Six Days of Spooky: Day 6
Happy Halloween everyone! ^______^
Chased
By illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! All Tolkien’s.
Rating: PG for scariness
Characters: Faramir and others.
Summary: Faramir is pursued by a fearsome creature.
Notes: Thanks to lilan14 for looking this over!
X-posted to spooky_arda, faramir_fics and sons_of_gondor.
The sky above was deep blue and speckled with stars, and Ithil hung low and yellow, just risen above the far horizon. Wisps of mist wove their way through the streets of this place, and Faramir stared down the deserted lane, watching for any hint of movement in the dim light. He shivered a little, and glanced about at the others. A few were near him, their faces cautious and determined. Tension flickered through them all-on each such night, there was always the fear that some would be lost. The dark things that hid in the shadows were never wholly beaten, and seemed to grow stronger as the seasons passed. Ever wary, he crept down the path paved with pale stone, and listened, hearing only the night wind whistling past his ears.
The shout came, loud and near, perhaps only around the bend in the road. At its sound he tensed, and heard suddenly the slap of feet coming towards him. A number of others, dark-clad, came rushing and soon passed, brushing hectically against him in their flight, but he did not move. Then he saw it-a shape, dim and eerie, moving fast but silent. It seemed to slide along the ground for all its speed, growing taller as it approached, and then its arms lifted. The moonlight dripped along the edges of its form, as if reluctant to illuminate such a fell creature. And then it was only moments away from him. His hand fumbled at his belt, then fell to his side-it was all too clear that he could not fight it, not here, not alone. The only hope lay in escape. With a last glance at the terrible thing, he turned and ran.
He dashed back along the winding streets. Cold wind bit at his ears and tore at his cloak, but his pounding heart brought heat to his face and fingers. He leapt over debris, cut through narrow alleys and across dark courtyards, hoping to confuse the thing that followed him. He could hear the whisper of its presence, and though he would not chance the moment that it would take to look back, he felt as if it were just behind him, breathing upon his neck.
Soon he was in sight of the others of the company. They stood by the small stone guardhouse that had been chosen as their place of defense, and as they saw him they began to shout.
“Faramir, Faramir!” their voices cried, high with panic in the cold night. “Hurry! It is just behind you!”
Terror catching his breath in his throat, he forced himself into a last burst of speed. But it was not enough. A hard, cold hand grasped at his shoulder, halting him and turning him. Now behind him, he could hear the others cry out in dismay, but his eyes were fixed on the thing that loomed so near. Ithil was just behind it, and the face was dark, its features hidden behind a swath of ragged hood. Faramir’s blood ran cold, and he nearly cried out, but he was determined not to give in to this final fear.
“I have caught you,” its voice said, a low and frightful growl, and its hand rose…
It cast back the hood, baring a head of dark, mussed hair and a familiar face. The grim city faded away beyond, replaced with the ordinary sights of the streets of Minas Tirith sleeping in the moonlight, and Faramir’s pounding heart slowed its rhythm as the other boys crowded around, chattering and congratulating one another. Suddenly, Boromir laughed. “And that means that next time, it is your turn to be the Fell Spirit.”
Faramir grinned, and nodded.
But the night was wearing on, and Faramir was soon yawning, so they said goodbye to their companions and promised to come the next night for another game. As they headed homewards, Boromir took off the old, threadbare cloak and hung it over Faramir’s shoulders.
“So you liked the game? You did not get frightened?” Their father had only lately, and only with careful persuasion, deemed Faramir old enough to go with him to play with the older lads, and Boromir had been careful to watch over him. He had worried that the game would be too much for his rather impressionable little brother, but Faramir had done well enough at it, and seemed pleased.
“Aye,” said Faramir. “I liked it. And I did not get frightened! Or at least not very much.”
“You waited long to run, though,” Boromir said questioningly.
“I was thinking of what would I do had it been real. It would not be good to be too quick to flee from danger,” Faramir answered after a moment, his voice seeming serious and thoughtful. “Would you?”
Boromir shrugged and glanced at Faramir… who now drew the hood close over his own head and stood with moonlight dripping from his form, arms outstretched and menacing. Boromir blinked as he came nearer, and then dashed away, to be chased home by a short dark ghost that laughed as it ran.
~end~
A/N: For those who may not know the game, they were playing Ghost in the Graveyard. :)
Chased
By illwynd
Disclaimer: Not mine! All Tolkien’s.
Rating: PG for scariness
Characters: Faramir and others.
Summary: Faramir is pursued by a fearsome creature.
Notes: Thanks to lilan14 for looking this over!
X-posted to spooky_arda, faramir_fics and sons_of_gondor.
The sky above was deep blue and speckled with stars, and Ithil hung low and yellow, just risen above the far horizon. Wisps of mist wove their way through the streets of this place, and Faramir stared down the deserted lane, watching for any hint of movement in the dim light. He shivered a little, and glanced about at the others. A few were near him, their faces cautious and determined. Tension flickered through them all-on each such night, there was always the fear that some would be lost. The dark things that hid in the shadows were never wholly beaten, and seemed to grow stronger as the seasons passed. Ever wary, he crept down the path paved with pale stone, and listened, hearing only the night wind whistling past his ears.
The shout came, loud and near, perhaps only around the bend in the road. At its sound he tensed, and heard suddenly the slap of feet coming towards him. A number of others, dark-clad, came rushing and soon passed, brushing hectically against him in their flight, but he did not move. Then he saw it-a shape, dim and eerie, moving fast but silent. It seemed to slide along the ground for all its speed, growing taller as it approached, and then its arms lifted. The moonlight dripped along the edges of its form, as if reluctant to illuminate such a fell creature. And then it was only moments away from him. His hand fumbled at his belt, then fell to his side-it was all too clear that he could not fight it, not here, not alone. The only hope lay in escape. With a last glance at the terrible thing, he turned and ran.
He dashed back along the winding streets. Cold wind bit at his ears and tore at his cloak, but his pounding heart brought heat to his face and fingers. He leapt over debris, cut through narrow alleys and across dark courtyards, hoping to confuse the thing that followed him. He could hear the whisper of its presence, and though he would not chance the moment that it would take to look back, he felt as if it were just behind him, breathing upon his neck.
Soon he was in sight of the others of the company. They stood by the small stone guardhouse that had been chosen as their place of defense, and as they saw him they began to shout.
“Faramir, Faramir!” their voices cried, high with panic in the cold night. “Hurry! It is just behind you!”
Terror catching his breath in his throat, he forced himself into a last burst of speed. But it was not enough. A hard, cold hand grasped at his shoulder, halting him and turning him. Now behind him, he could hear the others cry out in dismay, but his eyes were fixed on the thing that loomed so near. Ithil was just behind it, and the face was dark, its features hidden behind a swath of ragged hood. Faramir’s blood ran cold, and he nearly cried out, but he was determined not to give in to this final fear.
“I have caught you,” its voice said, a low and frightful growl, and its hand rose…
It cast back the hood, baring a head of dark, mussed hair and a familiar face. The grim city faded away beyond, replaced with the ordinary sights of the streets of Minas Tirith sleeping in the moonlight, and Faramir’s pounding heart slowed its rhythm as the other boys crowded around, chattering and congratulating one another. Suddenly, Boromir laughed. “And that means that next time, it is your turn to be the Fell Spirit.”
Faramir grinned, and nodded.
But the night was wearing on, and Faramir was soon yawning, so they said goodbye to their companions and promised to come the next night for another game. As they headed homewards, Boromir took off the old, threadbare cloak and hung it over Faramir’s shoulders.
“So you liked the game? You did not get frightened?” Their father had only lately, and only with careful persuasion, deemed Faramir old enough to go with him to play with the older lads, and Boromir had been careful to watch over him. He had worried that the game would be too much for his rather impressionable little brother, but Faramir had done well enough at it, and seemed pleased.
“Aye,” said Faramir. “I liked it. And I did not get frightened! Or at least not very much.”
“You waited long to run, though,” Boromir said questioningly.
“I was thinking of what would I do had it been real. It would not be good to be too quick to flee from danger,” Faramir answered after a moment, his voice seeming serious and thoughtful. “Would you?”
Boromir shrugged and glanced at Faramir… who now drew the hood close over his own head and stood with moonlight dripping from his form, arms outstretched and menacing. Boromir blinked as he came nearer, and then dashed away, to be chased home by a short dark ghost that laughed as it ran.
~end~
A/N: For those who may not know the game, they were playing Ghost in the Graveyard. :)