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Halbarad quietly watched the fire, listening. Marveling.
Aragorn and his brothers were singing.
Sometimes Halbarad thought his heart might break, so lovely were the voices of the Peredhil. Rising, soaring, then falling soft as rain, ancient hymns that stilled Halbarad’s soul. Left his throat aching. And Aragorn’s voice–never so clear and pure as theirs, but its very roughness embodied hardship and hope despite all the long struggles of Men.
How he loved these moments, for the singing gave him peace, but always at the bittersweet cost of knowing that the cawing of the crebain sounded better than his own singing.
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