Of work and drabbles

[linaewen]

I finally feel better today, though I still have a stuffy head and wheezy cough kind of thing.  I shall be drinking even more coffee than usual, I fear, because it's what helps clear my lungs when I get a cold like this.  Asthma always complicates things when I get a head/chest cold!

So, because I have some energy again, and because I lay in bed this morning fussing about having so much to do, I am going to see how far I get today in doing it.  I'll have to dust off that schedule and my List of Doom and get cracking on it.

And I must be sure to leave time for a walk in the sun, while it is still "spring" -- I think winter is going to attempt to make another appearance after this, so I must get the sun and the warm while I can.

I forgot that I was going to post something I wrote last week.   I haven't been one to write drabbles in the past, not being able to really be very concise, lol!  But I was trying to write something for a friend, and it was getting way too long and involved for what I wanted -- and I had the idea of turning it into a drabble series.  Or would it be called a quaddrabble, since it has four parts?  I don't know!  :-D

Anyway, here it is -- a 4 part drabble about a double "might have been."

Hope Stirs

I

"...thou shalt not defy my will: to rule my own end!"

Torch in hand, Denethor cast one last disdainful glance at Gandalf, then sprang for the door of the House of Stewards. But he got no farther than the threshold when a shout rang out in the street behind him. He stopped, listening, frozen still as if turned to stone.

"Father!" came the cry again, this time closer, now accompanied by the sound of booted feet, running, coming towards him.

He turned swiftly, and the torch in his hand guttered and smoked.

"Father!"

It was Boromir.

II

They stood stunned, amazed at the sight of him. Pippin tried to speak, but words failed. A glance, a soft smile, a brief touch of his hand on Pippin's cheek was all Boromir could spare; then his attention was all on Denethor.

Denethor stood pale and astounded, hesitating on the threshold. Frowning, he shook his head in disbelief. Lifting the torch once more, he made to turn away.

Suddenly Boromir was at his side, his hand gently gripping the hand holding the torch.

"Give it to me, my father," he whispered. "No need for flames. I am here."

III

Reaching up with trembling hand, Denethor touched the face next to his. He felt the roughness of a beard on his palm, the dampness of tears on the cheek. Hope stirred.

Boromir? Alive?

"How can this be?" he breathed, again doubtful. "Is this a lie of the Enemy to deceive me?"

"No, my father!" said the son. "I live, and I am here, in the very nick of time."

Boromir drew him away from the door and closed it behind him.

"Come, let us go from here. This is no place for the living."

IV

"The living!" cried Denethor. "We shall all die. It is the end, my son! You come too late. No hope remains..."

"No hope, Father? None at all? I cannot believe it!"

"Faramir..."

"He lives, and shall be healed. The tide turns, Father. The end you have foreseen is by no means certain. There is hope, indeed, and we shall not lose sight of it again. Will you come with me to find it?"

Denethor hesitated, then relented.

"Yes, my son," he replied, grasping Boromir's outstretched hand. "I will come, and attempt hope once more."

Comments

[estellye.livejournal.com]

Now don't you go and over-do because you have some energy back. You need that to fully recover!

These drabbles make me tear up. How I wish they could have had a happy resolution. It makes me wonder what your plans for Denethor will be in Lords of Gondor, too. Wonderful!