A/N: This is part introspection, part action. I had some great symbolic
meaning for the word "powder", but I forgot it halfway through the ending
of the chapter. Hopefully I conveyed some symbolism in it. Thanks! Review
Susan: Thanks always for the support and advice you give me.
Chapter 23: Powder
"Here you are," Denethor said, handing her an adorned blue box. Elentari carefully took it, weighing heavy on her frail arms.
"What is it?"
"Open it and you shall see."
Throwing Denethor a puzzled look, she carefully unlatched the case, and what it revealed made her gasp.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Denethor asked, smiling at her look of awe. The headpiece shimmered in the cloudy morning sun, as the gems in it were clearly authentic. It was not so much of a tiara, but it was a very intricately crafted ornamentation.
"It was made by the Noldor in Lothlórien. Galadriel sent it to Dol Amroth, to honor her kin. Finduilas brought it with her and wore it to our wedding," Denethor said, his eyes becoming filmy as he thought of his own beloved, "I know she would want you to have it and would love to see you wear it on your joyous day."
Joyous was not what she would call it, but she was touched by the sincerity in Denethor's voice. He reached to the case and lifted the ornament, and placed it upon her dark crown. The white gems shimmered even more contrasted to her dark tresses and seemed ordained for her. She glanced at herself in the mirror, not believing that it was her, and imagined dear Finduilas wearing it in this very City, long ago, though she was given to it, not away from it.
Denethor bored his steely eyes into her lifeless ones, as if trying to read her innermost thoughts.
"I promise you, Elentari," Denethor said slowly, "That marriage will not be the condemnation you envision it to be."
Her voice was a mere whisper, and Denethor had to lean in to hear her, "Marriage itself is not a curse. Marriage to the wrong person is to burn in Oroduin."
Denethor made a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh, "This is the right marriage for you."
"Yet I do not see it."
"You will someday."
"Some day may never come," there was gravity in her voice that even Denethor could not dismiss. Yet before he could offer a retorting or comforting word, she was gone, floating away like an apparition.
Boromir watched her go, and felt a sharp pain stab at him. She looked so frail, her face so pallid, a stiff breeze would blow right through her. He glanced at Denethor, now pouring over a thick pile of documents. Should he say something? She was clearly ailing, yet she would say something to him. She would confide in him, wouldn't she? She usually did. Yet she does not tell you nearly as much as she does to Faramir. Faramir! She would talk to him. He would leave it to Faramir, who was returning the next night. A lump rose in his throat, as he remembered, that the day after Faramir's return, would be the departure date for the newly betrothed couple.
Yet as these thoughts crossed his mind, he heard the trumpets sounding loudly, and felt the familiar opening of the gate seven levels below. Denethor looked at him, equally bewildered, and ran, with his son striding behind him, to the parapet, glancing down. What met their eyes sent shock waves through them both. The familiar brunette steed who made his home beside Talcalina in the royal stables stood in the complex of the lower level. It was only a fleeting moment before the shock wore off of the Steward's features, replaced by anger.
He stood erect at the gate of the Citadel, waiting for his younger son to appear.
Yet only a stable boy, handling the reins of Cirion appeared from the midst of the lower levels. When an irate Denethor confronted him, he seemed frightened, and stammered that the Lord Faramir had merely instructed him to take the horse to the stables and see that he is treated properly, and had then disappeared.
Sitting at her bureau, Elentari too, had heard the trumpets, yet clucked disgustedly at it, thinking it to be nothing but another messenger or a group of wearied soldiers. She looked back into her mirror, and saw the ghastly, sunken face that stared lifelessly back at her. Normally, she would have been disgusted at her image, but now, she felt that she did not care. She did not care about what she looked like. She did not care much about anything anymore. She did not care about living.
Carefully, she unscrewed the little capsule, and warily powdered her face. She scowled at the rouge before her, and felt abhorrence at herself for applying it on. Yet before she could finish the hated application, the door burst open, and before she saw who it was, he had swept her in his arms, making her drop the brush of cosmetics, and pressed his mouth against hers.
She did not need to see to know who it was, for she felt warmth returning to her icy heart once more. The sun had finally returned after a long winter smothered by the rain clouds and storm, and was thawing, little by little, the obstinate ice that had gathered.
They parted, only to join again in passion moments later, for they had been apart for long enough. Faramir had pinned her to the bed, still kissing her, when a cold voice shrieked, "That would be the wrong person to do that with, Elentari."
The look of terror that streaked her already pale face was one that would have pierced even the Dark Lord Morgoth.
"And you," Denethor addressed coldly, "Aren't you a little early?"
"My captain gave me leave," Faramir replied curtly, no trace of emotion in his voice.
"Your captain will soon be on permanent leave himself if he does not learn how to obey strict orders," Denethor glared at his younger son. However, Faramir held his gaze steadily, an amazing feat considering that Denethor's glare was renowned to be second to only that of the Lidless Eye.
"Elentari!" Denethor could not break his son's will, so he turned to an already fragile one, "You are betrothed to be married in less than two days time. I suggest you not engage in such practices. I will not have an adulteress in my household."
"Yes Father," was barely audible.
"You would do good to remember that, both of you," Denethor barked, "Now Elentari. Your betrothed is waiting."
Head lowered, she followed Denethor away.
His gaze followed her, and lingered even when she had turned the corner out of his sight. He had longed to look upon her fair face for so long, dreaming of it, yet what he saw now filled him not with contentment, but with horror.
What had happened to her? She was gaunt, frail; he hardly recognized her. He had seen a rough sketch of a bog a bit north, near Mordor, the Dead Marshes, they called it, and she could pass for one of those unfortunate souls, lighting their candles beneath the water.
He looked down, her bureau held rouge and powder, things that he had dubbed unheard of for Elentari. Other women needed it to cover up themselves, and hurriedly smeared it all over, to add to their wiles and charm, but not her. She had never needed, never wanted such things. The powder had spilled over the exterior, forming a smooth, white surface. He had been gone for longer periods before, and she had never been like this. She was never forced to marry before, was she? Damn Denethor, condemn that man to damnation. Why must he push her to this fate? He slammed his fist on the bureau, causing the bottles to leap. And surely, he was not the only one to notice her condition. It was quite obvious. Did no one care? He slammed his other fist on the dresser, upsetting a bottle. He glanced at it, a look of disgust on his face. Boromir must have noticed, and he does care. Why then? Why had he not said anything? He would be the first to tell Denethor, or had the Steward fallen to such insanity, that he would not even listen to his beloved firstborn? He looked up, seeing his reflection in the mirror. Had she not looked into this glass and seen herself? She would know, better than anyone, what had happened to her. Why did she not stop it?
Never mind that. He would. He would put an end to this madness. He would, at any cost. She would not suffer. It seared him to think that she had already. He would confront Denethor, fight Theodred, whatever it took to save her. It was not a matter of their love anymore; it was a matter of her life. He moved away, his hands covered with a mist of fine powder--powder that covered her face that hid her from those around her, disguising her frailty, but not from him. Nothing could hide her from him, and he would make it clear to them.
Susan: Thanks always for the support and advice you give me.
Chapter 23: Powder
"Here you are," Denethor said, handing her an adorned blue box. Elentari carefully took it, weighing heavy on her frail arms.
"What is it?"
"Open it and you shall see."
Throwing Denethor a puzzled look, she carefully unlatched the case, and what it revealed made her gasp.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Denethor asked, smiling at her look of awe. The headpiece shimmered in the cloudy morning sun, as the gems in it were clearly authentic. It was not so much of a tiara, but it was a very intricately crafted ornamentation.
"It was made by the Noldor in Lothlórien. Galadriel sent it to Dol Amroth, to honor her kin. Finduilas brought it with her and wore it to our wedding," Denethor said, his eyes becoming filmy as he thought of his own beloved, "I know she would want you to have it and would love to see you wear it on your joyous day."
Joyous was not what she would call it, but she was touched by the sincerity in Denethor's voice. He reached to the case and lifted the ornament, and placed it upon her dark crown. The white gems shimmered even more contrasted to her dark tresses and seemed ordained for her. She glanced at herself in the mirror, not believing that it was her, and imagined dear Finduilas wearing it in this very City, long ago, though she was given to it, not away from it.
Denethor bored his steely eyes into her lifeless ones, as if trying to read her innermost thoughts.
"I promise you, Elentari," Denethor said slowly, "That marriage will not be the condemnation you envision it to be."
Her voice was a mere whisper, and Denethor had to lean in to hear her, "Marriage itself is not a curse. Marriage to the wrong person is to burn in Oroduin."
Denethor made a sound halfway between a scoff and a sigh, "This is the right marriage for you."
"Yet I do not see it."
"You will someday."
"Some day may never come," there was gravity in her voice that even Denethor could not dismiss. Yet before he could offer a retorting or comforting word, she was gone, floating away like an apparition.
Boromir watched her go, and felt a sharp pain stab at him. She looked so frail, her face so pallid, a stiff breeze would blow right through her. He glanced at Denethor, now pouring over a thick pile of documents. Should he say something? She was clearly ailing, yet she would say something to him. She would confide in him, wouldn't she? She usually did. Yet she does not tell you nearly as much as she does to Faramir. Faramir! She would talk to him. He would leave it to Faramir, who was returning the next night. A lump rose in his throat, as he remembered, that the day after Faramir's return, would be the departure date for the newly betrothed couple.
Yet as these thoughts crossed his mind, he heard the trumpets sounding loudly, and felt the familiar opening of the gate seven levels below. Denethor looked at him, equally bewildered, and ran, with his son striding behind him, to the parapet, glancing down. What met their eyes sent shock waves through them both. The familiar brunette steed who made his home beside Talcalina in the royal stables stood in the complex of the lower level. It was only a fleeting moment before the shock wore off of the Steward's features, replaced by anger.
He stood erect at the gate of the Citadel, waiting for his younger son to appear.
Yet only a stable boy, handling the reins of Cirion appeared from the midst of the lower levels. When an irate Denethor confronted him, he seemed frightened, and stammered that the Lord Faramir had merely instructed him to take the horse to the stables and see that he is treated properly, and had then disappeared.
Sitting at her bureau, Elentari too, had heard the trumpets, yet clucked disgustedly at it, thinking it to be nothing but another messenger or a group of wearied soldiers. She looked back into her mirror, and saw the ghastly, sunken face that stared lifelessly back at her. Normally, she would have been disgusted at her image, but now, she felt that she did not care. She did not care about what she looked like. She did not care much about anything anymore. She did not care about living.
Carefully, she unscrewed the little capsule, and warily powdered her face. She scowled at the rouge before her, and felt abhorrence at herself for applying it on. Yet before she could finish the hated application, the door burst open, and before she saw who it was, he had swept her in his arms, making her drop the brush of cosmetics, and pressed his mouth against hers.
She did not need to see to know who it was, for she felt warmth returning to her icy heart once more. The sun had finally returned after a long winter smothered by the rain clouds and storm, and was thawing, little by little, the obstinate ice that had gathered.
They parted, only to join again in passion moments later, for they had been apart for long enough. Faramir had pinned her to the bed, still kissing her, when a cold voice shrieked, "That would be the wrong person to do that with, Elentari."
The look of terror that streaked her already pale face was one that would have pierced even the Dark Lord Morgoth.
"And you," Denethor addressed coldly, "Aren't you a little early?"
"My captain gave me leave," Faramir replied curtly, no trace of emotion in his voice.
"Your captain will soon be on permanent leave himself if he does not learn how to obey strict orders," Denethor glared at his younger son. However, Faramir held his gaze steadily, an amazing feat considering that Denethor's glare was renowned to be second to only that of the Lidless Eye.
"Elentari!" Denethor could not break his son's will, so he turned to an already fragile one, "You are betrothed to be married in less than two days time. I suggest you not engage in such practices. I will not have an adulteress in my household."
"Yes Father," was barely audible.
"You would do good to remember that, both of you," Denethor barked, "Now Elentari. Your betrothed is waiting."
Head lowered, she followed Denethor away.
His gaze followed her, and lingered even when she had turned the corner out of his sight. He had longed to look upon her fair face for so long, dreaming of it, yet what he saw now filled him not with contentment, but with horror.
What had happened to her? She was gaunt, frail; he hardly recognized her. He had seen a rough sketch of a bog a bit north, near Mordor, the Dead Marshes, they called it, and she could pass for one of those unfortunate souls, lighting their candles beneath the water.
He looked down, her bureau held rouge and powder, things that he had dubbed unheard of for Elentari. Other women needed it to cover up themselves, and hurriedly smeared it all over, to add to their wiles and charm, but not her. She had never needed, never wanted such things. The powder had spilled over the exterior, forming a smooth, white surface. He had been gone for longer periods before, and she had never been like this. She was never forced to marry before, was she? Damn Denethor, condemn that man to damnation. Why must he push her to this fate? He slammed his fist on the bureau, causing the bottles to leap. And surely, he was not the only one to notice her condition. It was quite obvious. Did no one care? He slammed his other fist on the dresser, upsetting a bottle. He glanced at it, a look of disgust on his face. Boromir must have noticed, and he does care. Why then? Why had he not said anything? He would be the first to tell Denethor, or had the Steward fallen to such insanity, that he would not even listen to his beloved firstborn? He looked up, seeing his reflection in the mirror. Had she not looked into this glass and seen herself? She would know, better than anyone, what had happened to her. Why did she not stop it?
Never mind that. He would. He would put an end to this madness. He would, at any cost. She would not suffer. It seared him to think that she had already. He would confront Denethor, fight Theodred, whatever it took to save her. It was not a matter of their love anymore; it was a matter of her life. He moved away, his hands covered with a mist of fine powder--powder that covered her face that hid her from those around her, disguising her frailty, but not from him. Nothing could hide her from him, and he would make it clear to them.