Written for the Tolkien_Weekly ‘Warm Drinks and Roaring Fires’ challenge.

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The old soldier blew on his crooked fingers and rubbed his hands together. “That roof stops the worst of the snow, but the wood is still damp. We have casks of oil to help set it alight.”

The other man, leaning heavily on a spear, limped after him. “How long since this beacon was lit?”

“Many years.”

“So I am sent to guard a heap of wood, since I am left fit for naught else.” Snow fell like ashes on his black hair.

“You were sent here to watch for a signal; I see no dishonor in being a scout.”