A/N story of Manetheren pulled from the Eye of the World. Book one to the Wheel of time.
...
The rest of that day was spent with his Ward mates. Hours passed with a fairly good time. They badgered him about his time in the White Tower. They wanted to know if he had bonded with an Aes Sedai. He had not and had to reiterate the fact several times before they believed him.
Other things they wanted to know was about his travels. Will spoke quite highly of his time in Tear and Caemlyn. Those were the main cities that he spent time in as a Thief Catcher. Surrounding villages would also seek him out.
In order to get some peace from his travels he spoke of the story of Manetheren. It was a long forgotten story. One that was sad and pulled at the hearts of men. He had been told of it when he was with Lan.
Will stared into the fire, the light making his eyes more golden than brown as he said in a low hypnotic voice, "Manetheren was located in and around the southern Mountains of Mist. It's capital city was also called Manetheren and was located in the mountains between the headwaters of the Tarendrelle and the Manetherendrelle. Its other major, Ogier-built cities included Corartheren, Jara'copan, and Shanaine which is now the site of Jehannah. To put into perspective it would encompass most of Andor today. To the south, lies the river they call the White River, but far to the east of here men call it still by its rightful name. Manetherendrelle. In the Old Tongue, Waters of the Mountain Home. Sparkling waters that once coursed through a land of bravery and beauty. Two thousand years ago Manetherendrelle flowed by the walls of a mountain city so lovely to behold that Ogier stonemasons came to stare in wonder. Farms and villages covered this region, and that you call the Forest of Shadows, as well, and beyond. But all of those folk thought of themselves as the people of the Mountain Home, the people of Manetheren."
Unbeknownst to Will the half tavern went silent. Those closest to him were watching, eyes were on his alight with curiosity and captivated by the story. So far the rest had not yet taken notice of him and his story telling.
"Their King was Aemon al Caar al Thorin, Aemon son of Caar son of Thorin, and Eldrene ay Ellan ay Carlan was his Queen. Aemon, a man so fearless that the greatest compliment for courage any could give, even among his enemies, was to say a man had Aemon's heart. Eldrene, so beautiful that it was said the flowers bloomed to make her smile. Bravery and beauty and wisdom and a love that death could not sunder. Weep, if you have a heart, for the loss of them, for the loss of even their memory. Weep, for the loss of their blood."
A few more people went silent but Will's focus was still on the fire. Lost in the thought of what had come and gone. As the Aes Sedai would say the Wheel weaves as the Wheel wills.
"For nearly two centuries the Trolloc Wars had ravaged the length and breadth of the world, and wherever battles raged, the Red Eagle banner of Manetheren was in the forefront. The men of Manetheren were a thorn to the Dark One's foot and a bramble to his hand. Sing of Manetheren, that would never bend knee to the Shadow. Sing of Manetheren, the sword that could not be broken.
"They were far away, the men of Manetheren, on the Field of Bekkar, called the Field of Blood, when news came that a Trolloc army was moving against their home. Too far to do else but wait to hear of their land's death, for the forces of the Dark One meant to make an end of them. Kill the mighty oak by hacking away its roots. Too far to do else but mourn. But they were the men of the Mountain Home.
No the entire tavern was silent. No one wanted to break his concentration. They were afraid that he would stop the moment that he was interrupted. Then they would never hear the end.
"Without hesitation, without thought for the distance they must travel, they marched from the very field of victory, still covered in dust and sweat and blood. Day and night they marched, for they had seen the horror a Trolloc army left behind it, and no man of them could sleep while such a danger threatened Manetheren. They moved as if their feet had wings, marching further and faster than friends hoped or enemies feared they could. At any other day that march alone would have inspired songs. When the Dark One's armies swooped down upon the lands of Manetheren, the men of the Mountain Home stood before it, with their backs to the Tarendrelle."
"The host that faced the men of Manetheren was enough to daunt the bravest heart. Ravens blackened the sky; Trollocs blackened the land. Trollocs and their human allies. Trollocs and Darkfriends in tens of tens of thousands, and Dreadlords to command. At night their cook-fires outnumbered the stars, and dawn revealed the banner of Ba'alzamon at their head. Ba'alzamon, Heart of the Dark. An ancient name for the Father of Lies. The Dark One could not have been free of his prison at Shayol Ghul, for if he had been, not all the forces of humankind together could have stood against him, but there was power there. Dreadlords, and some evil that made that light-destroying banner seem no more than right and sent a chill into the souls of the men who faced it.
"Yet, they knew what they must do. Their homeland lay just across the river. They must keep that host, and the power with it, from the Mountain Home. Aemon had sent out messengers. Aid was promised if they could hold for but three days at the Tarendrelle. Hold for three days against odds that should overwhelm them in the first hour. Yet somehow, through bloody assault and desperate defense, they held through an hour, and the second hour, and the third. For three days they fought, and though the land became a butcher's yard, no crossing of the Tarendrelle did they yield. By the third night no help had come, and no messengers, and they fought on alone. For six days. For nine. And on the tenth day Aemon knew the bitter taste of betrayal. No help was coming, and they could hold the river crossings no more."
The door to the tavern opened and a cloaked man entered. He paused in the doorway unsure of what he was walking in on. Eventually he took a seat at the bar and was given a mug of ale.
"Aemon crossed the Tarendrelle," Will told them, his voice becoming hallow "destroying the bridges behind him. And he sent word throughout his land for the people to flee, for he knew the powers with the Trolloc horde would find a way to bring it across the river. Even as the word went out, the Trolloc crossing began, and the soldiers of Manetheren took up the fight again, to buy with their lives what hours they could for their people to escape. From the city of Manetheren, Eldrene organized the flight of her people into the deepest forests and the fastness of the mountains.
"But some did not flee. First in a trickle, then a river, then a flood, men went, not to safety, but to join the army fighting for their land. Shepherds with bows, and farmers with pitchforks, and woodsmen with axes. Women went, too, shouldering what weapons they could find and marching side by side with their men. No one made that journey who did not know they would never return. But it was their land. It had been their fathers', and it would be their children's, and they went to pay the price of it. Not a step of ground was given up until it was soaked in blood, but at the last the army of Manetheren was driven back, back to here, to this place we now call Emond's Field. And here the Trolloc hordes surrounded them."
The newcomer sat forward he was listening to the story with a rare intensity. Will's hands tightened on his knees as he paused here. So many were dead and for betrayal. He was not of the Manetheren blood.
"Trolloc dead and the corpses of human renegades piled up in mounds, but always more scrambled over those charnel heaps in waves of death that had no end. There could be but one finish. No man or woman who had stood beneath the banner of the Red Eagle at that day's dawning still lived when night fell. The sword that could not be broken was shattered.
"In the Mountains of Mist, alone in the emptied city of Manetheren, Eldrene felt Aemon die, and her heart died with him. And where her heart had been was left only a thirst for vengeance, vengeance for her love, vengeance for her people and her land. Driven by grief she reached out to the True Source, and hurled the One Power at the Trolloc army. And there the Dreadlords died wherever they stood, whether in their secret councils or exhorting their soldiers. In the passing of a breath the Dreadlords and the generals of the Dark One's host burst into flame. Fire consumed their bodies, and terror consumed their just-victorious army."
"Now they ran like beasts before a wildfire in the forest, with no thought for anything but escape. North and south they fled. Thousands drowned attempting to cross the Tarendrelle without the aid of the Dreadlords, and at the Manetherendrelle they tore down the bridges in their fright at what might be following them. Where they found people, they slew and burned, but to flee was the need that gripped them. Until, at last, no one of them remained in the lands of Manetheren. They were dispersed like dust before the whirlwind. The final vengeance came more slowly, but it came, when they were hunted down by other peoples, by other armies in other lands. None was left alive of those who did murder at Aemon's Field.
"But the price was high for Manetheren. Eldrene had drawn to herself more of the One Power than any human could ever hope to wield unaided. As the enemy generals died, so did she die, and the fires that consumed her consumed the empty city of Manetheren, even the stones of it, down to the living rock of the mountains. Yet the people had been saved.
"Nothing was left of their farms, their villages, or their great city. Some would say there was nothing left for them, nothing but to flee to other lands, where they could begin anew. They did not say so. They had paid such a price in blood and hope for their land as had never been paid before, and now they were bound to that soil by ties stronger than steel. Other wars would wrack them in years to come, until at last their corner of the world was forgotten and at last they had forgotten wars and the ways of war. Never again did Manetheren rise. Its soaring spires and splashing fountains became as a dream that slowly faded from the minds of its people. But they, and their children, and their children's children, held the land that was theirs. They held it when the long centuries had washed the why of it from their memories. They held it until, today, there is you. Weep for Manetheren. Weep for what is lost forever."
As if one the tavern took a breath and the spell was broken. Will blinked coming back to himself having been caught in his own story. Why had he told that one? Of all the the stories he could tell it had to be one of the darkest stories.
When he turned to his Ward mates he saw tears in all of their eyes. Guilt ate at him. He brought that about. He should have chosen a happier story.
"My apologies," he whispered pained, "I did not mean to upset you."
"No it's okay, Will," said Jenny, "We... We just weren't expecting that."
"Is it true?" Asked someone.
Will sighed, "It is true. As told to me by my teacher while I was away."
That had everyone quietly discussing his story. Will stood with every intention of heading to his room. As he did though he saw a man at the bar staring at him. Dark eyes caught Will's brown ones. His breath caught in his throat. Something about that man screamed that he knew the young man. His hand twitched towards his sword an old nervous tick. Then he though better of it. He wasn't well known here anymore. No matter his coin they would not take kindly to him drawing a blade.
Instead he said, "Good night everyone. Most likely I'll see you again as we prepare to become apprentices."
"Good night Will." Intoned the others.
Cautiously he glanced back towards where the man was. Only to find him gone. That wasn't good.