A Twofer
Lyric Table
Title: Fate of Finduilas
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (with strong Silmarillion references)
Characters: Faramir, Eowyn, Den/Fin, Elboron, Boromir, Eomer, Turin Turambar
Prompt: 19. And where I go, you'll be there with me; forever you'll be right here with me
Word Count: 1028
Rating: PG
Summary: Faramir has always made time for his family.
Author's Notes: Not my characters, save for perhaps Patches. Lauen is the Rohirric (Old English) translation of Lalaith, "Laughter." For more info, check out elvenpiratelady's fics. It's dedicated to her.
Eowyn wondered sometimes, why he had so readily agreed to give their daughter a Rohirric name. Her husband had shrugged it off, stating that it was only fair that after naming their eldest for his brother, their second should commemorate her proud history. She appreciated the gesture, but was not entirely convinced. It was obvious that he deeply loved and respected his mother, and had found a way to remain close to her despite Finduilas’s early death.
Even now, when something troubled him, Eowyn knew her husband was likely to slip away to Silent Street and converse with his parents’ tomb and ashes. She had gone searching one evening early in her pregnancy, and found a dark head of hair peeking from behind the last of the row of caskets. Curious and unwilling to interrupt, she paused in the doorway, letting the single voice she could hear drift to her on a breeze of smoke and lavender.
“Four years old, and already he’s as obsessed with Turin as Boromir was. You’re sure you haven’t come back to haunt me as my son, brother? I’d hate to have to think of you getting inappropriately involved with my wife’s anatomy, but I probably owe you the opportunity. You’d be welcomed back, you know.” A gently self-mocking chuckle washed over his silent listener, followed by a heavy sigh.
Eowyn risked a step closer. “You’d think that after I’d told the tale nigh on every night for three and a half years, and heard it since I was born, I’d have gotten quite good at it. But my cloth dragon still resembles a four-legged duck, at best. I don’t know how you developed such skills, Mama, but they were not passed down to an adequate teacher. Father and Boromir have many valuable qualities, but dexterous fingers were not amongst them.”
A slight pause, as if the sitting man listened for some silent critic, then Faramir continued: “Aye, I know ‘tis quite silly, Father, but Elboron enjoys it as much as Boromir and I did. Dignity may well be occasionally sacrificed for the sake of your grandson’s smile.”
Indeed, Eowyn had known her husband to cast away his noble demeanor as easily as his cloak for the entertainment of their child, any of their friends, or Eowyn herself, should they require it of him. And whether Elboron was ready to share his Ada with someone else or not, Eowyn knew that Faramir would love their other little ones just as dearly. He might have his doubts, but the man was nothing if not giving to those who needed him.
“There are other tales, though, that begin to catch his attention. I tell him of Luthien and Beren at least once a month so that Turin does not put me to sleep. The other night, I finally introduced him to the tale of Beruthiel. Now I understand what you and Uncle Imrahil meant when you wished I could see my own face when I first heard it, Boromir. If mine was anything like Elboron’s, you must have had a properly enthusiastic audience. I don’t wish to scare the boy, though.” Eowyn smiled at his sentiment, knowing full well that it took more than a few stories to frighten her boys, be they four years old and absolutely fearless, or forty-one and crouching reflectively between the tombs.
“I’ve been adding stories of my own, to distract him,” Faramir added. “He still asks for tales of gore above all else, but every now and then he will accept something a little more socially acceptable, so long as he can relate to it in some way. I never thought I would be thanking you for frightening me and my horse half to death, brother, but ‘Ada, Uncle Boromir, and Patches the Great Big Evil-Smelling, Foot-Crushing, Fire-Breathing Pony’ did wonders for his confidence after Eomer had the marvelous idea to take a four-year-old for a gallop through a forest of low-hanging branches.”
Her brother had taken to the role of doting uncle quite enthusiastically, once Elboron had grown big enough to walk, talk, and ride, but Eowyn did have to admit that Eomer scared her on occasion. It was one thing for a child of the Mark to be racing his friends at breakneck speed across the plains, but Emyn Arnen was sorely lacking in the proper environs for budding riders. She could only hope that the tree that had given Eomer an angry-looking purple welt upon his forehead and sent both riders tumbling off of Firefoot had stunned a little more sense into her brother. She knew it had frightened her husband more than it had scared her son, scraped knee, tears, initial blubbering refusal to ever get on a horse again, and all.
“He did, in fact, question whether or not Patches could truly breathe fire. Aye, I couldn’t believe it, either. I don’t remember ever asking you or Uncle about such plainly presented details, Mama.” Faramir could not entirely keep the pride from his voice. “He wants to know about everything. ‘How big was Carcharoth, really?’ ‘Are there women running around, wearing only their hair, like Saeros said?’ ‘How come Mama doesn’t?’ He wonders, too, sometimes, what happened to Turin’s mama. He knows of sickness, yes, of wounds, but he has never seen the shadow. How do you explain such sadness to one so young?” Eowyn watched as a callused hand rose above the graves, touching the broken horn briefly before brushing against the urn atop his mother’s casket.
“I told him that it was part of Eru’s gift; that those who have lost all hope in this world might find some in the next. Some choose to accept their fates, to go on to that last hope when all others are gone. He asked once, too, if loving a Finduilas made one a Turambar. I do not know what to tell him, but if it is so, then we shall all be masters of our fates.”
Eowyn turned and fled, unwilling to let her husband know that she had seen him within the tombs. He did not ask, however, when she named their daughter Lauen.
Title: Paper Tiger
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, Finduilas, Boromir, Imrahil, Faramir
Prompt: 40. Somewhere after midnight, in my wildest fantasy; somewhere just beyond my reach, there's someone reaching back for me
Word Count: 745
Rating: PG
Summary: Denethor has his ways.
Author's Notes: I own nothing. As to Culromegond, I'll give the translation "Red Trumpet-stone" and flee from the Guild of Dark Clerks. (Can you believe that there's no listed elvish translation for "Drummers?") ;)
I stared at the report before me, but my mind was not upon the number of fruit-bearing trees Belfalas had lost in the fires and the resultant shortages. Not entirely. Words out of context combined with the heat of the fireplace, memories with the smell of smoke from the partially blocked chimney. (Must remember to have that cleaned out; it won’t do to be smelling constantly of ash.) It was not the time for such things, but if my manservant was to be believed, this was not an hour best given to paperwork, either.
Culromegond was young and eager, but even he had retreated some hours ago, leaving me to the mountain of beaucractic busywork and the vagaries of my own imagination. That suited me well enough. The enthusiastic young man was ever looking over my shoulder, trying to discern if he could be of any help to me. All too often, though, this did nothing more than remind me of others who keenly sook out their duty to lord and country. Culromegond was nearsighted, flatfooted, and fussy enough that no captain would ever wish the boy upon his worst enemy’s patrol. My sons, however, suffered from no such inconveniences.
Boromir, especially, had shown nothing but prowess upon the battlefield. His captain had already promoted him to second-in-command of his company, and letters arrived home suggesting that perhaps twenty-six was not too young, after all, for a field general…
I told them I would consider it. It is not that I am jealous of my command, for I have not been able to personally lead the troops since Finduilas died. There was simply too much to be done in the White City; meeting nobles, settling disputes, considering our trading policies, and always, always there was paperwork. Since my father died, even the army has been reduced to little more than so many figures upon yet another ledger in my sights. I have other ways of seeing them, of course, but those methods do not encourage me to put my sons to greater risk.
I glanced towards the fireplace, closed my eyes, and let the phantom afterimages dance across the insides of my heavy lids for a moment. Yes, there were other ways to learn of a burning orchard than in a field report… My hand reached automatically for a globe that was not there. It was of no matter; the heat of the fire warmed my palms after the same fashion. I needn’t wrestle him for it again tonight; I just needed the clarity that came while preparing for such a battle. In bits and pieces, the last images came back.
It seemed a whole forest had been set ablaze; ashen stumps huddling together for comfort against the heat of the flames. Every now and again, the winds had been merciful: scorching only half a tree here, another stunted sapling left amazingly green against the browns of its luckier neighbors and the gray of the ground. No one had come to stop the fires, though; the Corsairs had seen to that. Like some Leithe-day bonfire gone mad, the orchard had been left to burn itself out.
Those trees are the but the first ones to burn, though. The other images were as yet merely his dark desires, but from my first visit to the Palace, had I not seen myself how easy it would be to set a spy within the deepest confines of Dol Amroth? Had I not personally observed how unguarded the prince and his family seemed from potential threats?
I opened my eyes; unable to tolerate the mental pictures dredged up by my imagination and memory any longer. Sitting at my desk before the fire, skimming through field reports, it seemed there was so very little I could do to counter the Dark Lord’s plans. Imrahil placed little stock in any personal warnings I might offer him. He has enough of the blood of Numenor within him that he would not dismiss my counsel entirely, but his airy optimism masks a stubborn pride that is not so different from my own. He is convinced that he can defend himself, his wife, and their children. I was once so deluded.
I set the report aside, and turned once more to the pile of letters from Boromir’s superiors. … A pride of my company … Raised our hopes … Bold and uncanny … My captain-general, I am convinced, takes very much after his uncle.
Title: Fate of Finduilas
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (with strong Silmarillion references)
Characters: Faramir, Eowyn, Den/Fin, Elboron, Boromir, Eomer, Turin Turambar
Prompt: 19. And where I go, you'll be there with me; forever you'll be right here with me
Word Count: 1028
Rating: PG
Summary: Faramir has always made time for his family.
Author's Notes: Not my characters, save for perhaps Patches. Lauen is the Rohirric (Old English) translation of Lalaith, "Laughter." For more info, check out elvenpiratelady's fics. It's dedicated to her.
Eowyn wondered sometimes, why he had so readily agreed to give their daughter a Rohirric name. Her husband had shrugged it off, stating that it was only fair that after naming their eldest for his brother, their second should commemorate her proud history. She appreciated the gesture, but was not entirely convinced. It was obvious that he deeply loved and respected his mother, and had found a way to remain close to her despite Finduilas’s early death.
Even now, when something troubled him, Eowyn knew her husband was likely to slip away to Silent Street and converse with his parents’ tomb and ashes. She had gone searching one evening early in her pregnancy, and found a dark head of hair peeking from behind the last of the row of caskets. Curious and unwilling to interrupt, she paused in the doorway, letting the single voice she could hear drift to her on a breeze of smoke and lavender.
“Four years old, and already he’s as obsessed with Turin as Boromir was. You’re sure you haven’t come back to haunt me as my son, brother? I’d hate to have to think of you getting inappropriately involved with my wife’s anatomy, but I probably owe you the opportunity. You’d be welcomed back, you know.” A gently self-mocking chuckle washed over his silent listener, followed by a heavy sigh.
Eowyn risked a step closer. “You’d think that after I’d told the tale nigh on every night for three and a half years, and heard it since I was born, I’d have gotten quite good at it. But my cloth dragon still resembles a four-legged duck, at best. I don’t know how you developed such skills, Mama, but they were not passed down to an adequate teacher. Father and Boromir have many valuable qualities, but dexterous fingers were not amongst them.”
A slight pause, as if the sitting man listened for some silent critic, then Faramir continued: “Aye, I know ‘tis quite silly, Father, but Elboron enjoys it as much as Boromir and I did. Dignity may well be occasionally sacrificed for the sake of your grandson’s smile.”
Indeed, Eowyn had known her husband to cast away his noble demeanor as easily as his cloak for the entertainment of their child, any of their friends, or Eowyn herself, should they require it of him. And whether Elboron was ready to share his Ada with someone else or not, Eowyn knew that Faramir would love their other little ones just as dearly. He might have his doubts, but the man was nothing if not giving to those who needed him.
“There are other tales, though, that begin to catch his attention. I tell him of Luthien and Beren at least once a month so that Turin does not put me to sleep. The other night, I finally introduced him to the tale of Beruthiel. Now I understand what you and Uncle Imrahil meant when you wished I could see my own face when I first heard it, Boromir. If mine was anything like Elboron’s, you must have had a properly enthusiastic audience. I don’t wish to scare the boy, though.” Eowyn smiled at his sentiment, knowing full well that it took more than a few stories to frighten her boys, be they four years old and absolutely fearless, or forty-one and crouching reflectively between the tombs.
“I’ve been adding stories of my own, to distract him,” Faramir added. “He still asks for tales of gore above all else, but every now and then he will accept something a little more socially acceptable, so long as he can relate to it in some way. I never thought I would be thanking you for frightening me and my horse half to death, brother, but ‘Ada, Uncle Boromir, and Patches the Great Big Evil-Smelling, Foot-Crushing, Fire-Breathing Pony’ did wonders for his confidence after Eomer had the marvelous idea to take a four-year-old for a gallop through a forest of low-hanging branches.”
Her brother had taken to the role of doting uncle quite enthusiastically, once Elboron had grown big enough to walk, talk, and ride, but Eowyn did have to admit that Eomer scared her on occasion. It was one thing for a child of the Mark to be racing his friends at breakneck speed across the plains, but Emyn Arnen was sorely lacking in the proper environs for budding riders. She could only hope that the tree that had given Eomer an angry-looking purple welt upon his forehead and sent both riders tumbling off of Firefoot had stunned a little more sense into her brother. She knew it had frightened her husband more than it had scared her son, scraped knee, tears, initial blubbering refusal to ever get on a horse again, and all.
“He did, in fact, question whether or not Patches could truly breathe fire. Aye, I couldn’t believe it, either. I don’t remember ever asking you or Uncle about such plainly presented details, Mama.” Faramir could not entirely keep the pride from his voice. “He wants to know about everything. ‘How big was Carcharoth, really?’ ‘Are there women running around, wearing only their hair, like Saeros said?’ ‘How come Mama doesn’t?’ He wonders, too, sometimes, what happened to Turin’s mama. He knows of sickness, yes, of wounds, but he has never seen the shadow. How do you explain such sadness to one so young?” Eowyn watched as a callused hand rose above the graves, touching the broken horn briefly before brushing against the urn atop his mother’s casket.
“I told him that it was part of Eru’s gift; that those who have lost all hope in this world might find some in the next. Some choose to accept their fates, to go on to that last hope when all others are gone. He asked once, too, if loving a Finduilas made one a Turambar. I do not know what to tell him, but if it is so, then we shall all be masters of our fates.”
Eowyn turned and fled, unwilling to let her husband know that she had seen him within the tombs. He did not ask, however, when she named their daughter Lauen.
Title: Paper Tiger
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Characters: Denethor, Finduilas, Boromir, Imrahil, Faramir
Prompt: 40. Somewhere after midnight, in my wildest fantasy; somewhere just beyond my reach, there's someone reaching back for me
Word Count: 745
Rating: PG
Summary: Denethor has his ways.
Author's Notes: I own nothing. As to Culromegond, I'll give the translation "Red Trumpet-stone" and flee from the Guild of Dark Clerks. (Can you believe that there's no listed elvish translation for "Drummers?") ;)
I stared at the report before me, but my mind was not upon the number of fruit-bearing trees Belfalas had lost in the fires and the resultant shortages. Not entirely. Words out of context combined with the heat of the fireplace, memories with the smell of smoke from the partially blocked chimney. (Must remember to have that cleaned out; it won’t do to be smelling constantly of ash.) It was not the time for such things, but if my manservant was to be believed, this was not an hour best given to paperwork, either.
Culromegond was young and eager, but even he had retreated some hours ago, leaving me to the mountain of beaucractic busywork and the vagaries of my own imagination. That suited me well enough. The enthusiastic young man was ever looking over my shoulder, trying to discern if he could be of any help to me. All too often, though, this did nothing more than remind me of others who keenly sook out their duty to lord and country. Culromegond was nearsighted, flatfooted, and fussy enough that no captain would ever wish the boy upon his worst enemy’s patrol. My sons, however, suffered from no such inconveniences.
Boromir, especially, had shown nothing but prowess upon the battlefield. His captain had already promoted him to second-in-command of his company, and letters arrived home suggesting that perhaps twenty-six was not too young, after all, for a field general…
I told them I would consider it. It is not that I am jealous of my command, for I have not been able to personally lead the troops since Finduilas died. There was simply too much to be done in the White City; meeting nobles, settling disputes, considering our trading policies, and always, always there was paperwork. Since my father died, even the army has been reduced to little more than so many figures upon yet another ledger in my sights. I have other ways of seeing them, of course, but those methods do not encourage me to put my sons to greater risk.
I glanced towards the fireplace, closed my eyes, and let the phantom afterimages dance across the insides of my heavy lids for a moment. Yes, there were other ways to learn of a burning orchard than in a field report… My hand reached automatically for a globe that was not there. It was of no matter; the heat of the fire warmed my palms after the same fashion. I needn’t wrestle him for it again tonight; I just needed the clarity that came while preparing for such a battle. In bits and pieces, the last images came back.
It seemed a whole forest had been set ablaze; ashen stumps huddling together for comfort against the heat of the flames. Every now and again, the winds had been merciful: scorching only half a tree here, another stunted sapling left amazingly green against the browns of its luckier neighbors and the gray of the ground. No one had come to stop the fires, though; the Corsairs had seen to that. Like some Leithe-day bonfire gone mad, the orchard had been left to burn itself out.
Those trees are the but the first ones to burn, though. The other images were as yet merely his dark desires, but from my first visit to the Palace, had I not seen myself how easy it would be to set a spy within the deepest confines of Dol Amroth? Had I not personally observed how unguarded the prince and his family seemed from potential threats?
I opened my eyes; unable to tolerate the mental pictures dredged up by my imagination and memory any longer. Sitting at my desk before the fire, skimming through field reports, it seemed there was so very little I could do to counter the Dark Lord’s plans. Imrahil placed little stock in any personal warnings I might offer him. He has enough of the blood of Numenor within him that he would not dismiss my counsel entirely, but his airy optimism masks a stubborn pride that is not so different from my own. He is convinced that he can defend himself, his wife, and their children. I was once so deluded.
I set the report aside, and turned once more to the pile of letters from Boromir’s superiors. … A pride of my company … Raised our hopes … Bold and uncanny … My captain-general, I am convinced, takes very much after his uncle.