She wasn’t used to the open sky. In her homeland, her people lived in the small spaces between mountains. The black, jagged rock thrust up from the earth during the wars of gods in ages past had sheltered her her whole life. Only rarely had she glimpses of Angmar’s red sky. She knew it better by its reflection in the shallow pools around Aughaire or in the sharp sheen of slate above.
Traveling south through the grassy mounds of the North Downs, Bree-land, and Minhiriath had been a shock. She could barely breathe for the pollen. She’d developed rashes from the grass. Her eyesight hurt, bludgeoned at every waking hour with sunlight that had no right to its intensity.
She had to travel, though. The ancient rites between her people and the other hill-folk could not be broken for the sake of sneezing. She and thousands of girls before her had been sent to Dunland to ensure that bloodlines did not flow too far apart. They must keep the legends passed down through their exodus from the White Mountains, before the tall ship-men came and ruined the world. The gifts of Angmar, the spells and sacred rituals, nearly obliterated when the elves conquered Fornost, must be preserved. The memories of those fallen, their lives and great deeds, must live on.
Color, Dancing, the Red Angmarim Sky
The Grey Hoods
To Fullfil her Fém
"...all the tears women shed, they leave no mark on the world..."