distraction

[dragonlady7]

I was bored so I wrote a short-short (for me) vignette tonight. Yes, it's LOTR fanfiction; non fanficcers, please skip.

Title: Left Over
Summary: Disoriented midnight awakenings.
Characters: Primarily Faramir.
Rating: G
Warning: very moderate implied angst
Disclaimer: It's fanfiction and I make no claims of ownership to the characters or setting.
Length: 550ish words.
Beta: None. Sorry, don't have one.

Faramir stirred in his sleep, roused partially from confused dreams by a sound he didn't wake in time to hear properly. It was cold, and he became aware enough of his surroundings to be grateful for the warmth of his companion's broad back. His feet were freezing, but his body was warm enough. He recognized Boromir's familiar somnolent bulk, and was comforted.
The noise repeated, jolting him entirely to wakefulness. Someone nearby was stirring, and he was certain he heard a footstep. Faramir froze, and put his hand quietly and tightly around Boromir's thick bicep. He knew, when attacked at night, it was best to lie still and quiet; the enemy would have to move to find you, and if you waited you could be the one to surprise them. His other hand carefully snaked out from under the covers and closed over his bow.
Boromir stirred at his touch, sighing. He had ever been the heavier sleeper, and had more seldom woken to ambush, inside the garrison. "Boromir," Faramir breathed, leaning stealthily close to the other's ear. "Boromir, be silent."
Boromir was awake now, by his stilled breathing, and he moved ever so slightly to turn his head toward Faramir. "What is it?" he breathed.
Faramir released his brother's arm, moving his hand stealthily across to grasp an arrow. He would not pull it from the quiver, not yet, for that would make a noise. He could hear Boromir's bated, listening breath, as soft as his own in his ears.
The footstep scuffed again, and he heard Boromir sigh. "The sentry, Faramir," he whispered. "It's the sentry."
Faramir let his breath out, puzzled. "Sentry?" He did not post sentries who paced, but rather watchmen who stayed still and watched. Not here. He... He blinked, and released the arrow, and sat up on his elbow, hand still curled around the bow. Where was here? "Where are we?" he whispered, at a loss.
Boromir shivered, and pulled at the blanket a little grumpily. "Harad," he said. "I forgot the name of the town."
"What?" Faramir sat up to look at Boromir, and Boromir regarded him resignedly in the dark. Something was wrong about his brother's manner, and Faramir peered intently at him in the dark. "Harad?"
"Faramir, it's Éomer," Boromir said, reaching out and taking his arm gently. "Lie down and go back to sleep. You were having a dream."
Faramir blinked stupidly. What did he mean? What was... Oh. Memory flooded back, and Faramir lay down, overwhelmed. "Oh," he whispered, covering his face with his hands and rubbing. "I'm sorry, Éomer."
Éomer turned over and put his arm around Faramir's chest, embracing him comfortingly, and Faramir was too distressed to object to the violation of his personal space. "I know," Éomer answered, at a whisper. "I know. When you grabbed my arm I thought you were Théodred. He always had cold hands."
Faramir closed his eyes and let his head fall against Éomer's. The warmth of his companion's arm eased the ache in his chest. "We're a fine pair," Faramir whispered in a moment, when he could speak.
Éomer laughed near-silently. "I know," he said. "The left-over ones. You're stuck with me, Faramir. We're all that's left."