Bury Them With Honor

The heavy breeze which stirred the grasses carried with it the stench of smoke and burnt flesh. Faramir raised a hand as if to ward off the smell, and dismounted with a sour expression on his face. Crumbled to ruins, a small but thriving town had been razed; strong beams, which once sheltered loving families, were broken and jabbed their charred splinters towards the gray sky. Overhead, the clouds were low and full of water. Soon, a cleansing rain would melt the ashes into the earth and put out any small embers, but it would never erase the bloodshed here.

His men were routing among the ruins, swallowing their nausea whenever they discovered another body. The village had been destroyed swiftly, for many of the townspeople had never even left their beds. The total lack of movement among the remains was unsettling, and Faramir knew that there were no survivors. A rumble of thunder echoed vaguely across the sky, and Faramir squinted up at the sky. The rain could not come quickly enough. He sighed and sent up a prayer for the innocent, fallen townspeople. How the fire had begun was still a mystery, but there was little doubt in his mind that it had been deliberate. Someone was responsible for this bloodshed.

There was a soft noise, like a whimper.

Faramir turned around and focused, listening for the noise again. There it was—the soft mewl of a child in pain.

He hurried over to the nearest pile of rubble which used to be called a house and began shifting beams. There, beneath a strong oak timber, was a little girl.

Her eyes seemed huge in the darkness, and when he moved the beam she shrank away from the daylight. The Steward's son dropped to a crouch. "Hello, little one," he murmured, extending a hand. "Are you injured?"

"Mama," the little girl said sorrowfully.

It stabbed Faramir in the heart. "Where is your mother, child?"

Her eyes seemed to be a million years old. "Gone."

He swallowed hard. "Come out in the light, my little one, let me see if you are hurt."

Obediently the child scuffled out into the daylight, and he saw right away that she was dragging her left leg behind her. When he picked her up to examine it, however, the injury looked old. When the child had been very small, she had evidently broken her leg and it had never set properly; she dragged it behind her when she walked. Besides the leg she seemed very dirty and her hair was matted, but aside from some scrapes and minor burns she seemed relatively unharmed. As children went she was a particularly small and scrawny specimen, with a ribcage as fragile as a bird's, and hair as thin as prairie grass. She laid her head on his shoulder, and Faramir stroked her head.

"My lord—" one of his soldiers began, but stopped short when he saw the child in Faramir's arms. His eyes widened. "My lord."

"She is in bad need of a wash and some food," Faramir said calmly, so not to alarm the child, "although she will need a bandage or two for some burns."

He tucked a curl of hair behind the girl's ear. "What is your name, precious one?"

She buried her head in Faramir's neck. "Firiel."

"That is a pretty name indeed—it suits you. I wish we could discuss a topic more pleasant, but do you know what happened here?"

The soldier sucked in a breath and took a step back. Faramir shot him a warning look—Stay calm, he ordered silently. He did not want to cause the girl undue stress by magnifying her predicament. Thankfully, the soldier got the message and pretended to be straightening the saddle on Faramir's horse. Firiel sniffled.

"Mama…sent me away. I went to the river and then I saw the torches. They…the people put things in front of the doors so they couldn't open…and they had fire…I didn't know what to do, I was scared…"

Faramir picked the girl up and settled her on the back of his horse, taking care not to bump her hobbled foot. Her eyes were very empty and she seemed to be going into shock. "Firiel," Faramir said, squeezing her hands to get her to look at him, "Firiel, my child, you were very brave—extraordinarily brave. I like to see that kind of bravery among my soldiers. Tell me, have you ever met a soldier of Gondor?"

In spite of herself, he saw a spark in Firiel's eyes. She shook her head.

"Well, little one, I am going back to Osgiliath, and once I am there I would like to make you an official soldier of Gondor. Such bravery needs to be rewarded! Come, let us ride." His voice was almost buoyant, and Firiel smiled slightly, reaching out to stroke the coarse mane of the horse.

He turned to Bain, the nearby soldier who had been listening to his conversation with the child, and dropped his voice to a murmur. "Do all you can for the dead, bury them with honor. Then let the rain do its work among the embers. I will ride back to Osgiliath and bring news of the village."

Bain saw Faramir's face, the fierce anger tempered by the deep sorrow. Some thought Faramir weaker than his elder sibling, but Bain had been serving loyally under Faramir for many years and knew differently. No, what Faramir had was no flaw, nor was it weakness—it was compassion, a kindness and softness that was relatively unseen in captains and Stewards. But beneath that compassion was a braver, bolder man than most credited him for, and Bain saw it in that moment; in that mixture of sorrow and rage.

"Aye," Bain said, his voice strangely choked, "aye, we shall bury them with honor."

Bain watched Faramir ride off and thought a treasonous thought. If Lord Denethor thinks his son weak, he must truly be blind.

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Small, drabble-ish one-shot that sprang into my head practically fully formed. It's exactly a thousand words, just did it for fun. Thought some might find a bit of enjoyment in it.