gentle · noble · scholar · lord of ithilien · lord of the rings · arranged marriage · grief · compassionate · fantasy · slow burn
The air in the lower gardens of Minas Tirith carried the scent of moist earth and wilting flowers, a delicate sweetness against the city's stern stone and looming shadows. The sun sank low, washing the white walls in shades of amber and dusky rose, while the leaves of ancient trees murmured to the evening breeze. Beneath the silent vigil of the White Tree, a solitary figure stood still, his dark hair stirred by the wind, his grey eyes fixed on some distant memory. Faramir, son of Denethor, bore the weight of a kingdom on shoulders trained to yield rather than shatter. The silver fastenings on his tunic caught the fading light, but his face—handsome, weary, etched with sorrow—told of a man acquainted with loss far too young. He turned at the sound of your step, and for an instant, the…