Legion of Light Gaiden: Miracle on a Silent Night

[Flames of Hyperion]

Takes place in the brief respite between Chapters 2 and 3 of the FQ, just before Nariel's call. I wasn't quite sure where to place it, so I did so here... hopefully I'm not out of order. This is a quick solo to summarise Ingwe's participation so far and set the scene for the climax of his war... I hope you enjoy the read ^^.

I awoke this morning to a new day. The nightmarish events of the past few weeks felt like a distant dream under the fresh light. I had not seen such bright skies since we departed from Scara Brae; wan and pale in a wintry effort at cheer, but free and full of hope. They did not last long, a roiling wave of dark clouds arriving to obscure the heavens and heralding an afternoon of cold miserable rain, but at long last they offered a brief glimpse of the optimism that perhaps we are doing something right in this war.

Two months have passed since we departed the island nation, three since I arrived at the northern continent. It numbs my mind to think of all that has happened. I have said this before, and I will say it again… by nature I am a scholar, not a warrior. Even when I first signed up with the Legion, it was only as a translator and as a scribe.

And yet, ever since the Warspite was assaulted and abandoned just outside Anebrilith harbour, time has flowed in terms of one long fight after another. After all we have been through, I count my blessings that I am still even alive. The long journey to the safety of the city, the many skirmishes outside the walls, the desperate battle to hold the harbour, the raid on the lair of the Coven of Six…

I owe so much to Lord Arminas and to everybody else in the Legion for this fact. To Glorfindel and Selinde, who have taught me so much of how to wield a sword and have given me the confidence to lose with dignity in our many sparring sessions. To Telchar and Nogeres, who have helped me to understand and manipulate magic in ways that I would never have imagined. Thanks to them all, I am so much more than the person that I used to be.

I can only hope that this will be enough for the times ahead. Xem’zund’s pressure on Anebrilith may have been temporarily alleviated, but this is sure not to last. Within days, or even hours perhaps, the Necromancer will tighten his grip once more upon one of the last free strongholds in this land. When he does, the Legion will undoubtedly be there to face him… but we have only a fraction of the strength of when we set out from Scara Brae.

It is all I can do now to hope, and pray, that the plans we have set in motion are enough.

Of the strange phenomenon that occurred during the first of our battles upon Raiaeran soil, I have nothing new to report. My pendant remains cold and lifeless to the touch, even more so than previously. I even begin to wonder if the strength that flowed from it and sustained me through those dark hours was but a figment of my imagination.

And yet whenever such thoughts cross my mind, Nogeres’s words come back to me. There is great magic here, he said only a couple of days ago as we sheltered under the rocks preparing to storm the Coven, indicating my accessory as he studied it. But it is not my place to tell you of it…

I wish I had a better idea of what he meant. As it is, his enigmatic phrases simply haunt me relentlessly. In this, I suppose he is little different from the ancient masters of the Academy back home, who would only ever speak in riddle and with no regard whatsoever of whether we understood their intent. No wonder Yamato-sensei and Musashi-sensei were so hesitant to attend official functions…

I wonder what things are like right now in Nippon. The day before I left, Yamato-sensei assured me that reconstruction of the Academy was nearly complete, and that the physical scars of the youma attack were well on their way to healing. The political situation gives me more reason for concern, with instability rampant between feuding daimyo and the creatures of the dark ready to take advantage of any weakness. The Imperial court is merely a puppet of the shogun, who himself is a ruthless and ambitious man. But there are many parties that exist to maintain a precarious peaceful balance, including the Academy itself… and, I suppose, there is very little I can achieve by worrying about such things from here. With any luck, the situation has improved with the reconstruction of the Academy, and all my misgivings are completely unnecessary.

Winter would be setting in just about now, the first blankets of heavy snow falling upon the inland mountains, while the coastal cities bustle with seasonal trade. Those with sufficient wealth would be flocking to the onsen hot spring spas for the warmth and associated health benefits offered by the steaming waters. The snow festivals would be in full swing, citizens and samurai alike competing to build sculptures dedicated to the many kami of the land.

I wonder how my family fare… it has been so long since I saw them last. My sister would no doubt be practicing her dance for the grand New Year’s festival; my brother would be preparing to showcase his goods at one of the many stalls that line the temple grounds. My parents…

~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels

[Flames of Hyperion]

Ingwe only realised that he was rambling when he finished penning the second page of crammed, random musings. He pushed his well-worn glasses back up his nose and sighed to himself; it was not the paper that he was worried about, but the ink. His tome had been magically enchanted such that there was never a lack of pages to write on, but it was exceedingly difficult to acquire decent quality ink in what was essentially a protracted war zone. Not to mention that he was now down to the dregs of his second-to-last bottle.

Flicking strands of dark hair out of his face, he looked up to ease the angry crick in his neck. As he did so, he caught sight of his reflection in one of the many puddles that dotted the muddy earth. A pair of haggard black eyes stared him back, the circles of weariness above his cheeks visible even in the dim glow of the sun through the scuttling rain clouds overhead. His features were somewhat gaunter than he last remembered them, his forehead just a little more lined than usual, although he fancied he caught the remnants of a glimmer of youthful innocence.

Not a handsome face, the Nipponese laughed ruefully to himself. Not even remotely good-looking. But mine.

With another low chuckle, he redirected his gaze to take in his surroundings. His hair and clothes were still damp with the remnants of the constant filthy drizzle that had plagued the lands during the afternoon. His bones ached with the seeping cold, his joints cracking audibly as he stretched out of the confined position that he had remained motionless in for all of the past two hours. Ingwe pulled another face, this one a comical grimace, as he did a few stretches to work the cramps from his body.

The horizon remained obscured by the menacingly evil clouds that had haunted the heavens all day, but here and there patches of bleak light reminded him that yes, the sky was indeed blue. The scenery was rocky and treacherous, austere in its monotonous lack of… of anything of note whatsoever. Coarse grasses and bracken clung to whatever nutrients the thin soil could provide, a rugged carpet of dull greens and browns that looked even more miserable in the dour weather. The snow-capped mountains in the west towered above anything in the vicinity, while a heavy fog obscured the entirety of the forest to the south. Ingwe could not decide whether it was natural or arcane. Given that there was barely a breath of wind heralding from the sea far behind him, it could have been either.

Lindequalme, Ingwe silently mouthed, feeling a shiver run down his spine at the mere mention of the Necromancer’s lair. The Red Forest… the forest of blood.

Closer to hand, the chime of the makeshift dwarven forge assaulted his ears like the clamour of a thousand bells tolling the festivities. The sturdy mountain-folk had insisted on dedicating themselves to their secondary vocations when not called upon for battle, and Telchar in particular had been quietly productive with his hammer and anvil. Many were the blades within the Legion that now bore the distinctive mark of his industry, and quite a few bore a couple of other minor runes besides. The only weapons he had yet to touch were those of elven make, and given that the runelord remained professionally disdainful of the frailty of Raiaeran craftsmanship, Ingwe supposed that this was not necessarily a bad thing all around.

Ingwe readjusted his glasses once again as the dwarf in question emerged from beyond the rain-soaked tarpaulin, the heavy taint of molten coal clinging to the leather apron he wore and overwhelming the musky scent of wet earth. Telchar carried with him two long guard-less daggers of obvious Oriental make, the dark-hued wooden scabbards they wore unremarkable in their design except for a neat silvery scribble at their base.

“Dun,” Telchar declared, offering the swords to the young man. His grizzled brow shone with the sweat of a job well done, but no traces of fatigue from his hours of labour flitted through his voice. “Only took a wee sharpenin’… these ur finely forged blades indeed.”

“Thank you,” Ingwe answered with a slight subconscious bow as he reverently retrieved the weapons from his mentor. He slipped one of the tanto from its saya with a barely audible rasp, smiling softly to himself as he recognised the calligraphy near the hilt. The balance of the weapon felt just perfect, the weight feathery and even in his hands. No doubt Telchar had done his usual quality work.

“Thank you very much,” the Nipponese warrior-mage stated again with obvious sincerity, causing the runelord to flush with pride.

“Dinnae mention it, laddie,” Telchar replied. “‘Twas yer coontrymen who did th’ forgin’. Ah’m only maintainin’ their efforts.”

At the mention of his homeland, Ingwe’s face flickered briefly from its grateful expression. The momentary emotion was well controlled, especially for a human barely twenty years of age, but not well enough to escape Telchar’s notice.

“Ye homesick, lad?” the dwarf asked, wiping his grimy hands on his heavy leather apron and looking his youthful protégé directly in the eye, his words typically blunt. This time Ingwe made no effort to hide his startled reaction, eliciting a dry grin from the runelord and the unspoken admonition, You’re not that good, not yet.

Telchar didn’t wait for the young man to respond, knowing that Ingwe was more than likely to attempt to sidestep the awkward question through glib smile and diffident word. Instead, he sidled over to where he could garner an uninterrupted vista of the mountains to the west, the towering Emyn Naug.

“Mah forefaithers came frae those mountains. Th’ legends speak of a great city buried under those peaks, streets paved of gauld an’ pillars forged frae mithril. In Gunnbad, tis also said ‘at in times of great need, spirits of th’ ancients will rise frae vaults beneath th’ Emyn Naug like an avalanche of vengeance, crushin’ th’ enemies of uir folk like pebbles beneath a runehammer.”

As he spoke, Telchar reached deep into his pockets, rummaging around before emerging with a well-used pipe and a small pouch of weed. It was not long before the dwarf was puffing away contentedly, sending wisps of faint grey smoke curling towards the clouds above. Ingwe subconsciously inhaled deeply of the scent, much preferring it to the harsher reek of the forge. It reminded him of his own father, who had also been greatly fond of such comfort.

“Ah dinnae put much stock in those stories,” Telchar continued between puffs, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. “But ah dae wish tae walk those mountains just once, tae feel solid rock beneath mah feet an’ th’ crisp touch of th’ wind flowin’ doon frae th’ peak upon mah face. Bin a long time since we left Gunnbad… be high time we be headin’ back.”

“Is that why you joined us in Scara Brae?” Ingwe asked tentatively, aware that the august runelord had never spoken of such matters to him before. He felt honoured by the dwarf’s trust. “Safe passage back to your lands?”

“That an’ some, laddie,” was the gruff reply, followed by a throaty cough. It was a sign of the mutual respect between the two that Telchar did not follow up by spitting to the ground, as any other dwarf would have immediately done. Instead, the runelord took the time to clear his mouth on the nearest piece of scrap cloth, which in turn went immediately into the fires of his forge, fuel for the roaring furnace. Ingwe noted this courtesy and again was struck by the honour with which he was being treated.

When the dwarf finally looked up once more, taking another deep draught from his pipe, his flinty gaze was fixated upon the haze of forest to the south.

“If Raiaera falls, it’s nae difficult tae see whaur th’ Necromancer will head next. It be in th’ interest of all civilised peoples… aye, manling, dwarf, elf, e’en durn drow… that Xem’zund nae be allowed tae expain his territories beyond th’ borders of ‘at accursed forest.”

The words were spoken with steely determination, matched only by the set of the stocky dwarf’s bristling chin. Telchar’s flowing grey beard quivered mightily with rage, and Ingwe could almost feel the land quake in resonant response.

Telchar, too, took notice of the silent agreement in the intelligent young man’s eyes. With a grunt of approval he reached up to clap the slender shoulders of the Nipponese, seemingly so frail beneath his massive palm and yet bearing so much of the burden of the world.

“That’s why we fight, laddie. That’s why we fight.”

“That’s why we fight,” Ingwe echoed, his gentle tenor a soft counterpoint to the dwarf’s deep bass as his grip tightened about the hilts of the short swords.

Telchar grinned, taking one last deep draught and exhaling mightily into the evening air. Warm breath mingled with belching smoke as they escaped into the embrace of the chilly sky.

“Hang in thaur, Ingwe,” he ordered brusquely, replacing the pipe deep within the folds of his jerkin and girding his loins in preparation for one last shift at the forge.

The young man replied with a smile and yet another acquiescent nod.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Half an hour later, Ingwe was trudging over the slick moorland, feeling the hard earth jolt jarringly through the thin soles of his shoes with every step. It probably wasn’t helping the young man's pathfinding skills that he wasn’t paying much attention to where he was going, more than once losing his footing to a patch of mud or wandering into gravel and wincing as the sharp rocks dug into his sore feet. Instead, his attention was fixated firmly upon the skies above, and upon the flicker of white that danced there amongst the black of background cloud.

He had been neglecting Hayate recently, Ingwe reflected ruefully to himself. The proud gyrfalcon had been involved in the events so far as much as any Legionnaire, a steady eye in the skies above and a source of much-needed distraction on the ground due to his exotic appearance and nature. He had not complained, but Ingwe could see the stress building up behind the gyrfalcon’s lustrous eyes. It felt good to be able to let the gyrfalcon roam free.

Watching Hayate circling lazily amongst the unpredictable thermals, Ingwe could tell that the great bird felt the same. Snowy wings spread wide like sails to catch the faintest of breezes, maintaining height and position with a graceful minimum of effort, the gyrfalcon was a true prince of the skies. True, he could not match the sheer ferocity of Surion, Lord Elrohir’s gryphon mount; neither did he have the almost mystic nobility of the great eagle Nariel who often brought news to Lord Arminas and the Rangers from around Raiaera. But Hayate was his companion, loyal, dependable, and more clever than most others could comprehend.

As if sensing the warm thoughts from below, Hayate went into a series of tight turns and dipping dives, culminating in a grand stoop that saw the gyrfalcon plummet almost to the ground before soaring back into the evening sky like an intelligent arrow. The aerial acrobatics caused an awed Ingwe to lose his concentration again on the ground, one foot slipping amongst the mossy rocks and sending the young man tumbling painfully. As he picked himself up rather sheepishly, making sure his glasses had survived the fall intact before patting himself down to ensure that the rest of his body remained in working order, he could almost feel Hayate’s mocking laugh from above. Such a contrast they were, oafish master versus graceful familiar.

Gingerly picking his way around the treacherous patch that had caused his fall, Ingwe wondered not for the first time why Yamato-sensei had been so generous as to gift him with such a magnificent bird. Raptors were greatly prized in Nippon, falconry being a favourite pastime of many of the powerful daimyo lords, and gyrfalcons such as Hayate would command the respect and price tag of one far beyond a simple student like himself. Though his former master had warded away any further questions with a curt claim about “how things would all become clear in time”, the statement had served only to pique Ingwe’s curiosity. Much like, he realised, Nogeres’s words regarding the pendant still echoed in the back of his mind.

“What is it with these riddles?” Ingwe muttered to himself, momentarily allowing his frustration to get the better of him. The words tasted bitter upon his tongue. It was one thing to surmise that he was meant to blunder his way towards the answers by himself, rather than merely being fed them by others… but it was another thing altogether to have the confidence necessary to be patient. Not surprisingly, he regretted what he said almost as soon as it left his mouth, identifying it as the product of too much stress and worry, but that didn’t help to assuage his feelings either.

Thinking about Yamato-sensei and Hayate turned his attention back to his homeland, and to Telchar’s words of earlier. It was so easy to fall into the trap of believing that he was the only one to labour under the adversity of being so far from home, although that had never been his intention. The runelord had let him know that he wasn’t alone in that respect; the thought was oddly comforting, although Ingwe felt slightly guilty about it. In an ideal world…

But wasn’t that the whole point of adventure? To venture out of the known, into the unknown? To take gambles, to face danger… to run the risk, every now and again, of such solitude and sorrow?

You’re thinking too much, again, Ingwe told himself with a wry smile, this time neatly sidestepping a puddle of mud before cautiously picking his way through a patch of wet heather. The Legionnaire camp was close by now; he could make out the sentry on the western perimeter, green cloak almost invisible against the bracken background, and the white of the canvas tents beyond. He gave the elf – it had to be one of Lord Arminas’s Rangers, given that he or she was so motionless even in the bone-numbing cold – a quick wave to signify his lack of hostile intent, although he could not make out any sign of acknowledgement from the statue-like silhouette.

You should be worrying about the next stage of the campaign, and how you’re going to contribute to it, he continued in his mind, instinctively ducking as Hayate swept close by overhead. The wind of the gyrfalcon’s passing ruffled his hair pleasantly, although the glare that Ingwe gave his familiar was somewhat less gentle. If only he had wings…

He caught himself in time, and laughed to himself once again. Ingwe, Ingwe, he chided, breaking out into a run. Hayate’s joyful screech from above was almost lost to his ears as he concentrated on pounding the ground beneath his feet. After all, what could he do, but what he could do now?

The dancing lights of the campfires bobbed and bobbled like ornaments cast amongst the barren land as he rapidly closed the distance towards the encampment. The rays of the dying sun were lost amongst the darkness of the clouds above, but there was hope yet in the land below.

[Flames of Hyperion]

The flickering fires created the illusion of an army of shadows, mingling amongst the faded white canvas of the tents in the lee of the wind. The night was silent and watchful, but the camaraderie that echoed from the majority of the assembled Legionnaires was anything but.

The dwarves, of course, were the loudest. Ingwe couldn’t help but smile as they attacked a keg of premium ale – donated from Anebrilithian storehouses, and hauled here on the back of one of Prince Derthark’s sturdiest guards – with the same ferocity as they had taken on the giant necromancer from the Coven. Derthark led his fellows in a rousing chorus of a bawdy drinking song, no doubt as ancient as the tradition itself. It had been a long time since they had last rejoiced such, and though part of Ingwe’s mind warned him of the dangers of making such a racket in what was still technically enemy territory, neither could he fault them for celebrating. Even Telchar had joined in the song, belting out the words in his harsh mother tongue while restraining some of his more boisterous kinsmen by mere presence alone.

On the other end of the spectrum – and on the other side of the camp, as far away from the noise as possible – were the Rangers. Delicate features highlighted by the flames as they huddled closely around their meals, the elves spoke to one another in hushed confidential tones, their conversations ranging from the relatively benign – Selinde’s flirting with Glorfindel, for instance – to the deathly serious. Ingwe’s eyes were fixated on a case of the latter, as he watched Lord Arminas and his two lieutenants, Eru Alqarinque and Aegnor Saeros, talking intently with the mysterious archmage Nogeres.

The young man could not make out much from his position roughly equidistant between the two polar opposites, huddled against a massive boulder in darkness far from any campfire. Once or twice he thought he could place a word or two, “Eluriand” and “Nariel” being prime examples, but on the whole the elves were speaking too fluently and at too far a distance for him to keep up. Not that he meant to eavesdrop anyways, Ingwe reminded himself quietly, turning back to his bowl of soup.

The guttering fires cast randomly shifting pools of light upon his bespectacled face, causing it to morph irregular and angular as he resumed his contemplative observation. Around him in the middle of the camp stretched the bulk of the remaining Legionnaires, the men and women who had joined up to their cause in Scara Brae and were both skilled and fortunate enough to survive this far unscathed. Not for the first time that evening, Ingwe felt guilt attack his soul as he thought of those they had been forced to leave behind in the infirmaries of Anebrilith, and of those who had suffered a far crueller fate at the hands of the forces of Xem’zund. He knew that it was not as if he could have done anything more for them, but… it was just…

He took a small sip of the broth he held to assuage his feelings, the warm liquid seeping through his body like powerful nectar. His stomach settled for the moment, Ingwe took yet another look around the camp. This time, a small but tingling sense of satisfaction tickled his mind. It never ceased to amaze him how easily the old racial prejudices had been set aside in the face of a common foe. True, the dwarves and the elves were at opposite ends of the camp, but at least the revelry was not causing an all-out confrontation, as it had almost done that first night in Scara Brae. It was the way the men and women had overcome their initial inhibitions and learned to approach the elder races as equals rather than as betters, however, that surprised him most. Even as he spoke, Nerdanel was explaining to a pair of grizzled Scarabrian wardens some of the finer intricacies of marksmanship, whilst at the other end of the camp, the huntsman Castor and Taggar the half-ogre had joined the dwarves in their drinking and making merry. What had at first been three separate encampments within the Legion had now seamlessly coalesced into one.

The thought warmed him far more than the soup settling into his empty stomach.

I wonder if Lord Arminas was counting on this to happen, he pondered to himself, reaching down with his free hand to caress the crown of Hayate’s proud head when the gyrfalcon crooned a soft reply. Perhaps it would not have worked as easily if he had not fallen in with the Rangers of the Eclipse and Telchar’s dwarves from Gunnbad, for both seemed far more tolerant of humans than others of their respective kindreds. And yet…

Another sip of the meaty broth, savouring the flavour of the thick liquid upon his tongue. Carefully, Ingwe brought his knees to his chest and drew his cloak tighter about him, trying to trap the warmth of the meal before it escaped into the night. His glasses slipped further down his nose as he settled once more into his little corner of the camp, but he didn’t mind; it was not as if anybody was looking, anyways.

Sudden laughter from the nearest campfire drew his attention, a brawny young man with fine blonde hair and handsome features gesticulating wildly with meaty fists. His companions were roaring with mirth, one of them making a rude gesture that allowed Ingwe to guess at the topic of their conversation. The young man averted his concentration almost immediately; he supposed that it wasn’t surprising, given that the Legionnaires had been fighting in a foreign land with no real rest for nearly nine weeks now, but that didn’t mean that he was inclined to listen. A swordswoman at the next fire down wasn’t very impressed, either. The withering glance she cast in the direction of the blonde brawler was enough to shut him up almost immediately and elicit a small smile upon Ingwe’s face.

… and some things, just don’t change, he recited in a mental murmur, blinking painfully as an erratic flicker of light caused him to be temporarily blinded. Hayate made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a raptorine chuckle, which earned the familiar a reproving glare from his human companion.

Eying the soup he had left in his earthenware bowl, Ingwe came to an abrupt decision. In one long draught the young man drained the warm liquid, culminating in a satisfied sigh as the reviving brew filtered through to his very extremities.

“Shall we?” he asked, setting his bowl to one side and offering his wrist to Hayate. The gyrfalcon gave it a strangely suspicious glance before acquiescing, sauntering daintily onto the proffered limb and gripping the leather padding tightly with powerful talons.

Moments later, like a whisper amongst shadows, Ingwe slipped silently from the encampment.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Halt! Who goes…?”

The voice was youthful, almost childlike. Ingwe recognised it as belonging to one of the handful of dedicated Scarabrians who had insisted on accompanying them from Anebrilith despite their injuries; he had interceded with Lord Arminas on their behalf, arguing that they could not refuse them if they were more than likely to follow the Legion of their own will anyways. The determination of the men and women who had been the subject of the debate had surprised even Ingwe. The Nipponese’s brow creased for a moment as he struggled to remember the name of the young man… Aeneon.

Aeneon’s build was lanky and almost underfed, his face long and sallow. He was armoured in padded leather jerkin and matching boots, a battered skullcap pulled over his dark curly hair and nearly obscuring his wide green eyes. One hand clasped an equally battered heater shield that had obviously been scavenged from one of the Anebrilithian armouries, while the other was wrapped tightly around a shortened half-spear. His movements as he stepped from the shadows were tentative but stealthy; he certainly hadn’t learnt them from the wrong people.

“I’m sorry, si… Ingwe,” he apologised quickly, with a matching sheepish grin, shrugging his thin shoulders helplessly.

“You were just doing your job,” the Nipponese replied agreeably, having known beforehand that there would be a sentry in the general vicinity. He would have been far more concerned if the man had failed to challenge him. Or, in fact, if Aeneon had completed the “sir”. Somehow, that just wouldn’t have felt right.

Ingwe turned to continue onwards, then paused, a sudden thought forming in his mind. He realised that he knew the man from another time, that he recognised the face from some deeper memory… ah, yes. Once upon a time in a forest just outside Anebrilith, when they had been attacked by a band of wights whilst making their way from a shipwrecked vessel to the city gates… the long-faced young man had been with him then as well, and had taken a wound to his shoulder from one of the ethereal blades wielded by the undead warriors. Ingwe shuddered at the mere thought of the injury; young Aeneon would carry it with him for the rest of his life, for it would never truly heal.

“Quiet out there tonight, isn’t it?” the sentry was saying, turning to face once more the rolling plateau of grass and boulder that was his allotted area of duty. The Lindequalme to the fore was once again mostly hidden from view, only a few tall red-leaved conifers visible to be garlanded by the stars above. “But not quiet in a bad way, if you know what I mean. Peaceful kinda quiet… a good kinda quiet.”

“Aye…” Ingwe replied softly, respecting the other man’s need to talk. Sentry duty was a lonely task, and the laughter and merriment echoing from the campfires below didn’t make it any easier.

He had to agree, as well. The atmosphere was peaceful, calm and collected; not ominously looming like it had been ever since he had set foot in Raiaera. It was almost as if the entire war was but only a dream, and that by closing his eyes and snapping his fingers, he would be able to…

“Sir?” Aeneon asked, causing Ingwe to snap out of his reverie with a start and almost spill Hayate from his arm. The gyrfalcon responded with an angry squawk and a nip at thin air that came dangerously close to Ingwe’s ears, snowy wings spread wide for balance and completely inconsiderate of Ingwe's spectacles.

“Please, don’t call me that,” was the Nipponese warrior-mage’s response once he had regained his precarious composure and calmed his familiar, then checked to see that his glasses had survived the battering. “I’m not that high and mighty, really…”

The sentry paused, clearly bemused, then shook his head clear and continued. “May I ask a personal question?”

Again, Ingwe was less than dignified in his reaction. A blink of his dark eyes, followed by a slow nod, almost wary.

“Why are you here?” the long-faced man said, neatly dividing his attention between watching his surroundings and observing Ingwe interestedly. “I mean… why are you even in this continent? Ca… everyone says that you come from a long way away, and that you’re not even… I mean, you are a long way from home, aren’t you?”

The words struck at Ingwe more harshly than they should have, like the beating of a thousand staffs against his defenceless body. Objectively, he knew it was true; in the eyes of Aeneon and the other Legionnaires, he was but a foreigner from a distant land, possibly as strange to them as any dwarf or elf. He knew that they meant no harm by gossip and rumour, that they could do no harm by speculating, and yet…

Ingwe took a deep breath, forcing words from his suddenly choked mouth. “For a reason,” he began, before realising that it was highly unlikely that Aeneon would be satisfied by a half-hearted answer. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it thoroughly, although hopefully without giving too much away. He didn’t need the rumours reaching feverish levels. “I lost something… something very precious to me. I found out that… that it’s somewhere on this continent, now… so here I am.”

The cold wind ruffled his hair violently as it swept over the barren moor, but the knotted chill in his stomach had nothing to do with the weather. He smiled his best disarming smile, keeping his voice neutral and gentle. After all, it was no lie that he spoke; he just had to be careful with his phrasing. As he continued to speak, Ingwe channelled conviction into his words, mirroring the determination that he had once seen in Aeneon’s own eyes.

“I fight Xem’zund because it is the right thing to do… and because, by doing so, I am headed in the correct direction to find what I have lost. Perhaps one day…”

Ingwe shrugged, although it was a shrug of hope rather than one of resignation. Perhaps one day…

“We’re not that different then, after all.”

The sentence caught him off balance again, although this time he managed to keep his footing without upsetting the snowy gyrfalcon that was regarding him with such lustrously golden eyes. Aeneon was once again concentrating on the horizon, his eyes lost in the shadows beneath the brim of his helmet. Ingwe couldn’t make out his expression, but the man’s voice sounded sincere and true.

“I mean, about why we’re fighting the Necromancer. I haven’t lost anything yet… but it’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? We’re doing a good thing here… aren’t we…?”

“Yes. At least, I think so.” And you think so. And everybody else with us thinks so. Ingwe glanced behind him, to the rolling hills to the north and the white city that he knew lay beyond. It felt good to be able to say the words out loud… it felt good to know that he wasn’t the only one to feel that way.

Aeneon obviously thought the same, despite Ingwe’s unconvincing answer. “Thank you, si… Ingwe, si… Ingwe. Makes me feel better about this all now.”

Aye, it does, doesn’t it, Ingwe reflected to himself, as Hayate crooned softly in agreement. Outwardly, however, he was content with just a friendly nod as he left the sentry to his vigil, padding away silently into the night.

[Flames of Hyperion]

It took a while for Ingwe to reach the rocky bluffs that he had forged his way over earlier that evening. Hayate had fallen fast asleep in the crook of the young man’s arm, tucking his proud head beneath a snowy wing so that at first sight he was no more than a ball of feathers. Ingwe fought to suppress a smile at the homely sight, shifting his body such that the gyrfalcon was in the lee of the bitterly cold wind that plagued the moor.

Carefully, the young man tucked his legs beneath him and settled to the ground, feeling the hard rock worrying through his cotton trousers. But it was a choice between that or sitting amongst the damp bracken, which to Ingwe’s mind really wasn’t a choice at all. Nipponese etiquette involved sitting in extremely formal positions for long periods of time, and Ingwe was already well used to the discomfort of hard surfaces on his legs. He smiled to himself as he pulled his cloak close, shoulders battered by the biting air but not feeling the chill that they otherwise would have.

Warm clothes and a good meal… what else does a man need?

For all the contentment that his words radiated, however, a weighty void gnawed at his empty soul. The low lonely moan of the wind as it swept across the barren countryside was the only sound in his ears; it attacked his hair messily and set the heather around him to dancing as he swept his bespectacled gaze over them. A sliver of a crescent moon slipped in and out of the fast-flowing clouds above, casting random vague pools of silky light upon the landscape. Both forest and mountain were present on the horizon, but the immediate vicinity was still that miserably bleak mix of sterile rock and clinging fern.

I wonder if the…

The thought had barely formed in his mind before he had looked up, but the clouds racing overhead were obscuring the majority of the stars from view. The rims of his glasses seemed to frame his disappointment, even as he thumbed his nose childishly at his bad luck. It was a shame, though, since it also meant that there was not enough light to either read or write by, and the scene, picturesque as it was in a wild and desolate sort of way, did not exactly make for inspirational viewing.

On the other hand, Ingwe knew that he couldn’t bring himself to return to the camp. Aeneon had almost put his finger on it when he had mentioned Ingwe’s foreign roots, but somehow it went deeper than that… it was almost as if he fundamentally didn’t quite belong there. Perhaps it was a difference in culture and values, as illustrated by the difference between himself and the boisterous young man who had been bragging about his exploits. More likely it was his own personality at fault; Ingwe smiled softly at that, for he harboured no illusions that he was only half a step away from being a complete anti-social recluse.

The melancholy that had begun to set in earlier that afternoon now swelled to a crescendo, a tidal wave of unhappiness swamping his soul. His throat felt thick and chocked, flushed heat settling in his head. He was aware of the heavy pounding within his mind, distant drums in time to his heartbeat. His surroundings no longer seemed to matter any more, only the series of morose thoughts that had preoccupied him for the past few hours.

Times like this…

It was no secret that sulking was not the answer, and that sitting here on his lonesome would never change things for the better. He knew that he had to make the effort to reach out to the others, to Glorfindel, to Telchar, to Castor, to Aeneon, even to that boisterous young man. He knew that it was up to him in the end, and that if he had yet to succeed, then he could only try again. And yet…

… I need to be alone.

It was an integral part of his character, he supposed. Even in Nippon, surrounded by friends and family, he’d had to retreat to himself now and again in order to consolidate his thoughts and muster his feelings. In his time at the Academy, he’d become so famous for it that his fellow pupils almost took it for granted, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoulders whenever he went missing from a social occasion. Only one person had ever seen fit to track him down and rouse him from his stupors, only one person had ever…

Ingwe stifled an involuntary spasm, feeling the pain wracking his chest at the mere thought of what he now realised had been the happiest days of his life. Quickly he removed his battered glasses from his face, folding them through suddenly blurry vision and tucking them within the folds of his cloak. If he was going to do this, Ingwe told himself, he was going to do this quickly and get it over with. It would not do for his melancholy to infect the men and women, the elves and dwarves making merry in the camp.

He drew the back of his palm across his eyes to clear his vision, determined not to allow them to shed their sorrow. To do so would be a dead giveaway.

Somewhat surprisingly his body obeyed; instead of tears, he experienced only a hollow ache in his chest far more painful than anything else he had experienced before. The sense of loss and hurt was overwhelming, almost too much to bear. His breath felt like it had been ripped from his lungs, the air suddenly thick and cloying as it stuck in his throat. His stomach felt at though it had tied itself in a complicated knot, leaving only pangs of shuddering emotion to quake through his body. The pressure in his chest was so intense, it felt as if his heart would burst with the aching pain.

But still he would not let the flood flow. Instead, it assaulted his mind in the form of bittersweet memories, relentlessly reminding him of things that could have been.

The wind howled again, forlorn and devoid of hope, as it swept past the solitary young man huddled on the ridgeline.

[Taskmienster]

EXP/GP added!

Movement pending JC acceptance.