The Twelve Days of Tolkien - Drabble Series

On the eighth day of Christmas, my dear muse gave to me

Birds in the white Tree

Denethor burst out of the stifling room, away from the Stone, away from the horror he had seen. He staggered down shadowed corridors, past cold stone pillars, past the surprised guards into the Court of the Fountain, into the light and open air. Only the sun’s rays were pale and sickly behind a dark cloud, and the air reeked of smoke. He knew what burned.

He sank down by the Fountain, and saw in its reflection the dying Tree. Three carrion crows sat brazenly on its topmost branches, their beady eyes filled with malice. Portents of death. Hope fled him.