All the myths and
legends are of luminous elves and fair-complexioned Numenorians - one
of myriad silent snubs offered a quiet boy with olive skin, but in
Faramir, whose world pooled like still water in his brother's strong
dark hands, its thistle-claws found no hold. Let the storytellers
keep their pale elven saviours. His brother's heroes were olive-gold
like him, or dark brown like their Easterling great-grandmother (and,
while some were fair, that bore no more comment than that the Anduin
was wet.) His brother's heroes were not just kings wielding big
swords all tangled in their own names, but farmers bearing plows and
goatherds with their crooks, were bookish children with no tool save
wits and kindness, were floury-handed baker women who rescued
themselves and need no "-ine" to their "hero" and
would have rolled their plain brown eyes at the languishing
elf-princesses.
His brother stopped telling those stories, over the years. Later, Faramir couldn't bring himself to say "as we grew up" after Boromir gave up his own childhood in story after story, in all the hard lessons and the words of comfort their father never gave, in years - started far too young - as their people's shield.
His brother stopped telling those stories, over the years. Later, Faramir couldn't bring himself to say "as we grew up" after Boromir gave up his own childhood in story after story, in all the hard lessons and the words of comfort their father never gave, in years - started far too young - as their people's shield.
