milliways_bar | (no subject)

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The Steward of Gondor is in the bar tonight, doing what one generally does in a bar:

Drink.

He seems... curiously blank tonight. Neither in a good mood or a bad. Simply... somewhat detatched. Deep in thought. Daydreamy.

Security badge is, as usual, clipped to his belt and in plain view.

Lost in thought he may be, but he always welcomes company.

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"He destroyed a people and created love where love had never breathed its voice in dreams; such deeds belong to someone extraordinary. And yet, he will not look upon me. Do you know why?"

She stares at him for a very long time.

"Probably much the same reason he hesitates sometimes to take hold of Gabriel. Purity of spirit, and humility in his own."

Faramir laughs and shakes his head. "I am far from pure, my dear lady. Ah, I wish he would give up this strange crusade. I should like to meet him. Perhaps... you might tell him so?"

"I will."

She thinks it would do Gorlim some good to speak with his distant kinsman.

"I make no promises, for he is as stubborn as a goat."

"And I am thick as a board. What a pair we make," the prince grins into his drink. "No, I expect no promises. I am grateful for any word you would give him on my behalf."

"Why is it you desire to speak with him?" she asks, sipping her drink.

"Curiousity. And perhaps... perhaps pity. I take it he feels some fear that I have judged him guilty. His guilt is not mine to judge, and the fact of his crime is known to all. Why should I not take him for the man he is? Curiousity, my lady. I am drawn to him, for all he has done, his deeds make him worthy of great admiration."

Also Faramir can't help but think he probably needs a good strong cup of tea and a walk in the woods.

Nerdanel wouldn't dispute that in the least.

"When I next speak with him, I will kick his backside and inform him that he needs to get over himself. You are never too old to be put over your mother's knee," she says with a playful smirk.

Faramir laughs. "I wish I could offer an opinion. I have had no mother since I was five years old."

And there is no mask thick enough to hide the fact that he feels this deeply.

She frowns.

"That must have been difficult."

He shrugs.

"I would not lie to you and say it was not, and is not still. I do miss her. Time dulls the wounds of childhood. And there is some hope, however small, that I may find her here someday. If not, she waits for me in the Halls, I know."

Eternally hopeful, but despite his words, there is a roughness in his voice that says time has not dulled all the edge in this loss.

She ponders him for a moment.

"As old as I am, the wounds of my childhood are still as strong as ever," she finally says very softly.

Faramir stares into his glass.

A brief glance towards the ale mug might be a hint to her why he sought its dregs this evening.

"Alcohol does nothing to soothe the spirit," she points out quietly.

There is a hint of frustration in his sigh.

"No, it does not. I know this. I am sorry, lady." One sode of his lips curves up into a wry smirk. "Even the most noble intentions sometimes falter under weariness from repetative troubles."

"Yes," she says sadly. "I do know that."

Intimately.

Her husband.

Her children.

Even herself.

"But you have come to sit with me! That is no small blessing. My intentions may be quite recovered by now. And I thank you for the drink. It is far more satisfying than ale." He smiles at her, offering in his eyes what comfort and companionship she might need from him.

She returns the smile.

"Lord Mandos says you write. Do you compose song or poetry, histories or tales?"

Better to change the topic.

She is wise.

"Poetry," he answers, smiling. "Some humble songs, histories I have studied at length, but my tales... I have never seen fit to pen. Mainly poetry. It is not a talent I have ever been given freedom to indulge."

"Do you indulge in it now?"

Nerdanel did not compose.

It was an art she never had the knack for.

"I have taken it up more of late, yes. In my free time. It is enjoyable. But I have yet made nothing extraordinary. Nothing, certainly, polished enough to be shared yet."

He's shy of it: unlike Bilbo and the free artistic environment of Rivendell, Faramir's talents were discouraged and as a result, he hesitates to share them.

"Someday, you must share something with me, Prince," she says gently. "I am always happy to listen. I often prod Gorlim into sharing his own with me."

"He writes?" Not that this surprises him MUCH. "Is he any good?"

Her smile is slow, but proud.

"Very. His words paint pictures, and his voice almost sings the poem. It's quite beautiful to hear."

"It seems there are few skills this man does not possess," Faramir says, impressed. "One of the true elders of my people. Even fallen, he exemplifies our blood to its highest degree."