Before we get started, I should note that although yes, I am writing this partly because the quality of some Faramir/Éowyn fics (usually written by people who have only seen the films) is poor and quite lamentable, and is therefore prime fodder for ruthless mocking, I am mostly doing it out of love. Besides, not every 'thing that happens to Faramir and Éowyn' is necessarily bad; I have read superb fics that contain many, if not most, of the scenarios and elements that I'm going to mock. Strange as it is, the best and, really, only homage I can personally pay to someone or something is to poke fun at it— and why not do so before I move on, at last, to greener and broader fanficcy pastures? Hence, this fic.
Pretty much all of these chapters come from years and years of vague remembrances of fics upon fics upon fics. No particular stories are intended. Heck, I've caught echoes of my own rubbish in here (angsty Faramir, anyone?).
Now onwards! ¡Adelante! Forth Eorlingas! To the actual fic!
Chapter One: Angsty, Angsty Angstfest
Part One: Faramir
(March 3011, Third Age)
It was a wonderful day in the great city of Minas Tirith… well, wonderful to everyone but the Steward's younger son, that is. In the Steward's residence, in a spider-infested broom closet by the servants' quarters, a twenty-eight-year-old boy hid among stacks of buckets and cleaning supplies, sobbing and wheezing like an asthmatic cat. None who passed by knew exactly why he cried so, and neither did Faramir, though he would soon find out for himself. Unfortunately for Faramir, he was subject to extreme fits of emotional recklessness that were akin to PMS, or so his father believed.
Then again, Denethor believed a lot of things about Faramir that may or may not have been true, depending on how much the author of the fic cares about canon. According to Denethor and eighty-four percent of the Gondorian population, Faramir was concurrently a reincarnation of Norma Talmadge, a spy in the service of Sir Francis Walsingham (who was, conveniently, both dead and non-existent), and was prone to viciously slaughtering cornflakes in the throes of breakfast-inspired passion. Of course, none of these ideas were remotely true, but Denethor held fast to his misconceptions about his unwanted, unloved, and most certainly useless son. Well, Faramir remained useless for most things, save abuse, for whacking Faramir repeatedly with blunt objects sure beat having to do so to poor, innocent kittens.
Faramir, despite angsty situations that rendered him "emo," in the terms of modern teenagers, could hardly ever feel anything but numb to the cruel, vicious world that hated him so. At least Linkin Park and Simple Plan calmed his tortured soul at night, the one time at which he could be himself without his father breathing down his back, making him feel inferior. But I am inferior, he cried to a pair of mops, and no one loves me! I wish I could love someone, or be loved, or else be dead! Oh, to be adored! It shall never happen! I wish I were dead in some landfill, with giant worms crawling out of my eyes, my decaying corpse feasted upon by radioactive cheetahs with digestive problems!
His morbid reveries were interrupted, just then, by a knock on the closet door, followed by his brother's voice. "Faramir, Father wishes to see us."
Wiping his tears on the tattered sleeve of the soiled rag he'd stolen off the back of a lice-ridden peasant who'd been dead for a week, he got to his feet and opened the door. Boromir, five years his elder, awaited him, and he sighed; Boromir was so beautiful in his white miniskirt and heels, so well-groomed, so valiant and perfect and everything that he was not… and it hurt Faramir. It hurt him every time he dared to breathe.
Boromir held Faramir's hand – both their hearts, though they weren't keen on admitting so, fluttered wildly at this – as they walked to the parlour, where their father awaited them for their annual birthday celebration. The brothers shared a birthday which, for Faramir, was always a sorrowful affair.
Boromir had already unwrapped his gifts, which now, even piled up, overflowed from the parlour and into the surrounding rooms and corridors. Among such lovely presents were things Faramir envied, for he had never received a present since his mother's death (which, Denethor believed, came about when Faramir paid Chow Yun Fat to strangle Finduilas with old curtains)— a new wardrobe from the girls' department of Hollister, at least one tonne of makeup, a lifetime supply of teenybopper magazines, and a piston engine.
Faramir pouted. It would be yet another loveless birthday.
"Why, hello, Faramir!" Denethor called, holding out a small package to him. "Happy birthday!"
Odd, he thought, peeling away the wrapping paper from his cherished gift. Very uncharacteristic.
It was a dead sparrow. Faramir smiled through his tears of joy; not once in the past twenty-three years had he ever received a present, much less a full meal, and this could serve as both. "Thank you very much, Father!"
"Faramir Monica," Denethor warned, "do you dare to speak to me in such a rude manner?"
"…Yes?" Faramir muttered, completely confused, and was promptly smacked with a herring.
"Do not talk to me like that, you sickening, obese, malformed platypus with a head cold!"
"But I never said anything offensive—"
"Your mere presence is offensive!" Denethor screamed, seizing the piston engine and throwing it against the wall. "I rue the day you were born, you stupid girl! I hate you! I wish I had never married Finduilas! I wish I had married Imrahil instead! And yes—" he snapped to Boromir, who had vainly tried to interject, "I know it would have been illegal, but at least Imrahil had nicer breasts than your mother! Eru, if only I had not listened to my father when he told me to marry that sodded, diseased brat! If only I had pushed Finduilas off the city walls when she told me she was with child again! Then I would not be saddled with this most loathsome beast I shudder to consider my own son!"
"But Father, why do you hate me?" Faramir whispered through his tears. Just thinking about it made him want to slash his wrists and listen to My Chemical Romance.
"Hate you?! Hate you?! Where did you get such a preposterous idea?"
"From you, Father."
"Oh, Faramir, my sweet, I don't hate you. But sometimes I do," Denethor, in his aberrantly bipolar fit of madness, grinned and embraced his now favourite son. Suddenly, he tensed; didn't he actually hate Faramir? He couldn't quite remember the reason why; perhaps it had something to do with Finduilas, or sea anemones, or… maybe the Chinese stock market?
Faramir looked up at Denethor, his grey eyes spilling forth with crystalline tears of pure sorrow. "But you've just contradicted yourself."
Denethor merely shrugged. "Forget it, you whiny prat. I'm going to go attend to my stewardly duties and disregard you further. Hopefully my neglect will drive you to attempt suicide again, but if you do decide to kill yourself, please don't emulate pre-Raphaelite paintings in the bathtub a third time. That's two of my favourite dresses you've ruined in the past month. Good day, and happy dying."
Denethor stumbled down the corridor, then darted up the stairs of the tower, in search of his palan- er, his palta, sí. Boromir and Faramir glanced at each other- dartingly, at first, but their gazes grew constant and, though Faramir then rued it, oddly passionate. The entire ordeal felt completely uncomfortable; not but one minute ago, he had been sobbing like an emo wanker sans antidepressants over his misfortunes, and now, rather uncharacteristically, his tormented heart pounded in the hollows of his chest, beckoning to Boromir, the only lord of his heart, his soul, his very life…
Boromir sighed dreamily. "Faramir, how I love you! How I have longed to kiss you, to touch your sweet face, to feel the warmth of your mouth on my frigid skin, to love you like Father has not!"
Faramir blushed and decided it would be best to remain quiet, ignoring his brother's creepily ardent advances, even though, deep inside, he desperately longed to return them. Boromir, however, was enraged at Faramir's silence and promptly embraced him, then wiped his tears on his sleeve. "Faramir, my darling, my love," Boromir whispered, "I shall see to it that you are never sad again, that your beautiful soul will never die…"
"It is too late!" Faramir sobbed. "I feel as if my soul is already dead!"
"Do not say that, my darling, my cuddly lovey-pooh baby cakes!"
Faramir only wept more furiously, spurring on Boromir's fervent, incestuous caresses. And as much as Boromir's love made him uncomfortable, it was so, so right, and so beautifully tragic to boot. "But Boromir," he stammered, "my soul is already dead… like a burnt bowl of clam chowder…"
"No more talking, my love, my precious…"
And then lots of naughty, weepy, and generally disturbing acts followed, all of which are too nauseating to relate here. Over in Rohan, more angstiness was astir.
Part Two: Éowyn
(May 3011, Third Age)
Meduseld was a madhouse. Literally. And Éowyn of Rohan knew firsthand.
It wasn't such a bad place at first; no, quite the contrary. Her uncle Théoden, the King of Rohan, had taken in his sister's children when she died, and raised Éowyn and Éomer as his own. She had had a relatively happy childhood, despite the deaths of her parents, but somewhere, somehow, King Théoden transcended into madness, probably as a result of reading fanfiction or an unfortunate encounter with Hanson albums, which are indeed prone to making the listener want to claw his or her brains out. At least Éowyn thought so, though she had retained her wits after that concert from hell. Somewhat.
"Gloucester! My unicorns are not rain water!" Théoden shrieked in a spasm of madness. "O heavy day! O solemn day! O poke me, Jackie Onassis Kennedy!"
Théoden's eyes rolled back into his head, and, grinning like the Cheshire Cat on speed, he waved a dandy hello to Laurence Olivier, who was having intimate relations with a two-metre tall carrot on the opposite side of the hall. Or so Théoden believed. He wasn't all that sane, Éowyn thought bitterly. No, the King of Rohan was not at all sane.
His counsellor, Gríma, was an entirely different story. Maybe. Aside from his appalling lack of eyebrows, his neglect of personal hygiene, and the fact that he was just creepy in general, he was perfectly normal. Maybe. Still, Éowyn thought, Gríma was disgusting and too often stared at her for hours on end, drooling and panting like an Alaskan Malamute in heat. From her seat by the fire, she quickly glanced at the dais on which her uncle and Gríma sat; yes, there he was, ogling her with a glassy look in his eyes. She briefly wondered whether he was thinking about truss bridges. Judging from that sordid stare and her previous (and unfortunate) experiences, he most likely was not.
Éowyn found it hard to hear her own thoughts over her uncle's insane ramblings, which now concerned absolutely nothing at all, as usual. She knew very well that she could never escape both the lunacy that constantly went on at Meduseld and Gríma's pervasive creepiness. The only escape she could find lay outside the city walls, on the vast, rolling plains of her homeland; somehow, staring at nothing lessened the void of apathy that tugged at her heart so often.
Sighing, she rose and walked to the window, set upon gazing at the wintry landscape for hours. But, to her surprise, there was someone standing in the window – a bearded someone in a soaked blue dress, clutching a dead sparrow to his bloodied breast…
To be continued! DUN DUN DUN.