Fair Game - Coda: Replay
A long time ago I wrote a story called Fair Game, about Faramir and his nephew, Déor, in which people go bird-watching and find their courage.
A little coda appeared today. You should read the other story first. It's a nice one.
Replay
A little later…
After Déor fell asleep, his mother and father went down to the kitchen, where the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen were sitting at the big wooden table, waiting for them and their questions. There were open bottles of beer standing around. The sword - and the knife - lay flat upon the table.
Lothíriel, taking her seat, said, quietly, “Cousin, what happened?”
“Aye,” said the King of Rohan, standing by the door. “I would like to hear that too.” His sister rose and handed him a bottle, then pushed him into a seat. He took a swig of the ale, and pulled a face.
Faramir drank deeply, then wiped his hand across his mouth. “Déor and I went out to look at the hawks,” he said. “We were coming home, when we stumbled across Easterlings, hiding in the hills-”
“Oh, my little one…” whispered Thíri. Éowyn leaned across to squeeze her hand.
“We went further uphill to avoid them, taking refuge in a Ranger hideaway. Your son,” said Faramir, eyeing his brother-in-law, “overcame his fear of heights to get there. I came back down and determined there were two of them. I dispatched one with the knife-”
He gestured to the knife. Éowyn muttered something under her breath.
“-and then went to get Déor. I believed we could get past the other under cover of darkness. Déor overcame his fear of heights again, this time at night, but we were discovered. I dispatched the other with the sword-” he gestured to the sword, “-and the knife. Then we came home.”
There was a short silence.
“You fought with your sword?” said Éomer, flatly.
“In fact, no - my sword, as Éowyn can attest, lies in a chest somewhere upstairs and has done for over a decade. This,” Faramir tapped his fingertips against it, “is a Ranger sword left in our hideaway for emergencies.”
“You fought with a sword?” said Éomer, flatly.
Faramir held his eye. “Badly,” he said. “I was glad of the knife.”
Éowyn said, quietly, “My love, are you well?”
Faramir turned to smile at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “Shall we see?” He held his right hand out, flat, palm down. The four of them watched it tremble, slightly. Faramir gave a small laugh. “I don’t know about you, Éowyn, but I call that a marked improvement.”
Éomer pushed out a breath. “Brother,” said Éowyn, with perhaps a hint of warning in her voice.
“You fought with a sword for my son?” Éomer said.
Faramir looked over the table at him. His hand opened: a gesture of conciliation, of fellowship. “You would do the same for me and mine.”
“Not quite the same,” said Éomer.
Silence fell again. Faramir’s hand drifted lightly over the hilt of the sword, then withdrew. He yawned, vastly. “My apologies,” he said. “I think I should go to bed.” He stood. His cousin came over to embrace him. “Dear Thíri,” he murmured, and kissed the top of her head.
The King of Rohan rose from his chair. For a few moments, he and the Steward of Gondor stood and regarded each other. Then Éomer placed his hand upon the other man’s shoulder. “Brother,” he said, firmly. “Thank you.”
Faramir, for a moment, looked completely taken aback. Then he nodded. “Brother,” he said, softly. “Yes. You are most welcome.”
As Faramir left, Éomer’s eyes drifted over to the table. His eyes were dancing as he called after the Steward. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
That summer, each day began in the practice yard and ended with a game of chess.
A little coda appeared today. You should read the other story first. It's a nice one.
Replay
A little later…
After Déor fell asleep, his mother and father went down to the kitchen, where the Lord and Lady of Emyn Arnen were sitting at the big wooden table, waiting for them and their questions. There were open bottles of beer standing around. The sword - and the knife - lay flat upon the table.
Lothíriel, taking her seat, said, quietly, “Cousin, what happened?”
“Aye,” said the King of Rohan, standing by the door. “I would like to hear that too.” His sister rose and handed him a bottle, then pushed him into a seat. He took a swig of the ale, and pulled a face.
Faramir drank deeply, then wiped his hand across his mouth. “Déor and I went out to look at the hawks,” he said. “We were coming home, when we stumbled across Easterlings, hiding in the hills-”
“Oh, my little one…” whispered Thíri. Éowyn leaned across to squeeze her hand.
“We went further uphill to avoid them, taking refuge in a Ranger hideaway. Your son,” said Faramir, eyeing his brother-in-law, “overcame his fear of heights to get there. I came back down and determined there were two of them. I dispatched one with the knife-”
He gestured to the knife. Éowyn muttered something under her breath.
“-and then went to get Déor. I believed we could get past the other under cover of darkness. Déor overcame his fear of heights again, this time at night, but we were discovered. I dispatched the other with the sword-” he gestured to the sword, “-and the knife. Then we came home.”
There was a short silence.
“You fought with your sword?” said Éomer, flatly.
“In fact, no - my sword, as Éowyn can attest, lies in a chest somewhere upstairs and has done for over a decade. This,” Faramir tapped his fingertips against it, “is a Ranger sword left in our hideaway for emergencies.”
“You fought with a sword?” said Éomer, flatly.
Faramir held his eye. “Badly,” he said. “I was glad of the knife.”
Éowyn said, quietly, “My love, are you well?”
Faramir turned to smile at her. “I don’t know,” he said. “Shall we see?” He held his right hand out, flat, palm down. The four of them watched it tremble, slightly. Faramir gave a small laugh. “I don’t know about you, Éowyn, but I call that a marked improvement.”
Éomer pushed out a breath. “Brother,” said Éowyn, with perhaps a hint of warning in her voice.
“You fought with a sword for my son?” Éomer said.
Faramir looked over the table at him. His hand opened: a gesture of conciliation, of fellowship. “You would do the same for me and mine.”
“Not quite the same,” said Éomer.
Silence fell again. Faramir’s hand drifted lightly over the hilt of the sword, then withdrew. He yawned, vastly. “My apologies,” he said. “I think I should go to bed.” He stood. His cousin came over to embrace him. “Dear Thíri,” he murmured, and kissed the top of her head.
The King of Rohan rose from his chair. For a few moments, he and the Steward of Gondor stood and regarded each other. Then Éomer placed his hand upon the other man’s shoulder. “Brother,” he said, firmly. “Thank you.”
Faramir, for a moment, looked completely taken aback. Then he nodded. “Brother,” he said, softly. “Yes. You are most welcome.”
As Faramir left, Éomer’s eyes drifted over to the table. His eyes were dancing as he called after the Steward. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
That summer, each day began in the practice yard and ended with a game of chess.