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Family Games (NC-17) 
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 5. Waves of Sunlight
Faramir showed the Elf into the small chamber created by a curtain in the furthermost corner of the cave at Henneth Annûn. Two buckets of water already stood there, and just as Orophin looked in, a man came over carrying a towel and some folded clothes.
“Here you can wash and change,” Faramir said with a look over the Elf. “I am not certain what spare things we have to offer will fit too well, but at least they are clean and without holes.”
Orophin smiled in gratitude. “Thank you. If you would just have my old gear discarded – it’s got the juice of Orc-bodies on it, I’ll never wish to don it again.”
By the time he emerged, the Rangers, seated out around several long tables, were busy with their evening meal and engrossed in conversation, much of which revolved around their unexpected company.
They had met Faramir’s return with expressions of great wonder, and also relief, but had fallen grim and quiet upon taking in the appearance of their captain’s companion. The sun had long since passed midday, and Faramir had ordered to make a swift return, saying only that the person with him was one of the Fair Folk from the old tales, and the men ought not to see a foe in him. Until Lord Denethor’s decree Faramir was to consider the Elf his guest, and the Rangers ought to do likewise.
And now said guest finally moved the curtain aside and quietly stepped out.
No longer a demon of mud he appeared, although neither did he come to resemble a common mortal creature, for of course he was not one. He bore a gentle light in his face, so gentle it could almost be mistaken for a trick of illumination, as though unseen to the observer some private lamp was held close to his face, one that cast its warm glow only on him.
And exceedingly fair to look upon he was.
Orophin had put on the plain unadorned clothes the Rangers had found for him, and although the length matched, the girth did not, and the pale-green linen tunic hung somewhat loose on him, as did the trousers that were supposed to hug the legs. His long moist hair was let down, brushed away from his face but otherwise left to fall as it would down his shoulders and back. It was sleek and dark in its dampness, suggesting shine and a deep blond colour when dry, but for now it only added to the washed, simple and somewhat vulnerable impression he was supposed to produce under the given circumstances – was supposed to yet did not.
Orophin stood unassuming and silent, yet all the same all heads turned to him and all talk died – but as though oblivious to the effect of his entrance, he only sought out Faramir with his eyes, nodded to him and ventured a tentative smile. A warm private smile it was, one reserved for a trusted old friend met amid a crowd of hostile strangers.
Faramir smiled back and gestured for him to join the meal, indicating the seat reserved by his side.
“Come share our supper, and we can talk some more.”
In that moment, when Faramir turned back towards his men to reply to someone’s earlier question, he suddenly knew the wind had turned.
The whole encounter in the woods, including his highly untypical – and successful – actions regarding the unknown peril, had already forced his soldiers to begin reconsidering their established opinion of him. But now, when at last they saw whom exactly Faramir had so swiftly turned towards himself, when they realised that were it not for him this wondrous stranger would have been pointlessly slaughtered – the men sensed that indeed their captain was a special man, one with a deeper capacity for perception and understanding than either of them possessed. They also knew that since of all of them he alone had seen the possibility to do a good, and kind, and proper thing where they had seen nothing but a problem and a threat, he indeed had greater wisdom than they, whatever his years. And they were men honest and clever enough to be able to acknowledge and accept it, and feel no bitterness but only gladness, for indeed he was their leader, and it was only fitting that he be more than they.
Faramir felt heat rise to his face, for he saw the wonder and respect in their eyes, and knew it for what it was – but said nothing and only smiled inwardly to himself.
Then Orophin was at his side, and Faramir could think of little else.
For one, he could not stop looking, for not only was his guest unlike anyone Faramir had seen, but there was a strange captivating quality about him, one that as though asked the beholder, would you cast your gaze elsewhere when ‘tis beyond argument there could be no fairer sight than the one already before you?
Orophin sported strikingly harmonious features, strong and regular yet at once carefully, almost exquisitely carven; his complexion was a delicate, faintly relucent shade, one even the rosiest maidens of Gondor did not display; and his dark lashes could be the envy of the court ladies – yet, all told, his face called to be described specifically as handsome, not comely or beautiful. That is, it looked so on its own, as some theoretical face, separated from the personality of its owner. This was the discrepancy in him, one that would ever fascinate Faramir: the Elf’s attitude, the expressions he assumed, his way of speaking and gazing took his handsomeness, bypassing comeliness and beauty, straight to loveliness. Gone without a trace were the contempt and audacity with which he had received the young man, as well as the weary ironic casualness that had followed. Now that Orophin’s heart had settled to irrefutably trust in Faramir’s good nature, and rely upon him, and accept his authority, forth came another demeanour: modest, and even, and highly amiable, gentle guarded dignity replacing the earlier defiance.
For a while Faramir tried to distract him with speech as little as possible and let him eat his full, for much as Orophin displayed some effortlessly impeccable manners, as though he were come from a high king’s court, the swiftness with which he emptied his plate – and then again – suggested this was his first proper meal for quite some time. So for the most part Faramir spoke with his soldiers or just watched the Elf.
The young man could not help noticing how beautiful his hands were, pale, long and light of movement, although apparent strength and skill lay in them as well. Admittedly, Orophin’s nails were in a rather sorry state after the frenzied chase, but even that did not ruin the elegance of his slender nimble fingers. And on the whole, although Faramir knew these hands had mercilessly brought many an Orc to its ruin, the very look of them promised nothing but warmth and kindness of touch, and bespoke a capacity for mindfulness and tenderness sufficient for handling a delicate featherless nestling.
Suddenly Faramir was struck by the notion that he could not remember when was the last time he had received as much as a friendly pat on the shoulder from another, let alone a proper embrace…
The young captain quickly dropped his gaze to his plate and frowned. No, no, it was nothing, truly, nothing – yet nevertheless he decided not to look at the hands again.
Soon, however, Faramir noticed he was getting lost in the Elf’s eyes instead: exceptionally clear and bright they were, like a cool deep lake pierced to staggering, sparkling transparency by the noon-light of a midsummer sun. Their colour was grey – that is, until one looked a little deeper. And then it became apparent that in truth they could not be defined as grey, for there was hue in them, albeit so subtle it could be mistaken for a play of the light. These eyes were like the silvery underside of an olive leaf, barely, just barely green.
As the evening wore on, and plates were taken away and wine-cups put in their place, and more torches lit, so Orophin changed also, coming into even fuller bloom. Although the drink he took seemed to have no more effect on his senses than water, it took away what had remained of the Elf’s tension, and brought a tint of pink to his cheeks, and darkened his gaze. As his long tresses dried, they acquired volume and with it a most delectable texture, that of soft loose waves. But most delightful was the colour that came through, and what was in turn most delightful about it was not so much the shade itself, but rather the strange radiant property. Most like concentrated sunshine it appeared, as though for years uncounted it had absorbed and packed into itself the rays of Anor at its zenith, and was now gently giving it back, shimmering and faintly scintillating as though off its own accord.
The Elf’s very presence seemed to bring light and warmth to the gloomy hall, making the men forget it was still the breezy volatile spring and not heady summertide outside. Faramir grinned to himself wearily, wondering whether it was the wine or his own senses that played a trick on him and made him believe he could even detect a hint of the thick honied scent of nectarine flowers in the air. There was no hearth in the cave, yet all the same the room had somehow grown too hot for his liking, or else he had grown hot inside his clothes…
The soldiers at the other tables had one by one left their places to come and stand around Faramir’s table with their clay goblets in hand, to better hear the Elf and their captain talk. The men were all of Númenorean origin, and the tongue Orophin spoke differed little from the one they had learnt in childhood, if only his accent made it a little difficult to understand at first. With great engrossment the Rangers listened as he answered Faramir’s questions and recounted the journeys that had eventually brought him to Ithilien. Faramir was careful not to tread on the topic of the ways of Orophin’s people, for even though he knew his soldiers were greatly curious to know how the Elven-folk lived, he assumed it would not be comfortable for his guest to speak of that which had perhaps been dear to him and was now out of reach. Thankfully, Orophin had many other tales to tell, speaking of the lands he had visited to the north and west of Gondor that had long since gone out of the living memory of Faramir’s kinfolk. And Faramir in turn told him of the marvels and beauty that were to be found in this Southern heir-state of the Westernesse.
By all means it was time to retire for the night, yet no one seemed to remember about that, and instead a new cask of wine was broached. His cup of unembellished silver refilled, Faramir settled back in his chair.
“Now that you have eaten your meal with us,” he began with a smile, “I believe it would not be too impolite to bring up the matter that I am sure much intrigues us all, and ask how it is you had managed to get past our guard all these times? I understand the woods are your natural environment, and yet there must be a little more to it than that…?”
Orophin inhaled deeply and pursed his lips, but then gave Faramir a sidelong glance and smiled also.
“Actually, there is,” he agreed enigmatically. He seemed a little embarrassed when the room went completely quiet in barely contained anticipation. “You see,” the Elf began, talking rather to his goblet than his host, “I used to have a special object with me – a piece of my gear: an Elven-cloak of the make my people wear that can hide you from the sight of those you do not wish to notice you. But my hood had slipped and I was seen – and when the Orcs caught me, they practically ripped it off of me, and if there’s aught left of it, it’s lying in shreds in some gully. All I have left is a part of the collar, which, sadly, is not enough to make it work.”
Faramir could tell his men were much relieved to learn the Elf had not bested them through the sheer superiority of his skill, and they were growing progressively at ease around him. So much so that Eldir, who was sitting directly opposite Orophin, leant forward across the table to ask with unconcealed excitement:
“And when whole, such cloak would render one invisible?”
Orophin stared at the Man in open-mouthed shock.
“But of course not!” he cried out utterly scandalised, flaring up at once. Shoving his chair back with a loud scraping noise, the Elf sprang to his feet. “I think I have already proved I have nothing to do with the Dark Lord!” he shouted, his blazing gaze jumping from one face to another, his chest rising heavily. “Is that what you all think?! Why would –”
Those Rangers who had been sitting were up at once as well, some already drawing their swords. Not one of them could understand what was going on, but they saw without any ambiguity that their strange guest had gone from amiably amusive to unpredictably aggressive in a flash, and they were ready to deal with it.
“Orophin, sit!” Faramir ordered sternly, laying his hand down on the Elf’s shoulder. The other nearly jumped for the touch, and stared at the Man with wide uncomprehending eyes. “Let us not make a scene,” Faramir went on in a tone both commanding and very calm. He was holding the Elf’s gaze with his own, and saw that amid other things Orophin was very frightened.
The captain sighed. “I assure you, no one had meant to affront you. Now please, you need to –”
“That Man,” Orophin nodded at Eldir, “has just accused me and all of my kindred of employing Dark Arts for the purposes of disguise – I could not have reacted in any other manner, and had I my blade with me –”
There was a collective intake of breath, some muttered curses and more sounds of steel leaving scabbards.
Faramir sucked his teeth. “Stop this already and sheathe your swords. He is unarmed, for the Valar’s sake, have some shame!” he snapped at his men in impatience, then turned to the Elf.
“Orophin, no,” the Ranger shook his head emphatically. “Eldir has accused you of nothing, there was no ill meaning to his words – it was just a question.”
Orophin still looked unconvinced, yet this time he made no harsh reply, and Faramir once again gestured towards the table. “Now let us all sit down and clear this up in a civilised manner,” he looked pointedly around the room, catching the eyes of his men still alight with the fire of battle.
“Very well,” the Elf said quietly and, when the Rangers proceeded to resume their seats, also lowered himself onto the edge of his chair. “But just for reference, my cloak did not make me invisible.”
“All right,” Faramir made a placating gesture. “I truly do not know why it is such an issue, but all right, as you say.” He took a deep breath, wishing he had drunk less than he had. “Now, this obviously calls for a talk. You see, we are rather ignorant when it comes to the ways of your people, and even more ignorant when it comes to the arcane,” Faramir said softly, interlocking his fingers and putting his hands before himself on the table. “You must lend us some credence and trust that we mean no offense even if our words may sound harsh to your ear – or else explain how not to affront you inadvertently in the future.”
“I do apologise,” Orophin replied in a lowered voice, and cast a quick wary glance at Eldir. “‘Tis that you, and all of your men… you are so well familiar with Elven-speech, which I would have never expected, that I had somehow assumed you would also know… But of course, how would you…?” He settled back in his chair. “Fair enough, I shall explain to the best of my ability.”
For a time he was quiet and thoughtful, looking ahead of himself, then nodded resolutely and picked his cup to twirl it absently in his hands. “Much of what is common and everyday to us would seem sorcery to you, but sorcery is not always an evil tool. Elven-magic is capable of many things, yet it ever draws its power only from the good and healthy sources,” he began slowly. “It works through perceiving the true nature of things, and capturing and preserving what is fair and useful about it, and…” he searched for the word, rubbing the fingertips of one hand together, “and bringing out, amplifying the inherent virtues of an object. Yet it does not make anything out of nothing, and it does not turn something into nothing. It is the morgul arts that specialise in perverting and warping the essence of things, in making something both one and the other, and at once neither, so that the fëa can slip in between and be lost,” he looked around the table and added doubtfully, “if you see what I mean…”
“Perhaps not entirely…” Faramir mused with a shadow of a grin, “But do go on.”
Orophin nodded accommodatingly. “Mayhap an example would make it simpler. I am sorry if at this hour the subject should prove uncomfortable, but truly it is the starkest instance. Think of those eerie servants the darkness is said to have once had, or maybe it still does – the living dead: despite the name, they were neither living nor dead. They can have an unending existence, that is true, yet it is in no manner related to the concept of eternal life, although in a way you could certainly call them immortal, as for them there is no death but only a return to nonbeing.”
“But isn’t that one and the same?” one of the younger Rangers interrupted impulsively, startling the other Men who had grown rather tense and uneasy for the sinister topic.
Someone shushed him hurriedly, and he was embarrassed and lowered his eyes, so Orophin looked questioningly to Faramir. The captain inclined his head leniently, the corners of his mouth curving with a suppressed smile.
“If you know the answer to that question, I would certainly like to hear it – although I must observe we have strayed quite far from your enchanted garments.”
“I shall get to that,” Orophin assured him, allowing himself to once again exhibit the tentative smile that was so becoming to his youthful features, and Faramir was pleased to see his guest was no longer sitting on pins and needles. “But as for this other question: no, the short answer would be that it is not one and the same, at least not always. When the flesh is slain, the fëa oft is not, and can wander for a time, and then come to reembody itself and once again tread the earth in a form like mine or yours – or at least that is how it works for the Elf-kindred and those creatures that are above us. Perhaps to you it would not even seem like real death, I do not know… In any case, this is a matter too complex for my understanding, and I am in no position to make any definitive statements – if anything can be said with certainty, it is that there is no certainty, for the law governing the flow of life in the children of Eru is susceptible to a certain degree of flexibility, however little, for there are other forces at play besides the divine order…” he trailed off, apparently suspecting he was not making much sense to the company.
Faramir pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Well, I am no judge of the other races, but we in Gondor do entertain the belief that Men too have what you refer to as the fëa, or one akin to it, that is not necessarily altogether destroyed with the end of the bodily life – or at least not destroyed at once. ‘Tis said the departed can linger after their passing for a time, to bring warning to their kin – or say farewell. I’ve not met anyone who had seen actual proof of this, though, and mayhap ‘tis naught but superstitions on our behalf, who’s to say…?” He shrugged. “So, about the cloak…?”“Yes,” Orophin nodded, putting his cup down. “That word… ‘tis not a good word – ‘invisible’,” he winced as he said it. “It carries a highly negative meaning, perfidious, unwholesome; and we do not use it unless to suggest something of the sort. We say ‘hidden’ and even ‘unseen’, but that is different. A thing can be unseen, and still be – that is how our capes work, they merely cover and blend in, they do not make something disappear. I… I really am not certain how to best explain this: it may seem like a subtle nuance to you, but the difference is tremendous. Invisibility is not natural, Faramir. Some things are not seen by design, and never shall be: like wind, like song; others have a hidden side to them that shows itself to some and does not to others – but things that can alternate in a blink,” he raised his hand and clicked his fingers emphatically, “Faramir, it just goes against the order of the world. There are various… planes, levels of existence, and everything under the heavens is allocated its proper place. When an object is made invisible – where do you think it goes?”
Faramir raised his brows and shrugged.
Orophin smiled in satisfaction. “Exactly – it doesn’t have anywhere to, because it is just being shoved into the other side, where no space had been prepared for it. And that is not right, it creates perturbation, and unsettles the balance, and simply messes everything up.”
Faramir looked around the room, and in the faces of his men saw exactly what he had expected. They were puzzled, and discomfited, and even slightly bored, and none of them any longer enjoyed the discussion. So the captain had the tables put away and the beds brought out; and the men set about getting ready for sleep.
But Orophin Faramir took aside, and looked at him with shining eyes. “‘Tis fascinating, the things you speak of… It seems to you ‘tis all casual and mundane, a regular part of the world you live in – but to me… Are all the Elf-folk so knowledgeable in the matters of the supernatural, or are you perhaps a scholar – you never said…?”
“Ah, no,” Orophin laughed merrily. “I was but a marchwarden back in Lothlórien, and to be honest with you, most Elves do not care for the arcane, at least they do not care to apprehend how it works as long as serves its stead,” he shrugged vaguely. “Perhaps I am indeed somewhat more informed than others, but that is only because I was…” a shadow of a frown fleeted across his face, “I was close to my Elven-lord, and he taught me many things – just for the sake of it.”
“I see,” Faramir nodded, the slightly dazed agitated expression not leaving his features. “It is incomprehensible, though, you are veritably come from a fairy-tale… Would you tell me more? So much I would desire to ask you… Now,” he raised his hand, cutting himself off, “I understand if you are exhausted, and –”
“I don’t need sleep,” Orophin said softly, looking at the young man with warm gentleness, apparently touched by Faramir’s interest. “Not really, I don’t. I don’t even truly need sustenance, for that matter. But I do enjoy conversation.”
Faramir laughed incredulously, and shook his head. “Then will you stay up some more, and speak with me?”
Orophin smiled and nodded without taking his gaze from Faramir’s. “So I will.”
For the better part of the night they sat at the one table that remained, talking animatedly in lowered voices as the men lay down and went to sleep, some later rising to go outside and stand guard, others returning from their post for a few hours of rest. Towards morning, when a gentle blue-green light came to glimmer through the ever-falling sheet of crystalline water, Faramir took Orophin outside to breathe the fresh cool air, and watch the sky change colour as sunrise approached, and speak some more.
Orophin was quiet and even a little morose standing by Faramir’s side as the Man packed for departure a mere hour later. The young captain noticed the change in his companion’s mood and smiled at him reassuringly.
“Orophin, I cannot say anything for certain, but I do believe everything shall be fine. My father is a learned judicious man – he may not be kindly and gentle of bearing, but –”
Orophin frowned, “What? What does it have to do with anything?”
“Oh,” Faramir shrugged. “I am sorry, I had merely assumed you were worried what my lord would make of your case.”
The Elf stared. “The Lord of Minas Tirith is your father…?”
Faramir blushed. “Goodness… I… I believe I never told you that… Well, it doesn’t matter –”
Suddenly Orophin’s face lit up and he laughed. “But of course it matters! If he is anything like you, I have naught to worry about at all!”
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Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #