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Knowing Too Much Denethor wanted a report on their progress and I had delayed far too long. "Draw a picture of Númenor, then you may go." Boromir, thirteen, snorted and tossed a stick of charcoal to his brother. I did not look up as footsteps trotted out of the room a few minutes later. Report finally finished, I stood to tidy the tables before I left. Faramir still sat at his desk, his white face a stark contrast to the blackened paper, rubbing the stub of charcoal across the page, always left to right. "The wave comes, and it is all dark afterwards." (100 words) |
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