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Post by faramir on Jun 24, 2012 11:21:46 GMT -5
The air around Faramir had not gotten looser after Denethor’s defeat. He still felt his father’s stone weight on his arms, the chains dangling from the space – hollow yet somewhat, or pseudo, full – in his chest. As long as the former (Ruling) Steward still breathed he still thought, and as long as he thought he was still there. Wherever he was. And perhaps after his death, he would still linger, like the trail of a long-forgotten legend, or the colour of Minas Tirith. The white which had been dyed into the veins of your eyes from the stone walls all around you. Collect the dust in handfuls. Watch them seep into the folds of your skin and stay there. Forever.
He stepped out of the Steward’s lodgings, having had just enough time to revisit his room before leaving for Ithilien once more. There were memories. Memories all around. Shards and scents. On the walls, the desk, the covers of the bed. He saw that the proximity between them and his skin was, if not nil, close to that. He had some under his fingernails, caught between his teeth. Scaling down his spine. The collarbone. He didn’t have time to flip through even a quarter of the books in his room, shelved and organised neatly, partly by intuition. But. The other things. Possessions, if you must, for lack of a less material word. There was a loose board beneath the bed. Pull that up and you’ll find one thing only: a box containing his mother’s cloak. He went and checked. It was still there.
It was time for Ithilien again. Most of his adolescence was spent there, training with the Rangers of Ithilien. Not long ago Faramir had deliberately given up his rank as Captain. Now, he had regained that rank. Not all of the rangers had followed, upon their own will, him to Rohan. And yet. He was sure that, and from reports, majority, if not all, of them had stayed behind not for – for whom (or… well, what) most referred to as “the Enemy,” but for Ithilien. That feeling dangling from the tip of your lids and lashes, the emotion you attempt to sophisticate, until you realise: love, that’s all, why put love into words? |
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