Drabbles

Miscellaneous

I

In Some Corner – Elendil and Anarion

They carried the corpse over the dark ash, with his dented helm upon his chest. The mourning king walked behind, head held as high as he was able. They marched over pockmarked plains, breathing foul air.

Not once did the screams from the Dark Tower cease, nor did the soldiers put down their arms. Battle would not pause for grief.

Finally they laid the body in a shallow hole and covered him with fine black soil, in that stretch of land commandeered for the dead. How soon though, thought Elendil, before that field was greater than the plain of battle?

II

The March of the Galadhrim

Against encroaching darkness, the Galadhrim marched, through woods made murky by the blight of evil. No longer did their voices lilt in hymns to their old Lórinand; now the soldiers sang of coming battle.

Dol Guldur was as yet a shadow midst the trees, yet the folk of Lórien heard its creatures all around them, some like mist and others wholly solid. But they had orders from their Lady to destroy the malice at last, and they would fight to protect their Golden Wood, whatever the cost.

"Onwards!" called the captain, "and in the darkness we fight for our Laurelindórenan!"

III

Farewell – Arwen

The gardens were overgrown, the house hidden amongst the trees. Only birdsong and the sighs of ghosts disturbed the air. No gentle chants or laughing voices any more. Arwen breathed in the memories of thousands of years, walking in the deserted valley. A short visit, on her way to her last repose.

She remembered the faces she would never see again; her father, her mother... Their memories seemed to touch her spine and brought tears. At last the true weight of the choice was revealed. She was alone, soon to step into the dark, with so much unsaid and unresolved.

IV

Unconquered Son (Triple drabble)

The fire sputtered, wreaths glinting all around the hall. Magically rich garlands of holly and fir hung around the place, golden and glittering against the white stone. Faramir sat alone, watching the flames dance.

Outside the city snored, in anticipation of a lazy Yule.

The first full turn of the Fourth Age. But around the hall, the ghosts of that past age wandered by. Like a freshly laundered beach, all the familiar things were there, but the patterns had changed irrevocably.

Tomorrow, Yule would break across the city in song and in the scent of roasted meats, sweet wine and honeyed fruit. Then all would toast the things that had passed, and look in hope to those still to come. They had reached another knot in the passage of time, yet naught seemed settled.

If only a sip of wine and a cheer could set things right.

So many things were unsaid, and he would never know the truth behind those things that were voiced. If Yule was indeed a time for mystery, to celebrate life’s triumph over death, then might he not be granted some sign?

If I knew that you did love me

He sighed and looked towards the empty seat beneath the throne, wondering if a few whispers might reach the unfathomable place where all men come to dwell in their time. The fire cracked again.

Perhaps it was a shadow cast by the flames, for shades did leap about the pillars and walls, but for an instant, he might have thought there was someone seated in that chair. A blink and the illusion was gone, but imagination pressed the image into Faramir’s brain, and he held his breath.

He was almost sure the shade had smiled at him, the fatherly way he smiled in years past.