Word count: 100
Disclaimer: Not true, just muse.
Archive: Tolkien Weekly, Sons of Gondor
Notes: for the mead challenge on Tolkien Weekly
Thick honeyed rivulets flow through golden wheat, ooze down the border to be carefully scooped back into the fray.
Coarse fingers knead weary terrain, working into dense landscape with a circular pattern that would suggest finesse if the recipient didn’t know better.
Earthy sighs mix with a bullfrog’s call, the stream warm in the summer sun.
When a flaxen plait brushes his nipple, Boromir springs from the water, pinning Theodred against the rocks.
“This seems more than a bath.”
Theodred deposits the tankard, licks a stray trickle at Boromir’s temple.
“Did you think I wasted mead on all my comrades?”