3 drabbles
all the trouble we possess
faramir & boromir - pg
(he watches the golden child ride away, leaving one war to join another)
There’s a saying that things will always get worse before they get better, but his father’s scornful remarks have become commonplace in his day-to-day life, following him around like ghosts (a stain on this house of stewards, you have failed me), reminding him of everything that’s wrong with too much power in the hands of a single man.
He waits and waits and waits for the iron-clad rider to return home, to stand as a bridge between two towers (one will always stand taller than the other, coveting a throne that never belonged to him), but the days grow long and Faramir understand now that this is it - his battles won’t be fought for him anymore.
(and still the laurel leaves of the white tree bloom in the pale morning light, its blossoms waiting out for something better than this)
no dawn, no day
frodo & samwise - pg
It is one of those nights, the sort when the black sky would be completely naked of any guiding star, when even the crickets are hushed and the sound of nothingness was much more frightening than any outlandish howl in the darkness. When everything is perfectly stagnant and you could almost hear the moans of the dead men slaughtered moments before their own victory.
The Marshes were a dangerous place to be, and the stillness did very little to ease the nerves of the two hobbits. They had stopped for the night, and their gangly guide had wandered off into the darkness, as he had done every night, muttering to himself in different voices, fighting some internal battle that was never quite ever won.
“Reminds me of Queen Berúthiel,” his companion gazes up into the starless sky, searching for a sign of validation to bring comfort to such an eerie place.
“What about her, Sam,” he answers, gnawing on a piece of lembas.
“Remember what ol’ mister Gandalf used to say?” Frodo remains silent, pushing back the memory of the old man being pulled into the abyss by a demon of the darkness, hand resting on the outside of his vest pocket, never leaving it. “Them cats of hers would go out scouring every corner of the countryside, but somehow they’d be home before breakfast. Menaces, they were.”
“We’ve been gone a lot longer than breakfast, I’m afraid,” Frodo mutters, eyes focusing on the fading fire between them. There’s a vague crowing in the distance and it fills the silence between them, and the fire dies out finally, the last hint of ember dims into the dirt.
“We will find our way home, Mister Frodo,” Sam says finally, clasping his hand on his master’s shoulder. “I can promise you that.”
For the first time in days, Frodo smiles at his companion, and his hand finally leaves his vest. Pulsating, like a heartbeat in the darkness, the golden thing in his pocket began to subside, and for tonight, Frodo is finally allowed some rest.
Dawn would come soon, he reckons -- they had a long ways to go if they want to get through the Marshes by the next nightfall.
what's in a name
éowyn/faramir - pg
“My father taught me, long ago.”
They sit on the fountain ledge, taking advantage of the late summer breeze sweeping through Emyn Arnen, a rarity in these middle months. Faramir sets up the old chess set and examines the aged pieces carefully, aware that they are indeed an heirloom of his line.
“We did not play very many games in Edoras,” she gazes out across the garden, squinting to catch a glimpse of the marigolds she planted last week. Indeed, she could still feel the ache in her knees. “Not in those final days, at least.”
There’s a distance in her voice as she stares off, and Faramir catches her attention. “Your move.” She looks down at the board and hovers her fingertips just above each of her pieces, careful not to make any sudden moves. Finally, she grasps her white Queen and the game has begun.
Over the next few minutes, there is very little noise from either party, save for the breaths of annoyance from Éowyn’s part (he always took too long, over-thinking each step), while Faramir was wary of her all-too-sudden moves that weren’t given much thought.
And suddenly - checkmate!
“It seems I have an enchantress for a wife,” he muses at her sudden victory. No one has ever beaten him in a game, not since he played his father as a child well over twenty years ago.
“Oh, don’t be so sore.”
“Fortunately, my skill in battle definitely outweighs that of this petty game,” he shakes his head in defeat and as he clears off the board, secretly meriting the gift of such a challenging partner.
“Yes, I would hope so,” she chuckles. “The deal still stands, does it not?”
Faramir simply sighs and closes the box. “I never break my promises.”
Éowyn pats her swollen belly and smiles up at her husband.
“I quite like Elboron, don’t you?”
faramir & boromir - pg
(he watches the golden child ride away, leaving one war to join another)
There’s a saying that things will always get worse before they get better, but his father’s scornful remarks have become commonplace in his day-to-day life, following him around like ghosts (a stain on this house of stewards, you have failed me), reminding him of everything that’s wrong with too much power in the hands of a single man.
He waits and waits and waits for the iron-clad rider to return home, to stand as a bridge between two towers (one will always stand taller than the other, coveting a throne that never belonged to him), but the days grow long and Faramir understand now that this is it - his battles won’t be fought for him anymore.
(and still the laurel leaves of the white tree bloom in the pale morning light, its blossoms waiting out for something better than this)
no dawn, no day
frodo & samwise - pg
It is one of those nights, the sort when the black sky would be completely naked of any guiding star, when even the crickets are hushed and the sound of nothingness was much more frightening than any outlandish howl in the darkness. When everything is perfectly stagnant and you could almost hear the moans of the dead men slaughtered moments before their own victory.
The Marshes were a dangerous place to be, and the stillness did very little to ease the nerves of the two hobbits. They had stopped for the night, and their gangly guide had wandered off into the darkness, as he had done every night, muttering to himself in different voices, fighting some internal battle that was never quite ever won.
“Reminds me of Queen Berúthiel,” his companion gazes up into the starless sky, searching for a sign of validation to bring comfort to such an eerie place.
“What about her, Sam,” he answers, gnawing on a piece of lembas.
“Remember what ol’ mister Gandalf used to say?” Frodo remains silent, pushing back the memory of the old man being pulled into the abyss by a demon of the darkness, hand resting on the outside of his vest pocket, never leaving it. “Them cats of hers would go out scouring every corner of the countryside, but somehow they’d be home before breakfast. Menaces, they were.”
“We’ve been gone a lot longer than breakfast, I’m afraid,” Frodo mutters, eyes focusing on the fading fire between them. There’s a vague crowing in the distance and it fills the silence between them, and the fire dies out finally, the last hint of ember dims into the dirt.
“We will find our way home, Mister Frodo,” Sam says finally, clasping his hand on his master’s shoulder. “I can promise you that.”
For the first time in days, Frodo smiles at his companion, and his hand finally leaves his vest. Pulsating, like a heartbeat in the darkness, the golden thing in his pocket began to subside, and for tonight, Frodo is finally allowed some rest.
Dawn would come soon, he reckons -- they had a long ways to go if they want to get through the Marshes by the next nightfall.
what's in a name
éowyn/faramir - pg
“My father taught me, long ago.”
They sit on the fountain ledge, taking advantage of the late summer breeze sweeping through Emyn Arnen, a rarity in these middle months. Faramir sets up the old chess set and examines the aged pieces carefully, aware that they are indeed an heirloom of his line.
“We did not play very many games in Edoras,” she gazes out across the garden, squinting to catch a glimpse of the marigolds she planted last week. Indeed, she could still feel the ache in her knees. “Not in those final days, at least.”
There’s a distance in her voice as she stares off, and Faramir catches her attention. “Your move.” She looks down at the board and hovers her fingertips just above each of her pieces, careful not to make any sudden moves. Finally, she grasps her white Queen and the game has begun.
Over the next few minutes, there is very little noise from either party, save for the breaths of annoyance from Éowyn’s part (he always took too long, over-thinking each step), while Faramir was wary of her all-too-sudden moves that weren’t given much thought.
And suddenly - checkmate!
“It seems I have an enchantress for a wife,” he muses at her sudden victory. No one has ever beaten him in a game, not since he played his father as a child well over twenty years ago.
“Oh, don’t be so sore.”
“Fortunately, my skill in battle definitely outweighs that of this petty game,” he shakes his head in defeat and as he clears off the board, secretly meriting the gift of such a challenging partner.
“Yes, I would hope so,” she chuckles. “The deal still stands, does it not?”
Faramir simply sighs and closes the box. “I never break my promises.”
Éowyn pats her swollen belly and smiles up at her husband.
“I quite like Elboron, don’t you?”