From We Who Watched
Movieverse. Five drabbles from the point of view of the people who watched Faramir and his men ride out to reclaim Osgiliath.
A drabble is a short fic of exactly 100 words.
Notes: The first of these was written for a challenge put up a while ago in monkeycrackmary's livejournal. I'm afraid I haven't been able to find the original post. The idea belongs to her. The others were written to try and get myself into a 'serious' writing mood. It didn't really work, but I had fun.
Feedback is always loved.
Ghosts
Her brother used to tell her stories when they were young. Tales of dark spirits from the mountains, trapped in their grey twilight. Evil things that would suck the breath from those who dared to pass. Those nights she'd lie awake after the story telling, sheets clutched to her chin, eyes wide open against the pressing darkness. Every creak of floorboard, every breath of wind outside would be the ghost army, coming to take her away.
She has long since outgrown such fears.
Now she stands in the grey dawn, watching the soldiers go by. Ghosts, all of them.
Sight
He must see his daughter before he leaves.
He enters the room silently, yet she still knows he has come, rising to turn her
sightless eyes upon him. She knows where he is going. One hand rests on the chair as the other reaches for his face, trailing fingers across the familiar forehead, nose, lips, chin. Born blind, she still knows his face better that anyone with sight could.
He does not trust himself to speak, only kisses her once. Her fingers trace the engraved tree on his breastplate. Then he must go, and she will never see him again.
Remember
His quill moves across the page: 'T.A. 3019'.
This is his gift – his writing – passed from his mother to him, and from his grandfather to her before. Someone has to keep records of these times. They say the Steward's House records all, but he doesn't trust that. What will they in their great halls have to say about a few hopeless men on this last desperate mission? The work of a once-great man driven mad by grief. Hooves clatter outside his window. Black ink trails behind the quill in his neat, curving hand. The list of names is done.
Fallen Lilies
She plays her part. She stands, throws flowers on the cold cobbles. Anguished tears flow as her husband rides by. Then they're through the gates, and the crowd thins away.
She slips away, heart racing. Past the tanners, down a side-street, to fly into her lover's arms.
'He's gone.' Her breath comes in little gasps, 'We're free. He's gone, and he won't come back.'
He smiles, tipping her chin up for a kiss. She's light-headed and giddy, but her words are true enough. He had to pull a lot of strings to make sure her husband went on this mission
Laugh
He searches for the face among those passing. Smiles upon seeing it, and throws the flower, a mockery of the mourners around him.
That face holds so much. Memories of his nose in the mud, blood on his lips. He could forgive that, call it childhood teasing, but that same face had tormented him not three weeks past. Recognised him and crowed with joy on discovering he'd become a bard, ridiculing his profession and cruelly joking about his manhood.
He walks away, leaving that face white and stiff in the cold morning.
Laugh now, friend. I'll see the sunrise tomorrow.