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Kin-strife for Christmas
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Southern Lights

They knew him well on Rath Tirin, on Southron Street. Every morn, when fog lay still on Pelargir's wharf, he came clinking by - the Bottle Boy, Audaliufs.

For sandy Harad sold ale in glass that nightly broke. Audaliufs would fetch it, turn a coin from the glass-smith.

All hands and face, Audaliufs, and wordless sound. He'd the heavy tongue, Haradrim said. But a happy child when day broke bright, he clapped and capered before his 'treasure' all alight.

Poor sunless lad, they thought, and 'paid' a bite of first-bread, honoring ancient duty: Burn with kindness for the Gentled Ones.


Prompt: Bottle, wharf


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