Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Thirty - The Library

Word Count: 2,206 words. 

Warnings: None. 

Gondor...

"You perplex me," Faramir observed as he entered Minas Tirith's library that night.

He had spotted the candles lit and the door slightly ajar. Arathiel had not meant to leave it open, it had been a mistake in her rush, but she had been almost pleasantly surprised to find Faramir watching her. Almost.

The Second Son of the Steward propped himself against the doorframe, looking fondly upon the elf that sat at the nearest table. Books surrounded her, heavy tomes that had been in Gondor's library for decades, perhaps centuries. He wondered if she had helped write any of them.

Arathiel found it impossible to be around Faramir. It was easy to find herself in his presence, but so incredibly difficult to continue while he watched. "How so Faramir?"

He took a step closer as she returned to her research, running her delicate fingers down each hand-written line. Her current tome was in a language that he did not recognise.

"If you are not in the Courtyard, beating my men into shape, you are here," – he gestured to the large room around him – "reading alone."

"I am not alone," she returned. "You always seem to find me wherever I go."

Faramir hesitated, picking up a book that Arathiel had yet to open, or had perhaps already scoured for the answers she searched for. It's title was in the Common Tongue.

"This is about the Gondorian Wars," he began, watching her carefully. Her eyes were firmly on her work.

"Remarkable observation," Arathiel muttered before taking a deep breath.

Faramir could see her tired eyes. "I was not aware that elves became weary."

She looked up then. "Does my complexion disgust you?"

"Disgust me?" Faramir returned, expression falling quickly. "You do not disgust me, Arathiel. I only say that your expression appears more human than that of elves I have seen. They are often void, without emotion or any sort of feeling."

"Feeling?" Arathiel pondered, drawn by his truth, by his honestly.

He took a seat across from her. "I can see the tiredness in your eyes tonight, the lines by their corners, the heaviness of your eyelids. I see the disappointment in your gaze when the men do not listen, when they drop their swords."

"It seems that you only notice my negative expressions," she commented.

"I had not finished," he told her gently with a smile. "You, my lady, are always cutting off my sentences."

"You speak too slowly."

"Time for an elf is nothing," he tried.

"I am not an elf," she reminded him, standing up. Closing what she had been reading, an attempt to reinvent old tactics, Arathiel moved to return the tome to the shelf.

Faramir followed. "I notice your pride when the soldiers manage an exercise and your smile when you pretend not to be happy with their performance."

"They are mediocre," she tried, turning the corner.

He placed his hand against the end of the shelf, stopping her. She masked her gasp, swallowing. When Faramir smiled again, all she wanted was for him to frown.

"You are proud of them," he reiterated.

She fought her own smile, not aware that such a movement could be contagious. "They are improving."