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I have never been able to manage a drabble except once, ages ago, because I just could never say what I wanted to in so few words! But in trying to write something special for a friend's birthday awhile back, I up with this. When I originally wrote it, it counted out as exactly 400 words, so I called it a Quaddrabble, but now when I recount it, it doesn't seem to come out right! Oh, well. I shall just have to rewrite it some day, in a longer version, because the idea of this "might have been" intrigues me greatly.
Hope Stirs
"...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.
**
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."
**
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."
**
"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."
"...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.
**
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."
**
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."
**
"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."
