A/N: The House of Hurin introspection time! All three men. Looks like I
can't finish before I leave for my three-week trip on Tuesday!!! Ahh! Under
my original plan, I might be able to, but I want to develop the
relationship between Eowyn and Elentari in Rohan, which will take a while...
Reviewers! Do you think that's good or not?
I've just been working out ages and years and stuff from the Appendices. Right now, Eowyn should be around 13, Faramir 25 (Wow. They were 12 years apart?) and Elentari at that rate, 21... This is the year 3008 of the Third Age. Whoa... Theodred would be like 31... Hmm... Well, Boromir was 30, so that's okay, I guess. This is around 10 years before the War of the Ring.
Thanks to all the reviewers and readers!!! Keep at it!!! I'm working as fast as my schedule can allow! QuickEdit is being extremely difficult right now!
Thanks this time is especially to Susan (Roisin Dubh), for being the 100th reviewer!!! I'm so happy!! Thanks to every who helped get me to this!! ::tears of joy:: Check out her work & help her get there too! She's awesome! (shameless plugs)
Chapter 28: Why?
Boromir seldom let troubles get to him, preferring to leave his shrewd father and thoughtful brother to do that, but this time, worry, and an emotion he did not experience often: grief, rushed about him. He had watched, alongside his brother, the company of Rohirrim, escorting and in his opinion, kidnapping his beloved sister. After they had disappeared, his senses finally kicked back in, and he whispered softly, "Faramir," as he prepared to go back.
If Faramir had heard him, he indeed did not respond, for he stood erect and stiff, eyes distant and full of tears. Knowing that his brother was beyond his reach, Boromir sighed silently, put a hand on Faramir's shoulder, and went back to the Citadel.
Denethor gazed down from his dark Tower, though it was named the Tower of the Sun. His thoughts were darker than the lightless room, as he too, followed the fading Riders, and lingered onto his son, standing, so stiff that he looked lifeless, but a dead man, or any man in a right state, could endure standing so straight and so still for that long. A voice called out to him within, a voice that he had long buried deep down inside of the closet of memories, but had never allowed dust to gather upon, sweet Finduilas.
"Go down to him, comfort him," the voice beckoned. Denethor merely shook his head, and she continued, "Is it so wrong to show your son you care?"
Denethor shook his head again, and said in his thoughts, "He could spit in my face."
"Does he have reason to?" The Steward merely blinked guiltily, knowing that any answer he liked would be a lie.
After a long sequence of uncompleted thoughts and jumbles in his mind, the only clear thought that Denethor had, and would not leave him alone, was: I miss her.
It was the second time in his life that he had let a woman go without a fight, and he hated himself for it. When Finduilas was withering before his eyes, he saw nothing, and when counsel was whispered upon the matter, he angrily dismissed it and discredited the men who offered it. Finally, when she was taken to the Houses of Healing after collapsing in the Hall, he at last admitted that she was ill, though he would not accept that his ladylove was dying, but did not fight for her. When Mandos had stolen her from his arms one spring morning, he had never thought that he could love anyone again, save Boromir, but the young girl that both his wife and her dearest friend had left behind crawled into his heart. His little sparrow, who had perched upon his knee and sang him songs and had even gotten him to sing, on a few occasions that he preferred to dismiss.
How had Adrahil done this?
How had he given up Finduilas so easily? Denethor groaned as he closed his eyes and recalled the same ceremony he had just arranged being played out, except the bride this time was Finduilas and he was taking her away from her beloved home. Had he not seen the tears in Adrahil's eyes? Maybe he dismissed them as tears of joy, but he now doubted them. Yet he had stood there, merely a few hours before, calmly escorting a reluctant bride, placing her forced hand within that of a foreign prince who wanted her.
Yet she had forgiven him, and had begged his forgiveness. How could she beg for his forgiveness when she was the one who should be forgiving? Guilt gnawed at him as he watched his younger son, the one that she had clung to, desperately lingering for. No. He would not go down to Faramir. If Boromir could not move him, no one could. And thus, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, turned from his window, and added yet another crime of fatherhood to the mountain accumulated.
She wasn't gone. She couldn't be gone. He would turn and go into the Citadel, and she would be there, smiling at the dinner table, waiting for him to take his usual seat beside her. After dinner, in which they would hear Boromir's pompous tales and Denethor's critical, icy talk, if the Steward called for it, she would sing, or both of them, and afterwards, the two of them and sometimes Boromir, would head to a cozy room near their quarters, with a fire, and talk. While Boromir was telling his tales, she might pick up a book, or take out a spare piece of parchment, composing new poems or songs for him to create melodies for.
When and if they had finished a new song, Boromir would demand to hear it, and they would perform it to him, without instruments of course, for that would cause a disturbance.
Then they would bid Boromir a good night, and she would either go to her room, or follow him to his, or he would go to hers. The stars would be up, and as she would gaze at them, he would marvel, as he did every night, at how beautiful she looked under the moonlight.
He instinctively tugged at his collar, grasping the faithful chain that dangled there. Varda Elentari, Elbereth; a prayer to that Queen of Stars, wife of Manwë, upon that silvery orb; her necklace; what use was a necklace as a token when she herself was gone? Did she really think that he needed something like this to remember her by? Without closing his eyes, he could instantly feel her arms around him, her face buried into his chest, his fingers through her hair, her warm mouth. No, he did not need to close his eyes; he felt the need for her every moment of his being, and could just feel her touch, teasing, tempting, yet never there when he tried to grasp it.
Guide us Lady Varda; take us to where we'll be at peace. That was what the necklace said, but what had she done? What had any of them done? They had done nothing to keep her with him. They had taken her away, mercilessly dragging her away from beneath his arms. What had they done? He looked up into the sky. The faintest traces of stars were just visible, but Faramir felt they were sneering at him, leering at his loss.
"WHY?" he screamed at no one, except the darkening sky, "WHY? WHAT DID WE DO? WHAT DID SHE DO?" He held the chain in his hand, and part of his body screamed to throw it out into the myriad of the City, shattering into uncountable pieces, just as his heart was now. "WHAT DID I DO? WHAT DOES THAT MAN HAVE THAT DESERVES HER MORE THAN ME?" He would have gone on, but he was choked between another shriek on the tears that now erupted. Between his silent tears, shaking horribly, he could only whisper, "Why? Why?"
Citizens levels down could hear the spine-tingling shrieks, and all could see their young leader in his distraught state, and whispers erupted again.
"Why?" was all he could manage, and finally, "Isilmë... why?"
The door creaked open, a door that he had opened so many times before that he didn't know how to count there anymore. A tainted smile crossed his face as yet another wave of nostalgia hit him. He and Boromir had teased her about her numbers, when she had just begun them, and Boromir had given her wrong information, which made the tutor furious, and had threatened to whip the boys if they mislead their sister any further.
It was so empty. Everything was gone, save a few pieces of spare furniture. Yet just the smell of the room imbued strength into him, as he shut the door behind him. There was no pieces of parchment, all varying in age and color, sticking all over her walls; some finished, others lacking words here and there.
His hand lay upon the dresser. There was already dust on it. He was disgusted, and quickly blew and waved all the dust off. He would not allow dust to collect on his memories, stowed away deep somewhere, all but forgotten until some vivid spark re-ignites them. She would not be forgotten, covered by thin wisps, a faint shadow of what she once was within this room. Her windowsill was covered a thick layer of dust, layers of dust and sorrow, but somehow, he could not make himself reach out to touch it, scatter the dust, for within those particles, he saw the faintest imprint of her hand, pressing against the windowsill as she gazed up at the stars. He could not disturb what was there for fear that he would lose it forever. She had loved the stars, loved Varda Elentari for creating them; the necklace was still clasped in his hand firmly. She had always insisted and believed that the Valar, especially Elbereth, would watch over them, aiding them in times of need. Yet where was she? Where was Lady Elbereth when they had needed her? Once again, he wanted to scream out in frustration, and throw the necklace as far as he could, so it could shatter like he was.
Yet she had loved that necklace, as her mother had, when his own mother had given it to her. She had made him promise, on more than one occasion, to keep it safe and cherish it, but he found that he could no longer look upon the soft inscriptions and not feel boiling rage erupt, as he wanted to curse the Valar. If he was possessed by some evil, he cared not, and he asked if this was a taste of what Feanor had felt so many years ago, when his dearest treasure had been stolen from him. Like him, Faramir had also lost his cherished beloved. The Silmarils, how could they compare to the luminous expanse within her eyes?
Slowly, he moved away from the window; it was all so bare, so empty. There were no books piled up on the floor, papers flung everywhere, some useless, others cherished. He couldn't see the cards and marbles in neat little packs on her bureau that they had played with in days past. No combs to thread throw her thick hair, her closet empty. He moved to the bed, and felt under the mattress. Even that was gone, the soldier's slacks and shirt that Boromir had snuck to her one year when she had complained. She had donned them in secrecy, once in a while, and snuck out with the two of them.
With tears in his eyes, he closed the door behind him, and whispered, "Farewell, Isilmë."
I've just been working out ages and years and stuff from the Appendices. Right now, Eowyn should be around 13, Faramir 25 (Wow. They were 12 years apart?) and Elentari at that rate, 21... This is the year 3008 of the Third Age. Whoa... Theodred would be like 31... Hmm... Well, Boromir was 30, so that's okay, I guess. This is around 10 years before the War of the Ring.
Thanks to all the reviewers and readers!!! Keep at it!!! I'm working as fast as my schedule can allow! QuickEdit is being extremely difficult right now!
Thanks this time is especially to Susan (Roisin Dubh), for being the 100th reviewer!!! I'm so happy!! Thanks to every who helped get me to this!! ::tears of joy:: Check out her work & help her get there too! She's awesome! (shameless plugs)
Chapter 28: Why?
Boromir seldom let troubles get to him, preferring to leave his shrewd father and thoughtful brother to do that, but this time, worry, and an emotion he did not experience often: grief, rushed about him. He had watched, alongside his brother, the company of Rohirrim, escorting and in his opinion, kidnapping his beloved sister. After they had disappeared, his senses finally kicked back in, and he whispered softly, "Faramir," as he prepared to go back.
If Faramir had heard him, he indeed did not respond, for he stood erect and stiff, eyes distant and full of tears. Knowing that his brother was beyond his reach, Boromir sighed silently, put a hand on Faramir's shoulder, and went back to the Citadel.
Denethor gazed down from his dark Tower, though it was named the Tower of the Sun. His thoughts were darker than the lightless room, as he too, followed the fading Riders, and lingered onto his son, standing, so stiff that he looked lifeless, but a dead man, or any man in a right state, could endure standing so straight and so still for that long. A voice called out to him within, a voice that he had long buried deep down inside of the closet of memories, but had never allowed dust to gather upon, sweet Finduilas.
"Go down to him, comfort him," the voice beckoned. Denethor merely shook his head, and she continued, "Is it so wrong to show your son you care?"
Denethor shook his head again, and said in his thoughts, "He could spit in my face."
"Does he have reason to?" The Steward merely blinked guiltily, knowing that any answer he liked would be a lie.
After a long sequence of uncompleted thoughts and jumbles in his mind, the only clear thought that Denethor had, and would not leave him alone, was: I miss her.
It was the second time in his life that he had let a woman go without a fight, and he hated himself for it. When Finduilas was withering before his eyes, he saw nothing, and when counsel was whispered upon the matter, he angrily dismissed it and discredited the men who offered it. Finally, when she was taken to the Houses of Healing after collapsing in the Hall, he at last admitted that she was ill, though he would not accept that his ladylove was dying, but did not fight for her. When Mandos had stolen her from his arms one spring morning, he had never thought that he could love anyone again, save Boromir, but the young girl that both his wife and her dearest friend had left behind crawled into his heart. His little sparrow, who had perched upon his knee and sang him songs and had even gotten him to sing, on a few occasions that he preferred to dismiss.
How had Adrahil done this?
How had he given up Finduilas so easily? Denethor groaned as he closed his eyes and recalled the same ceremony he had just arranged being played out, except the bride this time was Finduilas and he was taking her away from her beloved home. Had he not seen the tears in Adrahil's eyes? Maybe he dismissed them as tears of joy, but he now doubted them. Yet he had stood there, merely a few hours before, calmly escorting a reluctant bride, placing her forced hand within that of a foreign prince who wanted her.
Yet she had forgiven him, and had begged his forgiveness. How could she beg for his forgiveness when she was the one who should be forgiving? Guilt gnawed at him as he watched his younger son, the one that she had clung to, desperately lingering for. No. He would not go down to Faramir. If Boromir could not move him, no one could. And thus, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, turned from his window, and added yet another crime of fatherhood to the mountain accumulated.
She wasn't gone. She couldn't be gone. He would turn and go into the Citadel, and she would be there, smiling at the dinner table, waiting for him to take his usual seat beside her. After dinner, in which they would hear Boromir's pompous tales and Denethor's critical, icy talk, if the Steward called for it, she would sing, or both of them, and afterwards, the two of them and sometimes Boromir, would head to a cozy room near their quarters, with a fire, and talk. While Boromir was telling his tales, she might pick up a book, or take out a spare piece of parchment, composing new poems or songs for him to create melodies for.
When and if they had finished a new song, Boromir would demand to hear it, and they would perform it to him, without instruments of course, for that would cause a disturbance.
Then they would bid Boromir a good night, and she would either go to her room, or follow him to his, or he would go to hers. The stars would be up, and as she would gaze at them, he would marvel, as he did every night, at how beautiful she looked under the moonlight.
He instinctively tugged at his collar, grasping the faithful chain that dangled there. Varda Elentari, Elbereth; a prayer to that Queen of Stars, wife of Manwë, upon that silvery orb; her necklace; what use was a necklace as a token when she herself was gone? Did she really think that he needed something like this to remember her by? Without closing his eyes, he could instantly feel her arms around him, her face buried into his chest, his fingers through her hair, her warm mouth. No, he did not need to close his eyes; he felt the need for her every moment of his being, and could just feel her touch, teasing, tempting, yet never there when he tried to grasp it.
Guide us Lady Varda; take us to where we'll be at peace. That was what the necklace said, but what had she done? What had any of them done? They had done nothing to keep her with him. They had taken her away, mercilessly dragging her away from beneath his arms. What had they done? He looked up into the sky. The faintest traces of stars were just visible, but Faramir felt they were sneering at him, leering at his loss.
"WHY?" he screamed at no one, except the darkening sky, "WHY? WHAT DID WE DO? WHAT DID SHE DO?" He held the chain in his hand, and part of his body screamed to throw it out into the myriad of the City, shattering into uncountable pieces, just as his heart was now. "WHAT DID I DO? WHAT DOES THAT MAN HAVE THAT DESERVES HER MORE THAN ME?" He would have gone on, but he was choked between another shriek on the tears that now erupted. Between his silent tears, shaking horribly, he could only whisper, "Why? Why?"
Citizens levels down could hear the spine-tingling shrieks, and all could see their young leader in his distraught state, and whispers erupted again.
"Why?" was all he could manage, and finally, "Isilmë... why?"
The door creaked open, a door that he had opened so many times before that he didn't know how to count there anymore. A tainted smile crossed his face as yet another wave of nostalgia hit him. He and Boromir had teased her about her numbers, when she had just begun them, and Boromir had given her wrong information, which made the tutor furious, and had threatened to whip the boys if they mislead their sister any further.
It was so empty. Everything was gone, save a few pieces of spare furniture. Yet just the smell of the room imbued strength into him, as he shut the door behind him. There was no pieces of parchment, all varying in age and color, sticking all over her walls; some finished, others lacking words here and there.
His hand lay upon the dresser. There was already dust on it. He was disgusted, and quickly blew and waved all the dust off. He would not allow dust to collect on his memories, stowed away deep somewhere, all but forgotten until some vivid spark re-ignites them. She would not be forgotten, covered by thin wisps, a faint shadow of what she once was within this room. Her windowsill was covered a thick layer of dust, layers of dust and sorrow, but somehow, he could not make himself reach out to touch it, scatter the dust, for within those particles, he saw the faintest imprint of her hand, pressing against the windowsill as she gazed up at the stars. He could not disturb what was there for fear that he would lose it forever. She had loved the stars, loved Varda Elentari for creating them; the necklace was still clasped in his hand firmly. She had always insisted and believed that the Valar, especially Elbereth, would watch over them, aiding them in times of need. Yet where was she? Where was Lady Elbereth when they had needed her? Once again, he wanted to scream out in frustration, and throw the necklace as far as he could, so it could shatter like he was.
Yet she had loved that necklace, as her mother had, when his own mother had given it to her. She had made him promise, on more than one occasion, to keep it safe and cherish it, but he found that he could no longer look upon the soft inscriptions and not feel boiling rage erupt, as he wanted to curse the Valar. If he was possessed by some evil, he cared not, and he asked if this was a taste of what Feanor had felt so many years ago, when his dearest treasure had been stolen from him. Like him, Faramir had also lost his cherished beloved. The Silmarils, how could they compare to the luminous expanse within her eyes?
Slowly, he moved away from the window; it was all so bare, so empty. There were no books piled up on the floor, papers flung everywhere, some useless, others cherished. He couldn't see the cards and marbles in neat little packs on her bureau that they had played with in days past. No combs to thread throw her thick hair, her closet empty. He moved to the bed, and felt under the mattress. Even that was gone, the soldier's slacks and shirt that Boromir had snuck to her one year when she had complained. She had donned them in secrecy, once in a while, and snuck out with the two of them.
With tears in his eyes, he closed the door behind him, and whispered, "Farewell, Isilmë."