Death's doorstep
bloomed white with crocuses. He had expected to die, of course. It is
not man's lot to live forever. Neither did it surprise him to die in
failure. In forty years (no, forty-one, somewhere in the violent dark
of Moria) he'd paid little thought to himself, but at least now he
knew his mettle – tarnished, base and brittle.
But he had not expected crocuses.
But he had not expected crocuses.
