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Response to the "black" challenge at Tolkien_Weekly.
I wake to the smell of earth, the rough graze of stone. The rusted point still grips my heart--
No mourner's tread on the mound above, only the lament of wind in grass. I deem that we are long forgotten
Faint voices rustle in the blackness. Strange words, and yet I seethe with rage, for I was cheated of my span of years. I fling aside the crumbling wreaths of flowers.
The earthen door grinds open. Raising a battered sword, I shout, “Death! Death to the men of Carn Dum!”
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