Originally written for the LiveJournal tolkien_weekly "Mealtimes: Luncheon" challenge.
Crouching in what shelter Osgiliath’s battered walls still offer, Mablung peers cautiously over the parapet.
“No sign of ‘em yet.”
Beside him the Rangers’ rawest recruit casts nervous glances skywards. He can’t shake it, Mablung reflects ruefully; the terror of those bone-chilling, grating screeches sears his own soul still.
“Wh-what hour d’you think it is?” the youngster quavers.
“How’s to tell, in this murk?” Mablung glares at the louring, ever-darkened Eastward sky. “But since things are quiet awhile –“ he rummages in his knapsack, the lad’s face brightening as he pulls out a loaf, cheese, apples – “I’m calling it luncheon.”
(The title is taken from RoTK Book 5, Ch 1, Minas Tirith, Beregond’s conversation with Pippin: “An old campaigner, I see. They say that men who go warring afield look ever to the next hope of food and of drink...”)