The Golden Crossing
The silk glove was not merely an accessory; it was a membrane, a second skin stitched from the hair of the dead and the sinew of the living, and it sat upon your hand with a gravity that defied the wind. You had walked for three days through the mist-choked lowlands of the Shire, your boots soaking through with the cold seepage of the earth, your lungs burning with the effort of breathing air...
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