Post by Admin on Jan 4, 2021 1:26:43 GMT
Author: TimeDetonated
Summery: Imagination is a powerful thing. The mind of a child and the mind of an adult deal with trauma in very different ways. Faramir makes this discovery during childhood, while Aragorn makes it in the peace after the war. An exploration into the poetry of fiction writing and the mind of a scarred human being.
Rating: M for violent imagery
Faramir walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He never stopped looking behind him.
***
Boromir used to come here as a child, dragging Faramir behind him and wasting days where they had no lessons, days better spent reading. Yet a part of him wanted to be there, yearned for that boyish adventure.
They never thought much of their hiding place during their first visits, though Faramir found it creeping, cold. He had just wanted to go home, though something pulled him deeper towards that crack in the rock, hands fisted into the back of Boromir’s tunic, eyes gazing back at the fleeting light of their entrance.
The crack ended, opened up and they were standing in a clearing, cut out from the rock and looking into the cave entrance. Faramir was covered in spider webs and dust, shivering as he gazed at the bone - like roots of fallen trees, barely clinging to rock with struggling, hooked fingers –skeletal, dry and white. The first time they went one dislodged itself and fell on him.
He could hear his name, the echoing cry of 'Faramir' ringing out around him, bouncing off steep walls as his brother rushed for him. The tree was thin, small but still Faramir couldn’t see anything during his time under it, blackness and dark. He could hear his heart stop and feel those rotting hands reach for his shoulders, sick breath cooing in his ear as thorns poked through his clothing.
“Faramir? Faramir?!” The cries were far off, distorted, and the voices whispered back in response, mocking as they drifted by his ear and he realized he'd hated the name, always had. The rotting hands were all around him and his stomach clenched, bile bubbling up his throat though nothing came up but blood.
Grave worms covered his body, pouring off the arms, invading his privacy, feeling the writhing body's burrowing into his skin. He was crying, trying to scream as the hands covered his mouth, chunks of rotting flesh catching on his teeth and falling down his throat. His eyes widened, his heart was beating now though much too fast, pulsating around his entire body as the worms burrowed into his skin. He had no control.
Boromir finally pulled Faramir out and his eyes opened. He was flooded with daylight, had always been. There were no hands on the ground and pieces of thorn stuck out from his clothes, poking him uncomfortably, a mere echo of what had happened moments before.
Boromir was asking him something, laughing and brushing him of, but the laugh died when he saw Faramir’s face.
"How long was I down there?" His voice was faraway, wistful and shaking underneath yet he felt the disconnect between himself and the lyrics.
"What do you mean? Down where?" Now Boromir was worried and his hands carded through his brother hair, searching for blood.
"The... tree?" Boromir frowned again.
"Not but a few moments." He noticed the look on Faramir’s face, the white complexion and darting eyes. Something there.
Kneeling down, hands on his shoulders like rotting flesh. "Are you feeling alright? I only just got you back Faramir. I wouldn't want to lose you again."
It turns in his stomach like white, like rot. A month ago. A mere month ago and he feels fine. Why are they still talking about it? Is that why Imrahil is still at the palace, still following a child around, wasting his time? Away from him, the disconnect again. He forced a smile and Boromir saw straight through it, though he didn't say anything.
"Of course I'm fine brother, you must stop worrying, that was ages ago." Boromir studied his face before finally embracing him and letting go. Faramir stiffened, and forced his racing heart to slow. It was too late, the grave worms were already under his skin, and they would never go away.
Boromir grabbed his sweaty, bloody palm and hastily lead them back to their horses…but Faramir watched as they left, eyes like rotted holes in dilapidated walls. He saw the hands, reaching up in their wake, clawing oozing holes in cold marble, trying to grab his ankles and stroke his hair.
***
The next time they went back Faramir was 10. Eerie singing echoed through the walls that only he could hear, dripping sugar like bile. He had nervous ticks and his hands fluttered to the sleeves of his clothes, pulling them down and his collar up. He had four knives hidden on his person but he was sure Boromir had five. His fingers felt foreign and he jumped every time they brushed bare skin. He had hated the rain, but still ran outside for it.
He had loved the clearing though Boromir was reluctant to bring them back, Faramir wanting to sing with the hands and the corpses that floated on the edge of his vision. He could decide to come back here and they wouldn't follow him past them rocks. He had control, he was wanted and he wanted to vomit. He followed Boromir as they entered the cave, torches this time, and they loudly marched across the stone surface, three sets of footfalls echoing off the walls. Wind blew through their hair and they both gasped as they entered the anti chamber, rich stalactites that Faramir had only read about hanging, dangling off the ceiling, company with the bats and dancing ghosts. They glittered with the light reflected off the water below, spider web patters cast on the walls around them.
Faramir decided he didn't like the cave as dark snakes coiled where he couldn’t see them, though never around Boromir. He wanted to say something as they slithered up his pant leg but he allowed the hands this time, to cover his mouth and cut out his tongue. He could barely walk as he fell hard against the cave wall, one hand holding him up and he struggled to breathe. He wished Boromir would notice, but prayed he wouldn't. He couldn't stand those eyes, the ones like Imrahil and father. Like they knew something, felt something. He preferred father´s. He knew what crept behind him, the familiarity. He hated Imrahil’s, understanding and always knowing what not to say.
Faramir was at the seaside, ocean spray washing over his body as he lay on the sand bank, fresh ocean air caressing his face, satisfaction in the form of warm blankets and roaring fireplaces. He couldn't taste the bile that bubbled up when he was told he was happy, when he was grabbed by rotting hands and spirited bellow the earth. Imrahil waved from the shoreline and Faramir laughed, giggled as he waved back.
He started running for shore, feet grazing and cutting through the shallow water, sand underfoot comforting as his feet sank into warm flesh. Bodies. Under the water all bodies. He screamed though no sound came out as his foot sank into the chest of his mother, eyes gone and naked under the surface, distorted by the ripples cast from his grey ankles. Her blood was blue and rose in tendrils, tracing the scars crossing his legs and laughing lies.
He looks to the shore, screaming for help, tears running down his face. Imrahil was gone. His father grabs him from behind, pulling his head under and he screams again but this time it is Boromir who screams. He opens his eyes and sees the hands push his brother over the edge of their cave floor.
***
He half carried Boromir’s much larger frame out of their clearing, rocks jutting into his heels at the added weight. The horse ride back was slow, hoping to avoid jostling his older brother’s ankle. He slipped. That is what he told Faramir, though he knew the truth. Those things had pushed him. The monster had pushed him. That was the last time they went back.
***
Boromir had left for the army and Faramir was 15, hiding bruises and sore bones under shirt and skin. He was afraid of the water and panicked in crowds. He loved Imrahil like a father and he never forced Faramir to do anything. He came to the crevice weekly, though now there were never any ghosts and he laughed at his overactive imagination while he pulled down his sleeves and up his collar. He brought books with him and sat on the rotting corpse- the decomposing trunk of a tree. He had six knives hidden on his person and rode with a bow strapped to his back. He always brought food, just in case father wanted him to report for the evening meal. He had grown used to it, it didn't bother him anymore. But he still came here as often as he could manage. .
There’s still a presence, though he cannot see it, he can feel it. It’s different somehow but the same caressing fingers bring not bile but loneliness. He can hear a song, whispered like that of a nightingale, voice dramatic and appearance plain, conspicuous. He thinks of the whispered songs that cannot escape his lips and waltzes as if it were years ago. He loses himself in the song, notes flowing around him like silk….like…water.
A rock clinks off the cliff sides and he starts, peace shattered as he glances around wildly. His heart beats like the marching of dead men though he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t dance again.
***
After the war Faramir was lost. He sat at dinner with the king and didn't know what he was meant to do with his freedom.
After the war Aragorn was lost. He sat at dinner with the steward and didn't know what he was meant to do with his freedom.
Faramir no longer had to guess if he was meant to go to his father´s chambers for a report, but every time he didn't go he would itch, sit up all night starring at his door in terror. Every time his king walked into a room he waited for the other shoe to drop, cold sweat running down his back and ghosts of touches tracing his spine. After his king had patted his back in praise he sat in his room for hours puking bile and acid until he thought his stomach might break at the strain. When he could barley talk the next day he told the king he had a cold and waited for his punishment. Aragorn simply sent him a concerned look and told him to get well, bags under both their eyes.
Dinner was forcing down food painful to swallow, fork shaking in his hands as he struggles to take another bite. He had been here for dinner countless times, father at one end, him at the other but he had never eaten. Aragorn sent him strange looks when he simply stared at the meal before him, waiting for the king to allow him permission that he knew wouldn't come. He learned to accept it, but eating without permission was foreign. The king didn’t notice, gaze sent to the intricacies of the table cloth as he stared into his soup, unmoving.
More things began happening, many lost in the whirlwind of unending council meetings and restoration projects. Faramir would notice things, a shaking hand, a darkened brow, a late entry or an uneaten bowl of stew. Hurried glances and nervous laughs, always looking behind you. Startled gasps…things Faramir recognized from himself all those years ago, shaken off like tar, leaves, remnants of trauma.
People were getting worried. No one wondered about Faramir, knew nothing of him, nervous behavior seemingly normal, rather his disposition as a bookworm. Nothing. Nothing wrong there, but… Aragorn though. People knew Aragorn, knew something was wrong when clashes danced with silence and peace was something foreign.
Arwen was away, business in Edoras and in her absence Gimli and Legolas were always close. They hovered, constantly standing outside council chambers and meeting a distressed Aragorn in his chambers, steward hovering in the doorway with crawling shadows and scuttling dust. He still didn't say anything. Aragorn walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He kept looking behind him and shadows stretched hands like daggers.
In the long hours they would sit across from each other, fireplace crackling false safety as they sipped tea and drank numbers. Food was still hard to swallow but now the affects were Aragorn’s, staring into a blackened mug.
It had happened then. Shattered glass like their safety, making his liege shake and collapse to the floor, hands over his ears as mortars and blood and rain and limbs all scattered in the wind and met with his formless body. He was there. He was there. He was there.
Ash filled his lungs as the smell of burning bodies, the clasped hand of his friend ending at the wrist. Cries, screams dancing with the falling of the rain. Aragorn shook, squeezed his eyes shut but he was still there, pressure building behind his eyes like he might explode. He would fight this, could fight this, had fought it before.
"You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn," It was his voice, disembodied from his throat as he shook, firm unrelenting will pouring into the words, repeating what Elrond had told him, "The year is 1228"
Another explosion. Pure terror flooded him, --it’s not real -- not a worldly emotion but that of his mind. He had no sword and his feet were lead. He had done it before, charged into battle ahead of cowering soldiers with a cry in his heart but it was different this time. He was a child, lost in the woods of imladris with no hope for direction, powerless to control his fate.
“You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Stay firm. His heart fluttered again as something impacted to his left and he forced himself to move, Forced his paralyzed, fear ridden body forward, vaulting over a bolder and taking cover behind a desiccated tree.
It’s not real
Aragorn repeated himself again, this time words morphed, mixing with lighter tones not his own.
"You are in Gondor." His lips were moving but he wasn't making any sound. "You are in the palace." Faramir. He focused on the words and clenched his hands as entrails and blood pooled on the ground. Stay in control.
“I am Aragorn, the year is 2128, I am in Gondor, in the palace.”
"You are in your chambers."
Battle sounds dimmed and he could make out a face, hands on either side of his own, warmth. He let out a shaky breath, half sob as he grabbed his friend´s wrists, anchoring himself to reality. Relief, and suddenly being half out of the vision, half in it was so much worse than facing reality.
"I'm sorry," It was choked, hoarse and he had to bite back ragged gasps. Had he been screaming? Yelling? "I-" he looked up, pushing down fear and trying to get back to that warriors attitude, the one that carried him through countless battles, hell and back.
It was different now though. The war was over.
Compassionate eyes welcomed him, pulling him in with promises of friendship.
"I can't tell what's real and what's not." His eyes watered as rocks impacted to his left, memories of fallen comrades never truly mourned as chunks of bone pelted his face. The admission made it seem much more vivid, the recognition of the ambiguity bringing with it the stench of burning flesh.
The steward knelt beside him in a trench, bodies cushioning the hard ground as pieces of rock, nails and bone flew above them before scattering on the ground.
Faramir paused, uncertain and Aragorn almost bit his tongue in shame at his admission, but something lurked there, behind the younger mans eyes, as if he thought of something long past, before finally his eyes hardened, looking at Aragorn with burning determination.
"I'm real. I'm here,"
Silence.
Aragorn walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He never stopped looking behind him, but maybe now, they could watch together.
Summery: Imagination is a powerful thing. The mind of a child and the mind of an adult deal with trauma in very different ways. Faramir makes this discovery during childhood, while Aragorn makes it in the peace after the war. An exploration into the poetry of fiction writing and the mind of a scarred human being.
Rating: M for violent imagery
Faramir walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He never stopped looking behind him.
***
Boromir used to come here as a child, dragging Faramir behind him and wasting days where they had no lessons, days better spent reading. Yet a part of him wanted to be there, yearned for that boyish adventure.
They never thought much of their hiding place during their first visits, though Faramir found it creeping, cold. He had just wanted to go home, though something pulled him deeper towards that crack in the rock, hands fisted into the back of Boromir’s tunic, eyes gazing back at the fleeting light of their entrance.
The crack ended, opened up and they were standing in a clearing, cut out from the rock and looking into the cave entrance. Faramir was covered in spider webs and dust, shivering as he gazed at the bone - like roots of fallen trees, barely clinging to rock with struggling, hooked fingers –skeletal, dry and white. The first time they went one dislodged itself and fell on him.
He could hear his name, the echoing cry of 'Faramir' ringing out around him, bouncing off steep walls as his brother rushed for him. The tree was thin, small but still Faramir couldn’t see anything during his time under it, blackness and dark. He could hear his heart stop and feel those rotting hands reach for his shoulders, sick breath cooing in his ear as thorns poked through his clothing.
“Faramir? Faramir?!” The cries were far off, distorted, and the voices whispered back in response, mocking as they drifted by his ear and he realized he'd hated the name, always had. The rotting hands were all around him and his stomach clenched, bile bubbling up his throat though nothing came up but blood.
Grave worms covered his body, pouring off the arms, invading his privacy, feeling the writhing body's burrowing into his skin. He was crying, trying to scream as the hands covered his mouth, chunks of rotting flesh catching on his teeth and falling down his throat. His eyes widened, his heart was beating now though much too fast, pulsating around his entire body as the worms burrowed into his skin. He had no control.
Boromir finally pulled Faramir out and his eyes opened. He was flooded with daylight, had always been. There were no hands on the ground and pieces of thorn stuck out from his clothes, poking him uncomfortably, a mere echo of what had happened moments before.
Boromir was asking him something, laughing and brushing him of, but the laugh died when he saw Faramir’s face.
"How long was I down there?" His voice was faraway, wistful and shaking underneath yet he felt the disconnect between himself and the lyrics.
"What do you mean? Down where?" Now Boromir was worried and his hands carded through his brother hair, searching for blood.
"The... tree?" Boromir frowned again.
"Not but a few moments." He noticed the look on Faramir’s face, the white complexion and darting eyes. Something there.
Kneeling down, hands on his shoulders like rotting flesh. "Are you feeling alright? I only just got you back Faramir. I wouldn't want to lose you again."
It turns in his stomach like white, like rot. A month ago. A mere month ago and he feels fine. Why are they still talking about it? Is that why Imrahil is still at the palace, still following a child around, wasting his time? Away from him, the disconnect again. He forced a smile and Boromir saw straight through it, though he didn't say anything.
"Of course I'm fine brother, you must stop worrying, that was ages ago." Boromir studied his face before finally embracing him and letting go. Faramir stiffened, and forced his racing heart to slow. It was too late, the grave worms were already under his skin, and they would never go away.
Boromir grabbed his sweaty, bloody palm and hastily lead them back to their horses…but Faramir watched as they left, eyes like rotted holes in dilapidated walls. He saw the hands, reaching up in their wake, clawing oozing holes in cold marble, trying to grab his ankles and stroke his hair.
***
The next time they went back Faramir was 10. Eerie singing echoed through the walls that only he could hear, dripping sugar like bile. He had nervous ticks and his hands fluttered to the sleeves of his clothes, pulling them down and his collar up. He had four knives hidden on his person but he was sure Boromir had five. His fingers felt foreign and he jumped every time they brushed bare skin. He had hated the rain, but still ran outside for it.
He had loved the clearing though Boromir was reluctant to bring them back, Faramir wanting to sing with the hands and the corpses that floated on the edge of his vision. He could decide to come back here and they wouldn't follow him past them rocks. He had control, he was wanted and he wanted to vomit. He followed Boromir as they entered the cave, torches this time, and they loudly marched across the stone surface, three sets of footfalls echoing off the walls. Wind blew through their hair and they both gasped as they entered the anti chamber, rich stalactites that Faramir had only read about hanging, dangling off the ceiling, company with the bats and dancing ghosts. They glittered with the light reflected off the water below, spider web patters cast on the walls around them.
Faramir decided he didn't like the cave as dark snakes coiled where he couldn’t see them, though never around Boromir. He wanted to say something as they slithered up his pant leg but he allowed the hands this time, to cover his mouth and cut out his tongue. He could barely walk as he fell hard against the cave wall, one hand holding him up and he struggled to breathe. He wished Boromir would notice, but prayed he wouldn't. He couldn't stand those eyes, the ones like Imrahil and father. Like they knew something, felt something. He preferred father´s. He knew what crept behind him, the familiarity. He hated Imrahil’s, understanding and always knowing what not to say.
Faramir was at the seaside, ocean spray washing over his body as he lay on the sand bank, fresh ocean air caressing his face, satisfaction in the form of warm blankets and roaring fireplaces. He couldn't taste the bile that bubbled up when he was told he was happy, when he was grabbed by rotting hands and spirited bellow the earth. Imrahil waved from the shoreline and Faramir laughed, giggled as he waved back.
He started running for shore, feet grazing and cutting through the shallow water, sand underfoot comforting as his feet sank into warm flesh. Bodies. Under the water all bodies. He screamed though no sound came out as his foot sank into the chest of his mother, eyes gone and naked under the surface, distorted by the ripples cast from his grey ankles. Her blood was blue and rose in tendrils, tracing the scars crossing his legs and laughing lies.
He looks to the shore, screaming for help, tears running down his face. Imrahil was gone. His father grabs him from behind, pulling his head under and he screams again but this time it is Boromir who screams. He opens his eyes and sees the hands push his brother over the edge of their cave floor.
***
He half carried Boromir’s much larger frame out of their clearing, rocks jutting into his heels at the added weight. The horse ride back was slow, hoping to avoid jostling his older brother’s ankle. He slipped. That is what he told Faramir, though he knew the truth. Those things had pushed him. The monster had pushed him. That was the last time they went back.
***
Boromir had left for the army and Faramir was 15, hiding bruises and sore bones under shirt and skin. He was afraid of the water and panicked in crowds. He loved Imrahil like a father and he never forced Faramir to do anything. He came to the crevice weekly, though now there were never any ghosts and he laughed at his overactive imagination while he pulled down his sleeves and up his collar. He brought books with him and sat on the rotting corpse- the decomposing trunk of a tree. He had six knives hidden on his person and rode with a bow strapped to his back. He always brought food, just in case father wanted him to report for the evening meal. He had grown used to it, it didn't bother him anymore. But he still came here as often as he could manage. .
There’s still a presence, though he cannot see it, he can feel it. It’s different somehow but the same caressing fingers bring not bile but loneliness. He can hear a song, whispered like that of a nightingale, voice dramatic and appearance plain, conspicuous. He thinks of the whispered songs that cannot escape his lips and waltzes as if it were years ago. He loses himself in the song, notes flowing around him like silk….like…water.
A rock clinks off the cliff sides and he starts, peace shattered as he glances around wildly. His heart beats like the marching of dead men though he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t dance again.
***
After the war Faramir was lost. He sat at dinner with the king and didn't know what he was meant to do with his freedom.
After the war Aragorn was lost. He sat at dinner with the steward and didn't know what he was meant to do with his freedom.
Faramir no longer had to guess if he was meant to go to his father´s chambers for a report, but every time he didn't go he would itch, sit up all night starring at his door in terror. Every time his king walked into a room he waited for the other shoe to drop, cold sweat running down his back and ghosts of touches tracing his spine. After his king had patted his back in praise he sat in his room for hours puking bile and acid until he thought his stomach might break at the strain. When he could barley talk the next day he told the king he had a cold and waited for his punishment. Aragorn simply sent him a concerned look and told him to get well, bags under both their eyes.
Dinner was forcing down food painful to swallow, fork shaking in his hands as he struggles to take another bite. He had been here for dinner countless times, father at one end, him at the other but he had never eaten. Aragorn sent him strange looks when he simply stared at the meal before him, waiting for the king to allow him permission that he knew wouldn't come. He learned to accept it, but eating without permission was foreign. The king didn’t notice, gaze sent to the intricacies of the table cloth as he stared into his soup, unmoving.
More things began happening, many lost in the whirlwind of unending council meetings and restoration projects. Faramir would notice things, a shaking hand, a darkened brow, a late entry or an uneaten bowl of stew. Hurried glances and nervous laughs, always looking behind you. Startled gasps…things Faramir recognized from himself all those years ago, shaken off like tar, leaves, remnants of trauma.
People were getting worried. No one wondered about Faramir, knew nothing of him, nervous behavior seemingly normal, rather his disposition as a bookworm. Nothing. Nothing wrong there, but… Aragorn though. People knew Aragorn, knew something was wrong when clashes danced with silence and peace was something foreign.
Arwen was away, business in Edoras and in her absence Gimli and Legolas were always close. They hovered, constantly standing outside council chambers and meeting a distressed Aragorn in his chambers, steward hovering in the doorway with crawling shadows and scuttling dust. He still didn't say anything. Aragorn walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He kept looking behind him and shadows stretched hands like daggers.
In the long hours they would sit across from each other, fireplace crackling false safety as they sipped tea and drank numbers. Food was still hard to swallow but now the affects were Aragorn’s, staring into a blackened mug.
It had happened then. Shattered glass like their safety, making his liege shake and collapse to the floor, hands over his ears as mortars and blood and rain and limbs all scattered in the wind and met with his formless body. He was there. He was there. He was there.
Ash filled his lungs as the smell of burning bodies, the clasped hand of his friend ending at the wrist. Cries, screams dancing with the falling of the rain. Aragorn shook, squeezed his eyes shut but he was still there, pressure building behind his eyes like he might explode. He would fight this, could fight this, had fought it before.
"You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn," It was his voice, disembodied from his throat as he shook, firm unrelenting will pouring into the words, repeating what Elrond had told him, "The year is 1228"
Another explosion. Pure terror flooded him, --it’s not real -- not a worldly emotion but that of his mind. He had no sword and his feet were lead. He had done it before, charged into battle ahead of cowering soldiers with a cry in his heart but it was different this time. He was a child, lost in the woods of imladris with no hope for direction, powerless to control his fate.
“You are Aragorn, son of Arathorn.” Stay firm. His heart fluttered again as something impacted to his left and he forced himself to move, Forced his paralyzed, fear ridden body forward, vaulting over a bolder and taking cover behind a desiccated tree.
It’s not real
Aragorn repeated himself again, this time words morphed, mixing with lighter tones not his own.
"You are in Gondor." His lips were moving but he wasn't making any sound. "You are in the palace." Faramir. He focused on the words and clenched his hands as entrails and blood pooled on the ground. Stay in control.
“I am Aragorn, the year is 2128, I am in Gondor, in the palace.”
"You are in your chambers."
Battle sounds dimmed and he could make out a face, hands on either side of his own, warmth. He let out a shaky breath, half sob as he grabbed his friend´s wrists, anchoring himself to reality. Relief, and suddenly being half out of the vision, half in it was so much worse than facing reality.
"I'm sorry," It was choked, hoarse and he had to bite back ragged gasps. Had he been screaming? Yelling? "I-" he looked up, pushing down fear and trying to get back to that warriors attitude, the one that carried him through countless battles, hell and back.
It was different now though. The war was over.
Compassionate eyes welcomed him, pulling him in with promises of friendship.
"I can't tell what's real and what's not." His eyes watered as rocks impacted to his left, memories of fallen comrades never truly mourned as chunks of bone pelted his face. The admission made it seem much more vivid, the recognition of the ambiguity bringing with it the stench of burning flesh.
The steward knelt beside him in a trench, bodies cushioning the hard ground as pieces of rock, nails and bone flew above them before scattering on the ground.
Faramir paused, uncertain and Aragorn almost bit his tongue in shame at his admission, but something lurked there, behind the younger mans eyes, as if he thought of something long past, before finally his eyes hardened, looking at Aragorn with burning determination.
"I'm real. I'm here,"
Silence.
Aragorn walked on eggshells, holding hands with broken glass. He never stopped looking behind him, but maybe now, they could watch together.