Her cousin was looking at her, face oddly closed as if he was prepared to take his lumps however they might come.
"So," he said as if he didn't quite know how to say it, falling back on the familiar and remembering the many other times they had come to this point — one of them in the wrong and the other trying to fix it. "…you want to take a swing at me? First one's free."
She met his gaze, "Why would I do that?"
"You know why."
"Oh," she said purposefully dismissive, "you mean the whole, 'You intentionally didn't listen to me and did exactly what you planned to anyways…you mean that, right?"
"He is a superior officer…yeah, all that."
"You did what you intended to do regardless," she said coldly. "Funny how everyone does that."
She wasn't angry. Anger emotions were too brittle and childish. She cultivated disdain and watched it cut her cousin deep. But she also knew it wasn't fair to wound him so and so she apologized a moment later. They needed each other. Their angel fire was not safe, it burned and it wounded. You had to cling to those you could.
He winced again and then said quietly, "The shifts of fortune might test us, cousin, but I will always love you. I will always try."
::
The thunderous expression on her aunt's face made Aiedale suddenly aware of how potentially dangerous standing too close to her cousin and associating herself with him and their latest scheme might be. She careful edged away, eyes flickering down. Beside her, her cousin made an elaborate show of putting the gold framed painting down on his foot and leaning his elbows on the top of the frame. "I won it."
Aiedale noticed he did not say fair and square.
"From whom?" hissed their aunt, leaving no doubt that she disapproved of the involvement of some form of Downworlder poker.
He just smiled, "Doesn't matter. But I got it back. We can get it back to the mundanes and then all this fuss over it will blow over."
"Do not vex me," said their aunt in a voice which could have bleached and starched uniforms for a whole detachment.
Her cousin fixed his face in an innocent expression. Aiedale thought about fixing her own face into a confused expression, but confused looked too much like stupid and being stupid was extremely high on the list of qualities her aunt detested, outranked only by making excuses for failure and petty political games.
::
"Interesting?" asked her cousin gesturing at the tablet in her hand that she was studying.
"Everything is interesting from an intel point of view," she replied without looking up.
"Well yeah, but—" He was rolling a witch light in his hands, the light winking off and on. Aiedale found it highly irritating to her sleep deprived mind already struggling to keep track of a highly complex series of transactions made between banks by a demon's mundane affiliate.
"What do you need?" she asked. "You clearly want something."
"Well here's the point.."
"Care to make it a little sharper."
He sent her a hurt look, which did not faze her one bit. "I want to run the mission…the one that has just been posted."
She sat up a little straighter, tensing, all thoughts about how this seemingly mundane money laundering scheme could be benefiting the demon vanishing,"I don't make those decisions."
"No," said her cousin, "but you can influence them."
And that was an unpleasant jolt. She'd waited and watched, planned and plotted…it had become all too easy to step back, viewing everyone she knew as just pawns to be played, games within games within games. And what might be the most rational choice…the most efficient distribution of resources…might also get someone she loved killed.
::
The mission was anything but textbook and they were inventing as they went. Luckily or unluckily — depending on one's perspective — she knew that both and her cousin had been partnered for long enough that they were rather good at inventing. It was something their commanding officers had found infinitely exasperating.
They skidded to a halt at the end of the dark hallway, crashing into each other.
"Uh-oh."
"What?" hissed Aiedale to her cousin.
He was silent, staring at the flashing red light in front of them, and she had to resist the urge to shake him.
"Uh-oh," he repeated. If possible, it sounded worse this time.
"If you say that agin I swear I'll choke you."
"The code you got from that demon…that we unlocked the door with — I think it's counting down."
"From what?"
"We should be more worried about 'to what.'" Peter grabbed her shoulder and said, "Let's run. In my experience, at the end of countdowns, things generally go boom."
The explosion was loud, violent, and destructive. "See," said Peter, "I was right."
She nearly throttled him for that.
::
The fight with Lucian continued to play out in her head.
Her brother knew her so well, but it was her cousin who guessed something more had happened during those hours when her phone had been powered off and all other communication and tracking devices had indicated she was at a mundane dance club on a routine scouting mission. He cornered her in her room as she was packing for Alicante, weapons scattered across her expansive desk along with makeup and various bits of jewelry. Her cousin had watched their rivalry and seen their various plays against each other play out over the years. He knew she would not take his denial of betrayal at face value.
Her cousin let the silence hang, but one of them had to breach it eventually. "So…what happened last night?" Aiedale remained silent, head down. He gave her a second, then tried again, "'Cos I gotta tell you, when I saw Lucian — when I questioned him — he seemed pretty…I dunno, believable."
He tried once more. "Did you find each other?"
Her lips pressed together for a moment and then she said,"Oh, we found each other." Then, "We argued. Then we fought."
Her cousin shrugged, the casual action betrayed by the look of wariness in his eyes. "Hey, you two argued all the time. And you've fought the odd time too."
She fixed him with a flat look. "With blades."
"Uh," he said. "Well that's all I need to know then."
Which was their relationship in a nutshell. Shut up, get on with it, and don't ask too many questions.
Aiedale had not been able to eliminate all the white orcs and their explosives.
At least two managed to evade her and their explosives damaged the wall enough despite her runes that it created a weak spot that could be exploited — the orcs targeted the damaged areas, pulling at the stones and creating an opening despite the efforts of the defenders. For all that she had done, Aiedale felt the cold bite of her failure. Perhaps if she had had back up beyond the limited assistance of Aragorn who was stuck on the Wall... if her cousin, who was even more willing than she to launch himself into hair raising situations, had been there...or even her careful, precise brother. Really she would have taken just about anyone from the various teams she had been a part of as an active duty Shadowhunter. But she was one Shadowhunter and could only be so many places at once and the orcs had quickly realized she was the biggest threat and reacted accordingly.
As the night wore on, it became increasingly clear that the Rohirrim would not be able to hold the Deepening Wall. Aragorn and the rest of the Rohirrim commanders clearly knew this as well and so a slow, somewhat coordinated retreat was ordered. Those who were injured were pulled back first, those still able to fight providing what cover they could.
Aiedale reluctantly allowed herself to fall back to the inner walls. While it was the only course of action left, she hated the position it would place them in. Ushering the men past her, she waited until everyone — including Legolas, Gimli, and Aragorn — were in before the massive gates were shut with a dull thud and heavy iron bolts dropped into place.
Letting herself be pushed back towards a wall, she took stock of herself properly for the first time in hours. She had taken a few hits and was bleeding, she realized dimly. But that was easily taken of. The runes took shape with a quick flick of her stele — one to deal with the bruises, cuts, and other minor injuries she had acquired, and another for energy. The jolt it sent through her was welcome.. Her head feeling less muzzy, she shook herself off and contemplated the evolving disaster before her.
Now what?
By ceding the Wall to the Orcs, the Rohirrim were now literally pressed up against the cliffs of the mountains. Their women and children hidden in caves, but they would not make it far should orcs storm the Keep and rout the last of the defences. The Shadowhunter's eyes flicked the heavy gates and the runes that she had scrawled hours before. They gleamed with a dull silver light.
How much could they withstand? She didn't know. The orcs would soon start to test the heavy gates with a battering ram if they had any sense. Aiedale moved away from the wall and stood close to Gimli who was also watching the gates with the expert eyes of one who knows exactly how much pressure a structure can take before it collapsed.
"Dawn is not long off," said one of the Rohirrim captains. His armour was badly dented and his face stained with grime. The King glanced at him, looking equally spent.
The gates to the inner Keep rattled as the orcs slammed what must be a battering ram against them. The runes flared with white light…for now they were holding, but the wood and iron would splinter eventually.
The dwarf grumbled something under his breath.
"What?" asked Aiedale. She was tense, rolling the hilt of one of her long knives in her right hand over and over. What she wouldn't give to have her old patrol beside her...
"We are like fish in a barrel," said the dwarf. And then he cursed in his own language, the sound vaguely reminding Aiedale of someone cursing in Swedish. Her lips twitched at the thought.
Orders were being given to a few soldiers to hasten to the caves and lead the women and children as far down them and away from Helms Deep as possible. The grim looks on everyone's faces, however, said what the likelihood of any leaving these mountains alive would be should the defences at the Gate fail to hold.
"It is said that the Hornburg has never fallen to assault," said the King of Rohan, "but now my heart is doubtful. The world changes, and all that once was strong now proves unsure. How shall any tower withstand such numbers and such reckless hate? Had I known that the strength of Isengard was grown so great, maybe I should not so rashly have ridden forth to meet it, for all the arts of Gandalf. His counsel seems not now so good as it did under the morning sun."
"Do not judge the counsel of Gandalf, until all is over," said Aragorn.
The doors rattled as another colossal bang rocked them. Orcs jeered and called for blood on the other side.
"The end will not be long," said the king. "But I will not end here, taken like an old badger in a trap. Snowmane and Hasufel and the horses of my guard are in the inner court. When dawn comes, I will bid men sound the horn of Helm Hammerhand, and I will ride forth. Will you ride with me then, son of Arathorn? Maybe we shall cleave a road, or make such an end as will be worth a song — if any be left to sing of us hereafter."
Aragorn nodded, "I will ride with you."
Aiedale bit her lip. She dearly wanted to tell the man he should not risk himself in such a ridiculous charge, but she knew he would not listen to her.
Gimli let out a deep humph and then nodded his head, voice stout and resolute, "I will sound the horn."
Aiedale was torn. Should she also ride out? Her horse was also one of those in the inner court, but she was unsure she'd be any use. She did not have a spear or a long sword, both requirements for effective mounted combat.
No, she decided. Better to stay on her own two feet. With neither a spear or a long sword, her arm was too short to engage the orcs from a horse. Rolling the hilts of both her long knives in each hand, Aiedale nodded to Legolas who nodded grimly back before moving to take his own mount from a pale faced boy.
"Helm! Helm!" the Riders shouted behind the King, swords raised high. "Helm is arisen and comes back to war. Helm for Theoden King!"
And with that shout they rode forward. The King of Rohan sat on a white horse, golden was his shield, and his spear was long. At his right hand was Aragorn behind him rode the lords of the House of Eorl the Young. It was such a sight, like one straight out of a fairy tale, that even a jaded Shadowhunter stood still, momentarily stopped by the sight.
The great horn of Helm Hammerhand rang out. Gimli and his stout lungs bringing the massive thing back to life, the sound drowning out the orcs and their battering ram.
And it kept ringing, shaking the stone, reverberating through the Keep and across the seething mass of orcs. While it inspired something within the defenders, even Aiedale, it clearly had the opposite effect on the orcs who screeched and fell back - their attack not the Gates halted.
"Forth Eorlingas!" With a cry and a great noise the men of Rohan charged. Down from the gates they roared, over the causeway they swept, and they drove through the hosts of Isengard as a wind among grass.
Aiedale came behind them, long knives in both hands. Taking to the Wall once again and engaging the remaining orcs who had gathered there to watch the assault on the main Keep. There weren't many — the majority had been lured away to confront the Rohirrim that had stormed from the half ruined gate of Helms Deep. There were still enough, however, to keep her occupied and it was straightforward work. Slice, duck, jab, thrust, parry, kill -
In a momentary lull, she glanced down to see how her companions were making out. Gimli was still blowing the massive horn, the steady sound pulsing out over the battle field. From her vantage point on the walls of the Hornburg, Aiedale could see the entire field of battle. She could see the golden hair of Legolas and the bright blade of Aragorn flashing as it danced in smooth arcs around his battle steed. The darkness was lighting as dawn began to approach, lightning the edges of the sharp mountains.
The charge of horseman had broken the lines of orcs and they had yet to mount any kind of significant challenge.
Aiedale used the distraction it provided to dispatch another two orcs on her own, but a cursory glance around revealed no other enemies…at least in this section of the Wall. There were bodies, however, both orc and Rohirrim. She bent by one of them, fingers checking for a pulse she knew was not there. Damn it all, she thought. The ugly reality of this battle was becoming more and more apparent as the gloom began to lighten and she could count the bodies scattered along the Wall.
Collecting a few arrows to replenish her depleted quiver, she contemplated leaping from the Wall and engaging orcs on the ground. But before she could utilize one of the heavy orc siege ladders, she heard a distant echo…a horn? Her eyes automatically went east, searching —
And there, upon a ridge, appeared a familiar rider, clad in pristine and infuriatingly clean white, shining in the first beams of light. Whispers of sound, growing louder with each passing second, came more horns —
As the wizard lifted his staff, light sprang into the sky. Night departing like a curtain lifted back.
Aiedale barely contained her gasp.
Behind the wizard, hastening behind him, black in the white light of early dawn, were riders; swords and spears in their hands. Before them was a man with a mounted on a tall grey war stallion that the clear sighted Shadowhunter recognized in an instant: Eomer.
She watched as the orcs reeled back and, their forces split, they were driven back—
—and into the waiting shadow of a forest which the Shadowhunter realized with a sudden start seemed to have materialized at some point overnight. Where once had been green dale, its grassy slopes lapping into ever-mounting hills and then mountains, now a forest loomed. Trees, bare and silent, stood like a green wall, tangled rank on rank; their twisted roots burned deep in the long green grass.
Out of all the things she had seen in her short, but intense life…a moving wall of trees that devoured orcs was something…unexpected and somewhat unforgettable.
Caught between Eomer and his Riders, the King and what was left of the defenders, and the trees, the orcs seemed to vanish like black smoke in a high wind.
Like any competent Shadowhunter officer, Aiedale recognized when to let others take the lead. For a long moment, she let herself just lean back against the stone of the wall, the warm light of day washing over her, marvelling at a world where wizards and princes rode to the rescue on swift horses.
At a world where dawn brought hope…and victory.
By the standards of Earth she was a useless nurse and even more useless doctor, but her skills — however rudimentary — were appreciated in the aftermath of this particular battle. She could clean and stitch a wound, she could set a basic break, she could knock someone out with a quick press of her fingers on a pressure point, and she knew how to staunch blood. She also wasn't squeamish and she preferred to be useful and conveniently out of sight, particularly the White Wizard.
And so she worked, quietly and grimly. Until she found herself beside a greying orderly on one side of an unconscious man with a bloody gash to his leg.
"It was luck," said the greying orderly to her as he inspected the wound.
"Luck on a white horse," she replied, her tone tinged with the faintest notes of disgust. Her feelings for the wizard had not warmed in the slightest, no matter that he had brought an army at the most convenient and symbolic moment.
Dawn and a white horse, she thought disgustedly, how trite could you get. It was almost jarring. One moment it was like something out of a fairy tale with men and horses and swords spoken of in legends riding to glorious victory in the defence of their people...only for the spell of it to be broken by the brutal reality of what comes after a battle: screaming, pain, death, loss.
"Yes," said the man, "a white horse and a wizard came at the right time. But I meant the luck of a warrior prince on his stallion and his Riders. A fair treat it was to see the youngster, Eomer, and the way he pushed through at just the right moment. It needed something like that, with the King falling back, and the battle turning. Another few minutes and we'd have been going the other way. Battle is like that…it makes you wonder sometimes, to think what hangs on a few seconds and a bit of luck. A piece of nice timing like that, and the right person to do it — that's all it takes, and you've won or lost a kingdom."
"They will call for him to be named as heir," she said as her eyes flickered to the very same tall blonde man who had chosen that moment to appear in the doorway. He was Eowyn's brother, she thought. There was that same stubborn pride to his face.
"Yes," said the orderly. "We need a Prince with the old King's son dead."
The future heir to the throne looked unsure as he lingered on the doorstep. Not used to holding hands and reassuring the wounded. Used to the fighting and the doing, she thought, not the long hard slog that came after.
But then the work came back to her and it was silence again, hoping the man before her would stay unconscious for long enough to finish the messy business.
She left the infirmary after she found she could not stomach the sight of another wound or listen to another scream. The fallen had been collected. The battle over, the main forces had withdrawn into the Keep. The trees of Fanghorn quiet, a dark green wall guarding their exposed flank.
Aiedale lingered before the gates to the Keep, her eyes studying the stone walls and the places where the orcs had been able to break through. Faint but still there were the runes she had carved into the stone. She stared at them for a long time, mind wandering, wondering.
But then she heard a familiar laugh and her eyes turned from the stones to the muddy and torn ground in front of the stone wall. Two of her companions were out on the field of battle, close to the main gates of the Keep beside a still smouldering pile of orcs and she made her way to them, wondering what the unlikely pair were up to. It became apparent when she drew closer. The two of them engaged in what seemed to be a lively debate about the outcome of the battle. Legolas was covered in grime, looking the most unkempt she had seen him since Moria. Gimli, a bandage tied around one arm and his beard looking a bit singed, was sharpening his freshly cleaned ax and reviewing his orc count.
"I win." The dwarf declared with a shake of his ax. Legolas looked distinctly put out and ready to argue the dwarf's counting skills again.
But Aiedale, after staring at the dwarf for a moment, momentarily unable to stop herself from remembering similar debates with black clothed Shadowhunters, started to laugh. Yes, it was a terrible sign of how black her sense of humour was that she could laugh at the body counts of a dwarf as a pile of corpses burned around them, but life offered up few moments like this and Shadowhunters knew better than to waste them.
She dropped a mocking curtesy to the dwarf, "I am humbled to be in your presence." Her eyes sparked with mirth, "But I think the trees of Fanghorn might have higher counts than either of you."
The dwarf snorted and looked to respond, but then thought better of it. The branches of the trees someway off were moving even though there was no wind to stir them. The trees may be quiet now, but they had made their presence known.
Aiedale nodded to the two and made her way back to the main Keep. She had barely reentered the Keep proper, thinking that food and a bath would be heavenly, when she was accosted by a familiar face. The Lady Eowyn. She wore a dark grey dress and an apron stained with gore and mud, her lovely golden hair braided tightly back and held in place with a thick dark scarf.
"I wish to speak with you," she said. Her eyes were hard blue, her hands neatly folded, and Aiedale knew it was not a request she could easily refuse.
Aiedale tensed internally, but allowed the other woman to lead her to the side of the entrance hall and away from the men still milling about, bedraggled captains and sergeants reviewing supplies and lists of wounded.
"You and Lord Aragorn." said the woman, "are you—"
"No!" said Aiedale a little too quickly, her stomach lurching automatically at the thought. "Absolutely not. Good friends. Comrades. Nothing more, never has been anything more—" She was aware of how stupid she sounded, but that didn't seem to matter.
"He said he had given his heart to a lady," said Eowyn sharply.
"Definitely not the lady in question," said Aiedale quickly, almost too quickly. The lady of Rohan's eyes were narrow, sharp.
"Who is she then?"
Aiedale studied the woman for a moment and said slowly, "Someone he has loved for a long time."
"I had hoped…"
"He isn't available," said Aiedale firmly. "Believe me," she said, "he really isn't available. He wasn't misleading you. I don't think he could ever really love someone else."
"But who is she?"
Aiedale thought about saying that Eowyn should imagine the most beautiful, graceful, lovely woman possible and then multiply that by thousand. Arwen was difficult to describe in her elven perfection, a goddess among even her own kind. But she held back, the woman before her was insecure and lonely enough as it was.
"What does it matter?" she asked instead. "He is in love and has given his word to another. He's loved her for decades. You would not want a man who would so easily discard a woman."
Eowyn bit her lower lip, eyes glancing down.
"I need to go," said Aiedale firmly. She didn't wait for the other to say anything, did not care if she was being disrespectful to this princess of Rohan. Of all the stupid conversations to get dragged into.
The whole thing was upsetting enough after the battle and the aftermath that Aiedale scrawled a glamour on and moved unseen through the fortress, collecting water, food, and a blanket. Finally, fed, bathed, her Gear and weapons cleaned and drying, the Shadowhunter let herself relax and take a deep, relieved breath.
As the darkness fell, the men of Rohan began to sing softly.
While she did not understand the lay, Aiedale listened. It reminded her of the quiet evenings she had spent with her brother and cousins when they were small and their lessons had been completed, whoever had been charged with minding them telling them old myths in the language they had first been created in while they waited for the patrols to come back. She could still remember those nights, curled up with her brother and cousins next to a fire, listening with rapt attention to the half-song, half-chant, half-story woven by a Shadowhunter whose arms were marked with runes and scars.
She fell asleep to the sound of singing.
The men and women of Rohan sang of loss and boundless grief.
And they sang of open fields and swift horses…of homes and children…and of hope.
The intel shared in the immediate aftermath of the battle in Alicante had been a message, she thought. Proof of her contact's intentions, a gesture of good faith.
Was it real? Grief, let it be real. Her head was spinning from the events that had transpired, doubts and hopes tangled together, her misgivings and her fears…the responsibilities weighing down on her, pressing in on that single, bright hope that maybe, despite everything, she had done some good in this world. There had been so much death, so much loss.
It was stupid of course; it was naive and gullible and hopelessly credulous and every time she thought it, she had a hundred sound reasons to dismiss it and view it as simply the calculated move of an experienced, self-serving player…but oh, what if it was true?
And it was that which sustained her.