Before you read these that I’ve got (which are part of an ongoing letter exchange between Aely and Loreli), you should go read this letter from Ringo Flinthammer to his little boy (and, in a way, to his wife).

Rather than post a new prompt, I thought I’d stick with this one (and let people get a little more time to think about it and write responses). And so – two letters. One from Loreli, who lives pretty much full-time in Stormwind, and a return letter from Aely. These were both written last week, before Aely had a chance to really “get back from” the main push, though now that the Deathbringer has been dealt with and the Verdict is, yet again, pushing onwards and upwards in search of another foothold for an attack, she’s spending less time in camp and more time back in Dalaran again (much to her relief).

*****

The letter is written in a slightly flowing script, it gets sloppy towards the end as if the writer was in a hurry.

Dear Aely,

I have started this letter five times, at least. It seems no greeting is appropriate for what you all must be enduring up there. While the initial purpose of this letter may seem trifling, if I cannot say ‘thank you’ in person for some time, and it seems I can’t; then perhaps, at least a letter can maybe mean to you, what your kind gesture meant to me. So, thank you.

I can’t help but feel that I should be up there too. Yet, I understand that my part in this war appears to be over and some are required to burn the torch at home. How are you holding up? I’ve spent enough time on the front lines, myself, to know that the rumors we get here in the city are often times an exaggeration of the truth. The problem comes in figuring out which direction they are exaggerated in. I know Arrens knows this, but it seems to help to remind him.

He’s taking your absence as well as could be expected. He misses you, though. He puts a good face on it, but I notice when he thinks no one’s looking.

I shall probably debate over actually sending this for another hour or so, but if you found yourself smiling even once, then it was worth it.

Take care of yourself.

Sincerely,
Lore

*****

The handwriting in this letter is somewhat archaic, and its writer appears to be having some difficulty with her pen.

Lore -

There is no one way to fight any war – all of us here wouldn’t and couldn’t be doing what we are without the support of others. And there is no one role that defines fighting – the Lich King would have us fear, and fall into despair. Our ability to overcome that, frequently with the aid of those away from the front, is likely the greatest weapon we can have. Paralyzing fear is an almost certain cause of failure, and there is very little hope to come by.

Little – but there is hope. I have seen acts of bravery, compassion, and of redemption. Saurfang has his son again, and he is no longer held under the sway of the Lich King. And, if we are to believe our own ears, Bolvar Fordragon may yet live – tortured and yet still resisting the depths of death. I dare not think what we may find farther in.

I hope you don’t have too very many exaggerated rumors flying – though I’ll do my best to quell any that you send my way. It’s been some time since I was on the fields as a battle healer, but now it seems I am to do so in two major fronts this year. With any luck, this will go more smoothly than Angra’thar. Still, in this position, I’ve seen or been near to the majority of things that might end up as rumors, and if nothing else, I can ask my fellow officers.

I do miss Arrens quite a lot, and – oddly – don’t find myself shying away from saying it. I had an afternoon’s leave yesterday to Dalaran, and it could not have been more needed. This first push has been brutal, and full of atrocities. Seeing him, speaking with him, knowing that what I have witnessed can stay within these saronite walls does a lot for my resolve, not to mention my ability to press forward. Hope is such a fragile thing, sometimes, but I find it in him.

Letters are always welcome, even if it means struggling with thawing out an inkwell and then accidentally boiling your ink.

Light Bless,

***Thanks for reading this post from Too Many Annas. May the Loot-Fu be with you***

About those Letters

Note: Phileas’ accent is thicker than Aely’s.  A few times he’ll use the word “greet” – in this context, it means “grieve”.

Phileas dusted his hands off on his pants as he rounded the corner to the Silver Shield.  Aely had run him out of the apartment earlier in the day, so he had gone to the forge and attempted to vent frustration by pounding soft metal into usable tools.  The rogue stopped short when he discovered Aelflaed sitting on the porch of the shop, gazing off into the Stormwind sky.  He half-wondered what it was she was seeing before her, as he was pretty sure it wasn’t the clouds in the fading evening light.  Given the way her eyebrows furrowed, he had a feeling he knew exactly what she was seeing – whatever had happened to her at Angrathar.  Softly, he cleared his throat to attract her attention, and was a little relieved when she startled a bit and turned towards him.

Aelflaed waved shyly, and Phileas couldn’t help but give her an answering smile.  For a moment, he could look past the damaged skin and the bandages and see his old Aely there.

The paladin cracked a half smile, trying not to wince. “‘lo again, love.” Seeing Phileas was both awkward and comforting, some combination of glad for his presence and sheepish at her various injuries, particularly given the state of her swollen face and hands. Sky was with him, as usual – the leggy puppy hardly left his side these days. He gave Aely an impish glance.

“Are tha’ goin’ tae run me off again, or d’I get tae stay ‘f I promise nae tae shed on Mrs. Cross’ furniture?” Aely did wince then, looking sheepish and feeling rather guilty for having sent him out so they could both get some air. Sky nuzzled up against her hands, and she managed a stiff-fingered scritch behind her fuzzy ears.

“I dinnae mean t’ run ye off, jus’… needed air, an’ figured it’d do ye good ’s well. An’ it w’s good t’ see Annie an’ Threnn an’ th ‘wee one. They said t’ say hello.”

Phileas didn’t look entirely convinced, giving her an absent-minded “Mm”  before staring off himself into the clouds.  Aelflaed saw the rogue’s eyebrows furrow and was about to nudge him to find out what made him frown so when he said, without preamble, “An’ before tha asks, nae, I’m nae mad a’ thee…jus’ frustrated wi’ mysel’ muir.”

“F’r what?”

Phileas didn’t say anything, merely gave the paladin a long, pointed look that took in all her injuries.  She sighed.

“’s nowt ye, air anyone really, could’a done ’bout any ay this mess. ’s mos’ly thanks t’ Jolly I’m… well, tha’ I’m here.”  He nodded.  “An… well, th’ Boss dinnae have owt but t’ send sommat down wi’ healin’ experience, he w’snae really pleased ’bout th’ whole thing.  An…”

“An’ tha were wha’ he sent.”

“Ayeh.  He couldnae send Threnn, wi’ her bein’ expectin’ an’ Bricu there.  An’ he couldnae send Shad.  Dinnae think there w’s much choice, an’ I dinnae hold ‘im f’r any ay this.” Aely leaned back against a crate sitting in front of the Silver Shield.  Phileas didn’t respond.

She turned towards him, eyes still focused somewhere off in the distance, her voice somewhat distant. ” I e’er told ye ’bout any th’ folk I grew up wi?”  He shook his head. “Nae.  Tha spoke a bit abou’ thy mum an’ thy da… but only a bit.”  Phileas raised an eyebrow, peering at her.

“W’s a lad I grew up wi’.  Bertrand Johannsen.  W’s three weeks older than I, an’ dinnae let me f’rget it one birthday. I’d… nae heard tale ay him – owt tha’ his family w’s burned wi’ th’ rest, after th’ Bloody Prince went through.  Leas’, I’d nae heard owt ’till jus’ before th’ battle.  He found me.”  She hugged her knees, resting her chin between them.

“So he lived, hrm?” Phileas wasn’t entirely sure where this was going, but opted to just let her talk.  Quiet and withdrawn were not usual traits of the woman he’d come to share his life with, and he figured it might be best to get to the bottom of things now, rather than waiting.

She sighed.  “Nae.  He died. An’ w’s raised. An’ then broke free.  W’s wearin’ th’ colors ay th’ Ebon Blade.”

“Oh.” They both paused a moment before he continued. “Guess it shouldnae be surprisin’… maught be a Darrowman air three in th’ Blade’s ranks, aye?”

Aely closed her eyes, frowning slightly. “Prob’ly – I’ve nae thowt t’ ask. He died there, in th’ gasses, thow he wouldnae have lived wi’ th’ wounds he took. It w’s… bad.”  She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a little blue prayer rope, worn around the edges. “’s w’s his. Must’ve been one ay th’ first I made.  How he still kept it.. ‘fter all these years, I dinnae ken.”

Phileas looked at the faded blue rope, trying to think of something to say that might explain the knotted cord.  “They must hae browt him comfor’.”

Aelflaed didn’t reply, only nodded slightly, furrowing her eyebrows as she stared at the little knotted rope.  As they sat there in silence, Phileas could almost picture Bertrand in his mind, the saronite gauntlets of a death knight counting out the prayers of Lordareon on the knots in a quiet moment.

Almost hesitantly, the rogue asked, “Did ‘e still b’lieve, even i’ th’ Blade?”

“T’ be fair, I’m nae sure.  He said he dinnae. An’ he said tha’ findin’ me w’s th’ closest he’d been t’ believin’ since… well, since awhile.”

Phileas looked over at her.  “Soun’s like ‘e were… fair fon’ a’ thee.” She shrugged slightly, hugging her knees tight. “He w’s my best friend, back home. I w’s th’ faster, he w’s th’ stronger.  Sweet Laigh’, how d’ye deal wi’ a ghost ay the past wha’ comes real… an’ then dies alone again after ye cannae save ‘im an’ run t’ save y’r own hide.” Aely blinked hard, looking intently at the roof over the porch, as if to will herself back from the edge of tears.

“Tha ken… ‘e’s free nae, aye?  Truly free, an ‘freer’n we air.  ‘e’s beyon’ th’ reach ay th’ Bloody Prince… e’s safe.” He searched for words that might bring some measure of comfort. “An’ ‘f ‘ee were owt like me, he didnae die alone. Tha were wi’ ‘im in ‘is thowts, tae th’ en’.  An’ muir… ‘f ‘ee saw tha get away… he died kennin’ tha lived. An’ that maught hae been worth th’ dyin’ fair tae ‘im.”  He glanced at the paladin, struggling with herself.

“Aye, an… well, he told me t’ run. Saw me run. I ken if I’d stayed, I’d have died. Bu’ I cannae help feelin’ I’ve let folk down again.” She shook her head, the tears finally besting her attempts at control – streaming down her face and making little waterspots on her knees.

Phileas very carefully tucked an arm around her waist, trying not to jostle her bandaged shoulder.  “Tha did wha’ tha could f’r ‘im… tha gave ‘im comfor’, gave ‘im knowledge ‘is death wouldnae be meanin’less… ’cause [i]tha lived[/i].”

Aely leaned against him. “Thanks mos’ly t’ Jolly.  An how many folk dinnae make it out?”

“Tha cannae save ‘em all, love.  ’s fact.  Sae greet ‘im… ‘e d’serves th’ greetin’ an th’ memory.  An’ ask th’ Ligh’ tae hol’ im ’till we’re all in th’ worl’ after.” She broke down and wept into his shoulder as he spoke. “Tha saves them as tha can, an’ greet those tha cannae… an’ then let ‘em rest as they d’serve.”

“I ken fairly ay death – ‘ve seen folk die near on every week since I took oaths.  Bu’ ‘f I cannae save th’ ones I love?”

Phileas smiled and pulled off his gloves.  Very, very gently, he swept the tears off Aelflaed’s cheek with his thumb, doing his best not to cause her further pain.  “Then tha ken that we’re nivver far awaa…even ‘f tha cannae see us.”

Aelflaed dabbed at her face with her sleeve as Phileas glanced up at the evening sky and added, “Close as thowt, far’s th’ rainbow.  An’ one day, we’ll all be taegether again.”

Aelflaed managed a rather soggy half-grin as she caught her lover’s eye. “I thowt I w’s th’ Paladin.”

Phileas snorted and shrugged, his ears turning pink as he glanced away.  “Feck…s’ sorta th’ talk I got frae my da when our aul’ farm houn’ passed when I were sivven.  ’s jus’ as true f’r houn’s as it is men.”

“An’ th’ one I gave t’ folk muir times’an I can count o’er th’ las… nine years.”

The rogue gently leaned his head against the paladin’s and said, “An’ Emperius allus did say th’ Ligh’ will fin’ th’ voice tha needs tae hear, tha ken.”

“Ayeh – an’ I’d ‘gree with ‘im.” She mopped at her face with her sleeve.

Phileas arched an eyebrow at the woman as he produced a handkerchief from the recesses of his armor and handed it to her.  “Dinnae use thy sleeve, love…I ken thy mum taught thee better’n that.”  She nodded, wiping her eyes and managing a somewhat more composed expression.  Phileas chuckled, making a half-hearted attempt to adjust the arm he had around Aelflaed’s waist into a more comforting embrace.  “I’d hug thee, but I’m afeared I’d hurt thee doin’ it.”

” ’s a’righ’ – I’d prob’ly weep on ye again if ye did.”

As the paladin used the cloth to carefully dry her face, the rogue looked down at the faded prayer beads in her other hand.

“Here’s an idea for thee.”

“Hrm?”

Phileas smiled at Aelflaed, the devilish gleam returning to his eyes as he asked,  “C’n owt ay th’ Riders draw thee a portrai’?”

Aelflaed nodded, not quite sure what he was getting at, figuring he’d explain his idea in his own time and his own way.  “Ayeh – ‘lanna’s a fair hand wi’ charcoal.”

“Have ‘em draw thee a picture of thy frien’…Bertran, tha said?”

“Aye.”

Phileas smiled and tapped the hand that held the prayer string.  “We’ll make thee a book.  Tha keeps thon beads an’ that picture in i’.  ’s time passes…an’ i’ will…when tha has a happy memory of ‘im, tha write it in th’ book.”

Aelflaed nodded, waiting to hear the rest of the idea before she said anything.

“Eventually, tha’ll hae a memory for every bead, tae bring smiles ’stead ay tears.”

Phileas’ face blurred in Aelflaed’s vision as she teared up again, covering her eyes with the handkerchief.  “An’ when thon day comes… tha c’n carry th’ beads if tha wish an’ ken ‘e’s smilin’ down a’ thee an’ all th’ good tha’rt carryin’ wi’ thee.”

She chuckled into the handkerchief, emotions running ragged between extremes.  “Ayeh – bugger always w’s better a’ climbin’ trees.”

He shushed her.  “Give it time, love.  Res’ thyself f’r now… an’ ken tha’ c’n allus call ‘f tha needs a shoulder of me.”  Aelflaed nodded against his shoulder, still leaning against his arm.  After a moment, he started to chuckle.

“…hrm?”

“Like tha coul’ get rid ay me anyroad, hrm?” He tugged gently on the end of her braid

“Oi! An’ I bloody well hope nae.”  She sighed, holding up her blistered hands. “I cannae wear my ring, ’till my hands ‘re normal ‘gain.”  Phileas looked to the shield necklace that he’d had made for her and noticed the engagement ring hanging next to it.

“Better tha wear it there than have tae have i’ cut off, aye?”  She nodded, wrapping her fingers around it in a gesture he’d come to recognize as one of comfort.  “Ayeh, air have it damage my hands. Shad saw t’ gettin’ it off, afore they started bein’ puffy from th’ frost.”

Phileas sighed heavily, leaning his head against hers.  Aely nudged him.  “Ye a’righ’?”

“Jus’ wish I coul’ do sommat muir’n hover.  Call th’ Ligh’… sommat.”

“Ye do plenty. ’s nae much wha’ Light can do f’r this, jus’ needs t’ heal frae th’ frost.  An’… well, bein’ lonely’s worse.”

“Jus’ feel so feckin’ helpless.”

She nestled against him snugly.  “Ye an’ me th’ same.”

Phileas glanced over at his fiancee, curled against his shoulder and trying to avoid the spikes on his armor.  With a wry smile, he said, “Suppose I shoul’ try tae fin’ summat tae wear as doesnae need tae be covered by armor…’specially ‘f tha’re goin’ tae be in th’ habit a’ doin’ that.”

“mmrph?  ’s nice..”

He snorted. “Bollocks.  I’m fair th’ only Rider as shows up tae th’ Pig lookin’ like I’m headed f’r Icecrown.” And he was, really, though recent events had kept him out in Northrend more than back in Stormwind anyway.  Aely chuckled.  “I mean’ th’ leanin’, nae s’much th’ armor. Anyroad – ye’d be fine wi’ jus’ sommat simple.  Soft leather air whatnot.”

“Ayeh – have tae fin’ sommat… afore some’un sics Delion on me.”

She made a face. “Oi – best be careful ay that’ un air he’ll have ye in curlers too.”  Phileas laughed back, both at the expression and the thought of someone trying to get all of her hair into curlers.  “Some’ow I dinnae think hair like thine’ll take well tae thon curlers.  Ringlets, f’r Ligh’s sake…”

“Oi – ayeh, tha’s what I said.  Bu’ nae – Del’s set t’ make ‘em all even-like. An’ ringlets…  I look enow like a lion anyroad. I’ll end up a lion inna fancy dress.”

He grinned.  “Th’ Lioness ay Lordaeron… soun’s fine tae me.”

“Pfft.  Soun’s like trouble.” She laughed.

“Why?  It fits, says I.” He grinned at her, enjoying the laughter after several days of pensive near-silence.

Aelflaed said,  “Fair enow,” but the end of the sentence was almost lost in a sigh that attempted to cover a yawn.

Phileas arched an eyebrow at his fiancee, seeing the drowsiness around her eyes, but only commenting with a curious “Hrm?”

“Torn b’tween stayin’ here an’ tryin’ t’ sleep.”

The rogue smiled quietly.  He knew Aelflaed too well, knew that her Northron stubbornness would make her stay up unless he made the decision for her – at least, this once, he would.  “We’ll make thee up some tea tae get thee a bit sleepy, an’ tha c’n res’.  Hell, I’ll read tae thee if tha wants.”

Aelflaed smiled tiredly.  “Tha’d be a good way t’ fall asleep.”

“Tea an’ a fairy story?  Aye…soun’s pleasan’.”  Phileas gently tucked his hands under Aely’s uninjured elbow and helped her to her feet, leading the way back into the Silver Shield.  “C’mon.  We’ll get thee settled.  An’ I’ll make sure tae pick a story where, leas’ for t’nigh, tha c’n hae a “happy e’er after” tae sleep on.”

***Thanks for reading this post from Too Many Annas. May the Loot-Fu be with you***

Angrathar – Epilogue

From the small cluster of tents south of Angrathar, few people realized that Jol had left camp – wheeling up through the snow on the great bronze drake that he so frequently sparred with. His return, however, was noticed by a few – particularly that there was a second form with him on the drake, and he was flying fast.

‘Pigshite’ – which he would not dare call it again after the help the female drake had given him – hit the hard-packed snow hard when she landed, conveying the urgency of rider and drake with a trio of low, deep-throated bellows. Jol wasn’t far behind in calling out for bandages and a healer, cursing relegated to an afterthought as he clambered down carefully with a well-wrapped Aely in his arms.

“Oi! Git Tarquin an’ tell ‘im ah foun’ ‘er! An’ move yer feet an’ fine Shad! Ah need ah feckin’ healah ovah ‘eah!” he bellowed, carrying the half-frozen paladin quickly to the nearest tent that had a fire roaring.

Shad was not far off, emerging from another tent at the sound of his name and rustling quickly towards the two paladins and the fire. The tent was unoccupied, but judging by some of the oddities it probably belonged to Ilarra Stormrunner. A quick glance over the blue-tinted paladin was all he needed for an initial diagnosis.  “Get her out of her armor and anything wet. She will need to be out of the wind, wrapped in blankets, and near enough the fire but not too near. Also, warm liquids. Tea. I will return.”

He creaked off in search of boiling water while Aely drowsily helped with peeling off her dented armor and drenched padding, her fingers nearly useless against the leather buckles. The shivering started again, feeling as though she’d rattle her teeth out of her head.

Shad forced a warm, fragrant mug into her hands … when had he come back? She nearly dropped it, spilling the honey-sweetened tea over cracked lips. “Th-th-th-thank you, Sh-shad.”

“Shhh,” he urged, forcing a woody smile.  “Do not talk. Shivering is good, it will help you warm yourself. You may feel sleepy, but do not go to sleep. Can you move your fingers and toes?”

She did both, grimacing.  Twigs carefully prodded at the wound in her shoulder. “This is clean, but may not heal well due to the cold. Parts of your shoulder are frozen.” Aely winced, attempting to grit her teeth. “There is goldthorn in that tea; it will help with the pain. For now I am just going to bandage it.”  He tore a bit of bark from his chest, adding it to a sort of poultice that he tapped onto the gash.  “I will need to see how much damage the frost has done before I attempt any major healing, for now though…” A soothing warmth spread through her shoulder, followed by the soft wool and solid feeling of bandages.

Shad stepped back and looked at Jolstraer, nodding soothingly.  “She will be all right, but she needs to get warm – especially her extremities – before she can sleep.”

“Ayeh. Warm. Ah’m oan ‘et.” Ducking out of the tent almost like a worried father, he wandered only far enough to wrangle through his own belongings and nearly burst back into the tent with another pair of blankets from his own packs. “Oi, Kaidos’d be buildin’ up tha fiah. Sommat’s runnin’ tae git Geny tae see if’n she ken keep it clos enou’ tae tha ten’ wi’out settin’ it aflame. ‘Et’d nae dae us annah good, ayeh?” he chuckled nervously, piling the blankets on the younger paladin. “Oi, ‘ow’s ‘et?” he asked, near to fretting.

She attempted a reassuring grin, chattering.  “’s… warmer.  Laigh’. ‘m feelin’ bout like a wee woolly caterpillar.”  As Aely nestled back into the blankets, her face, fingers and feet all started to tingle again, and then burn.  She reached up gingerly to touch her cheeks.  “Oi… ’s wrong wi’ my face?”  She looked at the druid, who had edged carefully away from the side of the tent with the fire.

“You have frostbite on your face and hands.  Likely your feet as well.  They are not entirely frozen, as you can still move them, but I imagine they will be uncomfortable for several days at least.”  The bark around his mouth twisted into what must have been a sort of smirk.  “I do not think I need to tell you that you are not going back out to fight anything for awhile.”

Aely nodded, wrapping her fingers back around the warm mug.

The druid nodded back, satisfied. “I am going to go continue my rounds; I should be by again in an hour or less. Do not go to sleep yet – you need at least two more mugs of that tea and to stop shivering before you can even think about it.”  He pointed at the kettle sitting nearby and creaked out of the tent, his branches catching just enough of the door flaps that Tarquin could be seen outside, making note that she was back and alive.

Aely looked up at Jolstraer, who was, in fact, hovering.  She nodded over at a chair on the other side of the tent – “Sit ye down, Jols. I’ll… Ayeh… I’ll mend. Nivvir agin, righ’?”

***Thanks for reading this post from Too Many Annas. May the Loot-Fu be with you***

Angrathar – Part 10 – The Return

Twilight in the Dragonblight is an ethereal thing, the pale rays of sunlight transforming the sky and the snow into a palette of reds and purples and oranges.  The Dragons had beautiful mornings and evenings, not to mention the gorgeous displays of light in the night sky, streaming from the stars.

At least, it’s beautiful when it’s not snowing, and you are inside.  That evening, big clumped flakes fell, piling on top of the already deep snows and sticking to everything with soft brushy kisses that quickly turned wet, and then icy cold in the wind.

Aely shivered, fatigue and stillness allowing the chill to seep in under the edges of her armor, her joints protesting from the cold and damp.

She wiggled her fingers – relieved that they still worked, though the work and injuries had taken a toll on her hands.  Moving her arm, however, released fresh, nauseating waves of pain and opened the wound yet again, the oozing blood warm against her shoulder for a few seconds, and then turning icy.  Unfastening the armor, teeth gritted against the cold, she drug handfuls of snow across the angry wound before attempting to close it again, finding only enough Light to stop the bleeding.

The world reeled.  She reined herself back in.

She shoved the last of the bandages into the gash and rewrapped it, fastening the dented shoulderplate back over the lumpy mess.  A tattered strip from the bottom of her ruined cloak worked well enough to bind the arm across her chest.

She looked around.  A condor blinked at her from its perch on a nearby Dragon skeleton.

A’righ’. Snowin’. Windy. Feckin’ cold. Ye have no food, no water. Y’r out a’ bandages.  An’ y’r … alone.

Bertrand’s voice washed through her mind, followed rapidly by Phileas’, and then the screaming and the acrid green gas, and she vomited.

Pull it t’gether, lass – ye cannae think on ‘at now. If ye dinnae fin’ someplace t’ bunker down, or sommat t’ help ye fin’ th’ Black an’ Red, ye’ll be seein’ Bertrand sooner than ye thowt, an’ nae seein’ Phileas.

She stood up, willing herself not to pass out.

Smoke’s there… likely tha’s Angrathar. Nae dinnae think on it.  Jus’ walk wi’ that t’ y’r righ’, an’ tha’s likely South – If nowt else, y’ll get closer t’ Wyrmrest an’ migh’ see a Dragon, if ye dinnae get eaten by a Magnataur.

So she walked.

Some minutes passed, maybe half an hour, before the cold started winning. Her cheeks were icy, and then burned, and then stopped feeling altogether.  She shook, and the shaking made the exhaustion worse.  Then soft on the wind, from far off, she heard her name.

Oi, y’r hearin’ thin’s now, ’sides th’ cold.  Need t’ fin’ a place wi’ shelter, an’ fast, Lass, i’s nae gettin’ any warmer.

And then again, a strong call, this time nearer.

She turned her face into the wind, “OI!  Ye lookin’ f’r me, or am I jus’ stark ravin’ mad?”  Her voice cracked, and she fell into a fit of coughing, dropping into the snow and clutching her shoulder.

“OI!”  the call came again, “Stay thurr!”

Out of the sky behind her, she heard, and then saw the Bronze Drake.  It landed with a thump and a snort, and its rider dismounted quickly.

“Aely? Uthah’s Grace, tha bloodah… “ Jolstraer trailed off.

“Jolly? Oi…”  She attempted a smile, teeth chattering.

“Laight help us. Le’s git yeh tha ‘ell outta ‘eah.”

She took his outstretched hand, pulling herself out of the snow and leaning on the Drake, shivering. The older Paladin looked her over, his eye taking in the bindings around her arm, and then offered her a leg up.  She took it, and he climbed up behind, wrapping her in an extra blanket before kicking the Drake off into the blowing snow.

Aely huddled against him, thankful for the blanket and willing herself to stop shaking. The cold sang gently to her now, lulling her – she almost felt warm, as though she should slip gently into sleep and not worry about anything anymore.

“Lass, dunnae yeh dare fall sleep on mah!” His tone was harsh, but fringed with worry; it frayed at the edges. “Yeh heah? Ah dunnae care ‘ow col’ yeh are.”  He shook her gently, and the shaking hurt, and she was cold again. “We’re nae far from camp – jes’ hol’ oan ’till ‘en. Yeh’ll be warm enou’ soon. Laight help us, jes’ hol’ oan.”

***Thanks for reading this post from Too Many Annas. May the Loot-Fu be with you***

Angrathar – Part 9 – Dragonblight

It felt like the first time in months that Tarquin ap Danwyrith had stopped to breathe. Two days up here at Angrathar, he knew, but he felt like he had been born in that icy gulch, beneath that broken hill. Maybe this was hell. He rubbed his knuckles into the corners of his eyesockets, as if to scour away what he’d seen, aware all the while of the absurdity of it. Just more petty defiance, more useless-

He put a collar on his thoughts and dragged them back from the abyss. Going to be doing that a lot, murmured the part of his mind that had regained its balance. First things first, the living. He had a responsibility. Ceil was with Sonya, of course; she wouldn’t say two words to the girl, but she’d hover over her as if she could will her back to health. It was typical.

The Riders were ranged about the point where their headlong flight had stopped, in various states of breathless disbelief. Tarquin fancied that he could have seen the same reflection in all their eyes had he bothered to look, heard the same thunderous echoes of – fucking come off it! They were alive, that was what mattered. Wounded, exhausted, terrified beyond measure in some cases, but alive. That was where everything started.

He began a headcount, matching things up against the mental list he carried with him at all times, noting the gaps with a heavy heart. Bellesta, Feliche, Aelflaed -

Shite.

The monstrous gas probably wouldn’t have gone that far, but even still, Bolvar’s death had routed the Alliance, all the way back to the reserves. She could be anywhere. She could be a twitching shell half-buried in snowdrifts, a torched and mangled body on one of a hundred heaps, a shambling carcass taking up the Bloody Prince’s new guard outside the gates. There were thousands of them out there. Tarquin indulged himself in maudlin thoughts for a moment longer, then turned to his family and surveyed for a moment before calling out. “Jolly! Kaidos! ‘Larra!”

Of the Riders, those were three of the most coherent. Ulthanon had seen it all before, more or less, and Ilarra could always stand to see more. As for Jolstraer, dead-eyed and battered as he was, the old knight simply had too many years of momentum behind him to fall to despair. They all wandered over with the same air of distraction – trying, most like, to keep the horror from creeping in. “We’ve still Riders out there,” he told them. “Aely wis sent wi’ the Legion medical at the start. I want yeh three ta find her, or her body.” Ulthanon winced. “Kaidos, check the field. ‘Larra, go an’ check wha’s left ay the Legion. Jolly, go south, ‘mong the scatters.”

Ilarra cleared her throat delicately. “Lotta dead folk out there, boss. Not that I won’t be positively thrilled at findin’ her, o’ course, but – well, how soon you want us back?”

“When yeh find her.” Tarquin caught Ilarra’s gaze. “Find any in the colors. Bellesta an’ Feliche’re missin’ too. Mair, might be. I’ll have yeh a count in a tick. Get yirselves ready.” He turned back to counting.

***Thanks for reading this post from Too Many Annas. May the Loot-Fu be with you***

Angrathar – Part 8