so, this story is going a bit slowly at the moment, but i feel like i need to really get into the characters before things can get good (and by that i mean hot). please read and review - thanks so much to my one reviewer for the last chapter - you made me want to keep going with this one!
and no, these dudes don't belong to me. tolkien keeps them in a closet for special occasions.
The two men wound their way slowly down the blanched marble streets of Minas Tirith. As with all first meetings, Faramir was painfully aware of the pauses in conversation that crept in as he fumbled for thoughts, words of friendship, anything at all he could offer to this clearly older and wise-hearted man. He silently cursed himself for his awkward, introspective nature, remembering the words of his father who often admonished his inability to excel in the language of the court. Faramir wished desperately that he had his brother's charm, his brother's full-bodied ease. He did not need to remember Denethor to know that side by side with Boromir, he always faded into the background, a blend with the effigies and carvings of the White Hall. Following him in everything, succeeding in nothing, Faramir had since birth believed in the truth of his place as the second son.
Only Mithrandir had shown any interest in him, apart from what was acceptable and seemly in court behavior. The Grey Pilgrim, it seemed, had singled him out from the moment he first arrived and saw the young boy who stood half out of the light, a footstep or so behind his brother, who for the occasion wore the uniform of the Guards of the Citadel. After his audience with Denethor, Mithrandir had cocked his head slightly in the deepening pause and turned his gaze towards Faramir, little more than a child. Faramir remembered a sudden fear, a shame growing over him as he tried to avoid the sharp look of the old man. The gaze passed on; Faramir had followed Boromir outside into the courtyard, when the wizard had come up swiftly behind him. He asked, simply, if he enjoyed holding court.
I had no response, nothing, Faramir remembered, just as I have none now. There is nothing in all the courtly rules to teach an honest answer to a simple question. And still I have not learned; there is nothing in all the books to teach me grace, teach me life. Why, he grumbled inwardly, why, why do I flee to my studies, to my damned library with every question and every fear? He shot a quick glance towards Aragorn on his left, who was pacing easily down the street, eyes wide to the glory of the white walls as though he had never seen a tower before. His head spun from side to side as he took in the full scope of Gondor's capitol; he smiled to himself in wonder without a care for the foolishness of such blatant awe. And yet so regal; none of the customs, none of the manners. . . how? Faramir's thoughts, especially of himself, sank lower with the sun; lower each step as his esteem of Aragorn, the unknown man with easy steps and a wry, friendly laugh, shot higher and higher, a pitch flare at sunset.
Alongside Faramir's self-wrath Aragorn had momentarily lost himself in contemplation of the beautiful city that surrounded his field of vision. As the sun dropped across the wide-reaching plain, he smiled in Faramir's direction; the joy at his visit to Gondor, though he remained unnamed as Isildur's heir, emanated in all directions. And yet when he turned towards the young man he again was struck from his reverie by the sight of him. Faramir was not looking his way, rather, his clear eyes were fixed upon a point just before his face, and the creases round his eyes betrayed a deep pain, a conflict washed over his entire being.
What could he possibly have on his mind, Aragorn wondered, that could upset him so on such a beautiful evening? Immediately after the thought had formed, Aragorn wanted to kick himself for his insensitivity. Had he not also wandered in silence, unable to voice any of the thoughts that crowded his scull night and day? And he is so young, it is easy to forget that, Aragorn realized, because though he had only known Faramir a few short minutes, the force of spirit which had struck him earlier masked his youth with the ageless cloak of a wisdom unaware of its own existence. These troubles, the last struggles of the birth of a great soul . . . Aragorn chuckled to himself quietly, mocking his little attempt at poetry.
For Faramir was not the only one unable to face the eyes of certain facts. The laugh that the young Steward's son found so appealing was known, only to a few, as the secret King's remedy for his own fear of attachment. Perhaps one who has lost and who, mortal, grew in the halls of the unchanging folk, as Aragorn did, could understand. But with great feeling he likewise felt great pain at the loss that would follow. Doomed to mortality, he dispelled the curse with a laugh and, though he himself knew not why, walked a step farther from the second son of the Steward.