A Garden of Faramir Drabbles

“Good afternoon, Mithrandir.”

The grey-robed man peered over the cluttered library table at the boy standing before him. He tried to frown, but his eyes twinkled. The child was not fooled.

“Ah, young master Faramir. Shouldn't you be at sword practice?”

“I’m finished.”

“Or archery practice?”

“That’s finished too.”

“Lessons?”

“Finished.”

“Doesn’t your father need you?”

“He’s working. May I help you again today?” He looked so hopeful. Mithrandir’s mouth twitched.

“Did you wash your hands?”

In answer, small hands were held out for inspection. They were spotless.

“Very well!”

Faramir grinned and scooted onto the bench beside the wizard.