The Hunter's Horse - A 'Hunting the Dragon' Remix
Title: The Hunter's Horse - A Hunting the Dragon Remix
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Gen
Rating: Sweet, fluffy G.
Summary: Eldarion can't go to sleep without his favorite toy, which is nowhere to be found. What is a Steward to do? A remix of Linda Hoyland's Hunting the Dragon.
Author's Note: Written for my creative challenge meme over on my personal journal. And because Faramir is adorable and needs more venues in which to exercise his skill.
Faramir had grown up hunting, his brother and a myriad of friendly Men of the Citadel showing him how to find tracks, how to stalk unseen through the countryside, how to find the perfect moment to let fly an arrow. He was a master huntsman, and had been for years; he had a knack for the slow, patient, persistent observance that always brought home game.
This...fell a little out of his purview.
The King was the most capable man Faramir knew, but when it came to small, curious, curly-haired Eldarion, he had a tendency to lose his perpetual calm. It was by no means unusual; Eldarion had most of the city wrapped around his little finger, and the rest hadn’t seen him in person yet. It was lucky the lad was good-natured, and that his mother was less susceptible to his innocent charm, else he’d be spoiled beyond imagining. Tonight, she was away; had she been present, Faramir might not be in this position. But when the King strides in with a look of ill-concealed panic in his eyes and one finds out that Eldarion is without his favorite toy, only a heartless monster would ignore the obvious call to duty.
Which brought Faramir to his current predicament, hunting an animal that left no tracks, would not come out no matter how long he waited, and was most certainly not hiding beneath this wardrobe. He sneezed explosively and got up off the floor. A systematic, room-by-room search would have to be called for if the dragon was ever to be found, even if Arwen managed to return before the finding. Aragorn wouldn’t be happy about that, but what else could they do?
What else, indeed?
Faramir turned on his heel and sprinted back to his quarters, digging furiously until he found the box, its lid dusty with long neglect. Gently, reverently, he removed the contents and ran back to Eldarion’s bedchamber. The nurse genially waved him in, recognizing him, and he quietly slipped in the door.
“Fara?” Eldarion hiccuped, evidence of tears on his cheeks. Both Aragorn and Arwen had tried to break him of the habit, but Faramir privately found his nickname endearing, reminding him of the toddler that had loved to clamber up his legs to be held.
“Yes,” Faramir confirmed, and settled on the edge of the bed. “We haven’t found Smaug yet, but we are looking. I brought you something else to hold while we look.”
“I want Smaug,” Eldarion said seriously, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.
“And we will find him,” Faramir consoled. “But maybe this will help?”
And he held out a small stuffed horse. The toy was soft, delicately crafted, with real horsehair for its tiny mane and tail. It wasn’t as elegant as the dozen or so toys lining Eldarion’s shelf, but Faramir stroked it gently with a fingertip as Eldarion took it.
“It belonged to my brother, when he was a boy,” Faramir said softly. “When we were small, I used to be afraid of thunderstorms, and he used to let me hold it so I wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Fara, you’re not afraid of anything,” Eldarion scoffed.
“Of course I am!” Faramir replied. “I still don’t like thunder very much. That’s why Fledgling had to protect me.”
“Fledgling?” Eldarion asked, yawning through his tears.
“Yes. You see, Fledgling was the youngest of the colts born in the year of the heavy spring rains, and he was very small. Everyone thought he would die, but Fledgling had courage and strength in his heart.”
Eldarion yawned again, cradling the toy horse, and tucked himself into Faramir’s side. Faramir leaned against the headboard, careful to keep his boots off the bed, and wrapped his arm around the boy, continuing the story. He told it just as Boromir had told it to him, so many years ago, as they had huddled beneath Faramir’s quilt with the thunder crashing outside their window. And, just as he had done, Eldarion fell asleep far before Fledgling had proved himself to the other horses and earned his place as a great war-horse for the Citadel. Faramir mentally thanked his brother and congratulated himself on soothing the young prince before realizing that Fledgling was tucked securely in the crook of Eldarion’s arm, and his fist was clutching tightly to Faramir’s tunic. From the shadows near the door, he heard a soft laugh.
“Perils of bedtime stories,” Arwen whispered sagely, and stepped forward to deftly ease Eldarion to a less human pillow without waking him. Faramir followed her into the corridor where Aragorn was waiting, a stuffed dragon in his hand.
“I see your alternative tactic was successful,” he said with a grin. Faramir blushed.
“I just thought... You see, when I was young... Anyway, I thought perhaps...”
“You did well,” Arwen cut in smoothly. “And thank you, for sharing something so meaningful with my son.”
“Yes,” Aragorn echoed, sincerity in his voice. “We both heard the story, Faramir. I don’t suppose, though, you might finish it? Over dinner, perhaps? It sounded quite the tale, and I will confess I can’t imagine how Fledgling will escape the band of orcs and the coming flood, especially with his hurt leg.”
“It is very dramatic,” Faramir assured him, and Aragorn laughed before eagerly leading the way to dinner, the toy dragon passing from hand to hand and ‘joining’ the conversation with a ridiculous falsetto voice. Behind them, Arwen sighed, smiling at their antics. It seemed that little boys never truly grew up.
Author: the_arc5
Fandom: LotR
Pairing: Gen
Rating: Sweet, fluffy G.
Summary: Eldarion can't go to sleep without his favorite toy, which is nowhere to be found. What is a Steward to do? A remix of Linda Hoyland's Hunting the Dragon.
Author's Note: Written for my creative challenge meme over on my personal journal. And because Faramir is adorable and needs more venues in which to exercise his skill.
Faramir had grown up hunting, his brother and a myriad of friendly Men of the Citadel showing him how to find tracks, how to stalk unseen through the countryside, how to find the perfect moment to let fly an arrow. He was a master huntsman, and had been for years; he had a knack for the slow, patient, persistent observance that always brought home game.
This...fell a little out of his purview.
The King was the most capable man Faramir knew, but when it came to small, curious, curly-haired Eldarion, he had a tendency to lose his perpetual calm. It was by no means unusual; Eldarion had most of the city wrapped around his little finger, and the rest hadn’t seen him in person yet. It was lucky the lad was good-natured, and that his mother was less susceptible to his innocent charm, else he’d be spoiled beyond imagining. Tonight, she was away; had she been present, Faramir might not be in this position. But when the King strides in with a look of ill-concealed panic in his eyes and one finds out that Eldarion is without his favorite toy, only a heartless monster would ignore the obvious call to duty.
Which brought Faramir to his current predicament, hunting an animal that left no tracks, would not come out no matter how long he waited, and was most certainly not hiding beneath this wardrobe. He sneezed explosively and got up off the floor. A systematic, room-by-room search would have to be called for if the dragon was ever to be found, even if Arwen managed to return before the finding. Aragorn wouldn’t be happy about that, but what else could they do?
What else, indeed?
Faramir turned on his heel and sprinted back to his quarters, digging furiously until he found the box, its lid dusty with long neglect. Gently, reverently, he removed the contents and ran back to Eldarion’s bedchamber. The nurse genially waved him in, recognizing him, and he quietly slipped in the door.
“Fara?” Eldarion hiccuped, evidence of tears on his cheeks. Both Aragorn and Arwen had tried to break him of the habit, but Faramir privately found his nickname endearing, reminding him of the toddler that had loved to clamber up his legs to be held.
“Yes,” Faramir confirmed, and settled on the edge of the bed. “We haven’t found Smaug yet, but we are looking. I brought you something else to hold while we look.”
“I want Smaug,” Eldarion said seriously, fresh tears welling up in his eyes.
“And we will find him,” Faramir consoled. “But maybe this will help?”
And he held out a small stuffed horse. The toy was soft, delicately crafted, with real horsehair for its tiny mane and tail. It wasn’t as elegant as the dozen or so toys lining Eldarion’s shelf, but Faramir stroked it gently with a fingertip as Eldarion took it.
“It belonged to my brother, when he was a boy,” Faramir said softly. “When we were small, I used to be afraid of thunderstorms, and he used to let me hold it so I wouldn’t be afraid.”
“Fara, you’re not afraid of anything,” Eldarion scoffed.
“Of course I am!” Faramir replied. “I still don’t like thunder very much. That’s why Fledgling had to protect me.”
“Fledgling?” Eldarion asked, yawning through his tears.
“Yes. You see, Fledgling was the youngest of the colts born in the year of the heavy spring rains, and he was very small. Everyone thought he would die, but Fledgling had courage and strength in his heart.”
Eldarion yawned again, cradling the toy horse, and tucked himself into Faramir’s side. Faramir leaned against the headboard, careful to keep his boots off the bed, and wrapped his arm around the boy, continuing the story. He told it just as Boromir had told it to him, so many years ago, as they had huddled beneath Faramir’s quilt with the thunder crashing outside their window. And, just as he had done, Eldarion fell asleep far before Fledgling had proved himself to the other horses and earned his place as a great war-horse for the Citadel. Faramir mentally thanked his brother and congratulated himself on soothing the young prince before realizing that Fledgling was tucked securely in the crook of Eldarion’s arm, and his fist was clutching tightly to Faramir’s tunic. From the shadows near the door, he heard a soft laugh.
“Perils of bedtime stories,” Arwen whispered sagely, and stepped forward to deftly ease Eldarion to a less human pillow without waking him. Faramir followed her into the corridor where Aragorn was waiting, a stuffed dragon in his hand.
“I see your alternative tactic was successful,” he said with a grin. Faramir blushed.
“I just thought... You see, when I was young... Anyway, I thought perhaps...”
“You did well,” Arwen cut in smoothly. “And thank you, for sharing something so meaningful with my son.”
“Yes,” Aragorn echoed, sincerity in his voice. “We both heard the story, Faramir. I don’t suppose, though, you might finish it? Over dinner, perhaps? It sounded quite the tale, and I will confess I can’t imagine how Fledgling will escape the band of orcs and the coming flood, especially with his hurt leg.”
“It is very dramatic,” Faramir assured him, and Aragorn laughed before eagerly leading the way to dinner, the toy dragon passing from hand to hand and ‘joining’ the conversation with a ridiculous falsetto voice. Behind them, Arwen sighed, smiling at their antics. It seemed that little boys never truly grew up.