A Song of Rings, Tears, and Wrath Chapter 5. The Voyage to Valyria: There and Back Again

The Wanderer

No sound could be heard. He dared not move. He dared not to even breathe.

All he could do, all he was able to do, and all he wanted to do, was to stare into those grey eyes, just as they stared into his.

Her song, it had reminded him of a nightingale he once heard, singing in a tree under the moonlight.

He wanted to hear that song again, he wanted to ask her, to beg and plead to hear her song again, to even just hear her speak, to say something… but he could not even speak.

Neither he nor the fair figure moved. Even the very land, the sun, the wind itself? All seemed to hold its breath, all was still as if frozen in ice.

Then, an eagle's cry pierced the air, and the spell was broken. In the next moment, the fair figure turned and fled from him, deep into the sunlit forest.

"Please," he finally said. "Don't go."

He made to follow, to even just reach out, but he still could not move. A strange and cold numbness seemed to creep up through his legs and spine and arms and neck. All he could do, as the world began to spin, was cry out. "Please! Please! Come back!"

As the earth seemed to swallow him up, as the ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and as his voice fled from his throat, he called out one more time. "Nightingale…"

Then, he knew no more.

The Nightingale

She did not speak of what she had seen, though good sense all but demanded that she inform her father, or even just the guards.

Yet she did not.

It was her secret. She had never really kept a secret before. It was odd… but a little exciting.

She did not return to that glade for three days. Then, on the fourth day, she did.

She saw that he lay upon the ground, under the warmth of the sun. It looked like he had fallen.

Though he lay down, the figure had seemed tall enough, about her height. He was garbed in worn leathers and metal rings and things.

Strapped to his back was a sword with a black hilt.

His hair was long and seemed to partially cover one side of his face, which seemed contorted as if he were suffering from an unpleasant dream.

He did not look like any atani she knew in Doriath. Was he perhaps from one of the other kingdoms?

Despite herself, she knelt down by where he lay. He did not stir. She reached out, and, almost on instinct, she pushed back his long hair from the left side of his face.

There were stripes and vines on his cheek.

Before she could stop herself, she started to cup his face…

He stood in darkness.

There was nothing but an endless void, all around him.

Empty of Light.

Empty of Sound.

Empty of Hope.

It was just…. EMPTY.

He could not speak.

He could not move.

He could not see.

He could not even breathe.

Then.. he heard something.

Weeping. A woman was crying.

That voice… No.

Though he could not move, he raised his hand.

Though he could not see, he looked around in terror and desperation.

Though he could not speak, still he cried out.

"Cerys! Cerys, where are you!?"

He heard, and screamed for, and searched for his sister. Still, she wept.

Still, he could not move, he could not see, and he could not speak.

"You could not save her, Lot number 971."

The voice was grand and terrible and held within it a fell and mocking edge.

He nearly crumpled to the non-existent floor.

Still, his sister wept.

Still, he reached out numbly, looked around blindly, and cried out breathlessly.

"She died screaming, your sweet sister, at the monster's hands. She died, and you could not do anything. You did nothing."

"No… I, I fought, I tried to…"

"Did you? What did you actually do?"

Then, as the weeping gave way to screams, other voices joined, alongside the clashes of steel, and the roars… the roars of dragons. The screams of dying men, dying as they burned.

No. No, not that.

"You ran, and you were lost. Then, you returned, and joined a fool's cause."

The Screams intensified.

"The Uncrowned died. He died… and at your hand. You are a failed brother, a failed knight, and a failed son. In the end, all you have ever been… is nothing.

He heard a tiger's rumbling growl.

Flames beat at his face.

Suddenly, up from around him, inky hands and claws of black void burst up. Swiftly they began to envelop him, grabbing at him, clawing at him.

He tried to pull away, but they were too strong.

Then, images, flashed before his eyes, each more horrifying than the one before...

…. A garden burning and drowned in blood and bones…

… A bronze sword, fighting against a dark one…

….Green and Black creatures, rutting against a beautiful, faceless, naked woman, laughing all the while they tore and bit at one another and her, even as all around them burned, and the woman cried and screamed…

… A hammer, ringing out against metal, each blow more baleful than the last…

… Shadows, tearing and biting and stabbing and killing and laughing…

…. Nine fires, each cold and dark and dead on a field of ice and scorched land…

More and more, flashed before him, as the hands pulled him down deeper, enveloping him, and he could only try and pull away in a futile manner. His legs were gone, as the fingers gouged into his eyes and mouth, slowly cutting off his screams. One hand they wrenched down….

Then, the terrible and fell voice spoke again….

Nine for the dragons, lords of the sky

Nine for the dragons, fated ever to die.

Nine shall they wear,

wrought from precious gold

And of the Nine,

shall their legends be

in evil whispers told.

As he screamed and tried to pull away from the darkness, a light burst forth from three distant shapes, shining atop a great and distant tower, cradled in an emerald hand...

The light reached out, in the shape of an arm, extending forth a most gentle hand.

Before his head was fully enveloped, he reached out towards the light. Instead, it rested upon his brow, upon his face…

The Wanderer

He felt a hand upon his left cheek…

With a sudden gasp and a scream, he shot up off his stomach, twisted, and backed away.

The hand that had been on his brow and face pulled away.

As he looked about, his chest rising and falling in great gasps, he saw the fair vision of beauty that he had seen before.

He could tell she seemed about ready to flee again, and sluggishly, he held out a shaking hand. "Wait! Please, please, don't go. Please."

To his surprise, she stopped, though she still seemed tense.

Could… could she understand him? "I.. don't know if you can understand me, but please… I just want to say thank you. Thank you for that song that I heard you sing. If nothing else, for that I thank you."

Slowly, she looked at him. "You are that grateful for a song, son of man?" she asked in the common tongue, a lyrical accent making every word seem as sweet as honey.

He hid his surprise and nodded. "I am."

He then flushed in embarrassment and scrambled to his feet, for his strength and feeling had returned to his limbs. "Oh, forgive my rudeness. My name is Beren," he said, bowing courteously.

She looked at him for a long moment, and then gently chuckled at his bow. "You have kind manners, Beren. My name is Luthien."

Her voice, it but stole the breath from his lungs. All he could do was just bow again, deeper. "I thank you, my lady, for healing me from whatever strange malady overcame me."

"All I did was touch your brow, good Beren. Nothing more."

"Then, perhaps your hands hold some magic within them, oh great and noble lady."

She looked at him and then gave a soft laugh, like the gentle ringing of chimes. "You are very kind if a bit droll. That amuses me."

Beren smiled. "That gladdens me, that you are amused. Perhaps I may be able to assume you again sometime, great lady?"

Her smile remained. "Perhaps I may very well return. We shall see…"

She returned the next day, to his surprise, even though he had secretly expected not to.

Every day thereafter, she visited him, in that glade, where he and Strider dwelled.

Sometimes they hardly ever spoke, and instead just gazed into the other's eyes.

Sometimes she sang, and he reveled in her songs as they danced.

At times, they talked, about families and home, though his own heart still ached when he talked of his.

His heart always ached when she left, and it grew light and happy when she returned.

She always brought food and water; fruits and a strange and wonderful bread that made him full from but a few bites. He was grateful, for he could find little to no game in the woods, and his meager supply of hardtack and dried beef had quickly dissipated. Strider, on the other hand, had plenty of plants and oats to eat, the oats being courtesy of Luthien.

For a long while, the glade was as their home… or their prison.

Indeed, for no matter where he and Strider walked, they always found themselves returned to the glade.

But, with Luthien's company… he found that he could not complain.

When she was not about, he practiced his swordplay, with his preferred style; one in each hand.

One night, as stars danced above them, and they danced on the ground, in the heat of the moment… he kissed her.

He had felt ashamed immediately, with a thousand apologies and pleas for forgiveness on his lips, but then...she had smiled, and kissed him back.

When they kissed, he felt complete, a warm and grand feeling suffusing his entire being.

They stayed where they knelt for a long moment, heads pressed against the other.

As the days turned to weeks, and to months, they danced and kissed, and he told her more of his past, the closer they grew, and she always listened with rapt attention. She in turn spoke of her family, of her father and mother and friends and kin, and he listened with rapt attention as well.

"Have you ever grown lonely, all this time alone in your father's kingdom?" he asked, as they sat upon the grass, watching the clouds dance in the sky.

She shook her head, her hair weaving with the motion. "At times, but we elves, we are never truly alone. I've had many friends from my parent's court, elf, and atani alike."

At times, they talked of somber things.

"So why did you fight for this uncrowned king?" Luthien asked one day, her head against his chest, as they watched the stars.

Beren exhaled slowly. "Because I thought it was the right thing to do. We all did, we brave 3,000, and the brave, uncrowned Aegon. It was also to free my older sister, Maegor's first 'wife.'"

He sighed. "We were all brave, I suppose, brave and foolish… but the moment we marched; our deaths were but already sealed. Down came black Balerion, and then… after Aegon's defeat, we were all but like wheat before the scythes of Maegor's forces…. As I said, we never stood a chance."

"Do you regret it?" she asked. "Do you regret taking a stand?"

He looked at her for a long moment at that question. "I don't know."

They talked of little more after that.

Overhead, the sun shone brightly.

He wondered when she would arrive. He wanted to never be apart from her. It was irrational, but it was how he felt.

He ran his hand across one of the trees of the grove as he waited. The rough bark felt pleasant beneath his calloused palm.

He heard an eagle's cry.

The slight crunch of grass under a boot made him turn.

The last thing he saw was the butt of a spear crashing towards his face….

When he came to, he was in a cell.

He shot up, to his knees, and brushed straw off his form.

It was a nice cell, though.

He then gingerly felt his forehead and felt a thick bandage.

How long had he been here? More importantly, where was here?

The creak of his cell door opening made him turnabout, so as to witness a small group of well-armed persons march in. At their head was a woman.

The woman was rather solidly squat and thick-necked. Her arms bulged through her sleeves with more muscle then he had seen on most men, though her face was not unseemly to look at. Her eyes were a shiny blue, and her hair was a pale blonde, bound up in a tight braid. She was garbed in studded leather, ring-mail, and a breastplate and greaves and sabatons. Her tabard held the symbol of a pure white star. In her hands was a great spear, and strapped to her back was an equally large sword.

Without a word, she marched, her fellow's weapons already pointed at him, and pulled him to his feet. Wordlessly, they marched him out of the cell.

They walked through a long hallway, and up many flights of stairs. Save for the clinking of their armor, all was silent. They then walked through two doors and emerged into a court.

The court was bright and vibrant, shaped and crafted with wood and shining gems. There were many levels and balconies so that all could see and hear and listen. Each was filled with curious eyes.

All the elves within were tall and graceful, and each was either garbed in simple but rich clothing or clad in shining armor. Even the simplest seemed as richly adorned as a king or merchant prince. But there were also men and women among them, humans like Beren and his guards, clad just as richly. To his surprise, there were also tall, shaggy creatures with well-groomed fur, some clad in pelts, and others in armor as well, and carried great weapons.

Giants, like in the ancient myths.

At the top of the dais upon a throne of metal and wood sat two persons who could only be Luthien's parents, the king, and queen.

The king was the tallest being that Beren had ever seen. He towered over even the giants. Even seating, Beren felt covered by the king's shadow. The King was garbed in silks finer than even those of Myr and Lys, and a fine, gem-encrusted crown rested upon his great head and mane of silver hair. Yet, he looked mightier and greater than any warrior in full plate. Beren noted the muscle beneath those fine silks.

Beren could not help but note that the king could perhaps quite easily crush his head with but one of his mighty hands.

This great figure's wife was no less majestic, if not more so. Her hair was twice as dark as her daughter's, and her eyes were two luminous pools of moonlight.

She wore few adornments, and her gossamer dress, though of rich material, was simple in design. Upon her brow too was a crown, simple in design and yet great in splendor.

Like her daughter, the queen seemed unearthly… divine even. Her expression as she looked upon him was neutral… if also strangely sad and resigned.

Behind them sat Luthien. Her eyes were full of sorrow. Yet, instinctively, Beren knew that she was not to blame.

The guards stepped back. Beren knelt, his knee upon the floor and his head bowed. The king looked down at Beren with eyes the color of liquid silver, the same as his long hair, just a Luthien described.

There was silence for a long moment, and then the king spoke. "So, you are the one who has seduced my daughter," he said, in a mighty, resonant voice, his accent lyrical. "Know that I am Thingol, King of the elves, atani, and giants of Doriath, one of the kingdoms of Beleriand, and the husband of the Lady Melian, who stands above all here. Now, who are you, little man, who would dare so much as look upon our daughter with unworthy and mortal eyes, who would touch her with unworthy and mortal hands? Moreover, how did you even enter into these lands? How did you penetrate the mists, and avoid detection in the other kingdoms?"

Beren looked up upon the king, feeling honest confusion at the last question. "My name is Beren, oh mighty king. and I know not of these mists of which you speak, I swear it. I simply laid upon the grass to sleep one night, and when I woke up… I was here, in these lands, in that forest and I know not how."

The king's noble brow furrowed with disdain as his eyes narrowed. "Do you think me to have a simple mind, oh man of the South? Think you that I am gullible, a naive child who believes all it is told without question? Perhaps you are but a spy, sent from the jealous nations of the south to probe and discover this nation's defenses?"

Beren rapidly shook his head. "No, great King, no. Never would I dare to deceive you at all."

The king looked at him through still-narrowed. "Perhaps you do tell the truth, but tell me; why are you even here, unhappy mortal? Why have you attempted to lay claim upon which is most forbidden to you?"

He loomed closer. "It was only through the kind and leal service of good Daeron, my court bard, that your impropriety with my daughter was discovered. Give me one single reason as to why I should not have my power laid upon you in heavy and righteous punishment for your transgressions?"

For a long moment, Beren could not speak, the pressure of the King's mighty presence weighing down upon him. It almost sent him crashing to the floor.

Then, he caught sight of Luthien. She said nothing, but in her eyes, he saw nothing but love.

That love strengthened him, and he steeled himself.

"It is because I love your daughter, mighty king."

The court went silent at that simple declaration.

"What?"

Beren continued, a strange bravery filling his being. "I swear to all the Gods, to the four winds and all the seas, all the lands east and west of the sun, that I hold within my heart only love for fair Luthien, fairest of all in any land, fairest of all the Children of the World. I love her more than life itself, and I loved her the moment I first lay eyes upon her in that glade, and twice so when she pulled me from that unnatural slumber.

"All I know, all I feel… is that My fate, O King, led me hither, through perils such as few even of the Elves would dare. And here I have found what I sought not indeed, but finding I would possess forever. For it is above all gold and silver, and beyond all jewels.

"As such, I swear to you, oh mighty king… I swear to you and your noble wife that I will do anything so as to prove my love, unworthy as it may be, to you and to fair Luthien, though it may cost me my life and my very soul. But know that, even were you to separate us, then I swear that I would travel across all the ends of the world to get back to her because I love her, your Majesty. I love Luthien, your daughter."

He then dared to look up, straight into the king's mighty and ageless. "My name is Beren of the House of Hightower, and I love Luthien. I love her, and I will love her until past the very end of time, even past the stars themselves growing cold, no matter what may come or may yet be. This, I do swear here before the sight of all who would witness. I love your daughter, and I shall do anything to prove it."

As the last of his declaration left his lips, Beren felt that he would but collapse from weariness. Yet, he stood tall.

The elven king looked down upon him in stunned silence, a silence shared by the entire hall.

A single tear traced down the Lady Melian's fine face, and the sound of it impacting against the marble floor ushered sound back into the court.

The king's face then grew grave and somber, and he shook his head, as if in disbelief at Beren's words. "Such a heady oath that you have uttered, son of man. Such oaths tend to bring naught but ruin upon their utterance. Yet, are you truly prepared to keep this oath of your, no matter what may come?"

Beren nodded. "I am."

The king looked about his court, looked at the shocked faces of all in attendance, and looked towards his wife. An unspoken conversation passed between their eyes, and then he turned away from her. "You have all borne witness to this mighty oath, uttered from his lips, oh subjects of Doriath and Beleriand. Whether it was foolhardy or grand, then that has yet to be seen."

He then sat back down upon his great throne and set his eyes back upon Beren. "Very well. If you would have my daughter's hand in marriage, Beren of the Hightower, if you truly love her as you so claim then hear me; to fulfill this oath which you have uttered, then I charge you to travel to a land which none have dared to tread in over a hundred years. I am sure you know that land of which I speak."

Beren slowly nodded. "Valyria." As he spoke that word, a cold chill seemed to echo through the chamber.

"Indeed. You must travel to that dread land, and return with proof of your journey. Attempt no falsehoods with me, for your heady oath has bound you and your fate to this quest, and to the truth."

"However, you will not find me wholly unmerciful, son of the Hightower. You shall be provisioned with what you think you will require, and set out on a ship towards the eastern continent. From there, you will be set out in a dinghy, and then your path to those cursed lands will be your own. This is my decree."

The court became abuzz with noise as the king sat back down upon his throne. "What say you, son of the Hightower?"

Beren looked upon the king for a long moment. It took all the steel in his spine to keep his hand from shaking. Essos.

He would have to return to Essos.

The scars upon his back began to ache….

He looked up, and then looked at Luthien. She looked back at him.

Beren then spoke. "For your daughter… I would brave a thousand Valyrias, Your Grace."

Thingol gestured. "Very well, though we shall see if your mettle is as strong as your words. Escort him to his belongings, and then to the dockyards. He shall leave within the next two days."

As the atani guards marched him out, they were briefly waylaid by another elf. "A moment, if you would, captain Jorelle. I wish to speak to this human," said he, ina strong voice

"Of course, Lord Beleg," the captain said, with a bow of her blonde head.

This elf's hair was a pale grey, drawn back in a simple ponytail. He was clad in an armor of chain and green and brown leathers. Slung across his back was a great and mighty bow of black yew-wood, no doubt for the full quiver of arrows at his side.

Unlike many of the others, his face did not carry much haughtiness or disdain. Indeed, his hazel eyes seemed rather warm.

"I bid you greetings, Beren Hightower. My name is Beleg, Beleg Strongbow, and I wish to help you in your quest to Valyria."

That had not been what Beren had been expecting to hear at all. "…You do?"

He nodded. "Indeed. Your oath and declaration in the court… it moved me. As such, if I did not help you in your quest, then I would truly regret it for the rest of my life."

He then held out a hand. "What say you?"

With a rueful grin, Beren took the proffered hand. "I will not say no to assistance, Lord Strongbow. I thank you."

"Splendid. I shall meet you by the dockyards. May our journey be grand and fruitful."

Beren certainly hoped so, the memory of Luthien's sorrowful eyes fresh in his mind.

Indeed, he hoped it would be.

Three days later

Elven ships were swift, it seemed. It cut and sped through the water like a leviathan. Beren could not help but be amazed at the speed of the grey ship as it all but glided over the waves.

It had only been three days, but, as the sun began to slowly set upon the third day, he could already see off the horizon the edge of Essos from where he stood.

As the anchor was dropped, the ship's first mate, a brown-haired atani woman named Jara approached Beren and Beleg. "From here, you shall be rowed ashore, my lords. For what it's worth, we wish you luck in this quest of yours."

"I thank you for that," Beren said, as he checked over his equipment, from his boots to his bracers, his harnesses, and his two swords at his side, and the daggers on his back. To his slight sorrow, he could not bring Strider along on this journey. But alas, horses did not journey well over the sea.

Beleg nodded and then turned to address the crew. "Before we leave, I offer this invitation one last time; any who wish to join us on our quest now is more than welcome. Will anyone step forward, so as to help noble Beren in his quest?"

All were silent for a moment, and then two elves stepped forward. "We shall," said one, in an even voice.

They were two elf warriors; one red-haired, and the other brown-haired. Other than that, they seemed… unremarkable.

In fact, the more Beren looked upon them, the less he could actually focus on their features.

Odd.

Beleg narrowed his eyes but smiled. "Well met, kinsman! Your help shall be most appreciative."

The red-haired elf nodded, whilst the brown-haired one said nothing.

Nothing more was said as the four were loaded onto the small dinghy. Nothing was said as they were rowed ashore.

It was a small beach, with the entrance to the forest right at the edge of the sand.

As they watched the elven ship then sail away, Beleg turned to their two new companions. "A most impressive bit of disguising, but now the coast is clear… my lady."

Their forms shimmered, and, in place of the two elf warriors, it was… Luthien and the squat female atani guard.

The elf maiden was dressed in supple leathers and chain, like Beleg. Unlike her companions, her weapons were odd. Clasped in her hands was a great quarter-staff, both ends capped off with shimmering steel. Dangling at her waist was a sling and a great pouch of pellets.

The atani guard carried her spear, her sword, and a short bow and quiver full of arrows.

"How are you even here?!" Beren exclaimed.

Luthein stood tall. "A glamor, as taught by my mother. Do you honestly believe that I would let you face this journey alone, melnā? Besides, I am trained in combat. All elves are. In addition, Jorelle here is my protector. She goes anywhere I am, and is also trained to fight."

"But this journey… it will be dangerous! Essos is a land that practices slavery! That by itself equates to great danger!" Beren exclaimed. He then turned to Beleg. "Were you aware of this?"

The tall elf nodded with a gentle smile. "I was. As a soldier and lord of Doriath, I am sworn to the house of Thingol." Then his smile turned slightly sly. "As such, when a member of the royal household asks that I help her sneak into this journey, why, I can do naught but accept."

Beren sighed and scratched at his head in exasperation. He could tell that he would not conquer this argument. Besides, having more companions would make this journey more bearable. He then held out his right hand with a gentle smile. "My lady? Shall we be off?"

"Indeed, we shall," Luthien said, as she took his hand.

As the sun did set beyond their sight, off the small group went, into the shadows of the great forest.

The forests of Qohor were exactly as Beren had remembered; thick with golden trees, each as large as a city gate, and they stretched on for miles, seeming without end.

As they made camp under the shadows of the trees and made a fire, Beren unfurled his map of Essos from a scroll in his pack. "It will take roughly three weeks for us to make our way through this forest, especially as we are on foot. From there, we cross over the River Sarne and through the Dothraki sea, hopefully over some of the Valyrian roads, around and over the Painted Mountains, and then, we'll have reached the Lands of Eternal Summer, the landbound portion of the Valyrian Peninsula."

"A long journey ahead of us, it would seem," Beleg said, as he examined the human map.

"Indeed," Beren agreed. "A very long journey."

"What sort of dangers might we encounter?" Luthien asked.

"The worst kind," Beren said. "The kind that walks on two legs, and thinks itself superior to all other things."

Not much more was said after that dark proclamation, and the only sounds were those of the crackling fire, the forest at night… and the sound of Jorelle running a whetstone over her sword and large spear.

Sleep was fitful that night.

Jorelle made sure to be visible between Luthien and Beren as they all slept.

The next day

They rose early and started off south. They had little in the way of conversation. Beren noticed Beleg and Luthien looking at the great trees in admiration. He also felt Jorelle's eye boring into his back.

The dirt beneath their boots crunched softly, while the sunlight filtered through the great branches of the forest.

"Halt!" Came a voice in Qohorik.

Almost immediately, Beleg nocked an arrow to his bow, as hoofbeats echoed around them. A small group of riders came into view around them

They were surrounded.

The riders were Qohorish, as evidenced by their pale skin and gaunt features. They were garbed in leathers and armed with bows and longswords. Their leader wore a plumed helmet, and a breastplate enameled with the Black Goat.

"In the name of the Black Goat, identify yourselves!" The leader demanded.

"Greetings," Beren called out in their tongue. "We are but simple travelers, mere wanderers, making our way through this fine forest. We mean no harm, and will be on our way shortly."

The leader looked them over and then chuckled derisively. "Mere travelers, you say? You are well armed and armored, for 'mere' travelers."

Shit.

The leader looked at Luthien, and Beleg, and smirked, as he and his followers dismounted. "Indeed, such pretty travelers. You are trespassing through our forest. Trespassing is a crime. And in Essos, the punishment for trespassing is servitude… especially if you are pretty."

He gestured to his men, and the one nearest to Beren pulled out a set of manacles. "Take them. But keep their faces untouched."

Shit.

As the qohorik soldier reached towards Beren, the Hightower scion breathed out, and palmed the thin razor in his hand.

A moment later, the razor found itself through the soldier's eye.

Everything then erupted into chaos at that moment.

The rest of the riders and soldiers charged forward. Blood had been spilled, and violence now saturated the air. Several riders fell two the ground, arrows sprouting from their chests. Beleg had hardly seemed to move. Beren's dark blade flashed from its sheath on his back, alongside the one at his side, and they danced and bit in a flurry of blood.

Jorelle's spear flashed and cut, the heavy edge nearly removing a soldier's head from his shoulders in one cut.

A man who tried to grab at Luthien found his head bashed to the side by the end of her quarterstaff.

Beren saw one fighter backing away in terror, and mounting his horse. "Beleg!' he exclaimed, gesturing towards the rider as his steed started to gallop away.

Beleg aimed, breathed, and then released.

The arrow zoomed through the air, and punctured through the rider, erupting from his chest in a shower of blood.

A moment later, Beren severed the leader's head clean from his shoulders.

For a long moment, there was not a further bit of movement, no further sounds. Even the forest itself had gone quiet.

Beren wiped at the blood from his face.

He then looked at his companions, at Luthien.

She upon the end of her quarterstaff, and at the prone form of the qohorik man at her feet. The elf-maiden then let loose a long sigh. Her guard gently patted her upon her shoulder.

The elf-maiden then looked up, and she and Beren's eyes met.

There was nothing to be said at the moment. There was nothing that needed to be said. He could see the wary determination in her eyes. He nodded at her.

Beren then looked to the horses.

Well, at least there would be no need to walk.

The Strongbow

Instead of a month, it only took three weeks to leave the forest with the horses. Though they were not from any of the equine bloodlines of Beleriand, Beleg found their current steeds to be hardy and well-behaved creatures. His own was a strong roan with long features. The rest of the horses that they took, they plied with supplies taken from the dead humans.

For the rest of the three weeks, they had encountered no more soldiers.

The sight before them was a rather awe-inspiring thing. A great river, filled with shining, crystal-clear water. On the other side, there seemed endless swathes of grass and steppes and hills.

It was an inspiring sight.

Beren cleared his throat. "We should stop here for a bit. Refill our water, perhaps clean ourselves up and freshen the horses. We won't get many chances afterward."

The women went first, with Beleg and Beren staying a respectful distance away with their back turned.

The Nightengale

The water felt refreshing on Luthien's skin. After three months in her leathers, it was quite a pleasant sensation.

"Let me wash your back, my lady," Jorelle said in her soft voice.

"Thank you."

"You did not have to come with me, Jor," Luthien said, as her guard washed the dirt and grime from her back with a solid hand and cloth.

Jorelle grunted. "On the contrary, my lady; where you go, I go as well. That is part of the oath my line swore to you and your father, upon the day of your birth. I have no intention of being the first to break it," the warrior-handmaiden replied. "Though, I do still think this is but full and foolish folly. All this, and over a man. Not even an atani, but one of those barbarians from beyond the southern borders."

"Be nice, Jorelle," Luthien gently chided. "And this is not folly. It is difficult to explain, but the moment I saw him, in that glade… the moment our eyes met… I felt as if all was right in the world. For that, I would follow him anywhere. Besides, I'm not one to sit on the sidelines. You know this."

Jorelle hmphed at that, the sound like a low rumble from her muscled throat, but said nothing more.

The Strongbow

Once the lady Luthien and her guard had finished, it was Beren and Beleg's turn.

As they disrobed and discarded their tunics and leathers and armors on the bank, Beleg looked up… he could not stop the gasp of sadness and horror from escaping his lips at Beren's bared flesh. It was an unexpected sight.

The last he had seen the physical marks of such cruelty, it had been in the War of Ice and Fire…

Beren's torso bore an impressive array of tattoos and scars, including what looked like burn marks on his right arm. On the entirety of his left arm, trailing from the back of the middle joints of his fingers, and up to his cheek, were the filigree of long, thorny green vines and roses and leaves.

But the human's back… it was covered in a multitude of green stripes, like those of a hunting cat's, the same as on his face, interlaced with the vines and leaves. He was covered from the top of his neck to the small of his spine. There was practically no visible flesh left.

The human caught Beleg staring, and he sighed. "In Volantis, the monster who owned me, he preferred his slaves to look beautiful. As such, he only whipped their backs. Then, he always covered each whip-scar on his slave's back with a tiger's stripe, in deference to his party, the tigers. If you were disobedient, you "earned a stripe." As you can see… I earned many stripes. As for the rest… the Reach is known for its plants and flowers, and he decided that I should bear a permanent reminder of my roots."

"How… How long did you endure this for?" Beleg asked, his mind struggling to comprehend what he saw.

Beren was silent for a long moment. "…Three years too long. Up until the moment when I escaped."

The two males bathed in silence, the grime and grit sifting away from their forms.

It felt nice.

Later

The Wanderer

They crossed over the Sarne in a shallow area. From there, they headed onto the Dothraki sea.

For miles around, they could see nothing but the grass and steppes of the Dothraki sea. At times, they passed the burnt wrecks of towns and fortresses and such, remnants of the Century of Blood. If one listened closely, you could almost hear the screams and the sounds of hoofbeats and jingling bells.

For the most, Beren and Luthien rode at the front, with Beleg and Jorelle bringing up the rear.

The companions hardly ever truly talked. What was there to be said?

Beren hated this continent. Nay, it was safer to say that he despised it. He loathed it for the horrors he had endured, and the memories of his time spent here.

Luthien clearing her throat shook him from his musings. "Beren."

He looked up at her and smiled. "Tinúviel."

She looked at him, and, though she returned his smile, her grey eyes studied him intently. "You hardly have told me of your time here on this continent, back in the glade. Why?"

He looked around at the grasslands about them and sighed. "Because some of my lowest moments in life happened here, on this wretched continent. I was a sellsword… and a slave. I was a slave for three years in that most wretched of the Free Cities; Volantis. I was treated as a thing, a possession, and I was even marked as such. My master… he was not kind. None of his family… were kind. It only cemented my hatred of this continent… and my fear of it."

Pity crept into her eyes. "Then why accept my father's decree? Even with your oath, you had a right to refuse. Why return to a place that holds such horrid memories for you?"

Beren looked back at her, love in his eyes. "Because you are worth hell, Nightengale. For you, I would brave a thousand Valyrias, and ten lifetimes of nightmares. Even an eternity of slavery. For you, I would endure anything. I knew it, the moment I saw you, in that glade."

A moment later, Luthien reached out and gently grasped his hand. They held each other's hands tightly.

They continued on in silence. But this silence was not oppressive.

The Horselord

This had been a good day.

The sounds of the weaklings screaming out was ever sweet to the ears of Khal Tagko. As was the woman he was mounting, one hand tight on her hair and the other clutching her breast, her cries only making him harder as he kept thrusting into her, over and over. The motions made the bells in his braid sound out a lusty melody.

By the red stallion, this was grand!

With a grunt he emptied inside her, laughed, and pushed her to the ground. He laughed as some of his blood riders then started taking her as well, one behind her and one in her mouth.

This had been a fine raid.

As he laced up his breeches and stood, his right-hand blood-rider, Akko, signaled to him. "Great Khal!"

"Blood of my blood. What news?"

As he approached, Akko's large vulture landed upon one of his large, hide-bound shoulders. Akko had been bred by the Great Masters to have to gift of the bound-sight, as well as his great height and strength. Tagko was proud to have the animal-touched serve under him.

"My winged brother has returned with tidings, great Khal. A most interesting prize has emerged from the forests of Qohor. They currently travel over the Dothraki sea, and are but a day's ride from here."

"Who are these travelers?"

"They seem like sunset-landers. But one of them… even through my bond-brother's eyes, she seemed most beautiful. Her hair darker than night, and her flesh smooth, almost begging to be touched. It is odd though, but her ears… they are pointed, as were the ears of one of the other travelers."

At the woman's description, Tagko's cock twitched. "Pointed ears, you say?"

"Aye, and that stirs a memory. One of the merchants we captured and sold a moon back, he told tales of a beautiful race that lived across the sea. 'Elves,' they are called. We should capture them, they might make good offerings to the Masters, alongside the others?"

Takgo stroked his chin and then clapped Akko on his bare shoulder. "Aye! Let it be so. Rouse the khalsar! Have the slaves gather everything up! We ride for these travelers!"

The Strongbow

As the sun rose on a new day, the four continued on their way, after stopping briefly by a small lake. It was a bright day above them, nary a cloud in the sky.

Above, Beren spied a large bird, lazily circling in the air.

Odd.

"This is a quiet day," Beleg noted.

"There's been plenty of quiet days," Beren said.

"Is that not a good thing?" Beleg asked.

Suddenly, in the very corner of his hearing, Beleg's ears picked up a sound.

A low rumbling. The ground itself began to shake.

It seemed to be coming from the east.

Then, Beleg saw that Beren recognized the sound, and the human's eyes widened in fear.

Hoofbeats!

"Hurry! We must fly!" Beren suddenly shouted. "It's the Dothraki! We must flee!"

Without question, the four urged their mounts into a speedy gallop.

Behind them, the rumbling grew louder as, in the distance, the first of the riders crested the hill. Soon enough, the hills became covered, as a corpse swarmed by ants. The thunder of the hoofbeats was beyond deafening.

Beleg whispered to his mount in the tongue of qenya, a language that all the beasts of the wilds instinctually knew, whether tamed or free. "Noro lim, noro lim!"

At that, he let go of the reins, guiding his mount only with his legs. He then reached for Belthronding, and withdrew an arrow from his quiver.

As his horse kept speeding forward, he twisted, aimed, and released.

The Horselord

Takgo looked in surprise as the arrow sped clear through quick Ollo's head, sending the blood rider off his horse, and leaving his body to be trampled by the rest of the khalasar.

He would be remembered.

But this prize… it would be worth any sacrifice.

They were closing the distance.

To his right, Goro raised up his own recurve bow, pulled back on the string with his powerful arms and fired, thus sending the arrow speeding off.

A moment later, one of their prey's horses fell.

The Wanderer

Even as his horse careened to the ground with a scream, Beren rolled to his feet with a grunt, his dark blade at the ready. The others kept riding on, followed by his shouts for them to keep going.

The horde drew closer, and a rider screeched towards him, the bells on his braid tingling. The man's arakh flashed in the sun.

Beren's sword flashed as he leaped and slid to the side. The edge bit, and the horse was sent crashing to the earth in a cloud of blood, while its leg went in the opposite direction. The rider was crushed beneath its bulk.

But more were coming.

A red haze settled over Beren's eyes as he started to flash and cut. He even screamed as he became surrounded. He felt positively drenched in the red liquid.

A moment later, a whip coiled around his neck, snapped tight, and sent him flying backward off his feet.

As he struggled, a large man stood over him.

The man must have been the khal, and then Beren felt a great kick to his stomach.

Beren's head rolled to the side and he saw, to his horror, Luthien and the others become quickly surrounded.

He was then dragged roughly to his feet, his hands bound and divested of his sword and visible weapons. In the distance, he saw his companions being given the same treatment.

The hulking Khal took up Beren's dark blade, and looked over it with an appraising eye, and belted it to his waist.

The Horselord

Tagko laughed as the new prisoners were brought before him. His eyes lingered on the fair beauty, though she stared back at him unflinchingly.

Already, his loins ached for her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever clapped eyes upon, even among all the women and slaves he had ever taken.

But, a prize like this… she needed to be brought before the Great Ones first. Then, he hoped, she would become his.

Still, he grew hard beneath his britches.

He gave a nod, and the four were led away. He then turned to Akko. "Send word to the Masked ones; tell them of our great prize, and to meet us a day's ride from here. I think they will be most pleased."

Akko nodded. "It shall be done, blood of my blood."

The Wanderer

Beren, Beleg, Luthien and Jorelle were roughly thrown into a large cart. Beren still felt dazed from the blow to his stomach, as well as a few others the Dothraki had gifted him. From the looks of things, they had done the same to Beleg and Jorelle. Thankfully, Luthien seemed unarmed. But, from what Beren knew of the Dothraki, that was not a good sign.

"You lot gave them a good little chase, eh?"

It seemed they were not the only occupants in this cart. A man and a woman also lay within, bound as they were.

The woman was wiry and clad in simple leathers. Her skin and hair were nut-brown, covered in small scars, and her eyes were different colors; her right was black and the left a most startling blue, so pale that it almost blended in with the rest of her eye.

She looked over all of them with her strange eyes. "You lot look like you're from the West. My name is Bella. Bella of Braavos."

She gestured with her bound hands to her hulking companion, a tall, grey-skinned man rippling with as much muscle as Jorelle, and with every inch covered in scars and burns, save for his face, into which were etched tattoos in the shape of flames. His hair was long, and bound in thin braids. "This here is Vario. He's not much of a talker. Isn't that right, Var?"

The big man grinned, distorting the flame tattoos on his grey face, and then opened his mouth. To Beren's horror, the man had no tongue. It looked as if it had been crudely ripped out.

"What are you doing here?" Beren asked.

The woman shrugged. "They had been after us for a while. I and Vaar had killed some of these savages' khals. Seems they want revenge. As such, we have been given a 'great' honor. We're going to be taken to the horse-fucker's holy city. From there, there'll probably be all sorts of horrors awaiting us, or at least me, because these fucks think with their cocks."

She looked at them all with her mismatched eyes. "I guess the same could be said for all of you."

Well… that was not morbid at all.

"You seem rather… nonchalant about all of that, good lady," Beleg noted.

"Well, as it so happens, we are planning to escape," Bella said.

Beren noted that she did not seem surprised by Beleg and Luthien's appearances.

The elven archer raised a fine brow. "Is that wise, speaking of such things so openly, surrounded as we are by our captors?"

"Pah! These barbarians never speak any language but their own. Think anything else is beneath them. So, as I was saying, we're planning an escape."

"Then what's kept you from escaping?" Luthien asked.

"We simply have lacked what any great plan requires, pretty lady," Bella said. "A distraction."

Beren looked around at all the copper-skinned horsemen, as his mind flitted through all he remembered about the Dothraki.

"I think I have a way to get your distraction," he said.

Bella and the rest leaned forward. "I'm listening…"

As the sun began to set, the khalasar slowed to a halt, and the slaves began to set up camp. Beren noted the hulking Khal ride up to their cart, eyeing Luthien lecherously.

Time to act.

Beren leaned forward. "What is your name, oh Khal?"

The Khal looked away from Luthien and turned towards Beren, surprise on his mustachioed face. "You speak the true tongue?"

"Aye. I know enough of your mongrel tongue. I've killed enough of you to pick up a few words here and there. What is your name?"

The Khal's eyes narrowed, and he rode up to the cart and backhanded Beren across the face. "A glib tongue, sunset-lander. Perhaps I should have it taken out? I am Khal Takgo."

Beren spat out a bit of blood and chuckled. "Takgo. A fine name… for a murderous, raping piece of filth Dothraki like yourself. Attack a man who cannot defend himself. Such is the great Dothraki way is it not? Such is their bravery, that they can only truly fight defenseless shepherds and women and children. I quiver beneath your grand might. But of course, put Dothraki before a force of actual soldiers, and they piss their breeches and flee on their ponies, mewling back to their steppes like piglets, gasping for the suck on the sow's teat!"

The Dothraki's brow furrowed in anger. Around them, many of the other Dothraki were listening in on the conversation. "Is there a point to your babble, fool?"

Beren met his gaze without flinching. "Aye. If I am to die, then I at least wish to die on my feet, fighting. As such, I wish to fight you. Surely, you would not deny me this last request?"

The Khal burst into laughter at that, his muscled chest rising and expanding with each guffaw. "And why should we listen to you, sunset-lander?"

Beren then leaped off the cart, making all the Dothraki bristle. Before any of them could move, he lifted his bound hands and pushed his hair back, revealing to all the green tiger-stripes and vines etched over the left side of his face, from his nose and down his cheek, and over his brow and disappearing into his scalp. "Because I'm the one who killed the great Khal Takgo" he said. "I killed the stallion who would mount the world."

The Dothraki all began to murmur amongst themselves at the sight of the stripes on his face. "The green tiger," said the hulking Khal, almost afraid.

"That is correct," Beren said to the shocked Dothraki. "I decimated the great khalasar of Drazo in one night. I crept into his camp, and I gutted your messiah like the pig that he was, that all Dothraki are. He wept the tears of a woman-child as he held his guts in his hands, as his piss soaked the ground, as his excrement left his bowls, and as I severed his braid and his head from his shoulders. Is that not a good enough reason, Takgo? So here I am. Now, you have a good chance to kill the demon who slaughtered your chosen one, and become a legend."

Beren then smiled. "Or are you too afraid, like the child who hides his face in his mother's bosom, scared of his own shadow? Perhaps you should have a woman kill me instead, for she would be braver than you, a murderer of children and rapist of defenseless Lhazareen-"

"Enough!" Khal Takgo bellowed his face as red as the evening sky.

All around them, the Dothraki khalasar began to murmur louder. The Khal's hands were tight at his side. "Very well," he bellowed. "If the demon wishes to die fighting, that so it shall. All will watch as I, Khal Takgo, avenge the murder of the great Drazo!"

He then took up Beren's dark sword. "And I will do it with the demon's own dark blade!"

The Dothraki all gathered around a makeshift arena in the camp.

Surprisingly, they had unbound his hands and had gifted him a curved arakh. If his hands had been bound, it would have been a sign of fear. He gave the weapon a heft and a few experimental strikes. He had fought with one before, in the disputed lands, though he liked the blade not.

Ta came sauntering forward, Beren's blade shining in his hand. Beren could immediately tell that the khal had no idea how to truly use the longsword.

Perfect.

As Takgo stepped forward, Beren could tell that the Dothraki outweighed him by at least two or three stones of pure muscle and bulk. He was big, and there would be power behind his blows, no doubt.

With what he thought must have been a heroic bellow, Drazo lumbered forward and swung.

Beren ducked under the khal's blow, his stolen blade hissing through the air.

The voice of Beren's old master-at-arms sprang into his mind as he dashed to the side. He could almost see the old, one-legged woodsman and hedge knight, sitting on his habitual stump, the hint of a little wooden figurine in his hands. "If your opponent is bigger and strong than you, lad, then you cannot rely upon strength. The best you can do is make sure you're faster than they are. Speed will be upon which the bout will be made or broken. Stay quick on your feet, fight smart, and, most importantly…"

Beren feinted, and then flashed his arakh. Takgo then gained a thin red line on his chest.

"Bleed them down with small hits. Be that annoying hornet that you can't swat down."

Blood rested on the arakh's edge, as it then quickly bit and pushed against the dark blade, and at a point in the middle of the curve…

The Nightengale

There was only a small group of Dothraki guarding them. They were even holding their weapons. The rest were all watching her Beren fight their leader.

"Well, then… shall we?" Bella whispered under her breath as she finished severing their bindings.

"Indeed," Luthien said, as she quietly massaged her wrists.

It was time to leave.

With a silent nod, the giant Varrio then reached forward with his long arms… and with a single twist, snapped the neck of the nearest guard with a sickening crack.

Jorelle swiftly leaped and tackled the other guard to the ground, and slipped a hidden dagger between the Dothraki's armpit and into his heart. He died without a sound.

It all happened in less than three seconds.

The rest of the group descended from the cart and divested their captors of their weapons. As Luthien retrieved her quarterstaff and sling, she watched as their new companions took up their own; for Bella, a thin blade with a basket hilt and several thin daggers; for Vario, a massive, double-headed ax that bore imagery of flames, as well as a few bandoliers that carried long, thin cylinders.

"So, what is our next step?" Beleg asked as he strapped his quivers to his waist and back.

Bella grinned mischievously, her teeth a startling white. "Well, that rests on Vaar's big shoulders. He knows how to make things… explode."

Vario held up on of the cylinders and grinned as well.

The Green Tiger

Beren had been dancing and dodging and cutting around the Khal for what felt to be a long time, could have only been minutes. After every cut, he made sure to give the illusion of parrying, making sure that his loaned blade nicked against his true blade in a specific area, near the middle.

Small, tiny cuts littered the khal's form; tiny lines of red against his coppery, tattooed chest and arms. The big man was panting and grunting like a tired bull, but his copper face was red with anger and embarrassment.

While that was slightly terrifying, that was also good. The angrier your opponent became, the less they were to think things through.

He glanced a look at his blade, barely a second of a second; the nick seemed deep enough.

He took note of a nearby horse, still saddled and standing idly, its reigns held loosely in its dismounted owner's grip.

He also took note of a small stream of smoke in the south-western part of the camp.

Time to end his part, it seemed.

The khal roared and took hold of Beren's true sword in both hands. "Stand still and die, demon! Murderer!" He then lumbered forward and swung the sword in a great overhead swing. Beren dashed forward and slightly to the side, and struck upwards with his sword, with all his might… upon his true blade's edge with his arakh.

All the Dothraki, including Tagko, gaped stupidly as the arakh shattered into almost two clean fragments.

Luckily, there was still enough of a length left attached to the hilt, as well as the fact that the lack of resistance drew Tagko downwards from the momentum alone.

That was all Beren needed.

Before Tagko could react, Beren dove low and jabbed the remnants of the arakh into the side of the big man's knee. As the Dothraki khal roared in agony, dropping Beren's sword in shock and pain, Beren smashed his fist against the man's head, took up his true blade, and then rammed the hilt against the khal's shoulder and temple with all his might. The big man collapsed.

The moment he did, a fire suddenly burst into existence, and all the Dothraki suddenly screamed in terror.

Wasting no time, Beren dashed towards the nearby horse, slashed the face of its owner, leaped upon its back, and rode off towards the south-west, slashing at any and all Dothraki in his way, or letting the large warhorse trample them down under its hooves.

Through the smoke, he rode, doing his best to ignore the screams, just like the screams at the God's eye.

He shook his head to banish the memories.

Soon enough, he saw the others, riding away. He angled his horse towards them, and soon caught up. They seemed none-the-worse-for-wear.

As the camp burned, the small party made their escape….

The dog

Two days later

Khal Tagko always enjoyed riding, whether it be a woman or a horse. But, after what had happened two days prior, he felt no pleasure from either activity.

The fire had died down, but a majority of the slaves had escaped.

"What will we tell them, blood of my blood?" Akko asked.

"The truth," Tagko replied, as he rubbed at one of the scars inflicted by the green tiger. They were healing, so far, but it still hurt a bit.

Damn that demon! May the great Stallion trample him to dust, and drown him for eternity in the poison water! Damn-

The rumble of unfamiliar hooves made all conversation die in their throats, even as the shaky call of the sentries announced the arrival of the Sarnori.

With a grunt, Tagko rose and turned to face them.

He was a khal of the Dothraki, and a child of the Great Stallion. He would not be cowed by the Tall Men.

The Sarnori were all tall and mounted upon swift horses and chariots.

As one, they all stopped a good way away from the khalasar in a massive rattle of steel and arms. One Sarnori, a female bedecked in great armor, and taller than even Tagko, descended from her chariot and strode forward, her helmet under her arm. In her other hand, she held a large banner, depicting a single Great Eye of black and yellow and crimson, on a field of blue. Her curved blade bounced at her hip.

She planted it in the ground, and then called out in the strange, whispery tongue of the Sarnori and the Masked Ones.

Then, from the sky came down their doom and judgment.

It was a flying, scaled monster, colored blacker than night, and with wide and mighty wings. As it descended, it roared with a large maw full of fangs., and its screech cut through the air. The beast's eyes were the color of poison.

None dared look away as the flying beast softly landed upon the ground. None dared look away as its rider dismounted from the winged creature with an inhuman grace. Nor did they look away from the watching eyes of the Sarnori.

Like all Masked Ones, the figure was tall, taller than even the tall Sarnori woman, and wore a strange and terrible mask, wrought in the shape of some unknowable creature. A large and great mane of plaited hair spread behind it, and down the Masked one's back towards the small of its spine. The figure wore armor and robes wrought with strange symbols and engraved with figures of the sea and flames and other creatures. The Masked One's shadow seemed to envelop all of the khalasar.

As one, all the khalasar, even the women and the remaining slaves, and especially the warriors, bowed, their heads flush against the ground.

The figure stopped before the Sarnori woman and nodded at her. The Sarnori bowed deeply and backed away.

All in the khalasar could feel the eyes of the Masked one burning into them.

Then, it spoke.

"Where is my dog?" it said, the Dothraki tongue odd with its dark and lyrical accent. "Where is the mongrel to whom I gave leadership of this pack of mangy curs?"

Tagko did his best rise without shaking, even as fear clenched itself tightly around his belly.

Slowly, like a predator, the Masked One stalked towards Tagko, shadowing the khal.

Clenched in one hand was a long, evil-looking whip, while a sheathed sword rested at its hip.

The Masked one loomed over Tagko. It looked about at the burnt campsite, at the little wounds on his person, and then spoke. "You failed, thing."

Tagko said nothing, and merely knelt again, this time to lay his arakh at the master's feet.

"Strip. Failing dogs do not deserve to wear clothes before their masters and betters."

Without resistance, and still kneeling, the mighty khal stripped, until he knelt barefoot and naked on the ground.

The Masked one stalked closer, and roughly pulled Tagko to his feet by his throat.

A cool wind flitted across Tagko's flesh.

"You failed, dog. You failed to attack Pentos within the allotted timeframe. Then, instead of owning up to it, you fled towards Volantis and gorged yourself on woman flesh and wine. Though, you did finally leave and tried to gain more slaves through raids. Then, you sent me a message, telling me of a 'great prize.' Yet here I am, and I see no 'great prize', instead I see you here, with your camp burned, you defeated, and your slaves escaped, while you have been sitting here, mourning the loss of your minuscule competence. You followed the whims of your cock, instead of your orders, and it has brought you to utter ruin. Thus, you have embarrassed me before the Great One, and my peers. So now, I am forced to be here, forced to be speaking your mongrel tongue, and forcing my eyes to look upon you… and your disgusting forms," the Masked One said, its eyes boring into Takgo. "I despise that."

Then, almost gently, the Masked One reached down and began to stroke Tagko's cock and stones. The Khal shivered. Despite himself, he felt himself begin to grow hard. "You have some girth here, dog. Tell me, how many slaves, how many whores, how many Lhazareen women and girls have felt this cock enter them from the front and behind? How many of them took it in their mouths, your seed spilling onto their tounges, mixed with their blood and tears and saliva?"

Tagko began to shake, as the Masked One continued to stroke Takgo's cock and stones. "Answer me, dog. Bark."

"M…many have, oh great one," the Khal finally said.

"How many?" it asked, its movements increasing in motion. The shaft was growing hard, but Tagko felt no pleasure from it, despite the shiver passing through his body.

"I… I know not."

The movements slowed but still continued, and Tagko felt almost ready to spill his seed. "Your kind… you treat these organs like toys. You use them until it either breaks or rots away from disease. Disgusting."

Suddenly, its hand clenched Tagko's cock and stones, tight, even as the seed began to dribble out Tagko let loose a high-pitched whine, pain flashing into his eyes.

"As I said, you followed the whims of this, instead of your orders. You disobeyed me. You acted like a child, dog. Thus, I now take away your favorite toy as punishment."

Shrip!

As Tagko's scream resounded across the area, that now bloody hand dropped its terrible load to the ground, a bit of seed still at the tip. The masked one then clenched around the khal's face, talons digging into his flesh and lifted him clear off the ground, piss and blood and pus pouring from between his kicking legs. Steam began to billow between the figure's fingers as Tagko kept screaming.

Then, the Masked One dropped him to the ground. As the khal huddled on the ground, the flesh on his face now burned and steaming, up rose the Masked One's hand and down came the Masked One's whip.

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK

CRACK
CRACK

CRACK!

Finally, the whip stilled. Tagko was a now pitiable thing on the ground, countless red lines spread across his body, and pieces of his body on the ground, as he lay in a large puddle of piss and blood and other fluids.

He let loose a strangled whimper.

The Masked One sheathed its whip and then turned to the rest of the khalasar. "Who among you are this dog's bloodriders? Stand and approach me."

Hesitantly, Akko, and Tomo and Rumio stood and came forward. "We… we are, oh great one."

The Masked one's eyes roved over them. Then, it pointed at Akko. "You, bond-blood. Come closer."

Akko came forward. "Tell me… do you want to be khal?" the Masked One asked.

Akko swallowed. "Yes."

"Speak louder, dog."

"Yes, I do!"

It lifted up Tagko's arrakh, and then dropped it at Akko's feet, before yanking the mewling and barely-awake Tagko up by his braid. "If that is true, then you know what must be done. Kill this thing, so that you may lead in its place. Kill it with its own weapon."

Akko swallowed but then took up the arrakh.

A moment later, Tagko's body collapsed back down, whilst his head dangled by its braid.

The Masked One tossed the head carelessly over its shoulder and then loomed over Akko. "Now you are Khal. Tell me, do you feel different? Perhaps greater?"

Silently, Akko shook his head.

The Masked One looked towards Takgo's corpse. It then gestured to its mount. "Orvash. Ammat."

As the winged creature swiftly devoured the body with a quick series of snaps, the Masked one looked back over the mass of Dothraki and slaves, and then turned to the army of Tall men. "Kill a third of their warriors. Make their new Khal watch. After that, we return to the City."

As the Tall Men set about their butchery, all Akko could do was just watch, especially since one grabbed him by his chin and kept him from looking away.

When the screams subsided, The Masked One Looked down upon the silent Akko, and shoved a clawed finger under his nose. "Remember this well, dog. Remember the price of failure. Remember that your Great Stallion is forever yoked and gelded and broken to the whims of the True One. Remember the screams. I will not be so lenient a second time."

The Masked One then mounted its terrible creature, and off it flew into the sky.

Wordlessly, Akko and the remnants of the khalasar rode off behind the Sarnori, like beaten dogs trailing after their masters, for they could not go anywhere else….

The Wanderer

The rest of the voyage after their escape was oddly uneventful and seemed to go rather quickly.

It was mostly spent with getting to know their new companions, Bella and Vaario. The two made an odd pair; one a former slave, and the other a former bravo and water-dancer of Braavos with a price on her head.

An odd pair, indeed.

Other than that, there was little conversation. They were mostly concerned with speeding towards Valyria. Oddly enough, it seemed that they were not being perused.

The days passed. They rode, stopped, ate, slept, and then woke up to repeat. For all those days, the sights around them were all but the same.

They rode through the hills, and strode around the base of the Painted mountains, as they had no proper equipment for scaling the mountains.

Then, one day, as they crested the next countless hill… it changed.

With a sigh, Beren rolled up the map that had been resting on his knees and the pommel of his saddle, and then returned it to its sheaf. It would serve them little purpose now. "There it is… Valyria."

The small group all came to a step as they looked over the land. From this distance, it seemed…. Unremarkable. The only noticeable thing was how dark the seemingly endless area appeared.

And yet… the closer they approached, the more a feeling of dread seemed to tie itself around Beren's heart.

They came closer, and the horses were starting to become skittish, the more they penetrated into the Lands of the Long Summer.

Beren had no idea where to go now. All they could go was straight, perhaps.

They continued onwards for what seemed like days but were perhaps only hours. It was difficult to tell. The sky was an almost solid grey, like a leviathan's flesh. There were no clouds, just… solid grey.

With every step, the horse kept trembling, no matter how often they stopped, no matter how many soothing words were whispered into their equine ears.

The horses were all but shaking now, and even whispers from Luthien and Beleg in the elven tongue could not calm them for long.

They passed by what seemed to be the remnants of old buildings, the columns sticking out like bleached bones on a long-forgotten battlefield.

At times, they heard strange sounds, sounds too inhuman to describe.

One depression in the land they strode through held strange, floating lights that glowed a sickly green. They avoided the lights on instinct.

When it rained, the water was hot and scalding upon bare skin, and Luthien's horse died. Beren continued on foot. One by one, the rest of their mounts died as well, either from the rain… or from what seemed to be sheer terror.

On foot, they all continued.

They passed through the remains of grandiose structures, coliseums, and other things. Skeletons of humans, dragons… and other creatures that defied description.

In some of the ruins, and across their path, they found strange statues, wrought in the shape of figures racked with pain and flailing with pure horror.

None deigned to examine them too closely.

When they rested, strange mists covered the land. At times, Beren thought he could see shapes moving within.

Not for the first time, it struck him and his companions how utterly… fell this land was. It seemed to exude an aura of… wrong. Up felt like down, and no one knew what direction they were following, whether it was to the east or west.

More than that, no one had any idea where they were going.

They went days without speaks, and sometimes it felt like minutes or weeks.

Bit by bit, their food ran low, and their rations turned to half-rations.

Beren felt himself growing heavier each day. The air itself seemed to slowly suck at his spirit. Each lifting of his foot seemed to take great effort.

There were moments when he felt as if he should just… lay down.

He felt Luthien's hand entwine with his.

He steeled himself and kept forward, and the rest followed behind him.

The further they traveled… the more he through he could hear something… sounds of carts, of people, of battle, of weeping, of screams… of fire.

How long could they go on?

Then, Beleg and Luthien's head shot up.

A moment later, Beren and the rest heard them too.

Footsteps. Measured and steady. Unafraid and unconcerned.

It was coming from the hills behind them.

None in the group could fight the urge to remain rooted.

On instinct, Beren drew his grey sword, his prize from Lys. Truth's steel reflected no light.

On the top of the hill crested… a figure.

The figure seemed a hunched, twisted mass of rags and dark armor. It seemed solid and yet… indistinct. From the depths of its hood, Beren could note two great, fiery eyes.

Terror clutched and clawed at Beren's soul.

In one hand, it held a large blade. Upon a finger gleamed a tarnished band of gold.

It was only through instinct, pure and simple, that Beren raised his blade before the figure's own weapon suddenly crashed against it.

Such power, behind that blow. It nearly drove Beren to his knees.

None of the others could move.

Their blades kissed but nine times, each blow all but wrenching Truth from Beren's hands.

Then, the figure's empty hand shot out.

Before his disbelieving eyes, he watched as the figure grasped Truth's blade fully… and the Valyrian steel shattered into countless shards under that twisted grip.

The resultant force blew him back away from the figure. It seemed to break the spell upon the rest of the party. Luthien grabbed him tightly and lifted him to his feet.

He held onto the broken hilt of Truth. Beren thought he must be hallucinating for a brief moment. How could Valyrian steel just… shatter?

The figure opened its arms, almost mockingly, and took a single step forward.

The ground crunched beneath its boot, and Beren found his voice.

"Run!" he all but bellowed.

As one, he and his companions fled forward, away from… whatever was chasing them.

By the gods, he could hear it, walking steadily behind them. This was but a game to it. As if it were a child, idly pursuing a thing that it knew it could outrun at any time.

But he dared not look back.

They kept running and running, over hot earth, over decaying skeletons, and preserved statues.

Running, and running and running and then…

The ground opened up beneath them… and they fell into darkness.

None had time to scream.

He felt a cold warmth upon his face.

With a start, Beren shot up, and found himself and the others… within a large cavern.

He scrambled to his feet and towards Luthien. She was fine, as were the others, save for a few bruises and scrapes.

A moment later, they heard a tap-tap-tapping of a staff on the ground, and a light then grew larger around them as a figure approached.

The figure was garbed in rags and piecemeal leathers and metal and a great hooded cloak. At his belt dangled a hammer. He walked with a strange, stiff and limping gait, and leaned upon a staff. But though he seemed slightly hunched over, the figure still loomed over most of the group.

From the head of the staff, the cold light seemed to radiate outwards, a pale and mournful color like that of a robin's egg.

"You…" it said, with a rasping, male voice. "You fell through my trapdoor."

He sounded as if his through had been crushed, slashed, and burned at one point.

He lifted one of his hands, and shakenly pointed at each of them. Beren noted with sorrow at the broken manacle clamped around the figure's wrist. "Essosi… atani… eldar… and westerosi."

His shaking increased. "Are… are you real? Or do the specters above torment me with more false visions?"

Without hesitation, Luthien and Beren strode forth. "We are real, friend," said fair Luthien, as she grasped at his outstretched hand. "There is nothing to fear."

The figure flinched at her touch, and then he slowly pulled away. "You are real. The monsters… never act with kindness."

He then shuffled around and began to walk away. "Follow. But stay close to me… to the light. As long as you are within the light… they will not harry you."

None in the group held a desire to ask what 'they' were.

They walked and followed the strange person through a long tunnel, the light on the staff the only illumination.

They then emerged onto a second cavern, and it looked… lived in.

A stone table sat next to a bed. At the far end was the shore of what looked like a large, underground river. Attached to it was a simple craft. At the other end… was a forge, and the smooth wall next to it was bedecked with swords and weapons and other things of dazzling make and beauty.

In the center of the room was a large mass of the strange, pale, cold fire.

What was this figure?

The figure plunged his staff into the great flame and left it there. "I have… food. Mushrooms and… lizard and… fish," he said, as he limped to the table.

Beleg strode up and examined one of the swords upon the wall, a long blade with a golden hilt and pommel wrought in the shape of a lion, and encrusted with rubies. "This is… elven work."

He turned to the cloaked figure. "Who are you, stranger?"

Their strange host was silent for a long moment. "Once… I was of the light. I heard the song, and I helped to shape wonderous things. My hands sang things from fire into being; things of a great and kind beauty."

His manacled hands started to shake. "Then it all fell apart. Kin slaughtered kin. Brother turned on brother. The darkness… it called to us, and it snuffed out our light. The fire burned… the star… the child of the tree…used to bind me here… for twelve thousand years. My hands can no longer sing beauty into this world… only death."

With shaking hands, he pulled back his hood.

Beren felt himself recoiling in shock.

The entirety of the figure's face was a horrendous collection of scar tissue. A small portion of his lips was missing, revealing his teeth in an eternal grin. His right eye was a dead, twisted orb, and what hair he still had was long and grey and lank.

"I had a true name once… before it was burned from me, before I was bound by the star to these accursed lands, by one I trusted. My name, my true name, is forever gone from my lips and mind, and all that is left… is Eöl. Eöl Morfinwë."

Then, a strange light entered his remaining eye. "Perhaps… perhaps you can finally help me. Perhaps you're being here… is fortuitous. Perhaps Tommen was right."

"What are you talking about?" Beren finally said.

Who was Tommen?

Eöl ignored the question and limped his way to his forge, where there sat another set of tables.

From the table farthest from the forge, he grabbed at a map and limped back to the larger table near the center of the cavern. He all but slammed the map down on the table and pointed a finger in the center of it.

Beren noted with surprise that it was an intricately detailed map of Valyria, from before the doom. The Maesters of Oldtown would have paid a heavy price for such a thing.

Eöl tapped his clawed finger upon the point. "In the capital city, in the depths of the central palace… there lies the star. I cannot grasp it. I am blocked from doing so. And, alas… most of you cannot grasp it… save for you."

He leaned over the table towards Beren and Luthien, ignoring the others. "You two… there is a light within you that can beat back the darkness of that fell place… you can grasp the star. You can free me!"

His eye became pleading. "Will you help me? Please? The star can be yours. All you need to do is take it from its setting. Please?"

Beren said nothing for a moment, his eyes clasped upon this twisted being before them. He looked again upon the manacles around Eöl's wrist.

Twelve thousand years.

Beren looked upon fair Luthien, at the pity within her eyes for this twisted figure.

Beren then nodded, and Luthien spoke. "We shall help you, Eöl."

Though what good would he be with a broken blade?

For a brief moment, Eöl gave what seemed to be a smile, his scarred face distorting by the motion. "Yes!" he exclaimed. "Yes! At last!"

His eyes then darted towards the broken hilt in Beren's hand. Eöl started to work his jaw up and down furiously, the exposed portions making it a sight that one could not help but be arrested by. "Yes… you will need a strong blade. You all will. So, feel free to pick from my stock, but you, son of Westeros… Yours came from here, I can hear it, its moans echoing in my ear, but it has been broken. It must be replaced and remade. To replace that which was broken. Yes! Yes!"

Without asking, he snatched up Truth's hilt from Beren's grasp and held it up before his eye. "Yes. I recognize this one… a thousand souls went into its forging, each speaking a single truth from their lips as they died… yes. I remember them all and their measurements. This one, it shall be reformed and purified, with my metal from above the sky. Yes! Oh Tommen, you were right! Hope has returned to me!"

He looked upon the rest of the group for a moment. "Rest. We shall rest. You shall rest, while I work. Then, upon the blade's rebirth, we shall depart. Depart for the central city, across the little sea. Eat, and then you may take your pick from the rest of my horrid creations."

Beren and Luthien looked upon the rest of their companions as Eöl shuffled away, towards his forge.

They all had questions, but at the moment, all they could think of was hunger.

The lizard was surprisingly good. So, they ate that and mushroom and fungi and fish as the sounds of a forge hammer rang out through the cavern, dancing off every edge of the walls.

Bella leaned in closer so they could hear her whispers over the ringing of the hammer. "You think we can trust this… person? He seems more than half-mad."

Jorelle, quiet Jorelle, spoke up as well. "There's something wrong with him."

Beren in turn shrugged. "What other choice do we have? Besides, we have given our word to help him, and he is the only one who can guide us from these caverns. Also, he says he has been here-"

"For twelve thousand years," Beleg said.

Beren and the rest looked at the archer. "What are your thoughts, my friend?"

The Strongbow shrugged. "Nothing, save for scant suspicions, but…" he paused and glanced briefly over at Eöl's form, hunched over his alit forge.

Beleg then faced the group again. "…Whoever he once was, he has been broken by whatever horrors he has endured in this horrid place. We should tread with caution."

They spoke no more after that and focused on their meals.

After that, the sounds of the forge lulled them all to sleep as they rested upon the floor on rough, home-spun blankets provided by the strange smith.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

The sound of hot metal being quenched in water woke them all. Beren rose from where he lay next to Luthien to find Eöl standing at the forge, looking upon a finished blade.

The smith turned towards the group with a manic look upon his distorted face and in his remaining eye. "It is finished."

He shuffled over towards Beren and thrust out the sword towards him, hilt first. "I present to you Sanya-Anguirel; The Truth of the Fiery Star. Use it well, son of Westeros. I apologize that I had no time to forge a sheath."

Wordlessly, Beren took up the blade. Whereas Truth had felt light in his hand… this one felt all but weightless. The hilt was pretty much the same as it had always been, with its black-and-silver-handle, the straight hilt, and the green gem inset into its pommel. It had once been an amethyst, but Beren had replaced it after his escape.

But as for the blade proper… where once it had been like a shard of night and deathly grey, now it was a swirl of silver, obsidian, and a hint of spring green and fiery red. Where once the sword had felt deathly and cool to touch, it now felt… alive, almost. Warm. It was like looking at a comet forged into the shape of a sword.

He stepped away and gave it a few experimental swings and slashes. It hummed through the air.

Behind him, Vario's large hands flashed through a rapid succession of strange movements, which Bella seemed to understand. "I hate to interrupt this big moment and whatnot, but my big friend here wants to know when we leave," the Braavosi asked.

Beren felt a bit embarrassed, and he put the sword through the sheathe on his back.

"We leave now," Eöl said, as he scrambled around the cavern. "We shall take my boat. Not to worry. I keep it fully stocked. Come, come. We must be off. There is no more time to waste."

The boat was spacious enough for private space and propelled forward and about by a rudder and a long oar and what seemed to be a sail. They each stocked up on mushroom and dried fish and lizard, and barrels of collected water from the stalactites.

Then, they were off, with the strange smith arming himself with the lion-hilted sword and his staff, all the while murmuring about 'Tommen.' He also allowed the rest to arm themselves as well.

Beleg took up a silvery blade and a quiver of strange arrows that seemed crafted from grey wood and… stone.

Others perhaps would have said something, argued against following the directions of a figure who was more than half-mad.

But all felt weary in mind and thoughts. Besides, they were still on a quest, and quests had to be followed through until the end.

The heat rose as the exited onto the surface.

They were on the Smoking Sea. He could feel the heat slightly through the floor of the craft and watched through the strange windows at each side.

Eöl maneuvered the craft in near silence at the wheel, still only occasionally muttering about 'Tommen,' and 'children of the trees.'

They got closer to the center island of the Valyrian peninsula. As they approached the shallows and bumped upon the shore, Eöl shuffled through the boat, and unlatched the top hatch of the strange boat, and hauled himself out. He seemed unperturbed by the steaming water sloshing about his ankles and legs. He ignored the heat as he set down the wood-and-metal-ramp for the rest.

"The star, it is at the center palace. But we must be canny and quiet. There are still things that dwell in the shadows here."

With that charming sentiment, the group followed the strange figure deeper into the island.

Beren kept a firm grip on his reborn sword. This island, it felt more wrong then the mainland. Whole ruins filled with skeletons and petrified corpses littered near every hill area, along with what looked like massive scorch marks. Here, all could actually hear faint moans and screams on the wind.

At some moment, they felt as if they could hear loud wingbeats on the wind.

"We must remain strong," Eöl said, over the faint screams, as he held up his glowing staff strong, the light beating back the darkness, or at least keep them from being swallowed. "Great horrors were perpetrated here, and that leaves its mark upon the land. But whatever you do, do not leave the light, or you will not return."

They did their best to follow his advice, but it was… difficult. Whereas the air upon the mainland had been merely oppressive, here the air felt… overwhelming. The despair felt drawn in with every breath, and darkness seemed to seep within every pore of their skin. It felt as if a physical weight was pressing down upon them like an avalanche of rocks.

It felt a struggle just to keep moving forward. But forward they continued under and through the many cliffs of the island.

They hardly ever stopped to rest, ushered on by Eöl's almost manic energy.

The more inland they went, the louder the moans and screams became. They even started to hear movement beyond the hills and ruins. Movement and snarling.

Then, they crested the hill. "There it be," Eöl stated. "The capital itself. Valyria."

They looked upon a long-tilted valley, a deep gulf of shadow, ran back far into the mountains. Upon the further side, some way within the valley's arms, high on a rocky seat sat the city itself, carved into the mountain. At one time, it must have been a grand and terrible sight, this city of Valyria, as must have befit the capital of the Valyrian Freehold. There was still a hint of that beauty to it, but it was the beauty of a preserved corpse. Radiating from its walls and towers was a strange light, paler indeed than the moon ailing in some slow eclipse. It was a corpse-light, the sort of light that illuminated nothing.

It seemed nothing more than a city of the dead, a massive mausoleum.

They rested upon that hill for minutes, unable to tear their eyes from that terrible, dark place before them. Then, they continued onwards. Jorelle then spoke up softly as they trudged onwards. "Are we just going to walk up to the front door of that accursed place?"

"It is the only entrance and the most direct route to the star. As long as we do not step outside the light, its… inhabitants will not harry us," Eöl replied. "But only as long as we remain in the light. But more than that, we must not speak a word. Should they hear any tongue of the living, or see you outside the light… then they will fall upon us in blind wrath."

That killed any remaining conversation rather quickly. In silence, they walked upon the single remaining dragon-road towards the city gates.

The gates of the city were massive things, each as tall as a small mountain, and carved from a smooth rock as pale as bone. They hung ajar, like the maws of a dragon, eager and waiting for its meal to simply walk up into its gullet.

With fear in their hearts and tightened grips upon their weapons, they ventured with silence into the city.

Unlike the other ruins, however… it was all empty within. The interior actually looked pristine. Not untouched by time, but… frozen, like a dead man's rictus grin.

They stayed within the light, and spoke not a sound, as they headed towards the center of the city of Eöl's silent directions and motions. His hands were gripping the staff tightly.

The central palace was a large and imposing citadel, adorned with statues and gargoyles of leering dragons and demons and things. Its walls and gates were as deathly pristine as the rest of the city, only this was carved what looked like the blackest midnight in the form of marble and stone and steel.

Silently they strode closer, staying within the light. Silently, silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Silently.

Then… Vario tripped on an errant stone and stumbled. As he set out a hand to steady himself, he let loose a strange sound from his tongue-less throat, as his hand strode out from the light.

That single sound he uttered, it echoed through the city over and over, metaphorical head over the metaphorical bottom.

Eöl's head turned so quickly it was a wonder it did not twist off his shoulders, and his eyes were wider than an owl's.

At the same time, a loud and unholy shriek rang throughout the city of the dead, and it bounced off every stone.

Bella then let loose a curse. "Oh fuck."

Eöl started to shake. "They have heard us. We must fly! Too late to turn back! To the palace! Now!"

As one, they all fled, their feet echoing on the smooth stones of the city road.

Behind them, they heard something in the distance. It… it was not true footsteps, but… the echoes of footsteps, pale facsimiles.

Faster and faster they ran, towards the palace, until they were within the gates that hung barely ajar.

The palace loomed over them like the skull of some great, horrid beast.

Then, Eöl came to a halt, prompting the rest to do the same.

He then turned to Luthien and Beren. "The star is within, in the bottommost depths. But only you two can penetrate the castle's boundaries. Your bond will guide and protect you within. But the rest of us are barred by the terrible wards about it. Please, do not argue. Just go!"

Beren wanted to argue, as did Luthien, but then Beleg and Jorelle interrupted any protestations. "Please, my lady. You must. We will hold the line here," the Strongbow declared, as he nocked an arrow to the string of his great bow.

"See this quest to the end, Lady Luthien," Jorelle said, in her soft voice.

Beren and Luthien looked upon their companions.

Then, the two raced through the courtyard, and into the palace.

The Bravo

Bella gripped her sword tightly. At times, she still wondered just how mad she and Vaario had been to join on this strange quest with these strange, mad, and beautiful people.

But it was too fucking late to turn back now, right?

She chanced a look towards Vaario, her one true companion. The big man was gripping his new ax, a wary-yet-eager look in his brown eyes.

"Not a bad place for our story to end, eh Vaar?"

All the big man could do was flash her a grin.

The mass of strange footsteps drew closer.

Then from the opening in the gate emerged…

It looked like it had once been human, a handsome Valyrian figure in a full suit of armor of scales, and tall and noble in bearing.

But half of his sunken, skeletal face, framed by pale hair, looked as if it had been melted off by a fire, and he seemed… indistinct, and he bore about him the same light as the rest of the city. His eyes were solid and glowing orbs of poisonous purple, and they were furrowed in wrath, alongside his bared teeth.

"A wraith," Eöl said, as the light on his staff began to pulse, and he drew his lion-hilted sword from his side. "There will be more. Do not let their weapons cut you! Beware of the creatures that accompany them. Whatever you do-"

A moment later, he let loose a great shout as he parried the twisted sword of the burned figure, who had suddenly appeared above him with an unholy shriek.

Soon enough, more creatures began to slowly trickle through the opening. More things like what Eöl was fighting, and other, terrible, malformed things that shrieked with wrath and wordless rage.

As she parried a spectral blade and stabbed a crooked body aside, and lost herself to the flow of combat, her mind was pierced with a sibilant and terrible voice, and it made her almost collapse from its awesome horror.

"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of my domains. You cannot hide from me.

"I see you, a girl with no face. Are you sure you are who you truly think you are? That you are still not a little waif, wandering lost and forlorn among the canals? Is your face truly your own? Or is it still there, in that temple? How long can you outrun their grasp?

"After all; The Many-Faced God must have his due."

The Strongbow

Arrow after arrow was loosed from Beleg's quivers and sped from the string of Belthronding at the creatures and wraiths, things he had not seen since that horrid war, and the frozen battle so many millennia ago.

This was impossible. Had this empire been established by the Enemy?

Had he actually survived?

Then came a most terrible and wicked voice.

"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of my domains. You cannot hide from me.

"I see you, oh mighty and proud archer. You could have done more, Strongbow. But you did not. You, like so many others, turned a blind eye to what was done to those who did not grasp the light. You knew you all knew what blood had been shed in the land you call home.

"You know. And like the rest of your hidden kingdom, you watched, and you did nothing."

The Silent One

The butte of his ax sent a spectral warrior careening against the wall and made it dissipate into a strange mist with a shriek, and he then buried the ax's edge into the head of a thing with too many eyes and mouths.

Combat was one of the few times where he did not hear the screams of his village as the Dothraki burned it to the ground. It made the pain of his tongue lessen.

The lessons of his parents surged through his limbs as he parried and blocked and slashed.

He had never fought foes like these before, but that would not stop him.

Then, cold shot through his bones as a terrible voice lanced into his mind.

"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of my domains. You cannot hide from me.

"And I see you as well. How long do you believe you can run from the screams? You are nothing, nothing more than that scared little boy, hiding and weeping as he watched his family and friends were raped, murdered, and sold off into slavery. You are still that boy, who screamed and wept as the horse lords ripped out your tongue, and left you for dead in the dirt. You are still the mute, sold to the temple of flames within the First Daughter for a measly 10 honors. Tell me, do you even remember what your voice sounded like? Or has it been lost to the screams as well?"

The Loyal Guard

Jorelle, like many atani of her line, held little to no personal ambitions of her own. She lived to serve the line and house of Thingol and to protect the Lady Luthien.

She kept firing arrows, and then dropped her bow and reached for her great spear, and skewered a wretched thing through its head.

Then she heard the voice.

"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of my domains. You cannot hide from me.

"And I see you as well, oh loyal guard. You have served your masters and overlords well, do you not? Like a well-trained mongrel dog. But… do you think they actually care about you? That she cares about you at all? After all, she dragged you on this mad quest for her love. You will die here, and she will live, and you will be forgotten, as have so many others of your line and your kind."

Stalwart Jorelle shook her head as she wrenched out her spear, and ducked under the blow of a spectral mace. "Be silent. I am an atani, and I serve the lady. That is enough."

The Broken Smith

Eöl raised Tomman's blade high and slashed across the neck of a wraith, this one of a slender woman with gaping holes where her eyes should have been, and a large puncture wound in her chest.

It was little more than a feeling he had, but he felt sure that this day… he would be free. It was not pure hope, but rather… the hoping of hope.

Then lancing into his brain and soul came that voice, and as the manacles upon his wrists burned as they had so many times before, Eöl gritted his teeth and shook in fear.

"I see you. I see you all. Trespassing within one of my domains. You cannot hide from me.

"And I see you as well, broken one. I would have thought you lost in totality to madness and despair. You will never be free. You are bound to these lands by the child of the tree, and you will remain so until the days the stars themselves fall from the heavens. You know this, just as you know that you have only yourself to blame, dark one.

"So give in, and I may even let your torment come to a merciful end."

Eöl shook his head like an angry dog, even as he bashed aside a creature with four tongues and no lips. "No, no! I am wary of your lies, deceiver, murderer! NO longer will your forked tongue deceive me! Tommen's promise still holds! I shall be free of this accursed land, and I shall be free of you, and cut my way to freedom with my friend's own blade!"

The Nightengale

As the sounds of battle echoed behind them, Luthien and her love dashed into the palace proper.

The interior was as cold and empty as the outside. Nothing living or warm filled it at all. No rugs, no tapestries, not even suits of armor or other decorations.

Nothing.

They found the stairs and began to descend.

They traversed down long swathes of staircases, past rooms and terrible doors, and other yawning portals.

Behind them, Luthien felt a presence hurtling after them. But neither she or her love dared to look back.

They kept racing downwards until the stairway terminated upon a flat floor of black stone, and a doorway.

Upon passing under the arch, they turned on their heels, and swiftly closed and bolted the doors shut

Outside, they heard the roars and screeches of the darkness. But, for the moment, it seemed they were safe.

Luthien then looked about and saw within it sat… a forge.

It was as empty, save for a cold hearth, an empty quenching pit, an anvil, and…

For some reason, she felt arrested by what she saw, next to the cold forge heart and dead anvil. She had seen such devices in smithies of her father's kingdom. Such a thing had been shown to her by a kindly atani ring-smith, Torrhen, son of Granden.

Nine separate molds did sit next to the hearth and quenching pit and anvil. Nine molds, made of simple stone, each large enough to hold a single ring.

Yet, when Luthien looked upon those nine empty molds, she felt a palpable sense of dread, of… evil.

"Come on!" Beren said, snapping her from her thoughts. Behind them and behind the rattling doors, the darkness howled and roared in a mad fury, as the pair continued to run past the forge and deeper into the castle depths.

They fled under another arch and exited upon a massive and dark courtroom like that which would service a king. Or rather, it seemed a dark and twisted mockery of one, crafted from pure unnaturalness and evil.

At the far end, there sat a great and terrible throne, and upon it… was a crown. A crown large enough to dwarf even a giant. Even from the great distance, Luthien and Beren could make out a massive rent in the device, as if it had been cut almost in two.

Set into that crown… was a light. A light purer and softer and grander and more terrible than any either had ever seen in their lives. It called out to them, this light, like a call for help… or a siren's seductive song.

They each took a step forward…

The Fourth Son

He took a single step forward… and beside him, Luthien vanished.

"LUTHIEN!" Beren cried out in alarm, as he looked all about.

Where was she? Where had she gone?

Then, came a terrible voice, echoing from all around him. "She cannot help you… Beren Hightower. Oh yes. I know who you are, just as I recognize that ancient and pitiful blood that runs in your veins. The fourth son and the fifth child. Destined to be ever forgotten by all, a lesser son of once-greater sires.

"And forgotten is what you will be. You are going to die here. Your body, and the body of your elven whore, will lie here forever, fading away to dus, unknown, and unmourned. You will be nothing.

"But, then again… You have always been nothing, have you not? The only thing of note you ever were… was Lot Number 971."

…He could almost hear it, the sounds of that accursed market, in that accursed city. He could almost smell the stench of unwashed forms...

But the whips… the whips never ceased, nor did the clinking of manacles.

…He stood upon that platform, naked and unwashed, like cattle. His hands, chained to his ankles…

…800 honors were what he had been bought for, little coins no larger than an eye…

…The man's purple eyes held no warmth as he smiled. "You belong to me now, man of the west. You are now the property of Lorgan Maegyr, triarch of the Tiger Party."

…The Black walls loomed before him as he was yanked forward behind the palanquin….

Laughter in his ears, as he was whipped and marked, over and over and over again….

He felt the flames on his back and on his face, as the wedding pavilion and the palace burned, and he fled into the night with his stolen blade, taken off the brother of the Lyseni groom….

The grip on his sword remained tight as he slashed at the shadows that sprung about, Sanya-Anguirel's blade hummed through the air.

"Did you honestly believe that you could escape?"

Before Beren's eyes stood the form of the man who had bought him. Lorgan Maegyr, in his cloak of tiger-skins and enameled armor. In his hand was a cruel sword and a familiar lash. Dark intent danced over his carved features and in amethyst eyes.

The shade of the volantene laughed his cruel laugh. "Did you honestly believe that I would not find you? You are mine, lot number 971, and you will never be anything else."

Beren's sword flashed through the air, and the volantene merely laughed as he dissipated into mist. "Do you seek to mock me, foul voice? I killed him! Wrung the life from his neck with my bare hands! I escaped!" Beren yelled as he slashed at the shadows.

The voice spoke again.

"Yes. You did escape, as the Black Walls burned. And then you returned to Westeros, and you joined the army of an uncrowned fool. All for what? To save your precious sister?"

…Flames beat at his face. In the distance, he saw men killing one another, and scores upon scores falling beneath a hail of arrows.

In the sky, he saw two large shapes, tearing and biting at each other.

Then, the larger of the shapes prevailed, and black sent silver careening to the ground far below.

With a cry of denial, Beren rushed forward, slashing at any who stood in his way, while the ground shook with the impact of Quicksilver's corpse, at the bank of the great river, which was already stained red and black with the blood of men and dragons.

Several yards from the dead dragon lying in a heap at the lip of the river was the king.

Aegon's limbs were twisted and bent, his armor was dented and fractured, and his mouth opened and shut in mute pain as blood dripped from his lips and nose.

How was he even alive?

"My king!" Beren said, as he sheathed his sword and knelt by the man.

What could he do?

The king's unfocused purple eyes blinked up at him, and his bloody mouth moved as if to say something…

The sound of great wingbeats sounded out, and then came the clamor of a large mass landing upon the ground. It drew Beren's gaze up and to the left, far down the field, through the massacre of his fellow soldiers.

The warmth of the air grew in temperature, as the Black Dread itself alit upon the field. It was so large that the beast's shadow all but covered the dying light of the sun.

Beren could make out the brutish figure of the Monster, mounted upon the massive beast.

Then, the figure gestured, and the dragon's massive maw opened, a dark light growing within.

Before Beren knew what, he was doing, he lifted up the king, and then dove into the dark waters of the God's Eye, just as massive and terrible heat erupted over them, creating a brief sensation of heat on his outstretched arm.

He kept a death-grip on the king as the current sent them hurtling off through the water…

He awoke upon the bank of another river, his hand still clenching the king's armor.

He coughed and spat out water from his throat and lungs.

He saw his arm somewhat singed, but he felt little pain from it. The River water had quenched the flames quickly enough.

He then turned to Aegon.

His skin was clammy, and he breathed not all.

Aegon the Uncrowned was dead.

In the far distance, Beren watched as Balerion rose into the air, and set the rest of the God's Eye alight. Even from here, he could feel the heat of the dragon's fire.

He buried the king on that bank, and then got up, and started to walk…

"You failed, and ended up killing your so-called king, filling his lungs with cold, dark water. And as for your sister… She died screaming, your sweet sister, at the monster's hand, when he had no more use for her. Do you want to know what he did to her? What he ordered done to her? Would you like to see?"

His mind was assaulted with a horrific image; his sister. His sweet, kind, gentle sister, stripped naked and chained to a wall, her skin covered in cuts and whip marks. She wept and screamed as Maegor and his dark lady and his knights… it was too horrid for his mind to even process.

At its end, Maegor cut her throat and laughed.

"She died, and you could not do anything. As always, you did nothing."

The screaming continued, even as the vision faded, and Beren all but fell to his knees. "STOP IT!" he screamed, the grip on his sword so tight that his hand was bleeding.

He then heard armored footsteps approached, and, even as the screams continued, he dove to the side as a massive sword slashed down upon where he had stood. He looked and…

There he stood.

The Monster.

The spawn of Aegon and Visenya stood, his brutish form massive and unnatural, his chest as large and broad as a bull, and his arms thick under his dark armor.

The murderer's face broke out into a dark and rictus grin, as he beheld Beren, and raised his sword again. Beren yelled aloud in rage as he barely parried aside Maegor's blow, only to receive a slash across the back from another weapon. He cried out in pain and spun out of the way to behold Lorgan, reformed, his shadowy sword dripping with blood.

As one, they advanced. Behind them glowed the light.

Beren shook his head, and, in sorrow, closed his mind to the screams. "ENOUGH OF THIS FARCE!" he bellowed.

As he did, he sped forward, the edge of Sanya-Anguirel slashing through the shocked features of his past monsters, even as their own weapons slashed at him.

As fast as he had ever run, he dashed towards the light, ignoring his wounds, and even as more shadows rose up in the shape of claws, and tore and pulled at him, even as he kept trying to step forward, his arm outstretched.

He had to reach it! He had to fulfill his oath, for her! He had to!

But they were too many, and they kept multiplying, all but drowning him in shadow.

They slowly dragged him to his knees, wrapping around his legs, his arms, his chest, his neck.

Then one gripped his head, and his mind was assailed with familiar images.

…. A garden burning and drowned in blood and bones…

… A bronze sword, fighting against a dark one…

….Green and Black creatures, rutting against a beautiful, faceless, naked woman, laughing all the while they tore and bit at one another and her, even as all around them burned, and the woman cried and screamed……

… A hammer, ringing out against metal, each blow more baleful than the last…

… Shadows, tearing and biting and stabbing and killing and laughing…

…. Nine fires, each cold and dark and dead on a field of ice and scorched land…

"Surrender, and your death will be short, Beren Hightower. Surrender, and your pain will end. Does that not seem agreeable, son of the west? Do you not wish for your wanderings to end, to rest?

"To see your sister again, one last time?

The voice spoke again, and what it uttered was so wrong that it took all his efforts to stay conscious.

Nine for the dragons, lords of the sky

Nine for the dragons, fated ever to die.

Nine shall they wear,

wrought from precious gold

And of the Nine,

shall their legends be

in evil whispers told.

As more and more horrid images assaulted his mind, Beren could barely reach out his hand any longer.

"As I said, Beren… you will die here. You, and all who followed you here. But, if it helps… compared to what will happen to your home… your deaths will be a mercy."

He… he couldn't move.

The Nightengale

The moment they stepped forward… Beren vanished.

"Beren?" Luthien said as he looked about.

But he was nowhere to be seen. But she heard him. She heard his screams of agony and pain.

"Where are you, beloved?" she cried out. "Where are you?"

"Beyond your grasp, daughter of Valinor."

The voice… it was so terrible. It took all her fortitude to remain standing.

"Who are you, foul thing?" she called out, as the shadows surrounded her on all sides.

"Something beyond your comprehension, daughter of Melian. Oh yes, I know who you are, and what blood runs through your veins. You bear it well, your mighty lineage.

Another of Beren's screams assaulted her ears. "Where is he?"

"Beyond your grasp, daughter of Thingol. But he always was destined to be so, correct? After all, his life is but infinitesimal, compare to yours. You are eternity… and he is but a single blink of an eye.

"He will die here. All of those who followed you here will die. But it does not have to be this way."

The shadows drew closer. "What are you babbling about, shadowy thing?" she demanded, even as each scream of Beren tore at her soul.

"Stay here. Become mine, in body and soul. Something of your grandeur, your beauty, deserves nothing less than to be a queen of the World. So, become mine. In return, your 'love' and your companions will be spared. They will forever be with you, especially poor Beren. Like you, he will never age, and never die. He will always be by your side. I will give you all this, and more. All you need to do… is accept.

"So… what say you, fair Luthien?"

What could she say, to such an offer? She had known that Beren's life was but a moment to her race. But… she cared not. Love was not a thing to be measured by something as inconsequential as time, for love itself was timeless.

Luthien shook her head. "I say to thee… nay, foul spirit! Your offers tempt me not, for they are but poison and lies!"

"You dare!? YOU DARE REFUSE ME, YOU IMPUDENT SPAWN OF VALINOR!?"

"Indeed, I dare! I recognize what you are, from the stories of my father! I know you for the foul, dark thing that you are! And I say to thee that you hold no power here! I cast thee out! Your control over this land! I wrest it from thee here and now!"

Then, she rose to her full height… and Lúthien Tinúviel, daughter of Melian and Thingol, and princess of Doriath… she began to sing.

It was something that was more than a mere song, something that went beyond that of anything that echoed from the lips of mortals.

It was unlike any song that had ever sound from the lips of man, unlike any that had been heard in these lands.

It was something that this land had never heard in over twelve-thousand years.

A song of hope, of standing strong in the face of tyranny and despair and evil.

No stone or shadow could stand before the might of this song. Indeed, it seemed to shake the very foundations of all the stones and steel and things of the city of the dead, in the land of Valyria.

All the voice could do was scream in rage and despair, as the shadows were blasted away.

The Strongbow

He had run out of arrows, and so took up his sword.

He knew not how many he and the others had killed, or how long they had been fighting. The courtyard was liberally littered with the bodies of the abominations.

All he did know was that he and the others were tiring.

Bit by bit, they were being pushed back, back, and back by the growing horde, until they were almost against the walls of the citadel.

It seemed that they would not be leaving here alive.

But at least they had come this far. There were worse ways to die.

Then, caressing his ears was a song. The loveliest song he had ever heard. And he recognized the voice. It was Lady Luthien's.

When he and his companions heard it, their spirits lifted, and their limbs were filled with a new and grand strength.

But when the horde of monsters and wraiths heard it… there came from them such a terrible and fearful uproar, and they all quailed in terror from the song, as if it were anathema to their very persons.

Bella of Braavos looked around in confusion. "What is that melody? What the hells is going on!?"

Near her, the one who called himself Eöl gripped his sword and staff tightly. He was shaking so much it was a wonder that he did not collapse. But there were tears in his eyes, ruined and functional.

"That is hope!" the twisted figure declared. "That is the idea of hope!"

Despite their situation, Beleg let loose a laugh. "Aye! And that hope shall help us win this day yet! Hear that melody, my friends! The day may yet be ours!"

The Strongbow raised his new sword high. "For Doriath! For Beren! For Lady Luthien!"

As one, the companions charged, as the melody danced all about them.

The Wanderer

As the darkness continued to envelop him, Beren heard a song. It was Luthien, and she sang such a song that hope reignited in his chest at once.

With a determined grunt, he struggled to his feet and towards the light once again. "No! I will not die here! I swore an oath to her! I will see it through to the end, and I will see that she lives and returns home!" Beren exclaimed as he slashed at the hands and shadows about him.

Luthien's song seemed to drive back the darkness.

He reached closer.

The voice screamed out in frustration and rage. "No, no, NO, NO! DAMN YOU, BEREN HIGHTOWER! I DAMN YOU AND YOUR LINE AND YOUR ELVISH WHORE! I DAMN YOUR HOUSE AND ALL WHO SHARE YOUR BLOOD! MAY YOUR HOUSE TEAR ITSELF APART IN WAR AND KINSTRIFE! AND MAY ALL YOU KNOW AND LOVE BE BUT AS ASH AND BLOOD IN THE MOUTHES OF YOUR DESCENDANTS! I DAMN YOU! I DAMN YOU!"

Though the voice all but made blood pour from his ears and sent him to his knees, Beren kept reaching forward. "And I care not for your damnations!" Beren replied as he stretched out his hand, Luthien's song propelling him onward

It may have been a figment of his imagination, but, for a moment, he felt as if the light were being formed into the shape of a gentle, outreaching hand.

He reached out, towards the hand of light, and he heard under the song a question, asked in the voice of one whom he had not heard in over twenty years.

What are our words, my son, that serves as our beacon in the darkness?

With a final shout, Beren reached forward and grasped onto the light. "We Light the Way!"

The Fallen Son

As Eöl and the others dashed forward towards the horde, a great and warm light suddenly seemed to burst out from within the depths of the castle behind them.

From within strode forth Luthien and Beren, the latter holding his sword and…

The star.

As the human held up the light in his hands, tears unbidden came streaming down Eöl's face as he felt the manacles on his break free from his wrists, and shatter upon the ground.

Before the light of the star, the wraiths and horrors before them, and all the others that haunted the lands of Valyria… they all quailed in terror and fled before the awesome radiance of that light.

With a shout of jubilant exultation, Eöl raised his staff and the sword of his friend, as the light from the star swept out across the land. "Do you see, Tommen!? At long last! Your promise has come true!" Eöl cried out. "At long last! The star is free! My chains are undone! I am free! Can you see!?"

He then fell to his knees, still weeping, and whispered. "Can you see this… father?"

For a brief, tiny moment, that pulse of light could be seen and heard across all the globe, to all the areas explored and not yet discovered by man.

For the briefest of briefest moments, all upon the many lands felt a plethora of things alight within their souls and chests and hearts…

Joy unending

Sorrow unrelenting.

And hope, that rarest of all feelings.

Across the sky, a red comet soared.

No. This would not do.

"Cuivië, oh mightiest of your kin. The Light has been taken. Awaken, so that you may devour those who would dare to pilfer it from its rightful resting place.

"Cuivië…

"Carcharoth."

For so long, it had slept, gorged on the flesh of small things and scaled and winged and large things.

It had slept through the great destruction, as the fire had rained down from the sky.

It slept.

Then, the master's voice awakened it, and it shook off the dust and debris of centuries.

It sniffed the air and caught the scent of trespassers... and the Light.

As they walked back through the island with a great leap in their steps, the companions all could not help but marvel at Beren's prize.

It was a large gem, about as thick as a man's clenched fist. Its shape and color defied explanation, and yet, all who looked upon it could tell, instinctively, that It was… perfect.

"What is it?" Bella asked, her mismatched eyes all but glued to it.

"Something that has caused countless a great deal of pain," Eöl murmured, whose eyes still shone with tears. A smile adorned his scarred face, and it was constantly twitching, like a hound who knew that he was about to be let loose from his leash at any moment.

"Indeed," Beleg said. "One of three, to be precise. But I thought the remaining two were lost…"

Beren kept his eyes about, as they neared the entrance through the woods to the beach where Eöl's boat was docked.

From within its depths, he thought he saw the briefest glimpse of movement-

"LOOK OUT!" Beren screamed as he tackled Beleg out of the way.

A moment later, Beren was yanked to the side, the jaws of the great beast that had spring from the woods clenched around his arm and the jewel.

Before anyone could react, the bust was barreling off.

Luthien screamed out in horror, and followed as best she could behind the beast's trail, followed by the others.

The Wanderer

Pain.

Such pain that Beren had never felt in such a long time. Pain, like a vice, tightening as the giant wolf-thing's jaws clamped tighter though the metal and leather of his vambrace, and the flesh and muscle of his arm.

He still held the strange jewel in his hands, and, through the haze of pain, he noted the mouth of the beast was starting to smoke.

Through its clenched jaw, the wolfish beast began to scream and grunt in agony.

The jewel. It was the jewel! Yet, the beast would not let go!

It kept running and began to thrash about as if Beren were a piece of knotted rope.

A small part of his mind that was still thinking rationally knew that is the moment the beast completely severed his arm, Beren was done for. He could already feel bone jutting through the skin and the remnants of his bracer.

He could not let it swallow the gem, and so he had to make it let go.

Through the pain, he grabbed onto the fur around the creature's face, and jostled the trapped arm about, until he felt it hook into the flesh of the wolf's mouth.

The beast yowled in fury through clamped jaws, it began to thrash harder about.

He felt his back slam against a rocky outcropping. Blood filled his mouth.

Even as he screamed in renewed pain through bloody lips, Beren managed to hold fast, even as the beast began to slam him about on the ground and in the side of the ruins.

He let go with his free, left hand, and ripped out a dagger, as he was slammed again, and again.

Over and over again, Beren rammed his dagger into the beast's neck and face, even as its fanged jaws clamped down harder upon his arm and hand. It even reared up on its hind-legs, and briefly tore at him with a great claw, and he felt his sides become torn to shreds. Through it all, he kept stabbing.

Then, through his wild flailing, he stabbed it straight into its left, and the beast's jaws let go. Through the air, he flew, and he hit the ground.

He felt so much pain. In a detached manner, he saw that his hand and forearm were attached to the rest of his arm by a single piece of sinew. His entire right side was drenched in blood.

He watched as the beast flailed about, as it clawed about at the dagger in its eye with its great claws.

Slowly, he staggered to his feet, Sanya-Anguirel held in his remaining hand. The land was starting to spin, and there was darkness at the edges of his vision.

The beast then stopped its flailing, and set its remaining eye upon him. That one eye was full of rage behind the bloody mask he had made of its face.

Beren took a rattling breath. And then he took a step forward, as he raised his sword.

There comes a situation in a boar hunt when the boar knows it cannot escape. It is tired, wounded, and mad. It knows that it cannot escape, and so, it decides that if it is to die… it will take on of its would-be killers with it.

If one were to witness the final clash between Beren and the beast, they would be hard picked to discern which was the hunter, and which was the boar.

The beast roared, and charged forward…

The Nightengale

They followed the bloody trail and screams with great haste, Luthien in the lead. Terror and fear and worry propelled her forward

As they followed the blood around a bend of stone, they heard a bone-shattering roar!

They sped forward with greater haste and finished rounding the corner.

They came upon a clearing, and were but struck dumb by the scene that lay before them; the beast that had attacked Beren lay dead, its head severed cleanly from its shoulders.

Lying against an outcropping of stone across from it lay Beren, covered in blood and wounds. His chest rose and fell with weak breaths, and his eyes were unfocused. Next to him lay his arm and hand, detached from his body. The hand still clutched the jewel, and his arm's stump dripped a steady stream of red. Across his knees rested his sword.

Luthien let loose a scream as she scrambled to his side. Slowly, with trembling hands, she took his head in her hands. "Beren? Sweet Beren. Please, stay with us! Stay with me, please!"

"We… we must bind his wounds," Beleg said, as he approached them, as he started to rip shreds from his cloak.

"What good will that do?" Bella asked, even as she and Vaario began to tear as well. "He seems not long for this world. Has he any blood left at all?"

Beren weakly angled his head up to look at Luthien, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood. "Nightengale…"

"Don't speak, Beren, please, save your strength, save your strength," she said, as tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

He weakly shook his head. "Please… Luthien. I'm… not long for this world. Take… the jewel. Finish… this quest. Return… home. Live… live and be happy."

No. No, no, no, no. Tears like small diamonds dripped down her dusty cheeks, as Beren's eyes slowly became unfocused. "You… are my light. Thank you… for letting me love you."

She had to fix this, she had to. Luthien leaned down, her hair all but enveloping him like a shroud of sable. "Wait for me," she whispered. "Wait for me. I will come for you. Please, wait for me."

Beren took a shuddering breath, he blinked once… and then his head dropped down, and he breathed no more.

Luthien let loose a great wail of despair, as she cradled his still body. Her cries echoed throughout the land, even across the sea. All their companions bowed their heads in sorrow.

Jorelle put a gentle hand upon Luthien's shoulder. "Please, my lady," she said in her soft voice. "We must leave. We cannot tarry here."

Luthien remained where she was, still weeping. "Wait for me," she whispered again. "Wait for me, my love."

Then… a strange feeling suffused her being, and she felt light and cold. The last thing she heard was the great beat of massive wings and a piercing cry, and then she closed her eyes…

When she opened her eyes… she found herself in a great and cavernous hall. The sable Hall had floors and columns of jet and was draped with dark vapours. It was lit only with a single vessel, placed in the center of the hall, and the light of unseen stars. The far end was unseen, hidden by the shadows.

She recognized this place, from the tales of the Lands to the West, told to her by her mother.

The Halls of Awaiting.

The Domain of Mandos.

Without hesitation, she strode forward. "Beren!" she cried out. "Beren!"

Had he heeded her? Had he waited for her?

Fresh tears dripped down her eyes. "Beren! If you still linger here, then, please… speak to me!"

"Luthien?"

His voice made her look up in surprise, and there he stood before her; his body was whole and unbroken. He looked at her with surprise in his eyes. Surprise and concern. "Luthien. What… what are you doing here? How are you here?"

In lieu of an answer, she wrapped her arms about his neck, and held him tightly and kissed him. He returned her embrace and kiss.

YOU HAVE ARRIVED.

The figure before them was great in stature and clad in robes of dark blue and midnight.

Instinctively, Luthien and Beren bowed before this awesome figure. At their heart, all living things knew who, or what, this being was. It was only the nation of Beleriand who knew his name; Mandos, the Ruler of the Dead. When he spoke, it was in a voice of pure dispassion, for what need was there for the Lord of the Dead to know emotion?

Mandos' eyes, which seemed full of stars, looked down upon the two.

YOUR COMING WAS FORETOLD IN THE WEAVINGS OF MY LADY'S TAPESTRIES. AS FOR IT'S PURPOSE… I AM AFRAID YOU WILL NOT ACHIEVE THAT WHICH YOU HOPED TO DO. BEREN HIGHTOWER HAS ALREADY LINGERED HERE FOR FAR LONGER THAN HE SHOULD. HIS FINAL REWARD, LIKE THE REWARD OF ALL THE SECONDBORN, LIES BEYOND. FOR WHAT PURPOSE MUST YOU MAKE HIM TARRY HERE?

"Because I love him. It is my fault that he is dead. I wish to undo my mistake, to have him returned to the land of the living."

AND DO YOU BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE OF OUR LORD'S CREATIONS WHO HAS LOST ONE THEY LOVE, DAUGHTER OF MELIAN? YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST, AND YOU WILL NOT BE THE LAST. WHY SHOULD YOU BE TREATED ANY DIFFERENT? WHY SHOULD YOUR PLEA BE RECOGNIZED AGAINST ALL THE OTHERS THAT I HAVE HEARD?

In reply, Luthien opened her lips… and sang a song. Unlike before in the land of the living, when her song had been one of hope, one of defiance against the darkness, this song was different. It was a song that embodied that which was the oldest ideal, the oldest feeling, in all of creation. It was that which had first helped to bring the creator's melody into existence, to help it suffuse all of his expanding creation with it; love.

It was a song of love, and it echoed throughout all of creation, and her voice and dance did give it a great life.

The Lord of the Dead stood silent as the song and dance drew to an arresting stop, and Luthien rejoined Beren's side.

Then, he spoke.

TO THINK THAT SUCH A POWERFUL LOVE WOULD BE ABLE TO EXIST AND FLOURISH OUTSIDE OF VALINOR, OUTSIDE THAT OF THE HARMONY. YOUR SONG, IT HAS… MOVED ME, DAUGHTER OF MELIAN.

YOUR MAN COULD BE RESTORED TO LIFE. IT IS NOT AN IMPOSSIBILITY.

BUT A LIFE IS NOT A THING THAT CAN BE GAINED WITHOUT A COST, WITHOUT A SACRIFICE.

Luthien stood tall. "For him, for the man I love, I would sacrifice anything for him, for his life. I would sacrifice without hesitation."

AND WOULD YOU SACFRICE YOUR OWN ETERNITY, FOR HIM? WOULD YOU GIVE UP REINCARNATION IN ETERNAL VALINOR? WOULD YOU RELEASE ANY AND ALL CHANCE OF EVER SEEING YOUR KIN AGAIN? WOULD YOU LIVE A MORTAL LIFE, DIE A MORTAL DEATH, AND THEN JOURNEY AT YOUR END TO THE UNKNOWABLE REWARD THAT AWAITS ALL MORTALS?

Though tears began to run down her cheeks at the mention of those sacrifices, Luthien nodded. "Without hesitation-"

"No!" Beren suddenly interjected, his cry rebounding against the walls.

Luthien turned to her love in surprise. "What are you saying, Beren? This could restore your life!"

He shook his head. "No. I don't deserve it! I am not worth such a sacrifice!"

He turned to look up into the face of Mandos. "Send her back. I refuse this second chance. I am unworthy of it. Just send her back, with her eternity intact. Let her live forever. Let her be free."

Mandos' head tilted, as if perplexed.

YOU WOULD REFUSE THE CHANCE TO LIVE AGAIN? TO LIVE, BREATH, AND AGE UNDER THE SKY? WHY?

"I would not have her sacrifice everything for me. To have her separated from her parents at the very end of all things… I could not do that to her. I have known the pain of separation from mine own parents, and it was a thing done by mine own actions and words. It is a pain that still burdens me to this day. Never upon even my worst enemy would I inflict such a pain, and especially not upon her. So please… send her back, to the land of the living, so that she may reunite with those who have loved her for far longer than I have and ever could."

Luthien looked with sorrow upon him, this man whom she loved.

The robed figure was silent for a long moment, the sort of moment in which entire generations lived grew and died. Then, the lord of the dead spoke once again.

SHE WOULD SACRIFICE HER ETERNITY FOR A CHANCE FOR YOU TO RETURN TO LIFE. AND YET… IN TURN, YOU WOULD SACRIFICE YOUR SECOND CHANCE AT LIFE FOR HER OWN ETERNITY, SO THAT SHE MAY REUNITE WITH HER MOTHER AND FATHER, AND SO THAT SHE NOT BE SUNDERED FROM HER FAMILY AND REBIRTH IN VALINOR.

THIS IS A MOST UNEXPECTED CONUNDRUM. UNEXPECTED… AND UNPRECEDENTED…

I MUST PONDER THIS…

BUT, AS YOU WAIT… THERE IS ONE HERE WHO HAS BEEN WAITING TO SPEAK WITH YOU, BEREN HIGHTOWER.

The Valar of the Dead then gestured, and before the two, light coalesced in the form of a woman. Luthien watched as Beren's eyes grew wide with recognition.

Then, the woman spoke.

"Hello, Beren."

The woman was about Beren's height and had slender curves. Her hair was a soft blonde, and her eyes seemed gentle and sad.

"Ceryse…" he gasped out, tears in the corner of his eyes. "Is it truly you?"

The woman smiled. "It is, my brother."

A moment later, he embraced her, and wept into her shoulder, while she gently stroked his head like one would an infant. "Oh, my sister. Forgive me, forgive me," he cried.

"There is nothing to forgive, sweet Beren, it was out of your control."

Nothing more was said for a long moment, as the siblings continued to embrace, and the only sound was of Beren's soft weeping.

Then, his sister pulled away and cupped his bearded cheeks between slender hands.

"You have borne this misplaced guilt for so very long, my little brother, and it has gnawed upon your soul like a starving animal. But you must let it go. You must let me go. Let me go… and forgive yourself."

She then pulled away, and her form started to become ethereal.

IT IS TIME, CERYSE. YOUR FINAL JOURNEY AWAITS.

The first wife of Maegor Hightower nodded at the Valar's proclamation and graced Beren with one final, kindly smile. "More than that, I ask that you live Beren. Live, and forgive yourself."

Before Luthien's love could reach out to his sister, Ceryse Hightower faded away into light, and that light then passed beyond the gates.

When it had been passed, Mandos looked down upon the pair, a strange expression dancing behind his somber, ageless, and timeless eyes.

THE DECISION HAS BEEN MADE. TRULY… YOUR LOVE FOR ANOTHER TRANSCENDS ANY AND ALL THAT EVER HAS BEEN WITNESSED. YOUR LIVES Will BE RESTORED, AND LUTHIEN'S ETERNITY WILL REMAIN UNTOUCHED. BUT BE WARNED, FOR THERE WILL BE A COST, ONE THAT MUST BE PAID. IT IS THE ONLY WAY…

The Valar then spoke a final time, and the elf-maiden and the man both wept, even as they held the other tightly.

Then… there was naught but light, and the distant sounds of a grand and timeless melody…

He felt warmth upon his face. Warmth, and pain.

He slowly opened his eyes, and the motion set more pain through his form.

It then occurred to him that he… he was not dead.

He gingerly raised his head and looked about. They were laying upon pallets, outside in a humble garden, and surrounded on all four corners by buildings carved from stone.

He tried to touch his head with his right hand… only to see empty air.

So… that had been real.

It all had been real.

He then felt a warmth on his left side, and looked to see… her.

Luthien. She lay on the pallet by his side, and her hand was entwined with his. Her hand felt warm and soft in his.

"You are awake, it would seem," came a soft and aged voice.

Beren raised his head a bit more and saw that he and Luthien were not alone in this garden room.

Seated across from them were two persons, a man, and a woman. The woman was of perhaps well over seventy years of age. Her skin was dark, and her white hair bound in a simple braid. In the center of her forehead was a red circle. She was garbed in simple robes of yellow, and a simple necklace of beads.

The man, who looked as ancient as the woman, was rather small in stature, with nut-brown skin weathered and wrinkled by the sun and elements. His eyes were wide, white, and unseeing. Like the woman, he wore simple robes of faded yellow and he sat cross-legged; his stick-like legs layered one atop the other. A long, full white beard hung down to the center of his chest like a waterfall.

The woman gave him a kindly smile, making her face crack into dozens of lines and wrinkles. "Good morning. You and the good lady have been asleep for almost a week now. But that is to be expected, after what you have been through."

"The… others?" Beren asked, through a dried throat.

"Worry not. They are here. Like you, they have been recuperating here. Their loyalty to you is quite commendable."

"Who… are you?"

"It is very fortunate that myself, Lla and the mighty ones were directed to you all," the young woman said. "We managed to rescue you all from those cursed lands. I am Patharti."

"Where… where are we?" Beren asked, his eyelids still heavy.

"Atop the red mountains of Dorne, green tiger," the old man then said, in a strong, accented voice, despite him not looking at anything. "You have endured a great trial, all of you, and yet you have survived. But now, you must rest. Once you are all well, and your wounds have healed enough, you will be taken safely home, to Beleriand. You still have the oath to keep, after all."

The woman stood up, walked over, and set a warm hand upon Beren's brow. "Now, you must sleep. Regain your strength."

Before Beren collapsed back into tired sleep and unconsciousness, he looked upon fair Luthien who lay beside him, her hand clasped in hers.

As he fell back into the world of sleep, faded memories of that great hall loomed in his mind, of the Lord of the Dead's pronouncement, and a tear ran down his face…

52 AC

The Realm of Doriath

For almost a year, the realm of Doriath had been sick with worry and mourning. Every atani, and every elf knew that grief and worry, for the lady Luthien had vanished over a year ago, and no one knew where she was. The king and queen were aggrieved most of all, and it felt as if winter had settled over the land.

As the king and queen held a somber court once again that day, the doors to the court were then thrown open.

All in the court stood as the human Beren Hightower weakly staggered in, Luthien at his side, and the rest of their companions trailing behind them, including Beleg, captain of the Marchwardens, and Jorelle, captain of the Atani guard. Clutched against his side was a bundle of bound cloth.

The human let his green eyes roam over the court before they met the silver eyes of the king. "I bid you greetings, mighty king. I apologize for taking so long to return from the task you set before me. I hope this will serve as enough proof," he said, as he laid the bundle at Thingol's great feet, and unrolled it. He revealed to all…

Impossible.

Thingol shot to his feet in shock at the sight before him.

It was a Silmaril.

One of the follies of Fëanor.

As the jewel shined in the light of the hall, everyone within fell silent.

The king of Doriath looked down upon the kneeling Beren and took in his lined face, and weary form. He looked upon the stump of the remnants of Beren's arm, and at the bandages that covered his form beneath his torn armor and clothing. He saw how his daughter embraced weary Beren. How Beleg stood by the human's side proudly. Then, he reached down one large and mighty hand and… lifted the human to his feet.

"Beren Hightower… I have misjudged you. Truly, you are of a more noble and mighty mien and valor then I had originally believed. For that, I beseech of thee your forgiveness. In addition, … I give you my blessing to marry my daughter."

In front of his court, the King of Doriath bowed his head before Beren. The human and his companions all looked upon the elvish king in wonderment.

The king gave a sad smile to his daughter and her love. "May your love be an inspiration to us all, and may it shine throughout the ages, until the days the stars themselves fall from the heavens."

The human gave a small smile, and then his head lolled back, and he slipped into unconsciousness, borne aloft only by Thingol's hand and Luthien.

"Take him to the Houses of Healing. Make sure he receives the utmost care," Thingol ordered. "And send word to Fingolfin of these developments."

One year Later

53 AC

Oldtown

The Lord of the Hightower

The Bells of Oldtown rung out in clarions, and all its denizens, from the learned Maesters of the Citadel to the beggars and the merchants and the Hightowers themselves awaited with hesitant trepidation. Strange ships had been sighted off the coast and approaching the docks. They bore the symbol of the star of Beleriand.

It was with great confusion and the aforementioned trepidation that Lord Manfred and his heir Martyn waited to the harbor of Oldtown alongside a council and gathering of the lords who swore fealty to the house of Hightower.

"What are your thoughts, my friends, my son?" He asked of his advisors and friends, as the ships drew closer still.

Lord Manderly, a large rotund man, as most of his house were wont to be, shrugged his fleshy shoulders. "I know not, my lord. But I would advise caution against any rash acts of aggression. The elves have given none in the realm no cause to act violently towards them, least of all from us."

"Lord Manderly raises a fair point," added Manfred's septon, a small, thin man with kind eyes named Gaerily. "The Seven teach us to welcome even those who are strange to us with open arms. But welcome should always be tempered with wariness. The elves have given no reason to be acted against, but, at the same time, they are not like us. They are different, strange."

The rest of the gathered lords and septons and maesters added in their own opinions.

Martyn remained silent.

Lord Manfred then signaled for the harbormaster to lower the sluice gate, so as to allow the ships to weigh anchor and dock.

All watched as the lead ship came to a rest at the dock. The prow and figurehead were carved in the shape of an eagle. The anchor was then lowered into the water with a splash.

The gangplank was lowered, and from it descended a face that The Lord of Hightower and his heir had not laid his eyes upon in over twenty years.

His youngest son had grown so very tall, and so very broad in the shoulders. But he seemed thinner and worn by weather and time and experience. He was garbed in clothes of such a fine make that any tailor would look upon them but once, and then burst into tears at such a marvelous example of their craft. Sheathed at his side was a sword that seemed of fine and perfect make. Meanwhile, his golden-brown hair was rather long and pulled back in a simple ponytail. To Manfred's shock, Beren's right arm ended in a stump above where the elbow should have been.

But his eyes… no longer were those green-grey eyes full of youthful defiance and anger. Now they were sadder, more knowing, and tempered. Manfred's own eyes briefly traced over the strange markings on the left side of his son's face.

At his side… was the most beautiful woman that the Lord of Oldtown had ever seen, with a long shower of ebony locks that cascaded down past her waist, and eyes that were a most startling and arresting grey. She was beautiful and perfect.

Her hand was entwined firmly with Beren's remaining one.

For a long moment, not a word was spoken, as father and sons stared at one another as if they were each looking upon a stranger. The only sounds were those of the dockyards, the ocean, and sea-breeze as it danced over their scalps and clothes.

"Father, brother," Beren said, as he slowly knelt before the Lord of Oldtown. "I… I humbly ask for your permission to return home, and I apologize for the words that sent me so far from it in the first place."

Lord Manfred Hightower looked upon Beren for a long moment and then bid him rise, and he warmly embraced him, alongside Martyn. "My son... Welcome home."

They talked long into the night, did Luthien, Beren, Martyn, and Manfred Hightower.

The next day, messengers and ravens and tidings were sent all across the Reach, the realm, and the streets of Oldtown.

The last son of the Lord of Hightower had returned. More than that, he was to be married, to an elvish bride….

Beren Hightower, also known as Beren the Wanderer, is regarded as being one of the Reach's most legendary and beloved figures. Though he never ruled the Hightower, he became much beloved among the smallfolk and lords alike, traits that he passed onto his children, Dior Half-Elven and Aerin Silver-Hair.

Born the youngest son of Mannfred Hightower by his second wife, Emeldir of House Manderly, (whose own mother was of House Beesbury), it could be reasonably thought that, as the youngest of his Father's children, Beren would lead the relatively quiet and unimportant life of a third noble son.

That could not have been further from the truth.

From a young age, it is said that Beren was willful and restless. He would often go out dressed in smallfolk garb, exploring Oldtown, sailing in the Harbor, or even climbing about the buildings and leaping from rooftop to rooftop without a care for safety. He made friends easily and seemed to have few enemies. Though, a note was also made of his temper and propensity to make rash decisions.

From the notes of Hightower's maester at the time, young Beren excelled in the training yard and seemed all but to have been born with a sword in hand. He was stronger, taller, and more adept at combat then boys and men twice his age, including his elder brothers, Martyn and Morgan. Though, oddly enough, the young Beren held little taste for jousting and tournies.

More than any of that, it was recorded that Beren held great love and loyalty to his elder siblings, especially towards his half-sister, Ceryse.

The maester writes that the girl positively doted on her youngest sibling after his birth, and he in turn all but followed her around like a loyal hound its master. He fought duels with squires and knights who sought her hand, or who spoke ill of her.

That did not change when she was betrothed to Aegon I's son, Maegor, who would go done in history as Maegor the Monstrous.

Beren had heard much of Maegor's dark temper and foul deeds and pleaded with his father to not allow the marriage. The pleading soon turned to a quarrel of such tumultuous vigor and wrath that the Hightower seemed to but shake and groan in the wake of Beren's words.

Though he would never reveal what exactly he said in that argument, all Beren would say was that the words spoken were 'ones that could never be unsaid.'

He was then effectively banished from Oldtown, upon pain of death, no less.

From there, he all but fled to Essos.

In that eastern continent, he led a wild and tumultuous life; A mercenary under the Second Sons, leader of a small free company, and many others, including three years spent in the free city of Volantis, the First Daughter… Little is known of his time in Volantis, save that he had been a slave. However, judging from the stripes and tattoos that were described tattooed upon his left cheek and form, it can be assumed that he was most likely enslaved and conscripted as one of the city's tiger cloaks, or perhaps served under a member of the Tiger Party. What is known is that he somehow managed to escape.

After almost twenty years, he returned to his ancestral home missing a hand, alongside a great procession of Grey Beleriand ships (in much the same manner as to how King Jaehaerys Targaryen I returned), and at his side was an elfin woman of unsurpassed beauty; Luthien of Doriath, whom he had wedded in Beleriand. It is said that his father, Lord Hightower, embraced his lost son and his new bride with tears in his eyes. At his father's behest, Beren wed Luthien in a grand second ceremony in the Starry Sept, before the cheering multitudes. The ceremony was attended by Jaehaerys I and his two queens, and even the High King of Beleriand, King Fingolfin.

His wedded life with the Lady Luthien was a peaceful one and was said to have brought great joy through the Reach and the halls of the Hightower, for the couple became much loved by the smallfolk and highborn alike (perhaps too much, some might argue down the line…).

In his final days, when he had grown old, he and his bride (who remained beautiful and vital, as do all elves) set sail in a small boat towards the endless West.

They never returned.

From An Extensive History of the Kingdom of the Reach and its important personages, penned by Maester Farren

Night of the Green Tiger

During the reign of King Aenys, rumblings came from across the sea that spoke of a massive Dothraki Horde. It was said to be almost a million strong and were led by a Dothraki Khal of unsurpassed might, charisma and, worryingly, intellect. This brute, named Drazo, was said to have been born under the red star, in the midst of a raging battle. The mystics and portents of the save horse-riders proclaimed him to be their messiah, 'The Stallion who Mounts the World.' They said that he would wash the world in a tide of blood and destruction and that he would even bring his endless hordes across the sea. He even sacked several cities, including New Ibben. Drazo was said to even employ siege weapons and tactics beyond simply overwhelming the enemy with endless charges.

All watched with fear as he grew ever closer to the Free Cities, and all wondered who would be the first to fall. Sense dictated that it would be Volantis.

But none would ever know.

In the night, with his horde camped but three days away from the walls of Volantis, Drazo died.

What is known, from second-hand accounts and hearsay, was that a lone figure crept into the camps, and, with a blade of pure midnight, slaughtered their way through, with whole groups of warriors falling before his blade, before slaughtering Drazo in his own tent.

All that is known of this figure was that he bore green stripes upon his back and face, like those of a tiger's…

An excerpt from My Travels in Essos. Penned by Maester Wullum

On the field of Ice and Fire, amidst the great and final battle of the invasion of the twisted forces of Morgoth, did Fëanor and his sworn enemy meet in battle. Each kiss of their weapons seemed to but shake the very foundations of the world itself, and all seemed to quail beneath their combined rage, which felt larger than a mountain.

None dared to draw near this fated duel.

All who witnessed it spoke of the first son of Finwë growing to match Morgoth in height and mass, becoming like unto a fiery giant full of wrath and blazing rage.

For what seemed like millennia, but could have only been minutes and moments, their blows were exchanged, each louder than thunder, and their speed quicker than that of the swiftest lightning.

But alas, though Fëanor was among the mightiest of the Elves, his wrath and might was still no match for Morgoth who, though fallen, had still been first in might and power among his Valar brethren when the Creator first sang all of existence into being.

Eventually, Fëanor's limbs tired.

Grond's dreadful head smashed against Feanor's shield, shattering it, and then crunched against Fëanor's arm and chest.

Yet, even as he lay dying from Morgoth's blow, his chest and arm and lungs shattered, Fëanor did summon up the last of his great and mighty strength, and so did he strike Morgoth a most grievous and great and deep cut across his chest and face and brow with Magol, the first sword. The strength of the blow did knock loose from that terrible brow the Iron Crown and the Three Simarils. One of those gems fell and came to rest in Feanor's hand as he died upon that field of ice and fire, but the other two, still set within the crown, were then taken away by Morgoth's fell and evil Servants, along with the still form of their dread master.

So then did Feanor, son of Finwë, die, with a Simaril clutched in his hand, one-third of his dread Oath fulfilled.

Despite his crimes, Fingolfin decreed that his elder half-brother be buried in a gentle glade, perhaps so that he could know in death the peace that he never truly knew in life.

Fingolfin took up Magol as one of his own weapons alongside his sword Ringil, and the Simaril was set into Fingolfin's crown, a burden that he took upon himself, with two empty sockets, both as a hope and a promise.

So then began Beleriand. Kingdom of the misty shores and the Grey ships.

Upon his ascension, Fingolfin bid his nephews, the sons of Feanor, to him, and asked that they forswear their terrible and Dread Oath. Despite the two kinslayings, they were still of his blood, and he still held them, dear, to his heart.

Maedhros, who had lost his hand to the black and frosty touch of one of Morgoth's fell minions in an attempt to reach his father, and Maglor, who bore great sorrow in his heart for all that had been done, were the first to do so, with tears in their eyes, and were followed by the youngest as well.

Curufin and Caranthir, the former being most cherished in Fëanor's heart and the latter being the most alike in temperament, spat upon Fingolfin's offer, for they blamed him for their father's demise. It is said that they took their followers, and went East, across the narrow sea. They were not followed and vanished from sight and memory.

Celegorm, his heart heavy with the many injustices he and his brothers had committed, retreated with his companion Huan, the Hound of Valinor, into the great woods, rarely ever emerging, and living solitary existences.

From The Annals of Beleriand. Penned by Pengolodh, Loremaster of Gondolin, and recounted in Tales of Wrath And Sorrow: A Translation of the Elven Histories, by Archmaester Hull

A/N: Hello everyone. Sorry for the long wait for this chapter. I hope you found it all to be somewhat enjoyable. I am not the best at writing romance, truth be told, but I think I did my best. Thank you for all the love and support you have heaped upon this story so far.