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She thought she had cut away that desperate desire for death and glory, the wound seared shut when she vowed to devote herself to growing things, herbs of healing and a garden full of children.
Now her grandson is on her knee, his piping voice like birdsong. “A story, a story!”
Who is this stolid matron she sees, reflected in his eyes?
"Shall I tell you how I garbed myself as a man, riding to war with a halfling prince behind me?"
Barahir's mouth drops. "You...oh!"
Laughing, she swoops him close. “I was a shieldmaiden, and bore my grandmother’s sword….”
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