Ithilien

Once this land was the garden of Gondor. Now the stones of the farmhouse are buried in long grass combed by wind on the hillside. If there are bones here, they lie quietly under years of leaf-mould.

The chill wind pushes the unbearably sweet smell of rotting fruit toward him. Fallen apples, riddled by squirrel and bird, lie rolled under the knotted shadows of ancient trees. In the valley below the silver-scaled stream flashes on its way to the Great River. Faramir twists one nearly unblemished apple from the bough and bites into it, juice dripping from his fingers.

[For Tanaqui, who wanted drabbles featuring Ithilien and/or Faramir.]