June 3, Third Age 3019
I go on an outing
I went out hunting with Faramir today. I don't particularly enjoy the sport myself, but he invited me and it would have been impolite to refuse. I made progress on the expedition: I didn't run away from Faramir's dogs, and the conversation did not dwell on my experience in Mordor, about which too many are overtly (and, in my mind, overly) curious. Perhaps because he saw just how wrung-out I looked in Ithilien, or perhaps because as a captain of Gondor he has seen Mordor's desolation for himself, Faramir knows that it is best not to ask about it – nor to pretend that it did not happen, as yet others are inclined to do.
Plus, I learned to fly a falcon. She got a rabbit.
But small accomplishments aside, I felt it might be helpful to my work on a memoir of my adventures to practice fabricating dialogue from the gist of a conversation, so I will here transcribe the final draft of the dramatized version of my discussion with Faramir after lunch.
Faramir and I talked mostly of the Elves and of Númenor, of the literature and history that we had both learned under Gandalf's tutelage. We analyzed the layers of symbolism and allegory in ancient works; we mused over the repetition of history, and how the downfall of Númenor recalled the exile of the Noldor, or how the later decline of Gondor before the end of the Third Age once more faintly echoed it; we observed that the seductive whispers of Sauron in the ears of Elves and Men should have been ineffectual had those who fell to the Enemy's temptation remembered the history of the destruction wrought by the lies of Morgoth in the First Age; and, edging ever nearer to the topic of conversation that both mostly wanted to avoid, we considered the corruptive power contained in unthreatening objects of little size but substantial beauty, and how evil can result from attempts to preserve what is beautiful.
"Isn't it surreal to think," I said suddenly, tired at last of talking in abstractions, "that not only will our times and our deeds someday be the stuff of history books and intellectual discussions, but we ourselves? There are few now who can say they knew Fëanor, for instance, his favorite food or color, his hobbies when he wasn't creating legendary jewels, his annoying habits. Even his personality, his angry temperament, is little more than a cause for a historical effect. And when the Elves leave Middle-earth, there will be none who ever knew him. But still we talk about him."
"I'm guessing," said Faramir with a mischievous grin, "that Fëanor wasn't afraid of dogs and didn't bite his fingernails."
"That was uncalled-for."
"And I'm not sure what you're getting at."
I chewed on the side of my lip, trying to fit my words around my thoughts. "What I mean to say is – when our names appear as words on the page of historical records, people centuries in the future will recognize them, and immediately our great and valiant and world-changing deeds will come to mind, but how will they ever be able to envision us as our friends know us? For the sound of our voices, the way we laugh, the way we dress, the way we stand, and, yes, our nervous habits – things we take for granted because they're just a part of us? We don't know any of that about the greats we look up to in the past. Did they ever think that who they were in their own eyes would be forgotten?"
"Ah," said Faramir sagely, a knowing smile slowly lifting one corner of his lips. "You're having one of those."
"One of what?" I asked curiously, inclining my head to one side.
"What Boromir fondly calls – used to call, I mean," Faramir amended, his tone quieting slightly with grief – "'what must it have been like?' attacks."
"I suppose that would be the big brother restatement of what Gandalf named 'empathetic speculation,'" I observed with a laugh. "So I'm not the only one who does that?"
"Not at all," Faramir reassured me, hefting his wineglass so that the sunlight was refracted iridescently in the details of the crystal, and the liquid within shone a warm yellow-gold. I echoed his gesture, and we sipped a tacit toast to empathetic speculation.
"So you catch my meaning, then?" I asked.
"Yes, but I do not imagine that my name will call any instant recognition to the minds of future students," Faramir said casually. I noted neither bitterness nor wistfulness in his voice, only the merest hint of resignation.
"I beg to differ," I contradicted him politely. "After all, you did play your part in the great War of the Ring. Your name will be recorded and remembered through the ages, equal to anyone's."
"Except yours," Faramir teased me, his manner completely serious.
I swallowed uncomfortably. I still wonder whether I am equal to historical fame that outstrips that of my contemporary betters. I even wonder whether I am equal to any fame at all, though I know it is inevitable; what did I do that Faramir, for instance, could not have done if he had been in my place? And what could he perhaps have done that I in the end could not? Still, trying not to betray my doubt, I paused reflectively and answered gravely, "And Aragorn's and Gandalf's, yes, but surely equal to anyone else's."
Faramir caught my moment of discomfiture. I could see it in his eyes, a flash of regret and more than a little confusion as to the reason for my doubt, but he did not mention it. Like me, he feels that what is laid down should be left to lie, and he seemed to sense that to mention again what I had graciously deflected in the form of jest would be only to compound his error. So he laughed, as he knew he was expected to, and I continued, "What makes you think otherwise?"
"Truly, what part did I play? I did little, other than sustain a grievous wound and lie abed while battle raged. No, I believe that I will only be remembered as the son of the mad steward who lit his own funeral pyre and the brother of the steward's elder son who succumbed to the evil temptation of the Ring."
"Oh, no, you'll be remembered as more than that," I protested with mock indignation. "You'll also be written in history as the husband of the woman who rode to battle in the armor of a man and slew the Witch-king of Angmar." I smiled slyly and added, "For that, I believe congratulations are in order."
Faramir, taken aback, sat with his mouth slightly open for a moment, then began, "How did you know – ?" and left off in bemusement.
My devious smile broadened and I replied, "My spies are everywhere. And very perceptive, as well. Especially when it comes to intelligence that others would rather keep secret for the time being." I chuckled, thinking fondly of my own personal experience with such things.
"And I imagine that their names are Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took?" Faramir said with a look half of amusement and half of exasperation.
"I did say that they were everywhere, did I not?" I returned.
"But you will not reveal this happy secret beyond us, will you?" Faramir pressed anxiously. "I plan to make everything known in its due course with the proper amount of pomp and ceremony," he explained with a wry grin.
"Perfectly understandable," I agreed. "You may trust to my discretion." But remembering our previous topic of conversation, a thought sobered me again, and I said, "Faramir, your name will be in records of history not only for your relatives' fame."
"And why is that?" he asked, still half-laughing.
"Because you are the kind Man who succored two weary travelers in Ithilien, and treated them as guests despite that your law treated them as criminals. Because as a strong, noble, generous presence, you helped to maintain, for just a little longer, the sanity of one whose strength was steadily failing. And because you had the chance to take the Ring, and you refused, even though if I failed and in the end your decision proved ill for your people, it might have meant your life. But do not think that you will be remembered, then, only for what you did not do; I find that in history, simply being kind and good is sadly underrated. You will be remembered for that – I will see to it." Then I suddenly realized self-consciously that I was becoming remarkably long-winded, and added lightly, "And I, of course, will be remembered as the greatest orator of our times."
As I raised my wineglass to my lips to cover my mild embarrassment (and to allow myself to recover from the lump of overwhelming gratitude and unidentifiable emotion that was beginning to block my throat), Faramir too raised his glass, reaching it out toward me, and, his voice slightly hoarse as well, proposed a second toast: "To Frodo son of Drogo, the Third Age's greatest orator and the Fourth Age's greatest revisionist historian."
I laughed, and we both drank. Faramir half-filled his now-empty glass, and I once again noted the beauty of the pale gold liquid illuminated by the sunlight broken by the designs in the crystal. Then I raised my glass expectantly, and Faramir imitated my gesture, his eyebrows raised as he awaited my toast. "And to Faramir son of Denethor, the Third Age's most self-effacing hero and the Fourth Age's happiest husband and father."
It was Faramir's turn to laugh as we drank. Remembering when I tipped back my chair in the warm, laughter-filled kitchen of Bag End with a feeling of self-satisfaction as I did the same – it feels like lifetimes ago! – half a year before, I drained my glass.
Et voilà.* It's not bad, considering, though I need to refine my narrative style; as it is, I feel that I place too much emphasis on thought and mannerism. I fear that outside of conversation, I will never break myself of the habit of writing location descriptions in anal detail, though I kept those to a minimum in the above passage. Had I begun to denote our picnic site on the eastern end of a clearing amid a copse of cypress – I shudder to think. I would be writing well into next week.
For my next project, I must train myself to write in the third person, as Bilbo did in his book; I think that it adds the proper objectivity necessary for a historical record. As an experiment: Frodo is referring to himself by name. This makes him feel eerily like Sméagol. He fears that he will need a great deal of practice to adjust to replacing first-person pronouns with third-person pronouns and his own name before he can write fluently in this manner without commenting intermittently on how disturbing it is.
Perhaps my next project will instead be learning to use a bow and arrows. A child's training bow, of course. Faramir wouldn't let me near his. And I his elder!
* No, people in Middle-earth probably wouldn't use French expressions. Frodo probably would have actually said "a tiro" or something similar (the Sindarin for "and look at that"). I like to think that as the relationship between Quenya and Westron is like that between Latin and English, Sindarin is more the equivalent of French.
Author's Note: That entry was intentionally lighthearted, so do not complain about the lack of angst. You want angst, go read my Frodo-death fics. Yes, that was a plug.
That took WAY longer than it needed to. Two months! Two months since last I updated the "Random Musings"! I will make no promises, conjectures, hopes, or wild guesses as to how long the next entry will take, because not only is it unwritten, but I have four other fanfiction projects going at once, and schoolwork coming out my…ears.
(Plug #2) But the writings that are already posted will not go stale! Read and review them – after you review this, of course – if any of them interest you. Thank you!