Subsisting on a Fraction [/ÉOWYN]

[faramir]

ooc: Playing with syntax. This is set just a couple of days after the battle between Rohan and Denethor's forces. I think it would make sense for Faramir to stay in Rohan while waiting for Aragorn/Gondor to give him the yes or no as to whether he can reclaim his lost titles and ranks. These means Faramir and Éowyn should have met at least once already. I'm still not sure whether he should be at the top of Edoras or near to the top, so I'm leaving that open to you.

What happened? That was what Faramir had been asking himself the past several days. No, not what physically happened. He knew that already: a battle between Rohan and the forces of Denethor II, former Steward of Gondor. A battle in which he sided with Mithrandir and the Rohirrim. What he wanted to know, or understand, or fully grasp the core of, was: what essentially happened? Essentially. That wasn't (quite) the word he was looking for. It was, perhaps, better to ask: what unphysically happened? Or what happened, in terms of the aspects which transcended/were beyond physicality? That would sound awkward. But. It was accurate. Accuracy lay in inelegance.

Actually. He was still in Rohan, waiting, with the rangers who had followed him, for any form of permission or approval for him to return to Gondor. Actually. By tomorrow, he had been told. He would hear from Gondor by tomorrow. Then he could leave. Discretely, so as not to attract or come under the eyes of Saruman's forces. He would lead his -- the -- rangers by the Mering Stream. Actually. As a defector he was left out – gently – of most meetings and discussions concerning Rohan, Gondor, and the war in general. Actually, actually.

Actually, he knew the answer. He knew what had happened in terms of the aspects which were beyond physicality. What hung between him and his father was a string of broken pearls. And yet. He lost it. Cut. Burnt out. By his hands. And now here he was, in Edoras, waiting. His body resting. Finding out as much as he could about the capital's topography, so that. So that he and the [other] rangers could (better) aid Rohan if they were ever summoned. In his head he cradled the possibility that, should Gondor refuse him, there was always Rohan. Foreign Rohan. As if he could dive into the richness of horse fur and Rohirric sentences, let the odour of the Mark paint over him, swimming through colour after colour: brown, green, blue, saffron. And more.

Colours. More. He looked out at the sunset. The colours breaking through the horizon. If he took one step forward the light would get to him in its entirety. Imagine. The warmth of the sun and its colours sliding down your body like the yolk of an egg cracked against your head. In that brief moment you feel as if the longest or heaviest splinter in that part of your body -- the part made of fallen branches -- has been cauterised out. Time didn't really exist. Even with the sun going down and the moon glittering silver against black shores, the concept of time could be brushed away.

Violet shooting across the sky, cutting through gold and grey like the crease caused by a childhood pillow. Specks of red, quilts of raw hay-yellow. Henneth Annun was like this during sunset. The water. The curtain it formed.

[éowyn]

It was close to evening, but not quite. So much had happened in the past few years- so many major things. Her uncle had been lost and recovered- though "lost" wasn't really a good term to use, but it was the only term that would even partially describe what had happened- and her country, her people, had been attacked by none other than Denethor and his forces, who were supposed to be their allies. Well, so much for that. Eowyn felt bad for the Gondorians, though- even those who hadn't fought for or sided with Denethor weren't trusted anymore, especially not by the people of Rohan.

So many things had happened in such a short amount of time... how could time go so fast and hold so many things in its grasp? It was strange to think of how many things were both gained and lost throughout the years. Though really, 'things' was such a general term. Eowyn didn't like to use it, but yet she always did. She didn't like it, because she felt as though it was minimizing reality- that it was taking away from what it stood for, as if it wasn't good enough or had never happened. She didn't want to do that. She hated when people judged and doubted her, and that's how she felt, in a way, when she used such a broad term for things that were so important. See? There it was again- "things".

So many things were troubling her, bothering her at the moment. At this time. She couldn't feel at peace, at ease, not yet. And how could such a thing be expected of her, really, at this point? When the only people who were supposed to be her- their, being her and her people- allies ended up as enemies? The times were tough and confusing, and too many thoughts would constantly plague her mind. Most of them were unpleasant, and she hated them.

She decided to go out for some air- that would always help her, one way or another. It would clear her mind, most of the time. And nightfall was approaching... this was her favourite time of day, if not when the sun was high in the sky, for now, as the sun set, beautiful colours were always in the sky. So perhaps it was her second favourite time of day. But it was still beautiful, peaceful... wonderful.

As she left the hall, bidding her uncle a good evening as she passed him, and went out onto the grassy hill that was Edoras, she noticed that she was not completely alone. She went down one short set of stone stairs to reach the other person, who she recognized upon approaching him more closely to be one of the men of Gondor that had fought alongside her, rather than against her. He was also a friend of Gandalf, it seemed, which was positive to say the least. She trusted him on this basis, and this only. Trusted him enough, that is, to be comfortable to start a conversation. Or maybe she was merely lonely or bored... either way, she spoke to him.

"Good evening," she said, her tone a tad cheerful despite her internal thoughts. She wished not to give away her worries to others, after all. It was her own troubles, and no one else's.

OOC: sounds good! hope this is okay ^^

[faramir]

ooc: I love the common contents between the second and third paragraphs of your post. (Sorry for the 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea reference -- it sounded too grotesquely smooth in context to discard.) I am also assuming that in the battle, Éowyn was nearer to the frontlines (if not there), while Faramir and his rangers were more or less to the sides/(rather) obscure areas.

The exigencies of war entailed a lot of things. Brought in a lot, took away a lot. Took, tore, stripped. Vermillion skies, a dawn rich in mud and blood. Guts. And also, sacrifices, and much more. You wouldn't be able to count even a raindrop of it all. Like an obituary in which you had facts listed out, and just a brief description of your life. No, not even your life: just your biography, another list, one of the things you did, what you succeeded at. Your failures left out. War carried in its talons over four oceans & 20,000 leagues, and you were trying to count it all. With each count you raised your hand, tried to take a cupful at the least. With each cupful you lost the previous one. Spilt the cup. And yet. The process of counting and just. Just trying to hold on to everything. That was enough, or had its own value which you could not, whether subconsciously or consciously, ignore.

Faramir, for one ((just) a blade of grass within the lands & amongst all the organisms of Middle Earth), would like to feel the sunset in its fullness. Not just the colours, but. If music could be cradled across the varying shades and hues, he would like to play it, every note, or at least learn how to. And yet. Perhaps it was his training as a ranger. Perhaps it was his (pseudo?)fear of letting the whole of his self be engulfed in feelings, the tiniest whisper of the wispiest thought out of his reach. But. He couldn't. As he looked out to the horizon, someone|something approached him, and he could hear the approach. He could feel it.

He turned, though not completely, his toes still facing the melting sun. The approaching figure was familiar, he had seen her before. Just recently, actually. Recognised her, perhaps beyond the usual recognition a ranger had for whatever came into his gaze and whatever he set his gaze upon. He trusted her already, and if he did not trust her fully, he at least trusted her well enough to choose not to speak in a (subtly) confrontational manner. She was the Lady of Rohan, Éowyn, and his trust in her was consciously due to the aura she had emanated while fighting on the same side. As a ranger, he wasn't beside her for most of the battle, much less near, but he did catch a number of glimpses, and these glimpses carried more unphysical elements. Intuition, at least, told him that she loved Rohan.

"Good evening, lady," he greeted back, politely tilting his head.