A -- I'm not quite sure what to call it. A quin-drabble? A quadrabble plus a drabble? Whatever the term is, it's a ficlet of exactly 500 words.

In Concurrence

Éowyn was nothing if not enthusiastic. Immediately after being taught by one of her ladies-in-waiting how to stitch stuffed animals, such that a child might play with, she had embarked on creating as many as she could, with all the short-lived eagerness of a beginner. She created bears of countless colors, deer with lopsided antlers, button-eyed velveteen rabbits, and horses of every shape and hue imaginable.

They were labored over with love and proudly presented to little Siliviel—as though they were great works of art—upon their completion. The girl’s four-year old imagination lent itself to the most wonderful stories, and she delighted in her new playthings greatly. Sometimes, she watched in awe as horses galloped across the plains of Rohan; at other times, she observed the animals converse as humans, holding intellectual debates that enchanted her.

But at night, when her candle had been blown out and the toys had been settled on a shelf facing her bed, she looked at their bright eyes that glinted in the darkness and felt afraid. Were the animals whispering amongst themselves, or was it merely the night wind in the trees? And—there! The deer had moved, she was certain of it, moved in the shadows and slowly-shifting pools of moonlight. Black eyes that had smiled so kindly in the daylight now seemed to gaze at her with a certain malevolence—they gave never-ending, unblinking stares that frightened her out of her wits.

She stood it as long as she could, but could finally bear it no longer. She knew her Mama would be hurt if she called out for her—

“Papa! Papa!”

Faramir was wearily perusing a thick, dusty tome in his study, longing for sleep but grimly working on. But upon hearing his youngest call for him in so terrified a tone, he sprang from his chair and ran as quickly as he could towards her room, flinging himself through the doorway.

He took in little Siliviel, huddled in a trembling heap upon her bed, her wide eyes dilated with fear, her constant glances at the glaring stuffed animals, and immediately understood.

He strode towards the shelf, and with a combination of both long arms and reflexes born of being a Ranger in the wild, he neatly swept the parade of animals into his arms and arranged them underneath her bed, where they couldn’t be seen. He knelt beside his daughter’s bed and gathered her into his arms, stroking her hair.

“Shall we place them there first, and put them back on the shelf tomorrow?” he asked her gently.

She nodded, and the same wave of relief flooded them both—neither wanted Éowyn to know that her creations had terrified Siliviel so.

They stayed in that position for quite a while, united, allies, but so much more than that—father and daughter, safe in each other’s arms.

Finally, Faramir released a soft sigh. “Worry not, dearest,” he whispered, dropping a kiss on her dark head. “They frighten me too.”