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Painting their faces—putting their war faces on, some of the others are calling it—isn't properly elvish, and sometimes that gives Astrid pause. She can picture Eilir's wry smile, her gentle reminder that neither are we, anamchara, but she shakes off the thought. The thing that matters most is what they aspire to, isn't it? What ideals they reach for. Speaking Sindarin is only partly for the practical benefit of having a private tongue; it's also to bind them to each other and to the history—fine, the legends—of the elves before them. She supposes the paint does have an effect on morale, both theirs and their enemies'. Eilir brought the custom with her from Clan Mackenzie, and the...the wildness of it caught the Rangers' imaginations.
Maybe it is like Dad says, Astrid thinks as she takes her turn at the mirror. They're founding new cultures now, sowing the seeds of the peoples who will inherit this land. She tries to picture the Rangers, two or three generations from now: brilliant trackers and ferocious warriors, beautiful and terrible, holding war councils in Sindarin and making plans in the field in Sign. Inheriting nobility and discipline from the elves, and wild magic and ferocity from the Mackenzies. No villainy will ever prosper in the lands they guard.
For a moment the image is so vivid she can barely stand it, those beautiful, proud warriors who are the future she's spending her life to build. Her heart aches with pride, as if her ribs are too tight to contain it. On her cheeks she draws the sweeping wings of the hawk: quick and merciless, striking from afar. On her forehead, she marks the paw of the wolf: tireless and loyal to the pack.
Her pack. Her legacy. Her people.