A/N: Yes, I have finally managed to get a chapter out within a somewhat decent timeframe. One of the reasons was because I got a lot of reviews for Chapter 49; I felt so guilty about letting you loyal readers down that I spurred myself on to finish this. Anyhow; thanks to all those who reviewed; keep it up:
A Fan: Good, good. If you care for the characters when I kill them, then I've succeeded in at least something...
Rokibfd: A healer can't reattach an arm, but that's all I'm saying about Gnaeus in this A/N. ;) And yes, the Nerevarine is still there and Vivec hasn't buggered off yet; his end is ambiguous so I've taken some small liberty there (who knows; I might write a fic about pre-Red Year Fourth Era Morrowind one day). As for Lord Fyr (I'm in his fan club, by the way), I'm fairly sure he and most of the Telvanni would take action if the right stimulus was applied; a Daedric invasion would probably affect them, after all. Anyhow, I corrected that typo, and I'm not one to lecture about late reviews, given how late I can be sometimes...
Underpaid Critic: Easy. I'll just have Gorgoth take one in his lunchbox. ;) There are no horses on Vvardenfell, presumably because of the Dunmeri diet and the harsh terrain, which better suits native guar. On mainland Morrowind, however, I think there'd be more use for horses, though they'd still be fairly rare.
As for Gorgoth's pride... he's a good enough Illusionist to know the limitations of invisibility. Given how battered his magical reserves were, it's doubtful that the spell would have lasted back to his front lines, and the Daedra could still feel and kill him. He had a better chance of survival if he used what little magic he had to preserve his life rather than use it trying to hide.
Bobb: Yes, and if you follow the game that slavishly, Gorgoth would be the Divine Crusader and the Grey Fox as well, not to mention Sheogorath. There's no reason for the Nerevarine to go gallivanting off to Akavir when Morrowind is his destiny, so I changed that to make more sense. Also, Vivec might have lost his divinity, but he was still a powerful warrior before he toyed with Kagrenac's tools, and I can't see the Ordinators switching their support from him to the Nerevarine so easily, so he'd still have both physical and political power in Morrowind for a time. And in the BaS universe, my Nerevarine certainly didn't kill him...
Random Reader: Yarp; that's definitely how it should be. People get killed and traumatised in war, so it wouldn't make sense to not show that. Good to hear it's working. :)
Just remember to keep these reviews up, people. They definitely do encourage me. Now, on with the chapter...
Chapter Fifty: The Silence of the Bards
"How many casualties did we take?"
"Over two hundred dead for certain, Lord Gorgoth. Sixty wounded at least, and they're still finding more. The worst wounded will be healed, but I'll be seeing to the amputees myself. Most will ask for my blade." Gurbol grimaced; clearly he agreed with his mer in thinking that death was preferable to living on with no legs. "And we've lost over three hundred horses." The anger in his voice made it clear what loss he felt more. "A high price, Lord Gorgoth, but we had no room to wheel around for another charge. Even so, we did Orsinium and the Orcs proud today."
The warlord nodded. The Orcish heavy cavalry had been among the last to leave the field, and small detachments were still patrolling the vicinity, hunting for any Daedric stragglers. "You did well, Gurbol. I'm sorry I had to leave you."
"No, Lord Gorgoth." The grizzled cavalrymer shook his head, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "You did what you had to do. And you gave us the victory."
"The victory belongs to all of us." The warrior-shaman glanced up at the sun. They were standing on the Silver Road in the shadow of Bruma's South Gate, watching the steady stream of traffic to and from the city. Many of the corpses on the battlefield were yet warm, but Phillida had wasted no time in organising everyone within five miles to come and help move the wounded into the city where they could be given medical aid. Those with the worst injuries were being tended on the battlefield by every mage the General had been able to find with a scrap of Restoration knowledge.
Gorgoth knew that he wouldn't be able to ignore the exhaustion dragging at him for much longer, but he had his duties to attend to before returning to Cloud Ruler Temple. He had already found Modryn Oreyn and placed the Fighters Guild under the Champion's command until his return. "Your mer are now back under your command, Gurbol. Take them back to Orsinium if that is your desire; if not, offer your services to General Phillida. I have work to do up at the Temple."
Gurbol saluted. "It has been an honour, Lord Gorgoth," he said, pride evident in his voice as he straightened his back despite the protestations of his dented armour. "We'll be with you to the end, no matter where you go. Now, however, I have to see to my mer." The warrior-shaman nodded and returned the salute, watching as the cavalry commander turned and walked quickly back towards Phillida's command hill. From the way he was moving, he suspected that the Orc had at least three wounds under his armour, but it was highly doubtful that he'd let a healer anywhere near him so long as one of his mer or horses needed healing.
As for Gorgoth, he would be needed at Cloud Ruler Temple before long. He doubted that Martin would be opening the portal to Paradise today – both he and the Emperor were too exhausted to be good for anything without some rest – but he needed time alone to think. And he needed to find Mazoga; before the battle, Lurog had said that she had moved to Cloud Ruler Temple and wouldn't be taking part in the fighting, refusing to divulge any more than that. Distractions had prevented him from giving the matter too much thought, but now he intended to find out why his normally eager lover had suddenly locked herself away from one of the most significant battles in centuries.
He turned and marched through the South Gate into Bruma, returning the varied nods and salutes of the militia that had been left to guard the city. Some civilians were at their work, but many seemed to be milling around the southern streets, keeping the main roads clear for the walking wounded to make their way to the chapel but clearly not intending to miss out on anything. The warlord supposed many of them would have watched the battle from the city walls. A murmur went through the crowd, and they visibly rippled as he walked past, each straining to get a good look at him. Cheers went up; the crowd might not know his name, but they certainly seemed eager to give him titles. 'Saviour of Bruma' was a new one that seemed the most popular. The Orc shook his head as he walked on, lengthening his stride. He had closed the Gates, true, but Bruma would be burning if not for the several thousand soldiers who had given their lives in its defence.
One particularly enthusiastic Imperial leapt out from a side street and laid a hand on Gorgoth's arm, darting back as the warrior-shaman turned to look at him. His smile didn't even slip as his hero walked on without speaking; most likely he would regale his grandchildren of tales of how he had once shaken the hand of the Hero of Kvatch. Even King Gortwog – who was well-loved by most of his people – didn't get such hero-worship in Orsinium. Back home, Gorgoth could count on respect without rabid fanaticism, for the most part. The sooner he left Cyrodiil behind, the better. He would have to stay after the war to lead the regional Fighters Guild, of course, but setting up a teleportation link to his new home in Manruga wouldn't be too much trouble with sufficient help from some shamans.
Wide-eyed admiration dogged him all the way through Bruma. The limited vision of his helmet hid most of it, but the Orc knew that he was the focus of many eyes. They'd probably try to build a statue of him next. He left the crowds and their adulation behind as he left Bruma through the North Gate, forcing his tired body up the steep climb to Cloud Ruler Temple. The snow on the road had already been hard-packed by the passage of the Blades back up to their fortress, escorting both their Emperor and the Great Sigil Stone. If Gorgoth knew anything about Captain Renault, she was probably shoving Martin into his bed and standing over him until he went to sleep.
The sun had long passed its zenith and was on its way down towards the western horizon when the warrior-shaman walked through the open gates of the Temple and started to ascend the stairs. There were few Blades on duty; only the ten who had been left to guard the fortress seemed to be in sight. The rest were probably resting or tending to their wounds. Gorgoth removed his helmet and hung it from the hook on his belt, the chill of the cold wind negating the warmth of the sun on his bare skin. He reached the top of the stairs and halted, glancing around the courtyard. It was empty save for the lone Orc standing in front of the doors to the Great Hall.
"It's not like you to stay away from the fighting," observed the warrior-shaman as Mazoga rapidly closed the distance between them. She ignored his words and grabbed him in a fierce embrace, dragging his head down so she could kiss him with unrestrained passion. He returned the embrace just as eagerly, his hands running over her unarmoured body. While he could crush all feelings of longing and loneliness, that didn't mean he had to like being too long without her; he fully intended to make up for lost time whenever the situation allowed.
She finally pulled back after some time had passed, her rough, calloused hand tracing his jawline in an oddly gentle gesture. "I missed you," she said, her voice low. One of her arms was still wrapped around his waist, pressing her body against his despite his coating of dried blood and mud.
"I can tell," he said drily. He had missed her as well, of course, but such feelings were easy to suppress, at least in the short term. For the long term... well, he had never experienced love like this before. "I need-" He was cut off as she kissed him again, even more passionately and for longer. He growled with desire and thrust her back against one of the nearby columns, crushing her body between his and the pillar. "My blood is hot, Mazoga," he grunted when she finally wrenched her head back, breathing heavily. "I assume you occupied my rooms while I was gone?" She nodded eagerly, shoving him away from her and grabbing his arm, pulling him alongside her as she led the way to his quarters in the Royal Wing.
She kicked the door open and slammed it shut behind them before stepping over to help him remove his armour. He made sure to put his left gauntlet on the table, preventing the Nerevarine's letter from getting lost, before returning to helping her in her task with gusto. Within minutes she had stripped him of all armour, weapons and clothing. He returned the favour by ripping the shirt off her back and shoving her into the bedroom.
Some time later, Gorgoth was standing naked at the window, watching the shadows lengthen as the sun started to sink below the peaks of the Jeralls to the west. Soon, he would release the spell that held his exhaustion at bay and sleep deeply until late the next morning. But for now, he was thinking. Behind him, Mazoga sighed contentedly as she stretched out on the disarrayed bed, leaving him alone for now; she knew him well enough to know when he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
Lurog's body would probably be found eventually, but right now there was no time for him to search for it. The important thing was that he had died well; Medraka would not have lied about that. He had died as any Bloodguard should; in battle, surrounded by fallen enemies, their blood on his weapons. Despite knowing that his Bloodguard had died an honourable death, Gorgoth still felt his loss keenly. The warrior had been one of the few he had been willing to call his friend, to trust with his life. There were far too few men or mer in his life that he was willing to trust to that extent, and few of them were as good as Lurog had been on the field of battle. But he had known the risks; both of them had. There were casualties in any war.
He turned from the window and looked over at Mazoga's naked form sprawled out on the bed. Losing his Bloodguard and friend had hurt him, but the feeling, like everything else, had been suppressed relatively easily. How easy would it be if she were to die? Love could so easily be turned into a weakness to be exploited; he was determined that such a thing would not happen to him. His heart was steel, and steel did not allow emotional attachments to blunt its edge. But there was no point in speculating on such things; if they happened, he would deal with it and move on.
Walking over to the bed, he took his lover's hands in his as she rose to greet him. "Lurog is dead," he said bluntly.
Mazoga cursed once and threw her arms around him, mumbling something incoherent as she started to sob into his chest. He certainly hadn't expected such an extrovert reaction; she had always been free with her emotions, and Lurog had been her friend as much as his, but he'd thought her harder than this. "How did he die?" she managed to ask after a few minutes, pulling back from him and angrily wiping away her tears.
"Medraka killed him. He died well. We cannot ask for more than that."
She nodded, sighing shakily and making a visible effort to control herself. "I should have been there, fighting beside him," she growled angrily, turning and starting to pace. "I should have- gah! Never regret, that's what you say." She shook her head angrily. "It's hard sometimes. A lot of the time, actually."
"You're rambling, Mazoga," observed Gorgoth, folding his arms. "He was a good Orc. One of the best I've ever known. But good men and mer die in wars. We have to absorb his loss and move on. Malacath will smile upon his soul."
"He just... he would have been such a good-" She stopped abruptly, turning away to hide her face. When she turned back to look at him, her expression was one of... anticipation. "Gorgoth, he stopped me fighting."
The warlord's tired mind tried to come up with any reason for Lurog's actions. Finding none immediately, he met her eyes, keeping his face expressionless. "Why?"
"Because I'm pregnant."
Gorgoth blinked and arched an eyebrow. Shock threatened to paralyse him, but he fought it down ruthlessly. "That was quicker than I expected," he grunted. Elves tended to pay for their longevity over humans by having lower birth rates. He hadn't expected to father a child for a long time yet; he hadn't even given the matter any thought for years, apart from idle speculation when boredom threatened to set in. Malacath's blood, I'm going to be a father. The thought seemed almost foreign. "I..." He had to suppress another shock when he realised that he was at a loss for words for the first time in his memory. "Lurog was right to keep you from the fighting," he managed, finally forcing himself to return to rational thought.
His lover – the future mother of his child – snorted. "I did see his logic. But you know me, Gorgoth; I hate feeling useless, back up here when you're fighting and dying down there..." She trailed off as he strode over and enveloped her in a crushing hug.
"You're not being useless," he growled. "You're protecting our child. You're protecting the future." He pushed back and stared down at her, an intense light burning in his eyes. "It's your duty to make sure it makes it into this world. I know you will not fail."
She grimaced. "I won't. It's just... I never expected to be a mother."
"You can be a warrior and a mother at the same time. Lord Gurak's wife is one of his Bloodguard. If she can manage, so can you."
Mazoga nodded slowly. "I can. I'd just rather be fighting alongside you. You know that."
"And you will, after our child is born. But not before." He turned away from her, walking slowly over to the bed. He was going to be a father. Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. It would happen eventually, but for now he had to prioritise. His son or daughter would not be born in the next few days, whereas Dagon's war machine was tearing Tamriel apart. There was no point in dwelling on what would happen far into the future when there might not even be a future left. He had to focus. And for now, he needed to rest.
He stopped maintaining his spell and almost staggered as the sheer exhaustion hit him, putting a hand against the wall for support before dropping onto the bed. Despite everything that plagued his thoughts, a hazy fog was swiftly clouding his mind, making it impossible for him to do much except close his eyes and shift around to get comfortable. He dimly felt Mazoga sliding in beside him and pressing her body against his back before he descended into the peaceful oblivion of deep sleep.
Adamus Phillida realised that he was rubbing his aching eyes and forced himself to stop. He refused even the slightest concessions to his age and fatigue when wounded men were in danger of freezing to death on a battlefield carpeted with dead bodies. The sun would soon be sinking beneath the western horizon; he had made sure that search parties were scouring every inch of the battlefield, but there was always a chance of some severely wounded soldiers being left behind. In the cold northern winter nights, their chances of survival would be slim. Bards often sung about battles; they rarely sung about the aftermath.
"General?" The Imperial looked up to see Vignar watching him with concern in his eyes. Forcing his back straight despite the weight of his armour, the General shifted his helmet in the crook of his elbow and shot the captain of his bodyguard a questioning glance. "They're ready for you."
"Good, good..." He looked around him, taking in the fine tapestries, thick carpets and smooth stone floors of the hallway of Countess Carvain's castle. It seemed odd that less than an hour previously he had been standing on a freezing, blood-soaked hill, barking orders every few minutes and looking down at long rows of wounded being tended to by healers and priests on the brink of collapse. Another Oblivion Gate had opened just over an hour ago, but the threat had swiftly been contained by Orcish cavalry and a mixed Gate-destroying squad had been sent in to close it. "How many battles have we been through together, Vignar?"
"Countless, General," responded the Nord, his scarred face displaying its usual lack of emotion. The massive head of his warhammer, visible over his shoulder, still had scraps of skin and bone clinging to the steel surface. "It won't be long now. You'll be retired in a few months. I'll probably end up freezing my arse off training recruits in Skyrim until I get my pension." He snorted. "After all these years, fighting in every corner of the Empire... I don't know what peace is going to feel like."
"Savour it, Vignar." Phillida met his old bodyguard's blue gaze and offered a hint of a smile. The two of them had first met over forty years ago when the freshly-recruited Nord had joined the Imperial's century. Within a year, Phillida had been promoted to command the entire cohort, and Vignar – who was already getting a reputation for his ferocity in battle - had been chosen by his superior to serve as his personal bodyguard since saving his life in one of the many wars fought during the Imperial Simulacrum. "We've devoted most of our lives to war. If anyone has earned peace, it's us."
The ageing Nord couldn't resist a slight smirk as they started towards the elaborately enamelled double doors at the end of the hall. "Knowing us, we'd probably get bored stiff before the first month is up. We're too old to start families, and..." he glanced down at his battered standard-issue Legion plate armour. The old warrior was technically a centurion and so was entitled to finer armour, but he claimed that blending in with the rank-and-file made his job easier. "I don't think I'll be handing this in when I retire," he claimed, tapping his breastplate. "Battle's in our blood. We might head off some place quiet and try to find our peace, but there's no point in denying who we'll always be." He was often very insightful for someone so many presumed to be just another legionary.
Phillida nodded. "I'll keep my sword and armour, that's for sure," he said. "I doubt people would let me forget who I was even if I tried. But I'm past seventy, Vignar; my fighting days are over. I just want to live out my days in the peace and tranquillity that I've earned. A time of relaxation before I pass on to Aetherius."
"No one's earned it more, General. It's been an honour." The bodyguard stopped at the oak doors and saluted, fist to heart, before shoving them open and preceding his superior into the room.
Countess Carvain's Great Hall was long and high-ceilinged, the stark stone floors and walls adorned with the yellow-and-black colours of Bruma. Behind her simple throne was a long banner bearing the Black Eagle of Bruma, its wings spreading directly over where the Countess would be sitting on official occasions. Normally, the Great Hall would be used to welcome nobles or officials, and occasionally petitioners or those who took advantage of the Countess's public hearings. Now, however, it was hosting a few dozen weary soldiers stained with the blood and grime of battle, along with the Countess and a few of her stewards who looked almost obscenely rich and clean in their court finery. All of them turned to look at the General as he entered.
He paused as Vignar let the doors close behind them, running his eyes over the assembled crowd. There were far less than there had been at the chapel before the battle; several would have fallen in combat, others would be wounded, and some would have preferred to stay with their men. Modryn Oreyn, his ebony armour barely recognisable under the layered grime, was talking to Arch-Mage Merissa, whose golden skin had an unhealthy grey tinge to it. Ulrich Leland looked even angrier than usual – probably due to the bandage covering where his left eye used to be – and Dion wore a slightly dazed look, leaning heavily on a walking staff. Burd was caked from head to toe in dried blood. Most of the other leaders were in no better shape. Phillida himself – with only a few bruises and heavy fatigue – appeared to have got off lightly.
"We won today. It's important to keep that in mind." Looking around, it almost appeared as though the General was addressing the heads of a defeated army rather than the victors of a decisive battle; his filthy men looked tired, drained. Then again, he had seen enough battles in his time to know that even the victors rarely left without deep scars of their own. "We won, and, Divines willing, we won't have to bring them to battle like that again." Relief appeared on a few faces, but he was stating the obvious; most of them knew what the battle had been for. "Bruma still needs men to defend it, however. Make sure your camps remain in order and treat your wounded the best you can. We still have to be ready for isolated Oblivion Gates. Continue with the pre-battle routines for dealing with them."
"How many casualties did we take overall?" asked the leader of the contingent of Redguard Bronze Shields. His armour was barely dented; the elite warriors had been one of the strongest bastions in the battle line.
"Accurate counts are difficult at this time, of course, and we had no precise figure for our numbers even before the battle, but..." Phillida grimaced; not knowing the exact numbers grated, but he had to work with what he had. "We started the battle with approximately seventy-five hundred armed effectives, not counting the militia. Early counts suggest that at this moment in time, we have little more than fifteen hundred armed effectives." Someone grunted, but the old Imperial held up a hand. "Once wounded are healed and others recover from exhaustion, that number is expected to rise to over three thousand. We have, however, lost at least three thousand dead, and many of our wounded won't be fit for battle for a long time. Some will never fight again." He paused. "I will stress again, however, that at this time our counts are extremely inaccurate."
"What really matters is that in a few days this war might well be over because of what we did here today," interjected Oreyn. "The Guild lost over a hundred and fifty from the near four hundred we bought here, but we'll be with you to the end."
"The battlemages took no casualties," said Merissa, shockingly speaking without being prompted. "Many are exhausted, but they will be able to resume battle readiness or help with the healing tomorrow." She herself looked like she could benefit from a full week's rest rather than just one night.
Phillida nodded. The battlemages were undoubtedly his most potent weapon against the random Gates. "We will stay around Bruma until we get word otherwise from Cloud Ruler Temple," he told all of them. "We still have fifteen hundred men to defend the city with tonight; if it doesn't fall by morning, we'll be in good shape. Now get some rest. You all deserve it."
He stepped back and the meeting dispersed, most of the soldiers filing past him through the doors, inclining their heads as they passed. Several might see more combat this day if Dagon opened another Gate. His attention was diverted as the Countess walked up to him, nodding respectfully. She might be a noble and he a born commoner – he had worked his way up through the ranks from the very bottom – but she also appeared to be one of those few nobles who believed in deeds speaking louder than blood. "General, I want to thank you on the behalf of the citizens of Bruma. What we did was a risk-" her mouth twisted slightly at that; no ruler could possibly like putting their city in such a great danger "-but you and Martin made sure we were never threatened. Your soldier's blood paid for our safety; make sure they know of my gratitude."
Phillida smiled slightly. "Thank you, my lady, but spare your thanks until this war is over. The threat is constant, after all."
She returned the smile and shook her head. "No, General. You deserve it now, no matter what happens in the future. Tomorrow I'll visit the camps and pass on my message directly to your brave soldiers." One of her stewards, standing beside Burd, cleared his throat and waved her over. "Keep up the good work, General," said the Countess as she left him.
"Nice to see a blue-blood finally appreciating what we do," muttered Vignar, standing at his right shoulder and speaking too quietly to be overheard. He had a famously disparaging view of nobles who didn't fight alongside their soldiers, seeming to think that every aristocrat should act like Jarl Ulfgar of Falkreath, who had personally led his men into an Oblivion Gate and closed it.
The Imperial was tempted to roll his eyes, but instead merely turned to his most trusted companion. "Go and see to the men. I'll be along soon to see how they're doing before heading up to Cloud Ruler Temple for the night." His bodyguard saluted and turned smartly on his heel, moving off to check on how the General's bodyguard was coping. Many had fallen alongside the Blades, and most of the survivors had wounds of some kind, but they had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with one of the most elite units in the Empire and matched them blow for blow; they would be holding their heads high.
"One of the bloodiest days of my life, and I've seen a lot of fighting," observed Modryn Oreyn as he joined Phillida. The Dark Elf looked around furtively and lowered his voice. "Count on Dagon increasing his attacks. We won't last long if he forces us into numerous small-scale battles."
"I know. We have to put all our trust in Gorgoth now. Everything depends on him getting the Amulet of Kings back before we're overrun." Grandmaster Steffan had been adamant that as few people as possible knew about the warrior-shaman's planned destination; he had been slightly annoyed when he'd found that the Guildmaster had told his Champion everything, but at least Oreyn seemed like a mer who could be trusted.
The Dunmer grimaced. "I never liked relying so much on just one lone warrior to save us all, but..." He shook his head and stared off to the side. "I'm over a hundred and fifty years old, General, and I've never met anyone as dangerous as him. And he's hard. Brutal, even. But that is exactly what we need right now." He snorted. "Besides, I never liked a Guildmaster who was soft on the recruits. He's an elf of pure steel."
Phillida thought back to when he had first met Gorgoth – when he was still carrying the Orc's mace around on his back – and grunted. "I know what you mean. He'll do what needs doing." He sighed resisting the urge to knuckle his aching back. "But for now, I have to be seeing to my men. I'll count myself lucky if even half survived." Finding out who had died would be painful for him; most of them had been his bodyguards for many years, and he had hoped to see out his career without losing another man.
"I'll do the same. The Cyrodiil Guild lost nearly a quarter of its fighting strength today. Me and Gorgoth will have some rebuilding to do." The Dunmer sighed and shook his head as he took his leave, already starting to mutter under his breath.
The Imperial followed Oreyn out, suppressing a shiver as he left through the castle's formidable front doors. He had been five years younger the last time he'd been stationed somewhere this cold, and his old body wasn't as good as ignoring the elements as it used to be, particularly when he needed to rest. The sun was barely visible between the peaks of the Jeralls to the west, and the chill of the approaching night was already cutting through his armour as though it was paper. From what little he could see of Bruma through the castle's open gate, there was little in the way of celebrating or rowdy drunkenness that often appeared in a city after a victory; all the soldiers knew as well as he did that their battles were far from over, and the citizens had been quick on the uptake.
There was still much to be done. Phillida donned his plumed helmet and pulled on his gauntlets, breathing deeply before descending the stairs before him and leaving the castle's grounds. His fatigued body protested, but he had work to do; he would sleep when he was dead.
Through the windows of the quarters in Cloud Ruler Temple's Royal Wing that Ilend had commandeered, Aerin could see the last rays of the sinking sun finally giving way to the star-studded blackness of night. Her lover had already built a roaring fire in the large hearth, but she still felt cold. Upon entering, she had dropped Trueshot, her quivers and her sword belt on a nearby table and slumped down into an armchair near the hearth, staring into nothingness as her wet boots slowly created puddles on the fine green carpet.
Saliith was dead. She might have only known the Argonian for less than half a year, but he had been one of the closest friends she'd ever had in her short life. He was one of the first true friends she had made in that lonely period after leaving her father to live her own life, just after she had joined the Arena out of desperation. And now he was gone. She would never hear his rasping laughter again, never see him casually juggle his throwing knives again. She would never playfully insult his tail again.
Ilend was speaking to her, she realised. The Imperial had removed his armour and was sitting across from her, concern dominating his face as he looked into her eyes. "What?" she mumbled.
He sighed, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting her eyes again. "I know something of how you feel," he muttered. "I experienced it myself, back when I was a new recruit in the Watch. I've seen others feel it over the years." The Guildsman leaned forward. "Losing a good friend like that is always hard, and the first time is often the worst. But you can't let your grief become an obsession. You've got to move on." He stretched out a hand. "It pains me to see you like this."
The archer stared at his hand for a few seconds before grasping it, gripping it tightly to stop her hand from shaking. "I'll move on," she heard herself say. "But I... I can't just forget him like that." She dimly wondered if the pain she felt inside her would ever stop.
Ilend stood up, gently drawing the Bosmer to her feet and placing his free hand on her shoulder. "Don't forget him," he said. "I remember all my friends lost at Kvatch, I remember Selene, I remember... I remember Menien." A grimace twisted his features for a moment. "But you can't let him distract you to the point where you're consumed by his memory. Let that happen, and..." He shook his head and sighed again. "I fell into that trap after Kvatch, and my rage nearly got us both killed. No... remember him, fight for his memory, but you've got to move on and focus on the living. You can't help him any more. Let him go."
"But..." The image of Saliith's battered corpse flashed before her eyes, and she realised that tears were streaming down her cheeks. "It's..." She pressed her face into her lover's muscular chest, her arms wrapping around him and gripping him as though he was the only thing stopping her from falling into a bottomless abyss. "I can't do it," she sobbed. "It's too hard, Ilend. I'm not like you. I can't..." She trailed off, her fists tightening in the rough wool of his shirt.
"The more you love them, the harder it gets," he told her, running one hand through her hair. "Different people deal with it in different ways. Some can cope, some can't. You can. I know you can." The conviction in his voice was so strong that she raised her head to meet his eyes. They were burning with a bright intensity. "I love you, Aerin. I know you have the strength to get through this."
"I..." His trust and confidence was like a fire lighting in her heart, but Saliith's glazed eyes still intruded when she let her thoughts drift. "I wish I was so sure of myself. I just can't seem ta think of anything else. I can't..." she let her voice trail off again, struggling to think of what else to say; how could she possibly express the jumble of emotions threatening to tear her apart?
"For the love of the Divines, Aerin!" barked Ilend, his suddenly harsh tone shocking her so much that she let go of him. His jaw was set in that stubborn look that he normally got when doggedly pursuing an argument. "You won't be helping anyone – least of all yourself – if you just sit around and mourn for him for years. He wouldn't want you to remember him like that; he'd want you to respect that he died well, grieve for him, and then get on with your life and be happy. That's what he'd want! Not for you to mope around up here and drown in your own misery!" The Imperial shook his head, his chest rising and falling. "You have to let him go, Aerin," he continued, his voice softer. "He's happier where he is now. You won't help anyone by living in the past. Honour him and then keep moving forward."
The Wood Elf stared at him for a second before turning and walking to the window, glancing out at the stars but not really seeing them. He was right, she realised; her friend was dead and gone, and she couldn't help him by descending into a world of grief and tears. Gorgoth had told both of them what had happened to Vilena Donton. Pressing a hand against the window pane, she closed her eyes. She had never been particularly religious – calling upon the Nine only for use in expletives – but she offered a prayer for her friend's soul nonetheless. "I'll be seeing ya later, Twitch-Tail," she whispered softly to herself, wiping her wet cheeks. The memory of him still pained her – it would for a long time, she suspected – but it no longer dragged at her as much.
She turned from the window and looked across the room at her lover. His blunt, broad face was a picture of pain and worry. It was only then that she realised just what he had been through in his life; he had faced what she'd had to face, yet he was standing before her now, tall and proud, not curled up in a snivelling ball in the corner. He had known how to deal with her precisely because he himself had been in her position, and it had worked. The Bosmer slowly walked back over to him and offered him a weak smile. "Thanks. For everything." She cleared her throat, feeling a surge of affection for the man in front of her.
Ilend returned the smile and gently touched her cheek, tracing his thumb over the line of her jaw. "Sorry if I hurt you, but..." He shrugged, a look of reminiscence passing over his face. "It's the method Savlian Matius used with me. He said that if a man ever got like you were, the best method to get them out of their stupor was to either give them a swift kick or..." He chuckled and shook his head. "...or find them a pretty girl to take to bed. I sensed you weren't in the mood for that second option."
Aerin giggled and hugged him, feeling some of the tension finally start to leech out of her body. He guided both of them closer to the fire, and they stood in companionable silence for a few moments. The archer looked up to find her lover staring into the flickering flames, a contemplative look on his face. "Ilend?" He blinked and looked curiously down at her. "If ya don't mind me asking... what was your first loss like?"
He sighed, looking as though he had been expecting the question. "I guess it's your right to know..." He let go of her and lowered himself into the seat nearest the fire, smiling slightly when the Bosmer curled up on his lap, leaning her head on his shoulder. The Guildsman was far from the most comfortable seat she'd ever used, but the closeness of his powerful presence comforted her. He rested one of his hands on the top of her leg and shifted slightly, leaning his head back against the chair and staring off into space. "I left Skingrad and went to Kvatch when I was eighteen. Half a year later, I joined the Kvatch City Watch. You know that already." She nodded, waiting patiently; from the grim look in his eyes, he wasn't enjoying the memory.
"I had been in the service for just under a year when it happened. I was on the graveyard shift on the main gates, late at night when all the decent people were normally sleeping. There were six of us on the ground, and six more up on the walls either side of the gate. It was a quiet night. Cold, but clear. You could see all the stars." His lip curled into a grimace. "I'm no astronomer, but even I could see the Serpent clearly that night. It was a coincidence, most likely, but I still shudder whenever I see it." Aerin grunted in sympathy; there were some who claimed that the Serpent was always a harbinger of some kind of evil.
"My best friend in Kvatch was Sergius Maximus. He was my age, near enough, and he'd joined the Watch only a few months before me. A good bloke, he was. Great sense of humour. Kept everyone in the barracks entertained. He was in the bunk above me." He smirked mirthlessly. "He was big, as well, nearly as big as me. Snored like a pig, but we learned to ignore it after a while." The Imperial sighed, his free hand clenching into a fist. "Anyhow, we were both on gate duty that night, huddling as close as we could to the brazier and grumbling about anything and everything. It was a normal night, until the call came down to open the gates."
"We got them open enough to let an adventurer through, a Redguard in dented steel plate armour. His sword was chipped in several places, and he wasn't in good shape. He told us that he'd been attacked by a highwayman who'd followed him up our road and was currently outside on the plateau in front of our gates, waiting for anyone to come out again. A damned good highwayman, according to the adventurer. At least, he assumed it was a highwayman. The Watch Sergeant for that night was Menien Goneld, and he sent up to the barracks for reinforcement while asking for volunteers to deal with this threat to the peace. The adventurer was too wounded to help out, but five of us ending up going, including me and Sergius." Ilend paused and sighed, closing his eyes.
"To cut a long story short, it wasn't a highwayman. It was a madman who found out he loved killing more than anything else. In the dark, we didn't see him until he put a poisoned arrow through Sergius's throat. It took all four of us to kill him, and he wounded Menien badly. We got him to Martin in time for healing, though. But for Sergius... it was already too late. We couldn't even get him into the chapel in time. He died in my arms, lying on the cobbles of the courtyard." The Imperial's eyes opened, full of pain. Aerin, unsure of what else to do, wrapped her arms around his neck.
"Menien pulled me off duty and sent me straight back to the barracks. I was feeling numb, but I got out of my armour and into my bunk and tried to sleep. Then I realised that I'd never hear Sergius snoring above me again." He sighed through gritted teeth. "That's what finally cracked me. I went to pieces. Then Savlian Matius arrived and took me off to where we could talk alone. That was when he kicked me back into shape." The Guildsman turned his head to meet his lover's eyes. "It still hurts to remember it, and it always will. But I got over it. You'll get over Saliith as well, in time."
She nodded, pressing her face into his neck. "I will," she told him. And she would; as long as she had her lover, her rock of support, she could get through anything. "Just don't die, ya hear me? Don't die." If he died... she shuddered and gripped him tighter.
The largest training room in Cloud Ruler Temple was oddly crowded given that most of the Blades were still exhausted from the earlier battle. Many, however, were seeking to bury their grief for fallen comrades through intense activity; the sparring areas were full of sweating, bare-chested warriors fighting their comrades with wooden swords. Lathar was sitting on his usual stall, occasionally shouting some of his customary barbed advice, but he was far more muted than normal; he hadn't taken part in the battle, and knew not to test those that had. A few other Blades who had stayed behind – mostly older soldiers – were hanging around, talking with their fellow Knight Brothers and Sisters, trying to get an idea of what the battle had been like. None of them had noticed the old man standing quietly in the far corner.
Gnaeus Magnus watched the younger warriors sparring in silence, careful not to make any move. Sneaking back into Cloud Ruler Temple had been relatively easy despite his weakness from blood loss – the Ring of Khajiiti was an invaluable tool, and he'd learnt long ago how to move lightly on his feet – but he wasn't ready to reveal himself to those who knew him. Not yet.
He'd never met the nameless soldier who'd found his bleeding body on the battlefield, nor the healer who'd sealed up his wound, leaving him with a right arm that ended an inch below his shoulder. Upon waking up in Bruma's chapel, the ex-hermit had left his armour in a bundle beneath a pew and left, ignoring the protests of the healers. He didn't know why he made for Cloud Ruler Temple, and he didn't know if there was even any point in living any longer; all he knew was that he had to find some way of dying with some shred of dignity.
His death would be very soon; he'd accepted that fact long ago. He could fight with his left hand, of course – it had been part of his initial training all those decades ago – but it had always been his weaker side, and the shock of losing his arm had taken a toll on his already ravaged body. If he didn't fall in combat soon, he would suffer the indignity of a slow, creeping death, old age making him a burden to others before he finally wheezed his last.
The clack of wood on wood brought his mind back to the present. Caroline had been one of the first Blades to enter the room, so he'd gathered, and hadn't stopped fighting since, despite clearly battling exhaustion. No doubt she'd lost someone particularly close to her. Gnaeus wouldn't suffer the same loss again; all desire to build any kind of friendship had left him when Selene died. Any relationship would be useless now in any case; it would bring only sorrow and mourning after his inevitable death. His only remaining ambition was to be able to spit in Dagon's eye as he died.
Raising his hand to his mouth, he took the Ring of Khajiiti off his finger with his teeth, spitting it into his palm and shoving it into the pocket of his tunic before walking out into the light. Ignoring the glances of the Blades, he walked over to a tall bucket full of practice blades and slid one out, hefting it to test the weight before gripping the ridged hilt firmly. Hunger gnawed at his stomach – he hadn't eaten since before dawn – but he shrugged it off and turned back to the room, looking for someone willing to help him take his mind off his troubles. He didn't have to wait; an exhausted Callia Petit dropped her sword and staggered away from Roliand, pausing only to grab a towel from one of her comrades before slumping down with her back against the wall. Gnaeus wasted no time in striding forward and firmly planting himself in front of the huge Nord, who raised an eyebrow at his stump but otherwise did nothing but raise his practice blade.
"Don't go easy on me," growled the Imperial, not giving the Blade a chance to reply as he sprang forward, wooden blade darting for his adversary's neck. Roliand parried the blow and took a step back, flicking aside two more attacks before striking at the ex-hermit's flank. Spinning away from the attack, Gnaeus grunted as he unexpectedly staggered; he was used to having the weight of his right arm balancing him. Stepping back rapidly, he dodged another blow and then lunged forward, jabbing towards the Nord's abdomen. His opponent jerked sideways, suffering a scratch across the ribs, but less than a second later his blade cracked into the side of the Imperial's neck.
Wincing, Gnaeus stepped back, attempting to raise his right hand to touch the painful welt before remembering that he didn't have a right hand any more. Roliand eyed him with something like wariness, keeping his weapon at the ready. "Seems I'm going to need more practice before I'm much of a threat to a Dremora," said the ex-hermit, shifting back into a combat stance. "Come on. If I'm going to die well, I can't afford to be an easy kill. You up for beating on an old man for a few hours?" The Knight Brother nodded, his face hardening. "Good." Gnaeus stepped forward and threw himself into his practice, clearing his thoughts and losing himself in the chaos of combat.
Martin woke slowly, coming out of a deep slumber with reluctance despite his troubled dreams. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times, staring uncomprehendingly at the roof of his large four-poster bed as his sluggish mind attempted to decipher what exactly had woken him. The answer was provided by Grandmaster Steffan diplomatically clearing his throat. "It's two hours past sunrise, sire," he said, standing stiffly to attention at the foot of the bed. "Not that you can really tell, what with the snow that's hammering us."
The Emperor grunted with annoyance and sat up, shivering as the blankets slipped down his bare chest but forcing himself to ignore it. "I've slept for too long," he muttered, pushing his tousled hair back out of his eyes. "Why didn't you wake me before?"
Steffan snorted. "I'd have woken you an hour ago, but even now it almost took a direct order to stop your Captain of the Imperial Bodyguard physically blocking my entrance to your quarters." Unable to suppress a smirk, he nodded towards Captain Renault, who was standing rigidly beside the door to Martin's antechamber.
Martin rubbed his upper lip, hiding his wry smile. "Well, I'm not going to stop her from doing her job," he replied, climbing out of bed and walking over to his wardrobe. He was naked, but Sanguine's orgies had rapidly stripped him of what little modesty had remained to him. "We'll open the portal to Paradise today, but I still need to go over the Xarxes to make sure I've got the ritual perfected, and Gorgoth has to be fully rested first. Is there anything you have to report?"
"Only one thing, sire. We've taken care of everything else here, and General Phillida has the situation well in hand. He's based here, but his messengers are coming and going frequently." The Imperial's voice was grim, and Martin suddenly got the feeling that he knew what was written on the sheet of parchment in the Grandmaster's hand. "This is the casualty list, sire. We took eighty-seven Blades to the battle, sixty of whom formed your personal bodyguard. The rest went with me." He paused. "We lost thirty-eight dead. Most of the wounded were healed, but some..." He grimaced; there was no need to voice the fact that some wounds could not be healed. "Four lost arms or legs; they'll never fight again."
The Emperor finished belting his trousers and took the list, studying it carefully, committing each name to memory. These men and women had fought and died for him; he would remember them until his dying day. They deserved that much, at least, that and the honour of their katanas hanging in the Great Hall. The four cripples would retire into the Talos Cult with generous pensions, most likely; he would talk with each of them before the day was out. He had known few of the forty-two on the list personally, but even so, their loss pained him; they had willingly given their lives so that he might live. They had died because of him. Now he knew his ancestors must have felt like when they sent their Legions to fight and die for them.
Looking up, he saw his own pain reflected in the eyes of the two Blades. Of course; they, unlike him, had known their comrades personally. "I'll meet the wounded personally later," he told them. "As for the rest... did they have families, relatives...?"
"I'll take care of that," responded Steffan. "You have more important tasks than clerical duties." He saluted, fist to heart. "By your leave, my Emperor." He waited for Martin's nod before turning and leaving the room. Just past the doorway, however, he paused. "Each of us would die for you, Martin, a thousand times over, and be happy." He closed the door behind him without waiting for a response.
The Emperor looked at the door for a few seconds before carefully placing the casualty list on his bedside table and pulling a shirt on. "Did you get any sleep yourself, Captain?" he asked.
"I got enough, sire." Had his mood been lighter, the Imperial would have grinned; she had probably slept four hours at most. Given what had happened to his father and half-brothers, he couldn't blame her for being over-protective. He pulled on the same tattered robe he'd worn from Kvatch and belted it, glancing over at the stand where his gilded plate armour stood, arranged as though he was wearing it. One of the Blades had cleaned the blood off, but it would take attention from the armourer to repair several chips and dents.
"Well, don't stand guard until the point of collapse. There are Blades in this fortress equally capable of protecting me." He looked across the room and met her eyes. "I've already had thirty-eight people die for me, Cassandra. Don't let exhaustion cost me a thirty-ninth."
A ghost of a smile broke through the Breton's look of fixed neutrality as she saluted. "As you command, my Emperor. I'll be waiting outside." She left the room. Martin turned to look at Goldbrand, sitting on a stand near his armour. It had served him well in the battle, and he was tempted to attach it to his belt, but he left it where it lay and took his plain steel dagger instead. In the Temple, he would have both the Blades and his magic to protect him, and he preferred to have as little contact with the Daedra and their artefacts as possible. Rubbing a hand over his stubble and deciding that he could put off shaving until later, he sat down on his bed to pull on his boots.
After washing and combing his shoulder-length hair into some semblance of neatness, he left his bedchamber, nodding to Renault and sifting through the small pile of papers on his writing desk. Finding nothing new or important, he turned to his bodyguard. "I want the reagents for the ritual ready to be assembled in the Great Hall, near the hearth. I want Gorgoth invading Paradise before the day is out." One battle had ended; another, far more important, was about to begin.
Gorgoth stood alone on the windswept walls of Cloud Ruler Temple, staring out into the distance and ignoring the snow falling on his head and shoulders, streams of water running down the folds and lines of his battle plate as it melted. All four of his weapons were strapped to his belts, along with a full stock of potions and two Welkynd Stones. His helmet hung from its hook at his hip, ready to be donned in an instant. To the inhabitants of the Temple, he appeared ready and willing to go to battle in a heartbeat. In fact, the warrior-shaman was in deep thought, attempting to formulate a battle plan. It was hard, however, to plan for an endeavour that all his instincts were telling him was a suicide mission. Yet he could not fail. The world was depending on him; if he failed, all was lost.
He remembered his previous encounter with Camoran. His own preparations had been hasty, true, but the fact remained that the Altmer, despite being surprised, had overwhelmed him. And now Gorgoth would be coming to him, not on the neutral battlefield of Tamriel, but in the world that Camoran had created for himself. His enemy held every advantage; how, then, was the Orc to win?
The warrior-shaman was still pondering this vital question when he was joined on the battlements by someone he hadn't expected to see out in this weather. "Greetings, Aerin," he said, turning his head slightly so he could see her in the corner of his eye. "What brings you here?"
She didn't answer immediately, huddling deeper inside her thick cloak and pressing herself against his side as though she could extract some warmth from beneath his layers of steel. "I want ta talk, Gorgoth, but..." The Bosmer looked up at the dark, threatening clouds that loomed overhead and shivered. "Could we go some place warmer?"
In response, he stepped away from her and cast a magical shield around her body, the snow impacting the invisible barrier and dripping down to the stone under her feet. At the same time, he magically warmed the air inside the shield. The archer looked around and held out a hand, raising an eyebrow but clearly impressed. "Much obliged," she said, turning to look up at him, throwing back the hood of her cloak. "Not making one for yourself?"
Gorgoth shook his head. "Why would I? This weather would be called autumnal in the Wrothgarians. It is good to feel the chill of a cool wind on your skin sometimes." Snowflakes were turning his war braids white in places, and water was trickling down his neck into the furs he wore under his armour, but he was used to far worse than this in the winters of Orsinium.
Aerin rolled her eyes. "Should have known," she muttered under her breath. She cleared her throat and moved closer. "I heard about Lurog," she started.
"Do not mourn him. He died exactly as he would have wanted. I will honour his memory, but I will not dwell on his passing." He turned to meet her eyes. To her credit, she held his gaze. "You did not come out in this weather to make small talk. What is it you want?"
The Bosmer sighed, looking down at the melting snow around her feet. "Defeating Camoran ain't going ta be easy, is it?"
"No." Gorgoth shook his head, resting his hands on the edge of the outer wall. "I barely survived our battle at Lake Arrius. He is a more powerful mage than I am, with hundreds of years of experience. And now we will be fighting in the plane that he created himself." He stared expressionlessly out into the swirling whiteness. "I cannot see any way of defeating him. I will learn more when I enter Paradise, of course, but at the moment... victory is far from certain."
"Are ya sure ya have ta go in alone? Someone could..."
"Martin said the ritual is very specific. Only one can enter. And there never seemed to be any doubt as to who should be the one to go." The Orc snorted. He wondered if those putting their blind faith and trust in him had ever considered the possibility that he might fail.
The Wood Elf raised her head again, biting her lip. "You'll need all the help ya can get, right?"
"It does not shame me to admit that I am not the equal of Camoran. I will make use of whatever I can."
"Then..." She sighed, shaking her head as though arguing with herself. Finally, she stepped closer, arching her neck to meet his eyes and forcing him to expand the shield to cover both of them. "Take Trueshot. Ya never know when it might be useful. Could give you an edge."
Gorgoth arched an eyebrow slightly. "That bow means almost as much to you as Ilend does. Your trust in me must be absolute for you to even consider this."
Aerin smiled. "I've learnt a lot since ya picked me up all those months ago, big guy," she replied, turning to stand beside him and watch the snow fall. "Back then, you'd need something special ta prise it away from me. But now... it's just a bow, ain't it? A bloody powerful bow, but I could get a new one. I couldn't replace Ilend or you so easily." She rested her bare hands on the snow-covered wall, watching as the heating spell surrounding her instantly began to melt the frozen rain. "If ya fail in Paradise, we're all dead. So take it. It ain't going ta be much use sitting back here with me."
"You truly have changed. For the better." The young, carefree, innocent gladiator he'd met all those months ago had largely survived, but he could tell that she had also matured. Those deep blue eyes had been aged by what they'd seen. "I often find it odd how trust is so easily placed in someone you truly don't know. What do you know about me?" He was curious; he'd told her little, but she might have heard more.
She snorted. "Not as much as I'd like. You've hardly told me much, and I don't like asking behind your back, but..." She looked up at him and spread her arms. "I don't care. I don't need to know everything you've done in your past. I trust ya. And I like ya, somehow. Never thought I'd have ended up feeling that." An exasperated smile spread across her face. "I know, I know. You're probably going ta tell me you've committed some unforgivable crime in the past. But I don't care, big guy. I like ya for who you are now." The Bosmer chuckled. "Divines, that sounds stupid. If you'd told me back when we first met that I'd end up like this, then I'd have laughed in your face. Well, not your face... I seem ta recall you almost strangling me ta death soon after we met?"
Gorgoth suppressed a smile. "I was asking you an important question. It seemed wise to impose myself."
"Impose yourself? Ya had me pinned ta the wall of my own shack with my boots two feet off the ground!" The Wood Elf laughed and playfully punched his upper arm. "Then again, ya probably thought I was going ta report ya for murdering the Emperor. I don't blame ya." Her expression grew more serious again. "So now here we are..." She shrugged off her cloak and took Trueshot off her back, also removing her quiver and rummaging around in her pockets for her bowstrings. "Take it," she said, holding out the weapon. "Whether ya need it nor not, it'll be more use in Paradise than it will be out here with me."
The warrior-shaman slowly took the unstrung bow, attaching the half-full quiver to his belt before running his gauntleted hands over the silver-worked enchanted wood. Built for Argonians, it would effectively be a short bow for him, but its penetrative power would be greater than even his massive Orcish battle bow. It would certainly be an option worthy of consideration when fighting Camoran. "I hope ya can shoot straight," observed Aerin as she watched him string it, unable to hide her anxiousness.
"Not as well as you," admitted the warlord, testing the draw and nodding in satisfaction. "But then, there are few who can. I generally hit what I aim at. Though keep in mind that magic is a far more potent weapon than this bow will ever be."
"I know," admitted Aerin. "But it's another option, ain't it? Besides, this way I don't feel so bloody... useless."
Gorgoth lowered Trueshot and placed a hand on her shoulder. "You, Aerin, have been far from useless in this war. You have fought well and bravely. I doubt Malacath has ever noticed you, but if he had, I do not think he would be displeased." He tightened his grip. "They call me the Hero of Kvatch, but there is more than one hero in this war. You have done well."
In the time he'd known her, the Bosmer had rarely been rendered speechless, but it appeared that now was one of those times. Her mouth opened then closed then opened again as she struggled for words. "T-thanks, big guy," she finally managed to stammer. "That... Coming from you, that means... a lot." She stepped forward and hugged him despite his armour and the fact that she couldn't fit her arms fully around his thick body. As he put his free arm around her shoulders, Gorgoth realised that he actually liked her. An odd thought, but the little Bosmer seemed to have skill in worming her way into people's affections whether they expected it or not.
"I will be leaving for Paradise soon," he told her. "Martin is setting up the ritual and will send for me when he is ready." She pulled back enough to meet his eyes, concern appearing in her expression. "I know I can defeat Camoran. I do not know if I will defeat him. But I do not intend to fail."
The Wood Elf smiled in what she probably thought was a reassuring manner. "Course ya won't," she said. "You'll kick his golden arse into next week and waltz back with the Amulet in time for dinner. I know you'll do it, big guy."
Gorgoth thought of telling her that such blind confidence could so easily lead to disappointment, but Aerin was Aerin; he would not try to change her. Not any more. He stepped back from her and looked out beyond the wall. The snowfall seemed to be getting lighter. "I will do my best not to betray your confidence. But for now, I could use some time to think." She nodded and turned to leave, but stopped as he raised Trueshot. "Thank you for this. I will return it or die trying."
Aerin laughed. "Damn right, you'd better," she told him, raising a chiding finger. "It's a good bow, and I paid Rohssan good money for it." Winking at him, she waved and turned away, walking quickly back towards the Royal Wing. He held the shield and warming spell until she had reached the door, then let it dissipate and turned back to staring into the distance. Occasionally he fingered the bow in his hands, furiously pondering the question of how to get past the defences of a very powerful mage who was expecting him.
He still hadn't come up with a definitive answer when boots crunching in the snow announced the arrival of a Blade. "Gorgoth." The warrior-shaman turned to find Callia staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face, a change from the usual dislike that was so evident when she normally looked at him. "Martin is ready for you."
The warlord nodded slowly, taking one last look up at the clouds before turning towards the Great Hall. "Bards will sing about the battle we just fought, Callia, but this will be where we win or lose the war." He slung Trueshot over his shoulder and started walking. "Pray to whatever gods you follow. This will not be easy."
A/N: I'm not sure if the next chapter will be short or long; it all depends on how long it takes to write the Paradise section, as I've got a fair bit happening while Gorgoth's in Paradise. Either way, keep in mind that your reviews can only help me; your helpful, honest reviews inspired me to get off my lazy arse and write, so keep that up and my motivation will increase correspondingly. That's not to say, however, that I'm demanding reviews to finish this, far from it; I'd finish BaS and write more fics if I got no reviews at all. But given what I've poured into this fic, it's hardly much to ask for a few minutes of your time to leave feedback and tell me if I did well or not. So keep up the reviewing. :)