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Branwyn's Baubles  by Branwyn

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--
shouting, a heavy fall and then the thrust of spear.

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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