilien, a domain so perilous yet alive and fair. Often, while walking down a rarely used forest path in the country, hearing only the distant chirping of birds in the lofty trees and the treading of my own feet on the leaf carpeted ground I was apt to forget the imperilment of these lands, now traveled by the enemy, on the very fringe of what is unscathed and what has fully succumbed to the growing evil of Mordor. There is a minute, delicate line between what is good and what it ill. What is sane and what is madness...
I averted my grey eyes back to Minas Tirith, the subtle, diluted light of the breaking dawn painting her walls a flushed rose hue. My tumultuous grey eyes rested upon the Tower of Ecthelion and the Citadel, and I drew in a sudden breath. There he sat, in his straight backed chair, solitary save the alabaster marble statues of the kings of old, the lords of a line long broken, the blood diminished. Great trepidation I had about returning to the City of the Guard, my birthplace and much beloved home, a haven from the perils of Ithilien and Osgiliath yet a dwelling so accursed for me. Within those seamless walls of pure, unmarred, pale stone I was subject to lashes and brutalities greater than those I encountered on the border. Yet is was not the arrow or the sword that pierced my skin and heart within those walls yet the dour, harsh comments of my father, his sullen glares of discontent and apparent loathing, the scathing, stinging lashes of his tongue. Oh, how what was spoken and what was left unspoken, communicated solely in stares and acts of blatant favoritism, could penetrate a manÕs heart, especially the heart of a man who wears it quite openly and honestly. Long have I criticized and mocked for my unobstructed soul which I wore on my sleeve. Quick, was I to pity and if indeed I possessed an fury it was the sole emotion I concealed from the prying eyes of my father. Often, when I was much younger, in days that have long diminished and ceased to be, my fatherÕs stinging words would bring unshed tears to my grey, innocent eyes.
ÒHow I yearn for a son who veils his emotions, a son with courage. You, Faramir, lack the strength even to master your own heart. Why should I trust you leading the hearts and indeed, the bodies of others? But it matters not. By the grace of valor and your deceased mother I was blessed with another son, my eldest who shall receive my place as the Steward of Gondor. You shall be naught but Captain, and even with that task I fear your incompetence shall ensue in disaster,Ó I recalled him articulating.
Years later I would ascertain how to masquerade these emotions but they never ceased to be, ruling me in all I do, determining my fate. Pity, I deem, is both a plague, a curse, and a blessing. I have been told countless times that my pitying shall be my bane, shall lead to the unraveling of my person and indeed Gondor if ever I gained power. Needless to say, these words were just part of the the vile syllables that escaped my fatherÕs mouth in the stretches of time in which we were together. As my age and wisdom advanced my duration in Minas Tirith, in the House of Stewards, grew few and far between, not solely by my own doing. Much of my life was spend crouching the the underbrush of Ithilien, awaiting an unseen foe. My life was reigned by my fatherÕs commands, wishes, and whims. Ever did I yearn to please him but never was he satisfied.
The hushed and benevolent voice of a young Ranger under my command brought me out of my musings that autumn morn on the plains of the Pelannor. ÒIt it breathtaking, sir, is it not?Ó he asked.
ÒAye,Ó I acquiesced.
ÒHow I long to be within her flawless walls once more,Ó he confessed, glancing at my expectedly. Then, spying the stern composure on my face, my grim determination to endure the incessant condemnation from my father, he faltered. ÒYou would rather be in Ithilien, am I not correct, sir? That is where you truly find peace, is it not?Ó
ÒI love the city and its people,Ó I expressed, hoping to alter the conversation ere I said something I would regret. I nudged my horse forward, though wincing with each constant clap of its hooves on the dying grass for each step brought me closer to my fatherÕs harsh words. Do not mistake me, I love my father, only I possess no love for his reprobation of my acts, all done to please him. I audibly sighed as the heavy gates of the city swung open, gates we though none could breach, and entered the walls of Minas Tirith. I was home, but my heart was not yet at ease.
* * * * * * *
ÒSir? Lord Faramir?Ó The WardenÕs benign tone beckoned me back to this time and place.
I finally turned from the window, facing reality once again. He was dead, no more would I suffer from his criticism. Yet, some how, that notion did not bring me the comfort I once thought it would.
ÒBring this Halfling to me,Ó I said. ÒTell him I shall be in the gardens.Ó I stated ere I strode out of the room, my cloak snapping with the swelling wind. To the gardens I went, retreating into the umbra of a willow tree, its branches bowing low with the weight of its leaves, veiling me from the world. I thought back to yesterday, where I stood underneath the bows of this tree and first laid eyes upon the White Lady Rohan, who would haunt both my waking and sleeping mind, however ill at ease it may be.
Then I harked, ringing through the trees, a clear voice sorrowfully singing what I deemed to be once a jolly ditty.
ÒHo! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go
To heal my heart and drown my woe.
Rain may fall and wind may blow,
And many miles be still to go,
But under a tall tree i will lie,
And let the clouds go sailing by.Ó
The songster dejectedly caroled, half heartily singing as the upbeat cadence got away from him and he trailed off in a final bittersweet, poignant note.
Coming across the grass I spied a halfling shuffling and staggering along, his head bent over with worry so all I could see was his curly mane of auburn locks. I sighed, speculating of the fate of the first two hobbits I ever laid my grey orbs upon, Frodo son of Drogo and Samwise son of Hamfast. Then my mind turned to the youthful face of Peregrin Took, who ventured on the vain, futile journey with the captains of West. Abruptly, this perian, glanced up at me, his eyes that of one who once possessed great, irrepressible merriment yet sorrow had vanquished and hollow and woeful his eyes were. Pity overwhelmed me as I gave him a wan, haggard smile of sympathy. The hope that I though had vanished was reinstated in my soul as I gazed upon this perian. I was reminded of why were so acrimoniously struggling against the forces of Mordor. So ones with so much joy, so much innocence could live in an unmarred world. So those truly good at heart would not suffer. So those to come, out children, would not live in world tainted by evil, being slaves to industry. Many have died in this battle, but not in vain. While there is still something to cling to, some good left, we must never let go lest our cause is truly lost. Perhaps we may die in this fight, our waning strength finally failing yet in afterlife we will have some comfort for we tried to save this world. And is not trying enough?
ÒMaster Perian?Ó I called. ÒTell me all you can of Eowyn of Rohan.Ó