Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter One - The Prancing Pony

Word Count: 1,800 words.

Warnings: None. 

She was waiting for the wizard. In the corner of the room, the elf sat behind a dimly lit table, a single bowl of broth in front of her. The old man had sent her a message to meet him inside the Prancing Pony, an odd-looking Inn on the outskirts of Bree. It had been a long time since she had been this close to The Shire.

"Drink madam?" A young boy, seventeen at the most approached the table she was at, a tray in his hand. He was smiling but with years to stare at people, the elf could clearly see how much he truly hated the job he had.

"No, thank you," the woman replied and the boy nodded, hurrying onto the next table.

He had so little time in this world and it was a thing that the elf thought about quite often. Mortality.  One of her brother's had chosen mortality, the other a never-ending life. She, on the other hand, felt that she was stuck and that she had been for entirely too long. Being only half-elf, the woman was blessed with immortality and the gift of everlasting beauty but she had not chosen which she preferred. Not yet, at least.

"You're late," she commented, turning her head to meet the greying wizards gaze.

He sat down in front of her. "I was held up."

Leaning forward, the elf placed her elbows against the table, letting her features glow in the light. She was of fair skin, paler than both of her brothers had been and her hair was shorter than that of most elves. The ends of the brunette strands just met the tops of her shoulders and fell over her face in such a way that her ears were hidden easily. There was a natural curl to her hair, unlike her siblings who's hair was both longer and straighter. 

The elf cut her hair in order to hide her elven roots, as she had also done by changing how she dressed. She didn't wear a dress but rather a pair of men's trouser tightened to match her size. The woman wore a white shirt, loose and easy to move in when fighting and a large black coat overtop. It was light enough not to weigh her down as she walked but heavy enough that it kept her warm on the roads at night. The boots she wore reached just below her knee and in them she concealed at least three knives.

Around her waist, she wore a weapons belt that held more daggers, a pouch filled with herbs and a portion of lembas bread that would keep her going for months if worse came to worse. A large sword, Elven made, sat on her left hip. She had done everything she could to conceal what she was but there was no hiding her eyes.

They were a simple green, no special spark or odd tone to them but looking into them, anyone could see that the woman was older than anyone may first perceive her to be. They showed an age that didn't match the rest of her outer appearance, but not many were able to catch onto that. Gandalf, who had know her since first arriving in Middle-Earth, knew those eyes better than most.

She shook her head. "We've known each other a long time Gandalf," she began, "but I have never seen you late."

"A wizard is never late," he tried, "he arrives –"

"Precisely when he means to," she finished for him. "I have heard that one before."

The old man smiled. "It is good to see you Arathiel."

She tensed slightly at the use of her birth name. "I do not go by that around her."

"Or anywhere it seems," he replied, resting his staff against the end of the table. "It took me weeks to figure out that you were going around with the name Folcwena."

Arathiel shrugged her shoulders. "It's a common name."

"In Rohan," Gandalf added. "I am not sure if you have noticed my dear, but we are not in Rohan and you are not Rohirrim."