Disclaimer: I own nothing affiliated at all with JRR Tolkien, the Tolkien Estate, Peter Jackson, or New Line Cinemas. Trust me.
Author's Note: I'm sorry this is so late in coming. I was on vacation, and you know how it is. But I was thinking of it the whole time!
Meditation
It was morning in Minas Tirith, and the city awoke to spring.
It was a subtle, gentle spring, like a sleepy whisper before a dream or the tickling promise of a kiss. It was a still, innocent spring, quiet with hope, though the streets and walls of the city were yet marred with the violence of the winter so newly past. Deep, treacherous cracks ran like rivers through the cobblestones and every visible surface, each face and window, was bleached and wan with the weight of hard months. Reparation disputes climbed rapidly common as the damage grew steadily more apparent, and increasingly the Steward was called upon to settle these inevitable arguments.
But spring had come, however silently, and that certainly none disputed. From the earliest rising of the merest baker's boy to eventual awakenings in the wealthiest quarters, the joyful awareness seemed to dance in the very air. Shutters were flung open, kerchiefs loosened, woolen coats discarded by the height of the day. Chatter and happy energy frolicked in the streets with the children, and many a grateful mother was to be seen standing still and silent, reveling in the sun's warmth and giving ineffable thanks for the long-awaited renewal.
The vigor and excitement swept throughout the city, caressing every hovel, every corner, every cupboard in streets and castle alike. Every room was filled with the effervescent aura, the fresh, clean, perfect life of spring.
Every room, save one.
Of all her qualities, Asëa of Gondor was, foremost, a contented child. The treasured, ever-petted daughter of the Steward of Gondor, she could easily have grown accustomed to having her every desire met in moments, learning by example that her whims were her birth-granted due. Had she developed thus, surely no one would have had cause for surprise; or more unthinkable yet, to blame her for it. Young Lords were expected to be solid of mind and were trained rigorously in their duties to their state, but Ladies obligations ran a course far more vague, and on some small level the citizens of Gondor even expected them to be spoiled.
But the Little Lady of the Citadel was an unexpectedly diffident and unassuming child. Perhaps it was partly borne from the abundance of attention and possession that was supplied to her so liberally from her birth, but it was a rare occasion indeed when anyone heard Lady Asëa call for anything more than a bit of water. Popular opinion proposed, among other theories, that her everpresent ill-being had provoked in her a tendency to appreciate the status quo, but had Asëa herself been queried, even she would have been hard pressed to provide an adequate answer.
But on this day, this first day of spring, as she stood in the white stone window of her drawing room, Asëa found herself possessed by a yearning so profound she could scarcely express it. It was greater, she supposed, than anything she had ever wanted anything at all before, and likely ever would again. Standing perfectly still in the bright crevice of the enormous window, watching the wonders of the new season unfold with pristine steadiness, Asëa suddenly discovered within herself a searingly fervent desire to be out of doors, and see and feel and taste this miraculous spring with her own person.
How pungent the irony then, for this was the single thing she could not have. Over her ten short years, the healers of the Citadel had, on the unyielding orders of Denethor her father, taken careful study on the natures of Asëa's frequent indisposes. To simply deem her fragile of health and await the day she succumbed to a simple fever would not be brooked with the Steward, and any possible measure of prevention hypothesized by the healers, however feeble, was instituted immediately. Foremost among these precautions was the suggestion (later to become an order) that the young Lady be exposed to as little of the outside airs as possible. The reasoning of the healers struck well with the Steward, as they proposed that the unpredictable humors and currents in fresher air often held ailments that did not effect the sturdy of constitution; but for one as delicate as the Lady Asëa, they might prove severely detrimental. And so, thus encouraged, Denethor lovingly forbid his daughter from ever emerging from the smooth, ancient walls of the Citadel.
So it had been for years beyond her memory, until one heather-heaven summer evening in her eighth year. Following a stretch of several months of vibrant health and (as her brothers had to their discomfort and amusement witnessed) lively verbal petitions on Asëa's behalf by her Grandmother, Denethor had reluctantly consented to allow his daughter a short outing to the garden below her window. Though the success of the small endeavor had attributed to other, broader ventures, the memory of that evening still stood particularly sweet in Asëa's mind. Should she stand in one thousand Elven gardens, she thought, lavender would never again seem so ripe.
Thrice more she had ventured out of doors that summer, and once for a few short moments in autumn. From winter she remained prohibited, but this caused her little grief as regardless, she had always rather preferred to observe the cold-wrought majesty from the more temperate vantage point of her window. Her error, as she considered it, and what she blamed for her unfulfilled longings on this day, had come on a silver spring morning the following year. Buoyed by her triumphs in summertime and enraptured by the beauty of the day, she had spent hours in fervent pleading with the Steward, imploring him to grant her an excursion, however brief. She had ignored, to her later despair, the dregs of a chill she had concealed from her father, and the knowledge that in truth, on that day she was too fragile for an outing. Confronted with her ceaseless longing, Denethor had allowed her a small visit to her garden, and Asëa's joy, for a few short hours, was boundless.
But she had taken very ill after that day, and scarcely recovered in time for Midsummer. Following this, Asëa had been forbidden once again from outside exposure, without any word spoken on Denethor's behalf, or any protestations from his daughter.
But on this first day of spring, something deeper than expression had spoken to the Little Lady of the Citadel. She stood in her window as one in a trance, swaying in time with the breeze that swept around her fragile form. Mild green eyes misted with longing, slender lips smoothed in a half smile, Asëa strengthened her soul, decision made, and stepped back out of her window.
Faramir, second son of the Steward, sat in solemn silence on the sawdust floor of the inner practice chambers. His eyes were lightly shut, his breath even and steady as he focused on his shadowed surroundings. He listened, keen ears absorbing every birdcall, every clod of hoof, every muffled shout from distant trainings. He listened, and he layered his perceptions in careful tiers of significance. Faramir waited with meticulously groomed patience, anticipating any shift in cadence or new element which would signify his tutor's attempts to unnerve or avoid him.
At this time, Faramir had seen fifteen winters, and the bulk of his instruction had marked him for a scout of Ithilien. His elder brother Boromir had been trained as a captain of war, an unrivaled, fearless champion of every range of battle. But though to a blunted eye these realms of combat may have been perceived as unapproachable separate (and indeed, this was the manner in which the boys tutors wished their father the Steward to understand them) the brothers themselves were constantly impressed with the importance and need of the other's position and talents in order for their own to succeed. Due to the scrupulous instruction of their tutors, Boromir and Faramir had each grown into their abilities imbued with a respect bordering reverence for the work that his brother was to do, and this in turn contributed the renowned and admired love between them. At Faramir's birth, many had expected them to become naught but bitter rivals, but despite the three-year distance in their ages and Denethor's painfully blatant favoritism of the elder, the young Lords of Gondor held a friendship and love envied by mothers all across their realm.
Enveloped in his training, anticipating at any moment a beguiling ruse from Master Ilhiar, Faramir started and sprang to his feet as an utterly unperceived hand fell upon his shoulder. His heart thundered in his chest as he blinked in the sudden light, gasping in surprise, and only when he had recognized the intruder could he begin to slow his racing pulse.
"Asëa," he said with a rueful flush. "Why in Valar's name are you here?" He studied his sister as he calmed, taking in with sudden consternation her crimson riding cloak and hood. "Whatever were you thinking of?"
Asëa gazed back at him, an iron resolution he had never before seen burning in her eyes. "Faramir," she whispered. "You… you must take me outside."
Beset by sudden concern, he knelt down before her so their eyes were level. Asëa blinked, and then met his steady view, eager desperation lighting her pale face. He did not need to voice the reasoning why what she asked was impossible- every objection was written before her. "Please, Faramir," she said. "Please. I can't explain myself, I don't understand it, but the spring is calling to me! I'm not ill," she cried desperately, anticipating his rejection, "I'm perfectly well. Ask Barais, she'll tell you-"
A sudden, irrepressible smile grew on her brother's face. "Does Barais know you've left your rooms?" he chuckled. When a bashful expression relaxed Asëa's features, he laughed louder. "Good gracious little sister, how did you escape her? It must have been perianweed to make old hound sleep so late!"
"Of course not," she sniffed with feigned insult. "Merely a bit of dozey in her tea this morning." And she began to giggle with her brother.
When their laughter had sobered, Faramir put his hands on her shoulders. "Now," he said softly, meeting her eyes with piercing earnesty. "What's all this about running to the spring?" Asëa hesitated, and then spoke slowly, so quietly Faramir could scarcely hear her. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know. But when I woke this morning, the spring so… so real, it seemed like a friend calling out to me. As if…" she cast about her, seeking some feeble definition to christen her turmoil. "As if it were Mother." Her eyes beseeched him, sparkling with tears like molten crystal, her face effervescent with longing.
Moments passed, and Faramir was silent. Then slowly, he rose. His hand remained gripped on her shoulder. "Well then," he said, his voice tinged with living grief, "We must go and find Mother."
To be continued...