When Elrond left for Gondor with Arwen, Rivendell lay bathed in a golden light that promised a fine summer.

When he returns with others months later, the valley is still as fair and calm.

To the others it appears summer still lingers in the leaves that stay on the trees and the trailing scent of late blooms. But Elrond knows it will pass soon. The mists have started rolling in and stray clouds hide the stars in the evenings and the voices in the Hall of Fire are softer now, even as they sing of the glorious summer that was.

***

The winter had been long, fraught with fear and worry. But spring, they’d heard, had reached Ithilien, and would soon touch Minas Tirith too. Then, the gardens spread between layers of harsh stone would bloom anew and some of the grimness that filled the city would be lifted, all hoped.

All except the weary man who from a high tower in the citadel gazed down at a barren courtyard where stood the skeletal remains of a long-dead tree.

To him, the new season seemed destined never to arrive.

In his hands he held the broken shards of an ancient horn.

***

faramir_boromir requested a Boromir drabble on HASA.

***

Lessons

The garden buzzes with sounds but Faramir hears none of it. As he holds the practice swords in hand, all he hears is Boromir's voice – quiet and encouraging as always.

"There... you curl your fingers so... keep your wrist like this... and loosen your shoulders... and..."

A burst of laughter cuts through his thoughts. Merry and Pippin stand ready to play, wooden practice swords in hand, faces flush with laughter, their friends watching on smiling.

And as Faramir watches them curl their fingers around the hilts and adjust their stances, he knows they have had the same teacher as he.

***

Birthday drabble for Raksha the Demon

The View

"You will get a finer sight of Ithilien from up there," Faramir told the dwarf indicating the small spur where stood their friends.

"I like the view I get here," Gimli responded stubbornly as he sat on a large flat rock, his back to the much acclaimed view and resting his palms on his knees, gazed at the small plateau ahead.

"And what do you see, Master Gimli?" Faramir asked curiously.

"I see the fine house we shall build where shall dwell the prince of the realm with his wife and all their fine children," Gimli said calmly, "Right here."

***

For the Envy challenge on tolkien_weekly LJ

The Steward and the Wizard

"Mithrandir!"

The voice sounds so shrill and excited that it causes Denethor to turn around and frown at the boy running across the courtyard towards their visitor.

Faramir halts abruptly when he nears them and then stands by irresolutely chewing his lower lip before lowering his head. His bright eyes now have a wary look about them.

Denethor greets the wizard first and then watches as his younger son looks up and steps forward quietly. Faramir's words are so soft they are nearly inaudible. Yet, Denethor's ears cannot miss in his voice the smile that he never gets to hear.

***

For the 'Red' challenge on the Tolkien_weekly LJ

The rich, dark soil of the Pelennor was red when it came rushing up to meet him as he fell, shoulder on fire, mind screaming in tandem with the cries around him.

Blurred figures danced above him, misshapen masses of green, brown, red and black. Swords danced above his face. Unable to do aught but wait for them to pierce through his fevered flesh, he lay unmoving on the blood-slicked earth as one that knew all was near lost.

Sharp lines of silver streaked with red glinted through the haze in front of his eyes, and then all was gone.

***

For the 'green' challenge on the tolkien_weekly LJ community

A Familiar Thing

There was none other like it.

He recognised it at first sight. And yet...

He knelt down and brushed away the long fronds of wet grass to reveal what remained of the familiar shape.

He knew where to look. He scraped slowly at a broken corner, the ugly coating of half-wet moss picked up from the shallow bank, clinging to his leaden fingers… a nauseating blackish-green, dripping water back onto the sodden rushes beneath. But he continued, until it finally peeled off to reveal the familiar tiny crack that a wild sword thrust had left on the horn of Gondor.

***

For the 'black' challenge on the tolkien_weekly LJ community

The View From the Tower

Denethor lifted the covering, weary eyes taking in a now familiar sight. A smooth black surface... a glow... the once white streets of his city... the sweeping flatlands no longer green, fires raging, men, animals, fighting, falling... the river... boats burning red against a sky so dark it took a second to distinguish against it, fresh sails… black sails… ever increasing.

And then once more his city, the citadel, the Tower where lay his son... vanishing to the blackness of the stone. He rose slowly, black sails still fluttering in front of his eyes, and returned to his ailing son.

***

The Colour of the Stones

When she stands at her window she can see spread below the place she has left Dol Amroth for.

They call it the White City. She often wonders why.

The stones they say are white, gleaming when the sun rays fall on them, the reflection glaring enough to make one shade their eyes, but to her seeing the land ever decked in shadow, they have only always been grey and foreboding.

She watches everyday, hoping to see once the white city old songs and poems speak of, and her husband dreams of, but she does not think she ever will.

***

A Little Thing

It lies on the bed of the Great River, a little thing lodged under the fronds of a fern that has lived for long years. It lies unmoving. Sometimes when light falls on it, it glints, else it remains the same.

There are other things in the water, hooks to trap and snare, creatures larger, biting, filled with maiming poisons ... and yet it is this they will not near. They do not know why but for as long as they remember, none in the water nears this tiny ring lying sheltered under the river fern that does not age.

***

For the 'The Life Aquatic' challenge on the Tolkien_weekly community

Childhood Dreams

Sometimes they had times like this; seated together in a quiet tavern, watching the sun dip behind the mountains across the river.

Boromir’s voice is wistful, slowed by  sweet wines from far-off vales, "When you were young you wanted to be a river... I was surprised..."

Faramir’s smile is as wistful, "That I wanted to be a river? Strong, tireless, full of life, unstopping till the sea? You wanted to be a horse..."

"A noble beast... I was surprised...,"  he pauses, "... I thought you’d want to be..."

"I wanted to be you," Faramir replies, "... strong,  tireless, full of life, unstopping..."

***

For "the Life Aquatic" challenge on Tolkien_Weekly

The brothers wanting to be rivers and horses is from a scene from an old fic, "Strength of a River"
All his

Note: An AU drabble for the 'topsy turvy' challenge on the tolkien_weekly community

***

It is well-crafted, beautiful, especially when it speaks to him. To give it away for the three Sauron promised is unappealing.

Why not keep it? And all that comes with it. The land of the horselords (they will rid it of the horses first) and the stone city of men for all men are as weak as their lords who lie dead. The Shire for the halflings are apparently not unalike the men. The elven realms for the elves shall leave.

All of Middle-earth to build the dwarven greatest cities on, and Gimli, son of Gloín, shall be their lord.

***

Note: For the "Sharp" challenge on Tolkien_weekly

Struck

It was a Haradrim dart that struck him, Faramir knew. Any Ithilien ranger would. They had spent long enough in the line of fire to know one when it hit.

The tip would be pared so fine as to ensure that it pierced the skin swiftly and deep. The intent not just to fell, but also to inflict grave injury and pain; a mere pin-prick at first and then pure agony.

He thought as he fell that he might have felt that pain, were it not that his father's words had already pierced him... deeper than any weapon ever could.

***

Note: Also for the "Sharp" challenge on Tolkien_weekly

Inheritance

There is much of Denethor in Faramir.

There is that stone-cold gaze. Despite the wounds from battle, and otherwise, Faramir’s eyes have lost none of the piercing quality that proclaims him Denethor’s son.

"Where is my father?"

Then there is in his voice that same acidic bitterness when Gandalf does not reply.

"Are you going to evade my queries too, Mithrandir? Will you, at least, tell me how he died?"

And there is that same incisive bent of mind.

"Yes I will," Gandalf replies.

Faramir’s eyes soften. There is also much of Denethor that is not in Gondor’s new Steward.

***

Note: For the "History of Violence" challenge on the Tolkien_weekly community

The title is from a song or a hymn from my schooldays that I can't quite recall much else of other than that it was some patriotic thingy.

This Land, So Rich, So Fair

They tell their Captain the tales they heard from their fathers who heard them from their fathers - of farmsteads nestled between gently rolling fragrant woods, of spring festivals and bountiful harvests, of the life once dwelt in this land termed fair as though a lady.

But Faramir knows too the other tales untold - of shadows ever-present, of war, victories and routs, of constant forays by all manner of foe and of the mountains to the east.

And often he wonders as they do if they can ever give to this land still beautiful in its wilderness the peace it deserves.

***

Distant Lands

"Mithrandir says you have travelled many lands," Faramir ventured.

"I suppose I have," Aragorn admitted smiling. He'd been assured that to truly converse as a friend with his Steward he need speak of no more than his ventures in distant lands.

"Tell him of elven lands, Harad, Khand, oliphaunts, kines; you will have him enthralled for hours," Gandalf had said, "I have related countless tales before but he will have more from you gladly."

"Where would you like to hear of?" Aragorn asked, "Harad? Lothlorien? Mirkwood?"

Faramir's eyes turned westwards where the white mountains stretched far.

"Tell me of Edoras."

***

Note: For the "Edoras" challenge on the Tolkien_weekly community

As a child, Elboron loved to visit Minas Tirith with his father. Early each morning, they’d walk through quiet streets soon to be bustling, past fine houses, beautiful gardens, old taverns, winding stone walls where one could stand, watch the river.

Each day, Faramir would happily take his son all over this city he had lived in, and tell him all about everything.

As a child, Elboron knew the seven circles of Minas Tirith as well as Faramir once had… but for one place in the sixth circle - a silent street under the Mindolluin. Faramir would not take him there.

***

A/N - For the "Exception" challenge on tolkien_weeklyUnmusical

When he’d first heard the horn as a child, resonating through Boromir’s high-ceilinged chamber, Faramir hadn’t quite cared for the sound, although Boromir felt it was sweeter than any song he knew. It was as Boromir grew older and left home more often that the loud blast came to appear as sweet to Faramir. The faintest peal had him running to the battlements to watch his brother ride in.

He’d long forgotten once disliking the harsh sound until he heard it this time, so distant that if it weren’t for his father’s ashen face he’d have thought he dreamt it.

***

For the "Music" challenge on Tolkien_Weekly

For the "Endings" challenge on tolkien_weekly

***

It is still early when they depart. In that grey and cold hour, the men riding with Faramir try to allay the fear and despair in the few gathered to bid them a quiet farewell – friends, fellow soldiers staying behind to defend the walls, wives and sisters who have not left the city. But no words of hope echoing emptily in the stillness can convince them that these men do not ride out to their end.

Faramir says nothing - he cannot tell them that perhaps for him hope ended the night he saw a grey boat in the Anduin.

***

For the "Shiny" challenge on tolkien_weekly

Sunshine

There were times when he let the guarded sadness show in his face. And she wished she could tell him to let down those walls, at least in front of those he professed to love.

But there were also times when she heard in his voice the vestiges of a teasing, laughing note, and it gladdened her, for he had been too grave, too solemn in the little time she had known him. To see him smile cheered her.

And whenever her face shone so in the bright sunshine the city was yet to get accustomed to; so did his.

***

For the "Shy" challenge on Tolkien_weekly

Confidence

It was one among his first acts as Steward – to quietly remove it from the vault in which it had lain unused for ages. For he had studied it many years, consulting the archives in detail, and nothing could convince him that it could not be of aid to Gondor.

The line of stewards thus far may have shied away from using it, but their reasons he could not agree with. For had they not the right to use it, and the learning and the prowess?

No, he thought, he would not discard the uses of the Anor-stone so easily.

***

For Edorasslass who requested an Imrahil drabble

The Mantle

Imrahil walked briskly towards the gardens, eager to reassure himself that his nephew had indeed recovered completely.

He found them by the walls; the winds carrying their smiling voices across. A flash of colour caught his eye, reminding him of another smiling couple, and the mantle of midnight blue.

Faramir came bounding up the steps to meet him. Eowyn followed slowly, drawing the cloak around herself.

He could see the news in their happily flushed faces. His sister’s twin legacies lay now with Eowyn. And as she stood by Faramir, cloak in hand, he knew both rested in good hands.

***

For the 'Storms' challenge on the tolkien_weekly community

His Eyes

When Eowyn thinks of the Steward that day, she remembers most his eyes. They are grey, dark and bleak. And remind her of winter skies.

When she sees him later, anguished at the losses the war has brought upon his city, his eyes are grey, dark and wild. And remind her of rain-drenched skies when the summer storms break over the plains.

It is when she thinks of him more often, later, that she realises – when he speaks to her his eyes are grey, light and calm. And remind her of warm spring days and gardens and bright colours.

***

Also for the 'Storms' challenge on tolkien_weekly

Grey

When the bards sing of the battle in the days to come, they sing of Eowyn too. They sing of her sword, her horse, of Merry who rode with her, and the victory that was hers. They weave pictures of her through their words, of her face so fair and her hair as gold.

When Faramir thinks of her that day, he needs no songs. He remembers most her eyes. They remind him of the sea in the storms, deep and grey - turbulent, harsh and unyielding one moment, suddenly giving way to an uneasy yet tender quiet the next.

***

“I’d heard of hobbits,” Faramir said, “But while Mithrandir does tell good tales, he is not always descriptive enough. I often asked him what elves looked like, and – “

“Gandalf told you about us?” Pippin interrupted interestedly, between mouthfuls of apple.

“Of your people,” Faramir corrected gently, “I’m afraid whenever he visited Minas Tirith during my childhood, I often took up his time asking for tales. He always answered most patiently.”

“Oh,” Pippin murmured, “Whenever I asked him anything, he would reply most grumpily!”

“Perhaps,” Frodo suggested mildly, “That was because all you’d ask him was when we’d stop to eat?”

***

For the 'Grumpily' challenge on the pTolkien_weekly community