Wreath and Leaf by Himring

Wreath and Leaf

Read Wreath and Leaf

Atkins was having difficulty getting into the spirit of things this year. On every door in the street, the wreaths had been going up, but every time he considered putting up his own, his heart sank a bit and every time that he realized he had failed to schedule a time for this relatively simple and straightforward task again, it became a bit more difficult to envisage himself actually doing it. The thought that Tompkins would soon catch wind of his irregular behaviour, because the man was damnably apt at picking up on others’ moments of weakness, sent an anxious thrill through him, but could not propel him into action.

It had been such a…year. There had been… And there had also… But none of that would have justified him in the eyes of Tompkins. Not that Atkins would willingly have told Tompkins any more than Tompkins knew already about any of this.

He was not as worried about his neighbours, but he was getting worried about them, too, as his door remained obstinately bare. All other doors now had wreaths. He began to sense the twitching of lace curtains, as he walked down the street, and tried not to hunch his shoulders or at least pretend it was just because he was feeling the cold.

What a miserable time of year! He had never liked it, he was certain.

One morning, he decided that at least he would get himself ready or a bit more ready than he was and went to find his toolbox in the back room. On the way there, he suddenly stopped.

It was Niggle’s painting, the framed leaf, hung in this corridor out of the way of the critical eyes of Tompkins and others like him. Somehow, Atkins had not looked at it for quite some time. But now, in the mild gloom of a December morning, the fresh colour of the leaf really stood out and caught his eye. He paused, tracing the veins, the edge, the curve of the stem with his eyes and tried to remember what the rest had been like, the bit that had crumbled. It did not come to him, not quite, but as he stood, it was suddenly as if a window opened and out of the frame blew a little breeze, carrying with it the scent of another season, another place. A leaf, a tree, a whole country…

‘Of course,’ he said. He could not have said what he meant by that, although at the same time he seemed to know perfectly well.

It was quite easy to buy a wreath from a reputable trader and put it up, after all, it turned out, when he put his mind to it. But by himself, away in the back room, he made his own, with some branches from his garden. It came out quite lop-sided, but he knew it was the true one as he lit the first candle.

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Chapter End Notes

Originally written for tolkienshortfanworks for the prompts "candle" and "wreath".

I had considered making Atkins a "wreath rebel" out of conviction, but it seemed to fit my reading of the setting and of Atkins's character less well.