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Avon's Drabbles  by Avon

He never dreamed of power.  Curled in sheltered leaf-strewn clearings and on narrow beds in wayfarers’ inns he dreamed of green Rivendell, of steep slopes and soft-leaved oaks and beeches.  He dreamed of Elrohir and Elladan challenging him to contest, of hunting on days when the cool winds were beginning to sweep down from the mountains; of stories of days long past by leaping fires.  He dreamed of Elrond, who stood as father to him, and of days when he had looked at him with pride.  He dreamed of one beloved and the golden-leaved trees she had dwelt among.

He never dreamed of power.  On quiet country roads as he watched the smoke from his pipe drift upwards, beside fires of resinous pine that sparked and burnt in flares of red and gold, during hot noonings spent in shade of hedge or tree he did not dream of power.  He dreamed of a time of peace, of fertile valley and small village lying peaceful under scarce moonlight; of children growing unshadowed by fear or threat.

He has never dreamed of power, but now it is offered to him in a bright sword.

 

“…only you have the power to wield it”





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