A/N: Eru, I have so much to say yet lack a somewhat eloquent way to say it.
I was obliged (tragically) to finish 8th grade and labor on through finals
(at times its painful being an overachiever) then (after having a
revelation that I'm finally, truly, blissfully in high school and only have
to endure 4 more years at home) I procrastinated, suffering from a dreadful
bout of writer's block (perhaps I should change my penname to that as it
seems to afflict me quite often) despite the fact that this chapter has
been mostly done for over a month, just lacking a conclusion.
This chapter contains an excuse for me to be somewhat fluffy (at least for me) which is in stark contrast with my normal writing. Dear Faramir has a bit of a day dream, half foresessing thing to do with the starry mantle (which figures quite promiently in this chapter.) AND THE MIDDLE PART IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN PRESENT TENSE! Does it make sense? Probably not. Do I care. Decidedly no. Should I care? Probably but that does not alter a thing.
For my own twisted purposes this chapter had the following title as it was in progress: "Bizarre moment of F being able to foresee furture that's really just an excuse for boundless fluff and unsurpassed sap..... mmmmmm!.... frightfully, mortifyingly sappy! v. twisted b/c this is from F's point of view.... oh, lord... shalln't venture THERE!"
And I frankly don't have any clue what I was alluding to with "THERE!"
Lauren
Faramir
Ere I was fully cognizant of my actions, I found myself traversing the labyrinth of stone corridors, delving into the depths of the House of Stewards, and having procured permission from the Warden to venture from the Houses with the dissemblance of attending to some mandatory business, which I was deliberately vague about in my perjuring.
For me, poltergeists of the past linger among the majestic white pillars; tapestries depicting tragic lore through haunting and intricate weavings are fraught with excruciating memories. My own home has at times authenticated itself as being more perilous than even fetid lairs of orcs, and caves teeming with other odious, repugnant fiends. Poison laced arrows can do naught but wound a man physically while scathing articulations from the mouth of ones father posses the capability to mortally mutilate one emotionally.
I swiftly strode past scores of locked chambers, not even pausing to permit my gaze to linger upon the precious heirlooms of the line of Stewards, elegant vases and tarnished silver candlesticks, weighted down with the burden of tradition and formality. These are antiques that have born witness to the malice of my father, nay, the malice of the wretched being that he became, have born witness to the deterioration of my mother's volition to live, through the years. Naught but a decade of age, I had crouched behind the precise table I pay no heed to presently, as my brother and Father became embroiled in a acrimonious row involving the method by which I was to be punished for such a negligible offense as forsaking my lessons, deeming that I could glean something more consequential then knowledge of the rule of Ecthelion I, by harkening to what sagacity Mithrandir had to convey. It was also beside that table that I became wretchedly ill after Boromir had successfully managed to thoroughly intoxicate me on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday. Yet in this hour I have but one destination and refuse to be deterred by agonizing recollections brought on by the mere gazing at a relic of the House of Stewards.
Where memory failed, instinct consumed, guiding me to an ostensibly inconsequential chamber, one of scores along the corridors. The hefty wood door that had served as a formidable bower, guarding an unfathomable number of secrets, not suffering a soul to enter, was blissfully unlocked and I was unhindered in crossing the threshold. I surmise that I ought to have questioned the status of the door but I was consumed with the imminent task thus I entertained no such meditation, merely absorbing every minute detail of the room, as a parched man deliriously ingests water.
As in my memory the walls were a pristine ivory hue and in the center of the chamber there remained a bed, shrouded, in part, by a gossamer canopy. Even the consoling scent that I shall eternally associate with my mother, the aroma of the sea, lingered in the air. My eyes strayed to a bureau standing in the corner of the room, blanketed, as all else in the room, by a thin film of dust. I strode over to it, clasping the handle of intertwined strands of metal and pulled the door open. I was deluged in dust as I peered inside the chest, my eyes encountering the somber shades of formal robes, the vivid shades of frocks my mother delighted in gazing at, reminiscing about her youth by the shores of the tumultuous sea, and the midnight cobalt of a particular mantle, stars embroidered with auriferous thread at the throat and hem. I, with every semblance of tranquility though my insides turbulent and my emotions treacherous, reached inside the bureau and extracted the indigo mantle.
From the precise moment I laid eyes upon Eowyn of Rohan, perceiving that her haunting loveliness was surpassed only by her utter, supreme grief, I could image her clad in this mantle...
She stands upon the ivory walls, a lone beacon in the watches of the night, the wind mercilessly whipping at the flaxen tendrils of her hair, the gale toying with the hem of the mantle in which she is arrayed. I possessed an instinct that I would encounter her here: upon the walls, when I awoke to her absence. I have oft inquired of her how she can abide the wind and invariably she bestows upon me her enchanting, wan smile and replies, never one to waste breathe on elaborate articulations:
"You neglect to remember, Faramir, that I was born and raised in Rohan," she inevitably replies, casting her eyes toward the north, to where the plains eternally sway and the wind relentlessly besieges the terrain.
Now she is poised upon the walls and I am content to observe her and harken to her scarily audible murmurings to the child, swathed in blankets she bears in her arms. Our child.
"It was in the garden and upon these walls that Father first fell in love with Mother but Mother's heart belonged to another though he did not return these sentiments. Mother was very foolish indeed not to view Father for the man he truly was, a man that was enraptured and transfixed by her (or so he says he was). Father granted Mother this raiment that had belonged to his mother and draped it around Mother's shoulders yet still she did not comprehend the ways of her own heart..." she softly vocalizes.
I traverse to length of the walls to where she is positioned and gently rest my hand upon her shoulder.
"He's finally asleep," she whispers, motioning towards the babe in clutched to her lithe form. "I did not know children could shriek so sonorously. I would not be amazed if he woke up the entire Citadel."
"Why did you not awake me?" I tenderly caress the nape of her elegant, white neck. "You comprehend fully well that I can lure him into a deep slumber," I taunt her, my tone steeped in boundless adoration for both mother and son.
She veers around to face me, resting her auriferous head upon my chest, emitting a sigh. "You need your rest," she replies.
I enfold her and my son in my arms, savoring the utter and beautiful silence that hangs between us, broken only by the cadence of the shallow breaths of our slumbering child.
No articulations are required to confirm the love we possess for one another, declarations would be fatuous, and even the most superior of word weavers could not grasp with ink and adjectives what love truly is. It would be impossible...
I was abruptly drawn from my reverie, a tender moment that may never come to be, and returned to the realm of reality, as bleak and dour as it may be. I know not what wrought that moment, a figment of my imagination, a mirage that maliciously mocked the dismal state of my current life, only knew that I would savor it for ever and anon. Yet daydreams, gossamer and translucent, are a poor substitute for real life. Yet for now they are all I possess.
I traced the intricate embroidery upon the collar and hem of the raiment ere swiftly rising, granting my mother's chambers, where I perceive my mother's spirit still lingers, a terminal, sorrowful look and then depart.
I was resolute.
And yes for all you asking, I have seen the light since I wrote that author's note about my not liking David Wenham and can fully appreciate him for the exceedingly, extremely, v. v. v. handsome man that he is. I have repented for that comment and beg for forgiveness.
Thanks to Dragon Girl Revlis!
This chapter contains an excuse for me to be somewhat fluffy (at least for me) which is in stark contrast with my normal writing. Dear Faramir has a bit of a day dream, half foresessing thing to do with the starry mantle (which figures quite promiently in this chapter.) AND THE MIDDLE PART IS SUPPOSED TO BE IN PRESENT TENSE! Does it make sense? Probably not. Do I care. Decidedly no. Should I care? Probably but that does not alter a thing.
For my own twisted purposes this chapter had the following title as it was in progress: "Bizarre moment of F being able to foresee furture that's really just an excuse for boundless fluff and unsurpassed sap..... mmmmmm!.... frightfully, mortifyingly sappy! v. twisted b/c this is from F's point of view.... oh, lord... shalln't venture THERE!"
And I frankly don't have any clue what I was alluding to with "THERE!"
Lauren
Faramir
Ere I was fully cognizant of my actions, I found myself traversing the labyrinth of stone corridors, delving into the depths of the House of Stewards, and having procured permission from the Warden to venture from the Houses with the dissemblance of attending to some mandatory business, which I was deliberately vague about in my perjuring.
For me, poltergeists of the past linger among the majestic white pillars; tapestries depicting tragic lore through haunting and intricate weavings are fraught with excruciating memories. My own home has at times authenticated itself as being more perilous than even fetid lairs of orcs, and caves teeming with other odious, repugnant fiends. Poison laced arrows can do naught but wound a man physically while scathing articulations from the mouth of ones father posses the capability to mortally mutilate one emotionally.
I swiftly strode past scores of locked chambers, not even pausing to permit my gaze to linger upon the precious heirlooms of the line of Stewards, elegant vases and tarnished silver candlesticks, weighted down with the burden of tradition and formality. These are antiques that have born witness to the malice of my father, nay, the malice of the wretched being that he became, have born witness to the deterioration of my mother's volition to live, through the years. Naught but a decade of age, I had crouched behind the precise table I pay no heed to presently, as my brother and Father became embroiled in a acrimonious row involving the method by which I was to be punished for such a negligible offense as forsaking my lessons, deeming that I could glean something more consequential then knowledge of the rule of Ecthelion I, by harkening to what sagacity Mithrandir had to convey. It was also beside that table that I became wretchedly ill after Boromir had successfully managed to thoroughly intoxicate me on the occasion of my sixteenth birthday. Yet in this hour I have but one destination and refuse to be deterred by agonizing recollections brought on by the mere gazing at a relic of the House of Stewards.
Where memory failed, instinct consumed, guiding me to an ostensibly inconsequential chamber, one of scores along the corridors. The hefty wood door that had served as a formidable bower, guarding an unfathomable number of secrets, not suffering a soul to enter, was blissfully unlocked and I was unhindered in crossing the threshold. I surmise that I ought to have questioned the status of the door but I was consumed with the imminent task thus I entertained no such meditation, merely absorbing every minute detail of the room, as a parched man deliriously ingests water.
As in my memory the walls were a pristine ivory hue and in the center of the chamber there remained a bed, shrouded, in part, by a gossamer canopy. Even the consoling scent that I shall eternally associate with my mother, the aroma of the sea, lingered in the air. My eyes strayed to a bureau standing in the corner of the room, blanketed, as all else in the room, by a thin film of dust. I strode over to it, clasping the handle of intertwined strands of metal and pulled the door open. I was deluged in dust as I peered inside the chest, my eyes encountering the somber shades of formal robes, the vivid shades of frocks my mother delighted in gazing at, reminiscing about her youth by the shores of the tumultuous sea, and the midnight cobalt of a particular mantle, stars embroidered with auriferous thread at the throat and hem. I, with every semblance of tranquility though my insides turbulent and my emotions treacherous, reached inside the bureau and extracted the indigo mantle.
From the precise moment I laid eyes upon Eowyn of Rohan, perceiving that her haunting loveliness was surpassed only by her utter, supreme grief, I could image her clad in this mantle...
She stands upon the ivory walls, a lone beacon in the watches of the night, the wind mercilessly whipping at the flaxen tendrils of her hair, the gale toying with the hem of the mantle in which she is arrayed. I possessed an instinct that I would encounter her here: upon the walls, when I awoke to her absence. I have oft inquired of her how she can abide the wind and invariably she bestows upon me her enchanting, wan smile and replies, never one to waste breathe on elaborate articulations:
"You neglect to remember, Faramir, that I was born and raised in Rohan," she inevitably replies, casting her eyes toward the north, to where the plains eternally sway and the wind relentlessly besieges the terrain.
Now she is poised upon the walls and I am content to observe her and harken to her scarily audible murmurings to the child, swathed in blankets she bears in her arms. Our child.
"It was in the garden and upon these walls that Father first fell in love with Mother but Mother's heart belonged to another though he did not return these sentiments. Mother was very foolish indeed not to view Father for the man he truly was, a man that was enraptured and transfixed by her (or so he says he was). Father granted Mother this raiment that had belonged to his mother and draped it around Mother's shoulders yet still she did not comprehend the ways of her own heart..." she softly vocalizes.
I traverse to length of the walls to where she is positioned and gently rest my hand upon her shoulder.
"He's finally asleep," she whispers, motioning towards the babe in clutched to her lithe form. "I did not know children could shriek so sonorously. I would not be amazed if he woke up the entire Citadel."
"Why did you not awake me?" I tenderly caress the nape of her elegant, white neck. "You comprehend fully well that I can lure him into a deep slumber," I taunt her, my tone steeped in boundless adoration for both mother and son.
She veers around to face me, resting her auriferous head upon my chest, emitting a sigh. "You need your rest," she replies.
I enfold her and my son in my arms, savoring the utter and beautiful silence that hangs between us, broken only by the cadence of the shallow breaths of our slumbering child.
No articulations are required to confirm the love we possess for one another, declarations would be fatuous, and even the most superior of word weavers could not grasp with ink and adjectives what love truly is. It would be impossible...
I was abruptly drawn from my reverie, a tender moment that may never come to be, and returned to the realm of reality, as bleak and dour as it may be. I know not what wrought that moment, a figment of my imagination, a mirage that maliciously mocked the dismal state of my current life, only knew that I would savor it for ever and anon. Yet daydreams, gossamer and translucent, are a poor substitute for real life. Yet for now they are all I possess.
I traced the intricate embroidery upon the collar and hem of the raiment ere swiftly rising, granting my mother's chambers, where I perceive my mother's spirit still lingers, a terminal, sorrowful look and then depart.
I was resolute.
And yes for all you asking, I have seen the light since I wrote that author's note about my not liking David Wenham and can fully appreciate him for the exceedingly, extremely, v. v. v. handsome man that he is. I have repented for that comment and beg for forgiveness.
Thanks to Dragon Girl Revlis!