Hands of Madness, by Kaylee Arafinwiel
Feb. 29th, 2016 11:59 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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b2memB2MeM Challenge: B2MEM 2007 - Like an Antagonistic Arwen, B2MEM 2012 - Palantir (Artifacts), Splintery (Texture)
Format: ficlet
Genre: AU, family
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: mention of canon character death
Characters: Arwen, Aragorn, Faramir
Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen
Summary: Arwen has every reason to feel antagonistic – and she takes her feelings out in the only way she can, on an enemy she never had the occasion to set eyes on.
A/N: Set in the "Isildurchil Dithen" AU, after the main story. Background: due to Ecthelion's interfering and Denethor's reluctance to father a second son, Thorongil ended up unwittingly siring Faramir. He found out five years later due to Finduilas' deathbed confession and took his son - now usually called "Faran" - as his own. This is twelve years after that. The War of the Ring is won, Denethor still tried to burn himself and Faramir alive and still managed to kill himself. Faramir must face his fears, with his Ada, and Naneth Arwen, to help him. (I'm hoping this will help me get back on Isildurchil Dithen's main story. ID can be found http://archiveofourown.org/series/224516 here.)
Creak. Creak. Creak. The steps to the Tower squeak unpleasantly. They are thick with dust, and my eyes water as I ascend, my son following in my wake. O yes, my son, for though I did not give birth to him, I was there for him from the moment he fell into my arms.
My husband climbs before us. We make a strange procession up these stairs – King, Queen, Prince of the North – for every time these stairs have known a bearer before, he always walked alone, or with his heir only.
The wood lining the walls is unpleasantly splintered, and as Estel opens the door, the smell of smoke reaches my nose. There is a choked gasp, and I turn to grab my son – he is so very young yet! – and hold him close. “Faran, my Faran, there, hush now – Naneth is here, ion muin nin. Do not fear, none can harm you, ‘tis but a memory – one we shall face together.”
He turns with a soft sob into my arms, and I hold my son tightly. “Come now, my Faran. Let us have this over with. Your adar is waiting for us.”
One step, two, three…We walk into the smoke-scented room together. The scent must be naught but a memory, for the air here is clean. But now Estel raises the cloth covering the table. Together we look, and we see them.
Hands.
Burning hands, where he gripped the stone in his madness. I snarl an oath under my breath, not at all concerned about politeness since he is out of my reach. Faran laughs shakily.
“Naneth Arwen!”
“Yes, tyenya?” I call him by the term I used for him in childhood. He returns my smile weakly.
“That was rude.” His seventeen-year-old sensibilities are offended. I snort.
“Denethor was rude,” I reply, and he sobers at once, frustrated tears in his eyes. “Go on, tyenya. Say it. Tell him.”
Faran turns to the seeing-stone. “You foul son of an orc!” he snarls. “Why? Why did you try to take me back? Why did you try to burn me? Why couldn’t you have…have loved me as much as…” He chokes on a sob, and I pull him back into my arms, rocking my boy.
“As much as Boromir,” Estel finishes, and Faran flinches in my arms, shuddering. A ragged breath, and then…
“Yes. Why couldn’t you have loved me, loved Faramir as much as Boromir?” he demands of the silent Stone.
No answer. But that is enough. I give him to his father’s arms.
“Ada,” Faran whispers, and Estel holds him close, loving him, healing him. No more fire. No more pain. Just tears, many tears, but cleansing ones. Denethor is dead now. I cover the Palantir myself, giving it one more hateful look.
The time for hatred is past. There is nothing to be gained by remaining antagonistic toward a dead madman cuckolded by his own father’s plotting and enchanted by Sauron. Denethor is dead. The Dark Lord is dead.
Finduilas is dead, but her sons are in my keeping, mine and Estel’s. That, in my view, is enough.
“Estel, let us go. Come, tyenya, my Faran.”
Moments later, the Palantir is alone again, as we descend the splintered stair.
The End
Format: ficlet
Genre: AU, family
Rating: PG-13?
Warnings: mention of canon character death
Characters: Arwen, Aragorn, Faramir
Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen
Summary: Arwen has every reason to feel antagonistic – and she takes her feelings out in the only way she can, on an enemy she never had the occasion to set eyes on.
A/N: Set in the "Isildurchil Dithen" AU, after the main story. Background: due to Ecthelion's interfering and Denethor's reluctance to father a second son, Thorongil ended up unwittingly siring Faramir. He found out five years later due to Finduilas' deathbed confession and took his son - now usually called "Faran" - as his own. This is twelve years after that. The War of the Ring is won, Denethor still tried to burn himself and Faramir alive and still managed to kill himself. Faramir must face his fears, with his Ada, and Naneth Arwen, to help him. (I'm hoping this will help me get back on Isildurchil Dithen's main story. ID can be found http://archiveofourown.org/series/224516 here.)
Creak. Creak. Creak. The steps to the Tower squeak unpleasantly. They are thick with dust, and my eyes water as I ascend, my son following in my wake. O yes, my son, for though I did not give birth to him, I was there for him from the moment he fell into my arms.
My husband climbs before us. We make a strange procession up these stairs – King, Queen, Prince of the North – for every time these stairs have known a bearer before, he always walked alone, or with his heir only.
The wood lining the walls is unpleasantly splintered, and as Estel opens the door, the smell of smoke reaches my nose. There is a choked gasp, and I turn to grab my son – he is so very young yet! – and hold him close. “Faran, my Faran, there, hush now – Naneth is here, ion muin nin. Do not fear, none can harm you, ‘tis but a memory – one we shall face together.”
He turns with a soft sob into my arms, and I hold my son tightly. “Come now, my Faran. Let us have this over with. Your adar is waiting for us.”
One step, two, three…We walk into the smoke-scented room together. The scent must be naught but a memory, for the air here is clean. But now Estel raises the cloth covering the table. Together we look, and we see them.
Hands.
Burning hands, where he gripped the stone in his madness. I snarl an oath under my breath, not at all concerned about politeness since he is out of my reach. Faran laughs shakily.
“Naneth Arwen!”
“Yes, tyenya?” I call him by the term I used for him in childhood. He returns my smile weakly.
“That was rude.” His seventeen-year-old sensibilities are offended. I snort.
“Denethor was rude,” I reply, and he sobers at once, frustrated tears in his eyes. “Go on, tyenya. Say it. Tell him.”
Faran turns to the seeing-stone. “You foul son of an orc!” he snarls. “Why? Why did you try to take me back? Why did you try to burn me? Why couldn’t you have…have loved me as much as…” He chokes on a sob, and I pull him back into my arms, rocking my boy.
“As much as Boromir,” Estel finishes, and Faran flinches in my arms, shuddering. A ragged breath, and then…
“Yes. Why couldn’t you have loved me, loved Faramir as much as Boromir?” he demands of the silent Stone.
No answer. But that is enough. I give him to his father’s arms.
“Ada,” Faran whispers, and Estel holds him close, loving him, healing him. No more fire. No more pain. Just tears, many tears, but cleansing ones. Denethor is dead now. I cover the Palantir myself, giving it one more hateful look.
The time for hatred is past. There is nothing to be gained by remaining antagonistic toward a dead madman cuckolded by his own father’s plotting and enchanted by Sauron. Denethor is dead. The Dark Lord is dead.
Finduilas is dead, but her sons are in my keeping, mine and Estel’s. That, in my view, is enough.
“Estel, let us go. Come, tyenya, my Faran.”
Moments later, the Palantir is alone again, as we descend the splintered stair.
The End
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