"Flowers?" Amathan demands increduously, and Lastadron nods, smiling perhaps a little too gleefully.
"Aye, flowers she said, and as many as we can carry. Dozens of people are being sent out for them, and hundreds are growing them in plots and pots right in the city. Apparantly they're downright essential for a Midsummer wedding."
A burst of song is heard as a nearby tavern door swungs open, despite the early hour, but by now it is no surprise to the pair. Of late the taverns and pubs of the city have been employed more as social hubs and performing stages than their intended use, and a place to gather and rejoice away from the stifling heat of high summer. Amathan more than slightly wishes himself among the throngs of revellers now, as Lastadron drags him cheerfully down through the streets and out the open gate onto Pelennor.
The day is bright and young, the green fields rolling out before them in endless waves and birds singing out the louder as the two tramp further away from the noise by the road.
Though most of the post-war work had already been completed in the nearly three months since their return to the city, there still remained a myriad of other ways they could have assisted this day. They might have gone down to Harlond to help with the repairs, or joined the clearing patrols through Osgiliath, or even tracked down Rodwen to make certain everything was going to plan. Now, though, the day’s schedule seems to consist entirely of picking flowers, courtesy of Lastadron opening his mouth when he shouldn’t have.
Even with a week to go before the ordained day of the wedding, garlands and bouquets adorn Minas Tirith by the hundreds, but always more are needed. Lastadron already has filled his quiver with tall orchids, and Amathan his belt pouch with a crowd of glittering snap-dragons. Their main haul, a wide woven basket, is piled high with colorful flora.
The Sun’s heat, pleasently warm at its rising, sits heavy and hot over the fields, and Amathan can feel himself wilting as they work their way clockwise round the city, though the flowers themselves don’t seem much the worse for it. Lastadron, condemned bearer of the basket, laughs when Amathan voices this thought near the foot of the mountains. There are quite a few other gatherers out on the fields, but flowers have grown incredibly thick and plentiful this year and there is no lack for them.
“And hardy, it seems,” Lastadron says, studying a bright yellow blossom before tucking into the basket. “Not one has broken since dawn.”
Amathan rises from a crouch with an armful of miniature white stars, dumping them atop the mound of flowers carefully. They have been out for hours already and soon they will need to return--- to empty their basket if nothing else.
His scabbard, at least, is clear of flowers, and his hand settles naturally upon it as he surveys the rolling fields of Pelennor. Farms and home, fields and crops, all have been labled high priority with the restoration of the city grounds, and now the fields are returned to a bright and peaceful scene.
Amathan, though, cannot help but see the black and red sky looming overhead through the thin blue veneer when he gazes across it, and the sharp scent of smoke hanging ever on the breeze. Three months it has been, and still at times one can stumble over a rusted orc-helm or a half-buried bone, and the crops grow taller for the blood that soaks the ground.
A light touch upon his arm, and he starts. Lastadron dangles a pair of tiny blue flowers before his face.
“What do you think?” his friend asks, and his smile is slightly wan, “Too small for Merilien?”
“Nay,” he answers, and pushes back soaked hair from his face. It is sweat, not blood, that trickles down his back, and birdsong that echoes through the air. “Doubtless she will find a place to stick them, or an unsatisfactory gap in an arrangement somewhere to suit them.”
Lastadron laughs, and adds them to the pile.
