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dramadramaduck Writing Sample
Feb. 5th, 2011 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ifishouldreturnFaramir had lived his whole life in Minas Tirith, but he could not remember a night when the city had slept soundly. For years beyond memory, the shadow of Mordor had stretched, dark and foreboding, across the lands of Gondor. When the threat – which had once been nothing more than the ghost of battles past and victories hard earned – solidified into something real and the agents of the enemy began to spill out of Minas Morgal, the people of that once fair land were not surprised. Afraid, yes, but not surprised.
Though he lived in the midst of the uncertainties of war, Faramir had no doubts about his own place in the scheme of things. He belonged on the field of battle, fighting alongside his kin and for the safety of his home. Perhaps things would be different one day – perhaps he would be able to put aside his arms and enjoy a life of true peace – but, with the agents of the dark tower pressing closer by the day, it was impossible to imagine any such time. Besides, with Boromir gone these three months, it was his place to lead the soldiers. He was not the Captain of the White Tower – that title belonged to his brother – but he was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. The men knew that he was not Boromir, but, unlike their father, they did not judge him for that. If anything, they loved him for it. They respected him for his own judgement and they did not want him to give orders that came from with his brother’s tongue.
During the long evenings, when Denethor would listen to his council without hearing a word or stare through his youngest son without appearing to see him, that was a small but significant comfort. When his father addressed him, it was to give orders that he did not expect Faramir to be able to fulfil.
Tonight, he spoke with customary terseness and without raising his eyes from his dinner.
“You will take the rangers south tomorrow. It is time we see how Pelargir fares.”
“Father, our scouts report the Pelargir has been overrun. With the army in Minas Tirith, we had no soldiers left to guard the coast ...”
“Then you will confirm their reports.”
It was a pointless risk, but it was not the first time that Denethor had given such an order and it would not be the last. When he finally looked up for his meal to meet his son’s eye, it was to confirm what Faramir had known all along. There was disappointment and dislike in his expression and, beneath that, a grim certainty. He was certain that Faramir would fail to carry his orders. He was certain that Faramir would not be good enough.
“We leave in the morning.”
As he turned to leave, his father’s breathing impossibly loud in the silence of the white marble hall, Faramir endeavoured to ignore his unease. His father’s disappointment was wrapped around his shoulders like a cowl. In its own way, it was as heavy as the shadow of Mordor. It was as difficult to imagine his father’s acceptance as it was to imagine peace, but he had to hope. That was all he could do.
Though he lived in the midst of the uncertainties of war, Faramir had no doubts about his own place in the scheme of things. He belonged on the field of battle, fighting alongside his kin and for the safety of his home. Perhaps things would be different one day – perhaps he would be able to put aside his arms and enjoy a life of true peace – but, with the agents of the dark tower pressing closer by the day, it was impossible to imagine any such time. Besides, with Boromir gone these three months, it was his place to lead the soldiers. He was not the Captain of the White Tower – that title belonged to his brother – but he was Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. The men knew that he was not Boromir, but, unlike their father, they did not judge him for that. If anything, they loved him for it. They respected him for his own judgement and they did not want him to give orders that came from with his brother’s tongue.
During the long evenings, when Denethor would listen to his council without hearing a word or stare through his youngest son without appearing to see him, that was a small but significant comfort. When his father addressed him, it was to give orders that he did not expect Faramir to be able to fulfil.
Tonight, he spoke with customary terseness and without raising his eyes from his dinner.
“You will take the rangers south tomorrow. It is time we see how Pelargir fares.”
“Father, our scouts report the Pelargir has been overrun. With the army in Minas Tirith, we had no soldiers left to guard the coast ...”
“Then you will confirm their reports.”
It was a pointless risk, but it was not the first time that Denethor had given such an order and it would not be the last. When he finally looked up for his meal to meet his son’s eye, it was to confirm what Faramir had known all along. There was disappointment and dislike in his expression and, beneath that, a grim certainty. He was certain that Faramir would fail to carry his orders. He was certain that Faramir would not be good enough.
“We leave in the morning.”
As he turned to leave, his father’s breathing impossibly loud in the silence of the white marble hall, Faramir endeavoured to ignore his unease. His father’s disappointment was wrapped around his shoulders like a cowl. In its own way, it was as heavy as the shadow of Mordor. It was as difficult to imagine his father’s acceptance as it was to imagine peace, but he had to hope. That was all he could do.
