“You are…?”

“Eldarion,” the elf replied. He was a newcomer to their ranks, Ingwe realised, with the olive skin and dark hair that characterised High Elves of a less city-dwelling nature. He did not speak with the distinctively mellow Elythisian accent, which indicated that he was one of the handful that had come out of hiding since they – the Legion of Light – had liberated Nenaebreth from the forces of Xem’zund. “I am pleased to meet you, Ingwe Helyanwe.”

It was a funny feeling. The young man was just that… a simple warrior-mage of no particular renown, who had somehow managed to make some small name for himself as one of the leaders of a volunteer resistance movement… and who had no idea how that happened. On the other hand, although Eldarion seemed to be on the young side for an Elf, he would still be over a century of age… a relative eternity to the human.

“It feels strange that everybody seems to know my name,” Ingwe admitted with a wan smile, brushing his own black hair from where it hung over his spectacles. Long months had passed since he had last trimmed it, and he was starting to get annoyed with how it interfered with his vision… although he supposed he should count himself lucky to be able to even think of such petty irritations.

“But of course!” the Elf protested, spreading his thin arms in remonstration. His youthful frame had the look of one who had been starved once too often, emaciated and gaunt and only just beginning to fill out again courtesy of the granaries and warehouses abandoned by the former occupants of Nenaebreth.

“Next to Godhand Stryker and the Lady General herself, your name is possibly the most renowned in the context of this war,” Eldarion explained, puzzled at how taken aback Ingwe looked. “At least,” the elf corrected after a slight pause and after careful consideration, “in this part of Raiaera…”

“I haven’t done anything compared to them,” Ingwe replied gently, neatly deflecting the praise he knew to be undeserved. “Lord Arminas, Lord Turgon, Glorfindel even… but not me.”

Eldarion wanted to continue protesting, to convince the young human otherwise, but something about the bleak ruefulness of Ingwe’s smiling expression stemmed the words in his throat. Instead, the elf took two steps forward to join his companion at the edge of the ramparts, gazing out upon the bleak wastelands that had once been Timbrethinil Forest, and the low-hanging blood-red sun that bathed the horizon in murderous crimson. The crisp first-of-spring breeze carried with it still the unmistakable taint of necromantic corruption, lingering in the back of his head like an unpleasant aftertaste.

“What will happen next?” he asked Ingwe, almost as much to reassure himself of the sound of his own voice as to hear what the young man had to say. The outlander paused to think, carefully measuring his reply.

“… I don’t know,” Ingwe answered at long last, the honesty of his words conflicting with the instinctive desire to provide reassurance. “North to Timbrethinil and Galonan… back east to relieve the siege of Anebrilith… westwards to join up with Lady Celiniel at Eluriand… or even southwards to strike at the Lindequalme… It could be any of these, or something else entirely. We’re waiting for better information before we act…”

Sandwiched as they were by enemies in all directions, their next move would be crucial; the desperate need to act before it was too late had to be weighted against the dangers of making the wrong decision.

“… there’s so much to do…” Eldarion murmured, daunted by the sheer scale of the task that lay before them. “And we’re the only…”

“We’re not alone,” Ingwe interrupted firmly, banishing the line of thought before it could take hold. The unsaid ‘hopefully’, however, hung heavily over their heads.

“We weren’t alone when this began, either…” Eldarion returned darkly. Ingwe noted the pained trauma in his unnaturally mature gaze, the sheet-like whiteness of his features and the beads of sweat trickling down his forehead. “But one by one we fell or fled… one by one the screams grew silent…”

The elf’s grip tightened upon the wooden handholds, and he frantically warred against the dreadful subconscious tremors that the painful memories triggered in his body. Ingwe reached out to clasp a slender shoulder beneath his palm, broadcasting his presence reassuringly to the distressed Eldarion. Little by little the shakes subsided, as the shadows of the two young people sprung to life beneath the growing influence of the daybreak sun.

“No matter,” the elf breathed at last, having conquered his fears for the moment being. Eldarion turned to the western horizon and the first light of the day, his face pale and weary but fierce and determined.

“A new sun rises, bathed in crimson,” he whispered to Ingwe, his voice still weak but underlined with thinly strung resolve. “The time for defeat and for mourning has passed… that sun represents our retribution dawning.”

Eldarion paused, his features set in grim countenance.

“We shall teach the enemies of Raiaera the folly of their ways,” he finished, unsheathing his sword. To Ingwe’s eyes, it seemed as if the naked blade was now bathed in blood.