Land of the King
Chapter 67: Hopeless
The waves pounded onto the rocks below, crashing against the stone and eroding them away, little by little. How much had those rocks changed in the last four thousand years Nimloth wondered. Were they different now from what Elendil saw?
At least one Queen of Arnor had died upon them, throwing herself from the Amon Erain in grief. Were the rocks she died and broke upon different now than they were then? Supposedly her body was never found, the sea had swallowed it and the water washed the blood away, leaving no trace that she had ever existed.
What was her name again?
History remembered much about Earendur Falastur. The stories tell of his wars with Garth Goldenhand and of the ruin his three sons, Amlaith, Cirion, and Ostoher brought upon the kingdom. Yet what stories tell of their wife and mother?
When Nimloth had grown up, she had asked her tutors what the name of the person who birthed the infamous Three Brothers was. No answer was given, it seemed her tutor did not even know. Everyone knew of Amlaith, Cirion, and Ostoher, yet who remembered their mother?
A determined and outraged Nimloth had conscripted her cousin Aravorn to help her dive deep into the archives to find anything about the mysterious tenth Queen-consort of Arnor.
Even to Númenóreans, three thousand years was no small length of time. Almost all the records of early Arnor were lost or forgotten. At some point, people cease to care about what happened so long ago. Who beyond scholars remembers much about Arantar or Tarcil? Of Eldacar Giantking or Elendur Krakenslayer? By Eru their titles sounded quite ridiculous and almost legendary at times.
Every soul in Arnor knew of Elendil, some more knowledgeable could recite the entire line of kings from memory. Fewer still knew in-depth what each king did in their long reigns. Nimloth herself struggled to remember the names of Arnor's kings, of which they had had thirty and two, with her grandfather as the latest.
With such a great and long history, when even the men were almost forgotten, perhaps it was too much to ask for history to remember the women who had stood by them. So long had passed, even some of the ancient texts were now illegible to them in the modern day and likely if any of them met Elendil in person, they wouldn't be intelligible to him without their race's telepathy.
Aravorn had tried to get Nimloth to give up on finding the tenth queen's name, yet she had refused. She wanted, needed to know her story. Finally, after weeks of searching, she found an ancient book buried deep in the archives. It was originally written before the Kin-Strife and had been copied only once since then. It was titled 'The War of the Three Brothers' and was a book dedicated entirely to the history of Arnor's first civil war.
It was there that Nimloth had finally found the name she had so wished to learn. Idril. Named for the legendary Idril of Gondolin from the Silmarillion. Idril of Dol Amroth was the tenth queen of Arnor, wife of Earendur, mother of Amlaith, Cirion, and Ostoher. She played a major role in uncovering the horrible truth that her third and favourite son had been responsible for killing his father and manipulating his elder two brothers into war and her exposure of the plot allowed the war to end.
Yet for Idril, her story ended tragically. One son executed, another exiled, and the last dead on a battlefield far away from home. It was no wonder that she snapped and jumped, in front of her own grandson.
Why exactly had that story resonated so much with Nimloth? Perhaps because the way it had ended was all too similar to her own grandmother's ending?
She was 'Nimloth', white blossom. Her grandmother, Lina had originally bequeathed that name to her own mother Jaenara and she in turn had given her that name for in her words, it suited her more. She had silver-white hair, grey eyes, and pale skin.
When she had been a girl, her father had commissioned a painter to paint a portrait of her in front of the White Tree and her mother had said that the colour of her dress and hair had blended in with the tree almost perfectly.
She was the daughter of two of the most famous Arnorians of all time. Jaenara and Túrin were likely to go down in history as the most well-known individuals of their era for their legend, their story, was incredible. Yet who would remember her as anything more than their child? As anything more than the wife of the future King Aravorn?
Just like Idril, Nimloth was perhaps destined to be forgotten, to be nothing more than a name in the history books, if even that. Yet if the price of fame was the nightmares her parents had when they slept, perhaps she needed fame not. Women of import were forgotten by history yet millions more men and women from the lower classes lived and died completely forgotten, it was just the way of life, the mortality that their ancestors had resented.
Yet despite it all, Nimloth could not help but feel resentful. Even now her husband was in Osgiliath, waiting for Valyria to strike at him. Her grandfather similarly so in Morlond and her goodfather in Arcalen. Her parents right now were in the hills of Andalos, leading a brave resistance against the Valyrian occupiers of Braavos. And what was Nimloth doing? Sitting in safety in Annúminas.
She was not alone, her own children and her cousins and aunt were all here as well. All fated to do nothing but be witness to the greatest war Arnor would ever fight, and maybe it would be their last. Perhaps it was not right to say that she resented not being there to make history, she resented being left behind while her loved ones fought for the survival of their people.
"Those that don't wield swords can still die on them. So learn, so you can make the other person die rather than dying yourself."
The memory of her mother teaching her how to wield a sword came to mind. Nimloth was no fierce warrior, but she knew how to hold her own. Yet what were swords to dragons? She remembered asking her mother that once.
Jaenara's smile faded slightly, "Better to die fighting." A faraway look was in her eyes, likely remembering the bygone era of her youth when she soared above the clouds atop her dragon.
Nimloth fingered the pendant around her neck, a bone necklace carved from the bones of the great dragon Terrax. Most of his body had been unsalvageable after rotting in the waters when he died, but her mother had claimed his skeleton and had commissioned many a piece of jewellery from them.
If she was not mistaken, the skeleton had been so big that even now a century and a half since the dragon's death, near the whole skeleton was intact in the vaults of Amon Erain. Seemingly possessed by an urge to see it again, Nimloth let her feet carry her down into the vaults where the great beasts remains had been laid.
As a child her mother had taken her to see Terrax's bones for the first time and she had marvelled at the size. His maw could have swallowed an auroch whole and his teeth were as long as swords.
'What a sight he must have been alive,' she had remarked to her mother.
Nimloth ran her arms along those sword-long teeth now, melancholy at the idea that the Valyrians had taken so noble a beast and corrupted them into weapons of destruction. Once she had dreamt of flying from on high on a dragon, the stories her mother had told her feeding her dreams. Yet the older she grew, the more she had realised the dream could never be. Arnor and Valyria were enemies, and forever would be, and the part of her heritage she resembled the most, was the part that she was most distant from.
"I see we had the same idea, Mother."
She turned around to see her son, already towering above her, and looking more like his father with every passing day, yet he had her own father's storm grey eyes, her eyes. He stepped forward and hugged her and she comforted her son. No matter how old you grew, one would never cease to yearn for their mother's embrace, Nimloth herself yearned for her own mother, who was far away.
"What a sight he must have been," Arahad said, looking at Terrax's skull after they separated.
"I said the same thing, when your grandmother brought me here the first time."
"And now hundreds of dragons like Terrax now bear down on Arnor. Grandma Jaenara's warnings have at long last come true…is there hope for our people still Mother?"
"Look for it if you can, but do not trust to hope. It has forsaken these lands."
All they had left was hope, but Nimloth wondered how much longer she could keep it.
"They're back!"
Cirion was alerted to the return of the dragons by the panicked alarms of his skinchangers and sentries.
Flying high above in the snowy peaks, three dragons revealed themselves as they flew past the Ered Isil into view and down upon them.
From sheltered positions, the Arnorian archers took aim and loosed, but their volleys were not sufficient, at such a distance, accuracy was difficult and even Dúnedain found it difficult to keep their nerve when a dragon dived on you at a 70 degree angle.
"Mag! Bring the dragons down!" Cirion ordered the Giant captain and he obeyed. With his squadron of archers behind him, they raised their massive twelve-foot long steelbows skyward and nocked arrows as long as Cirion was tall before loosing them.
This second volley had a much greater effect, though many missed, the arrows that found their mark did not merely injure.
A massive arrow speared right through the neck of one of the dragons, killing it instantly and sending it crashing into the mountainside. Its companions and their riders seemed more wary of continuing their attack as the archers, both giant and men alike, loosed a second volley.
Meanwhile, Cirion had overseen the artillery units loading the windlances and now they too were ready to unleash their bolts. Arnorians had long ago perfected machinery, scorpions and windlances, capable of launching multiple bolts at once in a wide-spray or to launch many consecutively in a repeating fashion. With the fortress now alarmed and armed to the teeth, the Valyrians pulled back after braving a third volley that saw their dragons peppered with arrows.
Cirion sighed, another day, another attack. The Bloody Gate certainly lived up to its name. Of course its true name was Nimannon, but honestly speaking, Cirion was surprised its white walls and towers had not yet turned red from the bloodshed.
Aravorn had ordered Cirion to the defense of the Bloody Gate, much to his protest but he had obeyed. It was times like that which brutally reminded Cirion that Aravorn was not his equal, but his liege.
Growing up as the heir apparent of the Stewards's line, Cirion had always been close to Aravorn upon whom rested the similar but far greater expectation of one day being King. Like his grandfather and his great-grandfather, Denethor and Dior had been to old King Arahad, like his own father Boromir was to Crown Prince Aragost, Cirion had been placed to serve as the aide of Aravorn in his duties, to acclimatise both of them to Cirion one day being his right-hand man. A strong friendship had developed between the two of them over the years.
Yet at times Cirion was rather forcefully reminded of his lower rank and none more so than when he was ordered out of Osgiliath.
"Aravorn. Please, do not send me away. My place is at your side, as your right hand, as your trusted aide," Cirion pleaded.
Aravorn sighed, "Cirion, I need a man I can trust holding the Bloody Gate. If Nimannon falls, the Vale is lost to us, and maybe even Osgiliath. You are the only man in Osgiliath that I trust enough with this task."
"Aravorn, the gate can be held by any captain of capability, someone watching your back, someone keeping your head on straight, you need me to do that."
"Enough. Major Cirion, trusted friend and advisor that you may be, remember that you answer to me, not the other way round. You go where I command you to, understood?" Aravorn ordered, shutting down his argument firmly with a stern face, his king's face as Cirion used to tease him when they were boys.
"Yes, my prince," Cirion answered as he bowed.
The King commands, and the Steward follows faithfully. There were many Stewards whose counsel was valued and often heeded, but at the end of the day, the final decision rested with the King, with the Royal Family, and Aravorn had made his decision clear. It would be nothing less than a betrayal of his heritage, his oaths, and his friendship, to disobey Aravorn needlessly.
As loath as he was to be parted from his friend and brother in all but name, Cirion understood why he had been sent here. Every day came with news of more of the Vale falling to the enemy, with more attacks by dragons battering upon the Nimannon and the neighbouring Gates of the Moon where the Arryns had fled to. He just hoped that Aravorn took care of himself, without him there to watch his back.
"Ciri," the giant, Mag called out to him.
"Yes Mag?"
Even after years of Arnorian rule, the giants struggled with Sindarin and so continued to use their simplified Casterric language or broken, simplified Sindarin.
"Dragon on mountain. We want."
"You want the dragon's body?" Cirion asked, uncertain if that was what he was asking.
Mag nodded.
"You're welcome to it. You can send two of your giants to drag it down here, I'll send some men up to help as well."
The silverback giant nodded again in thanks before turning back to bark orders at his giants. Cirion took aside a small squad of men and told them to accompany the giants before he was called to the meeting room to hear the reports of the long-range skinchangers. Their reports were concerning.
Cirion slumped into his chair, deeply disturbed.
"The High Road has been cut off?"
"That is correct Lord Cirion, a Valyrian army and at least two dozen dragons have moved onto the High Road and they are moving northwards."
"Towards the Gates of the Moon… where the Arryns are holed up. Elladil, your thoughts?" Cirion asked his fellow officer.
"The Vale lost any ability to face the Valyrians openly after Ironwood. Their King is now a boy and he and what remains of his family and army are holed up in the Gates of the Moon. The rest of the Vale has either fallen to the Valyrians or will soon, they do not appear to have moved into the northern mountains but frankly they don't need to."
"If the Gates of the Moon fall, they can turn their full attention here. Courier, send word to Osgiliath that we need reinforcements, Elladil we need to be prepared for the possibility of a full-scale assault here."
"What of our men at the Gates of the Moon? We sent half the garrison here to help support them."
"Without sufficient numbers, we won't stand a chance sallying out and the dragons would swoop around and take the Nimannon. I'm afraid that for now at least, the Gates of the Moon are on their own."
The door burst open and the courier reported, "Maidenpool, Saltpans, and Wickenden have fallen! Osgiliath can send no aid, for a Valyrian force is moving west along the river toward them!"
"That is ill news indeed!" Cirion exclaimed, almost on the brink of despair.
The horn sounded then and the fortress shook as it was pounded by boulders from on high.
"What's the situation?" Elladil demanded of a sentry as they walked out.
"The dragons from earlier returned but they're dropping rocks on us, nothing we have can reach them, not even the giants!" the sentry reported.
"Well then, we'll have to get closer. I need archers on the mountains, as soon as possible," Cirion ordered.
The odds may not be in his favour, but Cirion would fulfil his duty as best as he could. He just hoped Aravorn held Osgiliath, they'd all be doomed if he didn't.
A blast of fire was blocked by a water spout as it jetted towards his battalion.
Aravorn let out a sigh of relief, thanking the water witch who shielded them before his archers drove the dragon off with a volley of arrows.
Osgiliath was built on the confluence of the Trident's three forks. That meant a lot of water to hold out against the dragons. The Valyrians had nowhere near the number of dragons they did at the Battle of Volantis in the Second War to pull that river boiling stunt again. Such an attempt would also have been foolhardy with Arnorian artillery and archers deployed all over the hills around the city.
Even so however, the Valyrians were pushing deeper into the city. The Arnorian army outnumbered their Valyrian counterparts, but dragons were the greatest force equalizer in warfare and after months of grueling urban battle they were slowly being pushed back… for now at least, for word had come that their reinforcements were close.
"Your Highness, the skinchangers report that their birds have seen the reinforcements sailing down the Green Fork, they should be arriving in a few hours!" a messenger reported.
"Excellent news. Tell as many as you can and spread the word around the army, the men could use the morale."
It was not long before the whole army knew of the reinforcements, and their spirits were bolstered as they fought back against the Valyrians with renewed vigour. Soon the riverine ships arrived and out poured the reinforcements. Arnorian soldiers from North Siriand and Northmen from Norda, bearing banners of running direwolves, sunbursts, horses, mooses, swords, and bears among others.
"Prince Garin, you have my gratitude for reinforcing us," Aravorn thanked the Stark heir when there was a lull in the battle.
"Think nothing of it Prince Aravorn. Long has the North been allied to Arnor, we would never have abandoned you in your time of need," he answered patronisingly.
"With your Northmen and with the reinforcements coming into the city from all over Siriand on the Trident's forks, it will be only a matter of time until Osgiliath is secured again. I must ask however, if you have any men to spare to head for the Bloody Gate? Our garrison there is beleaguered by the Valyrians and the Arryns are growing desperate in the Gates of the Moon."
"I brought 18,000 men with me from the North, I'm afraid I have little to spare to give you Prince Aravorn, not so long as Osgiliath is contested."
"If the Bloody Gate falls, we might lose the whole Vale!" Aravorn protested.
"The remainder of the North's strength should be landing in the Fingers as we speak. That would give time enough I think for us to secure Osgiliath."
"Give me 2,000 at least then, just enough to bolster the garrison at the Nimannon, I fear if it falls, the Valyrians may abandon the Vale entirely if it allows them to surround Osgiliath."
"Very well, your fears are well grounded," Prince Garin conceded reluctantly, like it was a big sacrifice.
Though they were allies, Aravorn would admit to being annoyed at Garin's near arrogance and stubborn nature and blamed it on his mother. Queen Nymeria remained a very proud and unyielding woman, even in her old age and her and her Rhoynar's migration to the North had emboldened the Starks further into attempting to equalise their 'unequal' relationship.
So what if the North now had water mages? They did not have nearly the numbers Arnor did, nor could they control the waters of the sea. Their population remained far smaller and their technology in almost all areas remained behind. For Eru's sake they depended on Arnorian food to feed their populace in winters! And most annoyingly of all was that despite all these weaknesses, they thought themselves Arnor's equals.
Yet desperate times called for desperate measures and for all that the Northmen had grated on the nerves of Arnor in recent years with their insistence on no longer being a 'junior partner', they had honoured the alliance and come to Arnor and the Vale's aid.
With the necessities of war and the political wisdom of being polite to people you didn't quite like, Aravorn kept his mouth shut and planned with his Nord counterpart to win the battle. Their efforts finally bore fruit four days later when the Valyrians withdrew from Osgiliath entirely.
"Shall we pursue them?" Prince Garin asked in the council room when the scouts reported back.
"No, they have the advantage in the open. Let's focus on securing Osgiliath and the Bloody Gate first, and then we'll move east to retake Saltpans, Wickenden, and Maidenpool with the Trident and Bay of Crabs to supply water cover," Aravorn replied.
The doors burst open then, and a courier entered with a distraught expression. "The skinchangers say the dragons are flying hard south from Maidenpool! They're going for the capital!"
Pandemonium ensued then as everyone rose to their seats and began shouting on what to do. Orders were sent for the army to be readied to strike as soon as possible while the courier was told to transmit warnings to Morlond with the glass candles.
Aravorn could only sit in his seat, stunned by the news.
So it will be before the walls of Morlond, that the doom of our time will be decided.
Author's Note: Sorry for mostly skimming over the Battle of Osgiliath but I felt it'd be repetitive given what is coming next.
