#banner bearers of middle earth
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I'm still thinking about banner bearers as I continue working on my Obscure Blorbo Guthláf story, and I do find it impressive how much context about the banner bearer role Tolkien shoved into LOTR in barely half a dozen sentences' worth of small references.
For starters, there are (by my count) 3 acknowledged banner bearers in Lord of the Rings: Halbarad of the rangers of the North, Guthláf of Rohan (♥️), and an unnamed Haradrim standard bearer. I reject the distinction Tolkien made between so-called high, middle and low Men, but it is notable nonetheless that he created a banner bearer character from each of these 3 groups. That shows how universally important the function was, at least to communities of Men, just as it was extremely common in the real world for many hundreds of years of human history. All kinds of Middle Earth's Men have them, no matter how different the Men are from one another.
In addition, all 3 of the banner bearer characters die at the Pelennor Fields, which effectively illustrates how incredibly dangerous a job it was, both in Middle Earth and real life. Given how intentional Tolkien is about everything, I think it's fair to assume that he purposefully killed all of them in recognition of the realities of ancient warfare. (The only banner bearer I can think of in any Tolkien book that survives their war is Eönwë in the Silmarillion, but he's an immortal Maia so...TOTALLY different circumstances.)
And finally, Tolkien shows us how significant the loss of a banner bearer was to both sides in a battle. When Théoden kills the unnamed Haradrim standard bearer (just before the Witch King rolls up), that's the moment when the forces of Harad founder and start to flee because they've lost their rallying point and their source of morale. They can't function without their banner bearer. On the opposite side, Théoden cites his felling of the black serpent flag to Merry as one of the singular achievements that will allow him to sit proudly alongside his ancestors in the afterlife, so he clearly also understands taking out a banner bearer to be a massive battle achievement.
We don't witness Halbarad or Guthláf’s final moments, but their deaths are just as significant. Out of the untold numbers of dead at the Pelennor Fields, they are both in the small handful of names to be recorded in the story because they were important and their deaths meant something to the broader battle. And we see in the immediate aftermath of Guthláf’s death what a huge deal it is to the Rohirrim—they stop to address his death and retrieve his banner so that it can be borne by another before they even take the time to tend to their mortally wounded king. Those are the actions of people who understand how strategically important a banner bearer is above almost all other battlefield functions.
I'm not trying to say Guthláf is more important than Théoden* but I am saying that Tolkien really demonstrated, through a handful of very economical little actions and asides and unremarked-upon events, how critical people like Guthláf were, as well as how ridiculously brave and selfless. And more than anything else, I guess I’m saying that now, as I approach 27,000 words about Guthláf in my Google docs, he’s…on my mind a lot.
*At this point, I would absolutely say this for myself. In my heart, there's no contest and it's Guthláf forever. But I know that’s because he’s my special li’l guy and I don’t expect that of anyone else!
#lotr#lord of the rings#tolkien#banner bearers#halbarad#guthlaf#guthláf#poor unnamed haradrim#banner bearers of middle earth#niche interests
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Been thinking about Elrond and Halbarad, and the role of herald.
In the waning of the Second Age, Elrond had the honor of being herald and banner-bearer to Gil-Galad, last of the Noldorin kings. He bore the flag of the elves in the Battle of the Last Alliance. Afterward, he went on to become one of the greats, a lord of elves (and men) and forge deep connections between peoples.
In the waning of the Third Age, Halbarad had the honor of being herald and banner-bearer to Aragorn Ellessar, first king of the Men of the West in a thousand years. He bore the flag of Gondor and Arnor in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. He died there, and his king went on to forge a new age for Mankind, dominant in a world inherited from Elvenkind.
I think this truly shows the differing roles of elves and men, especially at that point in time. The elf lives as a wise, renowned, lord of a waning household rich with history, and the man dies for the cause of a new, prosperous age ruled by those that survive him. Elrond leaves Middle Earth at last shortly after, leaving it in the hands of a descendant of his brother- the two lines of the choices of the peredhil fulfilled at last, through heralds.
#elrond half elven#elrond peredhel#Elrond#halbarad#dunedain#lotr#lord of the rings#Tolkien#last alliance#War of the last alliance#Battle of the pelennor fields#Aragorn#enyuvatar#Heralds#gil galad
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I don't know who the fuck Sauron is but I kinda wanna hear the tea
Ok so (briar if you see this I want you to look AWAY because I WILL make you watch trop at some point)
Sauron is the villain in the Lord of the Rings trilogy, but he also appears in the Silmarillion. This will be important later. It’s also helpful to know the Ring Verse:
Three rings for the elven-kings, under the sky,
Seven for the dwarf-lords in their halls of stone.
Nine for mortal men, doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them,
One ring to bring them all, and in the shadows bind them
In the land of Mordor, where the shadows lie.
Essentially Tolkien was a cishet catholic man living and writing in the first half of the 20th century. Despite this, his works are consistently interpreted as queer, because he wrote very non-toxic male characters that show a ton of affection for each other, especially physically! they have very queer undertones, there’s a reason why Sam and Frodo & Legolas and Gimli are a couple of the most popular Lord of the Rings ships!!! I ship them too! That’s great, but it’s important to understand that Tolkien was definitely not writing canonically queer couples.
So in the silmarillion, Tolkien’s epic mythology of the history of Middle Earth, most of the main characters are men, so there are a ton of gay ships in the fandom! Towards the end of the book, Sauron is known to be evil, but he infiltrates the elves’ civilization in disguise, under the name “Annatar,” which means “Lord of Gifts.” He establishes himself as a generous giver of gifts and befriends a famous craftsman and smith, Celebrimbor, and teaches him the art of magical ringmaking - except the methods Annatar teaches will magically bind the rings to him, and to his power, and if he had a hand in making them they would allow him to corrupt the bearers.
Luckily, Celebrimbor forges three rings for the elves secretly, without Annatar, so though the rings are still bound to him, he has no knowledge of the rings or where they are, and was not involved in the making process, and all this allows keeps the elves safe from Sauron’s corruption and lets them make their realms stronger, protected, and long-lasting, bad for Sauron considering the elves are his biggest enemies (the humans were not so lucky, and became the nine terrifying Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead, once kings and lords of men, but now existing solely to serve Sauron and his all-powerful One Ring) So all in all, a major L for Sauron/Annatar, and he takes it out on Celebrimbor later by kebabing him and marching his body impaled on a flagpole as a banner in front of his army.
A lot of silm fans ship Annatar and Celebrimbor, they see a lot of queer undertones (again, typical for Tolkien) in it, and that’s great! Except that didn’t happen in The Rings of Power, the new LOTR tv show that came out this past September to a lot of controversy (because a certain side of the Tolkien fandom, aka white cishet men who idolize Tolkien, is notoriously racist, and apparently black elves and black dwarves are “destroying Tolkien’s legacy”, and the Silmarillion side of the Tolkien fandom are notorious lore purists, which means they aren’t satisfied with anything short of perfection, preferably directed by Tolkien himself 🙄).
The Rings of Power is set in the Second Age, thousands of years before Lord of the Rings, but during the tail end of the Silmarillion, when Sauron is starting to become a big threat to Middle Earth again, and everyone expected there to be at least a season devoted to the forging of the eponymous rings of power. This… did not happen. Instead, in the season finale, Sauron was revealed to have been disguised as a character called Halbrand, who had been at Galadriel’s (the protagonist, absolute girlboss) side the entire time, developing insane sexual and romantic tension with her. In the season finale, he teaches Celebrimbor ringmaking, but there isn’t much time, buildup, or feeling between them, unlike with him and Galadriel.
This led to the Silmarillion fans of Tolkien getting super mad because Sauron x Celebrimbor was one of their favorite ships, and even though it wasn’t canon (again, cishet very catholic author) they wrote whole essays about how the homophobic the showrunners were, how they “intentionally dequeered Tolkien,” etc. It was a whole mess. (Btw I was mistaken the person I was talking about hadn’t said anything about rings of power Sauron, they just don’t like the show and they’re friends with a bunch of people who have said that stuff, but I was not mistaken in that they had blocked me because they did. Wanna know what for? Because I don’t like shipping incest, and they do. Very much. Even though it’s literally condemned in Tolkien canon.)
Anyways there is a Lot of Drama in the Tolkien fandom, and the Rings of Power, though I love it, is the source of a TON of it.
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Eönwë was a Maia serving Manwë as his herald and banner-bearer, and Chief of the Maiar along with Ilmarë.
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Eönwë was referred to as the "greatest of arms in Arda," meaning that he was the best with weapons, but as one of the Maiar he was not necessarily the most powerful in might. When Eärendil reached the shores of Aman to make his appeal, it was Eönwë who first greeted him outside of Tirion praising his arrival and accomplishments. When Manwë decided to heed the appeal, Eönwë was sent to Middle-earth to fight the War of Wrath, leading the Host of the Valar.
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When Morgoth was defeated, Eönwë took the two remaining Silmarils and held them for safekeeping. The two remaining Sons of Fëanor took them and fled, yet Eönwë did not let them be slain, hoping they would see the folly of their ways.After the War of Wrath, Sauron emerged from hiding and approached Eönwë seeking forgiveness, but Eönwë did not have the authority to pardon him alone, and told him he would have to return to the Valar to receive judgment, but Sauron fled from him instead.
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Eönwë also possessed great wisdom and taught the remaining Edain many things, enriching them with great knowledge before the raising of Númenor.
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men of middle-earth ❅ northmen ❅ headcanon disclaimer
The Riders of Rohan were the horse-mounted warriors of the Rohirrim, divided into several éoryd led by the Marshals of the Riddermark. At the time of the War of the Ring, many riders did noble deeds and many others perished in battle.
Among the éored of Éomer who overran the Uruk-hai of Uglúk were his squire Éothain, who doubted the tale of holbytlan captured by orcs, and the warriors Gárulf, Adwig, and Ethelred, who lost their lives in the fight. The Three Hunters were given horses by Éomer, Aragorn riding Hasufel, once the steed of Gárulf, while Legolas and Gimli together rode Arod, once the steed of Adwig. Ethelred’s horse, Brego, fled the battle and ran wild, until eventually he was recovered and returned to Edoras, where Aragorn soothed him into a steed worthy of riding into battle once more.
Two valiant captains of the Riders were Grimbold of Grimslade, descendant of Grim, and Gamling the Old. Grimbold served under Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark, and took command of the Fords of Isen after his prince fell, holding it until reinforcements arrived. Gamling, known in his youth as Baldwig, was an old man at the Battle of the Hornburg, but he was still a commanding presence and was the first to realize that orcs had penetrated the Deep through its culvert, and led the counter-attack himself.
Dúnhere, Lord of Harrowdale and nephew of Erkenbrand, served under Grimbold in the Battle of the Fords of Isen, and later rode the muster of the Rohirrim at his homeland of Harrowdale, answering the call of the King for soldiers to fight in the War. Many riders answered and all were welcomed, including Wídfara of the Wold, Herubrand and his son Herefara, the ceorl Fastwine who had served as a messenger and won the King’s favor, and many others. Wídfara joined the éored of Elfhelm, while Herubrand, Herefara, and Fastwine were invited to Théoden’s personal éored, the King’s Riders, to replace three soldiers who had fallen at Helm’s Deep.
The only warrior whose service was refused was the Lady Éowyn, the King’s sister-son, who was commanded to remain in Rohan to lead in his stead. But Éowyn would not be denied, and she disguised herself as the warrior Dernhelm and rode with the Riders to Gondor against her uncle’s orders. On the journey, she befriended Meriadoc Brandybuck, who was likewise defying Théoden’s word, and together they rode the horse Windfola into battle. In the end, the combined attack of Dernhelm and Merry were enough to slay the unkillable Witch-king of Angmar, though not in time to save the life of Théoden King.
Many men fell in the Battle of Pelennor Fields, including six of the King’s Riders: Harding and Horn, valiant men both; Herefara and his father Herubrand; the ceorl Fastred, akin to Fastwine, and Guthláf the banner-bearer. So also fell Dúnhere and Déorwine and Grimbold, mighty commanders. All were remembered in the Song of the Mounds of Mundburg, a grand poem honoring those who gave their lives fighting against the Shadow, their names going down in history alongside those of Gondor’s Captains of the Outlands who also perished on that fateful day.
#tolkienedit#lotr#eothain#garulf#grimbold#gamling#dunhere#widfara#herubrand#herefara#ceorl#eowyn#harding of rohan#horn of rohan#fastred of the king's riders#guthlaf#my edit#tefain nin#men of middle earth#northmen
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AU where Elrond and Elros never choose between mortality and immortality because what’s one good reason for choosing? To make Mandos’ paperwork a bit easier? Surely the Valar can sort that out themselves, it’s not like there’s a whole race of half-elves that there needs to be a precedent for. Plus, it seems very divisive after thousands of years of conflict and war to maintain such a clear distinction between Elves and Men. This is a new age of peace and cooperation! Why can’t elves and humans help each other rebuild the world after SOME PEOPLE tore up and drowned half the known continent?
Elros goes off to help some of his mortal friends build a ship so that they can explore the new coastline, while Elrond flags down a passing Sylvan ranger to talk about cartography and properly mapping out the lands beyond Lindon. Eönwe does not facepalm, because that would be highly undignified for the banner-bearer of Manwë, and silently curses the first mortal that ever looked at an elf with lascivious intent.
(It’s really not Bëor’s fault if an incredibly handsome elf with a beautiful voice just wanders into your camp one day, like what are you supposed to do, not fall instantly in love?)
And Elrond and Elros don’t really know what’s going to happen. They assume they’ll die eventually. For a good cause, hopefully, because when was the last time someone in their family died peacefully of natural causes? Anyways, even if they don’t die valiantly fighting against a Dark Lord (fortunately, the other leading cause of death in their family -unfortunate side effect/consequence of your family members’ questionable decisions- is a great deal more unlikely now due to most of their relatives being dead), what is the natural lifespan of a half elf anyways? They’re the first half elves that they know of other than Lúthien to survive past 40. They never knew Dior, their grandfather, Eluréd and Elurín, their uncles. The last they knew of their mother was that she leapt off a cliff with a Silmaril. They’ve only seen their father from afar, a brilliant star against Ancalagon the Black, and who knows what he is anymore? This is the legacy they inherit, learned not at their parents’ knees nor in their grandparents’ arms, but from the tongues of strangers, distant relations with piecemeal bits of legend for the last heirs of more lineages than surviving relatives.
Elladan, Elrohir and Arwen went thousands of years before choosing their fates. It’s not a mortal lifespan, whatever it means to be a half elf. But they’re still mortal, and as the Ages pass on, the first signs of age begin to appear. The beard that Elros insisted on growing, partly because his human friends were doing it and mostly because it’s been a lifelong goal of his to rival Círdan’s beard one day, starts seeing grey hairs near the end of the Second Age. The warmth and welcome and jollity of Elrond’s house (because there is no world in which Elrond does not create a home again and again and again amidst grief and loss and despair) appears in the crow’s feet of his eyes, the laugh lines around his mouth. Elros’ new favourite thing is to complain loudly about his creaking joints every time someone beats him in a duel, don’t you know what these old bones have seen? Celebrían loves to tease Elrond that if he gets any more silver hairs, the two of them can start matching.
All this to say that by the time the Istari show up in Middle Earth in the Third Age, everyone and their mother knows about the “not-elf wizards” (Elrond was the one who bothered to study up on magic from Galadriel, but Elros was the one who fully committed to the aesthetic of the big beard) who give excellent advice and throw legendary parties. By comparison, these enigmatic wizards with their cryptic riddles and mysterious ways are less fun to have around.
(Saruman fully sulks about it for the rest of his tenure in Middle Earth, Radagast is too delighted with the family of hedgehogs he found to care, and Gandalf decides that the perfect cover for travelling around Middle Earth is to be a professional party wizard, with fireworks for some added zing. Everyone and their mother soon learns that Gandalf’s parties are also legendary, if a good deal more dangerous than you might expect parties to be)
#lord of the rings#the silmarillion#elrond#elros#lotr#i had a whole worldbuilding doc in my old phone's notes about this#i think in this world numenor is still a thing but it looks very different since elros isn't its king#(he just doesn't think that someone with an uncertain but inhuman lifespan should be ruling over definitely mortal humans)#i imagine that elros provides a great deal of advice to numenor's rulers over the years and is sort of like their eccentric patron#does elros have kids in this au? i imagine so (b/c i'm very attached to aragorn) but most of them do choose mortality#the sole exceptions are his middle daughter and youngest son (b/c if tolkien won't give us a full list of his children i'm making them up)#his daughter is as ornery as he is and refuses to choose; his son chooses immortality#i imagine that when sauron tries taking over middle earth in the second age; elros is off asking numenor for help when he gets word#that elrond is trapped somewhere behind enemy lines#and elros (after securing aid) books it back to middle earth to beat the fuck out of sauron himself#he and his household aren't enough to break sauron's armies but sauron realizes that he's now up against *two* of luthien's descendents#and he doesn't exactly panic but a distinct worry grows in his mind and he decides that a strategic move out of the region would be best#you know; why not secure the lands around mordor and establish a strong base rather than chasing down rabbit holes for a couple of elves?#elrond and celebrian do meet and fall in love in this AU because i will unfridge celebrian if it's the last thing i do#cutting off the tag essay here because i have so many notes on this AU that they can't all possibly fit#i do want to add as a last note that elrond and elros get along FABULOUSLY with gandalf and vice versa#elros admires his aesthetic and unpredictability; elrond finds him a unique character and a refreshing change of pace#as for gandalf; he genuinely appreciates their company but also eonwe is still complaining about how difficult these two are#and while he doesn't have any ill will against him; it's been endlessly amusing to watch things go off-script for uptight eonwe
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30 days Silmarillion challenge.
3) Favourite Maia.
Eönwë.
(x)
Eönwë was a Maia serving Manwë as his herald and banner-bearer, and Chief of the Maiar along with Ilmarë.
Eönwë was referred to as the "greatest of arms in Arda," meaning that he was the best with weapons, but as one of the Maiar he was not necessarily the most powerful in might. When Eärendil reached the shores of Aman to make his appeal, it was Eönwë who first greeted him outside of Tirion praising his arrival and accomplishments. When Manwë decided to heed the appeal, Eönwë was sent to Middle-earth to fight the War of Wrath, leading the Host of the Valar.
Eönwë by Tolrone.
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Today in Tolkien - February 14th
February 14th is the day when Gandalf returns to life on the peak of Zirak-zigil, and Frodo and Sam look in the Mirror of Galadriel in the evening.
First, Gandalf, from his account to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli in The Two Towers:
“Naked I was sent back - for a brief time, until my task is done. And naked I lay on the mountain-top. The tower behind was crumbled into dust, the window gone; the ruined stair was choked with burned and broken stone. I was alone, forgotten, without escape upon the hard horn of the world. There I lay staring upward, while the stars wheeled over, and each day was as long as a life-age of the earth. Faint to my ears came the gathered rumour of all lands: the springing and the dying, the song and the weeping, and the slow everlasting groan of overburdened stone.”
It’s not entirely clear whether by “naked” he means “lacking physical form” - which is how the Maiar would understand nakedness - or “lacking clothes,” or both. It’s not clear why his robes wouldn’t have stayed on the mountain when he died. At any rate, I do think the latter meaning is part of it - that taking physical form again is a process that occurs over time - since when Gwaihir finds him a few days later the eagle observes that Gandalf is practically weightless.
(I apologize profusely for spoiling your Valentine’s Day with naked Gandalf? Tolkien wrote it, not me!)
Returning to the hobbits - on the evening of the 14th Frodo has a premonition that they will need to leave Lothlórien soon:
One evening Frodo and Sam were walking together in the cool twilight. Both of them felt restless again. On Frodo suddenly the shadow of parting had fallen: he knew somehow that the time was very near when he must leave Lothlórien.
Frodo and Sam discuss elves and ‘elf-magic’. Frodo wishes to see Galadriel again before they leave Lothlórien, and as if she was already aware of their conversation they see her immediately as he voices this wish.
Turning aside, she led them toward the southern slopes of the hill of Caras Galadhon, and passing through a hugh green hedge they came into an enclosed garden. No trees grew there, and it lay open to the sky. The evening star had risen and was shining with a white fire above the western woods. Down a long flight of steps the Lady went into a deep green hollow, through which ran murmuring the silver stream that issued from a fountain on the hill. At the bottom, upon a low pedestal carved like a branching tree, stood a basin of silver, wide and shallow, and beside it stood a silver ewer.
Galadriel’s ‘elf-magic’ seems to involve at least some of the same kind of sympathetic magic that Lúthien used: Lúthien’s sleep-spell that she cast on her hair also involved water drawn in a silver container at night-time. The effect of the magic is very different from Lúthien’s, though: the mirtor shows the past, the present, and future possibilities. This is in line with Galadriel’s gift of foresight (which her brother Finrod and her cousin-once-removed Idril also had).
Sam, with some prompting from Galadriel, chooses to look in the Mirror, and mentions to Frodo that he’d like “a glimpse of what’s going on at home.” Frodo looks in the Mirror after after him. I’ll try to make a list of what each of them say, with guesses about the meaning.
Sam sees:
“There was sun shining, and the branches of trees were heaving and tossing in the wind.” These are implied or outright stated to be the same trees he sees again later.
“He thought he saw Frodo with a pale face lying fast asleep under a great dark cliff. Then he seemed to see himself going along a dim passage, and climbing an endless winding stair. It came to him suddenly that he was looking urgently for something, but what it was he did not know.” This is Cirith Ungol, after Frodo has been poisoned by Shelob, and Sam searching for him in the Tower of Cirith Ungol.
The Mirror then returns to the trees, and Sam sees that the trees are near Hobbiton and Ted Sandyman is cutting them down. The Old Mill has been replaced by a new red-brick one that is putting out black smoke. And Bagshot Row, where Sam’s father lives, has been dug up and his father is leaving with all his remaining posessions in a wheelbarrow. This distresses Sam to the point where he wants to return home immediately, but Galadriel reminds him that he has no ability to do so and that the mirror does not show certain futures, but only possibilities.
In point of fact, it’s not clear whether the mirror is showing the future, the present, or the recent past in that last scene - in “The Scouring of the Shire”, Bagshot Row has been dug up and Sam’s father has been put into one of the new, low-quality houses that Lotho had his men build; and Lotho’s men came into the Shire in the late fall or early winter and imprisoned Mayor Will Whitfoot soon after New Year’s, effectively making Lotho the Shire’s dictator.
What the mirror shows Sam here is fairly simple - he is being shown a similar choice as when he first met Galadriel, between a dangerous journey (and he is shown the moment where he will become absolutely essential to the Quest’s success) and returning home to see to the well-being of others whom he loves. With difficulty, he chooses to go on.
Frodo’s vision is more complex:
“At once the Mirror cleared and he saw a twilit land. Mountains loomed dark in the distance against a pale sky. A long grey road wound back out of sight. Far away a figure came down the road, faint and small at first, but growing larger and clearer as it approached. Suddenly Frodo realized that it reminded him of Gandalf...[but] then he saw that the figure was clothed not in grey but in white, in a white that shone faintly in the dusk; and in its hand there was a white staff. The head was so bowed that he could see no face, and presently the figure turned aside round a bend in the road and went out of the Mirror’s view. Doubt came into Frodo’s mind: was this a vision of Gandalf on one of his lonely journeys long ago, or was it Saruman.” I think that here the Mirror is dealing in metaphor, and what Frodo sees is symbolic of Gandalf the White’s return from death.
“Brief and small but very vivid he caught a glimpse of Bilbo walking restlessly about his room. The table was littered with disordered papers; rain was beating on the windows.” A fairly mundane vision, showing him - like Sam - what is going on with his loved ones back home.
Then “many swift scenes that Frodo in some way knew to be parts of a great history in which he had become involved”:
“Darkness fell. The sea rose and raged in a great storm. Then he saw against the Sun, sinking blood-red into a wrack of clouds, the black outline of a tall ship with torn sails riding up out of the West.” This is the downfall of Númenor, and the ships of Elendil being preserved from its ruin.
“A wide ruver flowing through a populous city.” Osgiliath.
“A white fortress with seven towers.” Minas Tirith.
“Again a ship with black sails, but now it was morning again, and the water ripped with light, and a banner bearing the emblem of a white tree shone in the sun. A smoke as of fire and battle arose, and again the sun went dow into a burning red...” Aragorn at the Battle of the Pelennor Fields.
“...that faded into a grey mist; and into the mist a small ship passed away, twinkling with lights. It vanished.” Frodo departing from Middle-earth for Eressëa.
And lastly Frodo sees the Eye of Sauron searching for him, but Frodo knows “it could not see him unless he willed it .” Galadriel tells Frodo that she sees the sane, and that Sauron seeks to know her thoughts but cannot, whereas she can read Sauron’s mind, “or all of his mind that concerns the Elves.” She shows Frodo her ring, Nenya, the Ring of Adamant. (I always felt that Elrond should have Nenya, Ring of Water, since the Fords of Bruinen protect Rivendell and Elrond can command the waters; and Galadriel should have Vilya, the Ring of Air, since Lothlórien’s protections are something more like an aerial boundary around the entire land.)
Frodo offers Galadriel the Ring, and she (with some difficulty) refuses it. This has gotten very long, but I do still feel the need to note that when she is considering accepting the Ring, her words “Beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow Upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning!” appear to reference - as peers/comparators of the imagined Ringlord Galadriel - Manwë, Varda, Ulmo, and Aulë. The mention of Taniquetil at least is unmistakeable. The lady’s ambitions are not small. This is the moment where we see most clearly the truth of the statement that Galadriel is both similar to Fëanor in the scope of her power and ambition, and wiser than him in rejecting it.
As a Silmarillion fan, I also continue to find it meaningful that Elrond is the only one of the bearers of the Three Rings who does not appear to find the One Ring tempting at all.
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Maiar of Manwë, Lord of the Breath of Arda
Manwë, the King of the Valar and of Arda and the husband of Varda, was associated with the element air. He is the ruler of the winds and clouds, and is served by the Great Eagles as well as many Maiar, including Olorin (Gandalf) and Eonwe. Manwë would send out many of these Maiar to bring him news of the happenings of Arda, and they reported to him in his halls of Ilmarin on Taniquetil, the highest mountain in Arda. Manwë himself is Tolkien's equivalent of the "Sky Father" type of deity that is found in the pantheons of many mythologies, with Greek Zeus and Roman Jupiter being good examples.
Some of Manwë's most well-known servants are the Great Eagles, chief of which is Thorondor, who played important roles in The Silmarilion, The Hobbit, and The Lord of the Rings. In these stories the Eagles are powerful, long-living giant eagles who were created by Manwë and Yavanna when their thoughts mingled during The Music of the Ainur. But in early stages of Tolkien's writings, the Eagles were seen as Maiar of Manwë who took the shape of birds instead of the humanoid shapes that the Valar and some of the more famous Maiar took. It is stated that "Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his halls; and their eyes could see to the depths of the seas, and pierce the hidden caverns beneath the world."
Also in early stages of Tolkien's writings, before the concept of the Maiar was created, there existed different classes of minor nature spirits that resembled the nymphs, fairies, brownies, pixies, gnomes, etc. of European mythology and folklore. The air spirits were called Sylphs and served Manwë, and were divided into two groups: the Manir (spirits of the air) and the Súruli (spirits of the winds, also called Suluthrim and Sulussin). A specific Súru named Ilinsor is mentioned as a spirit who "loved the snows and starlight and aided Varda in many of her works." Ilinsor was later chosen as the steersman of the Moon; Ilinsor doesn't appear in the published Silmarilion and is instead replaced by the Maia Tilion.
One of Manwë's Maiar who existed from some of Tolkien's earliest writings is Eonwë, the banner-bearer and herald of Manwë and Chief of the Maiar along with Varda's handmaiden Ilmarë. He is said to be the best with weapons in all of Arda, but that doesn't make him the most powerful. In the early stages of Tolkien's works, before the concept of the Maiar was developed, Eonwë was called Fionwë and was envisioned as the son of Manwë and Varda and the brother of Erinti (the early name for Ilmarë). Tolkien was a devout Catholic and the influence of his faith can be seen in many of his characters; Manwë's Maiar are very reminiscent of the angels, and Eonwë himself strongly resembles Michael the Archangel.
Another Maia who served Manwë (and Varda) was Olórin, later known as Gandalf and Mithrandir; he was also a great student of Nienna and had associations with Irmo/Lorien as well. His name in Valar comes from the root olor/olos, which means dream or vision and shows his connection to Irmo-Lorien, which isn't too obvious the first time you read the story. He was considered the wisest of the Maiar and he had associations with light and fire, much like Manwë's spouse Varda. When the Valar decided to send a group of Maiar to Middle-earth disguised as wizards (Istari) to help the free peoples fight Sauron, Manwë and Varda chose to send Olórin. Olórin did not wish to go because he feared Sauron and didn't feel capable of the task, but Manwë said that was all the more reason why he should go and Olórin submitted to his will. He later became known in Middle-earth as Gandalf and Mithrandir, among other names.
An interesting note about Manwë's Maiar is that, despite Manwë's heavy association with the air, his two named Maiar that appear in The Silmarilion are actually strongly associated with fire. Olórin already had associations with light and fire in Valinor, and we later see other examples of this when he is in Middle-earth. When he first arrives from Valinor he is given Narya, the elven Ring Of Fire, by Cirdan the shipwright. He was also known for his impressive fireworks, and enjoyed smoking pipeweed. Meanwhile, Eonwë also has associations with fire, though these are more present in Tolkien's early drafts than in the published Silmarilion. At this stage he has the additional name Urion, which means He of the Sun and comes from the same root as Urwen/Urwendi, the early name for Arien who he was in love with. Tolkien developed a scene in which Melkor attacked Urwen because he wanted to claim her as bride. She refused to be overpowered by him and abandoned her body and "died", which resulted in a great release of heat. This inflicted lasting burns on Melkor and also scorched parts of the earth, creating the deserts. It was said that at the end of days, Fionwë-Urion would fight Melkor due to his love for Urwen/Arien. This story, together with Eonwë's love for Arien and his associations with fire, doesn't appear in the published Silmarilion.
#Manwë#manwë súlimo#manwe#manwe sulimo#Manwë Maiar#Manwe Maiar#Ainur#Maiar#Istari#Maiar Moodboard#Maiar Aesthetic#Tolkien#Tolkien Moodboard#Tolkien Aesthetic#Eonwë#Eonwe#Fionwë#Fionwe#Urion#Ilinsor#Sylph#Sylphs#Suruli#Manir#Great Eagles#Eagles of Manwe#Eagles of Manwë#Thorondor#Varda#Arien
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Valar, Maiar and Spirits
VALAR
The Valar are Ainur, spirits that are brought into being from Ilúvatar's thought. They are Powers of Arda who shaped and rule the world. Their place of living is Aman.
After singing the Ainulindalë, the Ainur witnessed the Vision of Ilúvatar and the creation of Eä (the Universe). Many Ainur chose to enter Eä, agreeing not to leave it until the end of Arda (the World).
After entering Eä, the Valar and their followers - those Maiar who remained loyal to Ilúvatar and rejected Melkor's rebellion - started shaping Arda using their godlike powers over its physical matter, preparing it for the awakening of the Children of Ilúvatar (Elves and Men).
As Ainur, the Valar are divine, immortal spirits who have no physical body and can remain invisible. Nonetheless, they often take the shapes of Men, Elves, or other forms of nature.
Some called the Valar "gods," but they are actually emissaries or regents of Ilúvatar, and they are not supposed to be worshiped. Their purpose is not to be lords or masters of the Children of Ilúvatar, but rather to serve as elders and guides.
The Valar are prohibited from depriving the Children of their free will, killing or otherwise using force against them, or dominating them through displays of angelic power.
Like all Ainur, the Valar had witnessed much the unfolding of the history of Arda in the Vision of Ilúvatar, but not all of it. Parts of this history, and certain parts of Ilúvatar's thought, such as the true nature and destiny of the Children of Ilúvatar, remained hidden from them.
Lords of the Valar:
Manwë Súlimo, King of the Valar, husband of Varda
Ulmo, King of the Sea
Aulë the Smith, Smith of the Valar, husband of Yavanna
Oromë Aldaron, the Great Rider, Huntsman of the Valar, husband of Vána
Námo (Mandos), Judge of the Dead, husband of Vairë
Irmo (Lórien), Master of Dreams and Desires, husband of Estë
Tulkas Astaldo, Champion of Valinor, husband of Nessa
Queens of the Valar (Valier):
Varda Elentári, Queen of the Stars, wife of Manwë
Yavanna Kementári, Queen of Earth, wife of Aulë
Nienna, Lady of Mercy
Estë the Gentle, has power to heal all hurts and weariness, wife of Irmo
Vairë the Weaver, responsible for weaving the story of the World, wife of Mandos
Vána the Ever-young, has influence with the flora and fauna of Middle-earth, wife of Oromë
Nessa the Dancer, wife of Tulkas
MAIAR
The Maiar are those spirits which descended to Arda to help the Valar shape the World. They are numerous, yet not many were named, and few also took visible shapes in Middle-Earth. The Maiar are Ainur - technically, any Ainu that is not counted as a Vala is a Maia.
Their chiefs are Eönwë, banner-bearer and herald of Manwë, and Ilmarë, the handmaid of Varda. Each of the Maiar is associated with one or more particular Vala, and is of similar stock, though less powerful.
Named Maiar:
Arien, the Maia who guides the Sun
Aiwendil (Radagast), strong affinity for animals
Alatar (one of the Blue Wizards)
Curumo (Saruman), "Man of Skill"
Eönwë, Herald of Manwë, Chief of the Maiar
Durin's Bane, Balrog
Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs
Ilmarë, Handmaiden of Varda
Mairon (Sauron), The Enemy
Melian, Queen of Doriath
Olórin (Gandalf), Mithrandir
Ossë, the Maia of the Inner Seas
Pallando (one of the Blue Wizards)
Salmar, he made the Ulumúri for his master, the great conches which produce the music of the sea
Tilion, the Maia who guides the Moon
Uinen, The Lady of the Sea
SPIRITS
Spirits refers to beings whose nature in essence were of non-corporeality. Before Eä, Eru created the spirits known as the Ainur, the Holy Ones. The greater were called Valar and the lesser Maiar.
Some of the spirits were associated with a certain element, or physical phenomenon:
Air spirits: Spirits shaped like hawks and eagles delivered messages to Manwë as he sat in his throne in Ilmarin upon Taniquetil.
Fire spirits: The Maia Arien is said to have been "from the beginning a spirit of fire". Melkor seduced some of the fire spirits, which became known as the Balrogs.
Water spirits: A host of spirits followed Ulmo to maintain the waters of Arda, of whom the Maiar Ossë and Uinen were the greatest. Perhaps Salmar, and Goldberry and the River-woman were such water spirits.
Shadow spirits: It is told that Morgoth sent "spirits of shadow" against Tilion, as he hated the light of the Sun and Moon.
Evil spirits: Melkor "gathered to himself spirits out of the voids of Eä that he had perverted to his service", and these became known as the Úmaiar or demons.
#tolkien#silmarillion#lotr#valar#maiar#middle earth#manwe#varda#gandalf#saruman#melkor#spirit#spiritual#tolkien fandom#arda#middle earth religion
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The Best Timeline
Title: The Best Timeline
Rating: T
Word count: 3599
Warnings: minor language and innuendo, ridiculousness
Summary: Wanda and Vision find a mysterious package on their doorstep. They open it to reveal a glimpse of their lives in another world. Endgame Spoilers.
A/N: It’s been weeks, but I’m still bitter about Endgame’s treatment of Vision. And it’s Paul Bettany’s birthday, so I’m giving him the recognition he deserves. While my underlying emotions are very real, I exaggerated some of my complaints for comedic effect (hopefully). This is not meant to be taken too seriously. Other than the essential point that Vision (and Paul) deserved better.
Also, some parts of the movie may be out of order/misremembered/omitted.
Vision answered the door upon hearing the bell ring. No one was there. Instead, there was only a small package. He picked it up curiously to find a DVD. When he returned to the living room, Wanda asked, “Who was it?”
“There was no one there, but someone left this film called Avengers: Endgame. Very curious. The cover bears images of all our friends.” He handed it to Wanda for her to peruse.
The original six Avengers, of course, had the largest images in the center of the package, but Wanda also appeared on the back, along with a number of their space-based allies. Vision could only surmise that this movie came from an alternate universe where he and his friends were fictional characters. It was amazing that the actors chosen in that universe so closely resembled his real friends in his own universe. That would provide hours of fodder for speculation, but right now he simply wanted to see how events turned out.
He couldn’t help but notice that he was not featured on either side of the cover. That was perfectly alright. He was not upset in the least. Vision understood that there were many characters to take into account, but he still felt a pang in his synthetic heart that he did not merit one square inch of space. He was an Avenger after all, and a bearer of one sixth of the Infinity Stones. And his AI forebear had been important to Tony Stark far before that.
Enough time had passed that the worst of the pain surrounding Thanos’s attack had ebbed, but Vision was still concerned for Wanda’s well-being. However, she seemed equally interested in learning about this movie. “We should watch. Don’t you think, Vizh?”
“I agree.”
He slipped the disk into their DVD player. When he returned to the couch, Wanda cuddled closer against his side. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.
Clint Barton appeared on the screen. Vision watched Clint interact with his family, only to see them disappear into thin air. “What kind of monsters would show that?” Wanda asked. “Everyone knows about the Snap already, or at least the cover said.”
“I do not know. Perhaps it is a devious attempt at emotional manipulation, encouraging the audience to forgive Clint a great deal when he reacts to their deaths.”
Then a logo proclaiming Marvel Studios appeared on the screen. He wondered if it had any association with Captain Marvel in their world.
The image shifted to Tony and Nebula, adrift in the vastness of space. Carol soon rescued them. “I know that Carol is powerful, but the odds of her finding them are almost incalculable.” Another item to put on his list for another time. Vision did enjoy these problems in the middle of the night while the rest of the world was asleep.
“Yeah, I’m glad she did though.” Wanda and Tony were now on a much better footing. His role in bringing Vision back was a key step in helping them reconcile after Wanda returned. When Carol landed the ship in front of the compound, Vision could not help but tear up at Tony’s reunion with Pepper. They truly were a wonderful couple. He had been so happy to attend their wedding with Wanda after they had defeated Thanos, and to become a godfather to Morgan when she was born a year later.
They watched the faces of the Snapped people flash by. Vision held Wanda more tightly when her face appeared. She nuzzled his shoulder. “It’s okay now.” He nodded against the top of her head, but kept her close to him.
When the characters on screen started planning to fight Thanos a second time, Vision and Wanda truly started getting confused. In their universe, the Avengers and their allies all worked together for five years, preparing themselves for battle and gathering Infinity Stones, before attempting to face Thanos again. They absorbed alternate universe Carol’s idea to go after Thanos immediately. Carol in their universe was rightfully confident as well, but others had prevailed on her that they should wait to prepare a battle strategy and only fight Thanos at their full strength.
When the small contingent boarded the aircraft to travel to the Garden, Vision muttered, “This plan seems most unwise.”
“Mmhmm.”
Vision began to question his assessment when the group easily restrained Thanos and removed the Gauntlet. But when Rocket flipped it over to see the empty slots and Thanos explained what he had done, Vision felt a small measure of triumph. The scene ended with a somewhat startling shot of Thor cutting off Thanos’s head and walking away.
This was far different from what happened in their world. In their universe, Thanos could not resist the temptation of keeping the Stones intact. He bided his time while the worlds he destroyed struggled to carry on. The only precaution he took was to scatter the Stones throughout deep space, keeping their locations to himself.
Next, a black screen revealed that five years had passed. Vision watched Natasha face the holograms of their friends who were working across the galaxies to keep the universe together. They were having a remarkably similar conversation to one Vision remembered about a garbage scow and an underwater earthquake, but he wondered why he was not present. Both he and Clint, who had come back to Natasha and the Avengers after his family had disappeared, had called into that meeting. Clint had been stationed in the Midwest of the United States, infiltrating a local militia that was attempting to usurp the federal government in that area. Vision had been sent to the remnants of the United Nations in Geneva, Switzerland to act as a liaison once Bruce, Tony, and Shuri had revived him in 2020. Vision did not like to think about those days, but they were a part of him.
He watched Scott Lang detail his theory of how they could bring everyone back with time travel. Vision frowned. He remembered those debates that had endured for weeks about the feasibility of such plans. Firm lines had been drawn, confusion had reigned among those less versed in the science of quantum mechanics, and bitterness lingered long after they had decided that they would use a different plan. Fortunately, those feelings had been soothed by the time of the final battle, but Vision still did not want to dwell on it.
On screen Natasha, Steve, and Scott traveled to see Doctor Banner, now one with the Hulk. Vision had already accepted that the events in this movie were very different from what happened in their universe, but it was still odd to see the Avengers act as if they had not spoken to Doctor Banner for the full five years that had elapsed. In Vision’s own universe, Bruce had become an integral part of the team after the eighteen months spent merging with the Hulk. He had played a crucial role in bringing Vision back, along with Tony and Shuri. Working through the mostly successful project (in every way except that Vision had been left without any emotions) had been the catalyst to encourage the Avengers to trust and rely on each other again.
He still felt guilt over not mourning Wanda or any of his friends, though she insisted he could not help it. That is what Vision wished to forget, but maybe his emotionless logic had been necessary at the time. It allowed him to function without the grief that he would surely have experienced otherwise weighing down his thoughts and actions.
Vision forced his attention back to the movie. He and Wanda were even more taken aback when they reached New Asgard. Vision felt great compassion for that universe’s version of Thor. He was clearly struggling with guilt and anguish. Vision bristled when Rocket made a joke about his changed appearance. Rocket was not the most sensitive of companions, but whoever wrote his dialogue seemed to expect the audience to laugh at the joke. Thor’s depression was not something to be made the butt of a puerile joke.
It only grew worse as the writers continued to elaborate on making Thor a pitiful figure. What Thor had faced would be enough to make anyone turn to alcohol or food and to isolate one’s self from the world, but his character was unrecognizable from the one Vision knew. The Thor he knew continued to bear up admirably under the pressure of the Snap and had done everything in his power to help his people adjust to living on Earth. He had become a king in truth as well as name.
When the scene shifted to Tokyo, the rainy night suggested that it would not be a pleasant scene. Vision was still shocked at the blood and violence contained therein. Rhodes had mentioned that Clint was undertaking the murder of people he judged to be criminals throughout the world, but this seemed extreme even for him. When Natasha approached him, saying that she would not judge him for his worst mistake, Vision privately thought that the five years, more or less, of extra-judicial killings were far more than a mistake. Instead, it was an international crime spree that would take years to untangle in international courts, with so many countries battling for jurisdiction. Vision did feel vindicated in his assessment of the opening scene, comforting himself that none of this had ever happened. In their universe, Clint had tried to avenge his family by working to save what was left of the world and to bring them back.
When they reached the presentations concerning the Infinity Stones, Vision was once again somewhat affronted that they did not even mention him. This was the perfect opportunity to address his absence from the team and explain that his revival without the Mind Stone had left him without any emotions. Alas, they moved back to the time-travel debate.
Vision and Wanda watched as the teams split up, some going to Vormir, some to Morag, and some to New York in 2012. In their universe, everyone had hunted down the Stones together using a modified version of the device Rocket had used to detect Thanos’s second Snap. There was no more splitting up, only becoming a true team and unit.
Wanda shrieked with laughter at Scott’s comment about “America’s ass.” Vision frowned deeply, but he quickly smoothed out his features. He shifted his attention to the other events on screen. This section of the movie was a humorous look at the Battle of New York, though none of it had ever happened. Well, the events had likely happened in some universe if there were infinite alternate realities. He was drawn away from his contemplation when Captain Rogers started fighting an earlier version of himself and the camera focused again on his posterior while he admitted that it was “America’s ass.”
“Damn right, it is,” Wanda murmured with a smirk. Vision failed to hide his displeasure this time.
“I suppose it is aesthetically pleasing.” The tightness in his voice was clearly audible to Wanda. She paused the movie before looking up at him. She swung her legs over his lap and tilted his face down to hers, grinning at him.
“Not as much as yours.” She quickly paused the movie and leaned up to kiss him. He wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her in place as their mouths moved together. They finally pulled apart several minutes later.
Vision felt foolish for succumbing to jealousy so easily. “Thank you, Wanda.”
“Sure thing, Vizh. Ready to get back to the movie?” Vision nodded. The action resumed with Tony and Steve traveling even farther back in time. This movie’s treatment of time-travel was growing confusing even to his own advanced synthetic brain.
When everyone returned to the time travel platform and broke to mourn for Natasha, tears started rolling down Wanda’s cheeks. He clutched her more tightly. “It’s alright. Natasha is perfectly well.” She nodded against him, sniffling, and he handed her a tissue.
They finally reached the point where the Avengers prepared to use the Gauntlet. He did not understand why they were arguing over who should use it when the clear solution was the one they used in their own universe, distributing all six Stones among six individuals, reducing the negative side effects. He could recall the painstaking construction of their own version of the Infinity Gauntlet. Tony had made a chain that connected all six Stones. Each Stone fitting had another chain that allowed one of the chosen Avengers to hold it. Vision, Thor, Steve, Carol, and Bruce had been the ones chosen, due to their superhuman physiques, along with Tony. Alas, Vision could not communicate through the screen to correct their plan. Instead he was forced to watch Bruce’s struggle with the movement and the serious injury that resulted from it.
The results of their channeling the Stones’ power were similar though. Clint had smiled shakily upon seeing his wife’s face appear on his phone in both universes. Birds suddenly started chirping and a tree that had been Snapped out of existence reappeared. The most startling result in Vision’s universe had been that the Mind Stone had merged with him again, granting him his emotions. He shuddered a bit in memory of how the wave of years of suppressed emotions had crashed down on him at once, bringing him to his knees and causing him to sob. He was grateful for Wanda’s presence in this moment; he rested his head against her chest as she rubbed his shoulder. She paused the movie again, letting him breathe.
After several minutes, Vision finally raised his head to look at Wanda, cupping her face gently. He placed a soft kiss on her lips, and she smiled at him, her own eyes watering. He said, “I am ready to resume the film when you are.”
The screen showed the disguised 2014 Nebula leading Thanos into the compound. Wincing at the sudden destruction of the entire building, Vision wondered how the remaining Avengers would stand against such a force, whether what came next would approximate what happened in their universe at all.
At the time, the others had rushed to comfort him just as Thanos and his forces had appeared outside the compound, drawn by the energy signature of their second Snap. Vision had tried to join them. He had to do his part. But Natasha urged him to stay back until he had recovered himself while the others moved outside to confront Thanos. Vision would never forget the helplessness he experienced then, but the thought of his friends out there alone and the refusal to let the world be at that monster’s mercy pushed him into action within 3.65 minutes.
Thanos had just finished his grand monologue about being inevitable and coming to take back what they had stolen from him when Vision met the other Avengers. The out-sized figure sneered at him when he saw the Mind Stone. “I will enjoy killing you again, Living Machine.” Vision did not honor him with a response. Instead, Steve, Tony, Bruce, Carol, Nebula, Rhodes, Scott, Natasha, Thor, Rocket, Clint, and Vision all moved forward as one. Then, the battle had begun in earnest.
What occurred on screen was quite different. With only Steve, Thor, and Tony facing Thanos, and everyone else cut off in various parts of the facility, the battle seemed even more unequal. There was still the same pedestrian monologuing, but Vision was curious to see the resolution. He had no desire to ever pay any mind to Thanos again.
It looked as if the Avengers would truly be defeated once and for all when the crackle of static alerted Steve to a new presence “on his left.” It was thrilling when the first portal opened and T’Challa, Okoye, and Shuri stepped through. As more opened, revealing Peter, Stephen, and the lost Guardians, and many others, the swelling music caught Vision’s mind, even though he was certain about what would ultimately happen.
Wanda swung her legs back onto the floor and leaned forward eagerly as she flew through a portal with Bucky and some Wakandan soldiers. “I look awesome here.” Her powers did look majestic. Vision was awed once again that Wanda had chosen him when she could have had anyone she wanted.
“Always, dear.” He quickly shifted his attention back to the television, not wanting to miss a moment. The one remark that passed through his mind before he became completely engrossed in the spectacle was that it was fortunate that the villains were following movie logic and stopped completely while the heroes were still dramatically preparing themselves for battle. But that all faded away when he saw Wanda stand alone against Thanos. He would never cease to be amazed by her strength. And slightly aroused, if he were being completely honest.
Wanda glanced at him and smirked. Patting his knee, she said, “Later, darling.” Both of them had no more time to spare when Wanda joined with the other women on screen, and they all began to advance together. It was a compelling sight, though Vision couldn’t help but note that these women had barely interacted prior to this moment. It somewhat undercut the power of the image.
By that point, Vision realized that he would not be appearing. He felt a slice of disappointment run through him. It was petty, perhaps, but pettiness was part of humanity. He embraced it as he did all of humanity. So he allowed himself a few moments of bitterness.
Vision was drawn from his brooding as Wanda clutched his hand when Thanos and his army began to flake away into dust. It was a supremely satisfying moment, even though much of the film was a complete fiction in their universe.
When the scene shifted to Tony’s funeral, Vision bowed his head for the fictional Tony. Though he supposed they never grew close in that universe, Vision thought of how his own universe’s Tony had eventually become one of his closest friends. He noted that he still was not present among the Avengers, so he supposed neither Shuri nor Bruce had repaired him yet. Later, the camera panned to a shot of only Clint and Wanda.
His own Wanda frowned at their conversation. “I know people react to grief differently, but I have no idea why any version of me wouldn’t at least say your name. And it’s weird that I didn’t mention Pietro either.” Vision had to agree. He knew that Wanda still felt her brother’s loss keenly, even after many years, but she still spoke of the happier times often.
“I do not understand it either.” He could not hold it against the fictional Wanda, as she was at the mercy of writers who had their own strange agenda, apparently.
His wife wrapped her arms around him again, and he returned her embrace. “I’m glad we don’t need to worry about that.”
“Indeed,” he whispered into her hair, breathing in her scent.
Vision checked the time. They were very close to the end now. The scene turned to Steve standing on a miniature version of the time travel platform from the compound. Vision murmured, “This all could have been avoided if they had done anything but time travel.”
Wanda elbowed him lightly, and he subsided. Mere moments later Steve was shown to be an old man sitting on a bench. They watched as he handed his shield to Sam. Wanda voiced her shock vociferously. “Sam deserves it, but I don’t think Steve would ever just leave his friends and the world he spent twelve years adjusting just to go back to a woman he had made his peace with.”
“I concur.” In their universe, Steve was alive and well. He had finally taken a leave to address the years of trauma that he had suffered and was still leading the team with aplomb.
They watched as Steve danced with Peggy and the closing credits began to play. “Well, I could see how certain audience members might find the ending pleasing, no matter how nonsensical it is.”
“I guess. That’s just not my Steve.”
“Nor mine.” The credits began to play, with highlights from each of the main cast members. They were particularly beautiful. Clearly the artists had paid great attention to detail, but he still did not appear. Logic dictated that that was the case, but it was cold comfort.
Wanda returned to the main menu. “Ooh, let’s watch some of the bonus features!” Vision was not feeling enthusiastic about watching any more, but he nodded agreeably. They played through the deleted scenes, where he was also not featured or mentioned once. Then, there was a brief history of all twenty-two movies in the franchise, where the actor who played his character was featured momentarily. Paul Bettany was also an actor in their universe. Vision loved his movies, and Wanda did like to tease him that the man bore a certain resemblance to Vision. He was gratified to have an actor of his caliber portray him. Though it made him bitter all over again that he was not allowed to be featured even once in the credits of the culminating movie in the franchise. He deserved it after seven movies.
Vision supposed that in the end it did not matter because in this universe he was alive and well. Wanda’s warmth was pressed against his side, and they had their whole lives ahead of them. He was truly living in the best timeline.
#fanfiction#alternate universe#vision#wanda maximoff#wanda x vision#scarlet vision#post avengers endgame#endgame spoilers#happy birthday paul bettany
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The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 16 - The Carrion Hours
It is the spring of 9:32 Dragon, and Ferelden is gripped in the midst of a bloody civil war. Driven by fear of an old enemy, the traitorous Loghain Mac Tir has stirred the people against the king, and every day new factions vie for power, waiting to take advantage of the chaos now that it is certain a new peace can only be won with swords.
In the north, Arl Howe of Amaranthine has seized control of Highever, and only Rosslyn Cousland, last scion of a slaughtered noble house, stands in the way of his greed. Aided by King Cailan’s uncle and his bastard half-brother, Alistair, she is determined to seek justice for her family’s murder and right the wrongs done to her people.
But politics is a complicated game. War has a cost; nobility comes with obligation; and beneath the machinations on both sides of the conflict, an even deeper threat stirs, biding its time to come into the light and bring Ferelden to its knees.
Words: 5960
Chapter summary: With the battle over, Rosslyn must count the cost - and there's no word of Alistair.
Chapter 1 on AO3
This chapter on AO3
Masterpost here
posting for @alistairappreciationweek
art in this chapter by the wonderful @junie-junette
“My lady, please. Reconsider.”
“I said, bring me another horse!”
Rosslyn turned back to inspect Lasan’s hoof and the stone wedged in his shoe. He jerked when the hoof-pick hooked under one corner of it, but the trooper at his head kept a grip on the bridle, and she forced herself to be calm despite her awareness of every moment slipping by. The dogs were out in the dark, trailing for a scent now hours old, their eyes glowing orange where they looked up towards the western edge of the sky. The light was fading. Soon, they would only be able to see by torches, and then Howe – her vengeance – would be truly lost to her, and every life sacrificed on the battlefield would mean nothing. The evening brought a breeze that chilled the sweat on her forehead and seeped into her bones, uncaring.
Finally, she pried the stone free. They had been at full gallop when Lasan came up lame, every trooper still able to wield a sword behind them, and even the few strides he had taken to slow to a halt had been enough to bruise the soft sole of the horse’s foot. It would need treatment, or else an abscess might form, and she couldn’t ride him back or risk making the injury worse.
“And that’d be the end of you,” she said quietly to him, letting go of the hoof so she could pat him on the neck.
Her hand came away wet with blood and lather, shining black in the torchlight. The other horses were in similar shape, blowing hard and trembling with fatigue, slow targets for anyone waiting to ambush them on the road ahead, especially with riders injured and glazed from battle. At the centre of the ring of torches, Irminric watched her grimly, waiting for orders as she glared down the road. It was truly dark now.
“My lady?”
She gritted her teeth. “Recall the dogs.”
With one last look over her shoulder, she mounted the spare horse led over to her, and turned to lead the way back to the camp. Resistance dragged at her limbs like cold water, sound fell away, her head felt thick and heavy, and only the flickering lights ahead kept her path in the right direction.
As the battlefield neared, she fought the urge to gag on the smell. Soldiers picked their way through the bodies, first the Swords of Mercy looking for any last survivors, and after them the salvagers, squabbling with the crows as they searched for weapons or armour no longer needed by their owners. Some had presence of mind enough to pause in their grisly work and salute as the cavalry rode past, but Rosslyn kept her eyes forward, not daring to turn in case she found one of the endless corpse with a face she recognised.
A waste. She wondered if her parents had ever felt so hollow after a battle, if they had mourned for men whose names they would never know. Lady carry you on soft wings to more peaceful lives than the ones you left, she thought, and rode on.
Her horse shied slightly on the ice-and-wood bridge constructed over the river, but she settled it with a slight dig of her heels, distracted. There was the royal banner of the War Dog that had led the disastrous charge into the enemy’s rear, flying over a cluster of unfamiliar pavilions set in the middle of the camp. They blazed with merry light, servants buzzing around the tent flaps like moths, while all around the air was rank with the stench of blood and churned earth.
She spotted Franderel emerging from the closest one, as well-preened as ever, and her patience snapped. With a grunted order to her standard bearer, she swung off her horse, exhaustion driven away by the anger swelling in her chest. He started when she came hulking out of the dark towards him, but he recovered quickly.
“Ah, my lady, there you are, we were just starting to wonder –”
“Where is he?”
“What?”
She yanked off her helmet, teeth bared. “Do not test me, Franderel. That pestilential, nug-humping son of a pig nearly cost us the battle. Now where is he?”
“Now, my lady,” the Bann of West Hill replied smoothly, “I hardly call that civilised language. Perhaps you should calm down, before –”
“Half of my men are dead!” she shouted, flinging her arm out towards the dark. “The ground we had is lost and Howe has disappeared, all thanks to whichever fool it is decided to ignore the rules of engagement and charge blind into my ambush.” She leaned closer. Franderel flinched backwards. “Now you, my lord, will get out of my way or I swear by the breath of Winter that I will knock you down.”
“Ho, what’s this, another battle already?”
The new voice was light, jovial, completely out of place. Rosslyn snapped to face the newcomer, bristling, but stuttered to a dumb halt when she caught sight of the man’s golden armour and the War Dogs fluttering as he emerged from his pavilion. She dropped to one knee, mind racing.
“Your Majesty, I…” The apology died in her throat as she chanced a look upwards at the king. For a second, she could have sworn… She shook herself out of the fantasy, her cheeks itching red with embarrassment. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, I didn’t know it was you.”
“Oh, now none of that,” Cailan replied, offering her a hand to her feet. “We’re old friends, after all.” He smiled. “Now then, would you care to accompany me? We shall have to get you cleaned up, and fed, and maybe rested a bit – Bann Franderel, are accommodations prepared for our wayward Teyrna of Highever?”
“I believe so, Your Majesty,” came the clipped reply.
“Excellent. Perhaps you could find us some food, then – maybe a little wine?”
Franderel bowed. “It will be done.”
“I won’t rest yet, Your Majesty,” Rosslyn interrupted. “There is still a lot to be done.”
“Of course. This way.”
He tucked her arm into the crook of his elbow and Rosslyn allowed herself to be led towards the pavilion, fighting against her confusion at finding Cailan not in Redcliffe, and also against the rage eating at her like acid but which now had nowhere to go. To show anger towards the king went against every lesson in protocol she had ever learnt, especially knowing she needed his support to retake the North. Besides which, whatever remained of the army was still depending on her for leadership, and she had precious little energy to spare on anything so personal as a tantrum.
“When I heard about your family, I could hardly believe it,” Cailan told her quietly. “I’m sorry. Howe’s treachery will be redressed; you have my word. Whatever is in my power to give.”
Rosslyn suppressed the urge to grind her teeth. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
A servant stood just within the pavilion’s entrance with a pitcher of water and a clean towel draped over his arm. Cailan left her for a moment of privacy, for which she was grateful. The water, cold enough to sting, turned murky almost as soon as she dipped her hands below the surface, but a moment of scrubbing was enough to get rid of the worst of the gore, and a quick swipe of the towel across the back of her neck left her feeling remarkably refreshed.
Dismissing the servant with a gesture, she made her way through to where Cailan’s men had set up a trestle table with maps and early reports of the battle. Arl Eamon was there, still in armour and looking worse for wear with puffy eyes and deep wrinkles trailing into the edges of his beard. He bowed to her, as did Auldubard and Loren, who stood a little further back, unsure of themselves among such lofty company.
“Teagan?” Rosslyn asked.
“Badly injured, but alive,” Eamon answered in a gruff voice. “His troops took the worst of the final assault – it seems they plugged the gap so that the rest could get a better defensive line. My brother’s right-hand saw to that, I’m told.”
“Ser Alistair?” her heart jumped against her ribs, and again when she realised how her outburst must have seemed. She couldn’t afford to be distracted, not now, but the things she had said to him... the memory left a yawning darkness that made her fingers shake. “Is he alive?”
Eamon shrugged. “The messenger didn’t say.”
“I see.” Her mouth was dry. “What about Bann Telmen?”
“I saw him fall myself, my lady,” Auldubard replied. “There was nothing I could do.”
Rosslyn was grateful when Eamon took charge then. Casualty reports trickled in with inventories of items recovered from the field, names passed through the moments like sand through a glass – Morrence had survived, and Gideon, as well as most of Teagan’s captains, with only minor injuries. It soon became apparent, however, that crippled as it was, the army would have to make the best of fortifying its position instead of finding somewhere safer to rest its soldiers.
“At least until the mages can stabilise the most badly injured,” Eamon added. “The fact that we lost so many of them is unfortunate.”
“Ser Alistair’s defence made sure we didn’t lose more, my lord,” Audubard told him. “He’s the one who ordered the flank to focus on protecting them until Captain Morrence’s cavalry could intervene.”
“Did he now?” Cailan asked with an idle stroke of his beard. “This young man seems to have made an impression on all of you. What do you think, Uncle? I will have to meet him.”
Rosslyn frowned down at the table, rankled by the careless amusement in the king’s voice. “Our first decision is what to do next,” she said. “I recommend sending scouts as soon as possible along the Imperial Highway here –” she stabbed at the map – “And here. We can’t begin planning a counter-action until we know where our enemy is and how much strength he has left.”
Eamon nodded his approval. “Agreed. However, I’m afraid Arl Howe has most likely retreated to Deerswall. We sent outriders in that direction earlier today and they reported seeing Amaranthine troops digging ditches around the palisade.”
Her fists clenched. Of course Deerswall had been taken from them. Howe was opportunistic, and even with all the traps they had laid, and the garrison left to guard it, its position overlooking the road would have been too tempting to resist. They should have burned it to the ground instead.
“Lady Rosslyn?”
She jumped. Someone had asked her a question about supplies. “I – yes. We have rations enough for tonight. Requisition parties can be sent out in the morning.”
“Perhaps it’s best to leave things as they are then,” Cailan said. “We can do little more now in any case. With a bit of rest and some decent food in us, I’m sure we’ll have a brighter outlook.” He gave a subtle wave to one of the servants, and within seconds the table was being cleared of maps to make way for plates of meat pies, bread, cheese, and a jug of heated wine. “Come, my Lady Cousland, will you join us?”
Rosslyn shook her head, her mind already wandering. “Thank you, Your Majesty, but if you wouldn’t mind, I think I’d rather like to go to bed.”
“Of course,” he replied, covering his disappointment with a beaming smile. “I’m told you were up before the sun this morning, so I wouldn’t dream of keeping you. Lieutenant Mhairi,” he added, “show Teyrna Rosslyn to her quarters, if you would.”
A short, round-faced woman stepped out of the shadows and bowed crisply. “Yes, Your Majesty. This way, Your Ladyship.”
The lieutenant led the way through the camp in silence, her arms held stiffly behind her back. Rosslyn, too tired to make conversation, allowed her the mask of professionalism.
“Is there anything you require, You Ladyship?” Mhairi asked when they reached a pavilion with the standard of the Laurels dug into the earth by the entrance. “Should I call a servant for you?”
“No, thank you. I can manage well enough.”
Mhairi started to say something in reply, but was cut off when a brindle mass of fur streaked out of the pavilion’s entrance and all but knocked her over. Rosslyn barely had time to react before Cuno was rearing against her chest in a mad scramble of licks and high, whistled whines, doing his best despite the frantic wag of his rear end to climb into her arms like he had when he had been a puppy and considerably less heavy.
“I guess that means he’s pleased to see you,” Mhairi said.
Rosslyn barely heard her. She had to brace against her dog’s bulk to avoid sinking into the mud, but she held onto him tight and scratched her fingers along his shoulders and buried her face into his ruff even though it was matted with gore, until sense reasserted itself and the wriggling turned into a polite request for down, please, I don’t like heights. With a sound that was half a giggle and half a sob, she let him go, then staggered when he turned and thrust his rump against her knees.
“Fat lump,” Rosslyn accused, indulging the demand for scritches. “Thank you for your service, Lieutenant. That will be all.”
Hiding a grin, Mhairi bowed and left.
The inside of the pavilion was much warmer than the night outside. The only light came from a brazier by the central tent pole and a single candle that had been set out on a low table next to the bed, but it was enough to see by, and it offered a privacy she could not remember feeling for days. Next to the candle was a water pitcher, and a set of clean clothes was draped over her chair, though it was clear whoever had removed them from her trunk had not thought to iron out the creases. Trying not to think about what Graela’s reaction would be to seeing a shirt in such a state – or to the mess Cuno had already made of the bedsheets – Rosslyn looped the toggles shut, set up the privacy screen to block any gaps in the canvas, and carried the pitcher over to the brazier so she could wash in relative warmth.
Her shirt and breeches stuck to her skin as she peeled them off. She discarded them in a pile with her armour and followed with her smallclothes, grimacing when dried blood flaked off the cloth like rust. Shivering, she washed mechanically, letting the long, repetitive motions lull her into a trance that stripped her of everything but the need to free her skin of every single grain of dirt. Before, she might have lived with the itch of old sweat if it meant she could give in to the restless energy twining through her limbs, but King Cailan’s arrival made everything different. She felt it in the air, in the way the soldiers sat straighter around their fires and how the watchmen kept their eyes up and alert to the dark. For her, it meant her own desires needed to be an afterthought to propriety, just like on the morning she had stood on the parapet of the castle tower and watched her father ride to war without her.
Don’t think about it.
There was no helping her hair. The matted sweat and blood would take hours to wash and brush out properly, and she had no mirror to help her. It was dark, and her hair was black anyway; nobody would notice. She scooped it into a low tail out of the way and dressed swiftly in the new clothes, before easing her feet back into her only pair of boots, which she had been wearing since that morning. They squelched.
“Let’s go, dog.”
Cuno, patient until now, whined and cocked his head with a questioning wag of his stubby tail.
She sighed. “I have to know. I can’t just –” She remembered the argument, and Eamon’s dismissive shrug when she had asked. “I need to see that he’s alright.”
Nobody bothered them as they crossed the camp. The night was quieter now, the groans of the injured mostly silenced by sleep or something more permanent, and now only a few soldiers not on watch sat awake around their fires. Cuno trotted over to greet some of them, and others nodded towards Rosslyn as she passed, but on the whole they ignored her. Her place was not to comfort them, nor theirs to expect it. She kept her gaze fixed on the infirmary and measured a stately pace, hoping that the appearance of calm might inspire it in her troops, though every fibre of her being strained to break into a run and damn the consequences.
The young templar on duty outside the infirmary didn’t notice her approach. He was standing close to one of the mages, his hand resting lightly on her upper arm and his head lowered to offer comfort. The pair startled when Rosslyn whistled Cuno back to her side, and the mage flashed her a tear-stained glance from beneath a shock of dark hair before slinking away into the darkness.
“It’s been a long day for them,” the templar said, rubbing a sheepish hand along the back of his neck. “Many of them haven’t seen this kind of bloodshed before. Is there something you needed? I’m afraid the infirmary is closed to visitors until the morning.”
“I was hoping to speak to Wynne, if she hasn’t gone to bed yet,” Rosslyn replied.
“The senior enchanter? I’m afraid I don’t…” He peered more closely at her, his blond curls falling low over his forehead. “Andraste preserve me – Lady Cousland, forgive me, I didn’t realise it was you.”
She smiled wryly. “It seems to be a night for mistaken identities. Is Wynne around?”
“I’m sorry, my lady, but she retired about an hour ago. Now that the worst of the injuries have been seen to, the Knight-Captain ordered most of the mages rest for the morning. I could have a messenger run to fetch her, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rosslyn said, already stepping past him. “As you were, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Inside, the infirmary was warmly lit by shaded lamps that hung from the crossbeams holding up the canvas roof. The air smelled of bitter herbs and the sweetness of lyrium, but underneath it lingered a strain of blood and cauterized flesh that made bile rise in the back of Rosslyn’s throat. The whole place held the kind of quiet that only comes after a storm, when the clouds roll away and the sun shines down on the broken bits of flotsam left behind. Some of the soldiers whimpered quietly as she passed.
In one corner, a group of men in Highever colours sat in a loose circle, playing a game of cards by the light of a lamp and every now and then checking on a man who lay next to them with his eyes closed and his head in bandages.
“Lady Falcon!” It was the Amaranthine deserter who had once called her father a traitor. “It’s ‘Steal the Queen’ - will ye care for a hand?” He waved her over with the cards fanned between his fingers, smiling broadly as if she hadn’t once held a sword to his throat.
“I’m afraid I play terribly,” she replied, hesitating to cross over and join them.
“Can’t be worse than Jammy over here.”
Jammy gave him a swift dig in the ribs. “Leave off, man. Me luck’s not that bad, or I wouldna be sittin’ here, would ah? Dinna fash yeself owa this’un, lass,” he added. “As ye can see, weh’ve still gotta learn ‘im some manners.”
“Take a load off, lass,” interrupted one of the others, an older man with deep, weathered lines around his eyes. “Ye look like ye could use it.”
Rosslyn couldn’t help but smile as she shook her head. “You’re very kind to offer.” Then, feeling something else should be said, she asked, “How’s your friend?”
The soldiers glanced at their unconscious mate.
“Marvin? Aye, he’ll be alreet. Got a head like a rock, that’un. Yon mageling just asked us te watch ‘im, is all.”
“I’m glad.” She turned to leave, but they called her back.
“At least have a drink before ye go, milady,” the Amaranthine soldier said. He held up a corked glass bottle. “As thanks.”
“Thanks?” Rosslyn asked, discomfited by how they all looked at her through their bandages and bruises, with a trust she didn’t deserve. “For what?”
“Weh’d all be up the cundie if not for you, lass,” said the old man. “We saw well enough what happened on the hill.”
For a moment, Rosslyn couldn’t reply. She looked down at the bottle pushed into her hands.
“Well then.” She shrugged, and pulled the cork out with a hollow pop. “What’s your name?”
“Riley, Ma’am.”
“Well, Riley, here’s to not being up the cundie.” She raised the bottle and swigged it backwards, coughing when the strong, smoky liquid hit the back of her tongue and burned its way down her throat.
The soldiers laughed when she passed it back and wiped the tears from her eyes.
“I’ll leave the rest of that to you, I think.”
“What’s going on here?” The soldiers quieted as the healer in charge of the ward emerged into the lamplight, attracted by the noise. “You do know there are people here trying to heal, don’t you? They need rest. I don’t think – wait, is that a dog?”
Cuno cocked his head, his tongue hanging out of his mouth in what he no doubt thought was a winning smile.
“It’s not allowed.”
“I’m sorry?”
The healer drew himself up, mistaking the soft tone of Rosslyn’s voice for genuine confusion. “This is an infirmary – it must be kept clean.”
Her eyes narrowed, but before she could form a response, Cuno uttered a low wuff and bumped against her legs, before looking back at her expectantly with a wag of his tail.
“Dogs cannot just be allowed to wander willy-nilly around – hey, wait!”
The pulse in her ears drowned out the healer’s complaints. Cuno was keen on a scent, and glanced backwards every few steps to make sure she was following, through to the back of the pavilion until he found what he was looking for and ducked into an alcove blocked from view by a heavy curtain.
It was Alistair.
He lay without moving. A thin sheet was pulled up to cover his bare chest, a thick crust of gore caked his scalp and the left side of his face, and the skin beneath it shone pale with sweat. Was all the blood his? Someone had splinted his left arm and tied it in a sling. If he were dead, then surely they wouldn’t have bandaged his wounds, or propped him up with so many pillows for comfort. Surely.
Cuno, sensing his mistress’ uncertainty, came to lick her hand. He whined and nudged her hip when she only batted distractedly at his ears, and then with a perfunctory sneeze padded over to the bed and jumped up so that his large paws landed squarely – heavily – on Alistair’s stomach.
“Cuno!” Rosslyn hissed. She started forward, but halted again when Alistair groaned and cracked open his eyes.
“Ow, gerroff… ugh… where’d you even come from…?”
Relief hit her with such force that her knees sagged and she had to catch herself against the doorpost, her throat choked with every emotion she had kept in check since riding into the camp. He’s not dead. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to the creak of the straw mattress, the rustle of blankets, sending her thanks to all the gods who cared to listen. He’s alive, he’s alright, he’s not dead. The barbs of their argument loomed out of the darkness, still mocking, still powerful enough to sting her with shame, but their potency was lost with the fear that he might have died thinking she didn’t care.
“Who’s a cute and adorable puppy?” Alistair crooned, oblivious to everything but the dog snuggling against his arm. The words were slurred and a laugh bubbled in her throat.
“Andraste?”
She opened her eyes. He was peering into the shadows where she stood, propped up on one elbow to get a better view. The blanket covering him slipped down to his navel, bare except for the bandages, and she quickly turned her gaze away.
“Not quite.”
His confusion broke into a drunken sort of smile. “Rosslyn?” He settled back onto the mattress. “Good. Much prettier than ‘draste.”
Her hand froze against the tearstains on her cheek. The mages must have given him a soporific – blood lotus, perhaps, for the pain of his broken arm – and it was distorting his perceptions. She didn’t know what to say.
Then, after a moment, a thought seemed to occur to him, because he leaned up again and narrowed his eyes at her. “You are real, aren’t you?” he asked. “You’re not some sort of ghost, or apparition, or – or a demon, right? Because I really, really don’t want you to be a demon.”
“If I were a demon, would I tell you?” she teased.
He relaxed. “It’s you. Nobody else mocks me like you do.”
She chuckled as she moved towards him out of the darkness, determined to ignore how her face heated under his scrutiny. “It’s me.” She fiddled with the edge of the bedsheet. “I –”
“There you are!” The healer appeared next to the curtain, more puffed up than ever now that he had been made to exert himself. “My lady, please, I’m afraid I cannot allow you back here. These patients need rest, and –”
“I thought they were here to be healed,” Rosslyn said.
“They are. Which is why I will have to ask you to –”
“Perhaps, then,” she interrupted, “you could tell me why this man is lying here still covered in blood, and still with such severe injuries?”
“My lady,” the healer replied, indignant. “His injuries have been treated, and he has been given a draught to help control the pain –”
“If he needs the draught, then his injuries have not been treated,” she snapped.
From the bed, Alistair giggled.
“Answer the question I asked,” she ordered. “Or will I have to go to Senior Enchanter Wynne to find out why it is you’re so reluctant to be helpful?”
Mention of Wynne’s name deflated the last of the man’s bluster. “M-my apologies, my lady. The volume of patients we received from the battle, we had to prioritise our time and the mages’ energies.”
“Prioritise? You seem to have enough of both time and energy spare to follow me from one end of this place to the other hissing at me like a goose,” Rosslyn said dryly. She let the healer wilt for a beat longer as he tried to think of a response, before drawing herself up to her full, commanding height. “Fetch me a bowl of warm salted water, a clean cloth, and some elfroot salve,” she ordered.
“My lady…”
“Now.”
He did as he was told, mumbling an apology as he stumbled backwards out of range of Rosslyn’s cold glare.
“It’s nice when you’re angry at someone who isn’t me,” Alistair mused before turning his attention back to Cuno. “Who’s a good dog? Yes, you’re a good dog, yes you are!”
She frowned. “You say that like I’m always angry at you.”
The healer bustled back in, keeping his head low as he laid a water bowl and a small clay pot on a collapsible table he set up by the bed.
“That will be all,” Rosslyn said when he remained hovering a few feet away, only relaxing when the sound of his footsteps retreated out of earshot. She turned and shrugged off her cloak and gambeson, laying both across the foot of the bed before rolling up her shirtsleeves.
“Um, what are you doing?” Alistair asked as she sat down. The bed was very narrow. He tugged the blanket back up to cover his chest as far as possible, for decency, suddenly light-headed and rather warm to feel her thigh laid alongside his hip. Water plinked into the bowl as she soaked and squeezed the excess out of the cloth.
“I refuse to talk to someone so unkempt,” she breezed. “It’s undignified.”
“Unkempt?” He looked down at himself, pouting. “I am not.”
“At least tell me this isn’t all your own blood.”
“I – hm. I’m not sure.” He focussed on the way Cuno was butting his head into the crook of his elbow, because the only other thing to focus on was Rosslyn’s studious frown, the way her lips parted slightly as she trailed the cloth over his forehead. It was hard to think when her touch brushed so gently over his skin. “I remember there was a big guy with an axe and an even huger moustache, and then I think someone fell on me, but I was trying to get – Teagan!”
He shot upright and yelped as the movement wrenched his injuries. The next thing he knew was Rosslyn’s hand pressing his shoulder back against the pillows.
“Lie back, or you’ll make it worse,” she instructed. “Teagan’s alive. A lot of people are, thanks to you.”
“Thanks to…? No. I didn’t really do anything.”
She rinsed the cloth. “You saved half our mages and kept our lines from collapsing even when you were overrun.” Her mouth quirked. “His Majesty is very impressed.”
“King Cailan is here?”
Panic churned in his gut. Now – now was the time to tell her everything, about his past, his heritage, every secret about who he was that he had ever kept hidden away. But the drug the mages had given him fogged his brain and fear weighted his tongue. She searched his face, watching him with the kind of patient silence that waited for castle walls to turn into ruins. A memory of Isolde offered itself up then, the pinched force of her glare as she waited for him to confess just who it was spilled paint on her favourite dress.
The image clamped his jaw shut. Rosslyn was a noble. He was a bastard. That was all they would ever be.
“I thought you sent the king to Redcliffe?” he checked, trying to turn her attention away from himself.
She snorted. “Nobody tells a king to do anything.” For a while she wound the cloth through her fingers, chewing her lips together so hard it must have hurt. “He’s the one who led the cavalry.”
“Oh.”
“Still,” she added brightly, “He’s out of Denerim, which was our main concern, and his presence has certainly put new energy into the soldiers. And as for you…” The smirk returned. “There’s talk of making you a proper field commander and everything.”
“What?” His eyes widened in mock horror. “No. no, nonoo no no no. I can’t command an army. Baaaaaad things happen when I lead.”
“Oh?”
“Don’t look at me like that. Before you know it, we’d be stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by – by giant nugs, and I wouldn’t have any pants. Maybe not the last bit, forget I said the last bit,” he added. “Unless…” He leaned forward, eyebrows waggling, before he could stop himself. “Are you now imagining me without any pants?”
It took a beat for her to respond. “You are a very strange man.”
“Some women would call it charm,” he retorted.
“And you’d find most of them serving drinks in taverns.”
“That’s cruel.”
Conversation faltered after that. When most of the dirt was wiped away from his face, Rosslyn shifted closer and set to cleaning out the deep gash on his cheek, wincing in sympathy every time he grimaced at the sting of the salt. It was an ugly wound, but the edges were straight enough that it ought to heal with little scarring. She had to pause every few seconds to tilt Alistair’s head back towards the light, because he kept turning to study her face no matter how she told him to hold still, and after a while it became easier just to leave her fingers resting against his jaw, with his stubble prickling against her skin.
“There, done,” she said, and leaned back with a satisfied curl of her mouth. “You look almost presentable now.”
“There’s no need to be patronising.” He watched as she rinsed out the cloth for the final time, his giddiness from the sedative and from her touch wavering when he noticed the stiffness of her shoulders, the tension in the line of her neck. “You’ve spent all this time on me, and I haven’t even asked,” he muttered. “How are you?”
“That’s a fine question coming from the man lying in a tent with at least three broken bones.”
Alistair shook his head. “What happened to Howe?”
He got no immediate answer. Instead, Rosslyn busied herself folding the cloth, the muscles in her jaw tight and her gaze turned deliberately away from him as she unstoppered the lid on the clay pot. A bitter-sharp whiff of elfroot and peppery knightsfoil caught in his nose when she scooped up some of the salve on her index finger and held it to the wound.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
“I’m sorry for before,” he pressed. “This morning – yesterday – whatever day it is now. There were things I shouldn’t have said.”
“Hold still.”
“Rosslyn.”
She slumped, her hand falling from his cheek to wipe the excess salve away on her breeches, turning her body away again with an unsteady sigh. Should he reach for her, try to bring her back to him? He cursed his splinted arm, and his ignorance, and his cowardice as he fought the urge to pull her closer, to trace his fingertips along her hairline, to bury his head in her shoulder and tell her in no uncertain terms how glad he was to know she was alive.
“I had him, Alistair.” She still didn’t look at him, her gaze instead softening on Cuno, who came to push his head into her lap and lick her hands clean. “He was right there, right in front of me, but…”
He realised. “You came back for us instead.”
She nodded.
“Well, err, I’m quite glad you did choose to come back,” he said, unsure of what else to say. Tentatively, he stretched out his hand and brushed her arm. The unexpected contact made her jump; her gaze flicked between his face and the warmth of his fingers on her skin, her expression frozen in shock.
“You saved a lot of lives.”
She frowned, her words no more than a whisper. “And now all of Highever will suffer for it.” Then propriety asserted itself again, and she shrank away, leaving his hand to linger on the empty air as she reached for her discarded gambeson and cloak.
“It’s late,” she said. “You should get some rest.”
“I… of course.”
Alistair settled back down into the pillows as comfortably as possible and tried to ignore the cold squirm forming in the pit of his stomach with every brusque step she took further away from him. When she paused in the doorway to let Cuno amble past and licked her tongue over her lips, he leaned up again, hopeful for whatever she would say.
“Rosslyn?”
“I… About yesterday morning…” She shook her head, the words lost. “Forgive me.”
And then she was gone.
#dragon age#dragon age: origins#alistair x cousland#alistair x warden#alistair theirin#king alistair#cousland#rosslyn cousland#king cailan#arl eamon#alistair appreciation week
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The Ring of Barahir
Summary: A short one-shot which follows the heirloom of Aragorn’s line through the history of Middle-Earth
A/N: I’ve uploaded this elsewhere, but decided to re-edit it and post it here as my first fic.
Barahir
________
The ash curled on the wind, and the scent of black smoke hang heavy in the air. Sweat dried on his brow, and his breaths came heavy and quick. He could not close his eyes without seeing flame and fire curling around his skin. So many lost. So many.
He cast a sidelong glance at the elven-lord he and his men had given their all to save. Finrod Felagund sat slumped in his saddle, cradling the singed wounds that coated his body. His armor, once shimmering and great, was burnt and singed, coated with mud and ash.
Barahir’s mind flashed back to the moment, scant hours ago, when he had caught sight of the elf-lord’s army, encircled by the hordes of orcs, of how something deep within him had called him to turn his forces around, called him to rush down into the vale and fight the elves free. He could not explain what had caused the sudden moment of kindness, but he could see the gratitude plainly engraved in the faces of each one of the elves trailing alongside their group.
All, that is, save Finrod. His face was a passive mask, and he seemed lost in thought.
As if he had read Barahir’s thoughts, the elf-lord raised his head and spurred his horse towards Barahir’s own.
“Hail, Edain.” The Elf’s voice was like a rolling wave of fresh song, like a tune that rises with the dawn. “I…”
The song halted for a long moment, then resumed, firmer than before. “I thank you. We all do. I would be long dead had you not come when you had. You owed me nothing, and yet you came. You knew me not, and yet you came.”
The elf’s emerald eyes met Barahir’s own shimmering blue. “There are those among the Noldor who say that your kind is somehow less than us, that because your lives come and go in the span of mere decades, you are below us. Yet I have known elves, elves I held as brothers, who would have turned and left me to die.”
The elf held out his hand. In his outstretched palm sat a ring, wreathed in silver, in the shape of two serpents coiling around one another, with a great emerald stone set between. It shone like the moon in the dim twilight.
“This is the Ring of my house, crafted across the sea in high Valinor. I give it to you now, a symbol of the bond forged between our houses, now and for all the days of Arda. Should a bearer of this ring come in an hour of need, I shall lend them all the aid it is in my power to give. So swears Finrod Finarfin’s son in the name of his house.”
There was a long moment of silence. The ash coiled on the wind. The smoke choked the sky.
Barahir took the ring.
_______
Beren
_______
Drop it.
He should simply drop it in.
Yet he did not. Perhaps some part of him could not. Beren turned over the ring in his hand for the hundredth time, his mind heavy with the weight of his choices.
He stood tall over the grave of his father Barahir. For years, he had defied the power of the Enemy, for years he had fought. And when he had fallen, the orcs had savaged his corpse and taken his hand and his Ring, Finrod’s Ring. Beren, through trial and blood and steel, had won it back, and now stood over his father’s grave, where Barahir the Great at last lay entombed in honor with his relics.
All, save one.
Beren looked at the Ring yet again, at the gleaming emerald set in silver. Where had the elves been, he wondered again, when Barahir fell? Where was Finrod Felagund when the orcs of Morgoth came?
Drop it, a part of him whispered.
He closed his fingers around the ring. He would keep it, yet, and see what paths fate brought him.
______
Elwing
______
The tears streamed down her face as she pulled her cloak tighter around her. Blood still spattered it, her father’s blood, stained and dried in the span of hours. Her feet cracked and bled under her as she walked, yet she forced herself to keep moving, ever moving, to keep it from them, out of spite if nothing else. It shone under her cloak with hideous lantern-light, beautiful and terrible all at once–the Silmaril, stained with a blood all it’s own.
The sons of Feanor had come in the night. They had fallen on Doriath with sword and flame, in their lust for their thrice-damned Silmarils, and the Oath they had sworn so long ago, to recover them all, wherever they might be. Their Oath had slaughtered her people. Their oath had made the rivers run red with blood.
Their oath had killed her father.
Her father, Dior Eluchil, King in Doriath-that-was. She remembered him still, bleeding and wounded as he had been in those last desperate moments as the realm of the Sindar burned around them. She remembered him turning aside from the battle for a heartbeat he could not spare, to see her to safety. She remembered him casting her his bloodstained cloak, Silmaril secreted within, and pressing his ring into her hand before he turned away to die, alone and outnumbered in the heart of his kingdom.
His ring.
She looked down at her hand and slowly uncurled her clenched fingers. There it lay, silver serpents winding around a shimmering green stone. The Ring of Barahir, that had been given to him by long-dead Finrod Felagund. It had been her father’s, and his father Beren’s before him.
It would be her son’s, as well, and his son’s after him, and so on for a thousand lifetimes.
She swore it, on the Silmaril that even now shone dim in the dark.
______
Elros
______
“I cannot.”
His voice was firm, yet it wavered, as if it might crack if pressed.
His brother did not move. Instead he simply held out his hand. The ring shone in his palm, the ring of their mother Elwing and her father Dior before him, the ring of their ancestor Barahir in the days of Morgoth the Enemy.
Elros pressed again. “I cannot accept this. It is yours, by tradition and right of blood.”
Elrond looked at him, and his brother’s eyes gleamed with a sorrow that outstripped his age.
“Tradition? By tradition it has been passed down from father to son in the line of Barahir. By tradition it upholds the oath of Finrod to the Edain. By tradition it is a relic of men. Yet I am no man, not anymore.”
Elros could feel the unyielding truth of his brother’s words. They were both Peredhil, half-elven, and theirs was the gift and the doom of the half-elven. They could choose, freely, to live eternal as elvenkind, or take upon themselves death, the doom of men, and live short, fleeting lives as mortals.
Elros, drawn always to mankind and his bond with the Edain through his mother’s line, had chosen mortality. Yet his twin, his brother Elrond that he loved above all others, had chosen life unending as an Eldar. Eventually, they both knew, he would die. He would pass, and they would be separated forever, even in death. Elrond, would walk in Valinor, while Elros’ spirit would go beyond the confines of the world and recieve the gift of Men.
And so Elrond, the eldest, was passing on to him the Ring. The great Ring, Barahir’s Ring, that had been worn by Beren their grandfather in elder days.
He should take it, he knew, yet a part of him felt as if taking it meant accepting what they both knew. That in time, in a hundred years or two hundred or however many turns of winter and spring it took for his body to waste, they would be separated forever. And it hurt.
Oh, it hurt.
Tears streaking his cheeks, Elros closed his fingers around the Ring.
______
Elendil
______
The waves roiled and swelled, salt stinging his nose and flicking at his beard as he gazed out at the rapidly growing stretch of land before him. Underneath him, the boat rocked, tossed about by the oceans.
It still hurt to think about, still tore at his heart to remember. The cresting wave, great and terrible, that swallowed all he had ever known. The folly and arrogance, the black days that had led to great downfall. And worst of all, the bodies of his brother’s and cousins, rotting under the softly rolling waves.
Numenor, greatest of all the realms of men, was gone. In a single moment, a single roaring deluge, the city of a thousand years was forever drowned. They had saved much, so very much, yet at the same time, so little. Of the nine hundred seeing-stones, seven remained. Of the great white tree that once towered over the high towers of Elenna, naught was left but a sapling.
And of the relics of the old kings, of the heirlooms of the line of Elros?
Elendil looked down at his hand and twisted it on his finger, gazing wistfully at the gleaming emerald.
Nothing. Nothing remained but a scepter and a single ring, an ancient ring, the Ring of Barahir who lived when the world was young, the ring of Beren of whom the great songs were sung, the Ring of Elros his ancestor, that had been the first of the Numenoreans a hundred thousand lifetimes ago.
______
Arvedui
______
The bitter cold stung at his skin, biting through the thick furs he had piled around his body. The great elven ship before him gleamed in the dim sunlight, and he let hope, long thought lost, fill his heart again.
He was Arvedui, last of the Kings of Isildur’s line. His realm had fallen, yet it might be restored. The Gondorians were coming, with their swords and banners high. The Numenorean Realms-In-Exile would band together to oust Angmar, and Arnor might be rebuilt under him, under Arvedui that they had called the Last-King. He took a step forward, yet a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
“South-King.” The old chieftain’s eyes bored into his. “Do not go.”
The Lossoth, the people of this cold land, had warned him of the ship. They said Angmar’s power was great, and the Witch-King’s reach long. Their seers said death alone awaited him in the cold waters of Forochel. But his time was at hand. He was grateful to the northmen, but no wild superstition could keep him from his home and his people any longer.
“Friend. I must take my leave.” Arvedui turned and looked upon the fur-bundled Northmen, who had given him food and shelter when he might have died.
“But I remember you. I thank you, and as a token of my thanks, I give you this.” From his cloak, he drew the ring, and the emerald gleamed bright in the morning light.
“It is the Ring of Barahir, worn by my ancient forefather Elendil. It holds no power of its own, but in better days, it was a symbol of my house and the illustrious heritage that it held. I give it to you now, as a gift for your kindness. The Dunedain will pay a great weregild for it in thanks, and I leave it with you so that you might know your aid is not forgotten.”
With a smile, he pressed it into the old man’s hand and turned for the ship.
______
Elrond
______
Elrond turned over the Ring in his hand, deep in thought.
It had been many long years since he held it last. It was a relic of the Dúnedain Chiefs of Arnor, and before them an artifact of the Lossoth, and before that an heirloom in a line unbroken from Elros his brother to the heirs of his heirs.
Now he held it here in Rivendell, along with the sword that was broken and the crown that was lost, holding them for their true owner. This boy, this Estel, or Aragorn as he was born, might yet be the one long fortold, he mused. The King, the first since Arvedui, the heir of Isildur.
The heir of Elros.
Elros, who was so long dead. Elros, whom he would never see again. Elros, into whose hand he had forced this very same ring all those countless centuries ago.
Elrond closed his fingers around the Ring and mourned. A selfish moment, in these dark times when others had lost so much and so many.
But had he not earned it?
_______
Aragorn
_______
He was dying.
He could hear the great silence as it stretched across the city. No horns blew, no bells rang. Strider faded, and Gondor wept.
He hated it. He was but one man, and why should all the world silence at his passing? His time had come, at last. Frodo and Sam and all the others had so long ago passed away, and now even he could feel age weighing on his bones. He had been given a gift, the greatest gift, the gift of the Numenoreans, and his life had stretched unnaturally long over the years.
But now it was time to rest.
He had sent away all others, save one. She had come, at last, her eyes red-rimmed from tears, yet still as beautiful as when he met her all those long centuries ago. Elrond’s beloved Evenstar, that he had stolen from Rivendell. His Queen, that he loved above all others. A star-jewel, shining bright in the twilight of the Elves, a shining reflection of Luthien her ancestor, in more ways than one. She had given up life unending to be with him, and he, her.
“Arwen.”
It was little but a whisper, yet she heard it, and smiled. She knelt at his side, and spoke, her voice like the last notes of a wavering song.
“Do not leave me. You are my light, my lord. My hope. Without you all the world seems dark.”
He smiled. Hope. Once, he had been the hope of all, in days long gone by. Once, when he was the boy he had been when he met her.
“Hope, as with all things, must pass. Would you have me rule until I was decrepit? Until my body toppled from the throne? Our son is young and hale. Let his time come.”
“Oh, if this is the gift of men, it is a bitter one indeed.”
“Yet is it not all the greater?”
“Perhaps.”
He reached for her hand and clasped it in his own. On her finger glinted Barahir’s ring, that he had given her in Lorien so long ago. The ring of his forefathers, a symbol of the legacy and the bloodline he had borne all his life.
“I am the last of the Numenoreans, and the latest King of the Elder Days. To me has been given not only a span thrice that of mortal men, but the choice to go when I will, and give back the gift.”
“Now, before I end. The Ring…”
She extended her hand, as if to offer it to him, but he turned it away.
“No. The Elder Days are done. I am the last of Barahir’s line. The oath Finrod swore is yet fulfilled, for the Kings of the Noldor are gone from Middle-Earth. Of their line, you are the last. No more shall the ring of their bond be upheld by the Kings of Men. Take it with you, my Evenstar.”
They spoke but a little more, but then, at last, the fated hour was come. He took her hand and kissed it, and even as he did so, fell at last into sleep.
And with the passing of King Elessar, so ended at last the line of Barahir, and the oath of Finrod that had endured ten thousand years. Arwen Undomiel set her son on the throne of Gondor and went in grief to Lorien, that was long abandoned, and dwelt mourning thereafter, a shade of beauty and sorrow beneath the eaves of Elvenhome. And when at last she lay herself to rest upon Cerin Amroth, Barahir’s Ring, the ring of Beren and Elros and Elendil, was lain with her, and passed out of the histories of the world.
#silmarillion#silmarillion fanfiction#fanfic#tolkien#lotr#lord of the rings#aragorn#barahir#beren#arwen#elwing#elrond#elros#finrod#elendil#elessar#arvedui
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PART IV: Emerald Eyed Monster
The Commander stands up and makes a slight gesture with his gauntlet, and the knives suddenly came off their throats. The seal of the helmet cracks open with a hiss, and then the helmet lifts up and slides back. Staring at the two officers is a tau firewarrrior even more exotic than the tall blond Pathfinder. Across his blue face were several lines and swirls in a deep red colour, which accentuated his dark glittering emerald eyes. Though his head was shaved in the traditional manner of the fire caste, his long queue of golden-brown hair didn't fall to one side, but instead fell down the front of his face. On the queue there were three gold bands, with four small turquoise beads at its terminus. His nasal slit was a long and wide ‘Y’ shape; which set off the most stunning feature of the Commander's face, his long golden-brown moustache. The moustache hung down well below his chin and was decorated with small gold bands at each end.
Without warning the burst cannons and hooves came off, but not before Crispin and Cumberland were disarmed of every weapon or potential weapon. Their hands were bound behind their backs, then they were hoisted up on to their feet, and turned around. Standing before them were five or six tau Pathfinders in charcoal black armour, each carrying a long single edged sword or single edged knife. Cumberland and Crispin had the backs of their legs kicked hard, which dropped them to their knees. Lieutenant Crispin fell face first, but then was jerked up so hard, that she almost went over backwards. Commissar Cumberland leaned forward, only just managing to keep upright. The tallest of the firewarriors now came forward and yanked off each of their helmets. Two firewarriors behind them, then grab each of them by the hair, put a knee in their backs, and a long knife to their throats.
The tall firewarrior was an inscrutable alien menace staring at them through his helmet's tandem lenses. But to Cumberland he was a xenos wonder, who is every a bit as tall as the Commissar himself, and considerably wider! The tall firewarrior then and began pacing back and forth, cutting figure-eight patterns in the air in with his sword. He grunted under his breath, ‘Snae’ta alagi’ki gue'la!’
It is at this point the Commissar realizes that his was the voice that they heard earlier, while lying on the ground. Meanwhile the tall firewarrior is still pacing and slashing, his cuts becoming wider and wilder, until suddenly he stops; and turning around, points his sword first at Crispin and then at Cumberland. The firewarrior's hand is trembling so badly that the point of his sword is shaking wildly. Quickly he raises his blade high as if to strike and yells, ‘Snae’ta alagi’ki gue'la!’
Cumberland shuts his eyes in anticipation of his imminent death, but the blade never strikes. Opening his eyes, Cumberland looks up to see the tall firewarrior is screaming and shaking his sword in Crispin's face. The tall Pathfinder's breathing has become so heavy that the two Imperial officers can hear it through the speakers of his helmet. Then he steps back kicking and stomping the earth with his hooves, throwing big clods of dirt at Cumberland and Crispin. Continuing to scream and shout, he finally he flings the sword straight into the earth. The Pathfinder stands there with his entire body trembling and his hands twitching. And then reaching down with his hands still shaking, he calmly pulls the sword from the earth. His trembling hands now remove a red cloth from his belt, and he carefully wipes down the blade. Then slowly and reverently he sheaths his sword.
The tall Pathfinder now removes his long curved helmet and shakes free his pink-blonde beard. Then, while adjusting the black bandanna that covers his full head of pink-blonde hair, there falls out two small braids. The braids fall down on either side of his deep blue face, one has two narrow bands of gold, and the other has three small blue-green beads at the very end. Turning around to face the Imperial officers, he stares at them with the most amazing crystalline turquoise eyes.
‘Blueys with hair and beards?’ whispers Crispin in shock.
‘Apparently so Lieutenant, and with eyes like a Necron scarab beetle,’ whispers back Cumberland.
Other Pathfinders are now busy going through the officer's belongings, dumping everything onto the ground and then inspecting it carefully. Lasrifles, laspistols, Cumberland's powersword, energy magazines, and grenades were all thrown to one side in a heap. A female Pathfinder with four thin braids and a single tuft of black hair on her forehead, discovers the peaked hat in the satchel bag.
'Hoi, hoi, hoi! T'a, ea'snae'ta gue'la kom'miz'zaar!' she yells, holding up high the peaked hat for all to see.
The tall blond firewarrior takes the hat and shoves it in Cumberland's face yelling, 'Gue'la kom'miz'zaar?'
‘Cumberland, Benidicto Roland, Commissar, serial number 1916-0056832, of his Divine Imperial Majesty’s Astra Militarum,’ replies Cumberland struggling against the knife.
‘Crispin, Marta Wu, First Lieutenant, serial number 45-55108375 of his Divine Imperial Majesty’s Astr…’ Crispin tries to answer, but is cut short when the tall blond firewarrior first kicks her, and then Cumberland in the stomach.
'M'yio'ea snae’ta gue’la!' he says rolling his turquoise eyes and nodding his head.
The firewarriors holding knives to their throats now let them go, and they hit the ground like sacks of reconstituted potato starch. The tall blond Pathfinder looks down at the two Imperial officers and slowly nodding, bangs his closed fist against his forehead. The tall blonde firewarrior turns around, and throwing wide his arms, shouts to the wild blue sky: ‘Neg co’t'sabu’ro ea'snae’ta gue’la!'
More Pathfinders, all wearing the same charcoal black colour amour, keep arriving and then gather around in a mob before the Commissar and the Lieutenant. All were either carrying a long knife or sword on their belts, in addition to their pulse carbines; but some also carried trophies of war. Some carried an ornamental Imperial Aquila, a regimental flag, a bolt pistol, or the occasional peaked hat of an Imperial officer. Some even carried severed human heads tied to their belts. Here and there smoky apparitions flitted back and forth, only to finally solidify into XV-15 stealth suits. Two much larger stealth suits suddenly materialized right in front of the mob of tau, their large curving bodies the colour of midnight.
‘Look Marta...XV-95 Ghost Keels!’ said Cumberland gasping for air.
'Seriously...don't...care...Roland,' wheezes Crispin curled up in a ball.
Then as if by an inaudible command, all the tau Pathfinders and stealth suits split into two separate mobs, and then turn their heads towards the gap and waited. Meanwhile the firewarriors behind Crispin and Cumberland, snatch up the two and get them back onto their knees.
And suddenly there blinks into existence three tau stealth suits.
All the stealth suits were of the same charcoal black colour as the Pathfinder's armour, and all carried twin burst cannons. The middle of the three suits breaks away and moves towards the two Imperial officers.
‘Marta those...are XV-22...Advanced Stealth Suits!’ grunts Cumberland excitedly.
'For frakks sake Roland!...I...don't...care!' replied Crispin angrily.
The tall blonde firewarrior draws his sword and pointing it at the two kneeling Imperial officers asks, 'Shas'El Kinot'erra, h'mont'ka d'gue'la?'
The tau in the stealth suits ignores the question, rather he raises his burst cannons and two Pathfinders come forward. As the tau in the battle suit releases the weapons, the two firewarriors ease them onto the ground. Crispin and Cumberland are now yanked up on to their feet, and the long knives are again put to their throats.
'H'mont'ka kom'miz'zaar co'ge lef'ten'ant?' asks the tall blonde Pathfinder. Then gesticulating with both his sword and his other hand he asks once more, 'Co'ge h'mont'ka d'gue'la?!'
But again the tau Commander, for that's what Cumberland has assumed him to be, doesn't answer the question. Instead he stops to allow three long narrow banners to be attached to the back of his XV-22 Stealth suit. The three black narrow banners, each carry the same white heraldry of a large bonding knife broken in the middle. A number of fiery red sept stripes denoting the rank of the bearer, run diagonally below the heraldry. The other members of the Commander's stealth team each received two similar narrow black banners apiece, with the banner carrying the same white heraldry, but each having a different number of red stripes.
'Shas'Nel Upt'erra h'ky anda'ta'lissera, mu'ka d'gue'la. Ea'sav'ge'mont'ka...,' says the Commander while gently sweeping away the tall Pathfinder's sword.
The Commander moved closer to the Commissar and the Lieutenant, the sensor array in his high collared, swept back helmet, tracking back and forth between the two of them. The large lens with its two smaller companion lens gave the sensor array an arachnid like feel.
Cumberland's eye are continually searching, trying to pick out everything, heretofore over looked in chaos of the last few minutes. He tries to take in every possible detail of the scene before him, the various kinds of tau stealth suits, their pilots, the Pathfinders and their surroundings. He notes that the XV-22 is slimmer than an XV-25, but bulkier than a XV-15. The advanced stealth once had been a prototype weapon system of the Tau Empire, but now it appears it's become a frontline line system. Cumberland also notices the same number of red sept stripes ran over each of the Commander's large shoulder pauldrons, as there are on the three black narrow banners. It is then his eyes were naturally drawn to the sept sigil emblazoned on the Commander's chest.
Cumberland recognizes the sigil and feels his heart leap in his chest.
Immediately he scans the other tau to see if they too wore the same distinctive sigil on their chests, and unfortunately they do. Cumberland then notices the sigil is even on the top of all the Commander's narrow black banners, and thinks to himself, 'How could I have missed that?'
‘Ahh…’ he said closing his eyes.
‘What? What is it Roland?’ asked Crispin.
‘Look at the device on his breast plate Marta.’
The Lieutenant looked at the chest of the tau Commander and sees what appears to be a circle with a black ‘T’ shape against a white background, above which was a single red circle, like a setting sun. ‘What is that signil device Roland?’
The tall blonde firewarrior, however sees what she's looking at and points at his Commander's chest and asks, ‘Hoi, gue’la onu tos’t’shas? Lef'ten'ant onu tos't'shas, t'e?’
The Commander leans close to Cumberland, his sensor array silently rotating side-to-side to encompass Cumberland's face.‘Ya onu tos’t’shas kom'miz'zaar?’ he asks, his voice a melodious series of changing of tones.
‘I-don’t-know-what-you’re-saying sir,’ said Cumberland barely able to speak, the knife being pressed to his throat even harder.
The Commander stands up and makes a slight gesture with his gauntlet, and the knives suddenly came off their throats. The seal of the helmet cracks open with a hiss, and then the helmet lifts up and slides back. Staring at the two officers is a tau firewarrrior even more exotic than the tall blond Pathfinder. Across his blue face were several lines and swirls in a deep red colour, which accentuated his dark glittering emerald eyes. Though his head was shaved in the traditional manner of the fire caste, his long queue of golden-brown hair didn't fall to one side, but instead fell down the front of his face. On the queue there were three gold bands, with four small turquoise beads at its terminus. His nasal slit was a long and wide ‘Y’ shape; which set off the most stunning feature of the Commander's face, his long golden-brown moustache. The moustache hung down well below his chin and was decorated with small gold bands at each end.
A green fire blazes in the Commander's eyes, and he asks in his lilting tau accent, 'Did ya attack the wrong tau Kom-miz-zar?'
'Yes,' answered Cumberland swallowing hard.
The Commander now strokes one side of his golden moustache and then the other, and then suddenly seizes the Commissar's face in his armoured fist and says, ‘Did ya then kill the wrong tau Kom-miz-zar?’
‘Yes, we attacked…we killed, the wrong tau,’ answers Cumberland with resignation in his voice.
‘What is he talking about Roland? We killed who? Who are the wrong tau?’ asked Crispin in a panic.
‘They're the wrong tau Marta!' answers Cumberland glancing at Crispin from the corner of his eye. 'They’re not from the Tau Empire, but renegades belonging to the rebel Commander Farsight.'
'What?'
‘Ay, Kom-miz-zar ya killed the wrong tau!' said the Commander, and with that he raises up an armoured fist and he bringing it down swiftly, sends Commissar Benidicto R. Cumberland to an early nightfall.
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Here’s the Bjorn piece! Trigger warnings: blood, animal sacrifice, and magic.
The clang of swords beating against shields faded into the back of my mind as the warriors began to run, the tide of their bodies carrying me along like spinning driftwood. My grip tightened around my staff, topped with a longer, more slender imitation of a spearpoint, and I fingered a line of familiar knotwork where my hand lay.
I ran alongside the edge of the massive army, commanded by the avenging sons of the great Ragnar Lothbrok. As the heathen army clashed with the waiting Saxon forces, the chanting began, ripped from some primal place deep as the marrow of my bones. “Cast fear into the hearts of our enemies, O gods, and embolden our own stout warriors. Allow us to hew many foe-men, felling a forest of foes like the fury of a winter storm.”
At the army's head, the great banner streamed back as the standard-bearer ran. I had woven it with my own hands, each strand a plea to the gods for the glory of the sons of Ragnar—may their names echo through the vast emptiness of the ages.
The blood-trance clutched me now, the thunder of Thor beating through me until I felt I might burst from the ferocity of it, and so I gave it voice. “Death to those who brought death to Ragnar, basking in triumphant glory in Odin's hall. Victory in battle to his sons, powerful in battle as a storm that sinks sturdy ships. Come, o winged women, and take us in victory to Valhalla. Help us beat back the Saxons, send them in shameful defeat to the cold earth. Thin their blood, send them running before us like beaten hounds. Grant us only victory or Valhalla, the glory of conquest or the honor of Odin's hall. Beat your mighty hammer, O Thor, and make quake the hearts of men.”
When at last the army of the Ragnarssons had gutted all the Saxons abandoned in the sloppy retreat, I sank wearily to my knees, rested my elbows on them, and cradled my head in my hands. Thor's hammer-beats still thudded between my eyes, deafening me to the approach of hoof-beats. A tall, blood-spattered man swung from his lathering chestnut horse and tossed me onto its back as if I weighed as much as a feather. My beautiful carved staff lay on the ground and I reached out for it. He followed my motions and hesitated, fearful of its power. Magic is the work of women, and for men to practice it was forbidden. To touch my staff might bring him bad luck, or make him unmanly.
He whirled the bearskin off his shoulders and wrapped my staff in that to give it to me. He grabbed the reins, and I swayed with the steady motion of the horse's walk. The leaving blood-trance always left me weak. The man cleared his throat, and I opened my bleary eyes. “You have helped us secure a great victory today. My brothers and I want you to help us with the sacrifice of a stallion to thank the gods. You obviously have their ear.” I nodded, trying to rub the memory of Thor's hammer from behind my eyes, and inspected the man. The long blond braid and powerful shoulders, the easy grace with which he carried himself stirred something in the back of my mind. Bjorn Ironside, the son of Ragnar and the shieldmaiden Lagertha.
After a few minutes of riding through the camp, noisy with men already in their cups to celebrate their victory, we reached a makeshift altar in the middle of the camp. Ubbe held the bridle of a massive stallion, glossy-black as a raven's wing. The magnificent beast's eyes rolled in his head, tossing his mane and pawing as he sensed his own impending demise. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye hefted a bloodied battle-ax, eager to deliver the death blow. Ivar the Boneless sat near the stallion, holding the ornately carved wooden bowl that would catch the blood.
I jumped from the horse's back, unsteady as my feet hit the ground, but Bjorn steadied me with a hand on my elbow. “Are you well enough to do this?” He asked, brows knitting together in concern. I nodded, exhaling through pursed lips, and he squeezed my arm protectively. “I will be here to steady you.” Bjorn and I walked to the stallion, his hand still at my elbow. I laid my hand on the beast's strong, sweating neck. His coat was slick and warm beneath my hand, and I could feel the nervous twitching of his muscles.
“Go gladly to Odin's hall, and there greet our mighty king, Ragnar Lothbrok, and tell him of our victory in his name. May the wild red blood in your veins please the gods and give us the courage to fight again tomorrow, unwearied from today's bloodshed. Bestow upon us the boldness of your great heart, the swiftness of your graceful legs, and the strength of your broad back. To Valhalla we send you,carrying our plea for victory with you, and may a Valkyrie honor you and choose you as her own mount.”
I dropped my hand and stepped back as the snake-eyed warrior's ax swung and bit deep, spraying blood from the stallion's neck. The bright red fountain caught the last of the sun's red rays, and Ivar moved his bowl to capture as much of it as he could. The horse faltered, gurgling, before dropping down dead. Ivar held the bowl to me and I took it from him. Holding it in one hand, I dipped my fingers into the warm, slick blood, closing my eyes as I swirled my fingers through it. Bjorn's grip faded from my elbow, but as my sing-song chant began, I didn't notice. The thick iron-and-salt stench of the blood carried me away in a magic all its own.
Opening my eyes, I turned to face the sons of Ragnar, standing shoulder-to-shoulder in birth order. I began with Bjorn, continuing to sing as I painted their faces—pleading with the gods to grant them victory, courage, and cunning. I knelt to paint Ivar's face, sitting at the end of the line, and felt his breath catch at the stickiness of the blood. I finished my work and stepped back, and with a final, keening cry, I tossed the remaining, thickening blood in a red rain over the brothers. It arched down, thick and cooling, and stuck in their hair and on their shoulders as the first twinkling stars appeared in the darkening sky. I swayed where I stood, the withdrawing magic leaving me sapped of all strength, and Bjorn stepped forward to catch me as I dropped. His arms closing around me were my last sensation as I fell immediately into the thick blackness of magic-induced sleep.
#vikings#bjorn ironside#bjorn ironside imagine#slow burn#vikings imagine#vikings fic#bjorn ironside fic#bjorn ragnarsson
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The Bearer of Pleasure (承欢) by 猫浮: Side Story 1
He gazed at the scenery as if he’d known it well a long, long time ago. But this was in fact the first time he’d come here.
The state of Chu.
The capital in sight.
Ji Guang gathered his long cloak, unfastened his sword, and leaned on the railing of vermilion at the boat’s prow, observing.
In the current were ripple after ripple of peach blossoms.
A smear of sensual spring color.
As Wu Zixu descended the stairs, the rustle of silk on silk flanked him. The sound brought him a touch of displeasure.
The Wu clan produced lovely girls. Now these lovely female clan-sisters and clan sister-in-laws and clan-nieces were charging downstairs with their skirts lifted in their hands, their chatter full of high spirits.
“The boat from Wu is here!”
And what did it matter, that the boat from Wu was here?
They merely brought foreign spices and silk.
What use were they, other than decorating the girls’ clothing?
He only felt powerless.
This latest skirmish between Wu and Chu had ended in casualties on both sides. But if he had been there, he believed he could’ve taken half the state of Wu.
Right, it seemed that the King of Wu, Zhufan, had died in battle.
He tilted his head and asked his older brother beside him, “The arriving envoy. Who is he?”
His brother’s brow wrinkled a little, then relaxed.
“Zhufan’s son, Ji Guang.”
The two brothers were silent for a while.
“He’s the crown prince. Why send someone so important as envoy?”
“He’s not the crown prince.”
“Oh?”
“Shoumeng, who was king of Wu, ordered his sons Zhufan, Yuji, and Yimei to pass the throne from older brother to younger brother, so that the throne would come to Shoumeng’s youngest son Jizha.
“Oh…”
Wu Zixu only sighed.
He thought, for many years to come, Chu won’t have to worry about the state of Wu.
Wu’s method of succession was sure to incite internal turmoil.
Power intoxicated; approach it, and one would fall.
He did not believe the four brothers in Wu would pass the throne over as they would a dish at the dining table.
It also occurred to him that this Wu prince Ji Guang was now utterly expendable.
That was why he could be sent as envoy.
He could be seized, imprisoned, executed, and Wu would not mind terribly.
As for he himself?
Did he mind?
His older brother was watching him again.
A trace of concern in his gaze.
He was used to being looked at in this way. He didn’t know when it started, but his esteemed, beloved father and brother would often look at him so.
They often said this to him, too:
The harder the iron, the easier it snaps. The soft and yielding endures.
You must do your duty to the country, but not exert yourself fully.
You must hide the sharpness of your edge, to preserve the Wu clan.
Too much talent in you, too much ambition, is not necessarily a good thing.
So on, so forth.
He was sick of hearing it.
This battle between Wu and Chu was only a skirmish, but by chance they’d slain the enemy king. If he’d commanded the Chu forces, there were many strategies he could’ve executed.
The poor: victory on the battlefield. Announce the news of King Zhufan of Wu’s death to strike at enemy morale, and smoothly take the city.
The middling: victory in diplomacy. Use Chu’s position to force down Wu. Strengthen the lords of Wu and incite them into civil war.
The best: one could even install a puppet king, such as…
Such as Zhufan’s son, Ji Guang, now disembarking the boat. His bloodline was pure, his birth high, yet he would have nothing to do with the throne. If he were anything more than mediocre, he must be burning inside with a fire that could burn Wu’s citadels to ruins. And if he were truly mediocre, that was even better. Puppets didn’t need to speak.
But the Chu commander had done nothing!
He had concluded the battle and smugly brought the heads of a few dozen enemy generals to show off at court.
And then both sides had sent envoys. Peace under heaven.
If it were him on campaign, if he were the commander…
Wu Zixu felt powerless, because all this strategy could only churn about in his head.
Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like heaven and earth were only a vast, empty void, with only his mind in between. Like a banner whipped about every which way by the wind, it struggled without rest.
Ji Guang slowly strode into this city.
Ancient, but not, in fact, imposing.
This city had too long a history.
One could even trace it to the time of the Shang.
Chu was too romantic a country.
The vines on the city walls were so green they enthralled the eye, decorated everywhere with bits of silk embroidered with the countless gods, a vision of spring.
Truly beautiful.
But give him three thousand soldiers, and he could conquer this city.
He thought. No more, no less. Three thousand was enough.
The walls were too low. Easy to prop up siege ladders.
The river entered the city without any obstacles in its way. A vanguard diving underneath the water could infiltrate the city before the defenders even realized!
And this capital’s streets were overly broad. Once the enemy entered the city, they could easily charge through without becoming embroiled in arduous street-to-street fighting!
But he didn’t have three thousand soldiers.
He only had himself. He’d even left his sword on the boat.
If Chu with all its might wanted to obliterate one person, what difference would having a sword in his hand make?
Maybe the difference was only whether he could choose an honorable death.
Ji Guang smiled faintly.
He was making a bet.
He bet that Chu wouldn’t do anything to him.
He bet that he had no value.
The throne wasn’t his, though Zhufan the dead king of Wu was his father.
He’d lost his value, and so he’d become safe. The thought made him feel a deep pain.
It tore at his chest.
If he had an army, everything would be different.
In that moment Ji Guang approached the tower.
And Wu Zixu looked down.
Neither of them knew how fate would turn.
Ji Guang didn’t know that one day, he really would trample this city under his feet, tormenting it at his whims.
And Wu Zixu didn’t know that one day, he really would lead a mighty army, plotting the fate of the land from his campaign tent. But it would not be to preserve Chu.
It would be to destroy it.
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