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A winter holiday drabble (not very cheerful, though...).
When days were waning and light seemed to fail, Finduilas drew a blue mantle over her hair and tucked a pruning knife into her basket. Pacing through the closed door, she passed the houses of the dead.
With lucid, gray eyes raised to barren slopes, she listened to the soughing of the wind; in this one place, it sounded like the sea. Then she turned to her task—to fill her home with life in darkened days.
Beyond the tombs, a tree grew by the path; amidst stone and sere, brown grasses, the holly bore its leaves of glossy green.
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