Resettling the Lost Kingdom

[Kryssal]

Belin's post

Cleft was still sunk deeply in the semiconscious, meditative state in which he spied upon the gods. In this state, oblivious to ordinary sight and sound, he had been searching for some omen, any omen of hope for long fight ahead. He wanted to know that the feeling that had awoken within him at the news of the successful battle was a justified one, and so he was searching, not for promises, but for hope. All was yet confused and uncertain when the smell of the horses, strange and distinctive even through the cloud of smoke from herbs he burned to ward off that particular sensory weakness, roused him from his meditation. So strong was the other world’s hold on him that he wondered for a moment what such a smell could mean, before he remembered that smells did not exist here, and with that thought the smell was broken and the old man was slowly and carefully stumbling to his feet. Now he could hear the horses’ hooves, and, gradually, as he sometimes heard thunder, the sounds of calm foreign voices and panicky familiar ones.

Cleft stumbled to the door of his hut and peered out, careful to keep his body hidden in the shadows. The scene that met his eyes was one of chaos. All the members of the village—men, women, and children—were milling about in total confusion, some of them striking against the strangers whose experience and superior numbers made short work of their attacks by means of captivity or death. Others were either fleeing the village or being dragged from huts to which they had apparently retreated in order to hide, and several, to Cleft’s surprise and reflexive shame, had willingly surrendered. At the moment they were too preoccupied to notice him or his unobtrusive hut, but it was only a matter of time, and the confusion was already dying down as their strength and their intentions became clear. They were evacuating the village.

The choices of an old man were few. Cleft had no desire to die valiantly in battle; he was a priest, not a warrior, and death seemed a singularly pointless outcome at the moment. An old man’s broken body added to the growing number of them would benefit neither the living nor the dead. Running away on his stiff, skinny old legs was absolutely out of the question. He could be captured, then, either hiding in his hut or out among his people. Cleft cast an eye upon the instruments of his trade, most of which he had crafted himself. Should he not spend his last free moments as near them as he could?

A proud, strong voice rang out: “You have already killed us!”

Turning his head for the source of the voice, Cleft saw first the pale face of his sister, Crescent. Unthinking, he moved toward her—though two of her children were standing near her, she looked so alone and so in need of comfort—even before his gaze followed hers and he saw Kite fall.

He froze for a moment, stunned, and then with his healer’s instinct, Cleft strode unhesitatingly to Crescent’s side and took her hand. She gasped at the touch of another human, and stood still. He could do little for her or for the others until the soldiers had finished, but Cleft had found his place and made his decision. He would be captured here. His place was here, in his village... with his family.

~*~
Kryssal's post

The fighting had died down and the only life in the hillmen's village were the Rangers that Tane had sent through. They were to meticulously search all the tents and buildings for any last hillman.

Tane glanced over at Alearindu. She was still astride her horse, but she started blankley at the captives. She hadn't realized that Tane's attacker had been a young girl. "I just turned and saw - I didn't mean for - Tane, I'm sorry! I disobeyed and kill... killed... the..." Tane had tried to reassure her that he didn't blame her for anything, in fact he thanked her for helping him (trying to help her work through her clashing emotions). He knew that right now she needed to settle with herself and so had asked her to simply watch the captives with the other guards. She had been motionless since.

Hothem came over to him, one arm badly slashed. "They're not going to find anyone in there. If they didn't come out to fight they're not there," he said looking at the desolate village and slowly shaking his head. "Are you sure you want to take them all back to the settlement?"

"What else can we do?" Tane sighed and looked at Hothem, his eyes asking for an answer. If the hillmen were left another fight would erupt with more casualties on both sides. Tane would have to pull in all his Rangers for constant watch if they took the captives to the ranger camp. If they were in the settlement there were men to guard and tents large enough to house them until some kind of agreement was reached. What that agreement was, Tane didn't know, though he assumed it would end with the hillmen being pushed from the land. He just hoped that they would stay away and avoid further conflict. But where would, or could they go?

Tane came back to his senses when Hothem grunted in sadness. Two men were just arriving at the spot all the dead were being placed, carrying a large body in between them. All three were Rangers.

"It's Thoronmir...." Awyrgan spoke from behind the dead body, having just placed down the dead Ranger.

Tane's jaw clenched and his hands unvoluntarily formed into fists.I shouldn't have let them come! Tane was furious with himself. Awyrgan had gone on to explain how Thoronmir had fallen, saving a settler fighter beset by two hillmen, but Tane couldn't hear it above the rush in his head.

He had failed as a leader. The hillmen had attacked and killed the people he was supposed to be protecting, and in response he brought out his own men to die and kill....

Looking away from the dead bodies of the hillmen, which were far too many, that mingled with a few dead Rangers and settlers, Tane tried to gather himself. The sudden loss of control, Tane felt everything was cracking around him. Nothing he did came out as it should.

And what about the captives...? Should I take them to the settlers that are still hot with anger and blood?

Slowly, Tane shook his head, bringing a hand up to rub his eyes.

Hothem was looking edgily at Tane. He could see a struggle going on and didn't want to inturrupt. So when Tane suddenly turned and grabbed his good arm he started a bit.

"Get some men and get some of those tents. We're taking the dead back to the settlement for burial. All of them." Hothem knew how to make large temporary stretchers that could be pulled by horses and set off at once to find a few settlers to help.

Awyrgan had moved off to where the captives were, but Tane didn't follow. Instead he turned to where a small group of settlers had sat down to rest. Normally Tane would have asked for volunteers, but the orders came out before he thought about it. "You and you, go through the captives and bind any wounds you find, warrior, woman, or child. You two do the same for the Rangers and your fellows," Tane turned to the last five, who looked back slightly apprehensively. "Go through the settlement and gather enough for a small meal and distribute it to the hillmen first, then to the rest." Tane finished and stayed just long enough to see them move to start their respective jobs. They didn't look happy at serving to the hillmen, but Tane wasn't going to let anyone die on him from neglect, and besides, the settlers and Rangers should have brought some rations and binding kits with them in their tether bags.

~*~

It was late in the morning when Tane was satisfied that they could leave. He was still wound up and didn't talk to anyone on the uneventful ride back to the settlement, though he did acknowledge Alearindu and Hothem as they camp up to ride next to him.

The procession was much slower than it had been during the night, being so burdened by the captives and even more so by the dead, but they made steady progress and just after noon Tane found himself coming on the settlement.

There was a dark feeling about the land and a rancid smell of death mingled with cold ash. It stung Tane's nostrils and made Skit shake her head in disgust.

The settlement was very active, but cleaning and burial weren't the only things going on. Some carts that weren't there before now littered a few of the streets. So the Dwarves had come back to find a ruined town they had hoped to build upon. One could look at it as starting with an almost clean slate, but Tane knew that was stretching too far.

It wasn't long before the settlers noticed the slow moving procession and went to get Borgand. Tane didn't know what was going to happen once the settlers and hillmen were faced with one another.

[Osse]

Though the darkness was slowly lifting from the land, darkness was slowly descending upon Bear’s sight as he stumbled homewards. Every step he took seemed a trial. Voices spun around his head, some willing him to go on, and some laughing at him as he dragged himself along. He waved a hand in front of him, as if to ward off some unseen blow and suddenly stopped.

Standing up straight, he felt the wind caress his brow, playing with his shaggy, sodden locks and whistling through his beard. Like a beast he sniffed at the breeze, willing it to give him solace. And suddenly it seemed to Bear that the shadows receded; he could now see around him quite clearly and his head, though thumping, felt a little clearer. Shaking his head, he trudged on, slightly faster, using the occasional tree as a prop.

Ever since he had ripped his mail vest off, a throbbing, severe, yet dull pain in his back had plagued his movements. If he had been able to notice, Bear would have found the blue-fletched arrow that was imbedded just below his shoulder plate; he would have felt the blood as it began to dry, he would have noticed just what peril his body was currently in. As it was, Bear was completely oblivious to this fact. Even at the time, he had been, due to weariness and anger, oblivious to the many arrows as they peppered the water around his almost-submerged form. One thought continued to reverberate through his mind: “I must get back home…”

Bear’s feelings told him that he was nearing the village – a last effort was needed, just one, and he’d be home. Like a whipped horse, he grudgingly quickened his pace.

Suddenly, there it was. The village seemed to shimmer for a moment as Bear scanned the familiar structures. Without thinking, he found that his legs had broken him into a loping run. A thought eased itself gently, yet strongly into Bear’s mind; where were the sentries?

Seldom was anyone allowed to approach the village in such a manner, sentries should have questioned him by now. It was this rather than anything else that made Bear suspect that anything was wrong. Every hut was empty; every fire had been kicked out…fires that were never let to go out…

Here and there, were patches of darker earth, stained deep red. By smell, the blood was not animal. Bear wandered around aimlessly for a few minutes, his disbelieving mind rolling around in the fetal position of denial. Though all the while, Bear’s eyes and his nose were constantly scanning the area for further clues. Boot-prints, hoof-prints, broken arrows – it was apparent immediately what had happened. The large rut made by something huge being dragged, was not even needed to make up his mind, nor was the direction in which it was being dragged. All hurts and weariness forgotten, Bear plunged off, like a wolf, in the same direction as the raiders.

[VanimaEdhel]

Barzûn watched as the soldiers stumped into the town. Men tended to the wounded while the Dwarves attempted to clean up. The progress was slow, however. The attacking Hillmen had ruined much of the work Barzûn and the other Dwarves had accomplished before the battle. As he pushed debris away to make room for his cart, Barzûn eyed the etchings on the carved stones. For some reason, he had felt a part of his heart sink a bit lower when the Dwarves had returned to the camp and learned of the attack.

“Sir,” a young Dwarf said, panting, “The Northern Quarter is about cleared. We salvaged what stone we could, but most of it is unusable. What should we do with what we have?”

“Pile it over there,” Barzûn said. “And was there anything left standing?”

“Parts of foundations,” the young Dwarf said, looking back at the Northern Quarter, trying not to meet Barzûn’s eye. “But those will probably have to be knocked down anyway. There are large chunks taken out of them.”

Barzûn sighed. “All right. Do what you can.” The young Dwarf trotted away to his Quarter and Barzûn turned back to the rubble that he was hauling. Men continued to trickle slowly into the settlement, some more injured and some less. Other men quickly tended to their injuries, but the Dwarves pushed on with their cleaning up of the city. The beings worked as a unit, trying to efficiently make up as much lost time as they could. However, now that they lost so much workable stone, it was impossible to predict how much time it would actually take to build the city. They would certainly need more stone. The old settlement was too far away to try to cart new stone every time they needed to resupply. If only they had an area more closely situated to the camp. Barzûn squinted up into the sun and looked around. He did not know of any easily obtained stone, though. Perhaps the Hillmen could help them—but no, after this battle, the Hillmen would be in no mood to help either the Men or the Dwarves. Barzûn wondered how much damage the Hillmen had taken. He assumed that the Men had won the battle, as so many were still alive, but he did not know whether they had annihilated the Hillmen or not. For all Barzûn knew, all of the Hillmen could be dead.

“Well, at least we could have the rock from their settlement then,” Barzûn grumbled out loud, tossing a stone aside to reveal a partially smashed foundation. He swore and kicked the destroyed structure, knocking it down completely. Every now and again a Dwarf would approach cautiously, telling Barzûn of a different failure in salvaging the beginnings of the construction.

Finally, Barzûn told the Dwarf Olin to spread the word that the Dwarves were to take a break for about an hour. Barzûn sat on a pile of rubble and took out his pipe. As he exhaled a trail of smoke, Barzûn took the slabs of stone with the engravings and looked at them again. He pondered whether to tell the Men of his findings or not. Finally, stepping out of the small cloud of smoke a few minutes later, Barzûn set off to find one of the Men in charge. He would not just tell any man. The Dwarf set off, wandering through the streets to find one of the few Men he knew in camp.

[The X Phial]

BELIN'S POST

Wolf scanned the horizon anxiously for signs of his messenger. The dim light revealed nothing, but he continued on in the direction that Fletch ought to be coming from. He was surprised not to have seen him already. The distance between the villages was not this great, not even for a weakling like Fletch. Wolf sighed. He should have known better than to send that fool off on such an important errand, but he did seem to know the land so well, and in any case, what use would he have been in a battle?

He certainly hadn’t been much use so far. Couldn’t he even cover this short distance unaided?

Wolf had always thought that Fletch, despite his gripes and his physical weakness, was at least a courageous man, but it was beginning to occur to him that the errant messenger had taken some of Knife’s less fortunate words to heart and simply decided to stay in the neighboring village where, for now, it was safer. Wolf had even begun to generously bestow a stream of uncomplimentary adjectives on the absent Fletch when he noticed the small, mobile figure of a man in the distance. He rushed toward him.

It was only after he had begun trying to devise the proper words to say to him without knowing, yet, whether the mission had been a success when he realized that this was not Fletch, that this was no any man belonging to his own village. He must be one of Rook’s people. Wolf stopped, eyeing him cautiously. The man had seen him.

For a long moment they simply stared at each other. There were protocols for encounters with Hillmen of other villages, but each knew that the circumstances were no ordinary ones, and each harbored certain new suspicions of the other. The stranger was the first to break the silence. “Good hunting, friend,” he called, his tone anything but friendly.

Wolf laughed grimly at the mundane greeting. “Today I hunt for one of my own. Have you seen a puling, useless little messenger? I had hoped he would return with news, or at least in one piece.” The last sentence held the shadow of a threat, and the stranger knew it. He shrugged carelessly.

“Then I suppose your name is Wolf? I’ve seen your messenger. I must say, I do agree with you; I didn’t take kindly to the way he left. No compliments, no gifts. Then again, he was encouraged to take his leave rather quickly.”

Wolf said nothing. He understood quite clearly that the man was trying to taunt him, but he could not stop the anger from building, palpably, in his body.

The stranger must have seen it, because he grinned slightly and, with a slight gesture of satisfaction, he continued. “Does he leave you this way? He gave us no reason to think we would receive what we had asked, no reason, in truth, to believe that he would even carry our message properly, putting our requests in the most acceptable light. Truly one would think they had offended him, modest as they were for the price that we were asked.” That grin again. Wolf’s eyes narrowed. “I had more to say to him, and I wished to say it in the open. But our business is finished now.”

“Finished?” croaked Wolf.

“I wanted assurance of the weregild and the women. He took offense. He is, as you say, a puling, useless little messenger.”

“Ah,” said Wolf, quietly, “but Rook employs foolish, impudent messengers who do not understand that one cannot demand a price for saving one’s own life, and especially not such a price as this.”

But the other did not hear him. Wolf’s spear was too deeply embedded in his throat.

*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~*~

Wolf was on his way home when he heard the steady, rhythmic clashes that floated over the hills. It took a moment to register as a variant of a sound he’d heard before; the sound of swords beating against shields, but with more obvious purpose than the haphazard clangs of battle. A sound no Hillman ever made. They did not use shields, preferring the use of both hands and relying on their strength and their reflexes, as well as the inexperience of their usual foes, to protect them from injury; shields were the provenance of professional soldiers. Of the Rangers.

But it was far too close to the village to be the Rangers, thought Wolf as he loped homeward, and he saw no reason why they would do any such thing. All thoughts of Fletch were abandoned as possibilities flashed through Wolf’s mind. Perhaps it was some kind of ceremony. Perhaps they did this merely to amuse themselves, though why they were amusing themselves so far from their settlement, and so soon after the attack, was far beyond his mind to fathom. Still, all their actions were inexplicable, he reminded himself, so this could well be too. It didn’t have to be an attack.

It didn’t have to be an attack.

It didn’t have to be…

But as he reached the crest of the hill, Wolf could see that there were indeed Rangers beating their shields with their swords, apparently in order to frighten the members of his village back into the long line that they were leading away, back toward the settlement.

He stood still, paralyzed. After all that he had done, he had imagined a bloody battle in which most would die. He had imagined that he would be able to protect at least a few. He had thought that he and Bear and a finally reformed Knife would die side by side, giving a few of their people… maybe Kestrel… the opportunity to escape. Maybe those few could have found a new life somewhere else, started a new village, told the tales of this battle to their children for years to come, with tears in their eyes and a note in their voice that hinted at their pride and their sorrow. Surely they would have been clever enough to avoid the eyes of Rook and those like him, and surely the Rangers would find nothing more worth fighting them for. His fear as he left had been precisely this, an attack he could not help to protect them from.

But he never could have predicted this exile. Where under the sky were his determined warriors? And where, in the name of his own endless foolishness, was Bear?

He wondered what the Rangers intended to do with his people once they had arrived wherever it was they were taking them, and his stomach twisted suddenly with a sickening fear. As he ran down the hill, to follow them as stealthily as he could, only one thought was in his mind. Please, if the gods are with me… please let me still be able to help them.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*


Wolf had a moment to think over his actions as he stood, hidden and breathless, behind the sheltering wall of a house near the center of the settlement. He had attempted to be careful, but in his dazed state he was sure he could not have done well, and he wondered how they could possibly have been so careless as not to have seen him. He had followed them all the way across the hills, his apprehension growing with the certainty that the Rangers intended to bring their captives back to the settlement. He did not know what he would do when he arrived, but he could do nothing now, and there was none to help him. But he did not worry. His mind was a blank and his body merely followed what it knew: that he had to protect these people, somehow. Somehow. He couldn’t lose them.

He supposed he must have hidden and waited for the inevitable commotion surrounding the arrival of the Rangers to die down before entering the city, but he could not remember at all clearly. He only remembered how quiet the city had been as he skulked along under the overhangs and in the shadows when he could almost as easily have sauntered down the middle of those strange, wide streets. He remembered how he had chosen to hide behind a house that faced the square, where he could hear the voices of a gathering crowd. Nobody was out in the city. They were all here, assembled without him to decide the fate of his people.

The initial shock had never left him, and so he never noticed the rage he ought to have felt, any more than the alarm that would have been appropriate earlier. He was simply waiting and listening. Waiting and listening.

Let them think and speak for now; Wolf intended to act.

__________________________________________________ ______________

THEXPHIAL'S POST


Borgand stood before the assembled men and pondered what to do with the mess that lay before him. He was atop what remained of the stone steps to the community hall looking into the cleared square, now teeming with people. In the middle stood the captured hillmen, men women and children. He saw among them some of the soldiers who had looted and burned his new home and the intense spark of hatred that boiled within him at the sight was quelled only by the fact that they stood there surrounded by their wives, children and parents. It was hard to hate a man standing with his family. The children, especially, were heartbreaking. Small and dark like their parents, he could see that hunger had carved their faces and bodies. Even the youngest lacked the excess fat he had seen in his own child, and he wondered how often they actually got to eat their fill.

Surrounding the prisoners were the rangers. These men..and woman...were guarding the hillmen, but Borgand wasn't sure if they were guarding them from running or from being lynched by the men of the settlement. Outside the ring of rangers stood Borgand's own people, tired, angry, and mourning the ruin of their hope. The muttering hadn't ceased, and more than one looked to him hoping their hot fury would be met with vengeance at his hands. Standing apart from the rest were the dwarves, trying their best to look uninterested but clearly waiting, as the others were, for his judgement.

The hillmen didn't seem to expect mercy from him. They were a realistic lot, and even the children looked at him with resigned, despising eyes. The only person who seemed to be regarding him with some measure of hope was the woman Kestrel. She had arrived before the others, surrendering herself and her children to him of her own will. He had spoken to her briefly, and come away with the impression that she would do anything to save her children, a trait he admired. The fact remained, however, than anything could also include selling out the settlement to the hillmen in exchange for the lives of her family. He hadn't decided what to do with her when the rangers returned with the others. She stood next to the hillmen now, but wasn't part of their group. They seemed not to know what to make of her sudden appearance.

Borgand cleared his throat.

"Last night was a night of bloodshed and fire. This settlement lost much in lives and in work. Our enemies also lost much. Those who stand before us here today are all that remain of our attackers"

The answering angry shouts were cut short by a hand movement from the grim-looking leader of the settlement. He continued.

"I want to hear, and I want these people to hear, from those who lost a family member to this attack. If your son or brother was lost last night, come forward and be heard. Let's know exactly why we are here."

One by one, men came forward and told of their lost sons and brothers. One young man, barely 12, spoke of his father who had died in one of the fires. Borgand listened to each and watched the hillmen as the tales were told. The eyes of many were glazed in a sort of defiant inattention, but others were listening. One woman had tears on her cheeks, perhaps thinking of her own son or husband now dead in the senseless battle. The woman Kestrel was clutching her children to her ever more tightly.

Borgand needed to hear these stories. Ever since his interaction with Kestrel, he had been struggling with his heart, and he hoped that hearing about the dead would steel him for action against his enemies. His eyes, however, kept returning to the crying woman and against his will he remembered his earlier interaction with the leader of the dwarves.

~~~~~~~~~

Barzûn had come to him carrying a pair of carvings in stone. He had shoved the stones into Borgand's hands and gruffly muttered, "Look here, human."

Borgand had puzzled over the stones a bit before looking at Barzûn blankly.

"I see carvings. What does it mean?"

The dwarf had sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Look you, this was done by your ancestors." He indicated the smoother and larger carving. "This other one was done by someone since then, and as far as I know, it's just been those hillmen living here."

Borgand had looked at the crude cuttings, how they obviously mimicked the older art and when he raised his eyes to question the dwarf again, he found that Barzûn had already left, allowing him time to drawn his own conclusions.

~~~~~~~~~

The last of the men finished his story and stepped back into the crowd, but Borgand felt no more decided than he had before the tales. He sighed to himself. Originally, he had planned to order these people off the land, but he knew now that this would be a death sentence. They had been living in these woods, had made their own mark on the land. He thought about the carvings and shook his head to clear it. Finally, he spoke.

"My friends. Your words have moved me, and it is not in a way that I expected. You all loved your lost relatives. I, too, have lost much. The answer is not in vengeance, however." He waited for the murmer to die down and turned to the hillmen.

"It's been brought to my attention that we are not so different. It's possible that we can live in peace, together on this land. But a betrayal like last night cannot be lightly set aside. I will give you a choice. Those who wish to may live with us here, in the settlement. As for the rest, you must agree never to attack us again, or you will be driven mercilessly from these hills. The choice is yours."

Borgand closed his eyes as settler and hillman alike erupted into vocal protests. No one was happy...this must be the right decision, at last.

[Himaran]

Olin watched with heavy eyelids as his master wandered off down the road, obviously preoccupied with the carvings he carried. The dwarf sighed -- ah, to be able to meander at will; without schedules and deadlines and... orders. But it was not his job to wonder and dream, he had a job to do, and one that would finally be enjoyable.

"Break in one hour," Olin called out to the other dwarves, who cheered and then went back to work with newfound energy. They were all tired, as was he; the group had been working with broken stone for days. But, the dwarf decided (before dumping his armload of wood at a nearby stack), "Productive is good, and exciting is better. But at least I've been doing something productive."

[Osse]

Thorns and branches whipped evilly at his legs, taking delight in the dark blood as it seeped down. Heedless, Bear ran on. Through glade and fen, tussock and moor, Bear ran on, tireless steadfast and sure-footed. Light he would have felt, if his anguish filled mind had allowed him to. His mail lay rusting at the bottom of the lake; his shield lay forlorn and ill treated, stamped into the mud of the settlement. Sweat mingled with water beaded on the blade and caused the axe in his right hand to glisten and dance through the air – a blood-filled night had conceived a bright, new day.

Leaping like a stag, Bear cleared a small brook and went crashing into the young trees on the opposite side. The wounds on his shins now wept freely, the blood mingling with that already contained in his sodden lashings. Like a crazed and angered beast, would Bear appear to any who chanced to see him. The forest behind him was left in a stammer-like shock-silence. Not even the gods could stop him.

Suddenly no trees barred Bear’s way. There stood the settlement. It glared at him like a cancerous growth upon the landscape. Its tall wooden walls seemed like a shell around a rotting carcass and a grey smoke still wound itself up to the heavens from within. Without hesitation, Bear shot forth through the cleared ground between the forest and the walls like a shaft loosed from a bow. Bellowing like a war horn came Bear of the Hillmen.

The first of the arrows sped past him thigh and lodged itself up to the fletching in the soft soil. Others sped into the ground around Bear. None met their mark. Not even the gods could stop him now.

Another arrow screamed death as it fled past Bear’s ear. Some instinct caused him to raise his left arm; his shield arm and immediately a burning pain filled his being. An arrow had pierced the sinuous flesh in his forearm, slicing tendon and chipping bone. The arrow-tip came well through Bear’s lower arm. On ran Bear of the Hillmen.

His bellow was cut short by another feather-clad woe-bringer, this time lodging its terrible form in his now exposed, lower abdomen. Two more thudded into Bear’s torso, yet still he ran on. It appeared to bear that all went grey and misty, except for the now fast-receding wall in front of him. Like walls of an icy tunnel, the peripheries of Bear’s vision melted into darkness. An arrow sped straight through Bear’s breast and went cartwheeling away into the void behind him.

The great man’s breathing became scant and irregular, the whole in his left lung depriving him of oxygen. Plummeting forwards into the soft ground, Bear’s mind slowly ticked over. Grasping with his fingernails, he pulled himself forwards – inch-by-inch he crept towards the wall, leaving a trail of his dark-red life behind him like some gruesome snail. Slowly the life drained from his defeated form like water through cupped hands. Inch-by-inch, Bear became limp, his lifeless hand still clutching the ground. The sweet wind whistled through his unhearing ears. Not even the gods…

[Tinuviel of Denton]

Kestrel had come away from Borgand with an impression of weariness, not too unlike Wolf, she thought. Here was a man who was doing his best for his people and she could understand that. The weight on Borgand's shoulders was no less than the weight on those of Wolf. Perhaps she despised them less, now. Perhaps she did not. But it remained that she had come to them first, and when the other hillmen realized this, she would never be welcome among them again. She had burned her bridges behind her.

As Borgand finished his speech, she began to step forward, intending to declare that she would live with the settlers. There was resignation on her face, as well as hope of sorts. She did not expect the Dunedain to accept her easily, especially not after hearing about all those they had lost as well.

She shivered a little, took a deep breath, and began to speak, pitching her voice to be heard over the angry shouts of both groups. "I and my children will stand with the Men of the West," she shouted. "I will raise Flint and Rain side by side with their children. They will play together and they will grow together. Let us fight no more."

Someone among the crowd of Hillmen hissed, "Traitor!" Kestrel did her best to ignore it, but she couldn't help feeling that he was right--whoever he was. Wolf would have thought the same, she was sure. But she had spoken, and the words could not be taken back, so she limped, head high and children clasped with each hand, to the side of Borgand. A single tear slid from her good eye. She refused to wipe it away.