The Twilit and the Dreaded
The moon hung low in the sky, barely visible through the trees. Of course, the greater impediment to Maeglin seeing the silver disk was the walls of Ostagar. The half Noldo was sitting away from the others by a fair margin. Though he had by and large adjusted to the bright light of the sun and torches, he remained more comfortable in the relative darkness of night.
That, and the sound of human carousing and celebrating was incredibly grating even without having to listen to the even worse sounds they made as they mated. Truly he was accursed living among humans.
Maeglin raised a bottle to his lips and drank deeply of the spirits within. It tasted terrible, but the demand for fine wine was overwhelming and the supply was lacking. If he were not bound to fight here he could make an absolute killing running deliveries from Brecilian.
With a sigh he lowers the bottle. "What do you want, elf?"
The strange mage that hangs around Maedhros emerges from the shadow of the tower behind them. He carries himself with that exaggerated false humility that would have annoyed Maeglin even if he was in a good mood, which he is not.
"Interesting." The abomination muses calmly. "You say that as though you are not one yourself."
"You know perfectly well I am not." Maeglin snarls. "And you still have not answered my question."
The mage, whose name Maeglin should probably know, walks over and sits a respectable distance away on a fallen block. He places his staff across his lap and meets Maeglin's gaze without fear.
"I am here to speak to you." He says evenly.
"Well, get on with it." Maeglin grunts, drinking again from the bottle.
Blasted thing is hitting him harder than he expected, he's having trouble staying mad. He has always been a bit of a maudlin drunk.
"Tell me, if you are not an elf, what are you?" The mage asks.
Oh, there's the anger.
"What have you been speaking to Maedhros about? The fact I'm only half Noldo? It is true, my father was Eöl the Dark Elf, of the Teleri. No, I do not want to speak of how he met my mother." He spits
"I assure you; Lord Russandol has not spoken of your, nature, or origins." The elf says slowly, carefully. "Though, I must ask, why do you call him, uh, Mythros was it?"
"It is the Sindarin version of his name." Maeglin grumbles, lifting his drink again. "Maed, from Mai, in Maitimo and Ross from Russ."
The irritant frowns. "Where does the 'th' sound come from then?"
Maeglin rolls his eyes. "Because he spells it with an Anto and so that it is clear it is a name and people are not yelling out 'shapely copper'."
Solas nods slowly. "Would you care to explain a little about the history of your people? Just the broad strokes."
"Oromë preserve me from the endless questions of mortals!" Maeglin exclaims. "What could possibly be so urgent about such unimportant information?!"
The elf is silent for a time, seemingly studying Maeglin. "I am interested in the Noldor, in their history, and their people. Given the sorry state of my own people I hope that you might pass on your valuable insight into the matter."
Maeglin slowly lowers the bottle onto the ground. "Well, I suppose I can tell you a little."
Final Farewells
Despite your decision to ensure you bid farewell to everyone before they depart tomorrow morning, the first one to happen actually has nothing to do with you at all. Maeglin had come over to complain about you setting Solas on him when Lilian recognised him.
"Finlin!" She cried. "You survived!"
Maeglin demonstrates an expression that, until this very moment, you did not know the Eldarin face was capable of. It combines surprise, satisfaction and joy with deep regret, a fundamental questioning of one's life choices and most surprisingly, fear.
"My name is not Finlin!" He snaps at the mage.
"It's not?" She asks, seemingly surprised.
"No." He insists. "It is Maeglin, Mae glin. Sharp glance."
"I could have sworn there was a fin in there." Brandon mutters to himself.
For your part you are more amused by this reaction than anything. So it takes some time to understand why Maeglin is glancing at you with fear.
"I do not think that Maeglin would be so arrogant as to claim such an august prefix." You insert into the conversation. "He is Maeglin, or Lomion if he is willing to go by it. Fin has no place in his name."
Though Maeglin seems relieved that you are not about to strike his head from his shoulders for presuming to follow in Finwë-Ñolofinwë's footsteps, he is immediately swamped beneath Brandon and Lilian's gratitude. With a smile that is only slightly vicious, you leave them to their combined reunion/farewell.
Lilian will be leaving tomorrow, before dawn, with the king. You need to find Ranger and Merrill who also depart then or earlier. In an ideal world you would have waited until tomorrow and exchanged gifts, but sadly the king and Teyrn Loghaine decided to leave in the predawn. Something about stealing a march on the Blight.
Ranger is the first person you seek out, as he intends to be abed early. He must rise before all others to accompany Fergus on his scouting mission, and he is prone to early nights already. He is, unsurprisingly, preparing to bed down for the night when you find him.
"Forgive me for disturbing you." You spoke as you approached. "I hoped to bid you farewell, as I fear you will be away before I rise tomorrow."
"Don't sweat it kid. Truth be told, I'm glad ya swung by." The old man says, massaging his back as he straightens up. "Didn't much fancy havin' to come wake ya up tomorrow."
You wait until he has turned around, then step forward and wrap him in an embrace. His head comes up just below your chest, and for the first time in a while you realise how, frail your friend seems. His white hair and small stature aside, he seems to lack the immense strength you have always associated with humans.
"Namárië Ranger." You tell him. "May you be as Oromë himself on your hunt, may you be safe and may you return hale and whole as you left."
Witherfang barks.
"You too noble hound." You continue, releasing the man to pet the dog. "May you be as Huan in battle, and may his fate pass you by."
"Bit much for a goodbye." Ranger mutters, slightly shell shocked. "Ya sound like we'll never meet again."
"We may well not." You observe quietly. "I have already lost one friend with no great words between us."
Ranger stands in thoughtful silence for a while, then speaks. "See ya kid. Keep safe, look after Xandar, and I'll see you again."
"I shall await you in Mandos' antechamber should it come to it." You agree.
After one more embrace you turn away to seek Merrill. She, aside from Lilian, is the only other person departing and thus who you need to speak to.
Unsurprisingly you find her pacing rapidly around her tent, marking down what she might need on the journey ahead.
"Having a copy of Avernus' work might be useful, but he's going to be there." She mutters, weighing the book in her hand. "Is it worth being able to double check?"
You do not speak immediately, waiting for a break in her thoughts. It is a worthwhile reminder that Merrill is a nomad and thus well used to making long and sudden trips.
"No." She decides. "I need the space, especially if we're going on foot."
"Merrill." You speak. "I have come to bid you farewell."
The elf whirls to face you and, after a moment of silence, suddenly flushes bright red. "Really, right now, I'm not ready."
You shrug. "I can return later, but I fear that we will not be able to speak in the morning, I understand the Wardens leave early."
Merrill blinks a few times, then shakes her head. She continues on to slap her cheeks lightly several times until her blush recedes somewhat.
"Yes, of course, sorry. Got a bit in my own head there." She says quickly. "Actually, this is a good time, Avernus says we're leaving tonight, apparently the darkspawn have gone weirdly quiet and he wants to take advantage of it."
"Has he told you what you will be doing?" You ask.
Merrill shakes her head. "He's being evasive about it; I think he doesn't want you to know."
"Very well, I will place my trust in you then. I know you will not let me down." You state.
Merrill's blush redoubles. "I won't, don't worry."
"Then Daleth Shiral Merrill, may you have Manwë's sight and Vairë's foresight." You step forward and embrace Merrill. "Stay safe, act wisely, and return safely. I would be grieved to lose you."
Merrill babbles a bit for a moment, then her arms slowly come up to return your embrace. "I'll come back. I promise."
Lilian, Merrill and Ranger are gone when you arise the next day.
The Battle for Ostagar
The first thing you are going to do is inspect and repair the defences of Ostagar. Then you will need to inspect the forces at your disposal, and likely argue with their commanders about whether or not you have the right to command them, despite having officially been given command.
Still, while you need to have that argument sooner or later, for now you can focus on inspecting Ostagar. You begin in the eastern courtyard, on the other side from the keep. You begin with an inspection of the walls, in particular the segment that extends out to become the bridge between the two sides.
Personally, you like the idea in concept, ensuring that as long as each side is held, the walls do not give an advantage to severing the connection between them. In practice, it just feels wrong having no elevation to fight from to defend the bridge. You would actually like to raise both of the sides so that the bridge can be held more easily.
This would make it more difficult to take back if they were lost though…
Your helmet shimmers into existence around your head as an arrow slams it sideways. Immediately, you dive onto the stairs to get some cover, before peaking over to see what is happening.
Across the wall that forms the bridge a veritable swarm of darkspawn is attacking. The smaller orcoids in their hundreds, the taller more humanoid ones in equally large numbers, and trolls. So many trolls.
Several of the smaller breed as well as the humanoid ones are staying on the walls and launching arrows in both directions. You can only assume that the opposite courtyard is still holding, if there is still fighting going on.
Men are staggering out of their tents, half armoured and dying. Others, those who were on watch, are mounting staggered pockets of defence. But numbers are going to tell, especially with how divided the forces are.
You know what you have to do.
You pull the Persilima from the chain on which it hangs and draw your sword. For just a moment you pause to set yourself, to watch where everything is. Then, like an arrow, you spring forward.
"Fëanor!" You cry, raising the Persilima like a shield as you unleash the light of Valinor.
For a brief window, the forces of darkness are dismayed. Fear and sheer flood of sudden light stuns them and it gives you the window you seek. However, you do not run to the aid of the beleaguered defenders. That would be wise and cautious, and you have not cried the name of your father because you are attempting anything of the sort.
Your goal is the wall, the bridge part of it specifically. It is too wide for a single man to hold, so many would deem this foolishness of the highest order. However they are only right about one thing.
A single man could not hold it.
By sheer good fortune, the first foe you face is a troll. Eyes covered by its arm as it physically recoils from the pain of the twofold Light approaching it, it is easy prey. You spring upon it, driving your sword deep into its throat, and cast it down onto the stone, dead.
Speed is life in combat, and momentum decides battles, so you do not stop there. You leap from the fallen Ogre onto one of the smaller ones, idly noting that several darkspawn recoil away from the Persilima to fall from the walls to their death. Maintaining your momentum and speed, you manage to slay another ten before the arrows start flying in your direction.
Fortunately, you were both expecting this and it lets you hide your plan. Arrows thud into the back of those who attack you or plink harmlessly off your armour. You however pretend to be hard pressed and fall back to the fallen troll.
There you are assailed again and again. The ogre's bulk lets you hide from arrow fire and provides a useful bit of cover to fight around. Slowly, the piles of the slain grow higher, and still they do not realise your plan.
A pair of trolls add themselves to the slowly growing wall, then you move again. Dashing out of the cover of the hill of the slain, you start another on the other side. Trolls, both varieties of orcs, and even those heavily armoured leaders start to form yet another pile.
Finally, the scope of your plan is revealed and too late for anyone to stop you. The two hills of the slain now rise higher even than you, and they leave only a small gap that one might force. Perhaps if the darkspawn had pulled back their dead as they came you could not have managed it, but they did not, so eager to swat aside the single foe.
Now there is a gap that you can cover alone. Anyone who tries to pull down the hills can be killed before they make much progress, and it would be so much faster if they could just kill you first.
You level your sword at them. "Man imíca le harya i cánë nahta ni[1]?"
You see the dark cunning in their eyes in the momentary hesitation that follows. Some glance at the piles while others stare at you. Others still loose arrows at you which either miss or simply plink off your armour harmlessly, too far away to penetrate Noldorin steel. Idly you not the eerie synchronicity of their actions.
Then a decision is made and they all rush at you. You grin wildly, and the Persilima shines bright enough to be mistaken for a Silmaril.
At some point, after you have stemmed the flow of the forces of darkness, you manage to snatch a glance to the courtyard fight. The fallen lie like discarded leaves. Only the glinting of the sun off the polished armour of the warriors of Ferelden discerns them from the darkspawn all about, blood and wounds muddying all other details.
Despite this, Ferelden has won, barely, but they have. At this moment, warriors are milling about in confusion, officers dead, absent or too shocked to give orders. They need direction, and you are going to have to give it to them.
"Warriors of Ferelden!" You bellow, voice echoing off the looming walls of the fortress. "The bridge! You must retake the bridge!"
Then a trio of ogres physically bursts through one of your barriers and your attention is diverted. The Persilima flares once more as you leap into battle once more. This is not the swamps, and you are not the same elf as back then. Hammer blows from heavy fists are dodged, space is manipulated to turn their own numbers against them. First one, then another and finally the third falls.
As you ready yourself to plunge back into the horde to rebuild your wall anew, a cry comes from behind you. Arrows fly and warriors charge raggedly. They come in ones and twos, and at first you are hard pressed to keep them all alive. However as more arrive you start to be able to seize control of the situation.
"Form a line!" You cry. "Shield to shield. Warriors of Ferelden, form on me! Unity is your strength!"
Slowly, painfully slowly, the battle line starts to form, then firm. You go from holding the impromptu defence you created to pushing the darkspawn back step by step.
"Hold your ground!" You call, raising the Persilima high. "For Ferelden! For the Living! Fight!"
In the twofold Lights of the Persilima and Valinor, the line of warriors appears, just for a moment, to be a shield wall of the Edain. Cold eyed and fell handed, backs unbending and strength great. Then with a cry, the line surges forward several steps, and the darkspawn recoil.
Then, suddenly and with no signal, the darkspawn's numbers reduce greatly. Archers turn back to face the other courtyard and all that you face is a small screening force.
"What are they doing?" Asks some young looking man.
"They have decided we are too great a foe to fell." You state grimly. "They turn their attentions to others in the hope they can overcome them before we can arrive. We must attack, now."
You glance around, hoping to see your own companions. Paloma is present, along with a number of your warriors. That is it however the end of the good news. Solas, Morrigan, Maeglin, none of them are present. Neither are any of the major Banns or Arls that you might be able to rely upon.
Most importantly, Xandar is not here either.
The urge to rush to him hits out of nowhere.
Your oath howls in your breast, demanding you act. That you aid him as you know roughly where he would be, either with the mages or the healers. Likely the latter, as the Circle still makes him uncomfortable. Around your sword hilt, your hand tightens and the Persilima seems to burn with the promise that you alone could carve your way there and back.
Yet, you are well used to these feelings, and this oath is not so mighty as that you swore in the great square of Tirion. Nor are there any brothers to encourage you.
Turning your head, you look to one of the minor nobles you recognise from a strategy meeting. "You, take one in ten men and secure the walls. I do not wish to be attacked from behind as we retake the other side."
The young woman blinks in surprise. "Me? But I'm not…"
"Whatever you are or not, your hour has come." You state, too tired and pressed for time to bolster her confidence. "Your deeds and choices will decide what you are. You have your task, see to it."
The woman nods hesitantly and starts to choose her forces.
"The rest of you." You begin.
[1] Who among you has the valour to slay me?
