A Garden of Faramir Drabbles

Two weeks after the funeral, life without Mother was beginning to feel familiar, if still painful. The strangest new thing was that Faramir had become highly reluctant to go to bed, sometimes crying when the time came. A mature man at ten, Boromir at first scoffed, then teased, but finally asked why.

“I’m afraid I’ll dream about the wave again,” Faramir admitted. “Mother always rubbed my back when....”

Boromir looked at the door to Father’s study, closed nearly all the time nowadays, and then back to his brother.

“If you have a bad dream, come to me,” he said firmly.