The Walls Shake
Morrigan has not had a good night. Bad enough that she hasn't managed to get much in the way of sleep, but even worse she's just having to sit back and watch other people fight. Not that she minds having others do her work for her, but if her life is on the line, she only really trusts her own hands.
No, instead she has to sit on her hands while screams and the clashing of metal echoes through the fortress. In the stark light of the bonfires the people on the wall turn to shadows, leaping and flickering like the flames that illuminate them. She can see the streams of wounded coming into the healing tents, and then to the tower, but she doesn't know how the fight is going.
She takes the time to glare at the west wall where the elf who got her into this mess is fighting. Obviously, she'd heard his speech, everyone had. It was the usual pointless grandstanding but it got the meatheads in the army doing their job so she's not going to grumble too much…
'Morigan, you need to take the mages to support the eastern wall.' His voice echoed in her head.
"What?" The young witch exclaims. "How are you talking to me?"
Naturally, this gets literally everyone in the group of mages focused on her immediately. A mage suddenly exclaiming as though speaking to someone invisible is a warning sign, and of course all these 'proper' mages trust a 'woods witch' as far as they could throw her.
Which isn't far to be clear, none of them look like they have ever done a day of real work, nor spent any time outside[1].
'Is the concept of Osanwë so alien to the mages of this land?' The voice asks in the elf's usual superior tone. 'It matters little, I am reaching out so that our minds are connected enough to pass messages.'
Glaring back at the suspicious sheep around her, Morigan thinks, 'How do I know you're not a demon?'
Suddenly, she was looking at herself and all the mages around her. The darkness seemed to suddenly be thrown back, with a pale white light softly illuminating everything, with harsh shadows cast from bonfires more blinding than useful.
"Hello Morrigan." She heard the elf's voice. "Time is short, the eastern wall is on the verge of falling. Take the mages and stabilise the fight enough that Maeglin can recover."
The sudden return to her own senses and the darkness that covered the fortress nearly made Morrigan stumble.
'Do it now.' The elf said once more.
Then his voice was gone.
For a moment Morrigan takes the time to spit a few of the nastier Avar curses she knows in the direction of the elf. Naturally, this does nothing to appease the sheep, but frankly she doesn't care. She stalks through their crowd until she finds the old bat in charge.
"Apparently we are needed on the eastern wall." She informs the woman. "Incidentally, it transpires that our dear commander has not seen fit to share that he is apparently capable of telepathy."
This causes the head sheep to frown, which hopefully would cause problems for the elf. That would teach him to threaten her.
The sheep rush about with the kind of unity of purpose that is innate to their kind. Morrigan follows, mostly to ensure that she gets the chance to contribute. It does not take long to cover the distance between the tower and the walls, but the palpable tension makes every second seem a minute.
When the mages arrive, they find that things hang by the thinnest of threads. The elf, the dark haired one not the bald or irritating one, is wielding that black sword of his well, but the rest of the soldiers have been divided and are fighting in small pockets. Pockets that are slowly but surely dying.
It reminds her of a pack of wolves taking apart a herd of sheep; concerningly.
"Islin, Rajin." The sheep leader snaps. "Take five each, start making holes for the warriors to reconnect. Use lightning, we don't want to risk causing hazards that people can't pass through."
"Would arcane serve?" One of the sheep, either Islin or Rajin presumably.
"Use your judgment!" The old woman yells testily.
Morrigan might have to actually learn her name if she keeps being so very relatable. Or just keeps yelling at the sheep, either works.
"The rest of you, we are going to be casting as a group, remember your training and follow my lead." Nameless mage continues. "I'll call out what spell I'm casting and if you don't know it then for Andraste's sake don't try to 'make it up'."
Morrigan prepares to deliver a biting comment, having no intention of joining the sheep in any capacity.
The old mage turns to her. "Ms Morrigan, that shapeshifting power you used earlier, could I prevail upon you to use it once more so that none of the darkspawn can reach us to interrupt our casting?"
Both of Morrigan's eyebrows raise and she tilts her head in thought.
"What is your name?" She asks.
The other woman seems surprised and confused by the question, but she answers nonetheless. "Wynne. Senior enchanter of the…"
"Wynn." Morrigan nods to herself. "I suppose I can oblige you."
Then her form starts to collapse upon itself, hardened carapace taking the place of soft skin. Morrigan shrieks her joy to the smoke filled sky as she grows to a terrible size and her venom hisses as it strikes stone.
The sheep start chanting and casting, but Morrigan cares nothing for them. Leaving some web traps behind to ensure they are not disturbed, she springs upon the darkspawn, her new form's hunger singing a siren song of bloodlust.
There is an unfortunate moment when she discovers that the light in the dark haired elf's hand hurts her eyes and that his sword is a lot sharper than it should be. Fortunately for everyone concerned, she simply puts him on a list and moves away to avoid him for the moment.
Without support there was very little chance of the centre holding. The forces on the wall had been divided in half and they slowly fall back to the eastern and western walls. The greater part of them end up going to the eastern wall, fewer going to the west.
Throughout the whole endeavour the discipline of Ferelden's army shines through. Even separated from their commanders, units maintain their cohesion. Step by step they fight until they reach the end of the causeway, whichever side they end up on.
When they arrive, they find each side in a rather different state. On the eastern wall, fighting has never truly stopped. Even as they show up, they find themselves assaulted from two sides, desperately holding on. However, both Captain Jymes and the mage end up on that side.
With command well established there, the small force dedicates itself to holding the causeway while the elven mage coordinates with the others to assist in making sure that support is maintained.
Without command, those on the western wall waver momentarily, for they are without support or leadership. However, they arrive not to a battle in progress, but to a battle won. They are soon joined by Bann Offrey, whose presence steadies the line.
While not much of a commander, the Bannr is a competent warrior and more importantly a noble of Ferelden. With a reasonably simple task to perform and courage thoroughly rallied by both victory and the leadership of the elf lord who came to defend the western wall, he is more than able to prepare a defence of the causeway.
There has not been a break in the fighting at any point. Maeglin has been doing his best to stabilise the situation ever since he first noticed the lines disintegrating. Unfortunately, while skilled and personally brave he is, and it pains him to admit this, not much of a leader.
Which goes a long way to explaining why his warriors did not turn on Gondolin with him while Maedhros' would follow through kinslaying and disaster alike.
The point is that the first thing he knew about the mages arriving to give aid unlooked for was when one of Ungoliant's children dropped in on him unexpectedly. Naturally, he responded with gem and sword, sending it scuttling off somewhere else. He would have chased but given the spider could walk on walls and he could not…
Well, he would not have had much chance either way given how pressed he is by the darkspawn. Still, the spider has given him a chance to look around and notice the lightning bolts clearing paths between the pockets of fighting Men on the walls. Following them back reveals the arrival of the mages to him,
Then frost creeps along his sword blade which honestly would have been enough of a clue on its own.
The magic on the blade makes it much more effective. Minor wounds are far more debilitating when they also cause flesh to freeze and shatter on contact. It is, in his humble opinion, better than the warning lights he had grown used to among the warriors of Gondolin.
It also makes him feel like Fingolfin wielding Ringil[2, which satisfies a childish part of him that he tries not to acknowledge.
Perhaps it is this feeling that sees him throwing himself ever deeper into combat. The gaps created by the lightning of the mages give him more than enough room to actually use his mobility to choose his engagements.
With Persilima and Anguirel he cleaves deeper into these gaps, widening them yet further. Now, more and more, it is the darkspawn who are finding themselves cut off from allies, surrounded by foes on all sides. The burning light of the Two Trees weakens them, allowing both Maeglin and his allies to cut them down with greater ease.
The greatest of the darkspawn's number try to challenge him, hoping to halt his rampage, but they have made a crucial mistake. Ever before he has faced them alone, with the press of both sides to concern himself with, now he has neither.
Free from concern from overextending or being trapped against his own line, the mightiest of the darkspawn find far less success than they hoped. Indeed, given the speed with which he can attack, withdraw, duck and weave he is very much feeling like Fingolfin.
'I should make a shield after this.' Maeglin thinks to himself. 'Maybe I could mount the Persilima within, or even make it entirely of the same substance…'
It takes nearly being hit in the face by an axe head that he clove from its haft to remind him that battle is not the place to consider future projects. Idly he notes that the axe has something like a dwarven design to it, but then he is once more dealing death to the darkness and the thought is lost.
Solas makes sure to heal Mythal's daughter. Flemmeth's daughter, he corrects himself, she is not actually Mythal as much as she is so very similar. The shapeshifting would have been more than enough evidence even if he did not recognise her magic. It was always Mythal's pride and joy.
Fen'harel sighs, his heart overcome with longing. The world he has awoken in is like a nightmare made real. His people enslaved or reduced to a state lower than any he has ever seen. Then there is Nelyafinwë…
Well, even if his worst fears are not true, and he doubts they are, the 'eldar[3]' is concerning for entirely distinct reasons. How did he come here? What is his purpose? How powerful is he really?
The ancient elf is startled from his contemplation by a snarling darkspawn alpha. Its helmet has shattered, but the ice bolt he fired did not slay it. Its blade has struck at him and it is only thanks to extensive magical reinforcement that his reflexive block with his staff did not destroy the instrument.
It is not difficult to shove the monster back with a stonefist formed in his off hand, but it is a dire warning. To lose focus on the battlefield is death, and his skill will not save him every time.
Solas pulls his focus back to the present with an effort of will. There are a number of steps he can take to assist without necessarily tipping his hand too much. The most obvious option is to make those ladders a little less usable.
Fire magic is an interesting branch of the craft. Well, they are all interesting in their own ways, but fire is more interesting than it appears initially. There are a number of different applications depending on how one applies it. Solas' personal favourite is to wrap himself in the essence of fire, that is, heat. It no longer works as it once did since the Veil means it will have a short duration unless reapplied…
He is getting distracted again.
The point is, he can use an unusual application of the 'most direct element' to burn some ladders. Rather than tossing fire about without thought, he instead focuses on creating a fire that feeds off the wood of the ladders. Even if it does not burn them down particularly fast, it will make climbing them more challenging.
Then there is the causeway. Vast walls of ice that block it off completely, or any variation thereof, would be too obvious. However, he can create patches of slippery ice that makes approaching the narrow entry way riskier. Perhaps a low rise of stone to give the defenders a height advantage?
Then there is the causeway itself. Having a staging ground might seem like a positive outcome for the darkspawn, but it is also what Elgar'nan would have called a 'targe rich environment'. Creating a blizzard, fire or thunderstorm on his own would be explicable, but he can do one better.
Pushing one of the little darkspawn off the wall with his staff he approaches the group of mages who have devolved to chucking lightning about semi randomly.
"Greetings." He says. "I have an idea which I need your help for."
Ten minutes latter a rolling storm of thunder appears over the causeway, slaying many of the darkspawn and ending any really hope they had for coordinating their assault while it lasts.
And it lasts quite a while.
"On your feet." Maeglin snarls at the human. "Either get up and fight or get out of the way of those who will."
The human in question bristles at Maeglin's words but he is not listening and moves on. The human does seem to get something of a second wind, though whether it will last or not is not a question Maeglin cares to know the answer to.
A better leader would probably try to rally some kind of defence, maybe make a speech about how victory is at hand. Maeglin probably could do these things, but he no longer cares to. It was always a challenge working with humans, and now that they have made it clear what they think of his command he is happy to leave them to it.
It leaves him more time to work on working through his emotions in a better way. He is having fun pretending that the darkspawn are any one of his enemies as he pushes them off the walls when he gets the chance. It is almost a game, spotting those who are vulnerable to it and fighting his way over.
While he does so, he does take the effort to try and direct the humans who are clearly struggling with nearly dying. It would be cute watching them processing the sudden dips and rises of a near hopeless struggle if they were not, well, human. As it is, he can give them a kick to either do something or get off the wall, but no more.
Oh, there was one of the big ones perched on the crenelation supervising.
With a dark chuckle Maeglin makes a beeline for the darkspawn he has already mentally imposed Tuor's face onto.
The fight on the eastern wall is not particularly close. Which is strange, though no one will realise it until the battle is over. Despite having, theoretically, twice as many potential entrances, the numbers of attackers is only slightly more than the last attack, and not even as many as the first.
Again, this is only obvious in hindsight, at the time it felt rather different. The greater part of the fourth wave assault was sent at the east, reeling and on the verge of collapse as it is. Further, the east has not had a chance to stop, to pause in the fighting.
From the perspective of the fighters on the eastern wall, the attack never stops. Darkspawn flood up the walls and across the causeway in a seemingly unending tide.
There is not really a central plan or leadership. Command is devolved down to the lowest level, with individual captains and sergeants leading their men to the best of their ability, exploiting local opportunities or opposing local attacks. It would likely have been a disaster without the mages.
The causeway is a rather different fight admittedly. With Solas disrupting their attempts to create a measured attack, Captain Jymes is able to rally her force into a stable defensive force. Due to the nature of the fighting, she pulls her men into a hollow circle and simply holds her position.
The storm makes it impossible to retake the central wall which, had there been some effort to restore command, was a possibility. Again, though, such things are only obvious in hindsight, and nobody really had the chance to stop and consider their options in that seemingly endless melee.
From the perspective of the defenders of the eastern wall, they fought with no end in sight until suddenly they found themselves alone on the wall as the sky turned grey.
It took relatively little time to organise the force to hold the causeway. Giving Bann Offrey something to do will both soothe his ego and hopefully ensure you do not need to worry about that particular avenue of defence.
Of course, it would not be the first time that the enemy has made a mockery of your plans, but you will do your best to keep your eyes on both parts of the engagement. Though you have far fewer warriors than the eastern wall, you have the chance to prepare and create a reserve. Plus, you do not need to retake the battlements.
This gives you the chance to look out at the darkspawn and what they are doing. In the time you were arranging the mages to reinforce the east and integrating the forces of the centre, they have sent another wave. Strangely, it is smaller than the previous.
Odd. You would have thought that now was the time to commit as many forces as possible. While you hoped to hold the walls, you had not exactly had high hopes of managing. Another ten thousand or so would likely be enough to sweep you aside.
Perhaps it is the fact that you are tired but you cannot think of an explanation before the first darkspawn head appears in the corner of your vision. It is certainly a start. In hindsight, your response to being started should probably not be instant decapitation. It worked here but might cause problems in future.
To tell the truth, that rather sets the tone of the battle going forward. For your part, you are tired. A grey fog hangs over your thoughts and it feels as though you are much to slow to think and come up with a plan. Fortunately, your reflexes are incredibly sharp, sharper than even you realised.
Several times during the battle, you find yourself standing over a pile of corpses with no clear memory of the last several minutes. If you are to be honest, it is rather unnerving. Useful though it is, is this who you are? A killer so steeped in his art that you no longer even need to think about it.
Ah, you are growing maudlin, it is well past time you were in bed.
Through these thoughts you still fight. Almost distractedly, as you find your thoughts turning to the dying days of the First Age, of the Third Kinslaying, your mad final attempt on the Silmarils. On regret, loss, war and death.
It is rather like a waking dream, though hardly so pleasant as that phrase sounds.
It is mostly an effort of will that keeps an eye on what transpires around you. Even with the dreamlike state you find yourself in, your eyes still see everything. The ladders of the enemy are their key weakness, and you are not the only one to see it. Bann Evlynne needs little encouragement to take her troops right up to the wall.
She performs well there, throwing back many of the ladders with the brute strength you have come to associate with humans. Her warriors are clearly inspired by her and her words. She is more focused now, exhaustion taking the edge off her anger.
For your part you keep an eye out for successful ladder dockings and lead the reserve you have created to cast them back before they can make a foothold. It is hardly glamourous work, but it is necessary. Strangely, the warriors around you are impressed by your efforts.
That seems strange to you, it is not even your best work in this battle.
You shake your head to clear it. "Forgive me, I am tired. What was it you were saying?"
The soldier points to the causeway. "There's some kind of storm causing the darkspawn problems, should we do something about it?"
With as much speed as you can eke out of your exhausted mind, you scan the battlefield. The attacks on the remnants of the centre have slackened in ferocity. There is a chance you could retake the centre…
You quickly glance around and shake your head again. The speed and ferocity with which your reserves are striking is concealing how hard pressed you really are. The darkspawn outnumber you nearly two to one, and you fear that letting them gain a foothold will cause the beginning of a cascading series of defeats.
"We will strike quickly to clear a short space." You state. "Then we must return. We cannot afford to leave the walls here long."
The solider, Paloma that is her name, salutes. Then your force does exactly as you said. It takes a little to make your way through the formation holding the causeway, but then you quickly strike out, driving the foe back into the tempest, tossing back several ladders. Then your force falls back through the formation again.
The timing is incredibly tight. When you return the reserve has no time before it must charge at full pelt nearly across the whole wall to throw back an incursion making worrying success. It is tiring work and you fear exhaustion.
More than once, you see someone who looks on the verge of collapse glance at you then shake their head. It feels like you should know what is going on there, but your mind refuses to put the pieces together.
Not helping is the fact that you are almost constantly moving and fighting. Well, at least it keeps you from thinking about how tired you are.
The fight for the west wall was incredibly vicious. While both sides were outnumbered two to one, there were no mages to assist the western side. What they did have was Maedhros the Tall, veteran of the worst fighting of the First Age of Arda, and even he was exhausted, nearly at the end of his rope.
It says a great deal then, that despite exhaustion, despite the odds against him, the Noldo pulled through. Through the fog of exhaustion, he fought with all the skill one would expect of as son of Fëanor. Despite the challenge, he managed to formulate a highly effective strategy.
The west wall had seen some of the hardest fighting and many of the defenders were exhausted. However, none flagged now at this most crucial juncture. Those who were tired looked to their commander and saw him just as exhausted and still fighting. So, they too fought on.
Thanks to this cohesion, to the skill of everyone involved, despite how close fought the battle was, there were nearly no casualties. One hundred or so people were injured and either escorted to the healers of fought on despite their wounds.
Then, suddenly, as the last of the darkspawn wave fell a cry went up. It began in the east, but it soon spread to the west too.
"The dawn! The dawn has come!"
Through forty thousand eyes, Uthumiel looked upon the fortress and the rising sun. Many of its thralls winced and turned away, the bright light more than they could stand. Idly, Uthumiel crushed that desire from them and forced them to look.
The defences were thin, oh so thin. One more wave would see the walls taken. It could do so, command the attack even in the teeth of the sunlight and the might of the Bright ones. How tempting that though was. Crush the insects and open the road into the fertile breeding grounds of the kingdom beyond.
Tempting, but foolish.
More than half its current horde had fallen, slain here alone. Despite early successes elsewhere, the small groups it had ambushed had, by and large, escaped. Certainly, it could take the fortress, hunt down the remnants.
But at what cost?
Assuming that those on the walls were the only forces available, which given that twice now they had been reinforced seemed unlikely, it would cost how many to take them? It had nearly succeeded but moments ago and doing so had cost it nearly eight thousand drones.
Too many resources had been committed already. Uthumiel was not going to fall into the sunk cost fallacy. It would withdraw this force, at least from the immediate area. The fortress was the best way into the kingdom in the north, but it was hardly the only way.
There was another path it had been scouting, and conveniently it had eyes on its greatest defender.
Dragons cannot chuckle evilly, but Uthumiel gave it a good attempt. Then it pulled its attention away from the horde before Ostagar and allowed them to act as their nature demanded.
As the horde melted into the forests and tunnels, it turned its attention to the strange song it had heard in the Deep Roads. After it dealt with that, it would begin directing more of its forces to the surface. The Blight had only just begun after all.
[1] Everything I know and understand about Morrigan's character history screams that she should be heavily tanned. Why she looks like a modern goth can only be put down to magic.
[2] The sword's name means cold. Whether or not this mean it had a frost effect I leave to the readers imagination, but Maeglin never met Fingolfin so I choose to believe he thinks it did.
[3] I know the singular is elda, but Solas doesn't