A Garden of Faramir Drabbles

In the midst of so much fire, there is water.

Below, the first circle of the city is burning; above, the clouds are lit with flame from the east. A slow fire burns in a young man’s pale flesh, quietly stealing his life. But here there is a small oasis where the White Tree weeps for Gondor. Cold droplets fall steadily into the dark pool.

At a word from the Steward, the bearers gently take up the bed to carry it toward the last fire of all. The young man moans softly, as if in protest at leaving this place.