#saltuary

Faramir was just unlucky. His arrow had flown at the same time as another. Both made contact in an instant, sinking deep into flesh and felling man and orc. The former was quickly shielded from any further harm, though the telltale snapping of wood had followed anyway.

He was familiar with treating as many battle wounds as one could be without being an actual healer. Most rangers seemed to be but he couldn't fault any of them for hesitating to treat their own. Whether or not it was Faramir's first, no sane person jumped at the chance to bleed themselves.

The sight of fresh red was a relief though he still, gently, moved injured ally this way and that to check his work. To his moderately untrained eye, the head hadn't been poisoned and his cut was just small enough to minimize further damage pulling it out. Stained hand examined what remained of the arrow and he risked a lick for peace of mind. Clean. He tossed it aside and spat after.

Dying fire was easy to coax back to life as if it responded to the supposed forge that had brought his kind into existence. Faramir hadn't lost a concerning amount of blood but men seemed to run colder than dwarves and it would be shameful to let a friend catch a chill.

"Ah, it could always be worse." He flashed a grin over his shoulder as one hand stuck bloodied knife in the fire to clean. "I'd stitch that if I were you. At least stay off it for a bit so you don't ruin all my hard work."

❝  i  think  she  has  an  upset  stomach.  ❞  lies  through  his  teeth  with  a  nod  at  the  poodle  sitting  patiently  at  his  feet.  juliet  is  fine        ⎯⎯⎯       or  so  he  tries  to  tell  himself  to  stifle  the  bubbling  anxiety  rising  up  his  throat.  archie  knows  how  it  must  look,  the  portrayal  of  the  distressed  pet  parent  who  shows  up  at  the  veterinarian's  office,  perfected  to  the  point  where  he  gets  to  wear  it  like  a  second  skin.  always  play  what  you  know,  and  the  line  between  reality  and  fiction  is  often  blurred.  it  has  everything  to  do  with  concern,  and  little  with  the  veterinarian  himself  (  another  lie,  but  not  one  that  he  is  willing  to  accept  as  such  )  ❝  i  know  she  has,  because  she  didn't  eat  as  quickly  as  she  usually  would.  ❞

@saltuary gets a little modern thing

Carved of pale granite veined in silver, the wide stone basin caught the glow of candlelight upon its surface. Its waters had been drawn deep in the old fashion – fragrant with dried marigolds and steam rising to the rafters. Faramir lay submerged to the waist, his red-gold hair unbound, eyes half-shuttered beneath long eyelashes. He looked less the short-lived Steward of Gondor, and more a man unmade and remade by the strange mercy of fate. He heard her before he saw her. The whisper of her footfalls, light as blown snow. A rustle of linen. Then she was there – Éowyn, shield-maiden of Rohan, golden-haired and flame-hearted, standing framed by the wide arch of the doorway, a ghost carved from moonlight and longing. Faramir did not move. Suspense had settled on his chest and beneath its weight his breath slowed. They were no longer strangers to one another’s company – her laughter had become familiar, her silences precious – but still this moment pressed upon him like the irrevocable turning of a page. She stepped within. Not with coyness, nor shame, but with the certainty of a woman who had faced death and found it wanting. She did not speak, but her gaze met his, calm and unwavering, and she began to disrobe. He turned his face away. Not from modesty – even though his blood stirred and grew hot in him – but from respect, from awe. To look was to risk ruin, to look was to fall. Éowyn was beautiful beyond the reckonings of men. Not merely for her form, which was slender as a willow and strong as the wind that bends it, but for the sorrow she bore like a diadem, and the courage that shone through her like fire through thin glass. She was light and darkness married in one flesh, and Faramir feared he would forget his name, his lineage, and the burdens of his station if he let his gaze linger too long upon her. She sank into the water beside him. There was silence, but not emptiness. The air between them shimmered with unspoken things – things with wings, things with teeth. A tension not of fear, but of unfolding.Faramir spoke, because he felt he must, because to sit with her thus in silence was to stand at an edge and not leap. “I am not sure,” he started slowly, cautiously. “If I am permitted to look upon you.” Afraid and unafraid, he turned then, and glimpsed skin that gleamed like polished ivory, the ends of her hair wet and darkened, her mouth unreadable. “I do not know what I am allowed,” he said again, softer. “But I know that I would not harm what I love, not even with a glance.” Faramir reached out, not to touch her, but to offer a tentative gesture – an open hand upon the water’s surface. Waiting.

In the end it had been an easy decision to join him. Éowyn was intrigued by this custom of Gondor, of public bathhouses, with steaming water and sweet scented incense – they had no such facilities even in Edoras.

She had unbound her hair and undressed down to her linen under-dress, and padded silently to the bath chamber.

And there he was, like a vision of the gods. Elegant and peaceful, handsome and strong – she felt a stirring of desire in her that she had never felt before, and yet, she was not afraid, but curious, wanting to see where this new feeling would lead her. Faramir was alike to no other man she had seen. As proud as a hero of old, as fair as spring in the green valleys, as gentle as a sighing breeze. Here, relaxed and unguarded, he seemed almost unreal.

They had grown so close. She wanted him to see her, wanted to know if she kindled the same secret desire in him as he did in her, unfamiliar and new.

But still, she was grateful he had looked away, until she was submerged and hidden by the steam. She would never call herself shy, and still it felt immodest to bare herself in front of him, the act of undressing itself more vulnerable than simply being unclothed.

Her words stuck in her throat. The silence settled around them, taut as a bowstring, and then he was speaking, in that sweet voice she had come to find so dear, and her fear fled. This was Faramir. There was no cause to be afraid. He would not reproach her.

“I permit it. I desire it.” Else, she would not have come. “I do not think there is a single part of you that could hurt me, not least your gaze.”

Éowyn raised her hand, and swept her hair over one shoulder.

Arwen looked beautiful. Not only because she was clad in a gleaming white dress made of the finest silk and adorned with colourful gems that twinkled like the stars themselves, but also because she was beaming. Elrond had not seen her smile like this in a long time. Both groom and bride were constantly occupied as many people congratulated them, bringing them gifts and bowing in reverence. Arwen's smile did not falter for even one second. Elrond observed her from his place at the table, watching every guest fall in love with his pride and joy. And it was not only Arwen that had Elrond so moved. Estel too, his son, who had grown into a fine man and an even finer King, who had worked hard for Arwen's hand, had fulfilled all of his tasks and obligations and had done Elrond proud.

Still, Elrond's smile was far more brittle. It was mostly a reflex, his face acting as it should due to practise and muscle memory. Unlike Arwen's mouth, Elrond's was already uncomfortably stiff. He allowed his smile to drop whenever he took a drink of the wine in his goblet - which was not strong enough to drown out the heady mixture of various emotions in his chest - and whenever he knew neither Arwen nor Estel were looking at him.

let me say nice things about you. ♡

puffin puffin PUFFIN PUFFIN PUFFIN !!! the minute i saw your writing (i think with @gatheringrust (another incredible writer, btw)), cuz i read a toooon on my dash, i just knew i had to follow you.

it's not a great big secret to the people who know me just how much i love lord of the rings. it's actually the reason my husband and i first bonded together and made me wanna talk to him in the first place (we talked about what type of iftar ((ramadan dinner)) orcs would have if they were muslim LMFAOOo, pls don't ask the context skds). and i even wrote thranduil for a while in my time here in the rpc !! and i'm one of those really lost in the weeds of tolkien's legendarium type of geeks that at one point i really thought i could give colbert a run for his money.

this is a bit of context to explain that i'm basically really really precious about lotr, and probably picky too, and when i read your work and your characterizations, even the atmosphere you curated with your pinned post that feel so very faramir and overall reverence to the themes and style and gravity of lotr well . . . i knew i would be hooked.

and i was right !! i hang out on your threads, i'm sorry if that freaks you out LMAO, but i dooooo. every phrase and dialogue choice is so intentional. it's not super perfumey the way mine is; i often say that i don't think my style of prose would be good at all for book writing. but yours is, because it's so breathable, can be read at length and length and length without sensory overload, and yet punctuated with still such gorgeous phrasing that has the effect of more "purple" writing without any of the cloying qualities that would make it otherwise feel forced and contrived, not "pretty words and phrases" just for prettiness' sake.

It was the fifth day that the boy had sought refuge within the hallowed Houses of Lore. His chosen sanctuary was a shadowed chair, nestled in a corner beside one of the few leaded windows. Anoriel's curiosity had piqued at seeing one so young here in the realm of old men. She knew who he was, of course. She had been watching since he was born, and had kept watch over his brother and all their forebears. Some of them had taken her council and others wanted nothing to do with her. While her form was of a woman, she was much more.

Born from the hope and desperation of the Númenorean Faithful as they fled their home, she and her brother had become the guardians of the new kingdoms of Men. He in Arnor, she in Gondor. For generations they collected and shared their knowledge with Men, and assisted where they could. Her power came from the rushing Anduin and the steadfast Mindolluin. She was Belfalas and Taur Druadan.

And, she was damned if she was going to see it all turn to ash.

With a thought, Anoriel changed into the simple garb of a scribe, her fingers already stained with ink. Her slippered feet only made a soft swish on the stone floor as she approached the steward's son.

Faramir lay half-propped in a great carven bed, his body sunk into pale linen like a body laid out for sepulture, though his chest yet rose and fell, each breath shallow and slow. He had known fever and fire and the black clasp of death’s shadow – he had wandered half-willing in the borderlands of Mandos, where voices he could not name had murmured of sleep eternal and unshaken peace. He had heard weeping in those fields and turned back.

It was in this twilight of sense that the door opened.

He did not turn his head. The air changed – did not stir, but changed – as if a great weight of memory had stepped into the room. Faramir knew, before he saw, that the shadow in the doorway bore the shape of the fallen tower of his life.

Boromir.

At first he seemed a spectre, but no, his figure did not flicker.

How wrong the world became for the space of a single breath, for his beloved brother had died. The horns had blown for him. The river had borne his broken form away like a silver bier, and songs had been sung beneath the vaults of their house. The dead did not come back, not in flesh. Not bearing the dust of travel, nor the cold light of sorrow in their gaze.

Lips parted, but he did not cry out. It was as if the breath had been struck from his chest anew. His brother stood there, tall as ever, though the light of old wrath no longer burned so brightly. What dwelt there now was stranger, wearier. The cloak he wore was rough and weather-stained, and his hair unbraided, as though he had come not from the field of battle but from exile.

Faramir reached a trembling hand, his fingers curling faintly, as though to beckon, to beg.

“I should have known,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, cracked almost beyond use. “Had you gone beyond my reach, I would have known.”

He was too late.

In the shadow of the Rammas Echor's south gate he surveyed the carnage. Bodies of men, orcs, and beasts had turned the golden fields dark with ash and blood. Machines of war stood silent, their giant arms pointing towards the city. His city.

Minas Tirith remained standing, but not without new scars of her own. Boromir absentmindedly set his hand over his chest where his were still healing. Underneath the borrowed tunic the rough linen crossed over his chest and abdomen. Even though she argued against it, Ealith had done her best to prepare him for the journey.

Slowly, the son of Gondor guided his horse across the battlefield, toward a home he had believed he would never see again. As he passed through the shattered gates, no one hailed or even recognized him. Countless strangers had flowed in and out of the city since the battle's end. He was simply one more poor soul.

With every tier he climbed, the disturbing sights multiplied, and fear ignited within him, burning steadily until he came face to face with a citadel guard. "What news of the steward and his son, Faramir?" The command had left his voice, replaced by a ragged hoarseness. The guard looked at him questioningly before telling him of the passing of Denethor and the grievous wounding of Faramir.

Worse than the bite of any arrow was the guard's tidings. All breath had vacated, leaving him unable to say anything except nod and wheel the horse back down the ramp to the sixth tier and the Houses.

To whatever ancient deity deigned to bargain with mortal men, Boromir began to silently plead. He would endure any hardship, offer any sacrifice, if only Faramir might live. He would dwell in exile, a hermit of the forgotten woods, clad in pauper's rags, if it meant his brother would draw breath for years yet. He would even brand himself a coward, if it ensured Faramir's life. No price was too great.

Upon reaching the Houses of Healing, it took but a breath to inquire after Faramir, and even less time to reach the door. There, he paused, a heartbeat of dread, to fortify himself against whatever lay within before opening the door.

His shoulders slumped at the sight. Faramir could have been an effigy placed next to their mother if not for the movement of his hand. With unsteady steps, Boromir drew near, collapsing to his knees beside the bed. The impact sent a jolt through his fresh stitches, but the pain was lost, drowned by the shattering of his heart. Their cold hands clasped, a firm touch against the lingering fear that this was only a dream.

@saltuary Send a 🥺 and I will write one thing I like about you/your writing/your blog!