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Journeys

The wind that swept the expanses of the northern Pelennor was sweet and cool, flowing around Faramir and his sister like a river of Elven wine. They flew like spirits across the plain, the hooves of Faramir's loyal Dasean seeming to scarcely graze the earth as he thundered into realms chartered only by the soul. Upon his back, Asëa settled against her brother, downy head sloping on his shoulder as her eyes gazed steadily forth at a destination she could not define. She did not smile, but an air of peace seemed to radiate from her fragile form like the earliest whispers of dawn.

Faramir cradled her protectively, the echoes of disquiet in his ears eased by Asëa's steady, untroubled breath. Dasean's reins were draped loosely in his right hand for they were not needed; the horse seemed to follow the same beacon as Asëa. The spell (if that indeed was the source of these inexplicable yearnings) had only just begun to blossom to life within Faramir, though he had felt it set down roots as they left the ancient walls of Minas Tirith. He struggled against its subtle signal, straining the limits of a vigilance he had before only envied in his brother. He must keep awake, stay alert; he must protect Asëa…

But he fell in the fighting, fading into a dream of memory and mist for a time he could never measure. And when he woke, Dasean had folded his knees as if to sleep and the strains of a forgotten lullaby were fading in his ears.

Asëa had dismounted when the great horse knelt and now stood beside her brother, her entire being trembling with the ecstasy of sudden release. He turned to her slowly, studiously, blinking as the mortal world returned to focus. He met her eyes with his wondering gaze, confusion and joy and grief all melding into one question so enormous no words could encompass the answer. Instead, Asëa smiled at her brother and slipped her small hand into his calloused palm, gripping with a strength she could not possibly posses.

"Come, Faramir," she said softly. "We are here."

The heavens stretched above them, milky and bright as liquid pearl, swirling like curtains in nightwind. Gazing up at the vast blankness from the silken green carpet of the Pelennor, the siblings were at once everything and nothing at all, insignificant and utterly omnipotent in the world that suddenly they alone seemed to inhabit.

They lay head to head, arms stretched behind them like angles to clasp each other's hands. Faramir could feel the beat of Asëa's soothing pulse through the heat of her scalp, the echoing flutter in her palms. Their chests rose and fell, their hearts beat in unison until it seemed to Faramir that they were one single, ageless entity, a flow of warmth sustained by love and sweet ache of loss. Memory slipped through them, floating through the air like motes of silver dust.

It was a gift they were given, though neither understood it. A gift designed for healing, granted by forces greater than they could imagine, forces that preceded Middle-Earth and would prevail beyond it as well.

Such ancient powers as these were not often moved by the trials of mortals. They had seen greater pain by far, had felt its acrid bite, and knew they would again. Their solemn duty left scant space for mercy or indulgence; the course of life was tradition for them, and each thread would meet its ordained destiny.

To sympathy, however, these beings were not impervious. Even the smallest of creatures can humble the highest king in honest need, and such was the sorrow of Finduilas of Dol Amroth that a modest leniency was granted her soul. Ten years to the day after her death, the children who lived bereft of her memory would be called to receive a comfort from their absent mother.

It was on the first day of spring that Finduilas had died, and in a field of Asëa Aranion, in the northern Pelennor that she had taken the first fall that led to her death.

Faramir and Asëa knew nothing of this; but as the spell lifted from them, they found themselves imbued of memory they had never known, nor could fully explain. They did not speak of it, only recognized the new completion in the other's eyes and silently acknowledged the change.

The gift had been given. It was theirs to do with what they would.

"Faramir," said Asëa softly, shifting to her stomach the better to see her brother. "Faramir, where do you think we are?" She spoke not from worry but idle wonder, though as Faramir absorbed her logic he rose to his knees, frowning in thought. He ran a hand across the supple green beneath them, seeing for the first time that it was not grass but a bed of small, soft leafs. Asëa studied him quietly, caressing a fragment between her pale fingers. She did not ask, but he answered her all the same.

"Athelas. The little plant from bed rhymes. I recognize it somehow."

"Athelas? How strange," she murmured. "Barais told me it never grew in Gondor."

"No… I hadn't thought it did."

It is an odd occurrence of life that whenever a piece of knowledge seems new, or novel, or particularly worthy of attention, the resultant excitement is so thrilling a sensation that it eliminates every other possible thought from consciousness and quickly induces a sensation of well-deserved exhaustion. It was this phenomenon, coupled with the soothingly soporific effects of the Athelas that swiftly and without warning swept the Steward's younger children into a deep and satisfying sleep. When they awoke, the sky was a vivid hue of violet, members of the Tower Guard were urging them into consciousness. Hoofs clod near their ears, and the grim visages adorning once friendly faces sparked an inexplicable dread in Faramir and his sister.

The gift given was indeed a blessing; but as with all things, it needed only the slightest of missteps to become a curse.
I know how sad this is going to sound, but I'm quite hungry right now and have misplaced my self control- please, if you like this story at all, or (gulp) even if you don't, please leave a review. Anything, even a tiny line to say that I got the geography of the Pelennor wrong or something. It's just that I've been building this story in my head for quite a while now, and it's gotten so that I really can't tell anymore if what I am writing is decent or copycat swill. I will write it no matter what, but trust me- the more impetus I have, the better it will be.

Yours in vague embarrassment,

InTruth