A Garden of Faramir Drabbles

He walks lightly beside me, shortening his steps to match mine, and tells me what he's learned--more than I meant to reveal. I'd hoped to distract him from Isildur’s Bane by mentioning Elendil’s sword, but it wasn't to be so easy.

When he speaks of his city, his voice is warm; but I heard it cry in battle before, stern as a trumpet call. His grey eyes are sometimes hard, sometimes kind, always keenly searching. I remember another voice and other eyes, mad with fury.

He asks me to trust him, but I can't. I mustn't. I don't dare.