Assorted drabbles

Éomer hears Boromir's last horn call.
*****

The horn’s blast split the crisp dusk air, like a dwarf’s axe cleaving a first-year sapling.

He remembered that sound. Always before setting forth Boromir of Gondor sounded his horn, if his rider’s gossip could be trusted. Eomer thought that vain and proud, but brave -- all of which fitted the marshal’s impression of the Captain-General from the short time they had spent together last summer.

The horse had returned riderless, and his cousin throught Boromir dead. A new enemy stirred near Isengard. Theodred was often called to lead his men in skirmishes there, risking his own life and theirs to defend the Fords of Isen.

But Boromir’s horn sounded from the east. The horse had returned riderless, but the rider had survived -- for a while, at least. Hope, like a flame, flickers in the breeze -- but it it defies the night and the wind does not blow it out. Not yet.