(A/N: Many thanks to Dragon-of-the-north for helping me iron out one of the plot points in this chapter. This is a transitional chapter for which I apologize, as it is not quite up to my usual standards. As usual, elves and the general world belong to Tolkien but the original characters and locations are mine.)
Responses to Reviewers:
TreeHugger- Well, Farvas' true colors come out below. She definitely has issues with how she perceives herself. Outside of the story, I can't say anything more about Sirgo. Draw your own conclusions. Glad you liked my religious statement; I really think that the way various canon characters were in the right place at the right time bears out the truth of this. Deol and Graldor's sunbeam- makes you wonder how many different powers are at work here, and why.
Dragon-of-the-north- First I just want to express my amusement that you and Tree mostly commented on the same elements; it becomes obvious that part of why SPSC is so good is because you two think alike. If you didn't respect Farvas before, you certainly won't now. Whether or not Caldrion's weakness will be part of his fall remains to be seen… A theme that I didn't originally intend to address but wound up asserting its presence anyway is the discrepancy between intention and interpretation among demonstrations of power. And, after showing that Graldor's political philosophy influenced the Romans and Machiavelli, this chapter proves that Robert Browning stole much of one of his poems from Caldrion :-)
Greetings from Mordor- One more chapter to go to the battle, but at least I included an execution in this chapter just for you. Thank you again for the compliments.
Wings of the Storm, Chapter VII- Awakenings
[Perhaps the most significant flaw with this tale is the timeline. Some maintain that an event such as that depicted in this story would have taken hundreds of years, while others think it might span only a few decades. My father's telling of the tale is closer to the latter, and, though I suspect the former is probably correct, I have kept the more time-compressed version of the tale to preserve the dramatic qualities.]
It had been more than a few years since Caldrion had seen a summer day this pretty… and not just because of the weather. Though they had been married many years, something about the way the wind teased her red hair and the way the sun lit up her face, the smoothness of her cheek and the playful blue of her eyes, made her look more beautiful than the day he first met her. The children were there too, practicing their swordsmanship and riding skills. They were better than he had been at their ages, and he would not object to having them fight beside him, even the girls. They were his treasures, and he and Graldor, who was like a second father to them, had taught them well.
But it was a different sort of treasure Caldrion sought this day. Betlin had seen something glittering in the stream, gold born out of the mountains by the snow. Aratur was already queen of the plains, and now she would have a crown. What he was finding, though, was not gold, but something else shimmering in the water. He shook his head. This was fool's gold, a fool's errand, a fool's life.
A fish flashed in the clear, cold water. Something made him tense. He looked up. There was a storm blowing in from the east, and somehow it was so terrifying that it petrified him. There was a whirlwind beneath, looking vaguely familiar, like something from a life long forgotten. He squinted, vainly trying to see the rider, but all he perceived was a voice, echoing faintly in the distance as though it were not meant for him. "I have come to carry you home. I have
"Brought water, my lord."
Caldrion, shaking off the last of what had become, at least in part, a familiar dream, nodded to Dunev. Caldrion's transition from squire to trusted advisor had been completed shortly after the campaign had ended, when Graldor had given him the boy Dunev as servant and squire. Two harvests had passed since then, and much had changed, but one thing had not: Graldor remained aloof. In addition to his detachment, he was also absent at odd times, which Caldrion strongly suspected was due to the influence of the ring. Though he saw the man he had once thought of as an older brother on a daily basis, he led a separate existence from Graldor.
And it might have been more separate, if Caldrion had allowed it. Upon returning from the campaign, Graldor had concluded that the best way to provide shelter for the new citizens of the town was to build a new settlement, since they would have had to expand the wall in order to build enough new houses in Aratur. The site chosen was less than an hour's ride on horse west of Aratur, on a small knoll just north of the stream. As the construction of Hillguard (so named because it would be easier to defend than Aratur) neared completion that autumn, Graldor had offered Caldrion command of the settlement. Caldrion had declined, protesting that he was too young and too inexperienced for such a position of authority. Graldor had shown little emotion at his refusal, but Caldrion could sense the disappointment simmering beneath the surface.
Hillguard was thus led by Sirgo, with Frealine commanding the military presence in the town. Orthior was originally slated for the former post, but Graldor had unexpectedly changed his mind, which Caldrion suspected was on account of the fact that, while Sirgo had a habit of questioning the King's decisions, Orthior concurred with pretty much everything Graldor decided in court. A year and a half later, both towns were thriving, and the increase in population had led to a substantial increase in the number of babies, which raised the spirits of everyone, possibly excepting Graldor and the mothers of said babies, at least in the middle of the night.
Despite his demeanor, though, the people had found a new reverence for Graldor. Though most preferred to forget the accompanying bloodbath, none who had been present forgot how he had materialized in the sunbeam, clearly demonstrating that he was not a 'witch king' but rather a man favored by powers above himself. He was less of a human, rarely socializing with people like he used to, but much more of a leader.
Caldrion got out of bed. He would get another firsthand look at that leadership today; it was court day again, much to his chagrin. Before the campaign, court days were fairly informal and occurred only occasionally, which translated as 'whenever Graldor felt like it.' Now they were a regular and far more frequent happening.
As Caldrion slipped into his space in the hall, the foremost reason he hated court had just begun. Fremus had just proclaimed Graldor the "Ruler of all he surveys." Caldrion thought back, trying to remember a truly pleasant court. Since the campaign had ended, they had consisted of Fremus reading the full list of Graldor's titles, Melgras, in far more words than necessary, proclaiming the Court of the King open for matters to be brought for his consideration, and zero to three people coming forward with petty complaints against their neighbors. The most interesting were when Sirgo or Frealine had some decision they were saving for Graldor, who was still their nominal superior, but that did not happen very often.
No, the court Caldrion remembered most distinctly was the first or second after the celebratory feast at the end of the campaign. The two elves who had been rescued at Rivertown had come forward requesting horses so they could return to their kin. Caldrion had never actually gotten a good look at them, but they were not like the elves he remembered seeing in his childhood; the time among the orcs had taken a heavy toll, and they had wounds that would never heal. The foot of one was no longer recognizable as such, forcing the elf to hobble along with a crutch, and the other had lost most of his nose, a disfigurement at odds with his otherwise handsome face. Caldrion pitied them greatly and assumed that the King would willingly assent to their request. But the King was not the same man he once was. Graldor had hotly denied them and launched into an angry tirade about their refusal to interbreed with the humans of Aratur and improve his kingdom's bloodlines. Which made no sense at all to Caldrion. In addition to the multiple logical fallacies involved in such a plan, Caldrion had never even heard of this. Based on their expressions of puzzlement, disgust, and fear, this was the first the elves had heard of it as well.
He had tried to talk with Graldor afterward, but the King had remained stony and obstinate. "If they want my excellent horses to take home and mate with their own, that's fine, but they can't do such a thing without payment. I want elven blood in Aratur."
"Why should you want elven blood in Aratur? I know both of them have long hair, but I am fairly certain that they are both male, in which case all they could do is father children of no relation to you."
Graldor looked skeptical. "Meaning?"
Caldrion's temper spilled over a bit. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Meaning there will be half-elven children in Aratur. Who would be a threat to your throne should a usurper decide to use them as such. Or rivals to your children, should you ever decide to father some of unquestionable paternity."
Graldor seemed puzzled, as though he had never considered that possibility, but, as his hand shifted in his pocket, he provided an answer nevertheless. "I want men of elven lineage in Aratur to provide me with excellent warriors who have long-life spans and can aid my army with magic. These will be no usurpers. I will raise them to be especially loyal to me."
"But you already have men like that. Halin, Frealine, Yilisond, Neblis, and many others are excellent soldiers and loyal. I have, for better or worse, a long-life span, assuming it isn't interrupted in battle. And I don't know what this magic you speak of is, but I would say Sirgo is as close a magician as Aratur will ever see. Why should you feel the need to supplant such men? And besides, human beings, or elf beings in this case, are not like horses, to be mated to serve the purposes of their owners. There is a certain dignity among the civilized folk of the world that you would be needlessly violating if you compelled them to do this. And elves with humans? Even in the legends, elves have only twice mated with men. It's unheard of to have such crossbreeding in this day and age, especially of the casual, loveless nature you propose."
"What is your obsession with love? Even if such an emotion exists, there is no good reason that practical considerations should be subjected to it. I will not yet force them to do anything yet, but those elves must know that they will not have horses until they do what is required."
That night, Caldrion had gone to one of the stables, found two older stallions, and led them to the hut where the elves were staying. The elves looked surprised and furtive, leading Caldrion to suspect that they might be planning an escape. He told them to gather their possessions, which were few enough, and follow him. He took them to the gate and conversed with the sentry while they rode out. The man did not see their faces, and when he asked who they were, Caldrion just said "King's business." It was only after they were gone that Caldrion realized he had never really spoken with them and did not know their names.
Despite Caldrion's fears, if anyone, including Graldor, noticed his role in the absence of the elves and the stallions, they made no mention of it. Betlin even told Caldrion privately that he had heard Graldor muse that elves must have escaped by using "damned elvish magic."
The sound of laughter recalled Caldrion from his reverie. Fremus and Melgras were both done. It looked like Graldor had been speaking but Egien had started laughing at something he said. What that was, Caldrion would never find out, because Graldor stormed out of the hall and the people, now that their King had left, wandered back to their normal lives. Caldrion did likewise, glad that he now had most of the day still ahead of him: plenty of time to practice.
Caldrion already ranked among the best swordsmen in the Grand Army of Aratur, and since the last campaign he had improved his riding skills tremendously. Now Neblis was teaching him the art of fighting from horseback, which he found far more difficult than doing either individually. Graldor's hope was that, given several more years, there would be enough horses for every man in the army to be mounted and, if Caldrion was to keep his high standing in the army, he would have to be more skilled fighting on horseback than other potential leaders. Neblis was very helpful and had given him many tips on improving his technique, but his problem ultimately came down to his inability to think about steering the horse and swinging the sword at the same time. The day before, Neblis had encouraged Caldrion to try to think like the horse by steering with his knees instead of the reins, and he was sure this would be the way he overcame this difficulty.
That evening, Caldrion, feeling extremely sore and slightly discouraged, needed no prompting to slip off into a dreamless sleep.
Caldrion's gentle return to consciousness was accelerated by barely muffled screams from the hallway without. "What now?" he wondered. A couple minutes later, as he emerged from his room, he saw the source of the disturbance: the night sentry for this passage was still at his watch, but his head was not. Caldrion's first reaction was probably similar to that of the others. Graldor had started posting sentries within the palace since his return from campaigning, for fear that someone might still be clinging to the lies of Deol and would try to kill the King and take his ring. If one of the sentries was dead, such a thing might have happened overnight.
But before Caldrion ran off to check, he heard one of the others speak a name, which told him who had killed the man and where his head was. The dead sentry was Egien.
And, as expected, his head sat on a stake above the gate. Caldrion's anger at seeing a man killed for laughing made him bold. As he barged into the King's bedchamber a couple minutes later, he roared "Graldor, this has got to stop!" Before he could continue, though, he had to take in the strange sight. Graldor had not been a neat person, nor had he ever wanted Caldrion to try to keep his chamber neat, but now the bedroom was immaculate. No clothes were littering the floor, and the bed was made up so perfectly it might not have been slept in… and in fact, it could not have been, as a surprisingly thick layer of dust covered the blanket and pillows.
There was a slight movement in the corner as Graldor looked up. He was huddled on the chair, holding the ring before his face between two thumbs and two fingers. Caldrion strode across the room and swatted it out of Graldor's hands, sending it clattering across the room. Graldor stood suddenly, his eyes and hands focused only on the ring, but Caldrion pushed him back into the chair and slapped him hard in the face.
"Why, my lord? Why do you do this to yourself? Look at me, damn it!"
Graldor finally turned his gaze away from the ring, but as he looked at Caldrion, there was no sign of life in his eyes. "What are you doing to yourself? Why aren't you sleeping? Have you forgotten who you are? Have Deol's lies made you so accustomed to being feared that you have forgotten how to be loved? Do you not remember how to love? To laugh?" Graldor's eyes flashed at that, and he started to look down, not toward the ring but toward his feet. Caldrion grabbed him by the chin and forced his gaze back up.
"Damn it, Graldor! You are a man, a King, not some mouthpiece for a ring. The ring is in your possession, not the other way round. Break out of your isolation! Become the King you once were, not the hollow shell you have become."
"Oh, Caldrion, I'm so sorry," the King said, and he began to sob quietly in his hands. "What have I done?"
Caldrion knelt before him. "Think not on it, Graldor. And think not on the ring. The shadow is past; keep it in your pocket and off your finger. Get some sleep now. You have been without sleep for too long."
As Caldrion walked toward the doorway, he thought of something else he could do for Graldor. He called Dunev and commanded him to "Find an attractive young woman willing to serve the King. Quickly now." He then went back in to help Graldor dust off the bed.
Dunev came back a few minutes later leading, of all people, Farvas. She looked as beautiful as ever, but there was fear in her eyes. Caldrion laughed. He had stopped thinking about her when he realized that she was not the red-haired woman in his dreams.
By contrast, Graldor's eyes lit up when he saw a woman entering his bedchamber. "Serve him well, my dear," Caldrion told her. "He has done without for long enough."
As he and Dunev closed the door behind them, Caldrion instructed the sentry to let none disturb the King and to come to him if something important came up.
Something important did come up that evening, and the sentry interrupted Caldrion's practice with Neblis. When Caldrion saw Sirgo, he regretted giving that command, because anything the old man thought important enough to come to Aratur at this hour was worth interrupting Graldor's rest.
Luckily for all involved, when Caldrion, Sirgo, and the sentry came to Graldor's room, he was standing in the doorway, dismissing Farvas with one last pat on the bum. She was smiling, and he looked happy, rested, and refreshed. "I am glad you are back among the living, my lord," Sirgo said with an unusually wide grin. "It is time."
"Time for what?" Caldrion asked.
"Close the door and I'll tell you." Caldrion complied, and Sirgo continued. "The time is now right for us to cross the Onodlo and commence our second offensive against the orc settlements. The cool weather has held off the spring thaw, so crossing the river, at least on the way out, will not be difficult. Moreover, these orcs have at least a rudimentary hierarchy and are beginning to gather to cross the river themselves, hoping to bring the west bank under their authority as well. Unlike the multiple battles that we had to fight before, here we can fight one battle and then break up to take care of the miniscule garrisons left behind at their other towns."
"How do you know all this?" inquired Graldor.
"I saw it in a dream, similar to the daydream in which I saw the situation in Rivertown."
"Sounds good. Can we have tomorrow to get ready and then leave the morning after, or must it be tomorrow?"
"The day after would be best, as that will give Frealine time to bring most of the men from Hillguard."
"And can I trust Orthior and Melgras to hold the towns, or should I leave Frealine or Neblis?"
"Orthior and Melgras shall be fine. They were loyal to you before, and the people will not suffer a usurper now as they did then."
Thus it was that, two mornings later, the Grand Army of Aratur left on its second campaign. Caldrion could not remember ever feeling so happy and free. Graldor's mood was broken, and he was among the troops, chatting amiably and making ribald jokes. This was where the King belonged: not on the throne, brooding over a ring, but in the field, with the army at his back and a foe waiting to be conquered.
The sound of Graldor's hearty laughter and the rumble of advancing feet and hooves mixed with more natural sounds: the babbling of the stream, the whispering of the wind. Caldrion looked up, and could not help but smile. The birds were on the wing, the sun was ascending in the heavens, and all was right with the world.