“What did the Collectors do with it all?” “How much ingot was out there, mother?” I asked once, as she gushed about ancient times. Whenever a battle had been lost and won, the Collectors, my poor but resourceful ancestors, entered the battlefield and retrieved what had been left to rust in the blood-stained snow.
They were forged from ingot-war metals-some of the rarest in the Freljord. Stories of how they came into my family’s possession told of an incredible destiny and a celebrated past. I should not risk losing them, or worse-suffer no sleep from their incessant wailing.ĭon’t get me wrong, the chimes did have a certain appeal. Though they mostly stirred memories of my harsh and laborious upbringing, they provided me with a sense of connection to her. My mother’s chimes were still screaming in the wind. After scrambling to sheathe my trembling body in the thickest furs I owned, I made my way to the door, ready to slam it shut. I jumped to my feet when my door burst open and the rush of freezing wind filled my room. The night I speak of was no exception-a winter storm was raging. Ha! An adolescence marred by the endless chopping of firewood can attest to that. Even at my age, I can only count a handful of pleasant seasons in Valar’s Hollow. She thought she was quite clever, my mother, convincing me their summer song would signal the coming of warm and sunny days. I was first awoken by the clanging of bells-my mother’s two-hundred-year-old wind chimes-screaming outside, beyond my window. Well, it’s best that I explain.Ĭome, now.
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