The Ghosts of Wars Long Past

[Flames of Hyperion]

The stairwell stretched into infinite oblivion, a gaping void to both the heavens above and the abyss below. The spectre could only muster the strength to tackle one step at a time, droplets of ghostly blood smearing in its wake as it dragged its broken body upwards. Still the voice of its hungry longing called out; still the pinnacle of the central spire of Castle Trenyce beckoned. Helpless in its mesmeric grasp the spectre heeded its call.

So it climbed, step by agonised step, flight by never-ending flight. The walls grew slender and elegant, sculpted marble shaped into smooth aspiration. Unlit braziers bracketed every landing, thick grime - undisturbed by its passage - engrained into the slate tiles. Flecks of stardust danced down to observe its progress, only to dart away at its slightest movement.

As it climbed, it dwelt upon the memories dredged from the morass of its turmoiled mind.

Upon surviving the landings at the beaches of Anebrilith, it now remembered that it had thought of her. It had caught sight of her in the exhausted fugue of its dreams, if only the briefest of glimpses, and amidst the wrath and the ruin it had woken anew.

Deep within the tunnels of the Coven of Six, it now remembered that it had missed her the most. Earthen ceilings had pressed down upon it, reeking of the foul stench of death and decay, befouling its mind with dark magic. Only by focusing on the one star in its life had it maintained focus.

On the fields of Nenaebreth, she had fought for it against its worst nightmare. When the enraged daemon had claimed its soul among the ashen corpses of its fallen comrades, she had stood before the abomination and forced it to back away. She had saved it from an eternity of torment, or worse.

Studying the legend of the Tella’karythar, it had dreamed of her again. Its regrets had spiralled into aching pain, and its pain into resolve. Would it hurt to flower and fall, paving the path for a lasting peace? Not if it could save her, too.

In the final assault upon the Forgotten One, she had suffered because of it. The Dread Necromancer himself had projected illusions of her gruesome death into its mind, again and again until it broke beneath the strain. In the aftermath of their pyrrhic victory it had stumbled northwards, her bloodied body all it could see, the instinct to run to her aid all it could feel.

The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. The key it needed to unlock its sanity, the balm that would soothe its anguished heart, had resided within it all along.

Who am I?

Scholar. Mage. Warrior. Student. Thinker. Advisor. Harbinger. Spectre.

Last Crusader. Dawnbringer.

Ingwe Helyanwe, he who bridged the skies. Nanashi, the nameless foreign wanderer. Xuan Hredgarsson. Yann.

Nothing. Everything.

In the end it remembered. He remembered.

In the end only one thing mattered. Only she mattered.

Tears poured unchecked upon his broken face, impacting the dusty tiles like meteors.

If Zundalon fought for justice, and Pode for love, and Maeril to mourn a memory... did that make him, who fought only to please his selfish ego, a villain?

Did it even matter?

If only he could see her again.

He climbed, and he climbed, until he could climb no more. A lonely door blocked his progress, secured from the outside by a simple latch. With the gentlest touch of his mind, he lifted it free, nudged it open.

It swung inwards on rusty hinges.

[Flames of Hyperion]

He did not find her there. He had not expected to. She had lived only in his dreams, an ideal he dared never fight to attain, long before the cesspits of Timbrethinil had spat him back to undeath.

But he did curl up in the last lingering vestiges of her long-gone presence, clinging to her memory as a drowning child might cling to driftwood.

There, they found him.

The onset of dawn heralded the beat of powerful feathered wings, flashing past the window in swift-moving shadow. Moments later he heard voices upon the stone walls, and footfalls upon the tiled floors, and the creak of the oaken door swinging open to its fullest.

“Ingwe?” His name, spoken like a summer breeze through the vaulted rafters, roused him from his reverie. An ancient elf in flowing ivory robes towered over him, the glow from the tip of his staff illuminating the many lines upon his wisp-thin brow. “Is it you?”

“As far... as I can be certain.” Hesitant, the spectre squinted through the light. His senses focused upon the visage of Ecthelion Seregon, Prince and High Archmage of Tor Elythis, the one mage of all his erstwhile comrades who might have perceived his resurrection. Did his luck hold? Or did his old teacher come to cleanse him, once and for all? “I sense... I sense my body, wandering the far north through blizzard and avalanche. Chased eastward by daemon and by nightmare. Inhabited by something hollow but purposeful. I... I am me, but not me.”

Ecthelion nodded, as though he understood all, as though it mattered not. Snow-white hair settled in a breeze that Ingwe could neither feel nor hear.

“We came as soon as we dared. The departure of the First Ecthelion gave us our first opportunity to retake Trenyce in many years.”

The First...

“So... Maeril spoke... the truth...”

The archmage shook his head, eyes of pale lilac-blue tinged with sorrow. “As far as we can tell, only in part. High Bard Golan gave his life of his own volition, and his noble sacrifice saved many in the ages to come. But at least one shard of his spirit survived. Untethered by its soul it festered, growing to become the Maeril Thyrrian that we know today. He is an abomination who bears no resemblance to his illustrious forebear, wielding the High Bard’s skill at magic and the arts of the bladeknights of old for the most evil of purpose.”

Within Ingwe’s thoughts, another piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Even if only half of what Ecthelion had told him was true, then it came as no surprise that neither the Princes of the Elythian League nor the High Bard Council in Eluceliniel had dared to attack Maeril. No wonder Trenyce had held out for so long even after Xem’zund’s demise.

“While we are alone, Ingwe,” Ecthelion changed the subject, softening to a conspiratorial tone, “would you allow an old elf one small courtesy? I doubt that I could ever allow myself to say this within the earshot of another, but it is important to me that I do so now. As a certain young woman once berated me, I owe you at least this.”

He took a deep breath, inhaling of the first rays of the newborn sun. “Ingwe Helyanwe, I am sorry. For all that I have done. I am sorry.”

The spectre blinked, owlish surprise glinting behind his battered spectacles. For the most fleeting of heartbeats, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the naive young man who had perished in the Timbrethinil.

“You have nothing to be sorry about, Lord Ecthelion,” he answered at length. “I chose my own path, in full knowledge of what you, and I, would have to do afterwards.”

“And yet I never had the chance to tell you this. How much we owe you. How much it has preyed on my mind that we could save neither your body nor your spirit after your greatest deed.” Ecthelion’s breath trembled as he exhaled. “Please, accept this old elf’s apologies.”

Ingwe inclined his head, unsure that he could say anything more, deciding upon graceful acceptance as the most courteous course of action. The archmage leant upon his staff in turn, weary beyond the measure of the world, watching through slit window as the sun crested the horizon.

“Do you remember the words you spoke to me, the night before you fought Xem’zund?”

The spectre did. “A land of peace does not need the heroes of war.”

“Do you still believe in them?”

“I do.”

“And if I were to tell you that we failed you? That we have yet to find true peace in these lands, despite all that we asked of you, despite all that you sacrificed in our name? Would you despise us?”

Ingwe had known what Lord Ecthelion would ask of him. Now he wondered how much time he had left. How much more power he could expend before he faded from existence. Whether the madness would take him, as it had done the shard of High Bard Golan’s spirit that had become Maeril Thyrrian. The death knight’s words resonated in his mind, prophetic and vile.

For such is the fate of those who fall beneath the spell of the elves.

Banishing them, he thought of what she would do in his stead.

Blank irises hardened.

“How may I be of service?” he asked.

“Save Raiaera,” the ancient archmage replied.

[Storm Veritas]

CLOSED - Submitting to Workshop

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[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

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