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Avon's Drabbles  by Avon

Father smiles proudly at him because he is a warrior, a swordsman.

The people call his name as he rides into Minas Tirith after another successful battle.  They throw flowers before him; bold-eyed girls blow kisses; matrons hold their brats up to see him ride by.  They love him.

The council listens to him.  All the history of our land is at my fingertips, battle tactics lay out before me like a chessboard – yet they listen to someone almost unlettered.

And I… I curl my lips around his name … Eagle-star… and wish for a way to unfeather this cuckoo.





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