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No, it is not pretty to write, and be sure it is not pretty
to tell. But there is more, and soon I will speak from
recollection of sound and rumor only. Soon the story
continues without eyes, and the ugliness passes. Bear with
me, my dear, my nurturing one, the last hour of the telling.
The magic of the tower was sealed for the last time, and
there for the first time I knew what it was that the kender
had discovered in a deep chamber. No larger than a dove,
than the heart of a child, the orb was glowing with a light
and whiteness surpassing the downpour of sun on the snow
we had ridden through days on end, we had watched from
the walls in our waiting. And it seemed fitting that before
the darkness all things should resolve once more into white,
as the elf maiden Laurana began to instruct us, quietly and
urgently, in the final dance we were too stubborn, to noble
to learn when the dance would avail us. The lances,
surprisingly light, we placed at arrest, in the noble absurd
salute to the thing we knew was coming because we heard
from beyond the walls the stuttering thunder of heavy
wings, the breathing, and though we could not guess
through which wall, which aperture it would drive its
ancient and sinuous head, it was coming, we knew
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