Work Text:
In the spring I have counted one hundred and thirty-six different kinds of weather inside of four and twenty hours.
(Mark Twain)
Faramir wakes to the rise of the sun. While the earth is still damp, it is an unusual warm morning and he gets up with a feeling of something he would almost call joy. Except it changes as the day goes in, as the fog and mist of morning seeps into his body and soul.
The feeling keeps with him for the rest of the day, when the sun stops warming and the rain starts pouring down – he briefly wonders if that is the cause, if he’s gotten so old already that he can feel the coming change of weather deep in his bones, like the old crones back home. But it’s not that, he knows, as the rain is replaced by a hard-blowing wind that gives their scent and therefore position away to a band of Orcs. As he almost loses another of his men to them, Faramir thinks it might be the foreboding of impending death, but even as another life is saved, it still sits with him.
As the sun starts shining, and the odd feeling has crept to form a knot of tightness in his throat, he witnesses something he never thought he’d see. It is mid-day, and his surroundings have changed as much in a day as he does in a single instant.
The sun keeps shining as Boromir drifts past him, into the unknown.