Drabbles

by Dove

Fandom: LoTR FPF    Rating: G    Pairing: Faramir/Eowyn (Faramir/Aragorn implied)    Full Header    

Dutiful

Dutiful. It's a good word to describe the sons of Denethor.

Faramir has always done what is asked of him.

"Be gone from my sight," his father demands, and Faramir becomes a shadow, so insubstantial even he's no longer sure he's real.

"Remember this day, little brother," Boromir asks, and Faramir sears his mind with their last words, his last sight of the man he loved so much. Even when he wakes, sweating and weeping, he will not let himself forget.

"Turn your attentions from me," Aragorn tells him, gently, and Faramir turns them to Eowyn. She is no man.
 

Fandom: LoTR FPF    Rating: PG-13    Pairing: Faramir/Eowyn    Full Header    

Frost Maiden

Faramir finds it wondrous strange that he had once thought Eowyn frozen, frosted and cold by her bitter disappointment.

Certainly she is not so now. She burns above him, the pale flame of her hair giving lie to the intensity of the fire within her.

Faramir burns with her, for her. He had thought to be afraid--after his father's madness, he had thought he'd had enough of fire. This is a healing flame, though, cleansing him of sorrow and fear, and it burns away the hurts they've suffered.

Eowyn shifts above him, stoking the flames, and they burn together.
 

Fandom: NP FPF    Rating: Gen    Pairing: none    Full Header    

Charmed

Potter doesn't understand how good he has it.

It's not the first time Snape's had this thought--in fact, he's now had it about two generations of Potters.

The Boy Who Lived. Lost his parents, found a surrogate, lost him, too. Both of them, actually, as Lupin is still off in Armenia, or some nonsense.

He watches Potter walking around, surrounded by Weasley, Granger, Longbottom, and can't imagine how he summons the nerve to act like he's alone in the world.

Snape isn't heartless, but there is a limit. He's determined to snap Potter out of this disgusting self-pity, somehow.
 

Fandom: LoTR FPF    Rating: Gen    Pairing: none    Full Header    

Aesthete

Gimli considers himself a connoisseur of beauty. He remembers the grand, sweeping glory of Darrowdelf, the breathtaking clarity of Mirrormere, the flash of mithril glowing hot between hammer and anvil.

He thinks it rather strange that he finds beauty in these Elven woods, and at first suspects some evil or spellwork that clouds his mind and makes him find the threatening realm fair.

Lothlorien, Legolas names it, Golden Wood, and Gimli finds the name ever more appropriate. Sunlight takes an earthly form in the shimmer of Galadriel's hair, the languid grace of her movements.

Gimli is humbled by true beauty.
 

Fixed

Every compass has a fixed point. Whether it points north, or to a mythical island, or isn't an actual compass at all, it will swing about, spin round, and always return to that locus.

Elizabeth has known Will since they were both children. She has watched him spin, looking for someone to please, someone to devote his affections--his loyalty--to. She has seen him swing from his father to Lieutenant Norrington, to her father, to Master Brown, has seen him drift slowly back to now-Commodore Norrington, then veer abruptly away only to waver between his father and Jack Sparrow.

Every compass has a fixed point, and Will is no exception. Elizabeth was the first person he saw when they pulled him from the water, and it is always to her that his eyes return.

Elizabeth has long known that she is Will's true north. It has only recently occurred to her to wonder whether she wants to be.
 

Jack gave him a warning glare. Bill knew better than to be cowed by his bluster.

"He was an old, fat merchant, Jack. I figured him for easy prey."

Jack growled and stared out over the slate-blue waves. It was eerie, the way the ocean often echoed his moods. When he was clinging to rationality, Bill could believe it was just their similarly mercurial natures, but there were times it seemed something more.

He tried again. "Not to worry, Jack. Day'll come when every sailor fears the name Sparrow."

Jack grinned then. "And the Pearl."
 

It never crosses his mind in the dark silences of long lonely nights. He never thinks about what he saw that day, never remembers the sight with a twinge in his heart. He never wonders what he's feeling, if it's jealousy, bitterness, loneliness, lust. Jack never lies awake at night, picturing two smooth golden bodies moving in the dark, reflecting the absence of light. He never wonders if it was Orlando who made the first move, never thinks Johnny should know better, never, never wonders what would've happened if he'd spoken up.

Well, hardly ever.
 

Even in his frantic desperation, all his energy focused on escape, Sparrow had shown such passion in his eyes as Elizabeth had never seen before.

Almost never, that is, and it was only bad timing, not Estrella's fault at all that she should mention Will Turner at just that moment.
 

Poor thing, thought Estrella, must be overcome by all the excitement. She made small talk, hardly minding her words, and wished there were something she could do to comfort her pretty young mistress.

Memory came to her then, Miss Swann as a child, fearless during the day, plagued by nightmares in the dark. She would never discuss them, but her cries would wake Estrella, who would go to her, climb into her bed and stroke her hair, whispering soothingly until sleep came again.

Now Estrella folded back the coverlet and slipped in, ignoring the token protest and wrapping her arms around the other girl. "Hush," she whispered, "Hush, no need for fear."

Miss Swann trembled against her, shaking as though to fall apart entirely. "Miss Swann," Estrella murmured, interrupted by the press of soft lips to hers.

"Elizabeth," her mistress whispered fiercely against her lips. "How many times, Estrella--my name is Elizabeth."

Estrella moaned Elizabeth's name into her mouth, cried out when deft fingers slipped between her thighs, muffled a shout against Elizabeth's graceful neck when Elizabeth stroked her to climax.

"Elizabeth," she murmured against pale gold hair, as sleep claimed them both.