A suicide mission. Was Steward Denethor mad indeed? It is very much starting to appear so to Èowyn, impotent fury licking at the corners of her mind at his treatment of his second-born. She no longer cares so much that she ought to have respect for the dead. What father would ever bemoan aloud that one son lived when the other died, thus deeming the living less important than the dead-- less loved? She cannot fathom it.
For all that Faramir has every right to apply it, she loathes instantly that bitter smile that flickers across his expression, for it ill suits him-- more so when she has seen him smile in comparison. Èowyn betrays no sign of discomfort when his hand tightens around hers, a little too hard perhaps. She only draws in a slow, measured breath between parted lips that still resounds audibly in the quiet of the night, when Faramir speaks of the things he would himself tolerate and accept to spare his troops. She has never doubted the love his men bear for him, for to her it has long now seemed he is the sort that inspires loyalty and respect in the men he commands-- but here, it is painfully evident the feeling is mutual, and that it deeply pained Faramir to knowingly take those men out, knowing they were riding to their deaths.
And for what? To try to reclaim an outpost overrun, taking on the impossible? And all at the behest of a madman nobody could or would oppose.
It is a cold shiver that slithers down her spine when he accounts the dread of the Witch-king, echoing his shudder as her arm aches in remembrance. The unearthly screams of their fell beasts ring in her ears still, as well, pierce her dreams; just as the hiss of the Black Captain's menacing whispers do. Èowyn recovers from her own recollections just as Faramir continues the tale, taking a bit of grim satisfaction knowing that at least none would ever have to suffer the menace of the wraith again.
She sits, still and silent as a statue, as Faramir goes on, recounting this sad story of his. It visibly pains him; bearing down on him and wrapping about him like a tangible thing. Had Èowyn thought Denethor a madman, is pales in comparison to what Faramir is about to tell her next, so staggering a matter she could never had foreseen it. "Any questions I have asked have gone unanswered, either because those I asked did not know the answers, or because they feared to tell me until I was more recovered." At those words, that ill foreboding she had felt earlier in her chambers when she was jolted awake from a dream she can no longer remember returns, filling her heart with unease. She knows something is coming that she does not wish to hear, sending her pulse skittering.
He closes his eyes, and tells her; that dreadful, terrible truth of the matter, how his father had lost all reason and sought to burn both himself and Faramir alive.
It shocks her to her core, and pains her in equal measure at the same time. Her vision blurs with tears, witnessing Faramir's silent agony. "And they obeyed him." "No..." she whispers in anguish on the heels of the revelation, in a voice so thin it is barely audible. How could this be? How could those men have obeyed such orders so blindly? She feels like screaming, railing against the madness and injustice of it all. Pippin and Beregond-- she would forever remember those names, the only souls brave enough to understand such a thing was not to be suffered. She watches Faramir toy with the candle through blurry eyes, tears welling but not falling as he draws the story to its tragic close that robbed him of his remaining family-- and through Denethor's own hand, no less. How bitter, how horrific! To burn himself from his life... Èowyn would pity Denethor if his actions, caused by madness as they were, would not have endangered Faramir so recklessly.
Faramir's grief is almost tangible now, and he looks so broken. But how can anybody blame him? How could fate deal him with such a lot? It was not fair-- someone so kind and good did not deserve such. Èowyn shuts her eyes tightly; her tears finally slip free, one clear drop sliding down each cheek. Sucking in a sharp, short breath in what is almost a sob, Èowyn does not stop to think, but simply acts from her heart. The hand of her broken arm still held in Faramir's trembling grip, she lifts the other to throw gently but swiftly around his shoulders, mindful of his healing injury, her chin slotting over his opposite shoulder as she scoots closer still and draws him into an embrace. Decorum, propriety; all thoughts of those have gone out the window in favor of comfort and sympathy.
"I'm sorry," she whispers raggedly, sniffing. Those small, paltry words could never be enough, but they are all she had to offer. "I am so sorry, Faramir."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2018-09-15 10:54 pm (UTC)For all that Faramir has every right to apply it, she loathes instantly that bitter smile that flickers across his expression, for it ill suits him-- more so when she has seen him smile in comparison. Èowyn betrays no sign of discomfort when his hand tightens around hers, a little too hard perhaps. She only draws in a slow, measured breath between parted lips that still resounds audibly in the quiet of the night, when Faramir speaks of the things he would himself tolerate and accept to spare his troops. She has never doubted the love his men bear for him, for to her it has long now seemed he is the sort that inspires loyalty and respect in the men he commands-- but here, it is painfully evident the feeling is mutual, and that it deeply pained Faramir to knowingly take those men out, knowing they were riding to their deaths.
And for what? To try to reclaim an outpost overrun, taking on the impossible? And all at the behest of a madman nobody could or would oppose.
It is a cold shiver that slithers down her spine when he accounts the dread of the Witch-king, echoing his shudder as her arm aches in remembrance. The unearthly screams of their fell beasts ring in her ears still, as well, pierce her dreams; just as the hiss of the Black Captain's menacing whispers do. Èowyn recovers from her own recollections just as Faramir continues the tale, taking a bit of grim satisfaction knowing that at least none would ever have to suffer the menace of the wraith again.
She sits, still and silent as a statue, as Faramir goes on, recounting this sad story of his. It visibly pains him; bearing down on him and wrapping about him like a tangible thing. Had Èowyn thought Denethor a madman, is pales in comparison to what Faramir is about to tell her next, so staggering a matter she could never had foreseen it. "Any questions I have asked have gone unanswered, either because those I asked did not know the answers, or because they feared to tell me until I was more recovered." At those words, that ill foreboding she had felt earlier in her chambers when she was jolted awake from a dream she can no longer remember returns, filling her heart with unease. She knows something is coming that she does not wish to hear, sending her pulse skittering.
He closes his eyes, and tells her; that dreadful, terrible truth of the matter, how his father had lost all reason and sought to burn both himself and Faramir alive.
It shocks her to her core, and pains her in equal measure at the same time. Her vision blurs with tears, witnessing Faramir's silent agony. "And they obeyed him." "No..." she whispers in anguish on the heels of the revelation, in a voice so thin it is barely audible. How could this be? How could those men have obeyed such orders so blindly? She feels like screaming, railing against the madness and injustice of it all. Pippin and Beregond-- she would forever remember those names, the only souls brave enough to understand such a thing was not to be suffered. She watches Faramir toy with the candle through blurry eyes, tears welling but not falling as he draws the story to its tragic close that robbed him of his remaining family-- and through Denethor's own hand, no less. How bitter, how horrific! To burn himself from his life... Èowyn would pity Denethor if his actions, caused by madness as they were, would not have endangered Faramir so recklessly.
Faramir's grief is almost tangible now, and he looks so broken. But how can anybody blame him? How could fate deal him with such a lot? It was not fair-- someone so kind and good did not deserve such. Èowyn shuts her eyes tightly; her tears finally slip free, one clear drop sliding down each cheek. Sucking in a sharp, short breath in what is almost a sob, Èowyn does not stop to think, but simply acts from her heart. The hand of her broken arm still held in Faramir's trembling grip, she lifts the other to throw gently but swiftly around his shoulders, mindful of his healing injury, her chin slotting over his opposite shoulder as she scoots closer still and draws him into an embrace. Decorum, propriety; all thoughts of those have gone out the window in favor of comfort and sympathy.
"I'm sorry," she whispers raggedly, sniffing. Those small, paltry words could never be enough, but they are all she had to offer. "I am so sorry, Faramir."