Her brother's touch on her shoulder steadies her, provides some small tether to the world. She does not watch the procession, instead fixing her eyes on the progress of a small beetle across the flagstones. It is green-black, gleaming like oil slick in the flat light.

She remembers her brother catching such a beetle as a child, tying a thread around it as the tiny legs kicked and flailed. This thread he looped around a nail, watching as the beetle crawled in ever-tightening circles to escape.

"It can only go one way, do you see?" he said to her.

Now, she pulls at the folds of her skirt, plucking at the warp and weft with the pads of thumb and forefinger. The threads which hold her, trap her like an insect pinned with nail and curious childish malice.

The last of the clattering hoofsteps fades away, and she wonders if the echo of that sound shall ever leave her thoughts.

*waves*

I found your entry on my friends' friends' page and thought I'd try it...

"Armor"
by crediniaeth

I have my two small children to take care of now. No father to hold them or tuck them in at night. I watch him as he follows Faramir, youngest son of the Steward, out to an almost certain end.

I watched him leave, his armor shining in the disappearing sunlight. He had kissed our children and embraced me before he left our home.

He knew he was never coming home.

I knew it too... but I still had hope.

The children and I followed him to the procession. His armor shone and I saw him no more.

Horses and Caterpillars.
By baggers

The clip-clop of the horsies' feet were loud this close. Everybody was quiet; maybe the horsies were scared of noise. The dust made her sneeze.

Her daddy had woken her early that morning, and taken her for a ride.

If she looked up, a lot of people were crying. Her mamma was crying.

But she didn't know why, so she ducked under people's arms and legs, and sat by a flower pot outside auntie's home. There was a capertillar on the flower, which she let crawl on her finger.

She would show it to her daddy when he came home.

Great idea, Mary. Here's my attempt.

"Baker's Daughter"

Nearly everyone had watched the near-disastrous retreat from the city walls, and those who hadn’t had known of it only moments after Captain Faramir’s men were safely within the gates. Yet somehow, news of the retaliation force travels even swifter through the streets, and people begin to gather. And so even though her father is just a baker and she has no brother or sweetheart, she dusts the flour from her hands, goes to her window-box and cuts a handful of blooms before going down to the street.

When the men approach, riding so slowly, so solemnly, like the other young women she casts the flowers before them. She recognizes one of the men, who’d used to come buy sweetbreads and cookies for his wife while she was expecting.

Tears prick her eyes as the long line of horses and men parade by, and the scent of the flowers rises as they are crushed between steel and stone.

 
My husband was young when we wed, younger even than I, and my son was born sixteen years ago.

I watch our soldiers ride into an impossible battle, and I think that either of them might have been in the procession, had they not both been long dead of fever.

Today, it is my sister’s husband we wave on to his death.

We stand strong as the company moves through the city, but once the last horse passes the gates my sister presses her face into my bosom and cries.

Her husband is a good man.

I should shed tears for her loss. I should feel hope in my heart. I should tell her comforting lies.

I wonder that, instead, I only feel less lonely.
 

I found out about this challenge via belegcuthalion . :) Here's my little attempt:

Wasted

by Nivina

It's so quiet, despite all the people on the streets.

Wasted flowers shower onto their path, wasted and dead, the horses trampling them down unnoticed. The allegory strikes me, but I feel numb. What can we all do? We watch them ride to certain death, and yet hope won't fade.

My younger brother rides out to Osgiliath, already beyond my sight. Barely old enough to hold a sword, to wear such heavy armour. He will follow Captain Faramir, despairing, but with last remainders of trust, to whatever end.

The last flowers fall onto the ground, unnoticed by the Doomed, wasted.


(Please note that English isn't my first language.)

It's so quiet, despite all the people on the streets.

Sorry, of course it should be "all the people in the streets".

*blush*

you can bounce this if you wish - it's not really a drabble at 240 words, but I wrote it recently from a challenge where people asked me to write about one of my icons - I had this loaded, but I have two more planned..



Snow Thorn (fileg)

Aeglos. Icicle, some render it in the common tongue. It was the name of the spear that Gil-Galad wielded in defense of all the lands and hearts that fought to be free. He paid a terrible price, possibly even more terrible than any he had considered. But I do not believe he would have faltered had he known. Sometimes you are left without choice, and all you can do is rise or fall as a man.

Snow-thorn we render it here, as well. An early plant, sharp as a spear that pushes up through the snow before the Spring is really underway, a gift of remembrance that it is coming. Its white blossoms on the frozen ground might be mistaken for a late snow by those who do not take the time to look carefully, to see the promise in the soil.

Nothing has yet robbed Ithilien of that gift, that first knife-sharp leaf that is willing to fight its way through the frost, that risks the penalty of exposing itself to an unexpected storm because something has to take that first step back toward the light.

And nothing can make the men of this moon-drenched land turn away from that blade or that risk.

Only Ithilien would take so much thought for her sons as this – that we should have flowers for our funeral procession, even as Winter tries to deny that there will ever be a Spring.

*sniffs, worships*

He had only just returned. After watching, again and again, as he rode to battle for Osgiliath, she had learned to let hope die in her heart.

This last reunion, as every other, was laden with joy.

They had spent hours in each other's arms, panting with love, tears bathing their faces.

So few had returned. She did not count the faces absent when the gate closed.

Now, her husband leaves again, despair radiant in his eyes. She kisses him farewell, and they do not bother to make false promises.

They both know what awaits him.

She lets hope die.

*weeps*

My mother is calm as they ride by. She cried when he returned, but now she does not weep, nor does she cling to my hand like the last time we watched them go.

It will not be for long. Take care of your mother and your sister, until I return.

My little sister asked me why he was leaving again and if it was dangerous where he was going. I told her that he was strong and that his armour was going to protect him. She gave me a small smile and showed me the flower she had picked for him.

Our uncle wore the same armour. But she is still very young - maybe she does not remember.

Came here from voleuse
Here's mine

She had loved him, all her life, and never told him. Now he was riding to battle behind Faramir, son of Denethor.
His armor bearing the White Tree shone brilliantly in the sun, but it was not that brightness that made the tears creep into the corners of her eyes.
"If he comes back, I shall tell him. If he comes back, it will be a sign that he should know of my love," she promised herself, watching the Men of Gondor ride to defend their people from the countless number of enemies waiting for them.

Pointed here by serabut. Thanks to petronelle for looking at it.

*

She will remember this later, when her mother is dead and her father a blind wreck of a man, scarred by war and darkness. The glitter of armour, the smell of the horses strong in her nostrils. It is so quiet.

She knows something is wrong but she doesn't know what it is. Her mother has given her a flower to throw at the men's feet, but she forgets to let go of it when the men ride by, shining and unfamiliar. She shrinks back against her mother's skirt, afraid, but her mother puts her hands on her shoulders, steadying her (nothing to fear), so that when her father passes he sees her trusting brown eyes uplifted to him.

When he is old, he will tell her that the memory of her eyes was with him throughout the battle, that they were the last thing he remembers seeing. He will never know that she did not recognise him that day, a stranger as he was in his armour. She will not remember what he looked like when he was young and brave and certain he was about to die.

This she will remember when she is old: the flower still in her hand, the petals crushed by her grip. Her fingers smell of green. She drops the blossom on the ground, but the men have passed.

I should probably practice more. Or get more sleep. Something.

The flowers fall like snow, to be crushed under steel-shod hooves.

They are riding to their deaths, these men of Gondor. But the hooves of their mounts ring defiantly against the cobbles, and each man sits tall in his saddle, wearing the armor of the White City.

I pass a bloom silently to one as he rides by. His fingers brush mine as he takes it, gravely acknowledging the gift with a nod. In his face I see what is in my own heart; pride and courage and despair.

I stand by the place where they passed long after they have gone. The wind carries the sound of battle from Osgiliath and stirs the scent of bruised blossoms, soft and bitter like tears that will not fall.

And I can't go.

I can forget the ache in my bones, I am that used to it, but I remember strength and youth and the horse underneath and the metal against my skin and the leather and the smells and the breaking bodies, turned to horror and meat, and I remember glory and I remember the bastard monster's head cracking and the death and the kill and the glory, the victory, the relief, the tiredness like a century.

They toss flowers on the soldiers' path. They crush and break and scatter and become something else. Something else. And I can't go with them, because my bones are fragile and aching and my body is hurt and aged and decayed.

This is what I toss before them instead. I toss my memory, my living ghost. I see it - see it against the grey and against the silent crowd - a light, my light, my will. It will go with them, instead of my body.

Fight. Fight.

Live.

Er, over 142 words, and rather sucktastic, but...

The Bitter Dregs of Strife

They say it is glorious, to die in war, in old tales sung of ageless Elves and the Men of Numenor.

She sees no glory in such waste.

She watches with bitterness as they ride past, eyes forward, backs straight, armor gleaming in the sun.

The city mourns her sons sent graciously off to die, with flowers ‘neath their hooves. The land cries out for its king, long lost but never forgotten. She wonders if Lord Denethor weeps for his son, who will be dead ere day has ended, dead, and all his men with him.

She throws the flowers on the ground, angry at the waste, at the tears she cannot stop from falling, dashing at them with the back of her hand. She had hoped it would not come to this.

They ride out, and hope withers in her breast.

end

Death walks the cobblestone streets of Minas Tirith, boney feet making the same clip-clop noise as the horse’s hooves. Those flowers not crushed by steel-shod hooves are wilted by the dragging black robes.

Nessa watches her brother ride off into battle. She wants him to come stand beside her, share her peppermints and hug her tightly. Past her brother’s shoulder, she sees Death walking behind the men. Her fingers loosen and the peppermints drop like rain from her little fingers as empty sockets stare into her eyes.

When she is an old woman, she will smell peppermints as she dies

"We are sent back."

That was all he had said. And he didn't want to look at her. She knew why.
Despair.

He was one of the few who had fought twice in Osgiliath. The last time they barely escaped. Only because Mithrandid came to their aid, otherwise he wouldn't stand here today and avoiding her eyes.

The few hours which remained they were silent. There was no need for words. She didn't want to cry and he didn't want to show her his fear. They tried to be strong.
Sooner than they wanted he was called to go back to the barracks and prepare for battle. He had held her. Just holding her. She had wanted to say something to him but couldn't find words. He had smiled when he left her and she had smiled back.

Before the soldiers and their horses would leave the city and following their Captain into a fool's errand - though no one dared to say that aloud - those who were left behind could only wait and hope. She had picked some flowers from the pots and had tied them together. She wanted to give them to him as a little something of home. To remind him of the City. Something beautiful in a world of peril and despair.

When the horses and their riders appeared she wanted to give him the flowers. But he rode to far away. She offered them to another soldier who nodded at her wordless words. She couldn't look at him. She didn't want him to see the tears which she couldn't cry.

The gates closed. They were gone. All what was left were the dying flowers on the street.

_redpanda_ pointed me here. Hi. ^_~

Old

He'd be lying if he says he'd be willing to ride out with them. Courage isn't the same thing as lost causes, and honour only keeps you going for as long as you believe in it.

He doesn't.

He believes in hot food and strong drink. A blanket at night. Cheating at cards. Keeping his head down. Washing his face at night to keep away bad dreams. The bliss of spending himself between a woman's thighs. Young men's foolishness.

Death.

He prods his wounded leg. Fit to fight in a week or so, maybe less.

Everyone's got to die sometime.

How Like

He yearns to go, but one near discovery holds him now, stone, in place.

To ride, to fight, to live, to die, to live again.

A flower, tossed from a window above, lands on his shoulder.

It is not so unlike the flowers that grow on his own empty tomb, far off to the east.

He moves to brush it off, instead lifts it carefully, twirling it a little between thumb and forefinger.

What is fair that he should live to see the rise and fall of an age when the others watch all they love turn to ash?

They are as flowers to him, beauty born to bloom and fade.

Methos drops the flower and turns away before it is crushed.

danachan pointed me this way.

*********

And this is war, the men ride with sword and spears and solemn faces onward towards the death they know is waiting.

For most watching it must feel like heart’s breaking. To watch them ride with their armor glinting, casting a death light that might once have been considered beautiful.

I see small children, afraid without knowing why. I see an aged mother, weeping. She is my neighbor, I know this is her only son.

I turn my back. I have no sons or husband to mourn.

But I can’t stop the death glow from pricking tears in my eyes.

It is hard for a woman to raise a son alone.

I have seen him watching those men raptly--the sun on their armor, their fine steeds, brave faces. I watched him chase bigger boys with stick-horse and wooden sword. He sees glory and delight in it, where I saw only death.

Today his small face is terrible as he watches them for the last time. There is no doubt he knows. They ride first into the death that will take us all.

Now I glimpse the glory, just enough to wish he could have had his chance after all.

Clip-clop, clip-clop, the horse's hooves beat hard against the cobblestone road.

There is a lad amongst those who watch, a child no more than fourteen. He would ride to war and he would ride to death, though they say he is too young; he would ride and he would fall and he would be at his brother's side.

Flowers are crushed under the hard clip-clop, clip-clop of the horse's hooves. (And there are those here who yet cling to hope.)

He is only a lad (and his mother is clutching his hand tight) but he knows that hope is dead.

_redpanda_ sent me here. Because I am the Jen wot is her minion.

He is too young, they have said. He does not see why; thirteen summers have made him almost as tall as his father, and for three years he has been the only man in the house, taking care of his mother and sisters. He follows them to the very gates, his father’s sword at his hip.

He can fight here, and die here, because he is still old enough to hear what the men have said about this war.

But he wants it to be like that, wants the glory of folly and history’s remembrance that he was no coward.

She's restless. Resentful, too, that they're taking so long.

The clip of the horses' hooves makes her head ache, and she tells herself that's why she feels so tense; that's why her head seems wound too tight and her eyes burn. She ignores the grave faces around her, and focuses on a single cluster of flowers. As she watches, a hoof lands on them, and when it lifts again the petals are leaking gray fluid over the chalky cobblestones.

She looks up at the colorless sky. Her eyes hurt. Everything is too pale in this city.

She lingers at the back of the crowd, following the parade of soldiers with her eyes. She longs to be closer, but allows those spaces to be filled with wives, sisters, brothers, mothers, fathers.

She is not related to any in the company today, but she knows their faces. She has watched them grow, running gleefully through the streets of the city, growing into strapping young lads and wooing their sweethearts.

Now they are riding to their deaths, with their solemn, resolved faces.

When the last of the company has passed, and the doors to the city are once again bolted, she creeps quietly out into the street and retrieves a single flower, its petals crushed from the passing hooves. It is enough to serve as remembrance.

He was rougher than usual last night, arms too tight about her slim waist, tugging, pulling, demanding. His hand brushed against her breast, deliberately teasing, then grasped and squeezed, too hard. She bit his lip in surprise, then touched her pale fingers to his sunburnt cheek, thumb pressing against the nipped lip in apology. In the forgiving darkness, he clutched her tightly, solid and rough and alive, while she ghosted touches and kisses across his skin.

When she awoke, her bed was empty. She threw on her clothing and ran, tripping over her skirts, pushing her too-solid body through the silent crowd until she nearly ran across the path of the stony-faced riders. She stood alone, clutching herself, cold and trembling. In the harsh sunlight, she was the living one -- too alive, painfully alive -- and he the ghost with the bruised lip.