Hello dear Seedlings, and welcome to another Sunday night update!
This chapter is chaos, pure and simple. For all you action-lovers, this one is for you. ;-) We've reached the climax of the rising action now, and from here we begin to start tying up loose ends, one by one...
Blessings,
~ The GreenScholar
Before they saw Minas Ithil, they saw the glow of fires burning, smelt the smoke rising in the night air, and heard the roaring bellow of an enraged Mûmak. The forces of Gondor rounded the entrance to the Vale of the Moon to find a scene of utter destruction awaiting them.
Whatever progress that the last year had wrought in the reconstruction of Minas Ithil, it had all been undone by crude battering rams, catapults and ballistas which the Easterlings had brought with them out of the east. The city's walls seemed more rubble than ring, with piles of white stone crumbling into the stream on all sides. Fires burned at random within the circles of Minas Ithil, their flames casting tall orange shadows onto the faces of the Morgai mountains. The Tower of the Moon still stood, but from a distance it was impossible to tell whether it was still held by Elboron and Eruthiawen's folk. The flag of Gondor still flew from its highest turret though, defiant even as the smoke curled around it.
Even more chaotic than the city was the vale which lay before it. The army of Rhûn had lost all semblance of rank and order, and everywhere the dark shapes of trampled bodies could be seen littering the ground. They scattered and scrambled like minnows in shallow water, and in their midst loomed Gïdjls, thrashing and raging more furiously than a landed shark. Gïdjls' legs, flanks, and face bristled with short black arrows, and the young Mûmak's roars of outrage shook the very air. With every maddened swing of his tusks, Gïdjls sent at least half a dozen Easterlings flying. The howdah on his back - not designed for proper warfare - swayed precariously every which way Gïdjls turned. Still arrows continued to pelt the poor beast, as well as the occasional spear from a surviving ballista.
"Aragorn?"
Faramir looked to Aragorn urgently, as did Éowyn. Both had their swords out and at the ready by their sides. Eldarion imagined they would be halfway to the city gate before his father even finished the order to attack. Legolas too had an arrow already fitted to his bow. With a deep breath, Eldarion drew Tegil from its sheath. The sharp ring of steel provoked a sudden memory of the blade hitting the Black House's stone floor. Eldarion thrust the memory aside as forcefully as it had arisen. He was needed, here and now.
With less than a few seconds to deliberate, Aragorn laid his plans and gave the order. "Faramir, Éowyn, take the knights of Ithilien and three companies of soldiers along the valley's edge and around into the city. Make safe the Citadel of Night with all haste. Eldarion, Malbeth, Ohtar, you and your men with me. We will crush these villains between our swords and the city walls. Malbeth, sound the charge!"
Sure enough, the banners of Ithilien were on the move even before the first blast of Gondor's horns could fade. Éowyn lifted Witchbane overhead, its blade flashing pale in the starlight.
"To me! To me! Those in the citadel can wait no longer!"
Éowyn took off at a gallop, Faramir less than a stride behind her. Their folk were quick to follow, and as they split off from the rest of the army they cried "To the White Lady!"
Legolas remained where he was, flanking Aragorn opposite Eldarion. With Ohtar and Malbeth signaling the charge to their remaining men, they urged their horses onward into the valley.
Between the clear ringing of the horns and the thunder of two thousand horses, the already disorganized army of Rhûn had all it could manage in rushing to meet the charge. Gïdjls continued to rampage behind their lines, spreading chaos and carnage wherever his enormous feet fell. So it was that the forces of Ithilien passed all but unhindered around the edge of the battlefield.
Eldarion could spare only a moment to take heart as Éowyn and Faramir rushed to Elboron and Eruthiawen's aid. Not entirely without order, Easterlings were dropping to one knee and presenting their barbed pikes before the charging army. Greyhame snorted beneath Eldarion, his black mane flying. Eldarion could see his father and Legolas leading the charge beside him out the corner of his helmet's visor. The rush of his own breathing echoed in his ears, blocking out even the din of Gïdjls' roars. The ground flew past beneath the horses' hooves...then was abruptly replaced by a sea of Rhûnic armor and pikes in the instant before the two armies met.
OoOoO
When Faramir and Éowyn reached Minas Ithil's fallen bridge, they had no choice but to dismount and ford across the rubble on foot. To their dismay, the discovery was quickly made that Easterlings had taken at least the city's outer circle; archers on the walls rained short black arrows down on the arriving defenders. Thankfully the knights of Ithilien as well as the soldiers of Minas Tirith carried shields, and they as well as Faramir and Éowyn were able to carefully advance. Picking their way across the scattered pieces of the bridge made crossing the stream around Minas Ithil difficult, and many Gondorians still fell pierced by arrows before they reached the main gate.
Once past the twisted remains of the city gate though, the Lord and Lady of Ithilien led their soldiers in a charge of un-paralleled fury. Éowyn seemed to be everywhere at once; any surprise from the Easterlings at fighting a woman - and an aging woman at that - was quickly turned against them. Though she no longer had the strength and agility of a young Shieldmaiden, Éowyn had Faramir. The two fought side-by-side, parrying and attacking in such fluid concert with one another's movements that battle turned almost to dance. Wherever Éowyn baited in a hasty attack, Faramir was waiting to parry. Wherever Faramir pushed an Easterling back on his heels, Éowyn slipped past for a killing blow. Separately, neither was in their prime as a warrior anymore. Together, no soldier of Rhûn could stand against them.
Together with their five hundred men, it did not take long for the Easterlings occupying the city to retreat further into the second circle. When they were met by more Easterlings gathered in the Circle of Starlight, Éowyn looked to Faramir in despair.
"The city is overrun..." she said above the din. The dirt and grime of battle made her fair, lined face seem even paler than its usual.
Lifting his sword, Faramir pointed over the walls of the second circle to the Tower of the Moon. "The flag of Gondor still flies from the tower. Elboron and Eruthiawen may yet live."
With a grim nod, Éowyn took Faramir's hand - both their gloves wet with blood - and pressed it. The knights of Ithilien surging around them, they gathered their strength and charged, blades leading, into the second circle of Minas Ithil.
OoOoO
As chaotic as the battle at the Sea of Rhûn had been almost four years ago, this was worse. At least, so it seemed to Eldarion. Things were different at the Sea of Rhûn though. Then, Eldarion had been flush with the thrill of his first battle, Elboron and Elfwine fighting at his side with Aragorn and the others watching over them. This was different. His friends were gone from his side; Elboron and his folk trapped if not worse in the beleaguered city and Elfwine, so far away in Edoras. Eldarion could scarcely keep track of his father in the darkness, even with the glow of the fires from Minas Ithil. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of Legolas' astride milk-white Arod, but every minute swept them further apart in the fray. The odds were hardly with the army of Rhûn, but it was perhaps for that very reason that the Easterlings fought with the desperate ferocity of cornered badgers. Every which-way Eldarion turned Greyhame, it seemed Easterling pikes awaited on all sides.
The dark of night and press of men prevented Eldarion from seeing clearly that, with their arrival, the tide of battle had indeed very clearly turned in the favour of Gondor. Trapped between the forces of Minas Tirith and the city, the Easterlings found themselves unable to approach Minas Ithil without becoming the targets of Ithilien's archers, now in place on the outer walls. Gïdjls continued to wreak havoc amongst their ranks, plowing great swaths this way and that in his furious stampede. Without the ability to form up into a cohesive force, the army of Rhûn could not hope to prevent the king's banner from running straight through them.
It was for this reason above all that the Easterling generals directed their few remaining ballistas and catapults to focus all attacks on the Mûmak. Between the gloom and Gïdjls erratic movements, most missiles completely missed their mark.
One did not. Whether by sheer stroke of luck or superb skill, a single ballista bolt - nearly as long and twice as thick as a spear - found its mark in the dark. The bolt pierced Gïdjls through the right eye, driving deep into the young Mûmak's head. With an ear-splitting bellow that shook the very roots of the Morgai mountains, Gïdjls reared up high onto his hind legs.
Eldarion cried out in horror as the Mûmak tottered, body and head shaking wildly. A Haradrim fell all the way from the howdah to land - unseen but surely dead - amidst the ranks of the Easterlings on the ground. At such distance and with no light, it was impossible to know where Sufyan was.
"No! Sufyan!" Eldarion screamed. There was nothing he could do but watch as Gïdjls tumbled over backwards, all four legs out stick-straight in the air as he came crashing down on his back, utterly crushing the howdah and all within it.
"Sufyan!"
An Easterling spear jabbed at the crook of his elbow, the point sliding between his armor and drawing blood. Eldarion paid the sudden stab of pain no mind. Wheeling Greyhame about, he hacked and slashed his way through the fray toward where the Haradrim and their Mûmak had fallen. Gïdjls, laying on his side now, appeared an enormous dark hill on the battlefield. It was not until Eldarion had managed to fight his way all the way to the curve of Gïdjls' tusks that he realized the poor beast was still alive. Gïdjls' sides heaved, his remaining eye rolling widely in the socket even as Eldarion dismounted and rushed past it. The other eye was a mess of blood and gore though, the ballista bolt still protruding grotesquely from it.
Eldarion rounded Gïdjls' side to find that he was not the only one who had rushed to the Haradrims' aid. Aragorn was there also, quickly dismounting even as Malbeth and Ohtar formed a protective ring around the remains of the howdah.
As much under Gïdjls as beside him, the howdah was unrecognizable. More a twisted wreckage of wicker and canvas than any sort of framework, bits and pieces of it were scattered all across the valley floor. Two Haradrim lay unmoving amidst the rubble, and these were quickly found to be dead. A third sprawled dazed yet regaining his senses under a fold of canvas, and Eldarion could not help but feel sharp dismay when the survivor was not Sufyan.
"Sufyan?! Hear us!" Aragorn called. There was no answer, and when Eldarion met his father's eye he knew they were both thinking the same thing. Túrien's husband...the father of Aragorn and Arwen's first grandchild...was gone.
A low groan from beneath the crook of Gïdjls' neck caught Eldarion's sharp ears. Crouching down, he thought he saw something move in the shadows behind the giant Mûmak's twitching ear. Whoever was beneath there, any sudden movement from Gïdjls would surely crush them.
"Adar! Here!"
Together, Aragorn and Eldarion managed to reach under Gïdjls. The first thing Eldarion felt was Sufyan's thick, curly hair. It was damp and matted with blood. When they tried to pull him out though, he remained stuck tight. At least some part of him must have been trapped beneath Gïdjls' enormous head. Eldarion sprang to his feet, intent on trying to lift Gïdjls' head with his own strength. When he tried though, the wound in his elbow as well as his still-raw wrists shot fiery pain up and down his arm, forcing him to give up. The stricken Mûmak moved not an inch.
"I can't lift him!" cried Eldarion.
"Take care, Eldarion! If Gïdjls moves, Sufyan may be crushed," Aragorn warned.
Seeing the situation even as he fought with his men to protect the howdah, Malbeth called out to the soldiers of Gondor.
"Ten men, with me! The Golden Serpent needs our aid!"
Hearing Sufyan erroneously called by the name of the Haradrim's sun god might have been amusing in any other time and place. Not tonight. Leaving Ohtar to hold the line, Malbeth and several of his men fell back to where Aragorn and Eldarion struggled to free Sufyan. Taking up positions around Gïdjls, they crouched down to take hold of the Mûmak's enormous head.
Gïdjls still lived though, and the sudden presence of so many strangers around him drew a sudden convulsion from the suffering creature. He gave an almighty flinch, his stick-straight legs twitching in midair. A whistling gasp emerged from Gïdjls' gaping mouth, and from beneath him Eldarion thought he heard Sufyan moan again.
"Stop! Wait!" he shouted to Malbeth and his men.
It was a fool's hope, but Eldarion knew of nothing else to do. Rushing around to where Gïdjls' good eye was still rolling, he leaned directly over into the Mûmak's line of sight. The Haradrim praised the intelligence of their Mûmakil constantly, but Eldarion wondered if Gïdjls would even understand him.
"Gïdjls...Gïdjls, you must help us. Sufyan is pinned beneath you, and you must help us free him. Please, mellon-nin, boe de edraith...(Please, my friend, he needs you to save him)."
As Eldarion spoke, Gïdjls' eye stopped its frenzied spinning and seemed to find focus upon him. Then the eye closed, and a shuddering sigh rippled through the Mûmak. Needing no further opportunity, Malbeth gave the signal for everyone to lift. Muscles corded, shoulders strained, and it seemed that Gïdjls' neck tensed ever-so-slightly, just barely lifting his head off the ground with the help of many human hands.
They only managed to keep Gïdjls' head lifted for a space of seconds, but it was enough for Aragorn to seize hold of Sufyan's shoulders and drag him out. Sufyan was pale and unmoving, a large gash across his brow painting the side of his face dark with blood. His breathing came short and shallow, and when he groaned it was punctuated with a pained cough. When Aragorn laid his palms carefully upon Sufyan's chest, he flinched away.
"The ribs are broken," said Aragorn gravely. "We must get him away from here if he is to live."
"Aragorn!"
A sudden call, unmistakably Legolas and unmistakably urgent, brought every head turning. Legolas sat astride Arod in the midst of the fray, Easterlings clamoring to get away from the elf and his deadly bow even as his attention was elsewhere.
"Aragorn, the tower! Can you not hear it?!"
"Hear what, Legolas?!" Aragorn called back as he took off his cloak to cover Sufyan with.
"There! Listen!"
Straining to hear past the din and clamor of battle, at first Eldarion heard nothing. Then, just when he was beginning to wonder what it was that had Legolas looking so distressed, he heard it. A high, keening scream...the cry of a woman in unimaginable agony. It was barely distinguishable above the chaos surrounding them, but when Eldarion heard that unearthly wail once more he knew in his heart the source of it.
"I hear it! Adar, it's Eruthiawen, she's in pain!"
The reaction from Aragorn was instant. He went from crouching over Sufyan to sitting bolt upright, his face drawn tight with alarm. The sudden movement jostled Sufyan though, and he let out another pained moan. Eruthiawen was not the only one in desperate need this night. But how could Aragorn choose which child - whether by birth or by bond - to stay beside? There was also the question of the army, which still needed its leaders to complete the rout of the Easterlings from Minas Ithil.
"Go to your daughter, my king," said Malbeth. "We can see to the prince of Harad, and bear him safely from the fray."
"I owe Sufyan my life..." said Aragorn, looking down at the younger man in his lap. "How can I leave him at such a time?"
"You can, because you must. Any man would urge you to do the same, as I believe he would too if he could. Go, my lord. I was there in the Black House, and know how much Gondor owes to Prince Sufyan. I swear upon my honour that we will see him to safety."
With Malbeth urging him on and Legolas waiting, Aragorn hesitated only a moment longer. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sufyan's clammy brow.
"Live, ion-nin, live to see your wife and child again. Túrien will never forgive us if you do not..."
"...Go...Äke..."
Sufyan's eyes - veiled with muted pain but still aware - blinked open. His breathing became quicker and more harsh, but he was very much present as he gazed up at Aragorn. Perfect understanding passed between the two men, and when Sufyan weakly lifted his hand Aragorn clasped it tight. Then Aragorn arose, letting Malbeth take his place.
"Eldarion, I give command of the army to you." There was a question behind Aragorn's eyes as he looked at Eldarion, but there was no time for hesitation. "Leave not one Easterling remaining in the Vale of the Moon come the dawn."
"Not a one," vowed Eldarion.
Clapping Eldarion on the shoulder, Aragorn turned and called Brego to him. The old horse had wisely remained close within the protective ring of Malbeth and Ohtar's men, and came at once to his master's call. Aragorn swung up into the saddle and broke out into the fray, following Legolas across the valley toward Minas Ithil. Gripping Tegil tight, Eldarion rejoined the other battle.
"Form up!" he shouted to the men. "Close ranks and clear a path!"
As the dismounted soldiers of Gondor came together, Malbeth and a handful of his men worked to secure Sufyan to a makeshift stretcher fashioned from pieces of the howdah. They bore him up between them, ready to carry the wounded Haradrim from the battlefield. Before they departed though, Sufyan reached out an unsteady hand. His fingertips just brushed Gïdjls' now-unmoving head.
"Ez xemgîn im, hevalê min...(I am sorry, my faithful friend)" Sufyan murmured as his eyes darkened.
OoOoO
"Faramir, there! I can see the gate!"
The Easterlings inside the city fled before the forces of Ithilien, now falling back all the way to the Citadel of Night. The gate was a twisted mass of metal and wood, the outer doors broken open and torn aside. The portcullis was also ajar, a long shaft of iron from the city's outer gate having been used as a lever to force the grate nearly three feet upward. Easterlings could be seen fighting inside the citadel, and those fleeing before Éowyn and Faramir's knights were quick to crawl under the raised portcullis to join their allies.
Knowing that there were still defenders alive inside the citadel of Minas Ithil infused Faramir and Éowyn with new hope. The knights of Ithilien at their heels, they rushed to add their swords to the fight beyond the gate.
The warriors of Rhûn were cunning though, even with defeat fast closing in upon them. Éowyn, smaller and faster, was under the portcullis without a moment's delay. Faramir was not so quick, and a group of Easterlings conspired together to shove the iron lever propping the grate back out into the second circle. No longer blocked, the portcullis began to fall while Faramir and two of his men were still under it.
"Father!"
Elboron - who had seen his parents arrive and broken away from the fray to meet them - sprang to Faramir's aid. Dropping his sword, he sprinted to the wheel which raised and lowered the portcullis. He only just managed to catch the spinning handles in time; the points of the portcullis stopped in midair less than a finger's width above Faramir's head. Such a feat nearly tore Elboron's arms straight from his shoulders though. Forearms shaking with effort, Elboron growled with determination and held fast.
Keenly aware of the precariousness of his position, Faramir was quick to scramble through into the Citadel of Night. The Knights of Ithilien threw themselves to the defense, and with their added numbers the battle turned decisively against the few remaining Easterlings. The danger past, Elboron let go of the gate wheel. The portcullis slammed to the ground behind Faramir and Éowyn, and Elboron sagged against the wall with relief.
His momentary distraction cost him. One of the last Easterlings saw Elboron falter, unarmed and off-balance. The Easterling charged him, shouting a curse in the tongue of Rhûn and swinging his mace. Even as Faramir sprang to his feet and Éowyn dashed forward, the Easterling struck. The mace struck Elboron on the back of his helmet with a ringing clang, and Elboron dropped like a stone.
Screaming with rage, Éowyn fell upon the Easterling with a fury only a mother could match. The Easterling - already tired from having fought through the night - was no match for Éowyn. She smote her son's attacker down with a single stroke, and as he fell so too did the other remaining Easterlings in the Citadel of Night, hewn by the blades of the Knights of Ithilien.
"Elboron!"
Faramir joined Éowyn at Elboron's side in seconds. Neither could bear to imagine that they had just seen their only son killed before their very eyes. With a gentleness that defied her fury only moments before, Éowyn rolled Elboron onto her lap and and removed his dented helmet.
"My lord, my lady!"
Bergil, spattered with gore but still standing, came running across the Citadel of Night toward them. He and the other soldiers' faces turned grave as they saw Elboron lying unmoving between Faramir and Éowyn.
"Is he...?" asked Bergil.
The fearful question was answered by none other than Elboron himself. With a loud groan and a grimace, he cracked open one eye to squint up at Éowyn.
"Mother...Father...you cannot know how glad I am to see you...even if I am seeing two of each of you at the moment."
Faramir let out an enormous sigh of relief, one that was echoed by all the Knights of Ithilien and surviving men of Minas Ithil. He was just about to embrace Elboron when his son's eyes suddenly shot wide open.
"Eruthiawen! Her cries...the child...Bergil said she was struggling!"
When Elboron tried to sit up though, he promptly turned white. Éowyn seized him by the shoulders and kept Elboron from trying to sit up again.
"No, wait. Give yourself half a moment before you try to stand," she admonished him. "If you try now, you will only hurt yourself."
"But Eruthia..." Elboron groaned.
"I will go to her," said Faramir, trying to reassure their distraught son. "Follow when you are able, but I will go now to Eruthiawen's side with all haste."
Unable to do much more while still cross-eyed, Elboron had no choice but to accept his parent's bidding. Leaving Éowyn and Bergil to help Elboron fully regain his senses, Faramir took three knights and hurried to enter the Tower of the Moon.
The tower was packed full of Ithilien's women, children, and elders. Having been largely unable to see what was happening outside in the dark and chaos, many were caught off-guard by the sudden arrival of armed men. More than a few shrieked in alarm before they had a chance to realize that Faramir and his soldiers were men of Gondor. And so it went, floor after floor as they rushed to climb the tower's many winding stairs.
When Faramir reached the highest floor, it was to his dismay that he found the chamber at the end of the hall shut and bolted. Having heard the heart-wrenching screams coming from the Tower of the Moon earlier, Faramir would endure no delays. Clamoring to find a way into the sealed room, he and the soldiers quickly solved the problem. Taking up a heavy bench, they smashed the bolt and forced open the chamber door. The scene that awaited them took Faramir entirely off his guard.
It was Eruthiawen, as no one had ever seen her before. The princess stood defensively in a corner of the room, an elderly midwife and her teenage apprentice huddled behind her. Eruthiawen's fair face was as white as snow, lips peeled back from her teeth in a snarl. She clutched a knife in blood-stained fingers, and with the other hand shielded the older and younger woman. Her white shift was sodden with blood from the waist down, as were the sheets on the bed and the pile of rags nearby. Having never known Eruthiawen to so much as speak a cross word, Faramir found himself utterly shocked at the alert, visceral protectiveness emanating off of her.
Recognition flooded Eruthiawen's face, and the transformation was instant. The knife fell from her hand, and she reached out toward Faramir, wonder in her ashen face.
"Faramir! Can it be you?"
Rushing forward, Faramir was quick to catch Eruthiawen by her elbows. She was cold as ice to the touch, and her grey eyes seemed unnaturally bright. Her once-glossy auburn hair hung around her face and down her back in sweat soaked tangles.
"Eruthiawen, you should not be on your feet! And what of-"
"Elboron! Where is he?"
Eruthiawen's grip on Faramir's arms turned vice-tight, her voice frantic. Faramir feared that she would faint, so pale had she become. When he did not immediately answer, she seized him sharply by the front of his breastplate and cried "Faramir, where is Elboron?!"
"I'm here, Eruthia." Elboron spoke from the doorway, just as Faramir thought he would have to wrestle Eruthiawen to the bed for her own safety. Elboron leaned against Éowyn's shoulder, still unsteady but on his feet.
The second Eruthiawen heard Elboron's voice, her entire frame relaxed. A beautiful smile transformed her face, and when she went to Elboron there was a lightness in her step that utterly ignored the blood trailing behind her on the floor.
"Elboron...glawar-nin..." Eruthiawen sighed, opening her arms to embrace Elboron. He swept her up in a tight hug, burying his face in her shoulder. Then he looked at her questioningly.
"What happened? The babe...?"
Eruthiawen's smile became positively radiant. She beckoned the midwife forward. The old woman held a small, wrapped bundle in her arms, a bundle which let out a tiny squeak as she gave it over to Eruthiawen.
"My lady," said the midwife. "Please, you must-"
"We have a son," declared Eruthiawen, cradling the babe and tenderly turning down the blankets away from his small face. A curl of red-gold hair came into view, atop the scrunched-up face of a sleeping newborn.
"A son..." said Elboron wonderingly. Eruthiawen slid the baby into his waiting arms, and he gazed down at the child with awe. "Barahir."
Eruthiawen nodded. "Just as we agreed." She gazed down at her son with pure adoration. "Barahir." Then her eyes rolled up into her head, and she dropped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
Poor Elboron, his arms filled with the baby, could not even attempt to catch Eruthiawen. Faramir and Éowyn however were quick to rush to her side.
Éowyn looked from the stains on the floor to the sodden bedsheets. "She still bleeds? After already losing so much?! Quickly Faramir, get her back onto the bed. Mistress Eidith, you must help me tend to her. Bergil, go find Aragorn! ...Bergil?!"
Still standing in the doorway, poor Bergil gaped, aghast at the sight of so much blood. Elboron, his infant son clutched to his chest, was the first to snap him back to attention.
"Quickly man, did you not hear what my mother said? Go find Aragorn, do it now!"
"Ah! Yes my lord! At once!"
Bergil ran from the Tower of the Moon and out into the ruined, smoldering city. The bodies of Easterlings and Gondorians alike lay every which way; dark shadows across white stones in fading night. Beyond in the vale, the forces of Rhûn broke and scattered before Eldarion and his men. They ran fleeing into the dark, charging horses and avenging swords hard on their heels. When they reached the edge of the vale, Eldarion gave orders for Ohtar and two companies to give chase and drive any stragglers as far northeast as the ruins of the Black Gate.
Removing his helm, Eldarion looked back to Minas Ithil. Behind the rising smoke and the Tower of the Moon, a faint blue glow was beginning to lighten the eastern horizon. Overhead, a sliver of a crescent moon hung between the fading stars. Somewhere not so very far away, a lark sang. Dawn was breaking, and soon the sun would rise to drive away the shadows of the night. Letting Tegil hang heavy at his side, Eldarion turned Greyhame back toward the city. A sudden weariness settled upon him, heavier than the thickest mantle. Eldarion could not rest though, not yet.
OoOoO