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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 15 𓆰𓆪

summary: ❝🇭🇴🇲🇪 🇮🇸 🇧🇪🇭🇮🇳🇩…🇹🇭🇪 🇼🇴🇷🇱🇩 🇦🇭🇪🇦🇩…🇦🇳🇩 🇹🇭🇪🇷🇪 🇦🇷🇪 🇲🇦🇳🇾 🇵🇦🇹🇭🇸 🇹🇴 🇹🇷🇪🇦🇩…🇹🇭🇷🇴🇺🇬🇭 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇴🇼, 🇹🇴 🇹🇭🇪 🇪🇩🇬🇪 🇴🇫 🇳🇮🇬🇭🇹…🇺🇳🇹🇮🇱 🇹🇭🇪 🇸🇹🇦🇷🇸 🇦🇷🇪 🇦🇱🇱 🇦🇱🇮🇬🇭🇹…🇲🇮🇸🇹 🇦🇳🇩 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇴🇼, 🇨🇱🇴🇺🇩 🇦🇳🇩 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇪…🇦🇱🇱 🇸🇭🇦🇱🇱 🇫🇦🇩🇪…🇦🇱🇱…🇸🇭🇦🇱🇱…🇫🇦🇩🇪…❝

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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⊰∙∘⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘

On the morning of the coronation itself, Deora had been faithfully watching the main gate as hundreds upon hundreds of people from all corners of Middle Earth began to pour into the walls of their fair city. But once the hour of the ceremony approached them, she had been all but forced to retreat back to the palace level in order to fulfill her second duty of the day.

Standing in front of the tall mirror in her humble bedchamber, that lived in a building adjacent to the main palace, Deora tugged at the intricately decorated skirt of the long, dark blue dress that now adorned her body.

If her memory served her right, that was the first time an article of clothing such as that ever so much as touched her skin. And it wasn’t as if she didn’t recognize the person staring back at her in the reflection, for it truly was just her in a dress, with her hair carefully curled so that it framed the edges of her face. But for some reason or another, she felt just the smallest twinges of unease swimming through her veins as she continued to glare softly into the mirror.

A shape suddenly appeared just over her right shoulder, gentle arms slowly wrapping themselves around her waist.

“You alright, my love?” Faramir asked as he placed his chin atop her semi-exposed shoulder.

Deora nodded, her hands winding themselves tighter in the fabric of the dress.

“I just…feel a bit ridiculous.” she admitted in a whisper. “I do not think I was meant to wear clothes such as these.”

“No?” he questioned, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “A shame. Because you look absolutely breathtaking.”

Deora tried extremely hard to hold back the flush that was attempting to crawl up and onto her face.

“Flattery is not going to get you anywhere, my lord.” she muttered with a defensive roll of her eyes.

“I don’t know-” he hummed thoughtfully, bringing one of his hands up to lightly tug at her ear, both of which had already turned a bright red color. “It looks like it got me somewhere.”

Playfully batting his hand away, Deora severed eye contact with his reflection.

“Come on. We’re going to be late.” she said in a quick whisper, making a move towards the distant doorway. But before she had been able to fully slip out of his hold, Faramir added a slight amount of pressure to her waist, gently forcing her to spin around to face him instead.

Seeing that his gaze had hardened into something slightly more serious, Deora instantly fell still.

Faramir reached up, gently brushing a curl away from her face.

“Our kingdom changes today.” he said quietly. “For the better. And in this new world, a world that you sacrifice so much to defend, I would have you realize that everything good that comes your way... you were meant to have it.”

Deora stared back at him, briefly dumbfounded by his proclamation. She had never voiced those kinds of insecurities out loud before, and yet he had managed to pluck them from deep within her mind with seemingly little effort at all. His ability to do that was bordering on supernatural, but just as in every other instance, she always found herself eternally grateful for it.

A small breath escaped her throat as she placed her hand underneath his chin in order to urgently guide his lips to hers.

The two of them remained in that moment for as long as their human lungs allowed them to do so. And when they did eventually separate, Deora braced her forehead up against his.

“You always did know how to talk pretty.” she whispered.

Faramir let out a short sigh.

“I am perfectly serious.”

Deora stepped back slightly so that she was able to look upon his entire expression. With a smile, she nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“I know.” she hummed. “Thank you, Faramir.”

The man slowly smiled back at her before quietly offering her his arm, which she took without hesitation.

Thousands of bodies had packed themselves into the main courtyard of Minas Tirith, while an uncountable amount of others populated the winding streets below.

At the top of the few, pristine white stairs that cascaded down from the entrance to the Great Hall of the palace, Aragorn stood poised in front of Gandalf. The dwarf, Gimli, was holding in his hands the brilliantly crafted crown of the true King of Gondor.

The White Wizard carefully took the crown out of Gimli’s hand, before carefully placing it on top of Aragorn’s head, where it inevitably rested with what seemed to be predestined perfection.

Deora stood in the first cluster of people that were positioned at the base of the staircase, just in front of a line of palace guards; the men that she now commanded. Faramir stood to her left, and a line of rulers of other kingdoms and clans stretched passed him and down towards the White Tree.

“Now come the days of the king.” Gandalf proclaimed with a smile. “May they be blessed.”

Aragorn returned the Wizard's smile before slowly turning out to face the crowd himself. His hands rose slightly out in front of him as he began to address those collected in the majestic courtyard.

“This day does not belong to one man, but to all.” he said, his voice softly booming out across the entire mountainside. “Let us together rebuild this world, that we may share in the days of peace.”

His words were instantly met with rounds of applause. Those who were holding small buckets of petals collected from the trees throughout their kingdom, began to steadily release them up and into the air, only adding to the magic of the moment.

Back on the top of the stairs, Aragorn momentarily closed his eyes, beginning to sing the oath of Elendil, to bless the beginning of his rule:

“Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta.”

The King then descended down the stairs, beginning to walk a small path through his people. Cheers and applause echoed out on either side of him as he shared a smile with close to every single person that he passed by.

Deora had briefly forgotten to bow to their new King, far too caught up in the splendor of the ceremony itself. An action that earned her a gentle, but mocking jab in the ribs from the man standing at her side.

As Aragorn made his way further down the makeshift path through the courtyard, he was suddenly intercepted by a rather large group of Elven royalty. Leading the charge, was Prince Legolas. Deora off-handedly learned over the short time that the king had been in the city, that the two of them were close, having been raised together in their youths.

The man and elf clasped each other’s shoulders for a moment. Due to their distance, those back by the stairs couldn’t hear the words that had been spoken in between them, but then behind Legolas, the crowd of elves suddenly parted, and two more forms began walking towards their new King.

The one to the right was easily recognizable as the King of Rivendell himself, Lord Elrond. The one to the left, they could not see at first, for their face was mostly obscured by the large banner of the White Tree that they were carrying.

A smiling Legolas stepped to the side as the elf holding the banner took another tentative step forward. And when it was ultimately moved aside, a beautiful, fair, brown-haired elleth was revealed to them. She wore a beautiful dress of silver and a matching circlet that rested on the crown of her head. She had immediately fallen into a hesitant curtsy in front of Aragorn.

The crowd grew increasingly silent, watching on as Aragorn reached down, gently encasing the side of the elleth’s face in apparent disbelief. He had then quickly tugged her towards him, and the two fell into a loving embrace in front of the gathered masses. Immediately, their actions had been met with whoops and hollers of elated celebration.

It seemed that Gondor now had a Queen as well.

Deora caught herself smiling widely as the pair continued on through the crowd together.

Approaching the edge-most part of the courtyard, Aragorn once more came to a stop. Again, due to their great distance, they were not made privy to the words that had been spoken, but slowly they began to see the waves of movement that were making their way through the entire crowd, as all the people in the courtyard began to kneel in reverence.

As more and more heads continued to disappear in front of them, Deora was finally able to make out where their King was leading the charge, kneeling directly in front of four overcome-looking Hobbits.

Deora blinked a few times to banish the tears brimming in her eyes as she smiled and joined her kingdom in offering her thanks to those who had truly saved their world.

In the evening of Aragorn’s coronation day, but before any of the rowdier celebrations had begun, Deora was standing inside of the throne room alongside a few other members of the palace guard. They were positioned at the back of the room, carefully watching the scene that was playing out before them.

Sat in the previously vacant throne of their kingdom, was Aragorn, only looking mildly uncomfortable with the spectacle of it all. At his side stood the elleth from the ceremony, who Deora now knew to be Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond. Upon their meeting, the elven princess had greeted her with the kindest of smiles, informing Deora that she relished the sight of a female soldier.

Kneeling at the base of the small staircase, was Faramir, who had just proclaimed to their King, should it please him, that he would forfeit the office of Steward. As it appeared no longer necessary with the true heir now back on the throne.

A rather long pause had followed his words, Aragorn taking a considerable amount of time to collect his thoughts. Ultimately though, the man had risen from his chair, carefully walking down the short flight of stairs in order to stand where Faramir was kneeling at its base.

Deora’s eyes followed him intently as the king placed his hand on Faramir’s shoulder, silently urging him to rise.

“I believe that to be foolish.”

Faramir blinked, his surprise felt by nearly everyone else in the room.

“M-my king?”

Aragorn smiled warmly.

“The office of Stewardship will remain, as someone will need to watch over Gondor in any case of my absence.” he said wisely. “Tales of your service have reached my ears on more than one occasion. And I would entrust no one else with such a task. As long as your line shall last, you and your descendants will always be Stewards of Gondor.”

Deora felt her chest swell at the sound of the King’s words. To see Faramir finally getting the recognition that he deserved was a welcome change to be sure. And it had certainly been a long time coming.

Faramir bowed his head reverently.

“Thank you, my king.”

Aragorn patted him on the shoulder again, much in the way a brother would.

“I would also like to request that you take on the Wardenship of our Eastern outpost. To rehabilitate our lost territories and clear out the remaining outlaws and Orcs that linger there.” Aragorn continued more officially.

Faramir quickly nodded, straightening out his spine a bit more.

“Consider it done, my lord.”

Aragorn slipped his hand off of Faramir’s shoulder, instead folding it behind his back. As he did so, Deora’s head tilted to the side slightly as she took note of a small glint in their King's eyes. If she didn’t know any better, she could’ve sworn that it was one of near-mischievousness.

“I have one more thing to ask of you, if you would be receptive to it of course.”

Faramir blinked in confusion.

“Anything, King Elessar. Be it within my power.”

Aragorn smiled again.

“I will issue an official proclamation later, but I would like to appoint you, Faramir, son of Denethor, to be one of my Commanders. I would name you Prince of Ithilien.”

A careful silence fell over the room. And in a moment of forgotten decorum, Faramir’s mouth had fallen open in surprise.

Deora’s eyes widened, having to work hard to force back the gasp that had attempted to crawl up and out of her throat. The hands she had folded behind her back clung onto each other even tighter in that moment.

“I…I do not know what to say, my King. This is an honor most undeserving-”

“Nonsense.” Aragorn was quick to chastise. “You nearly gave your life in service to this city and its people. You are a wise man, Faramir. A wise and honorable man. I will have you accept this title.”

Deora had felt her expression wane ever so slightly upon hearing words that she had spoken repeatedly over the past decade coming out of someone else’s mouth.

Now the war that she fought, and everything that they had gone through during that time, finally felt worth it.

After a beat of silence, Faramir slowly nodded his head.

“I will serve my king and the people of Ithilien to the best of my ability.” he said in a near-whisper.

Aragorn smiled once more. Then, in an action that surprised all of those standing in the throne room, he brought Faramir into a tight and fierce hug.

The festivities after the coronation were unlike any that Deora had ever seen take place within the walls of Minas Tirith.

It hadn’t been until that moment that she truly realized how dark the times she had been raised in actually were. She could not remember a single festival that had taken place inside of the city, let alone something of this caliber. The entire kingdom was lit up with bright and shining lights, jamborees, and even some fireworks (a spectacle courtesy of the White Wizard of course). Meals were devoured, drinks were had, and all around everything was incredibly bright and merry.

Despite being absolutely awestruck by all that she was seeing, Deora grew tired quicker than she had anticipated. And after making sure that she greeted all of those that she considered friends, she retreated back to her chambers after only spending a measly three hours amongst the masses.

It was late into the night, the moon hanging high up in the sky by that point. The sounds of the celebration were now at enough of a distance where they were effectively muffled. But she did take comfort in still being able to hear the edges of the happiness permeating her city.

Emerging from the washroom, now donning her night clothes, Deora blinked in surprise upon finding that Faramir had seemingly followed closely in her footsteps.

He had ditched his official dress wear and now stood in the window in just his plain, white blouse and tan trousers. The moonlight was bathing his entire form as he stared out at the horizon.

She allowed herself to smile at the sight for a moment longer before folding up her clothes and moving across the room to place them down into their respective drawers.

“I’m surprised you left the celebration so early.” she called out, gently announcing her presence.

Faramir looked back over his shoulder with a tired smile.

“I can only have the same conversation with a drunk soldier so many times.” he jested.

Deora let out a light laugh at that.

“Yes, well. I do suppose you should take the time to enjoy your last few moments as a soldier amongst them, no?”

Faramir quirked a single eyebrow as she stood back up, turning to face him with a small grin.

“Whatever do you mean?”

Deora shrugged her shoulders playfully.

“Prince of Ithilien… I don’t imagine you’ll have much more time to drink amongst your men.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed slightly as he began to dissect the expression on her face. There, he could see, even in the shadows of their dimly lit chambers, the slight twitch at the corners of her mouth. Which easily gave away the fact that she was holding back an even wider smile.

“You’re making fun of me.” he finally said, stepping away from the window.

Deora bit down hard on the inside of her cheek.

“Oh no.” she said, shaking her head. “I would be much too frightened to make fun of a Prince.”

Faramir was quick to cross the room after that, his arms immediately materializing around her middle. The laugh that she had been holding back was jostled out of her throat as he spun them around several times in the middle of their chambers.

For a moment, the two of them were children again, running across the courtyard together in the light of the sun. For a moment, they were playing pretend again, slaying dragons and fighting together side by side.

Once the world stopped spinning, Faramir returned her feet to the ground, but continued to sway them lightly from side to side, using the distant sound of the kingdom’s residual celebrations as some sort of soft tune for them to absentmindedly dance to.

“You do know, when we marry, you’ll have to adopt the title of Princess.” Faramir noted casually. “So, you should start getting used to a title as well.”

Deora’s expression immediately blanked, falling still in his arms.

“When?”

Faramir tilted his head to the side.

“What?”

Deora swallowed.

“You said ‘when we marry.’” she replied, her voice softer than she intended it to be.

Faramir immediately let out a small huff of air.

“Well, yes.” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the entire world. “Did you…did you think I wouldn’t ask for your hand, Deora?”

Deora rolled her lips over each other, briefly severing eye contact in order to stare out of a distant window. Not really looking at anything specific.

“I suppose I never really…thought about it.” she ventured carefully. “A lot of things have been changing around here as is, so I didn’t-”

A cold knuckle appeared beneath her chin, as Faramir gently guided her attention back towards his face. Which had since been washed over with a gentle, yet serious expression.

“My flower…” he whispered reverently. “We’ve already sworn never to leave each other’s side, have we not?”

“We have.”

With a flicker of a smile, Faramir’s hand lightly settled around the curves of her chin and jaw, ever so slightly keeping her held in place.

“I would have asked you that day you returned from the Black Gates, had I had my wits about me.” he declared. “But when I ask you to marry me, when I get down properly on one knee…will you accept me?”

At the end of his sentence, she could clearly hear the twinge of anxiety that peppered his words.

“Faramir…” she sighed.

“I know that there have been times…” he began again. “I remember when you had to slam me against the rocks of Henneth-Annûn in order to talk sense into me. I know I gravely disappointed you back then. As I imagine I have a multitude of times over the years, so…so I would understand if you had…reservations-”

Deora quickly interrupted him with a bold kiss. Pressing up on her tiptoes so that she could match his height, she attempted to speak a proclamation into the action itself. To silently explain to him just how much her heartbeat for him, and him alone.

When they separated, Faramir was staring back down at her with confused wonder.

She tempered her smile as best she could, her hands falling down his chest only to wind her fingers into the soft fabric of his flowy, white blouse. And even though she wasn’t pressing her palms flat against his sternum, she could still somehow feel the steady thump of his heart beating against his ribcage. That told her that she got her point across, at least a little bit.

“Faramir, I slammed you into that cave wall because I was terrified. Not disappointed. I was terrified that I had lost you to the horrors of war, to the horrors of your father, or even the power of that damned Ring.” she declared boldly. “You have never disappointed me. Never. And…and I have been yours for far longer than I would ever dare to admit. And I always will be. Title or not.”

A relieved sigh traveled through his body, and Faramir reached up to place a hand on top of the ones that were curled into his shirt, purposefully pressing her hand down against his chest just a little bit more.

“No disappearing then?” he asked in a whisper.

Deora beamed, the corners of her eyes beginning to burn with the happiest of tears.

“No disappearing.” she confirmed. “You have my word.”

Faramir leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers with a purpose.

“As you have mine.”

[THE END]

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#boromir #faramir #faramirxoc #frodobaggins #galadriel #gondor #ithilien #jrrtolkien #lordoftherings #originalcharacter #originalfemalecharacter #thefellowshipofthering #thereturnoftheking #thetwotowers #tolkien #lightundertheshadowofblackwingsfic

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 14 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

blog masterlist || previous part || next part

Deora gingerly ushered her horse back through the main gates of the city limits. She was painfully bruised, her skin littered with both shallow and deep stab wounds.

But somehow, she had remained standing.

Back inside of the walls, the city was a flurry of movement. People had immediately met the army at the entrance, many of them crying in a combination of relief and devastation. They helped to usher both injured and uninjured horses alike back into their stables, while healers and wardens descended on the members of the army themselves. Backboards made of wood were shuffled out in order to carry some of the more dire situations up and into the waiting hands of the Healing Houses.

Deora found herself wandering the streets completely alone, in what could be best described as a daze. She had made sure that her horse had been taken care of, and had clapped arms with some of the Rangers that she could find, in some cases even sharing looks and occasional words of comfort. But ultimately, she ended up by herself. Watching on, unfocused, from the sidelines as people reunited with friends and family, or more often than not, delivered news of their fellow soldiers’ deaths.

Like a zombie, and with no particular destination in mind at that moment, she followed the path of the spiraled, cobblestone streets up towards the top layer of the city, slowly but surely closing in on the palace grounds.

Once she broke out onto that level, she had been approached by several different healers. She did her best to wave them off, saying that there were others who needed their skills more than she did, and that her particular injuries would ultimately heal on their own. But they had insisted, and Deora had been on the verge of beginning a verbal altercation, when suddenly, someone had called out her name high above the brewing chaos.

The voice had been soft, yet bold. Like a pleasant breeze in a late springtime afternoon. It cascaded down from the road above, echoing off of the walls to her right before eventually landing in her ear. There, it made a nest, much like a bird would amongst the branches of a tree. A familiar warmth quickly spread throughout her chest as she picked her head up to look over and beyond the shoulders of the group of healers.

Her eyes found the form that was standing at the top of the incline, just a few meters up the road from where she stood. And the moment that they did, her body was immediately rocked with powerful recognition. For she would know him in any light, in any season, in any dark corner of Middle Earth.

It felt as if she hadn’t seen his face for an entire year, rather than just a few hours.

But there he was, standing of his own power, his skin shining with new life. His left arm was resting gently in a temporary sling made of white fabric, but otherwise he looked practically unharmed. His eyes were bright, reflecting the sun that had begun to peek out through the clouds above them, and his mouth was parted in what appeared to be some level of relief.

A short breath tumbled out of Deora’s throat, and before she knew it, she was pushing past the nurses and tearing up the street herself.

Crashing directly into Faramir, Deora immediately wrapped her arms tightly around his shoulders. Simultaneously taking care not to apply too much pressure against his injured arm, she wound her fingers into the fabric at the top of the light blouse that he had draped over his torso. She felt his body shake with a gasp as he returned her gesture by wrapping his good arm around her waist.

Everything inside of her was screaming not to ever let him go. For she was convinced that this was some sort of hallucination. Certain that her battle-shaken brain had merely conjured up the image of him in some warped attempt to lift her spirits. But as his shoulders rose and fell underneath her chin, that suspicion quickly seeped away, relief filling her body instead.

When she did inevitably pull back from the man, she held his shoulders out in front of her at arms-length, eyes quickly darting across his face.

“How could you leave me like that?” Faramir had practically shouted at her upon seeing her face again.

Deora scoffed in disbelief, shoving his non-injured shoulder back and away from her with only a little bit of force.

“Hypocrite!” she spat. “You- you charged into an unwinnable battle without me at your side! You were dragged back by your horse with two arrows lodged in your chest! I saw you on a funeral pyre, Faramir! Don’t you dare accuse me of leaving! You left me first!”

A tense silence quickly fell over the two of them as her words bounced off of every stone structure in their immediate vicinity.

Both pairs of eyes took a quiet moment to dance across the other's expression, each of them slowly coming to the realization that they had begun sobbing. For matching rivers of tears were cascading down both their cheeks.

Deora felt a tremor pass through her body, as Faramir shook his head a few quick times.

“Do not, ever, leave my side again.” he suddenly demanded in a breathless whisper.

A soft scoff immediately escaped Deora’s nose.

“Is that an order from my Captain?” she asked, once more tracing his complex expression with her eyes.

The man visibly swallowed, his hand falling from around her waist. Instead, he had reached up, resting it against the side of her face. There, it lingered for a moment, his thumb swiping past one of the smaller cuts on the upper part of her cheek. Then slowly, he reached further back, so that his palm gently landed on the back of her head.

“It is a plea.” he corrected, adding only the smallest amounts of pressure to her skull. “A plea from the man who loves you.”

Deora’s eyes immediately widened, unable to stop her breath from catching in her throat. The part of her head that his hand was resting upon suddenly felt as if it were burning. The thought of hallucination came to the front of her mind yet again. For this couldn’t be real. She hadn’t even been certain that she was going to live less than an hour ago. And now her best friend, the man who had stood by her side in a way that no one else ever had, was standing before her. Alive.

Alive and saying that he loved her.

“You…?” she whispered, blinking a thousand times in an attempt to prove to herself that this wasn’t a dream.

Seeing this, the corners of Faramir’s mouth quirked upwards before he eventually began to nod his head a few, frantic times.

“Yes.” he whispered reverently. “Yes. Always.”

Deora immediately dropped the hold that she had on his shoulders. Instead, her palms flattened themselves out along either side of his jaw, tugging his face forward the few final inches that separated them, in order to press a rough and purposeful kiss onto his lips.

She felt him sigh against her, relief seeping out of his very pores as his fingers wound themselves tighter in the tangled strands of hair at the back of her head.

Deora was relentless. It was as if she were starving and had finally been granted a morsel of food. For she attempted to consume him, to memorize the feeling of his lips against hers in case it would be the very last thing that she would ever feel in her time on this earth.

This was it, she realized. The crest that she wore across her chest signified the culmination and achievement of her lofty goals and staunch ambitions. But as her thumbs gently dragged themselves across the tops of Faramir’s cheeks…that signified the true manifestation of her dreams.

For it wasn’t her pride that was satisfied in that moment, but her soul.

Their inevitable parting was slow, as neither of them truly desired to initiate it.

Faramir had immediately braced his forehead up against hers as they took a moment to breathe the same air. Breaking out into a sweet, but true smile, his hand fell from the back of her head only to gently rest once more along the side of her face.

“My flower…” he whispered lovingly.

A tearful laugh escaped Deora’s throat as she immediately surged forward to kiss him again.

The bustling sounds of the city continued to drone on around them, but neither paid it even an ounce of attention. For all that seemed to matter in that moment was each other. All that seemed to exist was each other.

There would eventually come a time where Deora managed to coax him back up and into the Healing Houses. And once inside, she had been much easier to convince in terms of accepting care for herself.

But neither of them left the other’s side.

As they had promptly sworn never to do again.

Gandalf stood inside the throne room of Minas Tirith. Both chairs behind him were still vacant, as they were set to remain until Aragorn was finally crowned at his coronation.

A date that was now fast approaching.

Standing in front of the wizard, was a lightly armored soldier, donning nothing more than a leather chest plate across their torso. Not even a sword was strapped to their side.

“The Eagles were able to rescue Frodo and Sam from the side of the mountain.” he was informing them. “They are recovering in Rivendell, under the diligent eyes of Elrond and his people. Aragorn insists on remaining at their side until they are fully healed.”

Deora let out a heavy breath, briefly resting a hand on top of her chest, just above the intricate depiction of the White Tree that was etched in the center of her breast plate. She hadn’t exactly permitted herself to dwell on the fates of the Hobbits after the battle at the Gates of Mordor. To think about it was to instantly bring immense pain to her heart.

Now, relief was flooding it instead.

“Thank you, Gandalf.” she whispered. “This news is…it sets my mind much more at ease.”

At that, the wizard managed a genuine smile.

“I must say-” he began, leaning slightly against his new staff. “-you wear ‘Head of the Palace Guard’ very well, young Deora.”

The woman did her best to temper whatever wild, near-childish smile had wanted to make an appearance in that moment.

“Yes, well-” she swallowed. “There is still much to do in order to rebuild our city. I am just grateful to help wherever I can.”

Footsteps suddenly sounded from behind her, and she could see Gandalf’s eyes flicker briefly over her shoulder, his irises immediately igniting with a playful twinkle.

“Well then, I should take my leave of you.” he said, leaning on his staff a bit more. “I will send a missive when we are to begin the journey from Rivendell.”

Deora gently bowed her head.

“We eagerly await your return, Master Gandalf.”

The Wizard smiled, humming lightly in response. His eyes flickered over her shoulder one last time before eventually turning towards the main doors and disappearing outside.

When the doors closed behind him, Deora let out a soft breath before tilting her head over her shoulder. Just in time to watch as the intermittent Steward of Gondor crossed the rest of the throne room in order to place himself directly in front of her.

Deora greeted Faramir with a slightly sarcastic bow. Her actions immediately rewarded with a smile. A bright, real, and overtly warm one at that.

She had always loved Faramir’s smile, but it simply meant more in those days. For it was a smile that she knew was only meant for her. A smile that somehow managed to say a thousand words at once.

“Leadership suits you.”

The corners of Deora’s lips twitched slightly as she let out a soft hum.

“I know.”

Faramir tilted his head to the side.

“You always did, didn’t you?”

Finally, the soldier released her smile from its containment.

“As I hope my Captain did as well.” she retorted playfully.

Faramir, smile never faltering, reached out to grab a gentle hold of one of her hands, from where they had been resting at her sides. He swiftly brought it up to his face, pressing a gentle kiss onto the back of her knuckles.

“He did indeed.” he mused in a quiet, but earnest tone. “Walk with me?”

Deora accepted his invitation, as most of her duties for the day were already complete. She allowed the Steward to lead her on a quiet, and pleasant stroll about the palace grounds.

Eventually, the two of them emerged out into the main courtyard, their pace only slowing when they arrived at the base of the White Tree. Which, even though the battle for Middle Earth was a memory of only a few weeks past, was already beginning to rebloom with magnificent white flowers.

The sight immediately made Deora smile in spite of herself. She reached out with her free hand to gently run two fingers across the petals of the bushel closest to her.

Feeling Faramir suddenly tighten his grip on her other hand, she glanced back over her shoulder. With a smile, the man simply nodded his head back towards the tree.

“They still remind me of you.” he said sweetly.

Deora dropped her hold on the flower, turning her entire body back towards the man at her side.

“I think you have adopted that title now, don’t you think?”

Faramir quickly shook his head.

“I would certainly not bear it as beautifully as you do.”

Deora hummed, reaching her hand up to gently cradle the side of his face.

“I disagree.” she mused, as Faramir continued to stare back at her in awestruck wonder. “For you have always been the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon. And now, you have finally begun looking back towards the sunlight after years of being trampled over. There is simply no one more deserving, Faramir.”

Faramir’s eyes were shining as she spoke, and when she stopped, only then did she notice the single tear that was beginning to travel down the side of his face.

Immediately, Deora wiped it away.

“Have I mentioned how much I love you?” he asked in a whisper.

Deora immediately let out a soft laugh.

“Perhaps a few times.”

Faramir reached up to place his hand on top of the one she had resting against his cheek, dragging his thumb a few repetitive times along the backs of her knuckles.

“I will spend the rest of my life repeating it.” he said suddenly, his tone a bit more serious this time around.

Deora let out another laugh.

“You do not have to do that, Faramir.” she replied. “Just being here with you is…more than I ever dared to ask for.” Her voice had started to waver a bit inside of her throat as she made it to the end of her declaration, suddenly finding herself overcome by her emotions.

Seeing this, Faramir had instantly pulled her back towards him, and the two fell into a tight embrace beneath the White Tree.

Beyond their position, a beautiful sunset that neither of them had paid a single bit of attention to, warmed their forms as Deora clung onto Faramir’s shoulders a bit tighter. With her face buried into the crook of his neck she felt, first time in her entire life, like she truly belonged somewhere.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 13 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Deora didn’t recall much of the march towards the Black Gates.

Holding on rather tightly to the reins of her horse, she was trotting alongside Gandalf in the front-most part of the company. Aragorn, done up fully in King’s armor, led their charge with the remaining members of the Fellowship at his side. Two Halflings; Pippin and his friend, who she had come to know as Merry, were tightly seated in front of Galdalf atop of his horse.

They eventually came to rest a mere few yards away from the daunting entrance. Aragorn ordered a majority of their company to stay back before taking a small greeting party towards the doors themselves.

That was the moment in which Deora’s mind finally came back down from the clouds, when Gandalf had ushered her forward alongside the horses of Prince Legolas, Prince Éomer, and Aragorn.

When the small convoy pulled themselves to a stop in front of the gates, they were met with complete and total silence.

“Where are they?” Pippin whispered from off to her right.

Aragorn’s horse stomped impatiently underneath him.

“Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!” the man shouted boldly. “Let justice be done upon him!”

A tense silence followed, and they could hear his words bouncing off of distant rock formations, before echoing out across the lands far beyond the gates.

Slowly, but surely, the large door in front of them began to creak open, just enough to deposit one, lone, dark rider onto the field. His horse matched his terrifying deposition almost identically as they galloped over to meet them.

As he stopped in front of their party, Deora’s nose immediately scrunched up in disgust.

The figure before them was tall and completely cloaked. The only part of him that they could see was his giant, grotesque mouth, coming in at close to the size of her horse’s entire head. His teeth were mostly broken and blood-filled, something they were given a rather clear view of as he sneered in their direction.

“My master, Sauron the Great, bids thee welcome.” the creature hissed. “Is there any in this rout with authority to treat with me?”

Next to her, Gandalf’s white horse shifted slightly as the Wizard moved to speak.

“We do not come to treat with Sauron, faithless and accursed.” Gandalf spat. “Tell your master this: the armies of Mordor must disband. He is to depart these lands, never to return.”

The creature audibly growled.

“Old Greybeard-” he retaliated with disdain. “I have a token I was bidden to show thee.”

From inside his cloak, he produced a small tunic made up of a shiny, intricately crafted metal.

Deora had been momentarily confused at the display, but from where he was sitting in front of Gandalf, Pippin had immediately let out a whimper.

“Frodo…”

Gandalf attempted to quiet him by nudging his shoulder, but the creature of Mordor heard his voice, his grotesque smile growing even further. He tossed the shirt over to Gandalf, who caught it rather clumsily.

“Frodo!” Pippin repeated in a slightly louder cry.

“Silence!” Gandalf hissed.

“No!”

“The Halfling was dear to thee, I see.” the creature mocked them. “Know that he suffered greatly at the hand of his host. Who would’ve thought one so small could endure so much pain? And he did, Gandalf. He did.”

Deora felt her heartbeat increase with anger and disgust. It was a familiar feeling at first, the kind that would often surface whenever she had been forced to listen to Denethor’s, or even her own father’s, jeers and slights. But this time, it grew to a different kind of scale.

This time, she was filled with the desire to kill.

Aragorn moved his horse forward with a purpose, easily drawing all attention to himself.

“And who is this? Isildur’s heir?” the creature spat. “It takes more to make a king than a broken Elvish blade-”

No one had even seen him draw his sword.

But in a blink, the creature’s head had dropped down to the ground beneath his horse’s hooves.

The Dwarf, Gimli, who was sharing a horse with Prince Legolas, scoffed audibly.

“I guess that concludes negotiations.”

Aragorn turned his horse back around, his eyes ablaze as he stared back at Gandalf.

“I do not believe it.” he declared. “I will not.”

Back behind him, the gates of Mordor suddenly began to pry open even further. And beyond it, illuminated by the bright orange light of the distant and daunting Great Eye, they could see the remainder of Sauron’s forces beginning to march straight towards them.

“Pull back!” Aragorn commanded. “Pull back!”

Catching her breath, Deora tugged on the reins of her horse, sprinting back towards their ranks.

Faramir had blinked awake not long after the forces of men had left the city limits.

He had quickly recognized the white pillars of the Healing Houses, remembering through a hazy fog that he had been brought there after a rather violent bout of fire. But he had still awoken with enough of a start to alert the nearby nurses.

They had quickly sent for the Warden, who explained to Faramir that he had been fully healed and just needed to take things slowly in order to ensure that the Black Breath had been fully banished from his system.

Nodding his head in understanding, Faramir absentmindedly ran his fingers through his hair, suddenly recalling the vague sensation of someone else doing much of the same for him whilst he was fading in and out of consciousness.

At that thought, he briefly glanced around the room.

“Where is the woman that was here with me?” he quickly asked the Warden before they could walk away from his cot. “I could’ve sworn-”

“The Gondorian soldier?”

Faramir had almost smiled at that. Almost.

“Yes.” he said with an urgent nod. “Yes. The soldier.”

The Warden turned her head, glancing out towards a distant window that overlooked both a small courtyard, and the plains beyond their city.

“Well, she would be leagues away with the rest of the army by now.”

Faramir quickly followed her eyeline. Then, as if in a trance, stood up from his bed in order to walk over to the window himself. Staring out at the fields beyond, he just mange to make out a small blip on the horizon; the shadowy outline of an army.

“Where do they go?” he asked.

“They are taking the fight to the Black Gate.” the Warden answered him. “‘The final stand for Middle Earth’ the White Wizard called it.”

All the color that had since returned to Faramir’s skin, immediately drained. Staring out the window, fear took hold of his entire being, and in a flash, he had turned around in a frantic attempt to sprint out of the Healing Houses completely.

“Lord Faramir!”

Breathing heavily, he had made it to the top of the staircase of the main courtyard, before a small group of guards and nurses had finally caught up with him. They grabbed his arms, and waist, holding him back from his attempts to practically throw himself down the steps.

“No! Let me go!” he cried out, momentarily fighting against them with all the strength he could muster. “She- she must come back! She must…” a sob finally tumbled out of his throat, ruining his coherent speech.

The exertion was quick to take a toll on his already weak form, and soon thereafter he had passed out once more, the group of soldiers and nurses managing to catch him just before he fully collapsed to the ground.

Looming in front of them now, were an uncountable amount of Orcs and other terrifying beasts that had streamed out of the gates of Mordor.

The entire army at Deora’s flank watched them approach with wary expressions.

Aragorn turned his horse so that he could run up and down the lines of soldiers.

“Hold your ground! Hold your ground!” he cried out to them in an attempt to keep their fighting spirits alight. “Sons of Gondor, of Rohan, my brothers! I see in your eyes the same fear that would take the heart of me! A day may come when the courage of Men fails, when we forsake our friends and break all bonds of fellowship! But it is not this day! An hour of wolves and shattered shields when the Age of Men comes crashing down! But it is not this day! This day we fight! By all that you hold dear on this good earth, I bid you stand, Men of the West!”

In the chorus of swords drawing, Deora found herself momentarily noting to herself that she had never seen someone more kingly than the man in front of them now.

Endowed by the sense of comradery that Aragorn’s words had produced, their army stood steadfast, waiting and watching as Sauron’s forces slowly began to encircle their position.

There was a terrifying pause, the gaze of the Eye on the top of the distant, dark tower bearing down upon them. Its fiery, orange glow practically burned a hole into their numbers.

Aragorn had disembarked from his horse, as many, but not all of them had also done by that point. And for a moment, he stood motionless in front of the army. His gaze had been fixed on the distant tower, before slowly he turned back around to face them.

And even from her distance, Deora could see the tears that were streaming down his face.

“For Frodo.” was all that he stated before spinning back around and charging directly at that army of Orcs.

And the first two to follow in his footsteps, were none other than Merry and Pippin.

With the rest of the army of the West now spurred to action, their battle cries began to echo up and into the dark sky above their heads.

At that point in her life, Deora could no longer count the number of battles she had been in on both hands. But still, none of them could hold a candle to the brutality and desperation of the one that she had leapt into in the shadows of the Black Gates of Mordor.

They were hopelessly outnumbered, even more so than they had been back at Minas Tirith. Orcs poured down on them like violent waters that would crash over rocky rapids. Every time that they would cut one down, at least ten more appeared to take its place.

She could often sense when blades would get close enough to break the skin on her arms and face, but the amount of adrenaline pumping through her veins did not allow her to feel the sting of the injuries themselves.

Deora hadn’t seen the Halflings since they had first charged into the battle, and she had not the time nor the ability to dwell on what could’ve become of their fate. For the surviving Nazgul and their riders had quickly descended upon the fight as well, attacks now coming at them from the sky above as well as the earth below.

With her body moving on pure instinct alone, Deora’s thoughts were able to momentarily fall upon what exactly she was fighting for.

In her mind, she could hear the echoes of Aragorn’s speech about the good earth that they lived on, and the age of Men that they were all a part of. But was that really what she was skewering Orcs for? Was that really what she was taking slashes of cursed steel for?

There had been a singular moment that she had been able to take a rather deep breath in, both sweat and blood pouring in rivers down either side of her face. And in her mouth, she could taste the mixture of iron and salt that had begun to collect in there as well.

No.

She wasn’t fighting for any of that.

And the only thing that she could bring herself to regret was not being able to see his face one last time.

As Deora quickly made peace with her seemingly inevitable fate in the midst of the horrid battle, a different screech suddenly echoed out across the plains. Her head, as well as the heads of most of the battle's participants, shot up towards the gray sky above them, watching as large shapes dipped out from behind the cover of the clouds.

“Eagles!” a small voice from off to Deora’s right shouted. “The Eagles are coming!”

Their forces watched on in surprise as the majestic creatures, clad in golden-brown feathers, descended upon the Nazgul's and their riders. Sharp talons dug into their long, snaky necks, tearing and gnawing at them violently. And in a matter of minutes, the skies were somehow clear.

Using the surprise to their advantage, the army of the West pushed forward into the Orcs with added pressure. And once the Nazgul's were either dealt with or had been forced to flee, the Eagles turned their attention towards those enemies on the ground.

Their momentary edge was very quick to fizzle out, sheer numbers overwhelming them once more. Soldiers were being dropped in stomach-turning amounts, all the while giant trolls had begun to stomp out of the gates and through their forces, crushing men beneath their feet and sending others flying with erratic swings of their deadly clubs.

Deora had taken a rather violent hit to the stomach, the butt of an Orc’s sword managing to nail her there, and her metal armor had done very little to absorb the shock. She had immediately keeled over, a grunt of pain falling from her throat. She had managed to prevent herself from completely falling to the ground, but by that time, the Orc was already bearing down on her again in a clear attempt to finish her off.

Throwing up her sword, she just barely caught the hilt of his sword before it had been able to bury itself into her skull. And in that moment, she knew that she wouldn’t be able to keep up for much longer. He was simply coming at her too fast, and she still had yet to take so much as a single breath.

A horrifying, ground-shaking scream suddenly echoed out from somewhere far beyond their position. The Orc looming over Deora shuddered, stopping its attack and instead turning its attention back towards the gates that it had marched out of. The rest of his brethren appeared to be doing much of the same, the entire battle coming to an eerie, simultaneous stop.

Instinctively, her body took in the breath it had been lacking, a choking gasp escaping her throat as she did so. Her head quickly snapped to the left, following the gaze of the armies of Sauron.

In the distance, they watched in awestruck terror as the tower of Barad-dur began to crumble and fall right before their eyes. The Eye of Sauron looked around panicked for just a moment longer before ultimately sputtering out like the last licks of flame on a dying funeral pyre.

Sauron’s troops immediately began to flee, roars of terror rippling throughout them. The armies of the West, in contrast, stood still in their shock as the tower fully collapsed to the ground.

When it ultimately made contact with the earth below, a massive explosion rocked the lands, and they could literally see the blast wave as it began to quickly tear across Mordor. In its wake, the Black Lands shook, slowly beginning to crack, before ultimately falling away into deep, dark, nothingness.

The wave shot through the gates and began to swallow up the dark army even as they made their attempts to flee. A large crack splintered out right in front of Deora’s foot, the ground there beginning to fall away as well. Orcs and Trolls screamed as they began to fall into the new cavern. The force of the earth ripping apart had managed to knock her to the ground, and in a panic, she had scrambled backwards, for fear that she might be dragged down with them. But in a strange stroke of luck, or maybe luck wasn’t quite the right word, the ground beneath where she had been previously standing remained perfectly intact.

Glancing around her position, she slowly came to the realization that in fact any piece of land that the armies of the West stood upon, was seemingly untouched.

Jubilant shouts began to erupt from their remaining numbers, and Deora let out a shaky breath of disbelief.

Materializing seemingly out of nowhere, a hand had reached down over her left shoulder. As she looked up and past it, she found Gandalf’s soot-covered face staring back down at her stoically.

Taking another difficult breath in, she placed her hand into the Wizard’s, allowing him to help her back up and onto her feet.

“Frodo!” the sound of a Halfling’s voice began to shout amongst the other cheers of victory. “Frodo!”

But just as he had begun his rousing cheer, the top of the distant Mount Doom exploded. A fountain of lava and fire burst forth from deep inside of the heart of the rocky massif in a horrifying, deadly eruption.

Their army quickly fell silent, most of them possessed with the knowledge that somewhere amongst that fiery chaos…were two little Hobbits.

Where they were exactly in that moment, they truly did not know. But as the fire continued to rain down on the far away hillside, they had a hard time keeping hopes for their survival alight.

Deora turned back to Gandalf, childishly searching for wisdom in his ancient eyes. But even he, in all of his years, could not hide the worry that permeated his expression.

Instead, the wizard placed a hand on her shoulder, gingerly tilting his head back in a silent order for her to rejoin the army as they began to take stock of their injured and dead, before ultimately beginning to make their journey back to Gondor.

During which, neither of them managed to speak so much as a word to the other.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 12 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

blog masterlist || previous part || next part

Back outside the city, the Rohirrim had successfully managed to push a large chunk of the Orc armies into a retreat that sent them flailing back towards the Black Lands. Because of this, they had turned their attention instead to the new threat of the Mûmakil, but unfortunately were not faring as well against the giant beasts and their riders. Their long, spiked tusks were sending them flying out across the battlefield, and their feet crushed men and horses alike into oblivion.

Inside the city, Deora had rejoined her men in hacking away at the legions of Orcs that had nearly made their way to the top-most level of Minas Tirith. She hadn’t been able to see straight for the better half of the last hour. All she saw was a blur of both metal and blood, and she was nearly certain that she had been screaming the entire time.

Somehow meeting back up with the remaining Rangers, she managed, no matter how frantic her mind truly was in that moment, to organize a fairly violent assault against one of the larger Orc clusters that had been attempting to break down another gateway into one of the upper levels. Bum-rushing the beasts, their measley forces pushed them back a rather significant distance, paying for it with many lives.

Once the immediate area was clear, Deora let out a painful groan, swiping at the line of blood that was cascading down the side of her head. And it was only in that brief moment of respite that she had been able to look out over the battlefield beyond the city limits.

And she was certain that she had been hallucinating.

Washing over the armies of Orcs and wicked men, was what looked to be a wave made of wispy, unnatural, green light. She could hear their screams echoing up into the air, and as it moved on, it was leaving behind piles and piles of unmoving bodies in its wake.

It wasn’t until the wave began to make its way within the walls and subsequently up the spiral streets of the city, that her hallucination-suspicion had been shattered. As she was able to see, once and for all, what it was.

Thousands upon thousands of ghostly soldiers stormed over the cobblestone, slaying every single one of Gondor’s enemies that they passed.

Those who stood there with the White Tree splayed across their chests could only stand and stare on in terrified awe as the waves of spirits passed them by, unable to truly comprehend what it was that they were seeing.

And then suddenly…the battlefield was clear. Both inside and outside the city. Those who had not been slain by the ghosts turning and fleeing towards the borders of Mordor.

Breathing heavily, still teetering on the verge of passing out, Deora managed to regain control of her mind for a moment enough to turn back to the soldiers in her immediate area. With as much authority as she could muster, she ordered them to begin the rescue efforts for the injured both inside and outside the city walls.

In the organized chaos that followed the conclusion of the battle, as the people of Gondor slowly crawled out of the blood and rubble, Deora received bits and pieces of information concerning what had truly transpired outside of their walls.

A separate group from the Rohirrim, made up of three lone characters; a dwarf, an elven prince, and Aragorn son of Arathorn, had summoned the ghostly army onto the scene. They had apparently been the spirits of those who had broken an oath of fealty to the last King of Gondor and owed their allegiance in battle for them to officially be able to cross over into the afterlife. Aragorn, being the true and living heir, had been able to call upon them to fulfill that very oath.

And they were blessed that the spirits had agreed.

Deora had also discovered through the whispers and shouts of stories that were quickly passing through the city, that those three had been a part of the original Fellowship that had been traveling with Sam and Frodo.

Amidst the recovery efforts, Gandalf had summoned those three, as well as Éomer, Prince of Rohan, into the main palace in order to further discuss what they could do to keep the forces of Mordor at bay whilst the city attempted to rebuild itself and its defenses.

Deora, however, was not present at that meeting.

The moment that she was content with the way things were being handled out in the streets, she had made for the Healing Houses. And that is where she remained.

Sitting at the edge of a cot, her own arms bandaged to oblivion in order to stop up the many deep cuts that she had sustained over the course of the battle, her face was damp with the remnants of tears she had long since cried out.

Faramir’s body was laid out in front of her, in a cot parallel to her own, matching perfectly with the other hundreds of occupied ones that sat within the infirmary.

At a glance, he looked ethereally peaceful. Almost as if he had simply gone to sleep for the night. And if she hadn’t seen nor remembered all of the terrible things he had gone through in the past several hours, she would’ve been able to convince herself that it was so.

His chest was rising and falling, but just barely. His breathing itself was so very slow.

And Deora felt completely helpless.

Feeling another sob attempting to climb its way up her throat, she swiftly pushed herself off of the cot she had been sitting on, instead kneeling down at the side of Faramir’s. She rested her forehead against the thin piece of fabric that he was laying on, roughly grabbing onto the edges of it with her hands.

“Come back.” she commanded in a desperate, shaking whisper, despite knowing full well that he could not hear her. “Please. Come back to me.”

Only the quiet nothingness answered her.

Deora had remained in that position for close to an hour, when footsteps suddenly broke through the otherwise terrible silence. She could hear them passing by the left side of where she was kneeling, but did not lift her head to watch them, assuming that it was just another one of the nurses.

But when the steps came to an obvious stop at the end of Faramir’s cot, her shoulders quickly tensed up. Their owner remained silent for a moment longer before ultimately speaking a gentle whisper out into the air.

“My lady…”

Carefully lifting up her head, Deora suddenly found herself staring straight back at the fabled Aragorn, son of Arathorn.

Up until that point, she had only ever really heard about the man in passing whispers. He was no more than a myth, or a blur on a battlefield that she was too far away to see. But now, as he was standing before her, she couldn’t help but notice just how much he looked like those sketched depictions of the Kings of Old that could be found inside of books or painted within the frames that dotted the hallways of the royal palace.

Absent-mindedly, she also noticed just how similar her hair and her eyes were to his. And she was reminded of a time when she was young, when the people of her town would jokingly compare her to the Dúnedain.

That’s when it hit her.

He was one of the Dúnedain.

In one hand, Aragorn was holding what appeared to be a pot of water, and in the other, a bushel of Athela’s.

Staring back at him with dry, bloodshot eyes, she silently inquired as to his purpose.

The man carefully approached her side, kneeling down to her level at the edge of Faramir’s cot.

“I can heal him.” he said gently. “Will you allow me to do as such?”

Deora took in a sharp breath, instantly nodding her head. She didn’t dare question as to how he planned to do so, but if this fabled hero claimed that he could help Faramir, that was the only thing she truly cared about.

“Please, my lord. Do whatever you can.” she whispered weakly in response.

Aragorn nodded, immediately moving to begin his work.

She remained at his side, watching intently as he began to rip the plants apart. He would then dip handfuls of them into the pot of water that he had brought with him, before reaching out and swiping them up and down Faramir’s arms. He repeated the process across his face, and any other inch of exposed skin that he could reasonably reach.

It was all very ritualistic in nature, and Deora didn’t even attempt to comprehend how it was supposed to work.

But when Faramir’s lips suddenly parted, and he took in a long, deep breath that filled his lungs to capacity, any and all skepticism she might have harbored, immediately disappeared.

Her entire body lurched towards where his head was resting against the small, simple pillow. Shaking hands reached up to gingerly brush back some of the hair that was still plastered against the sides of his face.

“Faramir?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

The man on the cot took in a few more deep breaths, his mouth opening and closing with what appeared to be a bit of effort.

Next to her, Aragorn slowly stood back up, watching the scene unfold carefully.

Faramir’s eyes slowly began to peel themselves open. Not enough to where she could see the totality of their brilliant green color, but just enough for her heart to swell with relief.

“Deora…” his voice came out next, raspy and weak. “My…my flower…is that you?” he asked, a hand weakly reaching up to grasp at where her arm was hovering above his form.

The woman let out a half-laugh-half-sob at the sound of his voice. She turned her head to briefly look back at Aragorn, nodding her thanks as tears began to steadily stream down her cheeks.

The man of legend said nothing in return, simply smiled back at her, his expression and demeanor emitting nothing but pure, unaltered kindness.

Deora quickly turned back to her Captain.

“Shhhhh…yes, it’s me Faramir.” she cooed, her hands moving to tuck more of his hair behind his ears. Her fingers, shaking as they were, ran down the side of his visage several, repetitive times. “Please, save your strength. You must be the flower now. You must come back to us.”

Faramir was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open as she spoke, and soon thereafter had slipped back into unconsciousness, his hand falling from her arm as he did so.

More tears fell from her eyes as her hands paused on either side of his bruised face.

“Do not despair, my lady.” Aragorn called out to her gently. “He will be alright. I can assure you.”

Deora quickly reached up with one of her hands to brush away her tears as best she could before turning her attention back to him.

“Thank you.” was all she could manage to whisper in response.

Aragorn bowed his head, before turning to begin floating out amongst the other cots within the Healing Houses.

Despite his recovery promised to her, Deora had refused to leave Faramir’s side, even to eat. Something in the back of her mind kept whispering to her that if she dared to take her eyes off of him for even so much as a second, he would disappear. So, in the hours that followed, she resorted to carefully tracing the lines of his face over and over again, with both her eyes and fingers.

She had looked upon Faramir’s face an uncountable amount of times over the many long years that she had known him. But this was something entirely different.

To have almost lost him, it was like nothing she had ever felt before. No enemy on the battlefield, no threat from an abusive father, could have ever compared to the terror that had seized her entire being when she truly thought that she was about to live in a world in which he did not exist.

Another pair of footsteps soon interrupted her ever-spiraling thoughts. Glancing over her shoulder, she was surprised to find none other than the White Wizard himself now standing a few paces across the room.

Gulping, she quickly averted her gaze.

As she returned her attention to Faramir’s sleeping face, Gandalf had carefully walked further inside the infirmary, until he eventually placed himself directly at her side.

A heavy silence fell over their small group, and Deora found herself recalling just how long it had been since the three of them specifically had been gathered together.

And this was nothing like the past.

There were no stories here. No songs or displays of magic. Only silence and despair.

A shaky sigh traveled through Deora’s entire body, her shoulders slumping forward as she lost her grip the effort she had been employing in order to keep them set straight.

“He never wanted this…” she finally dared to whisper, her voice barely carrying up into the air. “...to be caught up in a war…his nature is far too gentle.”

Gandalf let out a low hum in agreement.

“That it is.” he said, letting another pointed silence pass over them before speaking again. “Which is why it is you I would call upon to join us at the Black Gate.”

Deora’s head snapped over to the wizard in surprise.

“What?”

“We are to make a final stand for Middle Earth, to give an opportunity for Frodo to sneak past Mordor’s defenses and destroy the One Ring once and for all.” he explained strategically. “You are a soldier of Gondor. Your people would call on you to fight.”

A soldier of Gondor…

Never had she been outwardly called that before by anyone except Faramir.

Swallowing again, she glanced back down at her friend’s sleeping form. There, her eyes remained for a moment longer before eventually turning back to Gandalf and slowly nodding her head in silent acceptance.

Gandalf returned the nod solemnly.

“We are set to march within the hour.”

When she again relayed her understanding, the wizard finally let her be.

The hour passed far too quickly, and Deora soon found herself standing in the center of the Healing Houses in full Gondorian armor. Sword strapped to her side, and the White Tree splayed out across her chest.

The color had almost completely returned to Faramir’s face by that point in the afternoon, and his chest rose and fell with a more regulated tempo.

She silently prayed to anyone or anything that could’ve been listening to her in that moment, that he would wake up to a world that was whole again.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 11 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Deora was barking orders at her men, lining them up amongst the City Guard in the battlements.

As the Orcs siege towers continued to close in on their city walls, she had been pacing up and down every inch of the outer defenses, making sure that all able-bodied soldiers were in their places, ready for the conflict that was set to break out at any moment.

In the midst of the chaos, a shout from several layers down in the city somehow managed to catch her attention.

“Open the gate! Quick!”

Peering over the wall, she glanced down at the main road, where she was able to watch a rush of soldiers as they worked to pry open the wood doors of the main gate. Through it, trotted a semi-injured, terrified horse. It was continuously rearing back and whining in pain as the soldiers below ran over to tend to it.

It took Deora a few more seconds of empty staring to notice that it was also dragging a body along with it, its foot caught in the straps of the stirrup. And as more soldiers rushed to his side, hoisting it up off of the ground, her breath lodged in her throat as she saw a flash of blood-soaked, auburn hair.

As the soldiers quickly dashed away with the body, a loud war cry rang out from the army that now saturated the land outside their city, quickly stealing away her attention.

They could hear the metal clanging and whirring of machinery, and someone shouted for the soldiers to watch out for incoming.

Seeing projectiles coming their way, Deora and the other soldiers on the battlements with her, quickly threw up their shields in order to cover themselves.

Except, it wasn’t rocks that came crashing down on them.

It was heads.

Heads of the dead Rangers of Ithilien and White Tower Guard members who had lost their lives back in Osgiliath.

Soldiers around her let out horrified shouts, and Deora had to swallow down the acidic bile that had nearly leapt up and out of her throat. For she had known every single one of those men, at the very least by name.

She knew that she couldn’t afford the time to think on that horrifying fact, not while she could still hear the echoes of the army that was now standing directly beneath their city walls.

“Hold!” she shouted desperately at the soldiers in her vicinity.

And eventually, the revolting onslaught came to a stop.

As they stood there for the next tense few minutes, forced to listen to the drums and rhythmic chanting of their enemies, a loud, singular shout suddenly came echoing down from the courtyard that towered leagues above their heads.

“Abandon your posts!” Denethor’s voice boomed out across the city. “Flee! Flee for your lives!”

Deora let out a breath of disgusted disbelief. The soldiers around her exchanged looks of fear and uncertainty. Hearing the man effectively in charge of the entire kingdom screaming down at them to flee, hearing the terror and damn near deranged-filled tone of his voice, that was somehow scarier than the army that was looming outside the walls.

Glancing back up at the courtyard that jutted out above their heads, Deora managed to catch a glimpse of Denethor before suddenly, something smacked him across the back of his head. The Steward then unceremoniously dropped away from their sight.

In his place, emerged an enraged-looking White Wizard.

“Prepare for battle!”

Spurred to action by the sound of Gandalf's voice, Deora immediately tore back down the lines of soldiers, echoing out his order.

“To the wall!” she shouted, her voice booming drowning out the worried whispers and shouts. “Defend the wall!”

Soldiers surged forward to do just that, but she could still sense the palpable blanket of fear that was sitting on all of their shoulders.

“Return to your posts!” she heard Gandalf shout from above them, telling her that Denethor’s words had nearly worked on some of the clusters of soldiers.

They quickly began to load large rocks and pieces of rubble into their catapults, wasting no more time before beginning their own assault on the army gathered below.

But it did not take long for the Orcs to retaliate. And much larger chunks of rocks, most likely pulled from the wreckage of Osgiliath itself, began to bombard their walls. The common folk began screaming in terror, those who had not already retreated into hiding, running about the streets in order to search for any sort of shelter that they could.

Up on the highest set of battlements, soldiers had attempted to dive out of the way of the boulders as they arced towards their numbers, but most were sent flying upon the rubble’s impact.

“Down to the lower lever! Quick!”

As the soldiers continued to scramble, a terrifying, but now familiar shriek filled the air.

Whipping her attention towards the sky, Deora’s throat closed up as she watched the Nazgul and their riders begin to dip and dive throughout the city. They snatched up civilians and soldiers alike, dropping them from immense heights or simply ripping them in half in mid-air.

That’s when the siege towers finally reached the walls.

And hundreds of Orcs began to swarm into their kingdom.

Tripping over piles of rubble and bodies alike, Deora sprinted down to assist the soldiers trying desperately to hold their lines at the main gate. There, she stumbled upon Gandalf, on horseback, who had already begun his efforts to rally the troops as they continuously flinched away from whatever massive battering ram was attempting to shatter the reinforced wood. Archers up on the higher levels were desperately trying to pick off those on the outside.

“Fight them back!” Gandalf was shouting, when Deora suddenly watched his head whip around to look at a point behind his horse. “Peregrin Took! Go back to the Citadel!”

Deora followed his eyeline in surprise, finding the small Hobbit standing amongst the crowds of soldiers and Orcs, staring up at the sky as if caught in some sort of trance.

“They called us out to fight.”

Deora immediately tore forward, cutting down the three Orcs that had dared to jump out into her path, one of which had been heading straight for Pippin. She was quick to separate its head from its body with as clean a swing of her sword that she could muster.

“Pippin, go back inside!” she shouted as more Orcs descended upon her position.

In response, she heard the Hobbit scream in fear, and when she had the smallest break in enemies, she glanced over just in time to watch as Pippin managed to shove his small sword into the stomach of an Orc that just so happened to be coming up on her blindside.

As she blinked in surprise, Gandalf rounded on their small group in the middle of the chaos.

“Guard of the Citadel indeed.” the White Wizard remarked. “Now, back! Up the hill! Quickly!”

This time, Pippin listened.

Gandalf and Deora turned their attention back to the Orcs at hand. There was an overwhelming amount of them, surging forward over the walls and down into the streets in concussive waves.

At some point during the battle, Deora’s fighting had lost all sense of form and frame, instead turning into steady, repetitive swings of her sword.

On the other side of the gate, they could hear the army of Sauron beginning to chant something that they couldn't quite make out. But whatever it was, caused Gandalf to look down at the Lieutenant.

“Back to the gate!” he commanded her and anybody else who would listen.

The moment that they arrived, something hit the wooden doors so powerfully that the entire earth seemed to shake underneath their boots.

Deora leapt into the fray with the soldiers that were desperately attempting to shore up the doors.

“Steady!”

But ultimately, the battering ram broke through their defenses. It was a massive metal thing, molded into the shape of some sort of beast, a lit fire broiling inside of its open maw. The soldiers who were manning the barricade immediately fell back in fear, and she could see and feel all of their desires to flee or simply succumb to death right then and there.

“You are soldiers of Gondor!” she screamed out at them. “No matter what comes through that gate, you will stand your ground!”

On a terrifyingly perfect cue, the doors splintered open, and a legion of armored trolls began thundering towards their numbers.

“Volley! Fire!” Gandalf shouted from somewhere back behind her position, immediately summoning a flood of arrows down and into the messy battle that was now exploding at the gates.

Deora dove into the mess with the rest of the soldiers, falling into a bloody heap of monsters and men, but they were swiftly pushed back from the door, and ultimately further up into the city itself.

They were losing ground fast, and before she knew it, Deora found herself on the second level of Minas Tirith. Far too close to the Citadel for her taste.

In the midst of the fighting, above all the noise, all the chaos, and all the blood rushing in her ears, she managed to pick out a small, shrill, and familiar voice calling out from somewhere at her flank.

“Gandalf! Where is Gandalf?! Gandalf!”

That stupid little halfling! She thought to herself as a splatter of troll blood shot across her cheek. Clearing the enemies she had been engaged with in that moment, earning a slice to the upper part of her arm as a parting gift, she quickly turned to peel off in the direction of the Hobbit’s voice.

“Pippin!” she shouted above the fray.

“Retreat!” she heard Gandalf shout from a level below her. “The city is breached! Fall back to the second level! Get the woman and children out! Get them out! Retreat!”

Deora was making sure to help every soldier that she came across, while still frantically searching the chaos for Pippin. The screams of Orcs and civilians alike were flooding into her ears, practically deafening her. Eventually, she managed to catch a quick glimpse of red, curly hair just a few meters up ahead of her position. He didn’t appear to be brandishing his sword this time around but rather was ducking and diving underneath blades and bodies with clear and present desperation.

With a grunt, and a fearful surge of adrenaline within her veins, she broke through the line of Orcs closest to him.

The Hobbit looked up at her with wide, crazed eyes.

“Where is Gandalf?” he demanded frantically.

Before Deora could venture an answer, heavy footsteps thundered up the road behind them. Turning their heads in unison, they watched as the White Wizard himself crested up and onto the second level with them.

“Fight!” he was calling out to the soldiers that he passed. “Fight to the last man! Fight for your lives!”

“Gandalf!” Pippin shouted, running towards the Wizard and his horse. Deora had no choice but to follow him. “Gandalf! Denethor has lost his mind!” the Hobbit screeched. “He’s burning Faramir alive!”

Deora’s blood immediately chilled.

“What?!”

“Up! Quick! Both of you!” the Wizard commanded them, already reaching down to pull Pippin onto the back of his horse. Gandalf then turned to Deora, who didn’t hesitate when he extended a hand down to her. She was once more taken aback by his strength, as he was able to pull her up onto the horse with seemingly little to no effort at all. Even the horse itself seemed to be unphased by the drastic added weight, as it took off without incident, tearing up the last few levels of the city.

Just before they made it through the doors of the Citadel however, that dreaded screech stabbed into their eardrums again. A shadow momentarily blocked out what little sunlight there was left, and in an instant, a Nazgul landed directly in front of them, cutting off their path to the palace. And sitting on its back, was none other than the Witch-King himself.

Gandalf’s horse skidded to a halt underneath them, and the Wizard immediately held up both his sword and staff.

“Go back to the abyss!” he growled. “Fall into the nothingness that awaits you and your master!”

The long-necked beast settled under the Witch-King, cracking the stone further as it waited patiently for its rider's next command.

“Do you not know death when you see it, old man?” the faceless terror hissed. “This is my hour!”

He then raised his supernaturally massive sword, and it instantly alighted with fearsome, orange flames.

Right before their eyes, Gandalf’s white staff shattered in his hand. The force of the magic blew all three of them back, knocking the horse over as well, and sending them skidding out across the cobblestone.

Deora’s back crashed into a nearby wall, causing her to groan gutturally in pain as her already injured shoulder made impact with the stone.

“Gandalf!” Pippin shrieked.

Deora whipped her head back up, watching in horror as the Halfling damn near charged the Fell Beast. But the winged creature simply roared in his face. The Hobbit instantly dropped his sword, clutching at his arm in pain.

The soldier quickly pushed herself back onto her feet, sprinting over to Gandalf’s side in an attempt to help pull him up as well.

In front of them, the Nazgul took another intimidating step forward along the bridge.

“You have failed!” the Witch-King roared. “The world of Men will fall!”

From far out in the distant lands beyond their kingdom, the low sound of a war horn somehow managed to break through the deafening cacophony of the battle.

It wasn’t a horn that she was at all familiar with, but as she helped Gandalf to his feet, she saw recognition in his old, wise eyes. Everyone, including the Witch-King and his beast, looked out towards a distant hillside, where the sun had just barely managed to begin peeking out from below the dense cloud lines.

There, they began to see small shapes appear on the horizon. Just a few at first, but then quickly growing to about a hundred, then…a thousand.

Then another thousand.

And another.

As the hillside quickly became saturated with new challengers, the Witch-King violently took off towards them instead, those within the city walls quickly forgotten.

“Is that Rohan?” Pippin asked breathlessly.

Deora whirled on the wizard again for answers.

“Rohan?”

Gandalf said nothing in response. And as the armies out in the distance began to descend on the Pelennor Fields, he quickly ushered the two of them back towards his horse.

“Up!” he commanded strongly.

Pippin and Deora obeyed him without argument, climbing back up onto his pristine, white mount and taking off for the Citadel once more.

Tearing across the main courtyard, the group headed for the sacred tombs of Gondor’s long-since dead nobility. The doors of the small building adjacent from the main palace were closed, but Gandalf was still thundering towards them at top speed. And just as it was looking as if they were going to simply run them through, the horse reared back, without a command, kicking them open with ease.

Bounding inside, the sight that they were met with was one of the most petrifying Deora had ever seen.

Denethor was standing on top of a large funeral pyre, arms outstretched to either side of him. And laying down by his feet, was a body that all of those on horse-back could easily identify as Faramir. Surrounding the pyre itself, were four black-clad soldiers, all holding lit torches which they were slowly bringing down towards stacked pile of wood.

“Stay this madness!” Gandalf roared.

Denethor whipped his head around, glowering at the trio on horseback. He was quick to act in deranged retaliation, reaching out to snatch one of the lit torches out of the hands of the guard closest to him.

“You may triumph in the field of battle for a day, but against the power that had risen in the East, there is no victory.” the Steward said darkly.

He then threw the torch down, immediately igniting the wood closest to his feet.

“No!” Deora screamed.

Gandalf immediately urged his horse forward, and as they descended upon the pyre, the wizard clocked Denethor over the side of the head with the hilt of his sword, sending the man tumbling off of the wooden heap.

Deora pushed herself off of the horse, drawing her sword out in a deadly arc that forced back the guards that had instinctively taken their own steps forward to intercept them.

Pippin on the other hand, had bravely jumped directly on top of the burning pile of wood. With a loud grunt and using all of the strength inside of his small body, he managed to shove Faramir off of the pyre itself.

The moment that she saw him rolling towards the ground, Deora dropped her sword with reckless abandon, catching his limp form before it could fully crash onto the marble floor of the tomb.

Jumping down after him, Pippin furiously began to bat out the small flames that had ignited the edges of Faramir’s cloak.

“No!” Denethor screamed. “You will not take my son from me!”

The oil-covered man then snatched Pippin up off of the ground violently by the back of his clothing, causing the Halfling to scream out in terror.

“Pippin!” Deora cried out, but Gandalf had already moved to action.

Rounding the pyre, still on horseback, he let out a guttural cry before all-but smacking the Hobbit out of the Stewards grasp. His white horse then reared back, again seemingly of its own accord, hooves aimed directly for Denethor’s chest.

They landed their hit powerfully, and the man was blown back, straight into the flaming pyre.

Deora was no longer watching the dangerous battle to her right, despite being able to feel the heat of the flames lashing out mere inches away from her face. Her focus instead had been drawn back to the form slumped over in her lap. Fearfully grasping at the sides of his face with both of her hands, a small gasp had tumbled out of her throat when she saw his eyelids twitch, signaling to her that he was in fact alive, just as Pippin had said. For a moment, it looked as if he was attempting to pry his eyes open, in order to gaze up and into the flames.

Back on the top of the pyre, Denethor let out a whisper in disbelief.

“Faramir-”

But whatever he had intended to say was cut off by his own painful scream, as his entire form was quickly engulfed in flames. Leaping down from atop the pyre, the old man sprinted for the doorway that they had burst threw only a minute earlier, and soon enough his fire-covered form had disappeared out into the night.

“So passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion.” Gandalf said out loud.

Deora’s attention had already returned to the form in her lap, but any sign of consciousness had since disappeared. And Faramir’s body was once more slumped over in her arms, unmoving. With shaking hands, she slid them around his shoulders, tugging him closer to her chest protectively before looking back up at the Wizard with burning eyes.

“We must get him to the Healing Houses! Now!”

Gandalf nodded his agreement, barking an order at the already terrified-looking soldiers standing around them. They were quick to grab the pallet that they had brought Faramir in on originally, and Deora helped lift him back up and onto it before they rushed him out of the tomb.

Gandalf, a shaking Pippin, and a frantic Deora were quick to follow. The latter had made a motion to continue on straight for the Healing Houses, when suddenly a low, mooring sound echoed from out on the battlefield.

The chilling, unmistakable sound of a horde of Mûmakil rumbled the very earth itself as the creatures thundered into the battle from the south.

Desperately, Deora’s head flicked back and forth in between the distant field, and the entrance to the Healing Houses that were down towards the left-hand side of the Citadel. Where the four soldiers had just disappeared into with Faramir’s body.

“Deora…” Gandalf’s voice piped up from behind her, clearly seeing her conflict.

She quickly turned back to face the wizard, her chest heaving.

“Your duty is to your city, and your people.” he reminded her strongly. “Faramir is in the safest place he can be.”

Deora bit down so hard on the inside of her cheek that she quickly began to taste blood.

For a moment, a sickening realization had taken hold of her. Never before had she been so certain of the fact that there was actually very little care in her heart for the walls of Minas Tirith. She cared not for the cobblestone streets, the white palace that loomed high above them, the sacred White Tree that stood at the center of the courtyard, or even the people with the city limits. For this place and its people had never shown her any semblance or support or comfort.

But in the end, she had nodded silently back at Gandalf, drawing her sword and taking off down the nearest road. And as she did so, her mind settled on one fact, and one fact alone:

She would be the last thing that Men or Orcs alike would see if they tried to get anywhere near Faramir.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 10 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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They had found Pippin, whose name they had learned from Gandalf, standing alone in a long corridor, anxiously pacing back and forth. He was mumbling to himself as he repeatedly wrung his hands together out in front of his stomach.

“What were you thinking, Peregrin Took? What service can a hobbit offer such a great Lord of Men?” they heard him chastising himself as they walked down the hallway towards him.

“It was well-done.” Faramir immediately reassured him, causing the Halfling to spin around and greet them. His face immediately flushed in embarrassment. “A generous deed should not be checked with cold counsel. You are to join the Tower Guard.”

Deora smiled to herself as Pippin looked down at the chainmail he was now wearing, stretching his arms out to either side.

“I didn’t think they would find any livery that would fit me.”

Faramir worked hard to push down a grin.

“It once belonged to a young boy of the city.”

“A very foolish one.” Deora quickly interjected. “One who wasted many of his hours slaying dragons instead of attending his studies.” Faramir immediately jabbed at her ribs with his elbow, causing both of them to release long-since held back rumbles of laughter.

Pippin stared back at both of them with a bright smile.

“This was yours?”

Faramir nodded.

“Yes, it was mine. My father had it made for me.”

The Hobbit looked down towards his feet again.

“Well, I’m taller than you were then.” he noted. “Though I’m not likely to grow anymore. Except sideways.”

The three of them laughed together in a moment of pure light. The likes of which had been sorely missing in those days.

“Never fitted me either.” Faramir admitted. “Boromir was always the soldier…they were so alike, he and my father. Proud, stubborn even. But strong.”

Pippin’s smile mellowed out just a bit as he stared back up at the Captain.

“I think you have strength of a different kind.” the Hobbit said boldly. “And one day, your father will see it.”

The three of them traveled back to the throne room together. And once they were all inside, Pippin was escorted to the front of Denethor’s throne. He was instructed to kneel and begin swearing his allegiance, while the rest of them watched on from the back of the massive room.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or dying, from…” the Hobbit paused for a moment, gulping as if it was suddenly hard for him to breathe. “From this hour henceforth, until my Lord release me, or death take me.”

Denethor rose from his chair, an amused-looking smile on his face.

“And I shall not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given.” he said, reaching his hand down towards Pippin’s face.

The Hobbit begrudgingly kissed the large ring that was wrapped around the Steward’s index finger.

“Fealty with love. Valor with honor.” he then slowly picked up his head, pointedly staring across the room at where the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien was standing a few paces back from the Hobbit. “Disloyalty with vengeance.”

On that heavy note, he walked around where Pippin was still kneeling, making instead for the small table that was set up just off to the side of the main hall. On top of it, was splayed out a grand feast for the Steward and the Steward alone.

Pippin awkwardly shuffled off to the side once the man was no longer in front of him, making wary eye-contact with Gandalf as he did.

Denethor plopped down into the chair at the head of the table, immediately beginning to dig greedily into the food.

Faramir stood at frozen attention a few meters to the right of the table.

“I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses.” Denethor remarked. “Defenses that your brother long held intact.”

“What would you have me do?” Faramir asked, any and all emotion drained out of his voice.

“I will not yield the river and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken.”

“My Lord, Osgiliath is overrun.” Faramir reiterated as boldly as he dared.

“Much must be risked in war.” Denethor countered, still not even bothering to look over at his son. “Is there a Captain here who still has the courage to do his Lord’s will?”

In the silence that followed, the only way that Deora could temper down her anger was by staring harshly down at the ground. Seeing this, the white wizard who stood at her side, placed a gentle hand on the back of her shoulder.

Faramir took in a long, shaky breath.

“You wish now that our places had been exchanged.” he noted with a trembling voice. “That I had died, and Boromir had lived.”

Deora’s head immediately shot up at the sound of such a horrid phrase.

Denethor continued to stare down at his food.

“Yes, I wish that.” he said before taking a pointed gulp of whatever was in his goblet.

Deora felt like she had been stabbed in the stomach, and the words weren’t even directed at her.

Faramir set his shoulders, but everyone in the throne room could now see the way that they were shaking with emotions that were growing near impossible to hold back.

“Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead.” he said before bowing to the father who still refused to so much as look at him. He then turned around to begin walking towards the throne room doors, only to suddenly pause, just shy of the threshold. He momentarily glanced back over his shoulder at the Steward. “If I should return…think better of me, Father.”

Denethor still didn’t look up from his plate.

“That will depend on the manner of your return.”

Faramir finally slipped out of the throne room, and Deora quickly shrugged Gandalf’s hand off of her shoulder in order to sprint off after him.

“Faramir!” she called out, swiftly finding where he was walking, rather leisurely, down a nearby corridor. “Faramir?”

She saw his throat move as he swallowed, but he did not pause his stroll.

“Gather the Rangers.” he instructed her flatly. “Tell them to meet me at the White Tree. We will need to discuss our plan of attack.”

Deora had opened her mouth to once more speak as a friend, rather than a Lieutenant, but ultimately thought better of it. Instead, she nodded, simply watching on as Faramir continued down the hallway until he inevitably disappeared around a far corner.

Steeling her own breathing as best she could, Deora quickly made her way towards the battlements in order to deliver her Captain’s orders.

Soon thereafter, she found herself standing amongst the measly group of those Rangers that were left alive. They all had clustered in a tight-knit group at the base of the White Tree, looking forward at Faramir expectantly.

Their Captain looked worse for wear, and they could all see it. But none of them could bring themselves to say anything.

“The Lord Denethor wishes for us to retake Osgiliath.” he finally spoke in a voice that was rather hoarse. The soldiers standing before him immediately exchanged wary glances with each other. “It would be foolish of me to not acknowledge the improbability of our success. In light of that, I will not be requiring all of you to stand with me. I will only take those who volunteer their service.”

Again, silent and uneasy expressions rippled across the crowd of Rangers until slowly, but surely, they began to split themselves apart. A fair chunk of them moved to stand at their Captain’s side, including Deora.

A small cluster, but a cluster nonetheless, remained at the base of the White Tree.

Faramir nodded his head, acknowledging them.

“I encourage the rest of you to defend the walls of Minas Tirith alongside the City Guard.” he said diplomatically. He then turned back to the soldiers at his side, eyes dancing across the crowd until they finally found purchase on the face of his Lieutenant. “I will issue one last command, however.”

Deora furrowed her eyebrows in confusion as she watched Faramir take a rather deep, seemingly difficult breath.

“I require Lieutenant Ingold stay behind, to take leadership of the Rangers of Ithilien should I not return.”

“What-”

“The rest of you may go. Make whatever preparations you need. We ride for the main gate on the hour.”

None of the Rangers said anything in response, only nodded their heads begrudgingly before moving to get themselves ready for the oncoming battle.

But Deora didn’t move. She couldn’t move. All she could do was stare forward at Faramir, who was less-than-covertly avoiding her eyes. In fact, he had made a move to walk past her position entirely. Something she was not about to let happen.

“Hey!” she barked, grabbing his arm before he could pass her.

She could see his shoulders shaking with the effort that it was apparently taking him to breathe.

“Have you lost your mind?” she shouted. “I am not staying behind, Faramir! I will be out there by your side!”

“It is my final order.” the man replied flatly.

“No.” Deora immediately countered, shaking her head. “No, Faramir, this is madness! I don’t give a damn about your father’s orders, I am not letting you go out there and get yourself killed!”

Faramir had turned his head back to her by that point. His misty gaze seemed far away, as if he was looking at some sort of mirage or hallucination.

“You have always been good to me, Deora.” he suddenly remarked in a soft voice.

Deora immediately fell still, her breath catching in her throat.

“Like…like sunshine on a cloudy day. Or- or a flower in a field of ashes and smoke.” he waxed with a delusional poeticism. “My wish is for you to deliver that same happiness to the rest of Gondor when I am gone.”

Deora choked at the word “when.” And if he had seen the tears that were now openly flowing down her cheeks in that moment, he did not remark upon them. All he did was smile once more and slip his arm out of her hold before following the rest of his men out of the courtyard.

Now completely alone, Deora remained standing there, simply staring at the spot he once occupied. And as her breathing quickly became more and more ragged, her feet acted before her mind could catch up.

She had turned to sprint back inside the palace, searching for the only other person who she knew had the ability to see reason.

⊰∙∘⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅��⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘

Deora followed Gandalf down the sloped city streets, both of them running as fast as their feet could carry them. Her tears were still burning down her face, and she had nearly fallen a few times along the way, as she couldn’t exactly see the ground beneath her feet anymore.

Up ahead, they finally came across the procession that was gingerly galloping through the streets, down and towards the main gates. The people of the city had lined themselves up along the edges of the cobblestone roads, all of them wearing matching expressions of fear and sorrow. Women and children were tossing flowers down onto the path by their feet, the horses of the remaining Rangers of Ithilien tromping over them. Other soldiers caught smaller bouquets that were tossed their way, sticking them into the breaks in their metal armor.

Deora and Gandalf pushed themselves through the crowds, managing to catch up with the beginning of the march.

“Faramir!” Deora attempted to call out as her and the wizard broke through the front line. “Faramir, please listen to us!”

“Your father’s will has turned to madness.” Gandalf said loudly. “Do not throw away your life so rashly!”

Faramir didn’t turn to look at them, just continued to stare forward.

“Where does my allegiance lie if not here?” he noted wistfully. “This is the city of the Men of Númenor. I will gladly give my life to defend her beauty, her memory, her wisdom.”

Whatever semblance of a heart remained inside of Deora’s chest shattered at his words.

“Your father loves you, Faramir.” the White Wizard said with a sigh. “He will remember it before the end.”

Faramir just continued to urge his horse down the street.

Desperation seized her completely, and even though she was not donning her heavy armor, nor was she carrying her sword, or riding a horse, Deora attempted to sprint off after him.

“Faramir!” she shouted again, her voice echoing down the otherwise quiet street. But in a flash, Gandalf had roughly grabbed her by the waist, holding her back with an impressive show of strength. “No! Faramir!”

But her cries were eventually silenced by the loud crash of the main gates as they shut behind the last Ranger, the echo of her final scream bouncing off of its wooden frame.

A strangled breath escaped her throat as she slumped forward against the wizard’s arms.

Faramir was gone. And she felt her entire heart, no, her entire soul go with him.

She had been given orders, orders that normally she would’ve followed without a second thought, given who they had come from. But for the first time in her entire existence, she no longer wanted to be a soldier of Gondor.

“Deora-” Gandalf attempted to regain her attention, but by then she had already shoved the wizard’s arms away from her, turning around to sprint back up the streets.

When she eventually reached the main courtyard again, she ran over to the wall at its farthest edge. Slamming her hands down onto the stone, she stared out at the wide landscape that spread far beyond the walls of their city.

The whole of Middle Earth seemed to have grown impossibly darker, as even more black smoke was churning up and into the sky from inside the ruins of Osgiliath. And lined up along the city’s edges, were several hundred legions of Orcs.

Slowly heading straight for them, was a measly calvary of about thirty Rangers.

Lost in her despair, she didn’t turn to acknowledge whoever was walking up behind her, just barely being able to make out the sound of soft footfall over that of the blood pounding inside of her head. It was only when she caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eye, as he placed himself at her side, that she discovered it to be Pippin.

The Hobbit glanced up at her warily for a moment, before turning his attention to the fields below. The two of them stood together in silence, only being able to watch as the Rangers slowly made their advance on Osgiliath.

Deora suddenly felt Pippin gently grab a hold of the hand that was hanging limply down at her side.

At that, a small breath of strangled air managed to escape her throat.

“They are riding to their deaths.” she whispered. “I could not stop him.”

Pippin was silent for a quite a while before responding.

“You love him.” he said carefully and quietly. “Don’t you?”

Deora didn’t move to acknowledge the Hobbits words, but Pippin surely felt the way that her hand had subtly tightened around his.

After a few more moments of watching the calvary’s pain-staking approach towards the river-city, noting the siege towers that were waiting for them at the opposite side of the field, a voice had suddenly called out her name from behind where they stood.

Both the Hobbit and Deora turned around to watch one of the Rangers that had stayed behind, jogging hurriedly across the courtyard.

“The men are asking for your orders.” he reported, with a forced tone of strength.

Deora easily saw the worry in the young man’s eyes, as she was sure he could also see in her own.

Taking a shaky breath, Deora nodded her head in response. She then swiftly turned towards the Hobbit at her side, kneeling down in order to be at eye-level with him.

“Return to the Steward.” she instructed him. “You will be safe in there.”

Pippin looked like he wanted to argue but ultimately decided against it. He nodded his head silently before sprinting back inside of the palace walls.

When he was gone, Deora slowly rose back up and onto her feet, turning her attention once more towards the Ranger in front of her.

“Tell the men to meet in the armory.” she said flatly. “We need to prepare to defend the walls. I suspect the Orc’s will begin their siege before the sun is set.”

The soldier nodded his head, immediately moving to carry out her orders.

In his absence, Deora took another difficult breath in. She then turned to glance back out at the field one last time. Watching as the Rangers sprinted towards Osgiliath with a haste that was downright terrifying to behold.

She had to quite literally tear her eyes away from the sight this time around, sprinting out of the courtyard as fast as she could manage.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

Text

Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 9 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯�� 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Deora felt herself swallow some of the sweat and blood that had trickled down her face as she drove her sword through the chest of the Orc in front of her. Absolutely affronted by the taste, she immediately spat it back out, flicking her head over her shoulder to frantically observe the terrain around her.

They were locked in a stalemate, one that was not favoring them in the slightest. The Orcs had the numbers, and they had a ferocity, a hatred, that their men simply could not match.

Deora knew that their options had dwindled down to one remaining action: retreat. Lest they be slaughtered before sunrise.

Glancing out across the courtyard, she saw Madril and a group of archers readying a volley to send into a bottleneck of Orcs that were heading for the half-crumbled archway in front of them. She had just begun to slice her way through the battle in order to get to them, when suddenly a flash of auburn hair caught her attention.

Sharply turning to the left, she watched as Faramir barreled forward, heading for much of the same direction that she was. But he was pulling along a horde of Orcs with him.

The very same group of Orcs that now had a cluster of Gondorian arrows aimed right for them.

Working on pure instinct alone, she tore across the battle, dangerously ignoring all enemies in her path. But even if they had tried, they couldn’t have gotten a swipe off at her, for she was only slightly less than a blur to them in that moment.

Just before Faramir stumbled, unaware, towards the archway, Deora vaulted over the pile of rubble opposite him, launching herself across the rocks and all but tackling her Captain to the ground below. Managing to push him out of harm's way just before the group of archers released their arrows into the crowd of Orcs.

Breathing raggedly, Faramir looked up at her, his face painted with blood and panic as he came to the quick realization that she had just saved his life.

Swallowing, she hauled him to his feet.

“We cannot hold them.” she reported breathlessly. “We cannot hold the city.”

Back behind them, Madril and his men turned back to look at their Captain, awaiting his orders with dread-filled eyes.

Faramir looked back at them, then forward at his Lieutenant again, who remained glued to his side.

“Tell the men to break cover.” he finally coughed out. “We ride for Minas Tirith.”

Deora tightened her grip around the sword in her hand before tearing back off into the ruins just as he ordered. She could hear the terrified screams of the soldiers around her as once more, the Nazgul had descended on the city, beginning to pick off people and destroy even more of the remaining buildings. Tripping over boulders and ducking under swinging metal, she attempted to fight every foe she came across, all the while seeking out soldiers that were either caught in battle or cowering under cracked stone.

“Fall back!” she shouted at each one she found. “Fall back to Minas Tirith!”

Soldiers immediately scrambled to heed her orders, moving to make their retreat with as much haste as they could muster. Some of them even managing to reach the surviving horses.

“Retreat! Retreat!”

Deora continued to stumble through the razed city, refusing to quit until she found all of the surviving soldiers. A rugged Orc arrow had only narrowly missed her shoulder, clipping the patch of exposed skin that had been revealed with the loss of her shoulder plate. Something that had transpired during a particularly bad bout with an Orc general earlier in the battle. She hadn’t the time to so much as register the pain, if there had been any, for she had been immediately forced to dodge another strike that had quickly come her way.

Ahead of her, she could see a crowd of Orcs that appeared to be surrounding a lone Gondorian soldier. And as she killed her own adversary, her head shot back up just in time to watch as a particularly damaged-looking Orc drove a large spear directly into the center of Madril’s chest. The old man sputtered out one last strangled breath before falling still on the ground.

Her eyes widened in horror, but she knew she had no time to wallow in any form of grief.

Back behind her, she could hear someone gruffly call out her name and only had enough time to turn her head as Faramir barreled towards her position on horseback. When he darted past where she stood amongst the rubble, he had reached down a hand. Grabbing a fierce hold of it, she allowed herself to be slung up and onto the back of the horse, holding onto her Captain for dear life as they tore out of the ruined walls of Osgiliath as fast as the horse could carry them.

Catching up to the others who had managed to secure horses out of the city, Deora realized just how few their numbers truly were. Turning her head back towards the city walls that they were quickly pulling away from, her eyes followed the plumes of dark smoke as they towered up into the sky, the sounds of Orcs bellowing in victory piercing her eardrums.

That was when she saw the dark shadow of the Nazgul, its wings stretched out as it was perched atop one of the remaining watch towers. In one fell swoop, it had pushed itself off of the structure, immediately honing in on the fleeing Rangers.

Instinctively, she had clung onto Faramir’s waist even tighter. And he didn’t have to turn around to see the beast that was now pursuing them, for he could hear the murderous screech that it had let out.

The gates of Minas Tirith were getting closer and closer with each passing second, but so was the winged beast. Deora kept looking back over her shoulder every couple of seconds, each time her heart sinking further as she watched it cover massive amounts of distance in scarily short amounts of time. Her hands curled into the straps of Faramir’s leather armor so tightly that her knuckles had begun to turn white.

Suddenly, she heard the man in front of her let out a surprised gasp. The sound was quickly followed up by a shout from the soldier riding off to their left.

“It’s Mithrandir!” the voice called out. “The White Rider!”

Deora’s head forward, peeking out over Faramir’s shoulder. Blinking in astonishment, she found herself staring at a vision from her childhood, barreling towards them out of the open gates of their city.

It was Gandalf. Sitting atop a brilliant white horse.

As he approached the squadron of soldiers, he raised a large staff up towards the sky, and from it burst a blinding beam of golden light.

At their flank, the Nazgul screeched again, this time in anger as the wizard’s magic managed to shove the creature back far enough for the Rangers to safely charge into their city.

Once the beast finally retreated back to Osgiliath, Gandalf whirled his steed around to fall into the position at the front of the frantic calvary.

Deora didn’t remember to breathe until they were finally back on the familiar cobblestone streets of their home. Letting out a heavy mix between a sigh and a gasp for air, her head braced itself up against Faramir’s back for a moment, her energy and adrenaline leaving her. The wound in her shoulder suddenly began to flare painfully.

Once the gates were closed and secured behind them, the Rangers were met by other soldiers, as well as terrified townspeople that lived down on the lower levels of the city. Disembarking from their horses, the soldiers began to speak frantically amongst each other about what had just transpired, while others moved to find their families as quickly as they could.

Faramir jumped off of his horse, and Deora consciously took a breath before following.

The moment that her feet hit the stone below, her Captain’s hands were on either sides of her arms, spinning her around semi-forcefully so that she was facing his panicked expression.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice so rushed that all of the words seemed to blend together.

Deora blinked in surprise, still working on forcing air back into her lungs. But before she could manage even so much as a nod in response, his eyes had already found the wound on her shoulder, a small gasp of air escaping his throat as he moved her arm in order to get a better look at it.

Completely lost in astonishment at the sight of his deep, and rather frantic concern, Deora was only broken out of her daze when the sound of horse hooves clopped up from behind him. Glancing over Faramir’s shoulders, she saw a face that she had not seen in years.

Done up completely in white, matching the coat of the steed on which he rode, was Gandalf.

Deora’s eyes widened in surprise, causing her Captain to finally turn himself around as well.

“Mithrandir!” he called out, speaking the wizard’s Sindarin name, all without releasing the grip that he had on his Lieutenant’s arm. “They broke through our defenses. They’ve taken the bridge and the West bank. Battalions of Orcs are crossing the river.”

To their right, one of the Gondorian soldiers that had been stationed within the walls of the city jogged over to the group that was slowly surrounding the wizard.

“It is as the Lord Denethor predicted! Long has he foreseen this doom!”

Deora’s skin burned, her eyes darting towards the soldier with a fiery glare. She took a single step towards him, arm finally managing to slip out of Faramir’s hold.

“Foreseen and done nothing!” she barked back.

Faramir had immediately reached out to pull her back, but when she spun towards him accusingly, she found his eyeline somewhere else entirely.

As Gandalf had turned his horse, the small form that had been sitting in front of him was revealed to them. It was a Halfling. A Hobbit. And he was dressed in much of the same garb that Frodo and Sam had been. This one had light red curls that rested atop his head, his chin a bit pointed.

Gandalf immediately clocked their quickly-growing surprise.

“This is not the first Halfling to have crossed your paths.” he stated.

“No.” Faramir replied in a whisper.

The Halfling in front of Gandalf immediately perked his head up, an excited expression on his face.

“You’ve seen Frodo and Sam?” he asked, his small and timid voice laced with clear and present hope.

Faramir nodded his head quickly.

“Where?” Gandalf demanded. “When?”

“In Ithilien. Not two days ago.”

The Halfling and Gandalf shared a look of near relief. But Deora very quickly remembered something dire. Her heart clenched inside of her chest as she took a single step towards the wizard's horse, bringing her Captain along with her.

“Gandalf- they’ve taken the road to the Morgul Vale.”

The wizard’s expression instantly fell.

“And then the Pass of Cirith Ungol.”

“What does that mean? What’s wrong?” the Halfling piped up worriedly.

“Tell me everything.” the wizard demanded of the Captain and his Lieutenant. “Tell me all you know.”

And so they did.

Following the wizard up towards the main palace, they filled him in on all that happened from the moment that they had found the Hobbits in the woods, up until the battle that they had fled only minutes ago.

Gandalf took the news in silent strides, occasionally mumbling things to himself that they could not make out, for it was either too low or in a language they did not understand. His troubled expression, however, planted an even more dreadful sense of worry inside of Deora’s heart.

After returning from the Healing Houses, which she had only traversed into because her Captain had so forcefully insisted that she get her shoulder wrapped, she rejoined the man as he waited outside of the throne room doors while Gandalf had his audience with the Steward.

When she had walked back over to his side, he picked his head up, his eyes making immediate contact with the bandage that now covered the top half of her right arm. There they had lingered as the two of them stood in a prolonged silence.

Faramir then gingerly reached a hand forward, the back of his knuckles moving to run down the rough fabric, and then eventually the skin below it. As he did so, his hand was subtly shaking.

Deora looked back at him in confusion. She had never seen this level of worry in his eyes, and that was enough for her to ignore the way that her skin was beginning to ignite, as if burning, underneath his gentle touch.

“Faramir…” she finally dared to break the silence. “What is it?”

She watched him swallow with clear and apparent difficulty.

“You are hurt.” he answered, his tone flat but not unfeeling.

Deora blinked a few times in stunned surprise.

“Well yes.” she replied quietly. “That tends to happen in a war. I am a soldier after all.”

His eyebrows only furrowed tighter together, his hand finally falling away from her skin and back down to his side.

“I never wished for this to happen.” he suddenly whispered, sounding dangerously close to tears.

Completely shedding the Lieutenant facade and forgetting everything that had led to any anger she held against him these past few days, Deora immediately stepped closer to her friend, tightly grabbing his hand with both of her own.

“I know.” she said earnestly as Faramir looked back up at her. “And I am so sorry that this is your burden to bear.”

The man stared back at her, eyes glistening. His lips parted as if he was about to say something but was promptly interrupted by the sound of the throne room doors opening up in front of them. A guard appeared before them, informing Faramir that his audience with his father could begin.

After swiftly dropping his hand, Deora silently followed her Captain inside, moving to stand off to the side with Gandalf. The sense of dread that had been festering within her earlier in the hour only continued to deepen as she was forced to watch Faramir deliver his report to Denethor.

“This is how you serve your city?” the old man spat from his small throne at the base of the majestic white one that towered several feet higher up at the top of a small flight of stairs. “You would risk its utter ruin?”

Deora’s stomach lurched, and she must’ve made some sort of move forward as the white staff of the wizard standing at her side was subtly placed down in front of her feet, stopping her actions before they could even develop past instinct. The anger simply continued to stew within her veins, the burning sensation that usually heralded the arrival of tears began to heat the corner of her eyes.

“I did what I judged to be right.” Faramir replied, his voice soft and non-confrontational.

“What you judged to be right.” Denethor repeated bitterly. “You sent the Ring of Power into Mordor, in the hands of a witless Halfling. It should have been brought back to the Citadel to be kept safe! Hidden! Dark and deep in the vaults not to be used…unless at the uttermost end of need.”

Faramir’s posture did not waver at all during the old man’s rant. Something that only served to break Deora’s heart even further.

“I would not use the Ring. Not if Minas Tirith were falling to ruin and I alone could save her.” was all he said in response.

Denethor sneered.

“Ever you desire to appear lordly and gracious as a king of old.” he spat. “Boromir would have remembered his father’s need. He would have brought me a kingly gift.”

“Boromir would not have brought the Ring.” Faramir said, clearly recalling what Sam had told them back in the ruins of Osgiliath. “He would have stretched out his hand to this thing and taken it. He would’ve fallen.”

Denethor abruptly stood up from his chair.

“You know nothing of this matter!”

“He would have kept it for his own. And when he returned you would not have known your son!”

“Boromir was loyal to me!” Denethor screamed, taking a few threatening steps down from his chair. “Not some wizard's pupil!”

Again, Deora was possessed by the desire to run forward. To defend Faramir from the man she knew had attacked him multiple times in the past. When suddenly, the Steward missed the last step. The man fell down onto the marble, his head thudding slightly against the stone.

“Father?” Faramir exclaimed, stepping forward worriedly as the older man slowly attempted to pick himself back up.

A noticeably glazed expression formed across Denethor’s face, his eyes trained on a position over Faramir’s shoulder, staring at something that simply wasn’t there.

“My son…” he said wistfully. But just as quickly as the light, slightly mystified, expression had arrived, it was gone again. Hardening back into the sneer that they all knew. “Leave me.”

Faramir lingered there for only a half a second longer, before quickly turning on his heels and disappearing back out the throne room doors.

Deora let out a breath she hadn’t realized that she had been holding, continuing to stare forward at the old man who was slowly picking himself up and off of the marble floor.

She was overtly familiar with the feeling of hatred. For it had constantly burned within her veins whenever she was around her father. It was there when she battled Orcs or evil men that terrorized sleepy villages on the borders of their kingdom. And it certainly was there whenever she looked upon the greasy face of the Steward of Gondor.

There was only one thing that had ever kept her from acting upon those violent feelings. And that was the care and loyalty she held for her friend. So, in the end, she swiftly left after her Captain. The White Wizard watching her go the entire way.

After searching for quite a time, Deora eventually found Faramir standing by an open window in one of the many walkways of the outer palace walls. A stream of gray sunlight was weakly shining through, just barely managing to illuminate his broken expression.

Hearing her footsteps, Faramir had momentarily tilted his head over his shoulder to note who was approaching. But upon seeing that it was his Lieutenant, he snapped his attention back forward, seemingly unable to meet her eyes.

Deora gnawed at the inside of her cheek, falling into place at his side. Mimicking his position in the hazy sunlight, she stared out at the now distant river-city that they had abandoned. She could still make out the pillars of dark smoke popping up in several different, scattered places along the horizon line.

“I am sorry.” Faramir’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.

Deora tilted her head towards him in surprise, and slowly Faramir moved to do the same. When he did, she could more clearly see that he was just barely holding it together. The cracks in his visage were damn near visible at that point.

“I have failed you as well.”

Drawing in a breath, Deora immediately shook her head.

“You have failed no one, Faramir.” she retorted boldly.

The man’s head immediately fell in apparent shame. The hands that he had folded behind his back, clung onto each other tighter, turning the skin that covered his knuckles a pale, white color.

Letting out a quiet sigh, Deora slowly turned her head back to look out the window.

“I only wish…”

“What?” Faramir’s voice piped up as her words trailed off. His tone was weak, yet hopeful.

Deora just shook her head.

“Nothing. It’s just…” her eyes flickered to the right, honing in on the branches of the White Tree that stood at the center of the main courtyard. It was barren and dying, seemingly matching the feeling that plagued much of Middle Earth. “There was a day when we were younger, we were standing over there- by the White Tree. And I screamed at you for comparing me to a flower, do you remember?”

In response, she heard the smallest, softest of laughs.

“Yes, in fact, I do.”

Deora tempered a smile of her own.

“Well, to you, that day was just a day in which you spoke a few kind words to a friend. But for me…” she paused. “Faramir, you made me realize that I shouldn’t care what other people think of me. That I wasn’t beholden to the loss of my mother, nor the brutality of my father. That the only person I was beholden to was…me. And those who I deemed worthy.” she then turned to face her friend head on, her eyes briefly dancing over his face. “My only wish is that I could have done the same for you.”

Faramir stared back at her, openly now. And she could see tears beginning to pool at the bases of his eyes. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the boy from her childhood. Before he eventually swallowed, severing their eye contact once again.

“I do not wish for you to view it as your failure.” he whispered.

Deora continued to stare at his side profile.

“And you should not view it as yours.”

There was a long bout of silence before Faramir managed to pick his head up again. And Deora hadn’t the words to articulate what she saw in his expression in that moment. His eyes were clouded and unfocused. Lines of tears still bordered them at the edges, but none ultimately managed to escape. He was staring straight at her, but at the same time, seemingly straight through her.

Ever so slowly, a weak smile blossomed on his face.

“Thank you, Deora.”

Despite the singular moment in which her heart forgot how to function, she managed a short nod of her head in return.

“Always, Faramir.”

When he smiled again, the air around them seemed to grow a thousand pounds lighter. For a moment, the sunshine seemed a little less gray as they both turned back to stare out the window again.

In a sudden moment of boldness, Deora gently nudged her Captain’s arm with her elbow.

“And you are as lordly and gracious as a king of old.” she muttered, amending what Denethor had said to him back in the throne room.

Faramir smirked, nudging her arm in return.

“As are you.” he countered. “Except you look the part far more than I.”

Deora scoffed defensively, rolling her eyes.

“Come on.” she said, nodding back over her shoulder. “Let’s go find the Hobbit that has pledged fealty to your father.”

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 8 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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As they thundered out into the streets of Osgiliath, the Hobbits and their guide in tow, the Rangers found the city completely under siege.

Soldiers were running around everywhere. Rocks and arrows were streaking through the sky above their heads, in volumes that occasionally blocked out the light of the gray sun.

Their smaller group frantically cut through the middle of the battle, stumbling over the pile of rubble that had once been the main gates.

Running out from the cover of one of the walls across the road from them, the officer that they had left in charge of the city's defenses made a b-line for the Captain.

“Faramir!” he shouted desperately. “Orcs have taken the Eastern shore! Their numbers are too great, by nightfall we will be overrun!”

“Frodo!” Sam called out worriedly from behind them.

Whipping her head around, Deora watched the young, dark-haired Hobbit, who had already been dangerously pale by that point, appear to grow even more translucent as he stared out at a phantom point in the distance.

“It’s calling to him, Sam. His eye is almost on me!” the Hobbit whispered, shaking as he stumbled on his feet.

“Hold on, Mr. Frodo. You’ll be alright.”

Faramir, upon hearing them speaking, turned back to face their prisoners. Acting on a newly born instinct, Deora had stepped out in front of the Hobbits, the hand that wasn’t on her sword reaching out to subtly block them from his sight.

Her Captain held her gaze in a particularly heavy bout of silence, despite the chaotic sounds of the battle that continued to rage on around them.

Deora eventually won whatever strange staring contest that they were engaging in, as Faramir turned his head sharply towards one of the soldiers standing behind the Hobbits.

“Take them to my father.” he ordered with an empty tone. “Tell him Faramir sends a mighty gift. A weapon that will change our fortunes in this war.”

Sam let out a sound that was almost akin to a growl as he tugged slightly against the grip of the Ranger who was holding his shoulder.

“You want to know what happened to Boromir?!” he suddenly screamed.

The young Captain turned towards the Hobbit with a wide-eyed expression.

“You want to know why your brother died?!” Sam continued to shout. “He tried to take the Ring from Frodo! After swearing an oath to protect him! He tried to kill him! The Ring drove your brother mad!”

Faramir was frozen in place, his mouth parting in disbelief.

But any response that he could’ve or wanted to formulate was quickly cut off by a loud scream from across the battlefield.

“Watch out!”

A giant boulder suddenly smashed into a Watch Tower only a few meters away from their position, instantly turning it into a violent rainfall of rubble.

“Mr. Frodo?”

“They’re here…They’ve come.”

On some sort of perverse cue, an ear-splitting screech broke out into the air. Deora winced at the physical pain that she felt as it penetrated her eardrums.

The other soldiers looked up at the sky in horror.

“Nazgul!” Faramir shouted in warning.

Deora’s heart lurched up and into her throat as she watched the terrifyingly dark, winged beast dart above their position, glowering down at the rubble of Osgiliath. But she was quick to turn on her heels, reaching down to wrench the Hobbits out of the hold of the Rangers before looking back at her Captain.

“Faramir!” she shouted at him, trying to keep her resolve as steady as possible. “We need to get them cover!”

He instantly nodded his head in agreement, grabbing a hold of Frodo, as she had already collected Sam herself, before following her across the courtyard.

All around them, the other soldiers were scrambling for cover within the ruins, desperate to get out of the sight of the beast in the sky.

Deora led the Hobbits to the base of a ruined watchtower, one of the very last ones that remained standing.

“Stay here! Keep out of sight!” Faramir barked.

Sam frantically nodded his understanding, while Frodo looked mere seconds away from passing out.

When Faramir stepped back from them, he managed to catch Deora’s eye for a millisecond. But all she did was send him a curt nod, immediately taking off for the battlements above them.

“Take cover!”

As her and Faramir rejoined the fight, they had to duck their heads every so often in order to avoid rocks, a spray of Orc arrows, or even the occasional snap of the Nazgul’s jaws.

Slashing at any Orcs they crossed paths with, the Captain and Lieutenant darted around each other's positions without hesitation, a well-oiled machine amongst the pure and unaltered chaos.

This was far worse than the first Orc battle at Osgiliath. As their forces were much smaller now than they were back then.

And back then, they also had Boromir.

All Deora and Faramir could do was their best impressions of the soldier that they had both grown up imitating.

They heard the shriek of the Nazgul from somewhere far up ahead. Deora’s head flipped up, her hair clinging to the side of her face due to the mixture of sweat and blood that had collected there. She watched on as the beast that darted down towards the main bridge of the city.

Her eyes continued to widen in terror as she managed to make out the small form of a Hobbit standing on top of the structure, seemingly holding out his hands towards the Nazgul as it reared back for a strike.

“Faramir!” Deora shouted.

The moment that her Captain became aware of the situation, a second Hobbit form had joined the other on the bridge, all but launching himself at the other and managing to wrestle him down on top of the battlements.

The Nazgul screamed as its claws closed around nothing.

Faramir had drawn back and released an arrow with insane speed. The tip finding its purchase in the side of the Fell Beast. The creature roared in annoyance before immediately taking off into the sky again.

“Come on.” Faramir said, out of breath.

Deora followed him without question, racing across the city in order to make their way back towards where they had seen Frodo and Sam fall. They only stopped along the way to help any Rangers that they found engaged in combat.

Eventually, they came across where the Hobbits had re-hidden themselves amongst the ruins. Frodo has his back braced up against a wall, his small face covered with grime and tears. Sam was standing a few paces away from him, staring out at the destruction that surrounded them.

“-folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn’t.” Sam was saying as the two soldiers arrived. “They kept going because they were holding on to something.”

“What are we holding onto, Sam?” Frodo asked through tears.

Sam turned back to his friend, and subsequently the two soldiers now standing across from him.

“That there’s some good in this world, Mr. Frodo.” Sam said confidently. “And it’s worth fighting for.”

Even amongst the blood, death, filth, and stone that surrounded them, Deora’s expression had somehow softened at the sound of the Hobbits’ words. Frodo appeared to do much of the same, his eyes becoming ever so slightly brighter, if only for a moment.

There was suddenly movement at her side, and Deora turned her head to watch as Faramir suddenly knelt down to the Hobbits’ level.

“I think at last…we understand one another, Frodo Baggins.” he spoke gently.

Deora blinked in genuine surprise. But just as quickly, another shape was fast approaching their position. Glancing even further behind where they were standing, she saw Madril half-jogging over to them. When he arrived, he immediately leaned down towards Faramir, a nervous expression on the older man's face.

“You know the laws of our country.” he reminded him. “The laws of your father. If you let them go, your life will be forfeit.”

Faramir let Madril’s words wash over him, he then turned his head as if to address the man head on, only for his eyes to fall upon Deora’s face instead.

And she was visibly holding her breath.

Squaring his shoulders, a look of determination that had long since been missing, suddenly returned to the Captain’s expression.

“Then it is forfeit.” he said boldly. “Release them.”

Frodo looked up at Faramir, his eyes shining with tears.

Deora swallowed down a smile, turning to nod her head back at Madril.

“Go to the others.” she ordered sharply. “We will find you.”

The older man nodded his head, quickly disappearing back out into the battlefield.

Deora and Faramir led their three captives, now free from their bonds, carefully through the dying battle and back towards a tunnel at the far edge of the city walls.

“This is the older sewer.” Faramir explained. “Runs right under the river through the edge of the city. You’ll find cover in the woods there.”

“Captain Faramir-” Sam spoke up suddenly. “-you have shown your quality sir…the very highest.”

Faramir stared back at the Hobbit in surprise, and Deora momentarily saw the shine of his eyes reflecting the light bouncing off of the small amount of water within the sewer.

“The Shire must really be a great realm, Master Gamgee, where gardeners are held in such high honor.” Faramir replied.

The Hobbit immediately looked away bashfully.

“What roads will you take once you reach the woods?” she asked the Hobbits carefully.

“Gollum says there’s a path near Minas Morgul that climbs up into the mountains.” Frodo answered.

Immediately, Deora’s expression fell.

Faramir’s head snapped towards the creature, who was already attempting to slink away and disappear down into the sewers.

“Cirith Ungol?” the Captain asked out loud, surging forward only to snatch the creature up by its neck and slamming it into the far wall. “Is that its name?”

“Faramir-” Deora tried to interject.

“No! No!” Gollum cried, but Faramir was unrelenting. “Yes!”

Faramir quickly turned back to the Hobbits.

“Frodo, they say a dark terror dwells in the passes above Minas Morgul. You cannot go that way!”

“It is the only way!” Gollum argued. “Master says we must go to Mordor, so we must try!”

Faramir continued to stare back at the Hobbits, begging them to reconsider. But in the end, Frodo just shook his head.

“I must.” he whispered.

Sighing in defeat, Faramir begrudgingly dropped Gollum.

“Go, Frodo.” the Captain said gently. “Go with the goodwill of all men.”

Frodo’s eyes began to water slightly.

“Thank you.” he whispered one last time before turning to start down the sewer, Sam right on his heels.

Gollum had moved to follow them, but Faramir was quick to snatch him up again, pinning him back onto the stones of the wall to deliver one last threat.

“May death find you quickly if you bring them to harm.” the man hissed.

Gollum didn’t respond, and Faramir just threw him back down the hallway. As it scurried away, the creature only stole a single look back at them before ultimately disappearing from sight.

It was only when they were finally gone that Deora let out a breath. And Faramir hesitantly turned back to face his Lieutenant. He looked tired, upset, and a bit sheepish.

Deora squared her jaw, her anger from before still not entirely banished.

“Deora…” he whispered. “I’m…I am sorry.”

The Lieutenant took in a sharp breath through her nose.

“There is still a battle to fight.” she reminded him before turning and beginning to make her way back to their men.

Two days passed by those in Osgiliath in a blur of battle, death, and very little rest.

In the early evening, their ranks were sitting amongst the rubble, eating what little of their provisions they had left. They were whispering to each other, tones nothing but wary as their numbers had significantly dwindled.

Deora stared out anxiously at the city ruins around them, as Madril and Faramir quietly talked strategy at her side.

“It’s been very quiet across the river.” Madril reported. “The Orcs are lying low. The garrison may have moved out. We’ve sent escorts to Cair Andros. If the Orcs attack from the North, we’ll have some warning.”

Looking up at the clouds above them, a shiver traveled down Deora’s spine as she noticed just how dark it was looking. Too dark. For the sun should not have set yet.

She was so enraptured by the sky, that when a group of soldiers shuffled past their position, scouring the ground for arrows to restock their quivers, she had jumped in spite of herself.

“Deora?” Faramir’s voice called out gently from behind her.

Quickly glancing over her shoulder, she found her Captain staring back at her worriedly.

“Are you alright?”

She had opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. Her words quite literally turned to ash in her throat.

And in the silence beyond their position, a clash of metal against stone echoed out into the air as one of their soldiers fell in a heap from where he had been stationed atop of the battlements.

All heads in the vicinity whipped towards the noise, only to find a fallen Gondorian corpse. A black, Orc arrowed sticking out of its back.

“They’re not coming from the North.” Deora said with a gasp.

Faramir drew his sword.

“To the river!” he commanded. “Quick! Quick! Go!”

Their soldiers immediately began to scramble towards the shoreline, randomly grabbing swords and spears as they went by. Most of their forces had only just been allowed to take their first rest in a very, very long time, and were rather violently wrenched out of whatever level of sleep that they had managed to get to. Barely even leaving them time to throw on armor in some cases. Hushed voices barked orders at each other as they dove behind the cover of still-standing walls and larger pieces of rubble.

Deora pressed her shoulder up against stone, letting out a short breath as she listened to the sound of boats on the water a few feet behind their position.

Across the path from her, Faramir was mirroring her stance, his sword pressed flat against his chest as he tried to steel himself.

“Draw swords!” they heard a horrifyingly gargled voice call out from the riverbank.

The sickly sound of wood crashing down onto the rocky shore echoed up into the air. And the soldiers that were hiding up against the stone walls fell into complete and utter stillness as a shuffle of hundreds of footsteps began to thunder towards their position.

From across the way, Faramir caught his Lieutenants eyes again, a silent order that only she could understand passing between them.

Nodding, she held up her hand in a signal to the men at her back.

They remained motionless and unbreathing as the surge of Orcs began to storm past their position, completely unaware of their feeble forces hidden in the shadows.

Once the last of their numbers crossed through the threshold of the city, she watched her Captain take a deep breath before launching his body forward at the stream of Orcs, reigniting the battle once more.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 7 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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The next half of their travels took them into the farthest-most edges of Ithilien.

They were pursuing the next batch of warriors that were responding to the summons from the Black Lands. Receiving news from their scouts four days ago, they had been informed that a squadron of Haradrim, complete with a fleet of Oliphaunts, had been barreling through forests and towns alike.

The Rangers had taken up defensive positions deep within the cover of the woods, preparing to cut off their forces at a large pass through a particularly open and exposed field of tall grass. A tactic that they had been employing similarly with other small batches of enemies for close to an entire week straight by that point.

It was fairly sunny that day, a downright beautiful early spring afternoon. But that was contrasted harshly by the sound of the Haradrim army, which was growing louder with each passing second as they slowly descended upon their location.

Peering through the tall grass, they could see the looming and terrifying Oliphaunts as they lumbered forward, carrying men and other war supplies on their massive backs. Down at their feet, hundreds of additional soldiers trudged through the field.

Deora pulled her hood even lower over her face before turning to glance over at Faramir. The Captain was crouched directly at her side, eyes trained forward just as carefully as hers had been. She had her arm raised slightly, waiting for his silent signal that would give the order to begin the assault to the assembled Rangers hidden at their backs.

He continued to watch as the army walked out into the sun and eventually crossed the center-most part of the field. Snapping his head towards his Lieutenant, he nodded sharply.

Deora immediately dropped her arm, and in response, a deadly volley of arrows arced up and over their heads from those hidden in the brush.

In near-perfect unison, Deora and Faramir pulled their own bows off of their backs, propping themselves up onto one knee in order to add their own arrows to the assault.

The unsuspecting army of Southrons were dropping one by one into the soft grass at their feet, surprised shouts, grunts, and cries of the dying beginning to fill the air. The Oliphaunts were rearing up in terror, sometimes tossing the men and supplies they were carrying off their backs.

“Field is clear, Captain!” someone eventually shouted from across the meadow, once the last of the living Southron’s had fled the area.

Faramir nodded his head, and he and Deora were quick to regroup with the rest of their men.

Heading for a nearby cliffside, in order to collect themselves and begin the trek back to their temporary base of operations, Anborn suddenly came jogging down from the hill above. The man skidded to a halt in front of their numbers.

“Wait. Wait, my lord.” he said. “The men have come across spies on the cliff face.”

“Spies?” Deora repeated in confusion. “What spies?”

“Halflings, and some other horrid creature we know not the origin of.” Anborn reported. “But it disappeared into the forest before we could detain it.”

“Take us to them.” Faramir demanded.”

The Ranger obliged, and the group of them crested over the top of the hillside that seemingly overlooked the entire field that had, only minutes ago, been the sight of their ambush. Up ahead, Deora watched as two small creatures, seemingly attempting to flee, ran straight into the men at the foremost part of their squadron. Chaos had immediately ensued, a sharp “Oi!” breaking through the air, as well as the sound of a sword being drawn.

Deora quickly pushed her way to the front of the throng, just in time to watch as one of the Rangers roughly shoved a Halfling down to the ground, holding a sword to their throat. The second was swiftly held aloft by two others.

Both of them looked absolutely terrified.

“Wait! We’re innocent travelers!” the one with dark brown, curly hair shouted in apparent desperation.

Deora stared forward at the Halflings in confusion, her hood still pulled tautly over her head.

“There are no travelers in this land-” Faramir’s voice sounded from behind her, as he slowly made his way towards the front of the group as well. “-only servants of the Dark Tower.”

His cadence, as it so often had been recently, was empty and unfeeling. His words dark and sad.

Going against her better judgment, Deora had attempted to catch his eyeline, but by then he had already signaled to the men holding the Halflings to begin heading out.

“We are bound to an errand of secrecy!” the same Halfling tried to cry out again. “Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us!”

“The enemy?” Faramir retorted sharply.

Deora watched as their Captain tilted his head to the side, looking down at a Southron soldier that lay dead only a few feet away from their position.

“His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem.” Faramir said as he stared at the face of the dead young man. “You wonder what his name is, where he came from. And if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home. If he would not have rather stayed there…in peace…” his voice quietly trailed off into the warm air that surrounded them.

Deora felt something pull at her heartstrings, but before her worry could manifest any further, Faramir snapped his attention back towards the Halflings.

“War will make corpses of us all…bind their hands.”

The Halflings had made one last feeble attempt to escape but were quickly scooped up off of the ground and carried off with their numbers.

They swiftly made their way back to Henneth-Annûn, arriving just as the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon line. They weren’t due to stay there for very much longer, so many of the men were already flying about the cave system when they got there, the hustle and bustle of their preparations mixing in with the sounds of the roaring waterfall that could be heard through several of the cliff-side openings that were scattered about the caverns.

In the middle of Deora trying, and failing, to find where the Rangers had taken the two Halflings, Madril had caught up with her. He quickly informed her that Faramir had summoned them both to go over the details that he and his men had received from their most recent scouting report.

The two of them found their Captain in the center-most cavern of the cave system, the one that they had been using more or less as a shoddy war room.

Madril had promptly rolled out one of their many battle-maps of Middle Earth onto a large boulder that sat in the middle of the room.

Deora anxiously wrapped her hand around the hilt of the sword that was strapped to her side. Even before Madril began to speak, she knew that whatever he was going to say wasn’t going to be in their favor.

“What news?” Faramir prompted weakly.

Madril took a beat to swallow before responding.

“Our scouts report Sauron has attacked Rohan.” he said, gesturing to the location of the plains on the map in front of them. “Theoden’s people have fled to Helm’s Deep. But we must look to our own borders.” Shifting the pad of his finger as he spoke, the older Ranger traced the line of the river that their city sat on the shores of. The one that they had left behind several weeks ago. “Faramir, Orcs are on the move. Sauron is marshaling an army. Easterlings and Southrons are passing through the Black Gate.”

“How many?” Deora asked.

“Some thousands.” Madril replied, sounding defeated. “More come every day.”

“And who’s covering the river to the North?” the Lieutenant pressed.

“We pulled 500 men at Osgiliath, but if the city is attacked, we won’t hold it.”

Faramir was quiet for a moment longer, tracing the black lines on the map with his own finger. Slowly, he began to repeat a pattern; a three-pointed shape that connected Gondor, Isengard, and Mordor. He repeated the action several times before finally speaking.

“Saruman attacks from Isengard…Sauron from Mordor…the fight will come to men on both fronts.” he noted darkly. “Sauron will strike us soon. And he will strike hard. He knows now we don’t have the strength to repel him.”

The group of three fell silent. And Deora was worried for a moment that it might remain that way indefinitely, had it not been for another Ranger swiftly sliding up to Faramir’s side.

“My Lord, we’ve brought the spies to the den.”

Faramir’s spine straightened out, taking a purposeful breath before tearing his attention away from the map.

“Take us to them.”

The Ranger nodded his head, immediately turning around to do so.

Deora had attempted to call out Faramir’s name once, but he didn’t appear to have heard her. Sighing angrily, she was forced to break out into a jog in order to catch up with the rapidly disappearing group.

Emerging out into the next cave over, they found the two Halflings standing blindfolded in the center-most part of the room. All around them, Rangers were still hastily going about their duties, either cleaning up their bodies and weapons from the previous battle or packing and preparing for their next journey.

Faramir had marched directly up to the two small creatures, all but tearing their blindfolds away from their faces, causing them to stumble backwards in fear.

“My men tell me that you are Orc spies.”

“Spies?” the Halfling with lighter hair coughed in indignant surprise. “Now wait just a minute-”

“Well, if you’re not spies, then who are you?” Faramir interrupted him.

The Halflings remained silent for a moment, exchanging worried glances between one another. Deora watched her Captain sigh before sitting down on a large stone that was just off to his right. She immediately fell into position at his side, more so to watch him rather than the Halflings.

“Speak.” he commanded.

Their prisoners were silent for a little while longer, before eventually the second Halfling, the one with darker hair and an almost translucent complexion, turned to address him.

“We are Hobbits of the Shire.” he began to say. “Frodo Baggins is my name. And this is Samwise Gamgee.”

“Your bodyguard?” Faramir asked.

The light-haired Hobbit, Samwise, furrowed his eyebrows angrily.

“His gardener.” he corrected through gritted teeth.

“And where is your skulking friend?” Faramir quickly continued on. And Deora was able to catch the way that Frodo’s expression had immediately twitched at the mention. “The gangel creature. He had an ill-favored look.”

Frodo quickly shook his head.

“There was no other.” he assured them. “We set out from Rivendell with seven companions.”

Deora’s entire body went rigid, and beside her, she could sense that Faramir had done much of the same.

“One we lost in Moria.” Frodo had continued. “Two were my kin. A Dwarf there was also, and an Elf. And two Men; Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And Boromir of Gondor.”

The temperature in the already cold cave seemed to instantly drop 40 extra degrees, and Faramir quickly rose from the boulder that he had been perched on. His breath had momentarily caught in his throat, and in an attempt to hide his surprise, he had tilted his head away from the Hobbits completely.

Deora’s eyes flickered in between her Captain and the Halflings for a single, long moment, before eventually swallowing and taking a careful step towards their prisoners.

“You were a friend of Boromir?” she asked.

Frodo blinked, staring back at her strangely.

“Yes…” he whispered. “For my part.”

Faramir’s head quickly spun back around to the group at that moment.

“It would grieve you then, to learn that he is dead.” he delivered coldly.

Both Frodo and Sam’s mouths fell open in what appeared to be genuine surprise.

“Dead?” Frodo asked, his voice shaking. “How? When?”

“As one of his companions, I hoped you would tell me.”

“If something has happened to Boromir, we would have you tell us.”

Deora tilted her head back towards Faramir, knowing that this was far from the time to be having this conversation. Neither of them needed to relive the ever-present grief that was still plaguing them in the background. But she could only watch on as her Captain swallowed again with apparent difficulty.

“His horn washed up on the riverbank, about six days past.” he explained to the Hobbits. “It was cloven in two. But more than this, I know it in my heart…he was my brother.”

Neither of the Hobbits had anything to say in response, only stared back at the Captain with tears slowly filling their eyes.

Faramir quickly turned on his heels, disappearing out of the cavern in a flash.

Deora was caught staring at the spot that he had once occupied, the heart inside of her chest beginning to burn. She then heard a soft sniffle back behind her, and her attention was quick to turn back to the two Hobbits left standing there. Frodo was openly crying now, Samwise moving to console him.

Moved by pity, Deora gestured over her shoulder with her head.

“Come.” she said in as kind a whisper as she could muster. “Let us find you a dry place to sleep.”

Once locating a small, hidden place amongst their food reserves, Deora urged the Halflings to get some rest before setting back out in search of Faramir.

It took her the better half of an hour to finally come across where he was sitting in solitude. It was a small, outlook cavern with an opening that faced a section of the waterfall. The pounds of water that continuously crested past the gap blocked any and all sight down into the moonlit lake that existed a few miles beneath their position.

Faramir was sitting on top of another large boulder, his hands resting on top of his knees, and his gaze ever so far away.

She somehow knew exactly what he was seeing. It wasn’t the rapid white water that thundered past their position. No. He was seeing the ever-still riptide of the Anduin River.

As she walked into the cavern, it was clear that he had not been able to hear her footsteps over the sound of the waterfall, or his own thoughts for that matter. So, when she finally did emerge into the edges of his peripheral vision, he had jumped, startled.

He barely turned to look at her, for the moment that his eyes had clocked her concerned expression, he snapped his attention back forward.

Deora sighed heavily.

“He would not want you to sulk.”

Faramir let out a scoff, but there was absolutely no emotion behind it. He just continued his attempt to burn a hole into the water with solely his gaze.

Deora gnawed at the inside of her cheek for a moment before finally mustering up the courage to deposit herself down at his side, seeing as there was more than enough room on the boulder for her to do so.

In response to her movements, Faramir had glanced over in surprise. This gave her the opportunity to examine her friend’s expression more deeply. Lines of worry had begun to spring up at the corners of his eyes in the years that had passed them by. She always had been sure that his wrinkles would come from his wide, and beautiful smile. And in that moment, she found herself cursing every single thing that had contributed to that change.

“You’re right.” he finally whispered, turning his attention back to the water. “He wouldn’t…but Boromir isn’t here, Deora.”

“Don’t.” she immediately scolded. “Don’t do that to yourself, Faramir.”

The man shook his head, looking down at his hands.

Not allowing the moment to pass, Deora quickly reached over with her right hand, placing it gently on the upper part of his arm that was closest to her side.

“You have to stop.” she whispered urgently. “You’re placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it.”

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

And you have me too, she wanted to say, but simply could not find the courage to do so at that moment.

Ultimately, her efforts were rewarded, as she soon watched the ghost of a smile begin to appear on his face. It only fully materialized at the corners of his lips and eyes, but it was there.

And it wasn’t until she felt the warmth of his hand, appearing on the top of the one she had placed on his arm, that she had managed to send him one in return.

Unfortunately, whatever peace they had found in each other at that moment, was not permitted to last any longer. Footsteps quickly echoed up from behind them, causing them both to instinctively drop their hands back down to their sides.

Deora’s head tilted over her shoulder, watching as Anborn rounded the corner into the cavern. Immediately her expression fell.

Approaching the boulder, the Ranger leaned down in order to speak to the man at her side.

“Captain Faramir…we found the third one.”

Deora could only watch as Faramir’s expression morphed back into the one she had originally found him wearing. His eyes darkened as he rose to his feet, nodding for Anborn to leave them.

As the Ranger left the cavern, the Lieutenant shook her head.

“This is wrong…what you’re trying to do.”

Faramir didn’t respond, only shot her a blank look before disappearing out of the cavern as well. Once more, she found herself forced to break out into a light run in order to catch back up with him.

Gathering two other Rangers along his way, Faramir made his way around their base until they found where the Hobbits were sleeping amongst the food reserves.

The two were rather roughly shaken awake, their eyes fearfully darting around their position.

Deora noted specifically the way that Sam instantly jumped out to shield Frodo with one of his arms. The Hobbit’s eyes quickly found hers amongst the four faces now standing above them, and immediately she felt that pity and guilt all over again.

This wasn’t right.

“You must come with me.” Faramir told them. “Now.”

Unable to argue, the Hobbit’s slowly allowed themselves to be led out of the cave system.

Deora made it a point to bring up the rear of the group, watching on carefully as they finally emerged out onto one of the large stone ledges that overlooked the lake far, far below. Beautiful rocks, aged by time and water encased them on either side, and the moonlight reflected eerily off of the surface of the lake.

Faramir turned towards Frodo, gesturing in the direction of the pool.

“Down there.”

Frodo hesitantly inched towards the edge of the cliff, peering down at the water as Faramir watched his every move with keen eyes.

From her position, Deora could see clearly the small creature that he had pointed to. It was crouched on top of a rock in the center of the lake, squealing joyfully as it jumped in and out of the water. At one point, it had come back up with a fish in between its teeth, promptly smacking it against a nearby boulder.

“To enter the Forbidden pool bears the penalty of death.” Faramir informed the Hobbit stoically.

Frodo immediately turned back towards the Captain, his eyes wide with fear. It was then that he finally noticed the archers that were lined along the walls on the opposite side of the cavern, their bowstrings already drawn back tautly.

“They wait for my command.” Faramir informed him.

Frodo’s eyes darted back and forth between the Captain and the lake below.

“Shall I shoot?”

No answer came from the Hobbit as he began to breathe rather rapidly. Faramir then began to raise his hand, a silent signal that told their archers to prepare to fire.

Deora’s entire body stilled, like a cat about to pounce, as she prepared to jump forward herself in an attempt to put an end to this madness. When suddenly, Frodo managed to cry out.

“Wait!”

Faramir looked back down at the Hobbit who was close to tears by that point.

“This creature is bound to me.” Frodo admitted. “And I to him.”

Faramir’s hand slowly fell back down to his side, the archers on the cliff face instantly retreating.

“He is our guide.” the Hobbit continued to explain. “Please. Let me go down to him.”

The Captain nodded his head, allowing Frodo to tear off down the steep incline.

Deora remained at the top of the cliff alongside Sam and Faramir, while two other Rangers followed the Hobbit down to the pool. The creature in the water was still happily gnawing at the fish it had caught as Frodo hesitantly made his way over to him.

“Smeagol. Master is here.” Frodo announced, reaching out a hand. “Come Smeagol. Trust Master. Come.”

The creature looked back up at him in a brief moment of confused hesitation.

“We must…go now?”

“Smeagol, you must trust Master.” Frodo continued to urge him. “Follow me, come on. Come.”

Placing the fish in between its teeth, the creature turned to begin crawling up the rocks and out of the lake.

“Come Smeagol. Nice Smeagol.” Frodo cooed. “That’s it. Come on.”

But the moment that the gangly creature reached the edge of the gravel path, the Rangers jumped out from behind Frodo, snatching it up and off the ground. They made quick work of overpowering it, even as it screamed and flailed in terror.

“Don’t hurt him!” Frodo begged, his pained voice echoing out into the cavern. “Smeagol, don’t struggle! Smeagol, listen to me!”

“Masssssster!” the creature cried out as a cloth was then thrown over its head and the Rangers began muscling back up the path towards the hidden cave system.

Back down below, Frodo turned to look up at the Captain that was still watching on from the cliff face.

Deora jogged into the cave, just in time to watch the two Rangers all but throw the creature against a far wall. It had cried out in pain as the soldiers immediately began to beat upon it, kicking and punching it as it tried to escape. To their right, stood Faramir, his head tilted down to the floor as if in an effort not to witness what was transpiring.

Eyes wide with horror, Deora dashed over to them.

“What is the meaning of this madness?” she demanded loudly, but the soldiers simply continued on with their abuse. She whirled on Faramir next. “Will you do nothing?!”

She watched the Captain's shoulders rise and fall once before finally, he forced his gaze up from the floor.

“That’s enough.” he barked.

The Rangers instantly relented, and the creature scrambled back into the furthest corner of the cave that it could. It curled in on itself, beginning to whimper pitifully.

Faramir took a single step in its direction.

“Where are you leading them?”

He received no reply, only more sobs.

“Answer me.”

The group of Gondorian’s watched on as one of the creature's own hands began to run down the length of its shoulder and arm. It repeated the action over and over again, in what almost looked to be some sort of self-comforting gesture.

“Smeagol…why does it cry, Smeagol?” it whispered before immediately coughing out another sob. “Cruel men hurts us. Master tricked us.”

“Of course he did. I told you he was tricksey. I told you he was false.”

Another sob racked its body.

“Master is our friend…our friend.”

Deora’s mouth parted with the slow-setting realization that the creature had now begun speaking in two distinct voices. Seemingly to himself.

“Master betrayed us!”

“No. Not its business. Leave us alone!”

“Filthy little Hobbitses! They stoles it from us!”

“No…No!”

Faramir suddenly took another step forward, something in the creature's last sentence catching his attention.

“What did they steal?”

Slowly, and terrifyingly, the creature had turned its head over its shoulders to stare back up at the soldiers that loomed over it. Its expression was that of pure evil, pure anger, pure hatred. It bared its nasty, pointed, gray teeth as it growled back up at them.

“My… precious!”

Faramir took a step back, as did the other Rangers. And Deora’s attention turned to her Captain in a terrible moment of realization. Even worse so, it seemed that Faramir had come to the same conclusion just as quickly.

“Faramir-”

But the moment that his name had fallen out of her mouth, he had taken off, disappearing out of the cave in a hurry.

“Faramir!”

Deora sprinted through the halls in order to follow him, her stomach dropping as she watched him thunder towards the food-storage area. As he crossed through the threshold, he had reached for the sword at his hip, drawing it in an unsteady flash of movement.

“No! Faramir, don’t!”

The Hobbits that were now standing in front of them, leapt back in fear as Deora made an attempt to grab for Faramir’s arm.

But she was too slow.

Frodo’s back hit the stone wall behind him as the tip of Faramir’s sword caught the edge of the thin chain that was wrapped around his neck, mostly hidden amongst his clothes.

Everyone in the cavern froze.

“So, this is the answer to all the riddles…” Faramir said, lifting his sword slightly in order to hoist the chain out from where it had been stowed away beneath the Hobbit’s garments. As he did so, a small, golden band was revealed to be hanging from the end of the silver necklace.

Frodo’s chest rose and fell rapidly with clear and apparent fear as Faramir continued to stare forward at the small object.

“Here in the wild I have you. Two Halflings. And a host of men at my call…the Ring of Power within my grasp…a chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality.

Deora found herself taking a rather large step backwards. Terror seizing her chest as, in that moment, she no longer recognized the man standing in front of her as her friend.

“No!” Frodo suddenly screamed, desperately shoving Faramir’s sword away from him and running to hide away in another far corner of the storage area.

Almost instantly, the Captain’s sword had fallen back down to his side, as if knocked out of a trance of some sort.

Sam had wheeled on Faramir next, frustrated tears pouring out of his eyes.

“Stop it! Leave him alone!” he shouted. “Don’t you understand? He’s got to destroy it! That’s where we’re going…into Mordor…to the mountain of fire.”

Faramir remained unmoving, only continuing to stare over at Frodo in what appeared to be stunned surprise. And who knows how long they all would have remained like that, had Madril not run into the cave at that moment. The tension shattering the moment that his voice boomed out across the cavern.

“Osgiliath is under attack! They call for reinforcements!”

Deora’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Please!” Sam continued to beg. “It’s such a burden. Will you not help him?”

The Hobbit received no response.

“Captain?” Madril pressed instead, finally getting the young man to turn and acknowledge him.

“Prepare to leave.” he coughed out, briefly glancing back over at the Halflings. “The Ring will go to Gondor.”

Sam’s face fell as he simply continued tostand there and cry.

Faramir followed Madril out into the rest of the cavern, where the men were now rushing about with an increased sense of urgency.

Deora was staring at Faramir’s back, feeling pure frustration burning underneath her skin as she recalled all of the events of the past few hours. Something inside her chest soon cracked as they turned a corner, about to thunder down the next corridor. Without thinking, she had suddenly surged forward, pushing Faramir towards the stone wall to his right.

His back slammed against the rough surface, her forearm appearing just below his collarbone in order to keep him trapped there against the damp boulders.

Faramir looked forward at her anger-filled expression in startled surprise. And all of the Rangers in the immediate area froze at the sight of the Captain and his Lieutenant.

“What in the name of the Númenor is wrong with you?” she hissed, her glare inches away from his face.

Faramir blinked.

“Deora-”

“No!” she barked, interrupting whatever he was about to say. “What has happened? Where is the Captain of Ithilien that I respected? The one I chose to follow? Because that man- he knew nothing of cruelty such as that!”

Faramir seemingly could not bring himself to respond, just continued to stare back at her, his eyes darting frantically across her face.

With a dismayed exhale, she roughly dropped the hold she had on him and took a large step backwards.

“I know not what twists your mind…but you are no longer yourself.”

At that, Faramir managed to push himself off of the wall.

“Deora, wait-”

But the Lieutenant spun on her heels, her hand curling around the hilt of her sword.

“Prepare the men!” she shouted out into the cave of surprised faces. “We leave for Osgiliath on the hour!”

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 6 𓆰𓆪

summary: ❝🇭🇴🇲🇪 🇮🇸 🇧🇪🇭🇮🇳🇩…🇹🇭🇪 🇼🇴🇷🇱🇩 🇦🇭🇪🇦🇩…🇦🇳🇩 🇹🇭🇪🇷🇪 🇦🇷🇪 🇲🇦🇳🇾 🇵🇦🇹🇭🇸 🇹🇴 🇹🇷🇪🇦🇩…🇹🇭🇷🇴🇺🇬🇭 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇴🇼, 🇹🇴 🇹🇭🇪 🇪🇩🇬🇪 🇴🇫 🇳🇮🇬🇭🇹…🇺🇳🇹🇮🇱 🇹🇭🇪 🇸🇹🇦🇷🇸 🇦🇷🇪 🇦🇱🇱 🇦🇱🇮🇬🇭🇹…🇲🇮🇸🇹 🇦🇳🇩 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇴🇼, 🇨🇱🇴🇺🇩 🇦🇳🇩 🇸🇭🇦🇩🇪…🇦🇱🇱 🇸🇭🇦🇱🇱 🇫🇦🇩🇪…��🇱🇱…🇸🇭🇦🇱🇱…🇫🇦🇩🇪…❝

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Upon Denethor’s orders, the Rangers of Ithilien spent nearly all of their time on the Western Shores in the wake of the attack on Osgiliath. They were to remain on constant guard, in case the Orcs once more made an attempt to take the city. They spent their days either camped on the literal shoreline, or taking refuge within the abodes of civilians that were kind enough to quarter them for short increments of time.

One night in particular, Deora had taken charge of the night watch, trading off the hours with Faramir, while the rest of the Rangers got some well-deserved rest back in the safety of the village.

In the deadest point of the night, she had been in the middle of repeatedly stalking along the edge of the river, completely and utterly lost in her thoughts.

The past few months or so had been tense beyond belief, and she realized that she hadn’t taken so much as a moment to breathe, let alone think about it all.

But now, she had suddenly found herself with far too much time to do so.

And many of her thoughts, she discovered, were swirling around the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor, who was sleeping in a tent only a few yards behind her current position. He had clearly not gotten over the words his father had spat at him the day that Boromir had left for Rivendell. And even though he was still trying to be the best Captain he could for his Rangers, his spark had been significantly dulled. And that was something that physically pained Deora to watch happen.

She wished, more than anything, that he could see himself the way that his Rangers saw him. Or even just the way that she saw him. She thought that she had been doing everything in her power to help him do so, but all of her efforts appeared fruitless.

The slim remainder of her thoughts lingered on the fact that she truly did now bear the symbol of Gondor across her chest.

She was living out the very dreams that she dreamt of as a child. All of the goals and ambitions that had consumed both her waking and sleeping hours had finally come to pass, and yet…something was wrong. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, and whenever she felt herself moving towards what she thought could be an answer, it quickly darted out of her reach.

Her brows had been furrowed so deeply in concentration, that it took her an entire pass along the shoreline before she noticed the low, muffled sounds of distress that were coming from the tent to her right.

Someone was crying out in the dark, murkiness of sleep.

Deora’s head snapped to the right, immediately honing in on Faramir’s tent. There, she could see the light of the small lamp that sat within the canvas shaking slightly, as if being pushed around.

Without thinking, she had rushed forward, shoving the flaps of tapestry inside. Within the tent itself, she found Faramir thrashing around, rather violently, in his sleep. Her eyes flickered worriedly over towards the lantern. One more tilt to the side and its flame would find the flowing tapestry and set it ablaze. Lunging for it, she managed to snatch it up and into her hands just before it finally lost its balance for good.

In the seconds in which she had moved, Faramir’s eyes had shot open, a strangled gasp tumbling out of his throat. His breathing was heavy and frantic as his eyes began to dart around him. His hands flew up to his hair, pulling at it slightly in an attempt to ground himself back in reality.

Quickly setting the lantern down safely outside the tent, Deora then reached forward, grabbing onto either side of her Captain’s shoulders.

“Calm yourself, Faramir.” she whispered urgently. “It was only a dream.”

“Deora-” her name fell out of his mouth in an empty breath of air, his eyes still searching around the tent for a moment before finally coming to rest upon her face. “What happened?”

She shook her head.

“You were having a nightmare. Nearly knocked the lantern over and lit your tent on fire.” she chastised gently.

Faramir glanced down in momentary shame, taking in another gulp of air as shaking fingers continued to thread through his locks.

Deora gave him a moment longer to calm himself, dropping her hands from his shoulders, and resting them back on her own lap.

“What is it?” she asked quietly.

She hadn’t asked as his Lieutenant in that moment, but rather as his childhood friend. It was a voice of hers that had been scarce recently, absorbed rather in constant battle and the duties of a Ranger serving her Captain and Kingdom.

“What troubles you, Faramir?”

He took another moment to slow his breathing before he finally stilled. His hands fell away from his hair, momentarily dragging down the sides of his face.

“I saw a darkness rolling over all of Middle Earth.” he began to describe in a shaky voice. “Something told me that our doom was coming. And that Isildur’s Bane has something to do with it…” his words trailed off for a moment, finally daring to glance back up at Deora, his eyes beginning to shine with tears. “I fear something has happened to Boromir.”

Deora had done what she could to reassure him that it had only been a nightmare and nothing more, something that must have been a result of all the days he had spent recently without true rest.

“In fact-” she said, shifting back on her legs slightly as if about to stand. “I’ll take your half of the watch. You need to regain your strength.”

As her arm reached back to push aside the tarp and disappear out into the night, a hand had suddenly materialized around the wrist that had momentarily remained inside.

Quickly glancing back at Faramir in surprise, she found his eyes had yet to leave her face. His mouth was parted slightly, as if about to say something, but ultimately, he had hesitated.

“Faramir?”

She watched her Captain swallow.

“Could I request that you remain here?” he asked quietly. “I think I would…I believe I would sleep better with the knowledge that you are nearby.”

At the sound of his words, her entire visage had softened, and she was nodding her head without hesitation.

“Alright.”

So, she did just that. She posted herself up right outside her Captain’s tent, keeping a wary eye on the shoreline, while absentmindedly listening to the soft sound of his breathing back behind her.

Unfortunately, in the end, Faramir’s fears had been proven right.

One afternoon, as he had been standing watch on the bank of the Western shore, something had floated down the Anduin River. The current had pushed it straight up and onto the rocks by the Captain’s feet, and he had just stood there, staring down at it for several long minutes, trying to decide if it was a figment of his imagination or not.

Or if he actually was seeing the Horn of Gondor lying at his feet.

His brother’s horn.

Cleaved in two.

Deora had walked down for the changing of the watch, finding him standing there with the horn in his hands. And as he slowly turned to face her, rivers of tears tracking down his cheeks, her heart dropped into the pits of her stomach.

And she knew, as did he, that Boromir was gone.

The Rangers had brought their dark findings back to Denethor in Minas Tirith.

It was a solemn scene to say the very least. Most of them had gathered in the training grounds, waiting for their Captain while he met with his father to deliver the news of the evident passing of his eldest son.

Deora was pacing anxiously just outside the doors to the throne room, unable to monitor what was going on inside the way that she wished to.

When they did eventually creak open, she had spun on her heels to watch Faramir slip back out into the hallway. His eyes were downcast, looking just as forlorn as he had been consistently for the past couple of days.

Deora hurried over to her Captain’s side.

“How did it go?” she asked in a whisper.

Faramir shook his head.

“He didn’t say anything. Couldn’t even look at me.”

Deora bit down harshly on the inside of her cheek, reaching out to gently place hand against his forearm.

“Come.” she commanded as softly as she could. “Your men are waiting for you.”

Begrudgingly, Faramir had allowed her to lead him to where the rest of the Rangers had gathered. The men, who had clearly been whispering amongst themselves, immediately grew silent upon his arrival. Most of them had known Boromir personally, as he had simply been that sort of man. So, they were all dealing with his loss in different, but equally deep ways.

But to lose a brother…a brother that had always defended you and fought beside you throughout everything…that was a loss that none of them could truly comprehend.

Faramir had tried to go about his business to the best of his ability, informing the Rangers that they would restock their defenses along the shores of Osgiliath with their numbers, that they couldn’t dare to leave it totally abandoned, not while this darkness continued to grow.

But before the young man could continue speaking, Madril had suddenly stepped forward out of the assembled.

“My lord, Faramir-” he interrupted. “Apologies. I do not mean to burden you further. But with Boromir gone, the Captainship of the White Tower now falls to you.”

The field fell totally silent once more, and Deora glanced warily over at the man standing to her left. She knew, better than most, that Faramir had never once wished for this life. The life of a soldier had never suited him, and that was one of the things that she admired the most about her friend. But now, even more responsibilities of war had been placed upon his shoulders, and she could almost see the way that they were physically pulling him down. It appeared as if all of the blood had been drained out of his body. He looked immensely frail and weak, but only for a moment, as he was quick to force back on a facade for the Rangers still standing before him.

After leaving half of the new combination of their forces to defend the city of Osgiliath, the remaining Rangers acted as, for lack of better terminology, a pack of hunters. They traveled to take on the waves of armies that Sauron was continuously calling to himself as they marched through the lands just outside the reaches of their kingdom.

Faramir, wanting to be as far away from Gondor as possible, was leading said hunting party. And naturally, Deora was right there at his side.

One night, they had set up camp deep within a far away forest, stationing themselves next to a small lake. The body of water shone in the moonlight as Faramir glowered down into it, as if waiting for some sort of message to appear. At his side, Deora had been continuously skipping rocks out along the surface, working to ensure that it never sat still, not as long as they stood there.

“I am never going to be good enough for him…am I?” Faramir had suddenly whispered, his words nearly blending in completely with the breezy nighttime air.

Deora heaved a sigh, tossing another rock into the water and watching as it immediately sank instead of bouncing across the surface. Despite him having not mentioned the name for the better part of their recent travels, she knew exactly who he was talking about.

“Do you wish for my honesty?” she asked her Captain.

“Yes.” he replied quickly.

Deora set her shoulders with a purpose.

“No. You won’t be.” she began. “That man’s mind is twisted, and no amount of reason or even magic could ever change that.”

She heard Faramir let out another shaky breath. It clearly had not exactly been the words he was hoping to hear, despite knowing deep down in his own heart that they were true.

Deora watched him carefully for a moment longer.

“Faramir…” she gently called out.

The Captain slowly turned towards his Lieutenant.

“It does not matter.” She began to proclaim. “You are on your way to becoming one of the most notable people in Gondor’s history. You are the youngest to ever be named Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien. You have defended your people with poise and bravery. You named a woman Lieutenant despite the entire world telling you that you were crazy and wrong to do so.”

At that, Faramir managed to crack the smallest of smiles.

“You have the respect and devotion of the men that you lead.” she continued boldly. “As you have mine. So please do away with your despair, I beg you.”

Faramir continued to stare forward at his Lieutenant, his best friend, for just a moment longer. His eyes were shining with something that she couldn’t quite make out in the darkness of the night.

His silence seemed to tell her that she had done all that she could. So, after nodding her head politely, she had turned to make her way back towards the camp with the assumption that he needed a moment to be alone.

“Deora-” Faramir suddenly called out, a cold hand materializing around her arm.

Turning back around, she found a half-smiling face staring back at her. A sight so very rare in those days that she was stunned into a near-complete stillness in its presence.

“Thank you.” he said earnestly.

After a beat, Deora nodded her head again.

“Always, Faramir.” she whispered. “Always.”

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 5 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Deora tightly secured the sheath of her sword to her leather waistband.

That morning, she was set to make the journey to Osgiliath. It was a journey that she had made multiple times over by that point in her service. In fact, part of her was secretly hoping that this would be the very last time she would walk out of the front door of her childhood home. As she had heard whispers that they were set to be stationed along the riverfront for a rather prolonged period of time while the threat in the East continued to grow.

As she had made her way through the living room, she had passed by her father. He was slumped over in his chair, a half-drunk cup of ale in his hands, despite it being only ten in the morning. Lifting his head up with a bit of difficulty, he had stared blankly at the White Tree of Gondor that was plastered across the front of her chest plate. His gaze was far away and immensely haunted.

Deora had to force down the near-evil smirk that wanted to appear on her face before finally turning and pushing the front door open with her shoulder.

In the stables, Deora absentmindedly whistled a tune as she tightened the packs on either side of her horse's saddle. She had been about to lift it up and off of the rack, when a small knock suddenly sounded from the pen's font gate.

Peeking her head out from around her horse, Deora was immediately greeted by her Captain’s smiling face.

“Faramir? What are you doing here?” she asked as he propped himself up against the small wooden doorway. “I thought I was supposed to meet you in Osgiliath.” she said, a soft grunt escaping her throat as she plopped the saddle up and onto the back of her horse.

“I was…unable to make the trip yesterday.” he replied. “Plus, I thought it would be nice for us to make the journey together. Don’t you think so, Lieutenant?”

Deora slowly raised an eyebrow as she tightened the last buckle, recognizing something subtle in her friend’s tone.

“You lost track of time again, didn’t you?” she countered boldly. “I’m guessing- in the library?”

Immediately, Faramir’s face flushed bright red.

“It was already midnight when I left.” he admitted in a low mumble.

Deora let out a hearty laugh, shaking her head as she pushed herself up to mount her steed.

“Oh, my Captain.” she mused as she got herself settled. “Your mind is still a marvel to me.”

Faramir smiled back up at her. But their shared moment of content was quickly squandered as the main doors of the stable burst open with such force that the horse underneath Deora reared back slightly in fear.

Placing a calming hand against the creature’s neck, the soldier glanced up only to grow rigid at the sight of the Steward of Gondor stomping his way towards their pen. Faramir dropped his arms from where they had been gently crossed over his chest, immediately straightening out his spine.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the Steward’s voice boomed as he came to a stop in front of the gate.

Deora tightened the grip on the reins of her horse, which had since regained its calmness beneath her.

Faramir had strategically stepped out in front of the open stall door as much as he could, bravely facing his father head on.

“What meaning do you speak of, father?” he attempted to ask diplomatically.

The older man snarled like some sort of feral beast.

“Do not play the fool with me.” he fired back at his son. “I have only just now gotten word that you have appointed your own Lieutenant to the Rangers of Ithilien.”

Faramir gulped, and Deora stilled on top of her horse.

Neither of them had been able to bring up the subject to each other, not wanting to ruin the blissful happiness that they had created by just doing what they felt was right. In the back of their minds, they had always known that it would never have been received favorably, and now they were at a loss for what to do and say when confronted with the fact that they had acted without the permission of Gondor’s acting ruler.

“I have.” Faramir finally answered, his voice sounding outwardly calm. But Deora, knowing the man for as many years as she had, could hear the deeply buried tremor in his words.

“Not only have you disobeyed my orders and brought that girl back within our walls-” Denethor began to rant, speaking of Deora as if she wasn’t mere feet away from him. “But you dishonor your men by naming a woman their superior.”

Deora was unable to prevent the way her mouth parted in disgust.

Faramir took a long, purposeful breath in.

“I will not argue with you, Father.” he replied. “It was my choice. And I do not regret it.”

The older man took an intimidating step forward, and Deora’s initial instinct was to slide off of her horse. She could sense his rage and knew that the man was not above laying his hands on his own blood.

But for the moment, she had managed to remain still.

“I will ensure that you do.” Denethor threatened.

Faramir continued to stare forward at his father, but Deora could see the way that his shoulders were beginning to shake.

Luckily for them, or unluckily with the benefit of hindsight, the front doors of the stables were shoved open again. All heads turned to watch Boromir, well out of breath, sprint inside. Faramir’s name had fallen from his lips, but the man faltered as soon as he digested the situation in front of him. He came to a stark halt next to his father, his blond hair slightly plastered to either side of his face.

“What is going- it doesn’t matter! I have just received word from my men that Osgiliath is under attack!” he delivered with urgency.

“What?” Deora coughed out in alarm. “How? By who?”

“Sauron’s forces.” Boromir replied. “They say the Witch-King leads them. The men have already been forced to retreat back to the river.”

Deora immediately flicked the reins on her horse, and the animal took a few purposeful steps forward.

“Apologies, Lord Denethor, but we must away.” she said stoically.

“No. I am certainly not done with you-!”

“Father!” Boromir shouted exasperatedly. “We must get to Osgiliath! Now! Or we risk the entire White City being overrun!”

Of course, only ever listening to Boromir when he spoke, the old man immediately fell silent. He sent one more fiery glare at both Deora and Faramir before begrudgingly stepping aside from the stall door.

“We will deal with this upon their return.” Denethor added in a spit, turning his head up towards Deora pointedly. “Should there be such a thing.”

She held the old man’s gaze for only a moment before quickly turning her attention to Boromir instead. He nodded silently, making for another nearby pen, and the horse inside.

Faramir quickly looked up at his Lieutenant.

“What are your orders, Captain?” she asked him.

There was a fraction of a second where Faramir just stared back at her. And she nearly grew frustrated at the fact that she couldn’t decipher his expression as fast as she would normally be able to.

“Gather the men.” he finally answered her, squaring his own shoulders. “Ride for Osgiliath with all haste.”

Deora clicked her tongue, immediately dashing out of the stables in order to do just that.

The battle that had ensued was like nothing Deora had ever known.

Having spent the last half of the year defeating smaller groups of Sauron’s ever-growing forces, she knew well the brutality of Orcs. But it had never been on a scale near what she had experienced that day in Osgiliath. And it was certainly not like the glorious dreams of battles that she would often have when she was a child.

Under the guide of the Witch King, these monsters had no mercy. And many soldiers were lost along the way, many buildings and other city fortifications reduced to rubble.

When Deora had stormed ashore with her fellow Rangers, joining the rest of Boromir’s men, she had quickly discovered that whatever information the Orcs had gathered about Osgiliath’s defenses hadn’t included their additional numbers. For they had never kept the full might of their forces along the river, a strategic move that she knew was often criticized by Lord Denethor himself. But that day, it served them well.

With a clash of men and metal, of Orc and flesh, the battle raged on for the better part of the afternoon. And eventually, with one last push, they had managed to drive back the remaining monsters, sending them scrambling back towards the wastelands of Mordor.

As they did, Deora had risen back up and onto her feet, the bridge below her partially destroyed by a last-ditch attack by the Witch-King and his horrid mount before it had retreated with a final screech. She stood there, Boromir and Faramir flanking her on either side, staring out at the city that they had saved. None of them had said anything for a long moment, even as their troops began to break out into cheers somewhere far beyond their position. Instead, the three friends exchanged silent glances as they each tried to force oxygen back into their lungs.

Deora stood off to the side of the large crowd, her helmet resting on a small piece of rubble down by her feet. Soldiers and city-folk alike were all shouting and chanting in unison the name of the man who was now standing proudly at the top of a nearby bridge.

“Boromir! Boromir! Boromir!”

She couldn’t help but roll her eyes as the man planted the flag of Gondor back into one of the turrets, drawing his sword dramatically. The crowd around her absolutely lost their minds at the act.

Someone nudged her side, and when she glanced to her right, she was met with a smirking Faramir, who had also ditched his helmet amongst the chaos that followed the battle. Deora could sense the joke that he was about to make about his brother and quickly moved to shush him. This of course, only caused the man to laugh as he absentmindedly reached up to run his fingers through his slightly tangled hair.

“This city was once the jewel of our kingdom!” Boromir began preaching. “A place of light and beauty and music…and so it shall be once more!”

The gathered masses once more cheered in response.

“Let the armies of Mordor know this; never again will the land of my people fall into enemy hands!” Boromir continued. “This city of Osgiliath has been reclaimed for Gondor!” he shouted before raising his sword once again.

Soldiers and citizens alike clapped the Steward’s eldest son on the shoulder as he made his way back through the crowd. When he finally reached their location, the Captain and his Lieutenant pushed themselves off of the wall that they had head leaning against in order to greet him.

The two brothers shared a quick embrace.

“Good speech.” Faramir complimented as they parted.

Deora nodded her head in agreement.

“Nice and short.”

Boromir beamed, throwing his arms over both of their shoulders.

“Leaves more time for drinking!” he shouted joyfully.

The three of them laughed together for a moment, as if they were suddenly kids again. Boromir then turned his head to shout back at the crowd behind them.

“Break out the ale! These men are thirsty!”

He was met by another round of rowdy cheers from the soldiers in their immediate vicinity. And soon enough, the celebration around them devolved into a city-wide event.

Deora had slunk her way through the crowds, ignoring the jeers of some of the less-savory members of the Gondorian soldiers. She mostly kept to the Rangers that she knew well, for by that point, she had spent more time with them and had earned their respect through the multiple battles that they had fought together. Laughing and drinking with a small group of them, they were taking turns reminiscing on and trading stories about the fight that had transpired mere hours ago.

Across the main road, Boromir sauntered over to his younger brother’s side, carrying two tankards of ale in his hands.

Faramir took one of them with a thankful smile, and the two of them toasted each other before throwing the liquid down their throats.

“Remember today, little brother.” Boromir said, clearly still in good spirits. “Today, life is good.”

Faramir nodded his head in agreement, taking another large swig of his drink.

At that moment, a light laugh rippled out and across the air. It had been joined by a chorus of others, all at different volumes and tones, but this one seemed to stick out above the rest.

Especially to Faramir.

Glancing over his shoulder, the Captain’s eyes easily found the crowd of Rangers a few paces down the street from them. Watching on with intent now, he could see the way that Deora had thrown her head back, laughing again at another joke that had evidently been passed around the group of soldiers. Her dark hair momentarily flew past her face before resting over the metal plates of armor that shielded her shoulders. The corners of her eyes creased deeply as her smile continued to grow on her face. The effect of the ale had manifested itself in the lightest coating of red across the top of her cheeks.

Boromir swiftly elbowed his younger brother in the ribcage.

“Ow!” Faramir exclaimed, turning his attention back to his brother. “What was that for?”

Boromir smirked, gesturing subtly with his chin back towards the direction that Faramir had just been staring in.

“She seems quite at home in her new role.” Boromir noted. “Who would’ve thought?”

Faramir glanced back over at the group of Rangers.

“She did.” he answered. “As did I.” he then added with an unusual amount of confidence, chasing his words with the remainder of his ale.

This only caused Boromir’s smile to grow.

“Ah.” he replied, taking a beat to also polish off his own drink. When he brought the tankard back away from his mouth, he jutted out his chin slightly. “So have you told her then?”

Faramir turned back to his brother, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Sorry?”

Boromir swiftly wrapped an arm around his brother's shoulders, leaning his head closer to his ear so that he could hear his whisper underneath the noise of the celebrations.

“That you’ve been mad for her since you were eleven years old.”

Faramir immediately shoved his brother away from him, growling at him to be silent. But a boisterous laugh escaped the elders' mouth regardless.

Deora glanced back over her shoulder, easily finding where the two brothers were standing a few paces away from her position. They were laughing rowdily and shoving each other around.

Forcing down a smile, she bid a short goodbye to her fellow Rangers in order to walk over to her Captain and his older brother. The two noted her arrival by falling silent, swallowing back down their words and laughter.

As she came to a stop, she immediately offered the cup in her hands to Faramir, who took it with a raised eyebrow.

“It’s not sitting well with me anymore.” she admitted, answering his unasked question whilst shrugging her shoulders.

Faramir immediately nodded his head in understanding. Deora hadn’t been the biggest fan of ale for all the time he had known her, so this was commonplace for them. She would often offer him the last few sips of her drink, not wanting it to go to waste. And he would always accept.

If they were ever around Boromir, he would often joke that in many cultures, sharing a drink was some sort of act of declaration, to which he would immediately receive a harsh shouting at from at least one, if not both of them, in response.

Faramir finished off the drink in a single swig, and Deora took the tankard back into her hands with a nod in thanks. She had opened her mouth to speak again, when suddenly, a flash of movement a bit beyond their position caught her attention.

Her Captain clearly saw the way that her expression had hardened, her jaw clenching dangerously in a way that he had only ever seen happen a few times in the past.

“What is it?” he asked worriedly.

“He’s here.” Deora replied through gritted teeth.

In unison, Faramir and Boromir turned to look over their shoulders. The former’s expression immediately dropped, while the latter’s flushed with anger as they watched Lord Denethor make his way through the crowd, greeting people that he passed with a perverse sense of excitement.

Boromir turned back to their small group, an angry huff of air escaping his lips.

“One moment of peace, can he not give us that?”

Deora instinctively reached out for Faramir’s arm, a plea for him to come disappear with her immediately dying on her tongue as the old man’s voice suddenly began to carry out over the crowds.

“Where is he? Where is Gondor’s finest? Where is my first born?”

Deora’s scowl deepened.

Boromir shot both her and Faramir one last glance before forcing a smile onto his face, turning to greet the Steward.

“Father!”

Faramir had immediately taken a step back as the two embraced. A habit of his that Deora had unfortunately taken note of over the years. He would always make sure that he was out of the way, both physically and verbally, of Denethor and Boromir. Always keeping himself at arms distance from his own family. As that thought crossed her mind, her hand slowly fell from her Captain’s arm, as her anger began to burn beneath her skin.

“They say you vanquished the enemy almost single-handedly.” Denethor said with a smile.

“They exaggerate.” Boromir corrected. “The victory belongs to Faramir and his Rangers also.”

Denethor instantly scowled at their mention, glancing over towards the other two standing in their small circle for what appeared to be the first time.

“But for Faramir, this city would still be standing. Were you not entrusted to protect it?” he asked condescendingly.

“I would have done, but our numbers were too few.” Faramir said calmly, a weak attempt to make the Steward see reason.

“Oh, too few? You let the enemy walk in and take it on a whim.” Denethor spat. “Perhaps your ill-fated decision to appoint a woman as your lead Lieutenant had much to do with it.”

Deora’s expression had darkened, but almost instantly, Boromir had held out a hand in front of her. Almost as if he had sensed her ever-growing anger.

Denethor took an intimidating step towards Faramir, causing his youngest son to avert his gaze.

“Always you cast a poor reflection on me.”

“That is not my intent.” Faramir replied, his tone growing more timid with each passing second.

“You give him no credit!” Boromir finally exploded. “And yet he tries to do your will!”

The older son then stormed off and into the crowd, leading Denethor to immediately scramble off after him.

Faramir faltered for a moment, watching as his father and brother got further and further up the road from them.

Deora had reached out to grab at his forearm again, a bit more forcefully this time around.

“Faramir, please-” she said sternly. “He is not worth your time.”

When he turned back towards her, she found his eyes already a bit misty, and a pang of sympathy hit the direct center of her chest.

“Your men know what you have done for them. They look to you as their leader for a reason.” she continued to proclaim. “You do not need his approval.”

Faramir looked as if he was going to reply, but the words seemed to lodge somewhere in his throat. Quickly closing his mouth, he spun on his heels in order to take off after his father and brother.

“Faramir!” Deora called out after him, immediately beginning her own pursuit.

“We have more urgent things to speak of.” Denethor was saying once they managed to catch up with the Steward and his eldest son. “Elrond of Rivendell has called a meeting. He would not say why, but I have guessed its purpose. It is rumored that the weapon of the enemy has been found.”

Boromir stopped walking upon hearing that.

“The One Ring?” he mused out loud. “Isildur’s bane…”

Deora blinked in surprise. Those were words she had only ever heard talked about in passing or whispered about in folk tales. The thought that they were actually real had never even crossed her mind, yet now the Steward of Gondor was saying that it had been found?

“It has fallen into the hands of the Elves.” Denethor continued. “Everyone will try to claim it, Men, Dwarves, Wizards. We cannot let that happen. This thing must come to Gondor.”

“Gondor…” Boromir repeated, sounding as if he was caught in some sort of trance.

“It’s dangerous, I know. Ever the Ring will seek to corrupt the hearts of lesser Men.” Denethor reasoned. “But you are strong, and our need is great. It is our blood which is being spilled, our people who are dying. Sauron is biding his time. He is massing fresh armies. He will return. And when he does, we will be powerless to stop him. You must go. Bring me back this mighty gift.”

Boromir suddenly scowled, something about his father’s tone dragging him out of whatever daydream he had been caught in for a sparing moment.

“No.” he replied boldly. “My place is here with my people. Not in Rivendell.”

“Would you deny your own father?”

Faramir had somehow mustered up the courage to step forward at that moment, placing himself into the space that his brother had instinctively left for him.

Deora watched on worriedly from the sidelines.

“If there is a need to go to Rivendell, send me instead.” he offered.

Denethor whirled on his youngest with a horrid sneer.

“You?” he practically spat. “Oh, I see. A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality…I think not.”

Faramir’s expression once more fell in total, crushing defeat. He shrunk back, arriving once more at Deora’s side, who in turn was glaring forward at the Steward of Gondor. For she had no fear of the man. She held no desire for his approval.

“I trust this mission only to your brother.” Denethor continued. “The one who will not fail me.”

Boromir did not respond, simply braced himself up against a nearby stone wall, shaking his head in disappointment.

Later on that afternoon, Boromir was sitting atop his noble steed. Behind him, the white flag that he had planted on the bridge in the earlier celebration, was blowing gently in the wind coming off of the river.

His attention, however, was down below his horse, where both Faramir and Deora stood side by side, ready to see him off.

“Remember today, little brother.” the man said earnestly.

Faramir nodded, somehow managing a weak smile for the man before he inevitably turned and trotted out of Osgiliath for good.

Deora and Faramir watched him go until he was completely faded from their sight.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 4 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien.”

It was a rather peaceful fall afternoon, and the city of Gondor seemed particularly sleepy that day. Deora had disappeared from her house early in the morning, seeking and ultimately finding refuge in the limbs of a large tree that sat at the edge of the city limits. It had been several quiet hours later that she had seen the familiar dusty-red head of hair wandering about the field below her. A small smile had instantly appeared on her face.

Upon hearing her voice, Faramir glanced up into the tree, a smile of his own playing at the corner of his lips when his eyes finally found hers.

“Come to mingle with the common people?” Deora teased.

“I’ve come to honor a promise.” he replied.

Deora raised an eyebrow, swiftly jumping down from the branches that held her, her feet softly landing onto the grass below.

“A promise?”

Faramir nodded, crossing the field until he stood directly in front of her.

“One that I made many years ago.”

Deora’s head tilted to the side, gesturing with her hands for him to continue. In the beat of silence that followed, she absentmindedly noted that he was trying, and failing, to fight back a smile. The man straightened out his spine ever so slightly before beginning to speak again.

“Would Deora of House Ingold accept my request for her to become a Ranger of Ithilien?”

The hillside went completely silent. Even the wind seemed to stop blowing as Deora’s eyes widened beyond what should’ve been normal for a human.

“Faramir…I swear to everything that is good and pure in this world, if you are lying to me, I will splay your innards out beneath the White Tree.” she threatened in a semi-shaking voice.

The man scoffed in surprise at the vulgarity of her words.

“Do you truly think so little of me?”

Deora didn’t answer, simply continued to stare back at him unwaveringly.

Faramir took a deep and purposeful breath, and this time as he re-set his shoulders, his smile finally settled across his expression.

“I swear on the House of my Father; I am being sincere.”

Deora felt her eye twitch.

“You know I don’t give a damn about the House of your Father.” she whispered.

Faramir had opened his mouth to offer up some sort of retort but was silenced by Deora darting forward across the already miniscule amount of space between them. Her arms tightly wrapped around his shoulders in a uniquely powerful hug.

The man laughed in surprise, stumbling back slightly as a result of her power, but was eventually able to return the embrace with just as much force.

“Thank you, Faramir.” she said seriously as she pulled back, her eyes just the smallest bit misty.

Faramir didn’t respond right away. Instead, he had taken the time to stare back at her bright expression with much of the same reverence he would become possessed with whenever listening to the stories Gandalf told them back when they were children.

Seeing this, Deora’s smile faltered, a heavy silence blanketing them. A heaviness that suddenly made it fairly difficult to breathe.

Faramir finally gulped, forcibly snapping himself out of his daze. And in turn, Deora slipped her hands off of his shoulders, coughing in order to clear her throat.

“Thank you.” she eventually repeated.

“Of course.” Faramir said, still smiling. “I assume I can take this as your acceptance?”

Deora scoffed slightly.

“I imagine your Rangers will have something to say about it, no?”

“I may have an idea about that.” Faramir immediately replied, his smile morphing into a more mischievous smirk.

Deora raised a single eyebrow.

Faramir stood in front of the collected ranks of his Rangers, his hands pointedly clasped behind his back.

“I’ve gathered you all here in order to introduce the newly appointed Lieutenant of the Rangers of Ithilien.” he began to explain. “They shall serve as my right-hand on missions and campaigns and will lead you should I be otherwise occupied or incapacitated.” he informed them, as if reading it off some sort of scroll.

The men before him nodded in passive acknowledgement.

“Let us welcome Lieutenant Deora Ingold. Knight of Gondor.”

Removing her helmet at that moment, as she had been instructed to do by Faramir earlier that afternoon, visions of dozens of aghast expressions slowly came into focus for Deora.

Naturally, she had expected as such, but suddenly having to face them head on instead of in the confines of her own mind was somehow just a little bit more difficult. She squared her shoulders as best she could, sending the squadron of Rangers a short nod in lieu of any words.

The silence that followed was deafening. And Deora hid a rather difficult swallow as Faramir continued to look out at his men expectantly.

Finally, one of them coughed, breaking the awkward quiet.

“Pardon me, Lord Faramir, but do you…truly think this wise?”

“I do.” Faramir replied without missing a beat. “Do you not, Sir Anborn?”

The soldier attempted to laugh off the attention that was suddenly on him.

“It is just…with the utmost respect of course, I’m sure some of the other Rangers also have concerns about the…field readiness of the Lieutenant.”

Some quiet snickers fluttered throughout the assembled crowd, and Deora was finding it increasingly hard to keep her anger in check. In an effort to combat this, she tightened her hands around each other where they were hidden behind her back.

Faramir hummed in acknowledgement as he surveyed the crowd of his men.

“Could those of you who have…concerns about my choice of Lieutenant, please raise a hand.”

Deora watched the crowd as, slowly, about half of the Rangers did so.

Faramir briefly glanced to his right, sending her a subtle nod.

All according to plan, his eyes said.

“Now, will those with hands raised please form a line behind Sir Anborn. Swords at the ready.” the Captain then instructed.

His words were met with empty blinks of surprise.

“Now.” he added.

Slowly, and clearly still confused, the men began to form a haphazard line that nearly stretched across the training grounds.

“Anborn, step forward please.”

When the soldier did as he requested, Faramir looked back over at Deora. And upon meeting his eyes, she wordlessly drew her sword and stepped out in front of the line of soldiers. Her actions were instantly met by more muffled laughter.

The underestimation of these men was a palpable feeling, quickly serving to fuel her confidence. As it would mean that they would be more vulnerable, overconfident, and therefore easier to beat.

“Each of you can have a chance to voice your doubts through a sparring match. I will reconsider my decision based on the outcomes.” Faramir announced calmly.

A few of the men quickly whispered amongst each other, others sharing small near-hidden smirks in response. The small few of them that hadn’t raised their hands to challenge their Captain’s words watched on with interest from the now makeshift sidelines of the grounds.

Faramir gestured for them to begin, taking a pointed step back as Anborn all but sauntered up to Deora with a smile.

“Do not fret, my lady.” he said. “We’re all gentlemen here. We will go easy on you.”

Deora’s eyes quickly darkened, an action that clearly caught the soldier by surprise.

“I would highly advise against that.” she spat, taking her first swing.

Anborn stumbled back, caught off balance. At his flank, all remaining laughter was immediately silenced as the soldier just barely managed to throw up a block to defend himself.

Deora pulled her sword back, purposefully taking a moment to drag the flat part of her metal blade against his weapon. Ultimately, she did not allow him an ounce of recovery time, swinging at him again, her aim targeting his legs. He was quick to block that attack as well, but by the time that he did, she had already thrown up strikes at both his shoulders. Her speed was near-impossible for him to match, forcing him to engage solely in defensive tactics.

The only time that he had managed to take the initiative and swing at her head, she had caught the blade with hers mid-slash, twisting their swords together with such force that he yelped in pain at the pressure it had put on his wrist.

Bringing her elbow down towards the center of his face, Anborn was sent stumbling backwards yet again. And with a violent cut upwards, she had sent his sword flying across the field.

Before he could even register that loss, she kicked the center of his chest, causing him to fall down and onto his back unceremoniously. The tip of a sword then materialized at the base of his jugular.

Anborn froze, eyeing the blade in dazed surprise.

Faramir casually walked over to the battle, peering down at his fallen Ranger.

“Do you yield?” the Captain asked, trying his best to fight back a smile.

Deora continued to glare daggers down at the man by her feet. He was glancing back and forth between the blade, the woman holding it to his throat, and Faramir.

Finally, he managed the smallest nods of his head.

“I yield.”

Deora instantly dropped her arm and sword. Instead, she reached down her free hand to offer it to the fallen soldier. She saw him eye it for a moment in clear hesitation before inevitably grasping it with his own, allowing her to pull him back up and onto his feet.

Once he was standing again, Deora offered him a respectful nod before taking a step back, landing at Faramir’s side once more.

A prolonged silence fell over the company. As Anborn returned to his men, the next soldier in line had stepped forward to accept the challenge. But Deora noticed that this time around, all smug expressions had disappeared. Instead, they had all been replaced by ones of steady determination.

Faramir continued to watch on intently as Deora cut through the next three soldiers with ease. Each one had walked up thinking that they could somehow put on a better show than those that came before him, but soon the repetitive sound of their yields were carrying up into the sky above their city.

After the tenth soldier went down, a silence had fallen over the fields. Deora had whipped her hair out of her face, expecting another soldier to step forward.

But none did.

“Any other challengers?” Faramir called out to the Rangers.

Pure silence answered him.

The man swallowed down another smirk as Deora sheathed her sword with a sigh.

“Very well.” Faramir said. “You are all dismissed.”

Seemingly in a bit of a daze, the Rangers slowly began to peel off, huddling into groups as they began hushed conversations about what had just transpired.

But one of them hung back. It was one of the older men in the company, and he was quick to make his way across the grounds and over to the Captain and Lieutenant.

“I would like to…extend my apologies on behalf of the entire company, if I may.” he said, looking directly at Deora.

The woman blinked in genuine surprise. An apology was quite literally the last thing she had expected to receive from the Rangers of Ithilien that day. She had glanced over at Faramir out of the corner of her eye but otherwise kept her attention on the man in front of her.

“I thank you for your kind words…”

“Mandril.” he finished politely for her.

Deora nodded in acknowledgement.

“I must be off.” Faramir interrupted at that moment. “I dare not keep my father waiting.”

Both soldiers offered their Captain short bows in goodbye.

Faramir shot Deora one last covert smile before turning around and heading back towards the castle.

The two remaining Rangers watched him go in a prolonged silence, before Deora finally let out a short breath. She turned to retrieve the helmet she had discarded before the sparring matches up off of the ground.

“I do hope you understand-” Madril spoke up the instant that she had moved. “-despite the volume of disagreements, we respect Faramir a great deal.”

Deora slowly turned back towards the older man, eyeing him carefully. Seeing this, Madril just continued to smile.

“He is most unlike his brother. Not many men are wise in the realms of both scrolls and field readiness.”

“He is bolder than we give him credit for.” Deora interjected, rather defensively.

“Indeed.”

After giving the Ranger another silent once-over, Deora finally nodded her head, bidding him a silent goodbye before leaving the training grounds behind.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

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Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 3 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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The years had begun to slowly slip away from them.

One day, Deora was crouched low to the ground, her hands running through the cluster of flowers at the base of the White Tree. They, as always, matched the mysterious and mythical bark perfectly in complexion.

That day happened to be the anniversary of her mother's death, and she hadn’t been able to bear staying within the walls of her house. Not with her father prancing about as if it had been any normal day.

Faramir was standing off to the side of the tree, carefully watching her every move. She hadn’t spoken a word to him since she had arrived on the hillside that morning. He could easily sense that something was wrong, but didn’t quite have it in him to confront her about it directly.

In the end, he decided to employ an alternate tactic.

“You know, I always did like these flowers.” he mused, stepping towards the tree. “They’re wild, and don’t always need the caring of the gardeners like the others do.”

He reached down to pluck one of them up and out of the ground, turning it over a few times in between his fingers. Deora hadn’t turned to look at him quite yet, but she had fallen still, telling him that at the very least, she was listening.

“They remind me of you, now that I think about it.” he dared to add, only a little bit cheekily.

There was a beat of silence. Before suddenly, Deora had risen to her feet. As she did so, she appeared to purposefully stomp on the bushel of flowers she had been crouched in front of.

“I am not a flower!” she barked loudly, her voice echoing out over the entire courtyard.

Faramir had jumped at the abruptness of her tone.

“Flowers are- they’re weak! And frail! And it- it is an insult to be compared to them!”

As silence fell over them again, the young boy immediately took note of just how rapidly his friend's shoulders were rising and falling. He noticed how white her knuckles had become, clenched there at her sides. And the very last thing that he noticed, were the bright tears that were beginning to collect in the corners of her eyes.

He glanced back down at the flower in his hand.

“I do not see it that way.” he replied after another long moment, voice as calm as ever.

Deora subtly took in another breath but otherwise remained silent.

“Flowers are a perfect balance.” he began to say. “Of both resilience and beauty. When they suffer any sort of injury, they always manage to right themselves-” he said, then pointedly gesturing towards the flowers at the edges of her boots. Already, the stems were beginning to unbend. “They always turn their faces back towards the sunlight.”

Slowly, Faramir glanced back over at his friend. And the instant that their eyes met, a small gasp fell out of her throat, a single tear beginning a slow trek down the path of her cheek.

“My mother-” she spoke in a broken whisper. “I said the same thing to her. I screamed at her not to call me a flower. And that was the last thing…she died a few days later.”

Deora then lowered herself back down to the ground, her breathing shallow as her hands cupped the flowers that she had crushed.

Immediately, Faramir had crouched down in order to be at her side.

“Not a day goes by where I don’t think…where I don’t think that it was somehow my fault.” she admitted, choking on her words as her shaking hands continued to surround the flowers.

Faramir swallowed down the large lump that had formed in his throat. He quickly reached out, taking one of her hands tightly into his own.

“It was not your fault.” he whispered.

Deora immediately shut her eyes as more tears began to stream down her cheeks.

Faramir squeezed her hand gently.

“Look to the sun.”

The sound of swords clashing echoed loudly down the steep Gondorian hillside. It was a lovely clear day, the gentle late-spring wind combing through the air every so often.

Deora let out a joyous laugh as she blocked another one of Faramir’s attacks.

“Do you yield?” she barked, locking his sword in place.

Faramir whipped his head to the right, ridding his face of the hair that had begun to cling there, as a result of the slight sheen of sweat that they had worked up over the course of the past few hours.

“Never.” he replied with a bright smile.

The years had done their due diligence on both of them. Inches were added in their heights, larger words to their vocabularies, and more complex thoughts to their minds. They had both grown into young adults equally strong in stature, but still hanging on to the hopeful minds of the children that they used to be once upon a time. For they still so very often found themselves playing pretend.

But a few things were real now.

They had real swords. And they were working up real sweats.

Faramir would often run away from his actual training in order to take the time and help Deora hone her skills in the shadows of the cliffs that held up their city. No matter how much time had passed, he never deterred her from her goal. He remained a steadfast and constant companion for her throughout the years.

When the two eventually paused for a breather, laying themselves down into the waiting arms of the blades of grass, Deora had been making a point to stare at the clouds streaking across the sky far above their heads.

Faramir glanced over at her, noticing the small frown that had suddenly formed on her otherwise peaceful expression.

“What did the clouds do to offend you?” he asked with a soft laugh.

Deora rolled her eyes, but did manage to tear her attention away from the sky. Instead, she tilted her head to look over at the boy, no- the young man that was laying at her side. He had a single eyebrow raised in question, patiently waiting for her response.

She slowly propped herself up on one arm.

“Be serious with me, Faramir.” she suddenly demanded. “Do you actually think I can make it into the ranks?”

Faramir set his gaze, pushing himself up as well so that he could face her head-on.

“Of course I think you can.”

Deora pressed her lips into a tight line. Then, in a flash, she had quickly sprung back up and onto her feet. Before Faramir could so much as breathe, the tip of her sword had appeared just below his chin.

His eyes remained trained on her expression, carefully falling still.

“I need to know the truth.” she emphasized. “I need to know if I’m wasting my time.”

Faramir slowly took a breath in before he too moved with sudden haste, batting her sword away with one that she hadn’t even seen him pick up.

Allowing him a moment to climb to his feet, Deora took a single step back. Once he had fallen back into a ready stance of his own, she furrowed her eyebrows in deep concentration, taking a quick swipe at him.

The following scrimmage took them up and down the hillside. And she could easily tell that he was fighting with more strength than he had been in their previous bout. He wasn’t giving in as easily this time, he was fighting with a sort of wildness, as if he had something to prove.

Eventually, Deora managed to slam the edge of her sword down on the flat part of his blade. The sound was so loud, and echoed out around the mountainside. The strength of the blow itself had knocked the sword clean out of Faramir’s grasp, causing him to hiss slightly as the sting traveled up the length of his arm. But once more, he found himself forced into a frozen state, as the chill of metal had reappeared underneath his chin.

Faramir’s eyes met hers, the stormy gray of her irises appearing to burn in the afternoon light. He felt as if they were cutting straight into the depths of his very soul.

And he smiled.

“You are not wasting your time.” he declared strongly, reaching up to gently push the sword down and away from his face. “In fact, it is they who waste their time unexposed to your skills and prowess.”

Deora scoffed, finally retreating and sheathing her sword into the belt she had wrapped around her waist. A gift from the Steward’s son from a few years back.

“You talk pretty Faramir.” she replied, returning the oxygen to her lungs. “But I know the mind of your father…and the minds of all men.”

Faramir tilted his head to the side.

“All?”

Deora simply rolled her eyes as he went to collect his sword from where it had fallen in the grass.

“Regardless-” he continued, once it was safely secured back on his hip. “I do get to choose my own men when I am named Captain.”

When he landed back in front of her, she had immediately raised a challenging eyebrow.

“Men?”

Faramir winced with regret.

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Immediately, Deora smiled.

“I know.” she replied, setting her shoulders with another breath. “Your heart is good, Faramir. Too good. But I would be lost without it.”

Faramir was grateful for the sweat that they had worked up during their sparring session, as it was leagues easier for him to conceal the way that his face had flushed at the sound of her words.

“I am sincere. I swear to you. I will help you become a soldier of Gondor.” he proclaimed boldly.

Deora bit back another smile as she allowed herself to gaze upon he who she had grown up alongside. Taking in the sight of his grown countenance, and relishing in the sound of his grown words, she felt comforted.

“A promise…” she repeated in a whisper, her words flowing easily out into the springtime air.

Their peaceful moment was promptly, and violently, broken soon thereafter. As the sound of her name boomed down the hillside.

Instantly recognizing the voice and tone, all the blood drained from Deora’s face. Both her and Faramir had whipped their heads up towards the nearest city wall, where they could see two different shapes marching down towards their position, a third further behind, making a desperate attempt to catch up.

Deora’s entire body went rigid with a combination of anger, purpose, but also the smallest twinges of fear as she watched her father charge directly up to her.

“What is the meaning of this?!” the man shouted, storming into her personal space.

Deora refused to stumble backwards, holding her ground in the grass as he glowered down at her with a rage that she could quite literally feel radiating off of his body.

“Summoned I was, to the hall of the Steward of Gondor.” he spat. “For complaints that my daughter was distracting his son from his duties.”

“Sir, I must protest, she was not-” Faramir had bravely tried to interrupt. But by then, Denethor had also arrived on the scene, his eyes also burning with anger.

“Silence.” he hissed, immediately causing the younger boy to slink back.

Boromir was the last one to jog up to the group, his eyes wide with worry. It was clear that he had made attempts to stop this madness before it had begun, but that his words had fallen upon deaf ears.

Her father was quick to reach out a hand, grabbing at the hair at the top of Deora’s head, tugging on it forcefully. A sharp cry of pain had tumbled out of her throat before she could even attempt to hold it back.

“Every day, you bring shame upon me. Upon my house.” he hissed, forcing her to face him.

Faramir had made a start forward, but Denethor once more stopped him with just a glare. The younger boy’s eyes quickly began to water as he stared back at his friend helplessly.

Deora made a grab at her father’s hands, trying to alleviate the force he was applying to the roots of her hair.

“Our house cares not for my actions.” she spat back challengingly. “You have worked to make that abundantly clear.”

Her words were immediately met with a slap so powerful that Deora crumpled to the ground, cradling her face.

“Deora!” Faramir cried out.

“You are to return home immediately.” her father commanded. “The Steward has banned you from the grounds henceforth. If you are ever caught back here again, you will be executed. And I will offer no resistance.”

Deora slowly lifted her head back up in order to glare at her father.

“No. I would expect you would not.”

Her father growled like an animal at her defiance, lifting her back up off of the ground by her hair, and began to all but drag her down the hillside, discarding her sword as they went.

Faramir watched them disappear, tears continuously streaming down his face. When he eventually did move to turn back towards his father accusingly, Boromir had immediately wrapped his arm around his brother's shoulders, ushering him away before their father could say anything more.

“I am sorry.” Boromir whispered as they went. “I tried to get him to see reason, I swear.”

Faramir said nothing in response, the sound of Deora’s cries continuing to echo around inside of the confines of his skull.

Locked in her room, Deora paced the length of the chamber nearly a hundred times in the evening that followed the events on the hillside.

To say that fury was what she was experiencing would be an understatement. She had never been more prepared to burn down the entirety of Middle Earth than she was in that moment.

How was she meant to fight this? She could refuse to obey her father’s orders all she wanted, but she still lived under his roof, effectively trapped by his mercy, lest she become a homeless beggar.

Staring out of the small window that gave her a glimpse of the deserted city streets, she was overcome with the desire to simply run down them and never return.

And so, she did.

Deora expertly slipped out of her window, guided by the silver light of the moon, and her feet were carrying her clean across the city before she knew it.

She so desperately needed an escape in that moment. And there had only ever been one place in the entirety of Middle Earth where she had felt any semblance of peace.

The very place that she was banned from henceforth.

It was only when her feet had touched the grass of the hillside that she stopped sprinting. Her breathing by then was ragged and tearing at her throat, her eyes wet with tears as she stared out at the walls just outside of the training grounds. The very walls she used to sneak around when she was younger, whose shade she would often retreat into on warm summer days after training alongside her friend.

The emptiness and stillness of the palace that stretched high above her only served to cause the feeling of sorrow within her chest to grow.

She thought of just how quickly her dreams had been seemingly obliterated in a mere matter of hours, bracing her hands on either side of her head. She did what she could to desperately press back against the sob that was attempting to crawl up and out of her throat, but it was quickly proving to be a losing battle.

“Deora…” her name suddenly carried out into the night, so soft that it nearly blended completely in with the wind.

Startled, she spun on her heels, instantly noticing the shadowy figure several meters away from her position further up the hill. It was only when he had taken another hesitant step forward that his face was finally illuminated by the moonlight.

Without thinking, Deora had started running again.

But instead of away…this time around, she was running forward.

And Faramir did the same.

The two young adults all but crashed into each other with a force that nearly sent them tumbling to the ground. Deora’s arms wound themselves tightly around his shoulders, suddenly scared to let him go, in the slim chance that he wasn’t real, but rather a figment of her imagination.

“I’m sorry.” Faramir had immediately whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Deora shook her head, hidden as it was in the crook of his neck.

“It was not your doing.” she replied.

Faramir carefully pulled back from her, just enough for his eyes to find her face. And just like she could observe in his expression, he saw the tears beginning to fill her eyes, sparkling fractaled reflections of the moon dotted throughout.

His expression suddenly contorted into clear and obvious terror as he reached up to place one of his hands onto the side of her face.

“Don’t…don’t leave.” he whispered. “Please.”

Instinctively, Deora let out a teary laugh.

“Leave?” she coughed. “Faramir, where would I go?”

The young man just shook his head.

“I do not know.” he muttered weakly. “But I swear, I will still train with you. We’ll- we’ll find someplace farther outside the city walls. Just don’t…don’t disappear.”

Deora carefully rolled her lips over each other for a thoughtful moment.

“I’m not going anywhere.” she whispered. “I swear it.”

At that, Faramir finally managed a small, but sad smile.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

Text

Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 2 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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Deora found herself treading onto the royal grounds far more often than she would’ve ever dared to before. Her new friend Faramir’s encouraging nature had more than expeditiously quelled any reservations that might’ve stopped her before.

If they were not watching the soldiers train together, they were sprinting across the grounds themselves, or through the city streets, completely lost in their own imaginations. They would tear down the roads, or across the fields, pretending that they were heroes on a quest, or fighting off fearsome enemies, all the while their laughter traveled up into the air like plumes of smoke from a pyre.

“Eyes to the sky!” Faramir called out with mock sincerity. “The mighty dragon is targeting the city walls!”

Deora smiled like a wildling, twirling the branch in her hand that she was using in place of a sword. She sprinted across the grass of one of the higher levels of Minas Tirith.

“Deora, the White Knight of Gondor stabs the beast in the stomach with her glowing blade!” she said, thrusting her branch upwards into nothing.

Faramir cackled giddily.

“But, oh no! The body is falling out of the sky! It is about to crush the noble Deora!” he shouted, turning on his heels to begin sprinting directly towards her. “Don’t worry, I will save you!”

Deora spun towards him, eyes quickly growing wide in realization.

“Faramir, don’t you da- AH!”

The young boy had all but barreled straight into her, sending them both crashing to the ground beneath them. Laughing loudly, they rolled through the grass several times at the mercy of their momentum, before eventually sliding to a stop.

Deora’s dark hair flew past their face for a moment due to their sudden halt in motion. Underneath her, Faramir continued to laugh wildly. It was only when the two of them were finally able to control their laughter that the boy reopened his eyes to look back up at her.

“Did I save you?”

Deora scoffed, shaking her head.

“I didn’t need saving.” she replied. “Now we’re both just rolling about in the dirt.”

Faramir giggled again, leaning his head back down to rest in the grass. Deora pushed herself up and off of him, dusting her trousers a few times before extending a hand down to her friend. He took it instantly, allowing her to pull him back up and onto his feet.

Suddenly, from far off to their right, someone had called out Faramir’s name.

The two children turned their heads in sync towards the sound, watching as an older boy jogged over to their position on the pitch. He had golden-blond hair that fell just below his ears and wore a vest depicting the White Tree of the Steward’s House. Much similar to the one that Faramir was wearing, but notably less faded.

He came to a stop directly in front of them, a wide smile on his face.

“I was sent to come drag you back to your lessons.” he said when he arrived, speaking directly to Faramir.

The younger boy raised an eyebrow in response.

“And are you going to?”

The elders smile only appeared to grow.

“You know well enough what my answer is, brother.”

When Faramir finally smiled in response, it was only then that the newcomer appeared to notice that there was a second body standing there with them.

“And who might this be?” he asked, gesturing towards Deora. Who, in turn, was staring back at him with as blank an expression as she could muster.

“This is my friend, Deora.” Faramir introduced.

The older boy raised an eyebrow.

“My little brother has a lady-caller already?” he jested.

Deora immediately felt her face flush hot red with anger.

“I call for no one.”

The older boy was clearly stunned by her bold reaction, blinking several times in its wake. When he glanced back at Faramir, his brother shot him a look of pure annoyance.

“My apologies, my lady.” the older boy finally replied. He then stuck out a hand in an attempt at a greeting. “I am Boromir, Faramir’s blood five years older.”

Deora eyed him suspiciously for just a moment longer before begrudgingly shaking it.

“I hope you will not report my being here to your father.” she said quietly. “I know it would be…greatly discouraged.”

Boromir waved his hand dismissively.

“I am not an informant for that grumpy, old man.” he said, immediately drawing a laugh out of the other two children. At which he grinned victoriously. “Do you have room for one more in your games?”

Faramir turned towards Deora first, silently asking for her permission.

In response, the girl just shrugged her shoulders.

“Couldn’t hurt.”

In a flash, the three of them had devolved back into a game all of their own, pretending to fight each other on the field of battle. Their shouts and laughs echoed out off of the tall walls of their city.

But unfortunately, as it would turn out, Boromir’s absence was rather swiftly noticed.

Faramir had been the first to see his father approaching. His entire body had tensed up, his brother’s name tumbling out of his throat in a frantic whisper. And as the older boy turned to look over his own shoulder, Faramir grabbed a fierce hold of Deora’s arm.

“Get yourself behind those bushes. Now.” he ordered sternly.

Deora looked back at him in confusion.

“What?”

“Just trust me. Please.” he begged, going as far as lightly shoving her shoulder back for added emphasis.

Deora quickly obliged, immediately running over to the nearby lines of bushes, diving behind them just like she always used to do. Once effectively hidden, she peered back through the thicket of leaves, watching as an adult man in a long, dark cloak marched up to the two boys standing in the middle of the grassy field.

“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted loudly, his voice booming over what felt like the entire city. He had immediately whirled on Faramir, jabbing a finger in his face. “It is one thing to waste your time missing your own lessons, but to drag your brother away with you! Have you no sense?”

“Father-” Boromir attempted to interject, but the Steward’s hand was already in motion, delivering a quick and harsh smack across Faramir’s face.

Deora swallowed down a gasp from where she remained hidden in the bushes, her eyes widening in horror.

“FATHER!” Boromir shouted incredulously, grabbing at the older man’s arm.

Faramir cradled the side of his face, wincing slightly, but ultimately not crying out. The Steward continued to glower down at the boy for just a moment longer before eventually turning on his heels.

“Come Boromir.” he ordered.

Boromir looked back at his brother painfully, but Faramir would not meet his gaze. And in the end, he took off after their father.

The pitch fell completely silent in their absence. And once the two distant figures had finally disappeared back into the castle, Deora immediately darted out from behind the cover of the bushes. As she screeched to a halt in front of Faramir, her wide eyes quickly darted across his face. He had turned his body towards her but was covertly avoiding any and all eye contact.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she saw the bright, red welt already beginning to develop on his cheek.

Unsure of what exactly came over her in that moment, she reached out her hand, gently placing it against the side of his face.

The boy's eyes widened, looking up at her in stunned surprise.

Deora traced his expression, and she quickly felt the dampness of tears beginning to pool in her ducts.

“Do not waste your tears on me.” Faramir whispered brokenly. “I’m alright. Nothing I can’t handle.”

She couldn’t say anything in response, couldn’t muster out any words of comfort. Mainly because she knew exactly what he was feeling in that moment. And she couldn’t imagine any length of speech that would’ve brought it to her.

Instead, she just threw herself forward, wrapping her friend up in a tight, protective hug.

It was silent for a while, even when Faramir gingerly hugged her back.

“I’m sorry.” she finally whispered.

And if Faramir had heard her, he didn’t reply verbally. But she could feel his entire body beginning to shake.

If Deora had never snuck onto the grounds of the White Tower, if she had never become friends with Faramir, then she would’ve never been able to hear some of Middle Earth’s grandest tales.

Her mother had been the one to keep books inside of the house, and those had been among the first things that her father had gotten rid of upon her death. Saying that he didn’t want his daughter to get any more foolish ideas.

One day, while they were playing high up in the battlements, someone outside the palace walls had caught Faramir’s attention. He paused, jogging over to slightly lean out over the side, an expression of excitement slowly lighting up his face.

Deora quickly appeared at his side.

“What is it?” she asked, staring out at the sprawling plains that stretched out far in front of their city. She could just barely make out a small figure trotting towards the gates on horse-back. From how high up the two of them were, they were a mere speck against the much wider world.

Faramir suddenly grabbed a hold of Deora’s hand.

“Come on.” he urged, practically dragging her off after him.

“Faramir!” she shouted as they cleared the reaches of the palace guards, heading for the main, winding roads. “What is it? Where are we going?”

“Just trust me!” he fired back, his wide smile not faltering in the slightest as they continued to run. Darting between crowds of people, horses, and wagons, they eventually made their way down to the front gates of Minas Tirith. That was where Faramir eventually brought them to a halt, right in front of a large, dusty-gray horse and its rider.

The man sitting on the creature's back was older than any Deora had seen in her short life. He had a long, silver beard that trailed down from his chin. He was wearing gray robes and a hat that appeared to match the coat of his mount almost perfectly in shade. He also had a small pipe poking out of the corner of his mouth, steady puffs of smoke billowing up and out of it.

The old man’s attention rather quickly tilted down towards the two children standing in front of his horse.

“Greetings, young Faramir.”

“Hello Gandalf.” the boy replied brightly. “Have you got any stories for us today?”

The man, Gandalf, let out a low, hearty chuckle.

“Eager this morning are we, young master?” he joked before glancing to the boy’s right. “And who is this?”

Faramir squeezed his friend's hand pointedly.

“This is Deora. I was hoping she could also sit with us this time.”

It wasn’t formatted as a question, but Deora could hear the subtle edge of her friend’s voice that told her that he was in fact asking for the old man’s permission. And as the man on horseback continued to look down at them, she could’ve sworn that she saw a subtle gleam in his eyes. He then offered the girl in particular a wise, knowing smile.

“Of course.” he finally spoke. “First, I must greet your father. Then I shall meet the two of you by the White Tree.”

And with that, he began to trot up the steep roads of Minas Tirith.

Faramir watched him go with a victorious smile, and Deora quickly turned her head towards him.

“What was that about?”

The boy turned back towards her excitedly.

“He’s a wizard.”

Immediately, Deora’s mouth fell open.

“A what?”

Faramir just let out a joyful laugh in response, pulling her along after him once more. The two of them ran all the way back up to the very top of the city, thoroughly out of breath by the time that they reached the main courtyard again.

But neither of them had stopped smiling the entire time.

Gandalf’s simple carriage was parked off to the side of the White Tree, his horse happily munching on the grass at its base.

That truthfully was the first indicator to Deora that this Gandalf person was more important than she had originally thought. For no normal visitor to the city could just park their cart wherever they wanted, least of all at the front doors of the main palace.

Up ahead, the two children watched as those very doors were suddenly pushed open by two castle guards. Emerging back into the sunlight, was the old, gray-robed wizard. He hobbled down the stairs, looking more than content with the world, smoke continuing to puff up and out of the pipe in between his lips.

Faramir pulled Deora over to the tree where they stood in waiting for the wizard's arrival. And when he did eventually reach their position, she absentmindedly found herself noticing that his hat was just the slightest bit crooked on top of his head.

“Your father offers me as warm a welcome as ever, young Faramir.” the old man noted, smoke billowing out of his nose as he let out a huff of laughter.

Faramir’s face immediately flushed.

“I apologize for him, as always.” the young boy said quietly. “You know you’re more than welcome in Gondor.”

Gandalf smiled back down at him, reaching forward to ruffle the boy's hair on the top of his head.

“You needn’t worry yourself with such things.” he cooed gently. “Now, are you ready?”

Faramir excitedly nodded his head, turning to the girl at his side expectantly.

“Ready for…stories?” she said, still a bit confused.

Gandalf turned his attention to Deora next, eyeing her curiously for a moment, just as he had done down by the gate

“Have you never been told stories before, young one?” he asked calmly.

Deora swallowed once before slowly shaking her head from side to side.

Faramir blinked in surprise, while the wizard simply straightened out his spine.

“Well then, I have a first impression to make.” he huffed. "And nothing is as important as a first impression.”

He then wandered back over to his car, beckoning the children after him. He wordlessly instructed them to sit down on one of the white benches that were positioned at a slight angle at the base of the tree. The two of them were very quick to oblige, their shoulders all but slamming into each other due to how fast they had sat.

Gandalf softly chuckled to himself as he reached down into the large sack that sat at the back of his rickety cart. He then walked over to the bench adjacent from theirs, now holding a rather large, leather-bound book in his hands. Sitting down, at an almost agonizingly slow pace, he opened the cover of the book. Almost immediately, a plume of dust billowed up and out from within.

Instinctively, Deora scrunched up her nose in momentary disgust.

Seeing this, Faramir grabbed her arm with a gentle amount of force.

“Just wait.” he hissed.

The wizard in front of them smirked, raising one of his withered hands up above the pages of the book. And after a beat, the dust particles that had previously been hovering in the air suddenly began to move in a thousand different directions. They continued to swirl faster and faster as Gandalf’s hand rose just above the growing cyclone. Then, in a flash, they all ignited a brilliant golden color, illuminating the awe-struck faces of the two children.

Deora gasped in surprise, her hand flying over to grab a fierce hold of Faramir’s knee as she leaned more forward towards the now-glowing book. The boy simply laughed joyfully in response.

“Today, our story comes from the realm of men.” Gandalf introduced. And as he flicked his wrist again, the golden particles of dust began to mold themselves together, shifting around until they slowly resembled figures of people walking around. And, under Gandalf’s control, a scene of a bustling village was soon crafted right there on top of the pages.

As the wizard opened his mouth to begin speaking, the particles continued to illustrate the story-

“Long ago, there lived a child of man. At his birth, his body was weak and frail. His parents feared that he would not make it through the cold of the night.”

The two kids stared, entranced, as the golden images floated up above the pages of the book.

“But thanks to several consecutive miracles, he managed to survive into adulthood. When he was still rather young, the village refused to let him take up arms in its defense, citing his frailty. So instead, the young man turned to stories. He learned all that he could about those who came before him. Learned about their triumphs, but also their mistakes. He would sit, reading for hours on end, and the people of the village did not pay him a single glance. But then, one day…they were attacked!”

In perfect unison, Deora and Faramir gasped as gold-gilded flames and flashes of swords erupted up and out of the pages.

“Wild mountain men bore down on their sleepy homes, burning, looting, and pillaging as they went. The village forces were hopelessly outnumbered and were slowly being picked off one by one. When the situation was finally at its most dire, the young man suddenly burst out from inside of his house, a bow in his hand and a broad sword strapped to his back. Never before had he picked up such weapons, yet right before the village’s eyes, he began to cut through the lines of the invaders as if they were naught but lines of bushes. Within the hour, he had single-handedly slain half of the army, leaving the once-terrified townspeople to creep out of their homes and stare back at him in shock.”

“‘How?’ one of the village soldiers asked him. ‘You have never even touched a blade before today. Yet, you manage to take out a legion of men all on your own.’”

“The young man carefully cleared his blade of blood before laying both it and the bow down onto the earth by his feet. He then looked back up and out at the village, finding all the living eyes staring back at him.”

“‘Please defend us!’ one woman had cried out from the back of the crowd, spurring on a chorus of echoes and agreements.”

“One of the soldiers approached the young man, bowing his head. ‘We were wrong to judge you in the past. Please, accept our apology and invitation to join our ranks. We need your sword.’”

“The young man just looked back at the soldier with an intensely wise expression. ‘You do not need my sword.’ he said strongly. ‘No more than you need your own.’”

“The crowd looked back at him, murmuring amongst themselves in confusion. He saw their expressions and gestured to the sword at his feet. ‘I did not pick up this sword for its sharpness, nor this bow for its point.’ he said. ‘I do not see them for their ability to draw blood or bring onto me glory. They only entered my hands for the love of what I hoped to defend.’”

“His words settled across the village, the people looking back at him in both awe and shame. And in the time that passed following the attack, the village began looking to the young man for his leadership and wisdom. And never again did he pick up a blade.”

Gandalf snapped his fingers, and the dust instantly stopped glowing, falling straight back down into the pages of the book. The wizard then snapped it shut, looking back up at the children to gauge their reactions.

“It’s a beautiful story, is it not?” he asked, rising to his feet.

Deora furrowed her eyebrows slightly, as she was finding it rather difficult to fully understand the message buried within the tale's conclusion. Turning her attention instead to the boy at her side, she suddenly blinked in surprise upon finding his eyes wide and shining.

Back in front of them, Gandalf smiled, heaving a grand sigh.

“Well, I ought to find myself something to eat. It was a long journey to get here after all.” the wizard said casually, walking back over to his cart and leaving the children sitting at the base of the tree.

Faramir continued to stare off after him, even when the wizard disappeared from view.

And Deora just continued to stare at Faramir.

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user230507021118079 · 19 days ago

Text

Light Under the Shadow of Black Wings - Ch. 1 𓆰𓆪

"You have to stop." she whispered urgently. "You're placing too much of this war onto your own shoulders, when you have hundreds of men behind you willing to help you carry it."

Her words evidently managed to pull his attention back up to her face, his eyes only a little bit wide at her declaration. Underneath his suddenly intense gaze, she felt her throat begin to grow dry.

𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘰, she wanted to say but simply could not find the courage to do so in that moment…

author's note: all credits go to jrr tolkien and peter jackson. i only own deora and her story.

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⊰∙∘⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅��⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅•⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⋅⊰∙∘

Deora had often been told by the other city folk on her slanted, Gondorian street that she bore a striking resemblance to the Dúnedain of old. A long-forgotten legacy of Kings that once ruled their shining city. They were said to have been tall and fair, with dark locks, and the most powerful gray eyes, that were rumored to be able to see into both the distant and near future. Their expressions had always been painted with a pride and strength that bent all who looked upon them to their will.

Standing in front of a crooked mirror in her small, shoddy room, Deora would often glare harshly at the sight of her dark hair and crystal gray eyes. Wondering why she had been given the physicalities of a King, but none of that confidence or power.

She had spent years withstanding her father’s harsh glares, icy words, and fierce beatings, and wondered each time why she looked like a King, but was not treated like one.

The only source of comfort in the world that she had ever been privy to, were the arms of her mother. The woman would often hold her for hours, telling her ad nauseum that she was beautiful, that she was kind, that her soul was pure. That she was like a flower in a field, emerging from the earth in order to bring people joy simply by existing.

But even as young as she was, Deora knew that something was wrong.

She would gratefully accept the physical affection that her mother gave her, sitting in her lap and allowing the woman to run her fingers repeatedly through her hair whenever she needed to escape her father’s rants and raves over not being given the heir that he needed. But the words that her mother spoke had never truly reached her ears, as she would often incoherently ramble off into infinity.

Her mother’s sickness had arrived long before she was even conceived. And it was the reason that her father forced the woman to remain indoors for all hours of the day. For if the neighborhood, or city for that matter, knew that his wife’s mind was slowly devolving, his already small scrap of status in society would surely vanish.

Even with seemingly all the odds in Middle Earth stacked against her, Deora was never one to back down from the challenges that she would come across throughout her life. She knew that physically, she was strong. As she had been doing most of the manual housework on her own since the age of four. On top of that, she had a fairly wild, unfettered imagination, the only kind of escape that she truly had from the horrors of the house that she was being raised in. Those two traits together had given birth to a very strong goal and conviction, one that she had dared to finally speak about out loud to her father when she had turned ten years old.

“Stop coming to me with such foolish- nonsense!” her father had immediately shouted back at her, before she had even gotten completely through her first sentence.

Deora shrunk back slightly.

“It is not foolish!” she fired back. “If I had training, I could be just as good as any man!”

“But you are not a man!” her father’s voice boomed as he finally rose from his chair in order to loom over her smaller frame. “You are an imbecile to think they would ever let a woman join the ranks of Gondor’s soldiers! And you would be disgracing me to try!”

Deora’s fists clenched tightly at her sides, her eyes beginning to burn with hot and angry tears.

“You are cruel!” she spat before finally turning to sprint out of the room entirely.

“Yes, take your tears to your mother! At least she will understand your delusions!”

Running straight for the older woman’s bedroom, Deora had immediately slammed the wooden door shut behind her, muffling the sound of her father’s continuous angry shouting.

Her mother, who had been sitting crisscrossed at the edge of her bed, had picked up her head upon the young girl's entrance. Almost as if she had heard a mere gust of wind, rather than the earth-shattering crash of her bedroom door.

“Hello, my flower.” she greeted with a tired smile, her attention swiftly returning to the haphazard weaving that was splayed across her lap.

Deora’s chest was heaving as tears continued to fall from her eyes. And when her mother had spoken, her face burned hot and red with both rage and embarrassment. It had been the combination of those emotions that made her snap that day.

“Do not call me that!” she shrieked. “I am not a flower! I hate it when you call me that! I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!”

Her screams had filled the entire room, causing the woman on the bed to fall completely still. She did not continue with her weaving, nor did she speak again for the rest of that day.

A sob racked Deora’s small body as she slid down against the door, slowly crumpling to the ground and dropping her face into her hands.

It wasn’t a week later that she was told that her mother had passed.

A cold realization had wracked Deora’s entire soul as she watched the healers carry her mother's body out of the house; that one of the last things that she had ever done in her mother's presence had been shouting one of the cruelest phrases that she could muster.

I should’ve known better, she chastised herself. She knew that her mother’s mind and resolve were already weak enough.

And it was impossible to shake the feeling that her passing had been entirely her fault.

The house was much, much colder in her mother’s absence. Not that it had ever been particularly warm before. But now she was effectively trapped on all sides by her father. By a man who saw her as nothing more than a burden. Something that he would so incessantly remind her was that the only reason that he did not turn her out onto the streets, was because she still carried at least a drop of his blood in her veins. And perhaps one day, he could marry her off to a man that would go on to do great and important things.

Father and daughter did battle often, both verbally and physically. But despite the bruises and cuts that would pepper her skin over the years to come, Deora had quickly discovered that her anger and her defiance were powerful sources of energy, and in fact, were some of the only fuels that were keeping her body going.

There was really only one thing that could occupy her attention for long enough to bring her any semblance of peace. And that was the metallic, rhythmic sounds and sights of the Gondorian soldiers.

In some of the higher-up streets of Minas Tirith, she could often catch glimpses and hear snippets of their training whenever she was sent on errands by her father. And she started running away from home to watch them for longer when she was only eleven.

The training grounds were about two full levels down from the main palace, and she had discovered that it was far easier to traverse the mountainside that their city was built into, than it was the guarded cobblestone streets within the borders of the walls.

And luckily for her, no one was really looking out for a young peasant girl sneaking through the bushes at the very edges of the training grounds. So, she had been able to make her secret trips more than a regular occurrence.

While the guards and soldiers might not have been privy to Deora’s young form slinking along the hillside, there had in fact been a singular pair of eyes that had done so.

She hadn’t expected anyone to be in the skinny watch towers of the armory that loomed on the opposite side of the training grounds, especially in times of relative peace such as these. So no part of her mind had even entertained the thought that someone could be hidden in there, observing the very same drills that she was.

Shifting slightly in the cover of the bushes, Deora crossed her legs underneath her, getting more settled in as she watched the soldiers practice with long, metal spears. Her hands had been hovering just above her lap, subconsciously mimicking the grips and stances that she could see being utilized at the center of the field.

Suddenly, a hand had appeared on her shoulder.

Deora immediately jumped back in shock and fear. Her head darted to the right, looking back behind her position, terror seizing her heart at the thought of being caught.

“I’m sorry!” the newcomer immediately whispered. “I did not mean to scare you.”

Deora blinked, finding herself suddenly staring at the face of a young boy.

He was of rather pale complexion, with medium-length auburn hair framing most of his visage. His eyes were a startling green color, and they were staring back at her with seemingly no malice. At least none that she could detect right away.

She didn’t dare speak. Instead, she had made a slow move to begin shuffling back from him, every instinct inside of her body telling her to run. But the boy quickly held his hands out in front of himself in an apparent sign of surrender.

“No, no, it’s alright.” he tried to assure her. “Please don’t go.”

At the sound of his whispered plea, Deora stopped her movements, staring back at him with slowly brewing curiosity. Seeing this, the boy tried for a smile, briefly checking over his shoulders to make sure that the two of them were still hidden enough within the confines of the bushes. And when he inevitably turned back to her, he offered out a hand.

“I’m Faramir.” he introduced quietly.

Deora’s eyes flickered down to his hand for a moment, then quickly back up to his face.

“You’re the Stewards' son.” she blurted out quietly.

Faramir's expression fell into complete surprise.

“You’ve heard of me?”

Deora tilted her head to the side.

“You are the son of the acting ruler of Gondor.” she said, far too officially for a girl her age. “Should I not have?”

Faramir seemingly had no response to her logic.

“No, it’s just…I never thought- it’s no matter.” he quickly cut himself off, shaking his head and re-centering his hand out in between their two bodies. “What’s your name?”

Deora eyed him for just a moment longer before finally placing her pale hand in his.

“I’m Deora.”

The boy politely shook her hand.

“And you’re from the lower village?”

Immediately frowning at the sound of his words, Deora retracted her hand in a flash.

Again, Faramir frantically attempted to recover.

“No- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any offense. I’ve just seen you sneaking into the training grounds for weeks now and I-” with his words failing him, he heaved a large sigh, looking down at the ground in embarrassment. “Forgive me. I’m not quite used to speaking to new people.”

Deora felt her expression soften a bit at the sound of his words, for he sounded genuinely apologetic. She let out a quiet sigh of her own, actively releasing the tension from her shoulders.

“It’s alright. I just know I’m not supposed to be here.” she said carefully. “It is nice to meet you, Faramir.”

Finally, the boy managed to pick his head back up, his smile slowly but surely growing again.

“Thank you, Deora. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

She very quickly forgot about the training grounds to her left, now far more interested in the new person crouched before her.

“What did you mean when you said you aren’t used to speaking with new people?” she asked him very bluntly.

Faramir visibly bit at the inside of his cheek, slowly crossing his legs underneath him so that he was now sitting flat on the grass with her.

“My father…he doesn’t really let me outside the grounds too often.”

Deora let out a soft huff of air at that.

“Mine too.”

Faramir’s eyes immediately widened with the discovery.

“Is that why you sneak up the mountain to watch training?”

“I could ask you the same question, no?”

Faramir let out a small laugh, and soon enough, Deora had joined him.

At some point during their shared bout of laughter, the sound of the soldiers had caught her attention again. Deora was quick to glance back out at the field, watching their ranks as they began marching in perfectly straight lines.

Faramir had taken that brief moment of time to observe her expression, before he too followed her eye-line back out onto the grounds.

“Why do you come up here so often?” he eventually asked, breaking the momentary silence that had fallen over them.

Deora slowly tilted her head back to him, momentarily bewildered as to why a boy of his station was interested in anything about her story. With a light scoff at that thought, she glanced down at her hands once, then back out again at the field.

“It is my dream to one day be a soldier of Gondor.” she eventually whispered in response.

Faramir was silent as he stared back at her unabashedly.

“It is all I’ve ever dreamed of, in truth.” she continued. “Defending the city, going on adventures…”

Noticing quickly that Faramir hadn’t said a word in return, she glanced back over at him, only to immediately notice his peculiar expression. Her face flushed a bright color as she turned her attention back to the soldiers.

“It is a foolish thing to say, I know.” she whispered.

“No!” Faramir quickly rushed to say. “I think it’s a grand idea.”

Deora’s eyes darted back over to him in surprise.

“You do?”

Faramir smiled.

“Sure, I do. This is your home, no? Why shouldn’t you be allowed to defend it?”

Deora instantly let out a small, fairly sad laugh.

“I wish more people thought as you do, Lord Faramir.”

“Please. Just Faramir.” the boy corrected after a brief bout of silence.

Deora felt a smile begin to flicker at the corners of her mouth.

“Alright ‘just Faramir.” she replied in jest, moving her legs underneath her to begin pushing herself up off of the ground. “Do I have your word that you will not tell anyone else about my being here?”

Faramir bit back a smile of his own.

“Only if I have your word that we become friends.”

Deora’s eyes had widened slightly at the boldness of his response. She took a moment to stare back at him with stunned astonishment, but his expression in turn appeared to be serious. Albeit a bit cheeky.

Slowly, she released her smile.

“You have my word.”

“As you have mine.” Faramir said, sticking out his hand to her again.

This time around, Deora had taken it without question, shaking it once before fully standing back up onto her feet.

She bid the Steward’s son a silent goodbye before sneaking back down the levels of the city until she once more reached the confines of her street.

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