I guess this is kind of a warm-up for me.  It's been so long since I'd written Tolkien fic that I was worried I'd forgotten how.  But hopefully I did all right!

His father looked towards him with a gaze like steel; but it softened quickly.  The boy was still young.  A light blazed in the east, and he did not yet know what else that could mean.

“No, my son.  That is a fell light, one that would consume all.”

“Will it eat the Sun, too?”

“It may yet.  But not while we are here to defend her.”  He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.  When he met his father’s eyes his face was more solemn and attentive than it would be for any history lesson.  “That is why we are here:  to protect the Sun.  She will not fade – unless we grow weak.  Remember that.”

-

He was young, yes, and no great guard of the Citadel like his father.  But to be sent away to do nothing while his father and the whole city was in danger simply was not fair.

“I will not debate this with you,” his father declared, pulling on his livery in the dim light of the early morning.  “You have three days, and then you will leave with the wains and go south.  If the city becomes safe enough, I will call for you.”

“But I do not want to go where it is safe!”

His father whirled around and brought their faces close, a fire burning in his eyes.  “And what would you do?  Would you have me put a sword in your hands and send you to stand before the gate?”

The boy swallowed hard.  Yes, he wanted to say.  Maybe he wouldn’t be of much use there, but it would be far better than the alternative, sitting with idle hands and an idle mind, miles away from his city, from any kind of certainty, from knowing his father’s fate.

He couldn’t blink back his tears fast enough.  “You get to defend what you care about.  Why can’t I?”

The anger faded from his father’s face, falling now to a weary sadness.  He let out a sigh, staring down at the tree upon his breast, glowing red in the morning light.

It was Gandalf who broke the gaze first, heaving a great sigh as he sorted through the stack of books.  “So here we meet at last.  Your brother tells me you have cloistered yourself away for many weeks now.”  When he received no response, he continued, “I should think most of these volumes too verbose even for a child so clever as you.”

The boy sank further into his seat, pulling his current book upright onto his lap with the binding propped against the table.  Indeed it was only an atlas, though he had tried and managed several of the books before him.

Gandalf had seen far less of this child than of the elder, and was already finding him to be an entirely different creature – though nothing unexpected from a son of this Steward.  His was not the silence of an inactive mind, but perhaps an overactive one, or maybe the result of a brother who was bold enough for two – or of grief lying quiet and untended in the heart.

Gandalf dropped a book onto the table, sending up a plume of dust.  The boy’s nose twitched.  “It is well to be learned.  But do not linger long in these dusty old rooms!  Remember the Sun, and the trees, and the things that yet live.”  There was a sternness to the wizard’s voice that belied the softness of his eyes.  “Do not dwell only on what is lost, for that is how men fall into decay.”

The boy bit his quivering lip.  He’d yet to see his father or brother cry, so he always held his own tears in check.  But now he thought of the ministers of the city, bent and frowning and heedless of advice; of the withered tree in the courtyard; of how even now, two months later, his father would spend so many evening hours locked away in the silence beside her tomb.

He closed the book, set it with the others, and standing he bowed to the wizard.  He ran out of the library, into the streets, to the gardens of the houses where he’d said his last goodbye to his mother, and he flung himself onto the grass and wept beneath the morning sun.

-

“I’ve heard too much dark talk today!  And lunch is no time for it anyway.  Eating, that’s what lunch is for!  And if you must pause in that, it should only be for singing!”

“Is that the law of your land?” one soldier said with the beginnings of a smile.

“It’s the law of all decent lands!”

He’d had just enough of the men’s hearty ale to feel bold, and maybe that was what sent him leaping up onto his chair and charging headlong into an absurd dinner song that he’d learned from one cousin or another.  The first bout of laughter came not from the lyrics, but from when he paused long enough to snatch an apple right out of Beregond’s hand and give it a victorious bite.  And it was not the last laugh he received that afternoon.

When he’d finished and settled himself back in his chair properly, Beregond had regained enough of his breath to say, “I have not heard such laughter at this table in all my years!”

The young prince smiled and shook his head.  “Then I’ve arrived none too soon!”

He could not tell if this made her sad – her face was always full of sorrow, especially in these days.  But it made him sad, to know that there was a home out there that she would never see.  So he gathered up his courage and sought the lord of the house.

“Please, Lord Elrond,” he said, “please tell me about my city.”

Elrond raised his brows.  “Your city?”

“Mother says there is a city in the south, and it is our home, but she will never see it.  I want to learn about it for her.”

The Elf lord almost laughed, but not unkindly.  “It has been many lives of Men since last I saw your city.  I will tell you how it was then.”

And so Elrond told him of the shining city of seven tiers, of tall learned men who had brought wisdom and benevolence out of the Sea, of white blossoms falling from strong silver branches.  The boy’s eyes shone with wonder, as he imagined himself a captain of this beautiful place, and his heart soared – for even if he could never bring his mother there, he could at least tell her all about it.  And as his face brightened Elrond’s grew dark.

“But that was long ago, and that city is only a memory that no living Man can recall.  If ever you should reach it now, you will not find it so.”

“I thought I could help,” he told her, a defensive edge to his mumble.

“There is no help you could have offered there!” she replied, and here she finally looked down at him through her furious tears.

He returned her gaze with a solemn frown.  He was a quiet boy, ever withdrawn and thoughtful, always well meaning even when he was not well behaved.  He’d only wanted to understand.  All those men had left the city, their faces proud, their armor shining.  His father had sent them out.  But they had returned with their armor soiled and their faces covered in blood.  He’d only wanted to understand.

His father was more forgiving on the matter, and he only found out why later that night, when he overheard his parents discussing it from his hiding space near his father’s private office.

“It is his doom to someday issue such orders.  Better that he learn what it entails sooner rather than later.”

His mother did not reply for some time, until at last in a low voice she said, “You did what you thought was right.”

His father’s voice was cold.  “Nothing in war is right.  I can only do what is necessary.”

He heard his mother’s approach before she spoke from behind.  “What are we to do without our guest of honor?”

He didn’t answer, only gazed down at his lap as she came up beside him, folding her pale arms atop the battlement.  He felt her gaze upon him – he’d heard of how stern and cold that gaze had once been; but that was years before his time, an entire world ago.  “Speak your mind, my son.”

He finally looked up at her through clear blue eyes, his brows furrowed.  “Was this horn like the one my uncle carried?”

Her brother did not carry any single horn.  But her brother was not his only uncle.  “That I cannot say,” she replied softly.  “I never saw nor heard that horn.”

“It is only…”  He turned around to face the Citadel.  “I do not think I could ever be a great warrior like him, or Father, or you.”

She smiled, running her fingers through his dark hair.  “For my part, I thank you for the praise.  But I do not think your father would have himself called a ‘great warrior,’ mighty though he may be.”

The boy frowned.  “But you and many others have spoken of how well he fought during the war.  I know he is modest, but—”

“Modesty has nothing to do with it.  He wields the sword valiantly when he must, but that is not where his greatest strength lies.  And so it is with you.”  She leaned in close.  “We are grateful for this.”

She could see that this answer did little to alleviate his chief concern.  “But – what would I do with this horn?  Use it in battle?  I will not be a great captain like my uncle.”

She pushed away from the wall.  Her smile was wry but gentle.  “I do not think that the King – or your father – would have given you a horn to use in battle.”

He held up the horn, staring at it with his head tilted in thought.  He glanced at his mother again, but she gave him no further hints except to nod at the horn with an expectant smile.

He jumped down from the wall and stood at the front of the battlement, towards the vast city – and then he turned north, and he put the horn to his lips and blew.  It rang out through the city and beyond, across the Pelennor and up the Anduin, even to the Falls of Rauros that had borne his uncle to his final rest.  The horn’s call was high and clear and joyous, like the trumpeting of some great bird – not a cry for help, or a fearsome challenge, but a call to herald the coming of dawn.

I hope it's not too vague.  I know I have a problem with that.  But here's the order:  Boromir, Bergil, Faramir, Pippin, Aragorn, Denethor, and Elboron.

Thanks for reading!