Chapter 3: Fornost

Five days of riding it took to gain sight of the capital of Arthedain, the last bastion of the Dunedain against the Witch King of Angmar.

To quote the parlance of Sirius's home world, a shining city upon a hill.

More accurately a shining city on a hill, next to a lake, and then southwest of some bigger hills that turned into small mountains.

Oh dear, Sirius thought to himself, I'm babbling in my head again. This biography nonsense they've been running me through is getting to me.

For the past five days of riding had been a mix of interesting, rousing, and exhausting. While Prince Araval and his soldiers all seemed to be his kinds of people, though admittedly the prince was a little hoighty-toighty and was on one of the tallest horses Sirius had ever seen both literally and figuratively, they also asked a lot of questions.

A lot of questions he had to roll with, incorporate into some strange patchwork backstory he was making for himself, and then also keep it all straight when answering more questions!

So far he'd gotten this far:

He was a Wizard. Which apparently had a capital W. He was Sirius the Red. He did not remember much of where he originated, though he did remember having a family. This was allowable because apparently the other Wizards all seemingly arrived on boats with only vague answers about the past and their purpose on Middle Earth. So him feigning a kind of mystical block on his memories of specifics made him simply seem more honest than the other Wizards, not dumber.

He said he could remember stories and songs and vagaries, but not specific people or events or a mission or anything. He feigned having been erased of all but the lore of his homeland. And he'd let on that even that was patchy. To cover for his homeland not being where they thought it was.

Which they assumed was Valinor, because where else to the West was there? Numenor and Belariad were apparently all consumed by fathoms and fathoms of ocean. Seriously, the gods here had a hard on for Biblical flooding in Sirius's humble opinion.

Also he had let them assume he'd already been on Middle Earth for a bit and was just investigating the tower ahead of them.

Because dropping out of a death portal that closed behind him was probably a bad explanation.

He let slip he knew how to fight, and they'd tossed him a sword and trounced him.

Oh he was damn good at fencing like any Pureblood heir, but these were Merlin-damned broadswords and while he'd done well enough that Prince Araval had laughed and promised to teach him to properly use a Numenorean longsword instead of "Whatever mystic blade you are used to, Wizard,".

Did the man think he summoned a sword of flame or something? Actually, Sirius mused, that'd be pretty cool he should look into that.

And that was well enough, because, if Sirius were to be honest with himself, those swords were pretty cool and he'd feel like Godric Gryffindor rushing through battle sword in one hand and wand in the other.

However eventually his thoughts ground to a halt as they came close enough for him to really get a good look at the fortress city of Fornost.

It put Hogwarts to shame. He was fairly certain it could put Edinburgh and Winchester to shame.

High, shining grey, almost silver, walls stretched out into the distance backing up the hill on which they stood into the rising foothills of the distant mountain range. Every few hundred meters a durable looking guardhouse tower rose, to fend off the enemies of Man. The gates stood sturdy and immovable, appearing unassailable by anything south of the gunpowder cannons of his home.

And that scared Sirius, these guys were losing a war against a guy that didn't have cannons and they had castles like this.

That meant this dude had some serious numbers, magic, or cunning. Or worse all three.

And from the stories he'd heard on the ride in, he was pretty sure it was all three.

Oh, also he was definitely going to have to learn the language here for real instead of relying on his translation charm. It gave him headaches after about the fourth hour of its eight hour duration.

As Prince Araval led his nine remaining soldiers and their new Wizard along the wide cobblestone roads of Fornost towards his father's main keep and throne he pondered the man.

For as surely as the man was blessed with mystical power he was also encircled in mystery. His memory and knowledge appeared to be a strange and ephemeral patchwork of ideas and concepts which were at some moments concrete and rang with truth and power and at other moments were fey and fickle, blowing away with the wind of words.

These thoughts occupied the prince as their, much diminished from their departure, troop made its way up to the center keep.

The throne room of Fornost was not quite as lavish as it could be, high ceilings and decorations for sure, however it only only been since the dissolution of Arnor and the civil war following the death of King Earendur that the capital moved to Fornost and Annuminas was abandoned. Thus it was a functional kind of prestige that decorated the hall of King Arveleg II, and though it had been nigh on nine hundred years, the spirit of the citadel as a fortress first and foremost had remained. For Arthedain as a successor state to Arnor had never known true peace.

Upon the throne sat the aforementioned king, ready to receive his heir and his soldiers, hopefully home successful from the latest of a string of attempts to purge the evils of the Barrowdowns and Weathertop and return Northern Cardolan and Amon Sul to Arthedain's control, instead of that of the evil Witch King.

King Arveleg was an old man, for even the high men of Numenor began to show age when they reached as lofty an age as a hundred and sixty-three. In fact he quite reminded the Red Wizard of an old mentor of his, though this fact was not voiced for many years.

Even seated in his throne it was apparent that Arveleg was a tall man, likely clearing six and a half feet with a few inches to spare. His piercing grey eyes held a strength, insight, and wisdom that showed his full years. And yet his form was lean and wiry, showing that he could likely still stroll out onto the battlefield with his longbow and bastard sword and cleave his way through many of the creatures of darkness.

Upon his brow sat a silver crown, purposefully not the full crown of the heirs of Elendil and Isildur, the kings of Arthedain refusing to wear it again until Arnor was completely purged of darkness and restored.

And by his side sat a beautiful young woman. Herself a good two inches taller than Sirius's own six feet and two inches, her dark hair cascaded down her shoulders in a gentle wave, a diadem of silver metal and green gems upon her head, to match the similar ring upon her finger. She wore a black and silver gown, embroidered with what seemed to be a pattern of ivy.

Prince Araval put a fist over his heart and bowed at the waist, while his soldiers dropped into a kneeling position, with Sirius quickly following.

"My Lord-Father, my men and I have returned. Though we are much diminished I believe that the ruins of Amon Sul are purged of the Wight. It is, however, due not to our own valor, but due to the prowess of this man here. His name is Sirius and he is yet another of these wandering Wizards, claiming to be of the Red."

The king's thoughtful gaze turned to Sirius and he felt like he was a little boy once more, under the gaze of his headmaster at school.

"Intriguing, I am gladdened by your return and gladdened again by news that one of these Wizards has lent their talents to our cause. Tell me, Red Wizard, do you wish to continue to aid us in our endeavors against the darkness?"

Sirius had actually given this much thought over the past five days, he had eventually arrived to the conclusion that aligning himself with these Dunedan or Arthedain or...really they had far too many names for themselves. He had decided that aiding them was for the best, and would perhaps draw the attention of these other Wizards to possibly gain their aid in returning home.

And if returning home was not possible there were worse things he could do than become a king's court wizard. Though he had also decided to not jump fully onto that train immediately.

"Indeed I will gladly aid your realm in fight against the darkness when the Witch-King's troops come. However, when times are uneasily peaceful, I would rather not constantly be a court, could I perhaps have a small shop in the city to peddle my smaller magics to aid the hearts of the peasantry? And then be near to be called upon to aid in fighting any undead or evil creatures that assail the fair Kingdom of Arthedain?" Sirius had really been pulling hard from his childhood lessons to sound as flowery and pompous as the locals over the last few days. He was pretty pleased with himself actually.

The king continued his thoughtful and considering gaze, however the woman next to him interjected before he could, her eyes full of curiosity.

"What sort of small magics do you speak of, Wizard?"

"Ah! Indeed my lady I speak of the smallest of trifles. Runes of minor protection, repair of broken objects, and perhaps some minor pest control wards for houses and farms and the like."

The king nodded, "Very well, Wizard, stay here at the keep for a few days and I am certain my castellan can find a space for you. I understand the desire for independence you Wizards all seem to possess."

Prince Araval turned to Sirius and grinned, "Until that time I can continue polishing up your sword skills, Wizard!"