milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Faramir has gleaned a vague understanding of the various holiday celebrations in his brief time in the bar.

Most of it comes from children's books. He enjoys those. The illustrations are SPLENDID. He's taken to copying them, in fact, and coloring them in. (His present project is selective freehand ink combinations from The Wind in the Willows.)

He has not yet made many friends ~~because his mun pays ENTIRELY too much attention to that scarecrowy traitor fellow even though she can write either of them without much more brain than it takes to watch television~~, and so sits contentedly alone at a corner table, legs stretched out in front of him propped on another chair (a breach of courtly ettiquette for which his father would KILL him -- yes really -- and therefor worth doing if only for that reason). He is drinking some festive-smelling concoction of both sweet and alcoholic, and appears very happy, for one perfect reason:

Whatever it's like here, it's better than home has ever been.

Come chat with him. He'll likely buy you a drink.

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"And how goes it with you, Son of Men."

A melodious voice sounds quietly.

A touch startled, Faramir stands quickly and gives a deep bow to the Elvish lord.

"Lord Elrond! I was not aware you had come to this place! Good evening."

Elrond returns the bow.

"Well met, Faramir, Son of Denethor. You could be none other."

He grins. "You remember me. Will you join me at my table, my Lord? And perhaps in exchange for a drink, you might allow me a few questions?"

Elrond nods and takes a seat.

"I would be more than glad to take drink with you, Faramir. And I will answer anything I can."

Faramir catches a waitrat's eye and nods him over, grsturing for Elrond to order a drink. "How long have you been here?"

Elrond orders a glass of flatwine, a drink eh has come to see as ... okay.

Then he nods.

"Two and a half months as Men call time. And you?"

"Not even one month, I think," he replies with a smile. "I am told my brother is here, and the Dwarf Gimli. I am told those in the Bar come from all different points in their lives' tales. From when do you come, Lord Elrond?"

"I have yet to see your brother, but have seen Gimli, and Gandalf as well, and others."

He watches Faramir.

"I come from My journey to the West aboard the last suh boat of my time."

He smiles ever so slightly.

"You look apprehensive. What time do you come from?"

Faramir nods. "I arrived here days after Aragorn's corronation -- the very eve after he named me Prince of Ithilien." He runs his fingers over the handle of his mug. "Is it long from then, your... departure?"

Elrond looks to him...

"Not long in the span of years. Know you that we were planning it even before the War of the Ring. I passed over with all of my kin who lanned to in those days."

there is mucy left unssaid in that but that is what he will say.

"Your people plan things ahead in a way mine could never manage," Faramir observes. "It is an enviable skill, although I'm not sure how well I'd like to live forever."

"Forever is a very long time. I knew more then 6000 years before I parted the shores of Middle Earth. Even the memory of Elves gets strained after a time as such."

He smiles slightly.

"But tell me, how are you here?"

"I am well here," Faramir replies cheerfully. "I have acquired a room, as the Bar seems not to want to let me go. I have begun a collection of books, I have kept myself busy reading about other worlds, though I've barely skimmed the surface of all that is available to me here. It is astounding. Far more vast than the libraries of Gondor or -- forgive me -- your own collections, as they were famed."

Elrond nods.

"I am bound as well. And yes, I have seen some of the books here. it is indeed amazing. I have even begun teaching a few of those here of some of the old langauges and customs of our world."

He shakes his head.

"I am always amazed to find good people where ever there is life."

"Why should that surprise you?" Faramir asks. "It seems to me that good people will be wherever life is. It's the bad who seek out their shadows and prey on the goodness in their own lonely exile."

"Because evil also follows. Faramir... Melkor is here."

His words fall like stones, grim and tired.

"I know. I am blessed not to have encountered him." There is a note of sympathy in his voice, for in his own heart he believes that he was never meant to wrestle with evils so great as the Dark One himself; such battles are for the truly great and wise to wage, such as the ancient lord who shares his table now. "I can only hope he'll have no reason to find me useful."

Elrond nods.

"You are a good man, Faramir. I wish you a good and gentle time, and hope your stay here in Milliways is a peqaceful one."

"I trust it will be. I do not feel this place can be the end of my story. It feels like only a beginning."

"You may well be right."

Elrond not!smiles slightly.

"Whatever happens, it will surely be interesting."

A hobbit with a Santa hat is staring at him, his mouth open in absolute horror.

Possibly there is something vaguely familiar about his face. Possibly not.

But the hat looks funny.

Faramir meets the hobbit's gaze with a friendly smile. If he recognizes anything in the eyes, perhaps, he does not comment on it.

"Good evening, master Hobbit!"

"You stay away from me!" shrieks the hobbit, and dives behind a table.

The hat, unfortunately, gets left behind. Unstable, those.

Baffled, Faramir reaches for the hat and holds it out to Smeagol, crouching and smiling harmlessly at him. "Here. I'm sorry, I won't hurt you, whoever you are."

Smeagol snatches the hat and dashes behind another table.

"Pull the other one, it's got bells on," he snarls, jamming the hat on his head and glaring fiercely out from beneath it.

(Some of the slang he learned was much too good to forget.)

Faramir looks around, a baffled expression on his face.

"I'm sorry?" he asks. "I do not understand you, sir Hobbit..."

"You wouldn't," Smeagol spits, crouching low beneath a table, eyes half-lidded in anger. "Nasty men! Not hurt me indeed! Lucky I am you haven't caught me at dinner, or have you given up threatening the hungry?"

The puffball from his hat falls in his face again and Smeagol swats it out of the way. He's beginning to be suspicious of the hat and it's motives. He has a distinct impression that it is doing its best to make him look silly.

Faramir lowers himself to his knees, still smiling benignly. "I'm afraid I do not know what you are talking about, master Hobbit. If we have met before, it is not within my memory."

"Well it's in mine, and all the better I'd be without it. Penalty of death, indeed! And all for a fish! Well, it's a damned good thing you didn't, I'd say, knowing what happened after as I do. So wise, you were. So very just."

And, by some chance, stress or a winter chill, he coughs then - a deep, hacking cough, possibly familiar.

And hisses. Only a bit.

He draws himself back, eyes wide with shock.

"It cannot be you!" he gasps, grey eyes flashing. He bends back into a catlike crouch, feet firmly planted on the ground. "But you are so unlike that ruined creature we captured by the pool!"

Smeagol jumps up with triumph on his face. "Hah! You see there? Not so entirely ruined as you thought! I got better. And you can't hurt me here, can't put me to death because I'm already dead!" He laughs out loud at the irony. "I'm good here. I do good things, and anyway there's no business allowed here, and if you try you'll get locked up, and I'll laugh."

And he grins, more than a little nastily, certain that he has finally won at life.

Except for the life part.

"I... made a very grave mistake," the prince says quietly, head bowed. "No man can know all things -- least of all one so young as I. I beg your forgiveness, master Hobbit. I am a great fool sometimes."

Smeagol frowns. He's not supposed to agree.

"I'll say."

Pause.

"Are you dead?"

Faramir laughs.

"I should say not."

Smeagol brightens up at this. "Oh, good. So you'll be leaving?"

"I hope so. Although the Bar gives me no sign that it will be soon."

He sighs wistfully and looks at the door. "And maybe when I do leave, it will not be to the same place."

Smeagol looks disgruntled again. "Bother."

He points a scolding finger over the table, and pulls himself up far enough to lecture the prince of Gondor.

"Well, you keep away from me, because I don't need any more trouble from you, thank you very much." Pause. "And don't go near my home, either. Or," he thinks, "Or my friends! You don't talk to them either. Because -" Because I have friends now, and you won't make them leave me, "Because. They don't need trouble either."

Faramir actually manages to look sheepish. In a preincely way.

"I would make peace with you, master Hobbit. As for uyour home and friends -- I have no knowledge of them, nor have I made any friends myself here yet, but I will do my best. It is the least I can do to repay the debt I owe you. For what it is worth, I am truly sorry for all I did to you. It was... with the best intentions, if misguided. I thought..."

His eyes go distant and cloudy. After a few moments, he shakes his head.

"I would not seek to make trouble for you."

"Well. Good." Smeagol peers at Faramir over the table. "Just - good."

He continues to stare, silent and suspicious.

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