Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.

Author's Note: More drabbles or mini-fics that were done/inspired by A'mael drabble challenges.

A Meeting

He slipped into the stables unnoticed. It felt quiet here. It was not, the stable boys were about and soft noises came from the horses but the last time he had been within these musty walls it had been filled with men strapping on final pieces of armour and riding out with shouts and clatters.

Most, men and beasts, had not returned to the stables.

A soft muzzle brushed against his shoulder and he automatically reached up to touch the soft nose. His head turned and he found himself looking into large brown eyes that seemed very sad, as if the horse too knew his rider would mount him and race across the Pelennor, often singing a bawdy song as he went.

A gift from Denethor, a name from Boromir, a relic of the past, it felt, just as he was. Forgotten, it felt, as he often did in the merriment of victory.

"You treat your horse well, if nothing else," a gruff voice said from behind him.

Faramir turned quickly, hitting his shoulder sharply on the stable wall as he did so and wincing as the healing wound throbbed. The new King of Rohan, brother of his intended, emerged from the shadows where he had been observing him warily. Faramir drew in a ragged breath, unable to speak for the shock of the sudden pain.

"This, however, is not your horse," Eomer said with narrowed eyes. "Why would a man interfere with the horse of another man?"

"This horse belongs, belonged, to my brother, Eomer King," Faramir said quietly, wincing at the probing of another new and more painful wound. "As Boromir of Gondor has departed this world I do his duty for his mount."

The horse in question nudged Faramir gently and turned to look at the horse lord. He sneezed.

Faramir almost smiled. Boromir's horse was as stubborn as his former rider. He allowed none to touch him, save for Boromir and, on the occasion Boromir was not available, Faramir, who he tolerated somewhat uneasily.

Or it had been so. A soft muzzle nudged him again before the neck bent and the great animal sniffed his pockets, searching for the apple hidden there. Faramir gave it to him gladly even as bits of the fruit were flicked into his hair.

"I wonder, Steward, if you would take your own horse out for a ride this day," Eomer smiled somewhat ferally, "I have not yet seen you ride."

"Unfortunately I must attend my King within the hour and have duties that will keep me until well after dark," Faramir replied. The horse nosed his hair. Faramir was surprised he did not attempt to take a bite of his ear, he certainly had before!

Eomer was undaunted, "Tomorrow then? Much can be judged of a man by how he is in the saddle."

Faramir knew well enough not to wince. He was not bad upon a horse, though he had little time to practise, stationed without one, but he was not at his best and would be hindered. "At your leisure, Eomer King."

"I will see you tomorrow then."

Seeing

They brought him before me, dying, I knew, even before I gazed into that cursed stone and all said dying without the knowledge I gained from it. He is dying and he murmurs in his sleep, whimpering for his brother.

All his life, it seems, I know now, he has been searching for but a kind word in my cruel speech and never did I gift him with that. I have not seen him, only that what I hated, that what I was, long ago. I have been blind and now I wait and wish to hear my name upon his lips, a small thing, just a name, to know, perhaps, he did love me, as I could not show him.

I see him now, who he has become, how his dear brother, my golden child, has moulded him, for I take little credit but in making him guarded and unsure of himself. He is a good man, this one, and did his duty with little complaint, though he despised it and I know he did, for I did, though there are difference between us and they glare at me accusingly now, for I would have him become bitter, as I have become, simply because I am.

Poor little lad, I remember him as that and see him before me grown. There was never a moment's peace to be had, was there? And if there was I made it hateful.

We shall have peace now, you and I. Yes, that, if nothing else, I can give you.

Only...speak my name ere we depart, for I would know you are still me son, for all my lacking as a father.

Kings

He stands with Kings, my father ,and I nearly do not recognize him. He looks as if he were a King. He is not, I know, and he does not wish to be, but he looks it.

I told him so once. He laughed and kissed my brow and told me I should have seen his brother. Everyone talks of Boromir the Tall, the Bold, the Fair and how he looked to be a King of old but my father talks of Boromir his brother and weeps upon the anniversary of his death.

And on other days, when he does not stand with Kings before crowds, when he does not look so great he seems distant and untouchable, he is my father and reads to me at night and hugs me close and tells me always that he loves me more than life.

Then he stands apart from Kings and takes me from my mother's arms and laughs when I wind my hand in his hair. He cuddles me close and I feel safe as I put my sleepy head on his shoulder and am glad that his is my father and not a King.

Distraction

He has turned out to be an utter distraction.

It matters not if I am near him, still my mind wanders to him and I find myself thinking of him of what he is doing whilst I learn in the Houses or stroll in the gardens. If we are home, in Ithilien, and the weather is warm I wonder whether he has loosed the fastenings of his tunic, as he is wont to do on sunny days. If we are in Minas Tirith I will wonder whether he has taken his cloak with him, for the stone city can be cold and he does not notice so until he has taken chill.

So I will go and peak into his study and see him there, bent over a parchment, concentrating hard upon it, the very tip of his tongue peaking out of his lips. Loosed tunic or no, I again marvel that such a man as this is my own.

And as he has caused such distraction to me I find it only fair that I return the favour.


The Ranger

He spied the soldier walking up to the Citadel with a frown. The man was thin and did not look entirely well, though his face could not be seen for his long dark hair and the position from which the spier watched him.

He frowned. The garb was of a Ranger but he had no council with any of Ithilien until the morrow. Why, then, was this man not in the barracks where he belonged?

A joyful shout of greeting diverted his attention and his eldest bounded into view, his face smiling, his arms spread and he grabbed the soldier into a tight hug, but no hug between mere comrades was this, for his eldest was tender, as was not his way, and held the man gently and with great love even while he held him hard, as if to never let go.

It was then he realized, his heart suddenly heavy with regret, that he had failed to recognize his youngest son.


Fire

Through the fire of my skin I feel hands upon my face and a voice, too muddled to understand, reaches my ears. The touch is too hard, it hurts, but my voice does not work to say so and my eyes will not open.

Something cool drips upon my face. It feels not like water and the faint smell I can make out confirms it is not. There is yelling. The heat intensifies.

Someone pushes me and the burning rouses me more fully as I hit the ground sharply.

My father...my father is yelling, screaming, but his words do not make sense. I am right here, can he still not see me?

Foggily, I last see him, through the haze of smoke, fever and fire. I do no understand. Why is he upon a pyre?

At last, his eyes are gentle as they look at me, though shock prevails most of all, and I see him smile, for once, at me.

Then he screams and darkness takes me.

Shoulders

He used to lift me onto his shoulders and twirl in the Dol Amroth sand. We were young then, and had not the cares that load us down today. Little mattered beyond the beach, the sun, the waves and the strength of the shoulders that held me up so high.

I dream. He is grown, his shoulders still strong, and he lifts a...a being that looks like a child, but is not, unto them. The little one laughs, curly golden hair bouncing, and I see another such creature laughing as well. My brother grins.

I know not why I wake with tears upon my face.


Eyes

I wake to his face, lines of exhaustion upon it, and have no choice but to met his eyes, for they bore into mine like Dwarven drills. I know nothing and everything of this man, who holds my hands in his own, who fought shadows to bring me back to light and who smiled, tiredly, at me.

Warmth fizzles within me and I know I would follow him to the ending of the world and beyond. Love swells within my breast as his eyes hold mine and I know, beyond doubt, that to this man I will pledge my undying service.

My King.

Dentistry

He heard the howls before he entered the barn turned over into a hasty surgery. There were five men holding him down as another crouched over his mouth.

There was a loud cracking sound another outraged, pain-filled howl, and his brother rolled over, spitting out blood. Faramir went to his side swiftly and knelt by him, a hand rubbing his back as Boromir cradled his jaw and moaned as if he were dying.

Faramir glanced back at his brother's lieutenant, wearing a tired smile and bloody iron tongs.

All that trouble for one little tooth. Tears

His tears fall into my hair and his arms all but crush me against his solid chest. I hold him as tight, not thinking of the bruises I will most likely bear in the morning for it, and press my face against his neck. Together we cling, kneeling on the floor of his tent, boys again.

We have lost many today, too many. Only two others came back. Two. It is not enough.

His leg is injured, my chest is badly bruised, I nearly lost him to the undertow today, and he me, to arrows and the weight of his armour when I returned to the river because I could not bear to lose him, but the worst wounds are upon are hearts, and he weeps for the men who will not return from the river, tears only I will ever see, for he dares not shed them in front of any other, even those we love.

And I dare not shed them at all.

Wine

He is asleep.

The others have not noticed yet, they are too busy squabbling amongst themselves though I think perhaps...yes, my uncle has noticed and we share an amused smile. Councils are boring, more so than I had imagined, and certainly, my father had the rather biting ability to liven them with a few well chosen, if often cruel, words. The King however is not prone to such remarks and, as such, seems to have found his own way of escaping the tedious bickering.

I have a glass of wine to my left elbow. Not my wine, I save my drinking for after the council, but the red wine of a rather pompous lord who has taken up more room than the late Forlong did at half the good man's size!

My elbow slips...

The lord leaps to his feet, sputtering delightfully, with wine red stains on his overly elaborate robes. I catch the eye of my King as hasten to make my apologies. He blinks, smiles, and dips his head ever so slightly.

Knight

I see him through a haze, concerned eyes peering down at me, kind voice calling to me through the shadows that have plagued me for so long. I fight them, but they are swiftly overcoming me.

"Uncle...my men...?"

I gasp it and he smiles very briefly and puts a hand upon my brow tenderly. I hear not the answer, for all goes black, the darkness dragging me down even as I struggle against it.

I feel them lift me, as something akin to consciousness returns, I hear his voice and know it is he supporting me upon the horse.

A hint of amusement comes to me before the blackness calls again. My aunt, departed years now, used to teasingly call him her knight in shining armour, and now, as he bears me gently home, I wonder if I should not do the same

Starry Mantle

She was beautiful, I know, with eyes that reminded me of the sea where Uncle lives. And I remember her being kind. She never greeted me without a smile. Papa was happier when she was here too.

Sometimes, Boromir still tells me stories about her. But three years have passed since she died, and it's getting harder for us to remember even what she looked like. All I can see clearly is the star-embroidered mantle that she left behind.

I look up at the sky, sprinkled with stars just like the mantle, wondering if she would be proud of me.

Wizard's Pupil

The wizard did not sit, Denethor noted, meaning he wanted this audience to be short. He felt a short surge of pleasure to know if he wished he could have made the wizard wait all day, deny him entrance to the archives, even...

Perhaps it would teach the meddlesome buzzard a lesson, that the Steward of Gondor would not be controlled by wizards...

"Father!"

"Faramir, what have I told you about knocking?" Denethor asked, levelling his gaze at his youngest son.

Faramir shrank back a bit from the glare. "The door was not shut. I thought...I did not think anyone else was here, sir."

"Please check next time, child," Denethor sighed, somewhat mollified. He gestured for Faramir to come forward, pointedly ignoring the wizard. "What have you there?"

Faramir beamed, "I finished my lessons early and the archivist asked if I would help him find a book you requested and I found it."

Denethor permitted himself the smallest of smiles at Faramir's enthusiasm. He was clutching the large, dusty book to his chest as if it were a precious jewel. "Well done, lad."

"And who is this budding scholar, my Lord Steward?" The wizard asked, reminding Faramir of the stranger in the room with them. Denethor had not forgotten.

"This is my son, Faramir," Denethor replied stiffly, putting his hands on Faramir's shoulders and turning the boy about. "Faramir, this is Mithrandir, the grey wizard."

"The quest for knowledge is always a noble one, young sir," Mithrandir told the boy, smiling kindly. Faramir smiled shyly in return. "My lord Steward, as your son seems to have a knack for finding dusty old books and has some free time on his hands and as I am looking for dusty old books and have little time on mine, perhaps he could aid me in the archives? I teach him a bit of lore, as well, seeing as his tutor deems him a quick pupil."

Denethor's lips tightened even as Faramir's face lit up. The wizard knew many tales which he knew well Faramir would adore. "That is agreeable. Faramir, you will behave yourself, and not get underfoot."

"Yes, sir," Faramir looked up, grinning. "Thank you, father."

"See what you can learn from him," Denethor replied. "He will, I know, be a useful teacher."

What Mithrandir read in his words he did not say, but Faramir smiled and gave his father the book and followed the wizard his a bounce in his short steps. Denethor sat behind his desk and stared blankly for a moment, not sure why he felt a strange sense of foreboding.