Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof
Author's note: For those of you unfamiliar, Thorongil is the name Strider uses in Rohan and Gondor (at least, I'm pretty sure it is. . .)
*****
Faramir gave little thought to his father's orders, for his excitement was too great. Instead of seeing the healers about an invented injury, cleaning himself up and changing into clothes not stained by sweat, Faramir slipped from the Citadel and into the streets of Gondor. The Seventh Circle was sparsely populated, and being as he was an intelligent boy Faramir knew that he would be noted there easily. While it was the best looked-after section of the city, most were not allowed in it. "A shame," mused Faramir, as he dipped his fingers into the fountain and drew out a hand-scoop of water, which he drank greedily. Again he drew out a handful of water, regretting the clouds of dirt which exploded as his fingertips entered the water.
The day grew later. The windows through which Faramir had seen the light streaming faced to the west, to the setting sun, now but a molten splotch upon the horizon. Heat radiated almost visibly from the orb, making it seem somehow less ethereal than it did during the day yet all the more majestic. Its colour was richer, and Faramir thought that this hour might make a man crazy; he might catch one glimpse of that sun and disappear into it for ever. Averting his eyes, Faramir caught sight of the eastern sky's reflection. Already the horizon had adopted a dark hue.
Having tarried all ready too long, Faramir sprang to his feet and sprinted from the Seventh Circle. Often, in his spare moments, he sat near the White Tree. Its old branches gave him peace. Faramir loved his country very much, and so the Tree to him was more than simply growth. It symbolized many of his beliefs, and the ideals of his country: courage, honour, fortitude. . .So many great good things all in one small package. Many trees just beyond the Outer Wall of the city were trees in which one might climb or bask in the shade of on a hot day, but not this tree. This was a Tree for meditation and reverence.
All at once Faramir was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of echoing footsteps. His heart raced as the fear of being discovered was realized, and it took a moment for Faramir to understand that the footsteps had only been echoes of his own. There was one place only within the Seventh Circle where footfalls repeated themselves many times. Faramir had inadvertently come to the Silent Street. Faramir had only once before come to the Silent Street, a time he hardly cared to remember, though vaguely his memory suspected that gay laughter had once filled the empty way. . .
Now Faramir startled, for he truly did hear footsteps, and he was standing motionless before the House of Kings. As the deer who knows of his predator the boy froze, then shifted his glance frantically from one side of the Street to the next. The voices and footsteps came closer; it was a gruff voice and one Faramir did not recognize, nor did he trust it. Ducking into the first half-concealed place he noted, Faramir took refuge behind one of the pillars flanking the entry way to the House of Kings.
There was a game Faramir had invented as a child. He played that game now. It consisted of holding his breath until he thoughts his lungs would burst within him, then promising himself relief after ten seconds, and another ten, until at last he was sufficiently alone. Because, Faramir pretended and came to believe, if you held your breath and concentrated hard enough, you would be invisible to everyone. Only someone who knew the game could find you when you were invisible.
But as Faramir reached seven, the footsteps stopped just ahead of him. He panicked, but kept on counting, holding the air in his lungs. 'Please, please go away!' he thought silently, then quickly returned his concentration to not being seen. In his distraction the boy did not notice that he had been spotted until a hand rested on his shoulder. "Faramir, is that you?" asked a kind, papery old voice.
Faramir hardly dared believe it. "Mithrandir!" he cried, breathing again and daring to open his eyes. It was so, the wizard stood before him. "You really have come!" In his relief the boy threw his arms around the wizard, who replied that he had indeed come, and half-hugged Faramir in return. It was then that Faramir caught sight of the figure behind Mithrandir. He stood back, keeping to the shadows as though frightened of the light, he seemed himself to be but a wisp of shadow. Faramir was afraid of him. "Mithrandir?" he ventured. "D-do you know him?"
"Who?" Mithrandir asked, drawing away from Faramir to turn, then smiled. "Ah, my friend Thorongil. Yes, I know him well, you need not fear him, young Faramir. Thorongil? Will you not come forward that he might see you better?" Mithrandir rarely ordered anyone about, and though this was an offer his preference was painfully apparent. Thorongil obediently stepped into a lighter part of the street and threw back his hood. Faramir gasped, for this was quite possibly the most fearsome man he had ever seen.
"Greetings to you, Faramir of Gondor, and well met," said Thorongil, though it was difficult to see if he meant this or was placating Mithrandir. His mirth bothered Faramir somewhat; what was funny? But he did not dare contradict this frightening gentleman, with the dirtiest black hair Faramir had ever seen, his face tan and unshaven. He looked feral, and this was what frightened Faramir: not the man's appearance, but the implications of it.
"Well met," Faramir stammered in return.
"You need not fear me, boy, I am no more than another stray of Mithrandir's following," replied Thorongil in amusement. Mithrandir turned and gave him a sharp look.
"Faramir is the son of the Steward, Thorongil, and you are no more stray than he. But come! The sky to the west dims, the sun has set. We have a destination to reach before we sleep, where also you, Faramir, should be. Come," said Mithrandir again, "we shall walk together."
Mithrandir led, with Faramir and Thorongil following, the elder man three paces back from Faramir at all times. Despite this Faramir was wary, and glanced often over his shoulder, until at last Thorongil stood beside him, and the boy jumped to realize this. "I am sorry to have frightened you," Thorongil said at once, before Faramir could react. "I have not much of a way with people, as Mithrandir often reminds me. If you will have it, I would like to be your friend, Faramir."
Faramir looked to the man in surprise, then nodded mutely and they shook hands. Faramir noticed the calluses covering Thorongil's palm and fingers, or felt them, the same calluses as Boromir had, only more of them, and it was then that Faramir noticed the sword at the older man's side and the cloth-wrapped bow slung over his back. Thorongil, whose night vision was keen and whose attentions had been finely tuned by many games of 'Seek' with the Elves, noted the bruise on Faramir's wrist, though it was fading. The fact that there was a bruise on Faramir's wrist was not in and of itself significant, but the size and shape of the bruise caught Thorongil's interest. It looked almost as if--
"Not that I mind your getting on, but old Bilbo might have reached the Citadel in less time!" Mithrandir called to the two Men who had fallen behind. Thorongil, who knew Bilbo well, smiled at this remark. Faramir, less familiar with the hobbit, was baffled, but as Thorongil changed his gait to a jog the boy was forced to stretch his legs to keep up. Strange though this Thorongil was, Faramir thought as he ran along in the near darkness, he was someone Faramir was glad to have met.
*****
Landorie: You were the only person who would give me a suggestion! Uh-oh. Is there anything you particularly were looking for in this story? As it is being written at your suggestion, I'll try to temper it to your expectations (not too much, of course, because it's still my story, but having suggestions sometimes does help). Oh, one last thing--it's fine if you want to call me "lad" just so long as you are aware that I am actually female.
Mother of Dragons: Was it? Son of a silly person! I could've sworn. . .grr. Sorry, angry at myself, not at you. Could've sworn his hair was brown. Sorry about that.
All right, I am trying to update this as much as possible, but I'm going through a dry spell right now. I know my prose is terrible. In a while, or whenever things in my life pick up a bit, or when my muses return to me, I promise a decent story. Until then, bear with me? And reviews always appreciated!
Author's note: For those of you unfamiliar, Thorongil is the name Strider uses in Rohan and Gondor (at least, I'm pretty sure it is. . .)
*****
Faramir gave little thought to his father's orders, for his excitement was too great. Instead of seeing the healers about an invented injury, cleaning himself up and changing into clothes not stained by sweat, Faramir slipped from the Citadel and into the streets of Gondor. The Seventh Circle was sparsely populated, and being as he was an intelligent boy Faramir knew that he would be noted there easily. While it was the best looked-after section of the city, most were not allowed in it. "A shame," mused Faramir, as he dipped his fingers into the fountain and drew out a hand-scoop of water, which he drank greedily. Again he drew out a handful of water, regretting the clouds of dirt which exploded as his fingertips entered the water.
The day grew later. The windows through which Faramir had seen the light streaming faced to the west, to the setting sun, now but a molten splotch upon the horizon. Heat radiated almost visibly from the orb, making it seem somehow less ethereal than it did during the day yet all the more majestic. Its colour was richer, and Faramir thought that this hour might make a man crazy; he might catch one glimpse of that sun and disappear into it for ever. Averting his eyes, Faramir caught sight of the eastern sky's reflection. Already the horizon had adopted a dark hue.
Having tarried all ready too long, Faramir sprang to his feet and sprinted from the Seventh Circle. Often, in his spare moments, he sat near the White Tree. Its old branches gave him peace. Faramir loved his country very much, and so the Tree to him was more than simply growth. It symbolized many of his beliefs, and the ideals of his country: courage, honour, fortitude. . .So many great good things all in one small package. Many trees just beyond the Outer Wall of the city were trees in which one might climb or bask in the shade of on a hot day, but not this tree. This was a Tree for meditation and reverence.
All at once Faramir was drawn from his thoughts by the sound of echoing footsteps. His heart raced as the fear of being discovered was realized, and it took a moment for Faramir to understand that the footsteps had only been echoes of his own. There was one place only within the Seventh Circle where footfalls repeated themselves many times. Faramir had inadvertently come to the Silent Street. Faramir had only once before come to the Silent Street, a time he hardly cared to remember, though vaguely his memory suspected that gay laughter had once filled the empty way. . .
Now Faramir startled, for he truly did hear footsteps, and he was standing motionless before the House of Kings. As the deer who knows of his predator the boy froze, then shifted his glance frantically from one side of the Street to the next. The voices and footsteps came closer; it was a gruff voice and one Faramir did not recognize, nor did he trust it. Ducking into the first half-concealed place he noted, Faramir took refuge behind one of the pillars flanking the entry way to the House of Kings.
There was a game Faramir had invented as a child. He played that game now. It consisted of holding his breath until he thoughts his lungs would burst within him, then promising himself relief after ten seconds, and another ten, until at last he was sufficiently alone. Because, Faramir pretended and came to believe, if you held your breath and concentrated hard enough, you would be invisible to everyone. Only someone who knew the game could find you when you were invisible.
But as Faramir reached seven, the footsteps stopped just ahead of him. He panicked, but kept on counting, holding the air in his lungs. 'Please, please go away!' he thought silently, then quickly returned his concentration to not being seen. In his distraction the boy did not notice that he had been spotted until a hand rested on his shoulder. "Faramir, is that you?" asked a kind, papery old voice.
Faramir hardly dared believe it. "Mithrandir!" he cried, breathing again and daring to open his eyes. It was so, the wizard stood before him. "You really have come!" In his relief the boy threw his arms around the wizard, who replied that he had indeed come, and half-hugged Faramir in return. It was then that Faramir caught sight of the figure behind Mithrandir. He stood back, keeping to the shadows as though frightened of the light, he seemed himself to be but a wisp of shadow. Faramir was afraid of him. "Mithrandir?" he ventured. "D-do you know him?"
"Who?" Mithrandir asked, drawing away from Faramir to turn, then smiled. "Ah, my friend Thorongil. Yes, I know him well, you need not fear him, young Faramir. Thorongil? Will you not come forward that he might see you better?" Mithrandir rarely ordered anyone about, and though this was an offer his preference was painfully apparent. Thorongil obediently stepped into a lighter part of the street and threw back his hood. Faramir gasped, for this was quite possibly the most fearsome man he had ever seen.
"Greetings to you, Faramir of Gondor, and well met," said Thorongil, though it was difficult to see if he meant this or was placating Mithrandir. His mirth bothered Faramir somewhat; what was funny? But he did not dare contradict this frightening gentleman, with the dirtiest black hair Faramir had ever seen, his face tan and unshaven. He looked feral, and this was what frightened Faramir: not the man's appearance, but the implications of it.
"Well met," Faramir stammered in return.
"You need not fear me, boy, I am no more than another stray of Mithrandir's following," replied Thorongil in amusement. Mithrandir turned and gave him a sharp look.
"Faramir is the son of the Steward, Thorongil, and you are no more stray than he. But come! The sky to the west dims, the sun has set. We have a destination to reach before we sleep, where also you, Faramir, should be. Come," said Mithrandir again, "we shall walk together."
Mithrandir led, with Faramir and Thorongil following, the elder man three paces back from Faramir at all times. Despite this Faramir was wary, and glanced often over his shoulder, until at last Thorongil stood beside him, and the boy jumped to realize this. "I am sorry to have frightened you," Thorongil said at once, before Faramir could react. "I have not much of a way with people, as Mithrandir often reminds me. If you will have it, I would like to be your friend, Faramir."
Faramir looked to the man in surprise, then nodded mutely and they shook hands. Faramir noticed the calluses covering Thorongil's palm and fingers, or felt them, the same calluses as Boromir had, only more of them, and it was then that Faramir noticed the sword at the older man's side and the cloth-wrapped bow slung over his back. Thorongil, whose night vision was keen and whose attentions had been finely tuned by many games of 'Seek' with the Elves, noted the bruise on Faramir's wrist, though it was fading. The fact that there was a bruise on Faramir's wrist was not in and of itself significant, but the size and shape of the bruise caught Thorongil's interest. It looked almost as if--
"Not that I mind your getting on, but old Bilbo might have reached the Citadel in less time!" Mithrandir called to the two Men who had fallen behind. Thorongil, who knew Bilbo well, smiled at this remark. Faramir, less familiar with the hobbit, was baffled, but as Thorongil changed his gait to a jog the boy was forced to stretch his legs to keep up. Strange though this Thorongil was, Faramir thought as he ran along in the near darkness, he was someone Faramir was glad to have met.
*****
Landorie: You were the only person who would give me a suggestion! Uh-oh. Is there anything you particularly were looking for in this story? As it is being written at your suggestion, I'll try to temper it to your expectations (not too much, of course, because it's still my story, but having suggestions sometimes does help). Oh, one last thing--it's fine if you want to call me "lad" just so long as you are aware that I am actually female.
Mother of Dragons: Was it? Son of a silly person! I could've sworn. . .grr. Sorry, angry at myself, not at you. Could've sworn his hair was brown. Sorry about that.
All right, I am trying to update this as much as possible, but I'm going through a dry spell right now. I know my prose is terrible. In a while, or whenever things in my life pick up a bit, or when my muses return to me, I promise a decent story. Until then, bear with me? And reviews always appreciated!