Disclaimer: I own nothing you recognize.
Author's Note: A series of three drabbling mini-fics that talk about a character who was not in Requeim but who will be involved in one of the prequels to it which is being called at the moment Coming Of Age and involves, mostly, Elboron and Faramir with cameos by quite a few people. Anyway, this is something of his back story.
A Birth
It began with a wail.
The babe was red faced and squalling when he was first set into his father's arms. The Ranger held him hesitantly, this his son, so small, with a shock of dark hair and small fists waving. He smiled at his wife, who was laying exhausted and glowing on the bed, her dark hair sweaty and tangled from her exertions. She grinned at him, and winked.
"What is the babe's name, sir?" the midwife asked, taking the infant from his father.
"Tarbor," his mother replied, and her husband smiled, for the name had been his choice. "Tarbor, son of Damrod."
A Death
Gladhiell, widow of Damrod, had refused to leave their home when the summons for evacuation came. Her mother was bedridden, and could not be moved, and she would not leave her. Perhaps, had her husband not died in the retreat...but she did not think of such things, only set about barricading herself into the small bedroom, and arming herself, for she would not let the beasts have her without a fight, her Damrod had taught her something of knife work.
It was not until after all the woman and children had left that she thought to send her own son, only months old, with them. The child slept so peacefully, so quietly, and her grief and rage so consumed her, she forgot to think of him at all until the chance had passed.
It was not the Orcs who killed her in the end, nor her old mother, whose heart gave out as the battle raged about them, but as the world fell to pieces about them a rock struck her hard upon the head as she knelt clutching her little son to her breast, both arms supporting his head and back.
When the Orcs came through the city they but paused at the sight of two dead women, pursuing soldiers was their pleasure, and did not see the injured babe shielded by his mother's corpse.
A Wedding
"Captain!"
Faramir turned and laughed as he caught the five year old, dark haired, whirlwind of a child up into his arms. The little boy glowed at the attention, as young children do from favourite people, and the Captain was one of his most favourites!
"Hello, little soldier," Faramir greeted, shifting the boy's weight. His Rangers' habit of addressing him by no other title than Captain was being picked up by their children. "Excited today, are you?"
The child nodded, squirming, "Papa is getting married!"
"Yes, and you are acquiring a mama, what think you of that?" Faramir asked with a smile.
The boy glowed with happiness. Faramir chuckled. "And where is your papa?"
"Being sick in the bushes," was the reply, with no trace of tact. Faramir laughed outright.
"Shall we go find him and make sure his stomach is settled then?" Faramir asked.
The boy nodded. "My new mama would not like him to be sick on her dress!"
They found Mablung by the side of his half finished house, his face pale as he took a long drink of water, gargled and spit. He turned at their approach, ears sharp even feeling wretched, and his eyes smiled.
"Captain," Mablung greeted, smiling slightly at the sight of the boy leading the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien about by the hand. "You have found yourself a keeper, I see."
"You should be careful, old friend, he may try to take your place," Faramir replied. They embraced briefly and the one time Ranger stooped to look at his adopted son.
"You have not been getting into mischeif, have you Tarbor?" Mablung asked his son, smiling at the boy. "I will find no frogs in the punch? No baby mice in your pockets?"
"No, papa!" Tarbor replied. "Being good!"
Mablung grinned, and scooped the boy up into his arms with one swift move, making the child giggle. "Good. Well. Shall we go get married, then?"
He looked decidedly green about it. Tarbor giggled and kissed his papa on the cheek. "You are getting married, not me!"
Mablung snorted, "We are both of us getting hitched, my lad, me with a wife and you with a mother."
"'M glad," Tarbor murmured against his father's neck.
"Ah, child, so am I," Mablung told him, blowing his son's hair, making him giggle again.
Mablung danced that evening often with his new wife and often with Tarbor on his shoulder, his son squealing with delight as they twirled about.
Author's Note: A series of three drabbling mini-fics that talk about a character who was not in Requeim but who will be involved in one of the prequels to it which is being called at the moment Coming Of Age and involves, mostly, Elboron and Faramir with cameos by quite a few people. Anyway, this is something of his back story.
A Birth
It began with a wail.
The babe was red faced and squalling when he was first set into his father's arms. The Ranger held him hesitantly, this his son, so small, with a shock of dark hair and small fists waving. He smiled at his wife, who was laying exhausted and glowing on the bed, her dark hair sweaty and tangled from her exertions. She grinned at him, and winked.
"What is the babe's name, sir?" the midwife asked, taking the infant from his father.
"Tarbor," his mother replied, and her husband smiled, for the name had been his choice. "Tarbor, son of Damrod."
A Death
Gladhiell, widow of Damrod, had refused to leave their home when the summons for evacuation came. Her mother was bedridden, and could not be moved, and she would not leave her. Perhaps, had her husband not died in the retreat...but she did not think of such things, only set about barricading herself into the small bedroom, and arming herself, for she would not let the beasts have her without a fight, her Damrod had taught her something of knife work.
It was not until after all the woman and children had left that she thought to send her own son, only months old, with them. The child slept so peacefully, so quietly, and her grief and rage so consumed her, she forgot to think of him at all until the chance had passed.
It was not the Orcs who killed her in the end, nor her old mother, whose heart gave out as the battle raged about them, but as the world fell to pieces about them a rock struck her hard upon the head as she knelt clutching her little son to her breast, both arms supporting his head and back.
When the Orcs came through the city they but paused at the sight of two dead women, pursuing soldiers was their pleasure, and did not see the injured babe shielded by his mother's corpse.
A Wedding
"Captain!"
Faramir turned and laughed as he caught the five year old, dark haired, whirlwind of a child up into his arms. The little boy glowed at the attention, as young children do from favourite people, and the Captain was one of his most favourites!
"Hello, little soldier," Faramir greeted, shifting the boy's weight. His Rangers' habit of addressing him by no other title than Captain was being picked up by their children. "Excited today, are you?"
The child nodded, squirming, "Papa is getting married!"
"Yes, and you are acquiring a mama, what think you of that?" Faramir asked with a smile.
The boy glowed with happiness. Faramir chuckled. "And where is your papa?"
"Being sick in the bushes," was the reply, with no trace of tact. Faramir laughed outright.
"Shall we go find him and make sure his stomach is settled then?" Faramir asked.
The boy nodded. "My new mama would not like him to be sick on her dress!"
They found Mablung by the side of his half finished house, his face pale as he took a long drink of water, gargled and spit. He turned at their approach, ears sharp even feeling wretched, and his eyes smiled.
"Captain," Mablung greeted, smiling slightly at the sight of the boy leading the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien about by the hand. "You have found yourself a keeper, I see."
"You should be careful, old friend, he may try to take your place," Faramir replied. They embraced briefly and the one time Ranger stooped to look at his adopted son.
"You have not been getting into mischeif, have you Tarbor?" Mablung asked his son, smiling at the boy. "I will find no frogs in the punch? No baby mice in your pockets?"
"No, papa!" Tarbor replied. "Being good!"
Mablung grinned, and scooped the boy up into his arms with one swift move, making the child giggle. "Good. Well. Shall we go get married, then?"
He looked decidedly green about it. Tarbor giggled and kissed his papa on the cheek. "You are getting married, not me!"
Mablung snorted, "We are both of us getting hitched, my lad, me with a wife and you with a mother."
"'M glad," Tarbor murmured against his father's neck.
"Ah, child, so am I," Mablung told him, blowing his son's hair, making him giggle again.
Mablung danced that evening often with his new wife and often with Tarbor on his shoulder, his son squealing with delight as they twirled about.