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When Elboron heard the whippoorwill call, he would quietly slip outside.
The part of him that was obedient understood his fatherís concern, the nagging worry that Ithilien might not yet be completely safe, even here at Emyn Arnen. But it was neither recklessness nor rebellion that drew him each evening to his vigil at the edge of jessamine thicket.
Amid the quiet rustlings of the night-creatures, the scent of warm damp earth, he could hear the murmuring of ancient bards and kings, mournful tales of valor and grief; but sometimes he heard the nightingale: the clear, piping note of rebirth.
A birthday drabble for mrkinch, April, 2007
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