LOTR/ TH Imagines

Wanderer- Faramir

I performed at Carnegie Hall... and the Wind Ensemble got the GOLD AWARD for the festival! I'm beyond happy. This was the first time my school has performed internationally and nationally- it was our debut- and now I can say that I was the first principal bassoonist from my school to do that.

This chapter uses she/her pronouns.

People talk when they're together. They pass on stories: True stories, warped versions of true stories, rumors, and superstitions. Now, these superstitions were only called "ghost stories," non-fiction, mind you.

It wasn't until Isildur's heir summoned an army of cursed did people start to believe that maybe these ghost stories were true...

"I be deliverin' a message to a shield maiden from Rohan. She 'as a lover by the borders," a man slurred. His table was full of other drunken citizens all leaning in to hear his story over the commotion. Osgiliath was full of people repairing the citadel, making it glorious like the days of old.

Faramir was sitting near the corner, feet up on a table. He wasn't eavesdropping, per say, but he loved the letter-carrier's stories.

"-I be ridin' back on Gillian, my faithful steed, and I nears Fangorn Forest. Terrible place, I thinks. It's all dark and musty and yeh can hear the creakin' and groanin' of trees." The man shudders before continuing. "I knows that the Elves gonna fix it up so it's fine and dandy- and I thinks they were already there! From the heavy forest comes this real delightful singin', you know? Like this voice be the most beautiful I've ever heard. It was sweet like siren song and I lost my fears." The letter-carrier stands, swaying like a willow. His hands are pressed to the wood of the table so hard that his knuckles were turning white.

"I goes into the forest to see that there be no one there! I follow the sound deeper and deeper until suddenly I sees a figure in a black cloak. A lady."

His miniature crowd whistles and hoots, slapping the man on the back. The letter-carrier shakes his head quickly and falls back into the chair. "She turns to me and then the singin' stops. She is fair but no elf, I'm afraid. I fear that I do not knows what happened next. She walked towards me and my vision is gone! I wakes up outside the forest with dear Gillian and my body be all cold. I tell yeh, whatever she was- I ain't goin' back there anytime soon."

A man with a long, white beard speaks up. His voice grave, "You may have seen the Wandering Woman. A legend of old. She is one of the undead who only appears to those who are alone. The Woman wears a black cloak for a reason unknown. You are lucky you are still alive; it is said that she eats the souls of men and throws their bodies out of the forest for the wolves to devour."

The table goes silent and the air gets thick. Faramir silently gets up and frowns. It's nothing but a legend, he thought. The Captain of Gondor could not afford to think about drunken stories, as interesting as they were.

For the next few days, Osgiliath was buzzing with twisted versions of the Wandering Woman.

"She was killed a hundred years ago and seeks revenge on mankind!"

"She is a banished elf from Mirkwood! Exiled for trying to kill the King and cursed because of it!"

Faramir chose to ignore these scattered whispers and went along with his daily business. Gondor's armies needed to become strong once more. Though Mordor was no longer a threat, the people were still cautious.

He rode over to Minas Tirith to find that the White City was buzzing with rumors even more than Osgiliath. These whispers told stories of murder.

"A man of Gondor has been killed by Fangorn. I have just received word of it from Lord Eomer of Rohan," Aragorn said. "This is the second time this week there has been a killing- and that does not include men from Rohan." The King was distraught, knowing that this was a problem may reoccur.