Immortalitui // Faramir 🥀

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Truth

Word Count: 1,280 words. 

Warnings: None. 

Arathiel thought perhaps that she had not heard him correctly, that she had misinterpreted his words. It was not a thought, in truth, but a wish. The elf wished that he was wrong, but she knew that he was right.

The people of Rohan attended the funeral of Théodred, son the Théoden, but Arathiel could not go. She had promised herself that there would be no more funerals after the death of those men in Gondor. After... Dom. Since that day, she had discovered the Mines of Moria destroyed, friends long gone and now a Kingdom's future thrown into limbo.

Gandalf sat on the long table in the Great Hall of Rohan, staff against the wood and hand on his beard. Arathiel stood, facing away with her hands on her hips as she sighed.

"And so..." she dragged. "When Frodo destroys that Ring, I will fall."

Arathiel had expected it, of course she had. The connection that remained between her and Sauron was not one of pretence. It was not fabricated. It had always been and would continue to be the darkest part of her.

"The wound..." Arathiel tried, facing her friend. Mithrandir had explained how he had returned, how the Balrog had dragged him to the depths of the Mines and how he had been revitalised as the White Wizard.

"...has nothing to do with it, my dear," he finished.

She rushed to sit across from him. "The visions of him only truly began once I gained that wound in Gondor." Arathiel was in disbelief.

"The Nazgul blade only reopened the connection. It fused the darkness into your veins and tore the boundary that had been placed there to remove Sauron's influence."

Taking a deep breath, Arathiel shook her head. "I do not remember any boundary."

Gandalf sighed, dropping his gaze. "You were not aware it was being placed."

Brow furrowing, she responded. "Mithrandir, are there are memories that have been taken from me?" He nodded. "Were you aware?" He nodded again.

She straightened. "Why?" It was hardened.

"Arathiel..."

"Why!?" She slammed her fist against the table.

Mithrandir hesitated before answering. "You were dying," he explained. "Before the final battle, you defected, returned to your brother's side, but when Sauron fell... you began to fall ill. The darkness took over, your veins black and breath failing. We did the only thing that we could think to do. We supressed the connection but it was reopened."

"Is this why I do not remember the inscription on my sword? Or why I do not remember the battle at Mordor at all?"

Arathiel had blamed her lack of recollection on her age, on her want to forget, but she had been wrong, and the elf quickly realised that when her dear friend nodded again. She felt betrayed. Her brother had known, Gandalf had known. Surely Isildur had as well.

"I will not ask for your forgiveness Arathiel," Mithrandir told her firmly, "as I am certain that Elrond will not either. It was to save your life."

"And so... what happens now?" She was angry, but Arathiel supressed it as they had her memories, her identity, her suffering. Perhaps being human was the worst thing she could have done. "By doing that, you only prolonged inevitability."

"We saved your life." His tone was always so calm, so entirely uncaring. Gandalf always reminded her of an elf. "You have lived for centuries longer."

She stood. "I would have preferred to die then."

"So that you would suffer less? But leave others to die, those that you have saved in that time?" he argued, but Arathiel wasn't even sure if it could be called that. There was no anger in his tone. "Would you be that selfish?"

The doors of Rohan's halls remained opened and the she-elf could hear the call of death. She could hear the sound of song as they brought Théodred to his final resting place. The sorrow in their tone was unmistakable.

Arathiel had never feared death; rather leaving those behind. She had never had so many people to leave.

"When Frodo destroys the Ring, there will be no suppression, will there?" she posed, the answer already discussed.

"No."

"Very well." She took a deep breath, palming Faramir's ring through the pouch on her waist. "Then I shall simply fight until then."

ᵜᵜᵜᵜᵜ

Gondor... near the beginning of her stay...

"Tell me Arathiel," Faramir began, at her side.

Last to remain in Gondor's tavern, Arathiel had been slowly drinking away her tiredness in the corner while the others celebrated. What they were celebrating, she could not remember, but the elf found that man needed little excuse to be joyous and drink ale.

"What horrors have you seen?"

Arathiel scoffed, noting his rosed cheeks. He was intoxicated. "That is not a topic I wish to speak of."

The smile he had harboured fell. "I am sorry. I only wish to know more about you."

"And so you ask about horrors? Does my complexation inspire thoughts of blood and death? Of disgusting entrails of Orcs that I have threatened to hang from my home?" Her tone was sarcastic.

Faramir straightened, clearly missing the tone. "You are beautiful."

She adjusted her hair. "I am an elf. We are never not beautiful."

The Second Son of Denethor shook his head, reaching out to take her hand. "Your face, your figure, your hair are well placed," he complimented, "but I have seen Gondorian women with features more even."

"Was than an insult?" Arathiel questioned in confusion. Clearly Faramir turned truthful in his drunkenness.

He caught her hand more firmly as she tried to pull away. Faramir dragged her eyes to his as he continued.

"Your nose is crooked," he told her. "Your hair is rather unruly when it dries and your hands are hard and calloused from hours of training and war. You have scars on your skin which would dampen a conventional man's honour. It would damage him to know that a woman could plunder hundreds of him in battle."

She took a breath. "I do not understand what you are trying to do."

"I am telling you that, on the outside, you are imperfect, but that your heart, your kindness, and your humanity are the most beautiful thing that I have ever had the fortune to witness."

If Arathiel were more human, she would find herself tearful. "You are insufferable when you are drunk, Faramir."

He pulled away, clearly taking her words as a dismissal. He closed his eyes to adjust himself. "I am sorry that my adoration is unwanted. I wish to understand you, to know you. Upon the second I caught a glimpse of your expression; puzzled as I watched you, I found myself entranced, caught in something I did not understand. I only wish for you to know that it is not for your Elven tendencies, but for the heart that you present me with."

Faramir made to stand, placing his almost full tankard on the tavern table before heading for the exit.

Arathiel thought about remaining silent, about simply letting him walk away with the knowledge that she had dismissed his wants to become closer. He could not understand the Elven custom that he had fallen victim to, not when she did not understand it herself.

"Faramir," Arathiel called, standing and placing her own drink aside.

He paused in the doorway, turning slowly. "My Lady."

She hesitated. "Would you like another drink?" Arathiel posed. "The list of my battles is rather long."

Fighting a small smile, Faramir nodded. "I should like to discuss them, or any other subject matter you would prefer, but I fear that I should not drink any more. I wish to remember this conversation, and every conversation after it."

Arathiel smiled. "I think that wise." They laughed together.