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Birthday drabbles
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Ti'ana Luthien requested something happy about Boromir and Faramir.


The City resplendent gleams beneath the king's banner. The widow in her weeds becomes a bride in her brilliance; Minas Tirith sheds the shroud of despair that has so long darkened her ways.

Walking her ancient streets, he feels Boromir close, like the heat on his back, intimate as his own shadow. Despite grief Faramir is glad, for not by hands alone is Minas Tirith transformed, else shades linger on, dead in memory. Eyes, too, must see as through a different glass:

For our fallen live now but in us. Therefore walk with me, brother–live renewed in my sight!


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