DISCLAIMER: All things LOTR belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm just attempting to wax lyrical with them.
Many thanks to Rosie26, Dimfuin, Ertia and quillon for their kind reviews..don't worry Dimfuin, Faramir will open up to Eowyn - its just a matter of time...
Morithil.
V
"In a dream, I watched you ride the horse
Over the dry fields and then
Dismount: you two walked together;
In the dark, you had no shadows.
But I felt them coming toward me
Since at night they go anywhere,
They are their own masters.
Look at me. You think I don't understand?
What is the animal
If not passage out of this life?"
Louise Glück, Horse.
I'll admit, my wife has caught me off guard yet again.
She rode away over the landscape, the pounding of her steed's hooves echoing in my ears, her long hair streaked back by the wind, flowing in undulating waves that called out to me, her slim waist leant forward over the saddle, a laugh that beckoned me to follow.
Her ability to endlessly surprise me is one of her many attributes that I love for the unexpected relief it brings from many things.
Such as this melancholy that strikes me, no, strikes is too harsh a word; seeps into me, rather, when the air between us grows still and once again I fear we are but two people who are bound by honour and necessity more than love. But I love her, I cannot say it enough, the words will never grow dim and tasteless on my tongue as those that turned to ashes in my mouth when I spoke them.
"Think well of me, Father"
For a moment I was glad that she led the race, I could see her ride before me, the sunlight on her hair, freedom and beauty in every fibre of her body. She seems to escape all pain, all misery, and I can only wish that I could do the same by simply riding. I sighed to myself before digging my heels tightly into the stirrups and setting off after her, full of the excitement and anticipation of the race.
My brother and I would race often when we were children, having been thrown into the saddle barely assured of the confidence of walking on our own feet. I'm told that our mother would watch us from her window, but I have no memory of this, and all my visions of her seem as pale smoke that lingers over calm waters; lovely but fading even as they emerge. Boromir was always the better rider, sitting upright but comfortable in the saddle, that casual confidence and bold stature visible even then, even to me, though I did not understand it fully at the time, but thought my brother sat astride the horse with all the grace and strength of the kings of old, the warrior kings, those who fought for what they believed in.
When we used to race, I sat nervously upon my steed, the thrill of the start pulsing through my veins, my small hands gripping the reins too tightly in warm fists. He would grin and ask if I was ready. And then we would ride, faster and faster, till all I was aware of was the wind in my face and my brother racing beside me.
And I thought then, as a child, that these days would last forever, that tomorrow would always find us riding side by side, as if life itself was but a long race and we would forever look across our horses' necks to see the other do the same and laugh breathlessly over the stamping hooves.
And for the longest time it was so. Boromir and I lived our lives never far from the other's company, our heady years of adolescence and the approach of manhood spent frequently in games of battle and the light-headed euphoria of the chase. Countless times he would stride purposefully into the libraries and find me, always knowing the exact corner I would sit in, surrounded by the age and mystery of the dusty scrolls, their secrets and tales a delight to my eyes. Countless times he would approach unnoticed, as I would be lost in thought over some account of the Second Age, and he would lean against the dark shelves, arms folded, to ask if I had seen the light of day since the day before -
"For that was the last time I saw you, little brother, sitting as you are now, steeped in the dust of ages past and desperately resisting the urge for a breath of the morning air"
He reached out, and ruffling my hair with a rough hand, laughed fondly, waving away imaginary clouds of golden dust from my head.
"See? Already you are gathering as much dust as these books are!"
And I would happily put down whatever text I had been studying dutifully and, encased in the strong brace of his right arm, be led willingly from the darkened library and out onto the wind swept parapets, down the winding streets to another day in the sun.
Eowyn assigned herself the duty of erecting the tent this evening, and the thud of the hammer against the head of each peg in her white hand sounded out steadily. I strolled up to the clearing we had settled in for the night, and placed the large bundle of firewood I had gathered down and began to arrange the campfire. She stopped once she had finished the task, and straightening, brought her willowy form next to mine and crouched by the pile of dry wood with me.
"Here"
She handed me the two hunks of roughly hewn flint. I smiled, and began the process of lighting our campfire. With each spark the light in her eyes was illuminated in the growing darkness until at last, a small flame took hold and licked greedily over the wood. I fed it with handfuls of dry grass and watched the fire take hold and burn steadily.
We sit now before the comforting light, and before long her head comes to rest in the space between my shoulder and neck that I have given over to her possession long days hence. My arm is again slave to her, and shifts around her shoulders, their slender outline at this moment betraying none of her unquestionable strength and skill. I remember the words the King gave me before we left through the gates of Minas Tirith. I had taken the tent pole from Eowyn, fearing that the large weight would tax her healed arm, and thought that slight annoyance had darted across her face before she smiled. The King took me aside.
"Be careful, Faramir, that you do not induce Eowyn to anger, for you would find that she would swing that tent pole above her shoulders with more ease than you would notch an arrow to your bow. I would not have the Steward of Gondor be led back to his home slung over his horse"
His eyes twinkled with silent laughter as he saw the mild shock on my face before I realised his joke. The Queen laughed quietly and gave him a playful shove, turning to me. What man cannot but listen when such a queen as Arwen Undomiel commands his attention with naught but a look?
"Be happy, Faramir. Enjoy your time together, and spend it in bliss, for", here she locked gazes with the King, "we would have you smile again, and more often".
The King held her gaze tenderly before turning back to me. Their love is all consuming, I remember thinking; it will last all their days.
"I await your return and your words of wisdom and guidance. We have much to talk of when you resume your place"
Wisdom, guidance? Such words attributed to me by the King were unbelievable. I felt giddy by his trust in me, and bowed, but nothing had prepared me for the brotherly embrace he held me in a moment after. Awkwardly I returned the gesture, and when we parted his eyes were understanding.
"The embrace I failed to give your brother in life. His heart would swell with pride to see you, Faramir, this much I know. Think of him and be proud, but look to yourself and Eowyn, for I feel he would have you do so. Go."
I am glad that such a king rules Gondor, for he, although nothing like the leader I had thought would lay claim to this realm, is the king I had hoped for beyond all my desperate wishes.
Eowyn bestowed a soft kiss on my neck and I returned the gift on her forehead. The campfire flickered tongues of gold across her face.
"Faramir"
"Yes?"
"Let me see your hand"
In my mind I ride away in fear and panic. She will not see me as a weakling, ever. But she has already taken it from my lap and is untying the bandage gently. Her fingertips brush my palm. The cut has healed quickly and now is a promising shade of dark red as the blood congeals over it. She runs a careful finger over it, testing the healing process.
In my mind's eye I have already fled this scene, seized the reins of my horse and have escaped from the words I fear. Words my father would reprimand me with, shot through with spite and disappointment. Weakling. Coward. Pathetic. Suddenly I see him standing, vengeful, over me as I scramble back to my feet, an awkward young boy again. We have been practicing swordplay, and he has knocked me down for the third time with a single sweep. I saw my brother leave the hall before I entered, wiping his brow with a damp sleeve, his heavy wooden sword that he used for training rotating forwards and backwards in his other palm as if it had a life of its own.
"Stand up to him, little brother, don't stay on the floor should you fall there"
I looked at him, puzzled. Boromir tucked his sword under his arm and clutched my elbow, leaning in a conspiratorial manner.
"Get up as quickly as you can. This is what I have learned today, brother; do not give Father reason to be angry"
"But you never fall, Boromir, I will, I know it already"
My brother looked at me, as if surprised by my high opinion of him. He dropped his arm from my elbow and rolled up the sleeve. On the skin of his arm a large and painful cluster of bruises was already darkening, a blatant outline of our father's iron grip. I remember now that my brother's eyes were hard and his jaw set.
"I fell today. Do not allow Father to help you to your feet" he muttered, rubbing my arm encouragingly and flashing a brief smile before stalking off down the steps.
"Faramir, may I ask you something?"
I have been somewhere else for the last few moments. Eowyn looks at me, a question on her lovely mouth.
"Of course, my love"
"I have watched you lately, and at times you seem so morose and distant I cannot help but wonder what it is that grieves you so"
I should have tried harder, my wife sees more than she has said. A knot of fear tightens in my throat.
"And I think I have discovered what it is that brings your dreams, that silences your pain, but rather than speculate feebly, I would rather hear it from your own lips. Faramir, will you not tell me what torments you?"
I panic and stand up swiftly, running a shaking hand through my hair. She knows. There is nowhere to run. I stare at the smouldering fire and grit my teeth. I can feel her rise behind me and approach. Her breath is soft on the back of my neck.
"Will you not confide in me?"
I cannot turn to face her. One look at her face and I will dissolve into a sobbing wreck.
"I would not plague you with dark things you need not know of"
Eowyn sighs into my tunic.
"I know more of darkness than I say, lord, in this we are allies"
Her cheek rests on my shoulder blade and my control shatters. I cry out at the fire, words springing to my lips with but a little of the fire many years of suppression have fuelled.
"I would not plague you with things that you have been blessed with ignorance of. I would not tell you of the unhappiness of my childhood, the impossibility of being the younger son, my father's hatred. I would not inform you of the pain of living in another's shadow, but being doubly cursed when that one is taken from you. You are left alone in the sunlight but with the ghost of the only person you ever worshipped-my brother-"
Gods help me, I have said too much, and the harsh, broken voice I now recognise as my own hangs in the crackling air. I begin to walk away, I know not where, the darkness around us grows shadows and they follow me now. Eowyn stands alone before the fire. And I can only sit in silence in the blackness of our tent, made empty by the absence of her being, and wipe away bitter tears in the onset of the night.