In 2509 Celebrían wife of Elrond was journeying to Lórien when she was waylaid in the Redhorn Pass, and her escort being scattered by the sudden assault of the Orcs, she was seized and carried off. She was pursued and rescued by Elladan and Elrohir, but not before she had suffered torment and had received a poisoned wound. She was brought back to Imladris, and though healed in body by Elrond, lost all delight in Middle-earth, and the next year went to the Havens and passed over Sea.

Appendix A, Return of the King

V.  Undivided   (Elrohir and Elladan)

They stagger, in misery, down the shadowed corridors where they had capered as children.  Around them, Imladris slumbers, still and sorrowing. 

“She cannot be healed, Elladan; she fades,” the one twin says.  “So she has to leave.  There is no other way.”

“I was there when Father spoke, and heard him,” replies the other.  “Should we go too?”

They turn; look at each other, mirrored faces reflecting misery.  “And leave Father, as the Shadow grows?”  Asks Elrohir. 

“Arwen should go with her,” declares Elladan.

“But she cannot bear to leave Father, or our valley, and the Golden Wood,” Elrohir says, his eyes sad.  “She is still unscathed.”

Elladan strikes the wall with his fist and does not cry out at the pain.  Elrohir flinches, then throws an arm around his twin and guides him along the marbled path.  Their feet, so often elven-light, scuff and stomp as they pass; their limbs seem as heavy as their hearts.

They reach a closed door.  Elrohir opens it, upon the chamber they shared as children, now kept for guests.  There is a wide bed with soft down quilts and feather pillows, onto which the brothers collapse.  Silently, they pull off robes, tunics, and shoes, and slip under the covers. 

“If we had only gone with Mother, we could have saved her,” whispers Elladan, not for the first time.  “We came too late, her heart is broken.  All the light is leaving her.  We may never see her again.  Elrohir, would you come with us into the West if I asked you to go?”

“Pray do not ask me that, brother-mine,” Elrohir answers, shivering.  “My life is here.  Father will see that Mother is sent safely over sea; there are many strong hands to bear her, and steer the ship from the Havens.”

He feels Elladan tense, his twin suddenly shudders against him.  As they did when they were small, waking from a nightmare, the twain cling together, close enough to feel hearts beat and tears flow. 

“Mother!  O, brother, to have to bid her farewell!”

“Not farewell forever.  We must believe that.  And together we will avenge her suffering, brother.  Every Orc in Middle—earth will curse the day their fellows laid hands upon her; and learn to fear the sound of our names.”

“So let it be!”

Resolved, they fall asleep, coupled as chastely as once they did in Celebrían’s warm womb.

VI.   Summer’s Lease  (Éowyn, Faramir, Legolas)

Éowyn hears their voices before she sees them break through the cover of young pines.  Faramir and Legolas have labored all day to plant the cypress trees in the still unfinished garden; and now they bolt like unruly colts.   She looks up from her own task of planting athelas; amused at the sight.  Their arms are stained to the elbows with dark, rich soil, their heads of raven and gold bedecked with twigs and leaves, unlikely crowns for two princes.  She has rarely seen a fairer pair, though; and so she stops her work for a better look. 

They have not seen her, she is comfortably shaded.  Man and Elf doff tunics and shirts and leap over the low wall into the garden pool, sloshing their boots as they press forward to the fountain at its center.  The water rises and sprays them, wetting the princes’ hair, molding their breeches tightly against long legs. 

Éowyn takes a second look, momentarily forgetting the herbs.  The sight of her lord and the Elven prince cavorting in the fountain is a curious one.  She is beginning to know Faramir’s body quite well, but she has never beheld a half-naked Elf. 

They are of like frame; Legolas a few inches taller, Faramir slightly broader of shoulder, but both are lean-hipped and long-limbed, with the well-muscled chests of practiced bowmen.   She thinks proudly of the size and draw weight of Faramir’s longbow; and how easily he nocks arrow to string and shoots, and with such skill.  Éowyn begins to feel warmer, and looks toward the fountain with some thirst.  The Elf and Man are both smooth-skinned and beardless.   Her own brother is quite bearish next to Faramir; perhaps her lord’s smoother pelt comes from the Elvish blood in his mother’s line.   He stands well next to the true Elf, though he is less beautiful.

She has always thought Legolas beautiful, a creature out of distant legend, fairer than any Man could ever be.  He is not a Man.   His skin glows silvery-white in the sunshine, pale as the pearls of Dol Amroth that Faramir gave her.   His eyes see through her, beyond her, back beyond more years than she can imagine, let alone count.  Legolas’ bright hair never shows the marks of sweat, and will never grey.    To Éowyn, he seems a creature too fair for this mortal world, to be admired as one admires a flawless marble statue. 

But Faramir…Éowyn finds herself smiling as she regards her husband.   He may move less gracefully than the Elf, but he is still light of foot, even when those feet are in the water.   The way his long wet black hair, now streaming with water, flows over his shoulders, stirs her.   She had never noticed before, that the summer sun has burnished Faramir’s skin to a color like pale honey, rather than dark tan or brown.  She yearns to go and touch that skin, feel the heat of it beneath the fountain’s spray.

Éowyn has tired of watching from the shadows.  This is her garden, too and she will partake of its pleasures.  She sets down her spade, casts off her scarf and stockings and shoes and over-dress.   Clad lightly but decently in the plain linen gown, the White Lady strides from the grove.

She needs no affirmation to enter the fountain; but the joy in Faramir’s bright grey eyes warms her heart as the water cools her feet.  The sun of early summer is high over the trees, the fountain sprays down upon her hair.  Éowyn’s fingers entwine with Faramir’s under the wood-elf’s approving glance.

Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.  William Shakespeare, Sonnet 18

This is an AU explanation of how Faramir came to be attired as he is in this picture, which I certainly regard as AU!

http://www.spiderwebart.com/enlarge.asp?image=100914B.jpg

VII.  The Captain's New Clothes

Faramir, Captain of Gondor, Captain of the White Tower, and Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, subdued a tremble as he opened the package.  His aunt, Ivriniel of Dol Amroth, was a dear and kind lady; but he had lived in fear of her gifts since childhood.  Even now, he could not help but shudder at the memory of a certain blue satin tunic with blue velvet leggings; how foolish he had felt wearing the things, and the relief when he could finally undo those blasted silver lacings. 

Oh, no.  He was surely undone beyond all help!   Faramir gingerly lifted out several garments which would have surely been acceptable, sturdily made as they were, save that their colors included a garish orange as well as proper Ranger-green. 

The orange trim on the hood was bad enough, but an orange mask?  Sweet stars above, orange leggings?   Faramir supposed he should be grateful that the boots were a sensible shade of green-brown. 

He found a letter bound with his aunt’s seal and opened it.  My dear child, read the graceful script; Imrahil tells me that the men of Ithilien are sadly low on supplies.  I have sent some wine and treats for our brave Rangers, and fresh raiment for you.  Keep warm, sister-son, and the Valar’s blessing on you all. 

Exclamations from several of his men told Faramir that they had opened the crate Ivriniel had marked for the Rangers.  Anborn and Mablung praised the virtues of pickled herring as they pulled out jars containing the delicacy.   Young Herendil ogled one of the bottles of pale, yellow Lossarnach wine as their supply officer, Beor, efficiently counted them. 

“Praised be your lady aunt, Captain,”  said Hathol, Beor’s assistant and the company’s tailor.  Suddenly inspired, Faramir beckoned Hathol to his side.

“Good Hathol, I would give this raiment into your stores in return for darker clothing, in particular the leggings”, Faramir proposed.

To his surprise, Hathol threw up his hands and backed away.  “No sir, you’ll have to keep them.  I have naught else that would fit you; you are the tallest of us all.  And if your lady aunt learns that you scorned her gift, she may send no more , to you or to us.  ‘Twould be bad luck to refuse the clothing.  And the lads take such pleasure in the victuals.  Please, Captain; she sent us cranberries this time!"

Hathol’s love of cranberry-apple sauce was legendary.    

Faramir looked around him.  Other Rangers had heard Hathol’s words and now pulled such woebegone faces that he had to crack a smile.  “Very  well.  I shall be a bold robin rather than a raven, but only for a day or two, to honor my aunt’s generosity."

Relief replaced rue in his men’s eyes.  Faramir fingered the appallingly bright orange leather caplet.   It would be a time for strange sights in Ithilien, if the Moon-land’s Captain were to walk so oddly attired. 

Perhaps his new clothing could at least frighten the Haradrim, or other trespassers.

Author's Note:  Faramir did have a semi-canonical aunt who actually was named; Ivriniel, older daughter of Adrahil of Dol Amroth and sister to Faramir's mother Finduilas; mentioned in the Dol Amroth family tree in HoME XII: The  Peoples of Middle-Earth.

VIII.  Gone Amiss

All that I have done today has gone amiss

Aragorn, Ch. 1:  The Departure of Boromir, The Two Towers

At first, he did not truly understand that death had struck.  That so mighty a man had so quietly smiled, paled and died strained Aragorn’s belief.    He tightened his grip on Boromir’s fingers; but to no avail.   The tide of life had receded, leaving the warrior’s sword-hand limp and cool.

Aragorn felt the tears slide down his face before he realized that he had shed them.   The man born to be his Steward was slain, slain on his watch, slain while he himself had taken not even a scratch.

Stars and Stones and Tree!   What shall I say to Denethor?

IX.  A Midsummer Day's Dream

Even for June, the afternoon is warm.  The old man cares not.  The drowsy sunshine is peaceful, his garden is fair, and his grandchildren and great-grandchildren fairer still. The Prince Steward looks behind him, to the hundred and twenty years he has lived and the changes he has seen; then ahead of him, to the land that his heirs will inherit.  He has nurtured Ithilien as carefully as he has reared his children; seen them all flourish and grow strong and give their gifts to Gondor. Let us make a garden there, he once told Éowyn; and they had done it. The Garden of Gondor is green with grass and young shoots and the leaves of thousands of trees, gold with wheat, purple with vines, white with simbelmynë and red with seregon.

The birdsong mingles with the cries of the youngest children. Lads and lasses with hair of raven-black or pale gold run merrily together through the garden.  Elboron, his golden mane only lightly streaked with grey, stands near his friend and shield-brother Eldarion; while Míriel and young Barahir speak with Aragorn and Legolas. 

There are so many beloved faces here. And yet, as the Prince watches them all, he cannot help but think of the ones who are long gone. The trees rustle in the soft summer wind, and Faramir can hear the voices; glimpse some who passed through these gardens:  his own White Lady, standing by the marble statue of Felaróf and eagerly beckoning him; their daughter Cynwen lost in childbirth, now sits against the oak tree with her fair head bent over a book; and is that Imrahil walking there, or just a trick of the sunlight on the fountain?

Do you wake or sleep, brother, asks a well-remembered voice, as it had asked him so long ago on another day in June. Faramir smiles, his heart thundering with joy; for there, behind Elboron, comes Boromir.  Elboron resembles the kinsman he never knew; and it is wondrous to behold them together; his beloved son and his beloved brother. Do I dream, Faramir asks himself.

Elboron pales as he looks at Faramir.  Farther away, Aragorn calls Faramir’s name and starts to run toward him.  Fear not, my son, my king; Faramir tries to tell them. This time, I go with him.  And the sun dims behind a sudden cloud.

Summer--summer--summer! The soundless footsteps on the grass!

Author’s Notes: 

The last two lines are shamelessly stolen from the story Indian Summer of a Forsyte, by John Galsworthy.   

Felaróf was the great white horse of Eorl, probably the ancestor of Shadowfax; ridden by Eorl when he rode to the aid of Gondor.

I have given Faramir and Éowyn two daughters in my stories, Míriel and Cynwen, along with the semi-canonical Elboron.   Barahir is the only purely canon descendant of Faramir and Eowyn, he is mentioned in the ROTK appendices as Faramir’s grandson; but I'm sure most, if not all of you, know that.