A/N: Okay I know I said only 2 transitioning chapters, but this is the
third. This time, you can hold me to the promise that we shall return to
the action! Very odd chapter, wasn't planned, just came out this way.
Faramir's side is a bit awkward, and I might want to change it. Thanks!
Review
Susan: Thanks for the quote. I finally used it, and I plan to use some of those lyrics.
UVC3z: Hope I got the name right. Thanks for the lyrics! I know they'll come into use sometime soon! Thanks for reading!
Chapter 22: Decisions
Above the bustle of Minas Tirith, one could barely hear over the gossip and preparations for the Star Maiden's wedding to the Horseman of the North. Elentari had returned, returned to the prison of stone until she would be carted off to Rohan like a prize horse.
Maids brought her designs and fabrics for her betrothal gown, and lists of supplies and preparations being made for her approval. Denethor mainly selected everything, and then passed it by her for approval. She glanced at everything with an uninterested eye, as if it were that of some unknown woman of the City's wedding, instead of her own. The only thing she specified was the color of the gown, which she wished to be black, but Denethor had expressively denied, as he pompously declared, "Marriage is a time of rejoicing, not of mourning." At this she had thrown him a look so vehement that even the Steward decided to be silent.
Theodred visited her every day, and they usually spent the time between the mid-day meal and tea together. He offered her little gifts, some from his homeland, some he had found in Gondor, and told her many things. She enjoyed his company, to an extent, and he was a charming man, a good man. She knew that she should be grateful for such a marvelous match, yet every part of her being rued it. He was a good man, and would make an excellent, devoted husband--if her heart did not belong to another.
As the fateful day approached, she was heard pacing in her room, biting her nails, and even, it was rumored, that when one maid brought in a certain flower design, she clutched it, screamed frustratingly, and tore it into several pieces. The maid quickly cleaned and made her way out to spread the news, but many did not believe that the Lady could lose her renowned composure.
The only comfort she could find, was in Boromir, who came to her many times a day, when Theodred was not there, and rode with her, had swordfights, and even paid a few visits to the dreaded library. She smiled and was grateful, yet nothing could relight the once shining radiance of her eyes. He begged, pleaded, and would do anything to remind her of old times, when they shared happiness to no avail.
In truth, Boromir was worried and angry for her. Though the servants did not notice, she was not eating, and her wan face gave off an unearthly glow. She covered it with the once-despised rouge and powder when Theodred came along every day, but Boromir knew that his sister was growing weaker by the day. One afternoon he had fought her, only in play, yet when he had pinned her down, she could not gain her feet, which was surprising, and when he had relented and let her up, her frail arm could barely grasp the sword evenly. Part of him knew he should do something about it, tell Father or Theodred even, yet another thought stopped him. Denethor would have his head for doing anything discouraging the marriage, and he knew better than to instigate the wrath of the Steward.
One night, when Tilion had risen after his long daytime slumber, Boromir had come to check on his sister, and bid her a good night, but found her not in her room. He looked around for her, but saw no sign. He treaded through the Citadel, but when he was passing through one of the upper hallways of the Tower, a shadowy voice resonated in his ears, "Isn't it amazing how one can look up, and from any where on this earth, see the exact same stars shining down?" Though the voice was but a mere whisper, Boromir jumped, "I didn't mean to give you a fright."
Boromir felt his neck, slowing his breathing and his pulse. He did not know why she had scared him so, but the starlight from the window gave her skin an ethereal look that he did not like. She was pale, too pale, the color of the first snow, without a touch of other color. His stomach dropped when realization kicked in that it was not the starlight that gave her skin that color, it was what she had become—a wraith.
"Why are you here?" he questioned.
She had turned back to the window, "It's the best view from here. Do you think that in Rohan the stars will be just as clear?"
"I do not see why not," a sudden wave of regret and loss washing over him as he realized that she would not be here in a week or so, "Elbereth created the stars for all to enjoy, if they wish to."
"Yet they say they look more beautiful to the Elves," she murmured, "I have often dreamt of watching the stars while lying in an Elven forest, with nothing between me and the sky except the air."
Why was she telling him this? Boromir did not know what to say, but forced out words that sounded hollow and meaningless, "We all have our share of dreams." If only Faramir were here. Faramir would know exactly what to say to her, and even if he had no words, just feeling his embrace seemed to be enough for her.
Without warning, she swung open the window, and sat, one leg on each side, on the ledge. Boromir's instinct was to help her, insist that she come down, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She was looking down at the resting City, soon to become a bustle of unrelenting activity within a matter of hours.
"It's so quiet down there," she murmured, if almost to herself.
"For now."
The eerie silence in these halls had always haunted Boromir to an extent, and now, with his sister, a deathly shadow of what she was, sitting by a window, looking longingly downwards.
"Boromir?" she sounded like a child, "Have you ever wanted to fly?"
"The birds do it," again he sounded hollow and meaningless. What could he say?
She smiled, a queer sort of smile, "Yes, the gulls. Above the Sea." Her eyes were fixed on the ground level of Minas Tirith, thousands of feet below. A strong gust blew by, and she teetered for a moment, swaying, and Boromir almost cried out, but she steadied herself.
"Elentari," he was determined to get her away from that window, "It is late. You will catch your death sitting there. Please, come."
Hesitation flowing through her every move, but she allowed him to pull her up and away from the great glass ledge, murmuring, "If I could fly, I would fly down to the Sea, not some great stone cage."
That same night, Faramir was sitting at the fire, peeling potatoes, as he and his friend Beregond had "food preparation duties", while all the other men went off gathering wood for a fire, or other occupying tasks.
Beregond peered concernedly at his friend, as usually, Faramir would joke around and denounce playfully this feminine task of the camp. Tonight however, Faramir was quiet, a shadow over his eyes, and somber. Beregond decided to pry the matter, for he had seen Faramir like this for too long, ever since they last left Minas Tirith.
"The sparrow sings not of what has befallen him," Beregond started, "Yet those around can see there must be something troubling him."
Faramir smiled regretfully, though it was a true smile, at how cleverly worded his friend had put the question. Seeing that he spoke no word, Beregond broached again, "Come now Faramir. You used to tell me things."
He heaved a sigh, and then began, "What is there to tell? I love her, yet cannot even fight for her."
"Why not, my friend?"
"She has forbidden me, for she knows she must accept her fate, and Father would behead me."
"Ah, Faramir of Gondor, since when did you too yield to the Steward's every request?"
"Yes, but she does not wish me to intervene."
Beregond scoffed, "Ah Faramir, for all your knowledge, you have yet to understand a woman's mind. She's testing you. She wants you to fight for her, though she knows that end, you probably won't win."
"Then what is the point of a fight?" Faramir questioned naively, "And it is impossible to understand the mind of a woman."
"Faramir, she wants you to show her you love her. Faramir, answer me these four questions. In this troubled world, where much is marred by grief, what is sacred?"
"Much is sacred," Faramir replied.
"Of what is the spirit made?"
"Substance," Faramir answered, looking puzzled.
Beregond shook his head, "Ai Faramir. The body is made of substance; the spirit is made of something else. What is worth living for?"
"Isilmë," he murmured.
"Ah, we are making some progress. What is worth dying for?"
This time Faramir did not even hesitate, "Isilmë."
Beregond smiled, "The answer to each is the same—only love."
"Isilmë," he murmured again, thinking of her, trapped in within walls of stone.
"Yes," Beregond said, "Now if you love her, which you obviously do, then fight for her."
Faramir nodded, but then another thought struck him, "I am not allowed home until the night before."
"You have some time. Make use of it," Beregond advised, then left Faramir to his thoughts at the fire. If any avail would come to his struggle, he would give his life to have her, though that would defeat the purpose. She knew, as he did, that fighting would only stiffen Denethor's resolve to marry her to Theodred, and the Horseman was in love with her, even if she did not return his feelings.
Isilmë, Isilmë, why must you leave me? Will you leave me to spend all my nights alone? Lonely and broken? Who shall teach me the lessons of the sword? Who's lulling voice will soothe me during my troubles? Who shall sneak apples and sugar treats to me during my suffocating numerology lessons? Who in the City would now rival his knowledge of the lore of old? Who would he talk to? Who would be his friend? His love? Where would his heart dwell?
With her. His heart would dwell with her, wherever she was, his heart would be. He would fight for her, though loss was inevitable. He would fight for their lives, for their memories, for their hearts--for their love.
Susan: Thanks for the quote. I finally used it, and I plan to use some of those lyrics.
UVC3z: Hope I got the name right. Thanks for the lyrics! I know they'll come into use sometime soon! Thanks for reading!
Chapter 22: Decisions
Above the bustle of Minas Tirith, one could barely hear over the gossip and preparations for the Star Maiden's wedding to the Horseman of the North. Elentari had returned, returned to the prison of stone until she would be carted off to Rohan like a prize horse.
Maids brought her designs and fabrics for her betrothal gown, and lists of supplies and preparations being made for her approval. Denethor mainly selected everything, and then passed it by her for approval. She glanced at everything with an uninterested eye, as if it were that of some unknown woman of the City's wedding, instead of her own. The only thing she specified was the color of the gown, which she wished to be black, but Denethor had expressively denied, as he pompously declared, "Marriage is a time of rejoicing, not of mourning." At this she had thrown him a look so vehement that even the Steward decided to be silent.
Theodred visited her every day, and they usually spent the time between the mid-day meal and tea together. He offered her little gifts, some from his homeland, some he had found in Gondor, and told her many things. She enjoyed his company, to an extent, and he was a charming man, a good man. She knew that she should be grateful for such a marvelous match, yet every part of her being rued it. He was a good man, and would make an excellent, devoted husband--if her heart did not belong to another.
As the fateful day approached, she was heard pacing in her room, biting her nails, and even, it was rumored, that when one maid brought in a certain flower design, she clutched it, screamed frustratingly, and tore it into several pieces. The maid quickly cleaned and made her way out to spread the news, but many did not believe that the Lady could lose her renowned composure.
The only comfort she could find, was in Boromir, who came to her many times a day, when Theodred was not there, and rode with her, had swordfights, and even paid a few visits to the dreaded library. She smiled and was grateful, yet nothing could relight the once shining radiance of her eyes. He begged, pleaded, and would do anything to remind her of old times, when they shared happiness to no avail.
In truth, Boromir was worried and angry for her. Though the servants did not notice, she was not eating, and her wan face gave off an unearthly glow. She covered it with the once-despised rouge and powder when Theodred came along every day, but Boromir knew that his sister was growing weaker by the day. One afternoon he had fought her, only in play, yet when he had pinned her down, she could not gain her feet, which was surprising, and when he had relented and let her up, her frail arm could barely grasp the sword evenly. Part of him knew he should do something about it, tell Father or Theodred even, yet another thought stopped him. Denethor would have his head for doing anything discouraging the marriage, and he knew better than to instigate the wrath of the Steward.
One night, when Tilion had risen after his long daytime slumber, Boromir had come to check on his sister, and bid her a good night, but found her not in her room. He looked around for her, but saw no sign. He treaded through the Citadel, but when he was passing through one of the upper hallways of the Tower, a shadowy voice resonated in his ears, "Isn't it amazing how one can look up, and from any where on this earth, see the exact same stars shining down?" Though the voice was but a mere whisper, Boromir jumped, "I didn't mean to give you a fright."
Boromir felt his neck, slowing his breathing and his pulse. He did not know why she had scared him so, but the starlight from the window gave her skin an ethereal look that he did not like. She was pale, too pale, the color of the first snow, without a touch of other color. His stomach dropped when realization kicked in that it was not the starlight that gave her skin that color, it was what she had become—a wraith.
"Why are you here?" he questioned.
She had turned back to the window, "It's the best view from here. Do you think that in Rohan the stars will be just as clear?"
"I do not see why not," a sudden wave of regret and loss washing over him as he realized that she would not be here in a week or so, "Elbereth created the stars for all to enjoy, if they wish to."
"Yet they say they look more beautiful to the Elves," she murmured, "I have often dreamt of watching the stars while lying in an Elven forest, with nothing between me and the sky except the air."
Why was she telling him this? Boromir did not know what to say, but forced out words that sounded hollow and meaningless, "We all have our share of dreams." If only Faramir were here. Faramir would know exactly what to say to her, and even if he had no words, just feeling his embrace seemed to be enough for her.
Without warning, she swung open the window, and sat, one leg on each side, on the ledge. Boromir's instinct was to help her, insist that she come down, but the look in her eyes stopped him. She was looking down at the resting City, soon to become a bustle of unrelenting activity within a matter of hours.
"It's so quiet down there," she murmured, if almost to herself.
"For now."
The eerie silence in these halls had always haunted Boromir to an extent, and now, with his sister, a deathly shadow of what she was, sitting by a window, looking longingly downwards.
"Boromir?" she sounded like a child, "Have you ever wanted to fly?"
"The birds do it," again he sounded hollow and meaningless. What could he say?
She smiled, a queer sort of smile, "Yes, the gulls. Above the Sea." Her eyes were fixed on the ground level of Minas Tirith, thousands of feet below. A strong gust blew by, and she teetered for a moment, swaying, and Boromir almost cried out, but she steadied herself.
"Elentari," he was determined to get her away from that window, "It is late. You will catch your death sitting there. Please, come."
Hesitation flowing through her every move, but she allowed him to pull her up and away from the great glass ledge, murmuring, "If I could fly, I would fly down to the Sea, not some great stone cage."
That same night, Faramir was sitting at the fire, peeling potatoes, as he and his friend Beregond had "food preparation duties", while all the other men went off gathering wood for a fire, or other occupying tasks.
Beregond peered concernedly at his friend, as usually, Faramir would joke around and denounce playfully this feminine task of the camp. Tonight however, Faramir was quiet, a shadow over his eyes, and somber. Beregond decided to pry the matter, for he had seen Faramir like this for too long, ever since they last left Minas Tirith.
"The sparrow sings not of what has befallen him," Beregond started, "Yet those around can see there must be something troubling him."
Faramir smiled regretfully, though it was a true smile, at how cleverly worded his friend had put the question. Seeing that he spoke no word, Beregond broached again, "Come now Faramir. You used to tell me things."
He heaved a sigh, and then began, "What is there to tell? I love her, yet cannot even fight for her."
"Why not, my friend?"
"She has forbidden me, for she knows she must accept her fate, and Father would behead me."
"Ah, Faramir of Gondor, since when did you too yield to the Steward's every request?"
"Yes, but she does not wish me to intervene."
Beregond scoffed, "Ah Faramir, for all your knowledge, you have yet to understand a woman's mind. She's testing you. She wants you to fight for her, though she knows that end, you probably won't win."
"Then what is the point of a fight?" Faramir questioned naively, "And it is impossible to understand the mind of a woman."
"Faramir, she wants you to show her you love her. Faramir, answer me these four questions. In this troubled world, where much is marred by grief, what is sacred?"
"Much is sacred," Faramir replied.
"Of what is the spirit made?"
"Substance," Faramir answered, looking puzzled.
Beregond shook his head, "Ai Faramir. The body is made of substance; the spirit is made of something else. What is worth living for?"
"Isilmë," he murmured.
"Ah, we are making some progress. What is worth dying for?"
This time Faramir did not even hesitate, "Isilmë."
Beregond smiled, "The answer to each is the same—only love."
"Isilmë," he murmured again, thinking of her, trapped in within walls of stone.
"Yes," Beregond said, "Now if you love her, which you obviously do, then fight for her."
Faramir nodded, but then another thought struck him, "I am not allowed home until the night before."
"You have some time. Make use of it," Beregond advised, then left Faramir to his thoughts at the fire. If any avail would come to his struggle, he would give his life to have her, though that would defeat the purpose. She knew, as he did, that fighting would only stiffen Denethor's resolve to marry her to Theodred, and the Horseman was in love with her, even if she did not return his feelings.
Isilmë, Isilmë, why must you leave me? Will you leave me to spend all my nights alone? Lonely and broken? Who shall teach me the lessons of the sword? Who's lulling voice will soothe me during my troubles? Who shall sneak apples and sugar treats to me during my suffocating numerology lessons? Who in the City would now rival his knowledge of the lore of old? Who would he talk to? Who would be his friend? His love? Where would his heart dwell?
With her. His heart would dwell with her, wherever she was, his heart would be. He would fight for her, though loss was inevitable. He would fight for their lives, for their memories, for their hearts--for their love.