Lingering
Faramir stands amid the ruins of the House of the Stewards. Gingerly, he lays his palm against a soot-stained wall, as if to assure himself this is indeed the tomb where his ancestors once rested in solemn dignity. All lost now, and his father with them--vanished in a blaze of hideous light while Faramir wandered in darkness.
He presses his forehead to the stone and closes his eyes. A breeze laden with fine ashes gently ruffles his hair.
At last he straightens and turns away, brushing off his hands. Unnoticed, a smear of ash still clings to his forehead.
Written for Ash Wednesday 2005.