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A king sits deep in my armchair by the fire, glass of wine forgotten. He speaks of the exultation of the sword and he gleams golden and red in the flames’ light. He tells of far countries and strange peoples; the sorrow of those who fight and die and the joy when some twist of fate brings them as friends to his side. “Do you never envy the camaraderie of the field when Elessar and I ride to war, Faramir?” I finger the calluses on my fingers, from pen and not bow. Ithilien is green and whole. Gondor prospers. “No.” |
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