As the leaves are falling, Denethor takes a walk with his son.
His seven-year-old heir was jumping through mounds of leaves, grabbing handfuls of them to throw through the air or to select individual specimens for a closer inspection.
He kept running back with leaves to make his father add them to a growing bouquet which he insisted on collecting for his little brother, and to show off in practice what he had learned in his lessons, the ostensible reason for this outing.
“Father!” Boromir shrieked, running towards him waving a large purple leaf, “I know this one, too: it’s a maple leaf!”
Denethor picked up the rather tattered-looking sample with some bemusement but forebore any remark beyond, “Very good, my boy. Now try to find a beech leaf; we don’t have one of those yet.”
With any luck, the “eccentricity” of the bouqet would be able to bring a smile to Finduilas’ wan features for once – and he would most gladly trade this any time in place of perfection.
A/N:
06.09.09 A very, very late B-double-drabble for Denise, who asked for an outdoors lesson. Instead of her suggestions of summer or winter, I took the middle and made it autumn.
06.09.09 A very, very late B-double-drabble for Denise, who asked for an outdoors lesson. Instead of her suggestions of summer or winter, I took the middle and made it autumn.