Who of his old comrades would have believed it? Him, a farmer? He himself certainly wouldn’t have. Though he had taken to a Ranger’s life like a duck to water, he was Minas Tirith born and bred, and had grown up surrounded by stone and paved streets. But then, after the War, he had finally married his Linneth, and now that it was safe again in Ithilien she had wanted to return to the farm her great-grandfather had lost there.

No, he didn’t miss the old days, Herion thought, even if farming was hard work; it was done in peace.

Originally written for RiverOtter’s birthday at HASA.
Theme: Fourth Age of Middle-earth

Story NavigationAmendsAt the Sign of the Prancing Pony
This entry was posted in chapter and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply