#exactlywhenhemeansto

I want to say I talk my life up, because at some points I probably do, and because I'm a pretty expressive person when I'm talking stories that's likely.

But I also am an engineer and doing experiments on things with little research behind it so it's like

8D DISCOVERY---- OH GOD EVERYTHING IS ON FIRE 

*cuddles* 

I promise no murder or death today unless they're on video games. 

Send me "BA-DUM-TIS" and I'll generate a comedy starter.

My muse is teaching yours how to ride a unicycle because they’re obviously know all the right techniques… like how controlling the unicycle downhill is the easiest way to learn…?

You're this great, fantastical, know-it-all wizard, but you don't know 'ow to ride a unicycle?       I'm a normal, lil' nobody an' I know!

The maiden folds them, then – fingers curling up along themselves to press crescent-moons into the skin of her palms with nails that ought to be bent and broken from the fight.

“They are the hands of a coward, Mithrandir,” she mutters, and bitterness is a poison in her voice. The wizard says nothing, for a moment. He takes the time to light his pipe, and place it in between his lips before he even looks up.

“Are they, indeed?”

He takes her hands, unfolds her fingers. He turns them this way and that as though trying to find something, or perhaps as though reading a swirling, complicated script that only he can see.

“No,” he says, eventually. “I do not believe they are. I believe they are the hands of a woman whose fight lies elsewhere. After all, we cannot all be great fighters or leaders, you know, or the world would very quickly fall into chaos.”

He presses a kiss to her hand, then, as though they were in some great elven court.

“No, I believe these are the hands of a woman who need not wield a sword to be brave. And there! Now they have a wizards blessing, and they will find their use with ease, given time.”

But those days are long behind him, and Aragorn -- kind and good and gentle king that he is -- has robbed him of any such desire. He will serve Gondor, but not in the way he had ever imagined.

He is captain to Aragorn, first. And then advisor, and then merely friend; his hair grows grey and time lines his face, draws graceful furrows as the plow in the earthen soil of the ever-green fields around his city. 

He is not afraid to die, for he dies having done what he can for the White City. He dies knowing that in the end, he was worth something. He dies knowing that he will join his brother, and his forefathers, and all the many guardians of Gondor.

Aragorn is there -- time-touched but less so, as though he is blessed by some eternal autumn, where the leaves of his life redden and dry out, but do not yet fall. Gandalf, too, sat by his bed.

It is Aragorn who places the sword in his hands, as he had done for his brother before him.

"Rest well, my friend," he says, and it is with a faint and weak smile that Faramir tells him that he intends to. And then Gandalf is leaning over him, a soft smile tucked beneath a grey beard.

"You have done this city proud, Faramir. Your name shall ever be remembered by those who walk the paths of the white city." He bends down, then, and places a kiss on Faramir's brow. "And even when the white city falls, when the tide of time cannot be held back -- aye, even then you shall be remembered, by those of us who are still here to remember.

      Rest well, my friend. Rest well."

You've caught the kissing disease. Now you've gotta pass it on to the next ten people on your dash

She sat quietly outside of the Golden Hall, invited in as a warrior's daughter but craving the relative silence of the plain. Ariadne had seen incredible feats in the caves, the brave deeds of the Lady Eowyn.

And she had cowered, unarmed.