Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Nine - Leave-taking

Word Count: 1,871 words. 

Warnings: None. 

Arathiel had been to many funerals in her life. Her mother's, father's, brother's. She had been to several mass funerals too. Ones where there were too many bodies to bury for her to remember all of their names, but as she stood on the streets of Gondor, watching as the wounded grieved their dead, she knew more than a single name.

"They fought bravely," Denethor told the crowd. His voice didn't carry like it should, surely making it hard for those at the back to hear, but looking around, the elf found that not many wanted to listen to him in the first place. "Fought for their people and won."

Her side ached in pain, and she hissed lightly, holding a hand against the healing wound. The battle had only been the day before and Arathiel had been advised to stay in bed, but how could she? When the men that moved in coffins through the streets were the ones that she had trained. That she had failed.

"They will enter the afterlife having completed their duty and they will be mourned with honour."

Honour? What did that man know of honour? While his men died and his sons risked their lives, he sat on his throne, eating his food and enjoying the spoils that his people worked their entire lives for. That man knew nothing of honour. Of duty.

A little girl approached Arathiel. The elf could clearly see that she had been crying from the tear stains on her cheeks, but the little girl smiled nevertheless.

Arathiel bent a knee, ignoring the pain for a moment as she regarded the girl with a curious look. "Hello."

There was a flower in her hand. A small plant, bent at the stalk and wilting already, but to both the girl and the elf, it was beautiful. The small child held it out to Arathiel.

"For my father," she muttered.

"Your – " the elf stuttered, eyes meeting hers. She knew those eyes. She had to. Arathiel had been training them how to fight for months, perhaps years. She had seen them beam with pride when they had killed an orc. They were Dom's.

Fighting back tears, Arathiel took the small flower gently. "He was a brave man."

She nodded. "He told me that you called him blind."

Shaking her head, Arathiel let out a sob of laughter. "He was not blind. Only brave and strong. Much like you I would say."

Without another word, the small girl reached forward, wrapping her arms around Arathiel's neck, pulling the elf into a hug. She was shocked at first, but gently returned the gesture.

When she pulled away, the child placed a small kiss on Arathiel cheek before turning away and hurrying back to an older woman who waited for her. By the mournful expression on her face, Arathiel assumed her to be Dom's wife. She nodded. Arathiel returned it.

Pushing herself back to her feet, the elf looked at the flower in her hand. It was small, worthless like many of the other flowers that bloomed in Gondor, but its white petals stared at Arathiel like fresh snow on a winter's day. Snow...

The vision of blood covering the flowers petals came to her mind and she let out a shaking sigh. She had failed again. Failed to protect them. Men died in battle, women and children too, but it was different when she knew them personally. When their names and their faces are etched in her mind. When their smiles are clear as day in her memory.

"Arathiel," he began, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

She only shrugged it off, turning away from the procession and turning back into the halls of the city. She rushed for her chambers. If Arathiel stayed much longer, their deaths might begin to mean something to her.