Further Impressions

 Further Impressions

The Dawn of Hope

For all my foresight, it grieves me to see my little girl in pain.

My daughter bears her ordeal with the dignity expected a chieftain’s wife. Only the crushing grip on my hand betrays her agony.

She cries out only when the babe enters the world.

“A fine boy!” exclaims the midwife, “What will you and your lord call him?”

She hands the babe to me while she tends my daughter. Instead of crying, he looks into my eyes. I know then that hope has dawned at last for our people.

Gilraen smiles at her son. ”His name is Aragorn.” 

This was written to mark Aragorn's birthday and is inspired by this passage from 'The tale of Aragorn and Arwen."
'But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: "The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts."

Darkening Days

With thanks to Raksha

One by one, death claimed our friends. First, Éomer and the Hobbits, now Faramir.

Each death seemed to diminish Estel a little, especially Faramir’s.

They were so alike, kindred souls, the last of Númenor.

I saw our Steward, once so vigorous and hearty, slowly fading, until the Doom of Men overcame him.

“I hope I shall depart with the same accepting grace,” my husband tells me, weeping anguished tears. “I too, am growing old.”

Foreboding fills my heart, knowing that Estel must one day follow him. I shall taste the bitterness of mortality with him. Slowly, the days grow darker.


Faramir died in year 82 of the Fourth Age. Aragorn lived for another 38 years.

Walk no more in Shadows

“Walk no more in shadows, but awake,” I tell him. I sense so many shadows, not all caused by Sauron’s minions.

Those shades reach far back into the past, overshadowing the small child deprived of a mother's love, the restless youth vainly striving for his father’s approval; the darkness of a brother’s deeds and death. Darkest of all is the shadow of the father slain by his own hand, who would have consigned his son to the flames.

Walk no more in shadows cast by others. Awake, O Jewel of Gondor, to walk in the sun at my right hand!


Faramir’s eyes open, the clear grey of a true child of Númenor. He resembles me as a son might. His eyes meet mine.

I expect to see confusion in his gaze. Instead, he looks at me with love and recognition, almost as if he expected to see me.

“What does the king command?” he asks me, thus bringing closer my dreams of marriage and heirs.

Love springs between us. Friendship and fealty both, kindled in that instant.

I smile, my heart gladdened to have snatched this prize from Sauron’s grasp.

Gondor has need of this son and so will I.

Written for Raksha's Faramir week. With thanks to her.

Tamer of Man and Beast

Éomer was leaving the stables as Aragorn and Faramir approached. The King of Rohan was ruefully rubbing his arm.
“What ails you, my friend?” Aragorn enquired.
“The new colt! Never did I think to encounter a horse I could not tame!”
Faramir approached the stall, whispering softly to the enraged animal. Aragorn and Éomer watched enthralled as the colt gradually calmed. When Faramir offered him an apple, he nuzzled the Steward affectionately.
“Whoever would have believed it?” exclaimed Éomer in astonishment.
Aragorn laughed. “There is more to our Faramir than meets the eye, he can tame both man and beast.”


With grateful thanks to Raksha.

The Ring is rightfully mine. By taking it, I would set Frodo free from a burden too great for one so small to bear. Without my aid, the poor hobbit could not even have reached Rivendell.

Once I wield it, none will withstand me. Denethor will yield the rod and I shall be King. I can claim Arwen as my bride. No more waiting; no more hiding in the shadows! Sauron shall be defeated and I will rule over all.

Aragorn started at his own folly. The Ring had betrayed Isildur; it would not claim his heir as victim too. 

A/N Inspired by a recent drabble on Tanqui's LJ

Death of Hope

I always knew this dreaded day would come. Yet nothing could prepare me for it. I pleaded with him to stay, much to my shame. Would it have been easier if I had watched him growing ever weaker, losing everything that made him the man he was? I know not.

He departed with such courage, full of hope, my Estel to his last breath.
Is this the true Gift of Men that more than memories await?

Even in death his glory was not diminished.

I feel half of my spirit departed with him. I am left but a walking shadow.

A/N Dedicated to the memory of a very dear friend.

The Honour of the House

“Let us drink toasts!” proposed Éomer. “Let us drink a welcome to our guests!”

“All hail!” The Rohirrim raised their drinking horns.

Aragorn and Faramir smiled their thanks.

“Let us drink to the memory of the Glorious Dead, Théoden King and all our forefathers who fell fighting with honour! All hail”

“All hail!” the assembly echoed with one voice.

Faramir’s cheeks flushed with shame. His father had died an ignominious death unlike the fathers of his companions. Even as Théoden had fallen upon the field, Denethor had ignited his own pyre.

Aragorn’s kindly gaze fell upon him.

Later that evening Éomer sat alone with his guests.

“You have restored the honour of your House,” Aragorn told his Steward.

“I have wrought no great deeds.” Faramir stared fixedly at the fire.

“Who resisted the Ring and helped the Hobbits? Who braved the Nazgûl might? Who gave Gondor into my safekeeping and is rebuilding Ithilien anew? Whose wisdom helps me govern wisely?” Aragorn smiled at his Steward, needing no answers to his questions.

“And who healed my sister’s heart and brought her happiness?” said Éomer. “Why, you of course, Faramir!”

Faramir turned from the fire and faced them, his head held high.



With thanks to Raksha.

To Faramir, green had always been a grim reminder of war. It was after all, the shade of the uniforms that he and his fellow Rangers wore to conceal them from the Enemy. The drabness had mirrored the sorrow in his heart as his father declined and Gondor with him. Each day the Dark Lord’s power had increased. Everything had seemed drained of life and colour by Sauron’s evil power.

Now that drabness had vanished. Each colour seemed brighter and more vibrant. The sky was bluer and unclouded by the fumes of Mordor. It was the green though, that caught Faramir’s eye as he rode through Ithilien’s woods one morning. 

Every tree was clothed in its finery of fresh summer leaves. The birds flew from tree to tree, twittering joyfully as they build their nests. He too would build his own home soon at Emyn Arnen and nest there with his lady. Green was her favourite colour, the hue of her people’s banners. 

Never before in living memory had the fields been so lush and verdant, promising the most abundant harvest in living memory. It seemed the earth itself was rejoicing at Sauron’s defeat and the coming of the King.



 No Regrets

“Do you ever regret?” Aragorn asked Faramir as the two men rode abreast through Faramir’s lands.

“Regret what?” The younger man looked puzzled.

“That you are not Ruling Steward,” said the King.

Faramir laughed aloud. ”How could I, when I have all this?” He gestured around him. Fields once battlegrounds were now covered by waving corn and scarlet poppies. Honeysuckle and wild roses bedecked the hedgerows. Butterflies and bees flitted from flower to flower, blackbirds and thrushes sang sweetly in the treetops.

“I have the fairest garden in Gondor to share with my Éowyn. What more could any man want?” 

With thanks to Raksha

The days were shortening, the leaves slowly turning red and gold.

He used to dread these days, heralding the hardship of a long northern winter.

No longer did his spirits fall with the tumbling leaves. Cold nights could be spent by a warm fire with his wife and children and the cheerful company of good friends.

Sometimes on summer days, he lamented his loss of freedom to wander in the wilds, feeling sun upon his skin and the  wind in his hair.

Curled on cold nights in his wife's warm embrace, Aragorn Elessar counted the advantages of hearth and home.

icon by annwyn55


Aragorn sat watching his Queen playing with their children in the gardens. He laughed as Eldarion vainly chased a butterfly. Then his expression suddenly became sombre.

“What ails you, my friend?” asked Faramir coming to sit beside him.

“Arwen will never see her kinsfolk again because she chose to wed me,” Aragorn said sadly.

“She had centuries in which to choose a bridegroom from amongst the Eldar,” Faramir replied. ”She chose you. Together you have created a new family. Do not feel guilty, but rather rejoice that she found in you the joy that had eluded her until you met.” 

The Wink of an Eye

With grateful thanks to Raksha who inspired this drabble.

Denethor unveiled the Seeing Stone with eager hands. What would it now reveal of the Dark Lord's evil:  distant armies riding, Orcs massing, or the Witch-king himself?

Instead, Denethor glimpsed the terrible lidless Eye of Barad-dûr.  He steeled himself and looked into its fell gaze.

The Eye winked at him.

Certain his mind was playing tricks, Denethor looked again.

The Eye winked back.

Shuddering, Denethor re-covered the Orb; then hastened from the Tower on trembling legs.

Sauron stretched his mouth in a lipless grin.  It pleased him to trifle with Gondor's solemn Steward.  He would drive him to madness yet!

The Rival

I look at the unconscious man’s face. How like his father he is!

Should Sauron fall, Denethor’s remaining son would be the last obstacle between my hopes of Gondor’s crown and winning Arwen’s hand.

I am exhausted, yet Gandalf requests I heal my rival: the man who could destroy all my hopes, a man now hovering near death.

I take Faramir’s hand and feel his brow. I sense a man of quality and goodness. I cannot allow this man’s life to be forfeit to the Dark Lord when I could prevent it.

Whatever it costs me, I must save him. 

A/N. A very personal view of a favourite moment from LOTR. Written for the "Difficult Decisions "Challenge.

The Shadow

With grateful thanks to Raksha

My shadow haunts me still: in dreams, in the looking- glass. 

I loathed him, yet I loved him too. For were we not akin? He understood the Ring's power, its consuming grasp, like no other. 

My friends say they understand, but they are mistaken. Even Sam. Especially Sam. His honest, kindly soul could never comprehend what bound me to Sméagol and binds me still.

 Did I lose my finger or my shadow on the mountain?

All unwilling, he destroyed the Ring when I could not. Can a shadow cross the Sundering Sea? 

I hope not, or my journey is vain. 

Home is where the Heart is

The dancers swirled around the room, resembling colourful blossoms swaying in the wind. There were few flowers, though, in the City. It felt like a barren desert of stone.

Her heart ached for the flowery meadows of her homeland with the feel of soft grass beneath her bare feet.

Then she saw him. Smiling, he took her hand, leading her in the dance.

He held her tightly, guiding her footsteps, his breath warm against her skin, his heart beating against her own.

Arwen’s sorrow melted like frost before the sun. Here was her true home, safe in her husband’s arms. 


Bridal Bouquet

Rosemary to remember days past, and her mother far away; red roses for the love she shares with the man she weds this day. A few sprigs of orange blossom to ensure Yavanna grants her children. Then laurel, to remind her that she marries a hero, victorious in battle.


She would have chosen elanor and niphredil, but none grew in this City of Men. Instead, she chooses bitter rue for Arwen's forsaken immortality.

Galadriel tied the bouquet with  blue ribbon to honour the steadfastness of the one she knew would make Arwen happy. Smiling, she led her to her bridegroom.

Summer Memories

Much as Aragorn loved Gondor, the balmier climes of the South often oppressed him. 

In the North it was rarely as hot as this. He recalled fondly those rare days when it was warm enough to swim in the river, icily refreshing even at the height of summer.

 A king, though, could hardly doff his royal robes and plunge into the Anduin as the fancy took him.

 Now though, he had servants to fan his brow, bring him cool bathing water, and exotic juices to quench his thirst.

 Yet sometimes Aragorn yearned still to splash gleefully in the Bruinen’s chill waters.

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