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An Ithilien-Fourth Age drabble.
With care the elf brushes earth around roots, his soft words encouraging the delicate flower to grow. Sitting back, he runs a light touch over its petals, remembering his recent words to Ithilien’s Prince. Green things will grow here again, Faramir, it shall be my gift to you and your Lady. These gardens will drive the memory of the Shadow away.
He reaches into his bag, gently pulling out another tender shoot. “Mae gala,” he whispers, planting the flower.
He glances up, seeing the Prince approach. The man smiles, his eyes scanning the burgeoning landscape around him.
“Hannon le, Legolas.”
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