The grasses grew thick and shining; the last of the battle scars
quickly being taken over by the softened loam, hidden by the creeping
green of life. The earth no longer shuddered with the passing of
heavily booted feet, the grinding wheels or the hooves of hard-driven
beasts. The wind was fresh, untainted by smoke, sweat or battle on this
blessed Thanksgiving morn.
Cooler autumn winds were blowing sweetly, the warren was well hidden.
Few were the traps that had been set of late, and the older rabbits
relaxed near the tunnel entrance.
For the pheasants that had been taken the day before, the coney were truly grateful.
Leftovers, leftovers... what shall we do with them?
If there was ever a day in the year when Faramir loved to visit the
commisary this was it. He made the rounds, finding the guards well-fed,
cheerful after their day of feasting and thanks. He had saved the
buttery for last.
A place of magnetism in his youth, for all young men have magnetic
appetites, now he watched, amused, as the younger soldiers gathered
tight, packing tables for their share of leftovers, unconstrained by
holiday tradition or dress uniforms. What nobler cause could exist for
game-hen or tuber than to strengthen the arms of Gondor, even in a