Thrihyrne

My gratitude to cim_halfling for her thorough and very fast beta. Yes, I've finished another of the Ardaverse stories I started last year, got about 2/3 the way through, and got stuck. Well, I discovered R/S is what happened. ;)

Summary: Denethor at age 13. What could have happened to the far-seeing son of Steward Ecthelion over two impressionable days in the summer of T.A. 2943.

( A Taste of Diplomacy )

For my Tolkien-based readership (or anybody else, for that matter), I hope you enjoyed! :)

... Faramir's POV of day three of meeting. These are so compelling to write. Glad you're enjoying them, albeit in as piecemeal of a fashion as they come to me. :P

Day Three: Fraternity

Faramir tried to bring a gleam to Éowyn’s eye by addressing the differences in tack between horses of Gondor and Rohan. After a stifling polite and brief discussion, he recognized his futility. Silence enshrouded them, a well-worn garment that he was tired of wearing.

He had led her to a lower level of the City where quiet brooded in windows abandoned by their inhabitants. Faramir was thoughtful by nature - perhaps to a fault - but now, near the end of all things, he wished almost to jabber away. Though, of course, he did not.

The inside of his cheek knew that price well.

Éowyn stood straight, birch-like, eyeing an archway before them. With her good arm she fingered a talisman, soldered to a chain.

“Have you kin?” The words escaped his lips, triumphant on the air.

She turned and examined him, the resolute granite eyes keeping her secrets.

“A brother,” she said simply, though Faramir sensed the world of regret behind it. “And you, my lord?”

“A brother,” he echoed as they sat on a nearby broken bench. “I did have.”

“Older?” She twisted at the bit of gold at her neck.

“He was.”

She nodded. “Did he die in battle? For that’s worthy of pride indeed.”

Faramir bit at his tongue before seeing a telltale blush of shame creep at her throat.

“Forgive me, Steward.” Éowyn stared at her feet. “I know neither you nor your kind well. I must seem like an untamed, brutish creature.”

Through his heart’s pain of recollecting Boromir and the shock at her frankness, Faramir gently placed a hand on her knee. “He did, though to this day I wish it were I who had gone in his stead.”

Éowyn turned and stared. Faramir saw the shock of recognition unhinge her shuttered composure. “For love of brother, uncle and leige, I lied, I feigned manhood, and I deserted my kingdom,” she said harshly. “Who kept you caged?”

Faramir debated a diplomatic answer before his teeth ground on the bitter truth. “My father, whose hope was never set on me.”

“One more shadow we share, then.” A wry, melancholy smile tendered across Éowyn’s lips. “We stand ever behind our brothers.”

He could think of no reply.

This one is dedicated to altariel1 as a belated birthday gift, but it works with the others recently posted.

Day Two: Approach

Faramir paced his room, the walls, the courtyards. Despite his many footfalls, restfulness remained ever ahead of him; tragedy lurked behind in his dim shadow. His feet took him to the Houses' kitchen, where, unsurprisingly, he found Meriadoc.

"Steward!" the hobbit exclaimed, scooting back from the table.

"No, no, please be as you were." Faramir sat down across the board. He felt an unlooked-for kinship with the halfling, his wounds shackling him to the stone walls of Minas Tirith as he himself was bound. Despite Meriadoc's stature, Faramir knew a devoted solider when he saw one, and ached at their doubled impotence. Better to think of something else, even if only for a while. "You know the White Lady of Rohan."

The hobbit swallowed and dabbed at his mouth, vying for time before he answered.

"I knew Dernhelm, my lord. But I would be privileged to tell you of him."

I posted this in a locked entry last night:

Not that my writing is all that, but to the first person on my flist who responds to this self-imposed meme; give me a pairing/situation, and how long of a story you want, and I'll write it for you.

twilights_abode was first up, and asked for Eowyn/Faramir. What I'd like to do (as something came to me as I was making my salad at home) is write several short snippets over a few days and post them daily. The story can evolve over time. Here's the first one, and can I say just how wonderful it feels to be referencing my LotR book again!! I've been doing so for another story, but unlike the HP series, it's so great to know that I actually have an appendices in the back of the book to thumb through for reference. The HP-lexicon is brilliant, of course, but it's just not the same.

Day One: Angry

The first time she met him, she felt anger. Not the vicious, throbbing rage that had sometimes settled into her pulse when Gríma lurked, a malevolent shadow from which she could never part; her mind was now too focused on what she needed to do. And he wouldn’t let her do it.

With eerily similar desperate eloquence of speech by which the Red Arrow had been presented to her uncle Théoden, he’d granted her, a foreigner, friend to illness and abandoned by kin, privileges of the City.

But not the battlefield.

Éowyn seethed, politely.

Okay, have revised satisfactorily (I believe!) the end of Speak, Friend, and Enter. So here y'go. Oh, and happy St. Patrick's Day to you all. Celebratory virtual Guinnesses on the house!!

Here's the summary: A tale of Dwarves and Elves, of artisans, the creation of the great West-Gate at Khazad-dum, and unlikely authors. Both post-WR and Second Age; Legolas and Gimli, and Narvi and Celebrimbor. Written for the "Authors of Middle- Earth" challenge. Humor, but with a serious nod to Elvish/Dwarvish relations during their heyday as well as musings on Dwarvish culture in general.

the author's notes will be posted separately; apparently the story is too long for one lj-cut.


( Speak, Friend, and Enter )