WHO: Faramir and OPEN WHAT: Freaking out a bit at the dragons WHEN: Monday WHERE: Meduseld, and the surrounding woods. WARNINGS: TBD/Possible talk of war and PTSD STATUS: Open/Ongoing
Faramir had been outside, helping to plow a small field outside of Meduseld as a garden. It was said that the island supplied plenty to support all of them, and perhaps it was true, but Lothíriel's idea that they plow and plant a garden with common vegetables and flowers was a pleasing one to him. After all, Meduseld was a good distance from town, and it was ridiculous to have to traverse that distance when they needed something as simple as a carrot or a green pepper. So here he was, with a metal plow attached to the back of one of the horses, slowly plowing a two acre square for those of them who abode there.
First, he just noticed the sun go under a cloud for a moment, and glanced up in fear that the rain would come before he had finished plowing. But no, indeed. The truth was far worse, and as he saw the shape silhouetted against the sky, his whole body went cold as death and he felt himself begin to tremble despite himself. Was it truly a nazgûl? Here, in this place, where such things were not supposed to be? He had been here long enough to know that evil things did come to this place, but -
His head ached, throbbing, and suddenly he was back on the field of the Pelennor on that fateful day his father had sent him out to face his death...the very day he had almost met it. He could hear the piercing cries of the creatures, the screams of his men, the shouts and neighing of the horses, their death cries as they fell eating into his psyche.
He fell to his knees, clutching his head between his hands, and rocking a little, deeply lost in the horrors of his recent past.