A/N: Please read and review! Reviews are the honey to the writer's soul!
HARADRIM STORY: I was inspired by the reviews I have gotten so far to create a story, or more likely, a chronology of one-shots, about Faramir doing his not-spy-just-gathering-intelligence-in-an-undercover-way thing. I had already planned out this story's collection of chapters and am sorry to disappoint anyone eager for more southern flavor. I like to plan out and write my stories before publishing them so that I don't leave anybody hanging. I am working on a Haradrim story, but this chapter is not it. Thank you to the reviewers who inspired this future project! :)
Disclaimer: Nothing recognizable is mine. I make no money from any stories on this site.
Rohirric was as romantic a language as it was wild. The consonants of the language were like the barks of hounds chasing their quarry, like the pounding of hoofbeats upon plains. The language was one of gruff, stout people, dependable to the end. It was like the sure footed ponies of the moor, it was like the wild spirit of the Mearas. But most of all, it was the language of valor, bravery, courage, and perhaps Faramir was biased, but it was a language of beauty. Not the commonplace beauty of Queen Arwen, though she was as notable as a glass figurine, such beauty was not the one Faramir admired. One may be inclined to point out that perhaps the love of a shieldmaiden changed his definition of beauty, perhaps true, though not to a notable degree; indeed, the shieldmaiden, sorrowful and strong, only enhanced Faramir's idea of beauty.
To him, beauty was the wilderness of Ithilien, the tangle of woods, the glorious intricate workings of the forest. Beauty was a byproduct of grace, wisdom, power, not an attribute in itself.
He had actually only recently, within the last decade, learned the language of the Horse Lords. His older brother recalled visiting Éomer and Theodred. From the tales that his older brother told, Éomer was a mischievous ferret, a handy warrior, and a valiant man, just the character with which Boromir would hit it off with. Faramir was never able to see, or rather remember seeing, the trouble the two got into, nor the strength of the alleged camaraderie, but his imagination did not let him be entirely without an idea.
Faramir was never able to make the journey in his memory, as the suspicion of the late Steward increased, and the Dark Forces harried the outskirts of Gondor.
Faramir had actually learned conversational phrases when he met with travelers from Rohan, traveling to whichever land.
When he met Éowyn, he was mortified to be reminded of his lack of ability in her native tongue, but was assisted by the big hearts of halflings.
*ololo*
Merry watched as his stick scratched upon the white stone of the ground. Everywhere. White stone. It encroached upon everything, as if it were the very air that Gondorians depended on. 'Vast fortresses of blinding, white stone. I wonder how many tons all of the stones would amount to. At least three. Or more.'
Such boredom was on par for the dreary days waiting for the world to end.
"Greetings, Master Meriadoc."
Merry raised his head wearily. His mind and heart were sore with boredom and anxiety. A hollow feeling caused from the dread of the end of existence and beauty competing with soul crushing boredom. Due to this dreadful competition of dullness and dreariness, conversation was welcomed, no matter their instigator, though Merry was reasonably delighted, though it was but a brief relief from the depths of eldritch contemplations and endless ennui, to find the Steward of the land standing above him. The man lent a large, calloused hand to assist Merry in getting up. Tipping his head back to inspect the man, Merry noted a lack of sling.
"And to you, Lord Faramir. You no longer wear your sling."
The Steward's gray eyes widened comically, and his raven hair swung as he hastily glanced around, presumably assuring himself no well meaning healer had heard the observation. "Indeed," he finally replied, his voice soft and a bit terse. "Though perhaps such insights should be kept between you and I?"
Merry smirked. "Has the Warden not allowed your leave of such a device?"
Faramir tilted his head, contemplating. "He did not bar me from its lack of use."
"Though he was not told of your wish to forgo it?" Merry concluded.
Faramir smiled sheepishly. "Perhaps. How do you fare, dear hobbit?"
"Fine, though I am not overly fond of the useless, meaningless talk of 'are you good?' 'yes, fine, the world shall end eminently, but other than that, wonderful!'"
Faramir gave a laugh that reminded Merry of Boromir. A chuckle that was not loud enough to bound through the forest as was the wont of the casual laugh of Boromir. In the long days and nights, Boromir had learned to suppress his laugh to a deep chuckle. Merry's heart clenched at the sound coming from Faramir's lips. Too soon to find joy in similarities. Too soon.
"Indeed, Master Meriadoc, indeed. I am of much the same mind, dear Boromir even more so." The dark head bowed for a moment, dark hair veiling whatever Faramir's face would have shown. "Alas, Boromir, my dear, dear brother." The man's shoulders heaved, then the dark head became upright again. "My apologies, Master Meriadoc. You had said you loathed the endless circles of courteous speech. Are there any topics which you would prefer to converse about?"
Merry shrugged. "Anything you wish. My mind is too tired to think. I have thought myself into circles and spirals and into the deepest parts of boredom."
Faramir grinned. "Count yourself blessed in that case. It appears the duties of the steward are endless. I was restrained from 'overworking myself' by the warden who sent me off to you. I understand the boredom though. I have read many, many books in these past weeks. My favorite tale has now become terribly stale."
"And the warden did not note the absence of the sling?"
Faramir met eyes conspiratorially. "His attention was otherwise engaged."
Merry raised his eyebrows but was not rewarded with elaboration.
A companionable silence followed.
"Now, Master Meriadoc… I bring this to discussion due to lack of other thoughts. I was wondering if perhaps you knew aught of the Rohirric language? If not, that is permissible and acceptable. I was simply wondering if perhaps you could assist me in the study of the language?"
"I would love to! I didn't learn much, but we could ask the riders incarcerated in this prison for guidance."
"That sounds lovely. I shall meet with you here after the twelfth stroke of the bell tomorrow."
Merry grinned. "So we shall!"
*ololo*
And so many hours throughout many days were spent roaming the halls of the house of healing, attempting to find those of the Riddermark willing to speak with a hobbit and a Gondorian. As it turned out, many, many souls were eager to speak with the hobbit who had slain the witch king with the beloved princess. It was a long and difficult task, full of misunderstandings and long, hard conversations which moved too quick for Merry's small understanding, but after weeks and countless visits, he finally had adopted the tongue in such a way that he would be able to speak to a small child with little vocabulary with ease and conduct fruitless talk regarding the weather, family, and articles of clothing. He positively abhorred the useless, meaningless talk, but he felt obliged to continue learning, as he had already learned so much, and once he had learned more, he could perhaps move on to more interesting topics. So were spent many hours of free time between the Steward and the squire of Rohan. Through these visits, Merry became acquainted better with the Steward who had so captured the heart of Minas Tirith and his younger cousin. The man was courteous and long suffering. His silver eyes glinted with intelligence and insight. Yet he was not haughty, like Boromir in those latter days. Though he was proud, perhaps not in the abrasive way Boromir was, but in the way that spoke of a man with quiet confidence and a subtle steel of consciousness. Even as the Riders mocked the Steward in their own tongue, the Steward had a shine of amusement which led Merry to believe that Faramir had a better grasp on the language than he led most to believe.
Indeed, such labor was arduous, but Faramir accepted it gladly as it varied his days from the otherwise tedious tasks of the Steward. Such toil was fruitful by the end, for Faramir was able to compose a poem for his beloved as well as having the ability to understand and eavesdrop upon Éomer King. Surely this should be an ace tucked firmly up his sleeve.