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Isabeau's Drabbles
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Dwimordene was wanting AUs for her birthday this year. Ergo, this tribble.

MEFAs, 2008:
Second Place-Genres: Alternate Universe: Other Fixed-Length Ficlets


When I was sure that Faramir would live, I left his room to speak with my uncle. Imrahil told me of Father’s death, and of his attack upon Faramir. Such a failure of control, such madness, seemed so contrary to what I knew of my father, that I knew it would take some time for me to fully absorb the account my uncle had given me. Numbness settled over me like a pall.

Seeing my weariness, Uncle suggested I get some sleep. Selfishly, I left the rule of the City in his hands for a little while longer, unwilling to take up Father’s legacy when his death was still fresh in my mind. At the Steward‘s House, I began divesting myself of my armor, staring blankly around my room at boyhood relics, too wound up to seek my rest despite my exhaustion.

A knock at the door, and the sound of it opening. My back turned, thinking it was the bath I had ordered, I called over my shoulder, “Just put it by the hearth. Thank you.”

Instead of a servant, a familiar deep voice inquired softly, “Are you well, lad? Boromir?”

Andra. Never before had he come here. Never before would he have dared. The world, I realized suddenly, had changed. Father is dead, and Valar forgive me, we are free!

I spun around and took two strides. He kicked the door shut, and took two of his own. We met in a muted clash of metal, both battle-grimed, neither caring. I buried my nose in Andra’s badger hair, and beneath the smells of sweat and steel, of leather and horse, caught the faintest whiff of the spice-scented soap he always used. That, more than anything else that had happened, made me truly understand at last.

I am home!


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