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 held the scent of damp earth and fading blossoms, a fragile sweetness against the stone and shadow of the city above. The sun bled low on the horizon, painting the white walls in hues of amber and rose, and the leaves of the ancient trees whispered secrets to the wind. Beneath the silent gaze of the White Tree, a lone figure stood motionless, his dark hair stirred by the breeze, his grey eyes fixed on something only he could see. Faramir, son of Denethor, carried the weight of a kingdom on shoulders that had learned to bend rather than break. The silver clasps at his chest caught the dying light, but his face—handsome, worn, shadowed with grief—spoke of a man who had known too much loss too soon. He turned at the sound of your approach, and…