A/N: This chapter is very short, kind of a transitioning chapter. I
could've made it longer, but the ending is a bit 'dramatic' in a way, I
suppose. Reviews are VERY welcome, especially with suggestions on what you
wish to see in the next few chapters. I have an ending in mind, but right
now, I need the stuff to get there, so suggestions are very welcome. R/R!
Thanks to all the reviewers.
Just as I added the "dark side" to Faramir and Elentari, this chapter adds Denethor's "good side".
Chapter 17: Control
Rustling as the wind blows through them, the golden leaves fall, one by one, off their majestic branches. Snow fills the now empty trees. The songs of the sweet birds cease for a season. And when the first nightingale lets loose its melodious song, the new generation of youthful leaves, of every shade of fragrant green, replace where their predecessors once were.
So the seasons passed, one after the other, always the same. Yet inside the White City, things were not the same. Faramir now called Ithilien home, for love he found not in the halls of marble. One whom he yearned for found solace in the rippling foam of the Sea; her now lightless eyes straining ever westward.
"Theodred of Rohan will be coming for another visit," the Steward announced one day, when his adopted daughter was tending to him in his cold, empty hall. Elentari glanced briefly up, then lowered her head again.
"He is coming when the winds turn, and infant spring passes into summer," the Steward announced. A faint smile reached the young woman's lips as she thought of a lovelorn Denethor reciting poetry, "He plans to stay for a modest length of time this visit, much longer than the last."
"And his intentions are?" she asked faintly, as was the custom.
"You know very well what his intentions are, dear girl," Denethor snapped, a bit irritated, "You need not be so formal with me Elentari."
"My apologies, my Lord," she said, curtsying.
"Did I not just say do not be so formal? We are not on court," he said. She nodded, keeping her eyes down, her stare blank.
Denethor left his enormous chair and went to her. Clasping her icy hands in his, he lifted her chin so she had to meet his gaze. He held it for a significant amount of time, reading her, seeing through the façade that shrouded her, piercing her despair and melancholy.
"These halls have not shared your laughter, nor heard your lovely voice raised in sweet melody for quite some time, my daughter," he finally said, "Why is this?"
She averted her gaze, and murmured, "It is nothing, my Lord."
"Will you no longer name me Father?" There was pain in his eyes; something the Steward of Gondor rarely allowed to be seen, "Ever since your illness, something within you has perished. Vanished beyond our recall. What cares may I bear for you? How may I aid you, my dear daughter?"
"Father, you know I love you, and I would do anything for you, but please do not press me," she murmured, her eyes hollow and sad.
"I do not wish to force you into a loveless marriage you do not desire," Denethor said. There was almost a trace of pleading in his voice.
"I have told you many a time. I will do whatever duty is laid upon my shoulders to the best of my ability," she returned, almost as a reciting a piece of formality.
There was sorrow in Denethor's eyes as he looked upon his foster daughter, one whom he loved in his own form and fashion.
"Wedlock is not a duty," he said.
"But Father, you yourself said it was. Once you are married, you carry a duty towards your husband. There is duty in the household, and later on, with the children. Besides, all of life is a duty. You hold allegiance to one, faith to another. You perform what is expected of you. You love because you must, because you hold a duty to your heart, not to neglect it, letting it wander astray, alone and forgotten."
Denethor sighed and a look of sorrow appeared in his eyes as he murmured, "Le ar saila pella loalla."
It was her turn to shake her head, "Nay. I am not wise. I have just seen much sorrow."
"Too much for such a young one," Denethor regretted. It was Elentari's turn to comfort, "Do not blame yourself Father. You could not shield us, though you tried your best. Illuvatar has willed it, and so it shall be." Denethor nodded and dismissed her.
Theodred was coming; coming once again. What would happen this time? He was definitely coming for her hand; that she knew. How would Faramir react? Then another thought struck her. Faramir does not care. Faramir gave his blessing. He wants you to marry the Horseman. She shook her head. Those words were out of anger. He's certainly had enough time to gather himself and calm. Has he changed? He had thrown himself into other women, flaunting, flirting, even coming close to courting. And yet, every time it seemed like he would ask for permission to court a certain lady, he withdrew, either avoiding her for days, or dwelling in Ithilien.
She found herself drifting around in the fourth level bazaar, infested with goods, people, and gossip. She bent her head down, pretending to be mesmerized with a certain goblet, and listened to the old wives tell tales, feeding off the leads of the young Citadel women.
"I heard that the young Lord Faramir will ask for Mistress Sanya's hand soon," a graying woman who had evidently never recovered from her child-bearing years, exclaimed, trying to sound like she was the only one in the City who knew about this. Elentari gritted her teeth, and dug her fingers deep into a piece of fabric she was touching.
"But what about the Lady Elentari?" a younger one asked, busying over her fabrics.
"Haven't you heard?" the elder sounded shocked at her uninformed state, "They had that fight, that night in the tavern, remember? Beside that, the Lord Denethor will marry that girl off to some foreigner. She's too useful not to make an alliance from." Useful. Useful. That was what she was. Useful. A tool. A tool bereft of all personal choice and emotion.
"But how can they be like that? You never saw the Lady too far from Lord Faramir, ever! They were thunder and lightning, never one without the other," another complained.
"Time changes," the first woman, whom Elentari wanted to strike down said flatly, evidently pleased with herself for knowing what she felt was everything, "Besides, I never understood what that lad saw in her. It might have just been both losing their mothers at such a young age. Lord Denethor will see a fit marriage for both of them. She will marry a foreigner, probably that handsome Horseman from the North. Once she's married, he'll probably find a lady of high birth for Faramir, and that'll be that. That Elentari is not fit for him." That was all she could bear to hear, as she fled from the marketplace.
Not fit for Faramir. Marriage to a foreigner to form an alliance for Gondor. Duty, how she hated that word. It bound her, forced her to do things she did not want. Forced her away from her heart's desires and made her vulnerable.
As she stood at the tip of the seventh level, with nothing above her but the afternoon sky and Anar, making her daily trip through the sky, she felt so small, glancing down at the massive, bustling City full of life. The City below her was massive, but the sky above her was infinite. She could be swept away by the wind, or swallowed by the Sea; she had no control over that, just like she had no control over her life. She was a sail less ship tossed by the heaving waves of raging Ulmo, helpless, praying to Lady Uinen to sate his fury. She would wait for Theodred's arrival and after that, for her wedding day. She would move through her days, already played out for her.
Just as I added the "dark side" to Faramir and Elentari, this chapter adds Denethor's "good side".
Chapter 17: Control
Rustling as the wind blows through them, the golden leaves fall, one by one, off their majestic branches. Snow fills the now empty trees. The songs of the sweet birds cease for a season. And when the first nightingale lets loose its melodious song, the new generation of youthful leaves, of every shade of fragrant green, replace where their predecessors once were.
So the seasons passed, one after the other, always the same. Yet inside the White City, things were not the same. Faramir now called Ithilien home, for love he found not in the halls of marble. One whom he yearned for found solace in the rippling foam of the Sea; her now lightless eyes straining ever westward.
"Theodred of Rohan will be coming for another visit," the Steward announced one day, when his adopted daughter was tending to him in his cold, empty hall. Elentari glanced briefly up, then lowered her head again.
"He is coming when the winds turn, and infant spring passes into summer," the Steward announced. A faint smile reached the young woman's lips as she thought of a lovelorn Denethor reciting poetry, "He plans to stay for a modest length of time this visit, much longer than the last."
"And his intentions are?" she asked faintly, as was the custom.
"You know very well what his intentions are, dear girl," Denethor snapped, a bit irritated, "You need not be so formal with me Elentari."
"My apologies, my Lord," she said, curtsying.
"Did I not just say do not be so formal? We are not on court," he said. She nodded, keeping her eyes down, her stare blank.
Denethor left his enormous chair and went to her. Clasping her icy hands in his, he lifted her chin so she had to meet his gaze. He held it for a significant amount of time, reading her, seeing through the façade that shrouded her, piercing her despair and melancholy.
"These halls have not shared your laughter, nor heard your lovely voice raised in sweet melody for quite some time, my daughter," he finally said, "Why is this?"
She averted her gaze, and murmured, "It is nothing, my Lord."
"Will you no longer name me Father?" There was pain in his eyes; something the Steward of Gondor rarely allowed to be seen, "Ever since your illness, something within you has perished. Vanished beyond our recall. What cares may I bear for you? How may I aid you, my dear daughter?"
"Father, you know I love you, and I would do anything for you, but please do not press me," she murmured, her eyes hollow and sad.
"I do not wish to force you into a loveless marriage you do not desire," Denethor said. There was almost a trace of pleading in his voice.
"I have told you many a time. I will do whatever duty is laid upon my shoulders to the best of my ability," she returned, almost as a reciting a piece of formality.
There was sorrow in Denethor's eyes as he looked upon his foster daughter, one whom he loved in his own form and fashion.
"Wedlock is not a duty," he said.
"But Father, you yourself said it was. Once you are married, you carry a duty towards your husband. There is duty in the household, and later on, with the children. Besides, all of life is a duty. You hold allegiance to one, faith to another. You perform what is expected of you. You love because you must, because you hold a duty to your heart, not to neglect it, letting it wander astray, alone and forgotten."
Denethor sighed and a look of sorrow appeared in his eyes as he murmured, "Le ar saila pella loalla."
It was her turn to shake her head, "Nay. I am not wise. I have just seen much sorrow."
"Too much for such a young one," Denethor regretted. It was Elentari's turn to comfort, "Do not blame yourself Father. You could not shield us, though you tried your best. Illuvatar has willed it, and so it shall be." Denethor nodded and dismissed her.
Theodred was coming; coming once again. What would happen this time? He was definitely coming for her hand; that she knew. How would Faramir react? Then another thought struck her. Faramir does not care. Faramir gave his blessing. He wants you to marry the Horseman. She shook her head. Those words were out of anger. He's certainly had enough time to gather himself and calm. Has he changed? He had thrown himself into other women, flaunting, flirting, even coming close to courting. And yet, every time it seemed like he would ask for permission to court a certain lady, he withdrew, either avoiding her for days, or dwelling in Ithilien.
She found herself drifting around in the fourth level bazaar, infested with goods, people, and gossip. She bent her head down, pretending to be mesmerized with a certain goblet, and listened to the old wives tell tales, feeding off the leads of the young Citadel women.
"I heard that the young Lord Faramir will ask for Mistress Sanya's hand soon," a graying woman who had evidently never recovered from her child-bearing years, exclaimed, trying to sound like she was the only one in the City who knew about this. Elentari gritted her teeth, and dug her fingers deep into a piece of fabric she was touching.
"But what about the Lady Elentari?" a younger one asked, busying over her fabrics.
"Haven't you heard?" the elder sounded shocked at her uninformed state, "They had that fight, that night in the tavern, remember? Beside that, the Lord Denethor will marry that girl off to some foreigner. She's too useful not to make an alliance from." Useful. Useful. That was what she was. Useful. A tool. A tool bereft of all personal choice and emotion.
"But how can they be like that? You never saw the Lady too far from Lord Faramir, ever! They were thunder and lightning, never one without the other," another complained.
"Time changes," the first woman, whom Elentari wanted to strike down said flatly, evidently pleased with herself for knowing what she felt was everything, "Besides, I never understood what that lad saw in her. It might have just been both losing their mothers at such a young age. Lord Denethor will see a fit marriage for both of them. She will marry a foreigner, probably that handsome Horseman from the North. Once she's married, he'll probably find a lady of high birth for Faramir, and that'll be that. That Elentari is not fit for him." That was all she could bear to hear, as she fled from the marketplace.
Not fit for Faramir. Marriage to a foreigner to form an alliance for Gondor. Duty, how she hated that word. It bound her, forced her to do things she did not want. Forced her away from her heart's desires and made her vulnerable.
As she stood at the tip of the seventh level, with nothing above her but the afternoon sky and Anar, making her daily trip through the sky, she felt so small, glancing down at the massive, bustling City full of life. The City below her was massive, but the sky above her was infinite. She could be swept away by the wind, or swallowed by the Sea; she had no control over that, just like she had no control over her life. She was a sail less ship tossed by the heaving waves of raging Ulmo, helpless, praying to Lady Uinen to sate his fury. She would wait for Theodred's arrival and after that, for her wedding day. She would move through her days, already played out for her.