NationStates Jolt Archive

Rimashka, daughter of a disgraced noble, servant, slave in general to the Empire, sighed to herself as she weeded her tiny plot in the Nenyan Grounds. Oh, what a delight the scent of all those flowers were... and yet, she was unhappy. She had no right to be, of course. She knew this.

But she was still unhappy. Unavoidable, really. Rumours of new wars. And the Imperials had promised that there would be no more; the Conquest War had ended ten years prior. Surely that was the end of it...

...but there was worse. Rumours of... debauchery in the Imperial Court. Of course, it couldn't be true. It was... But it couldn't be. Nenyans wouldn't do that sort of thing - they were too noble. But the underclass was getting ideas, Rimashka knew, beyond their station. It will only get worse, she sighed to herself... and cursed quietly under her breath, immediatley begging forgiveness for such a terrible thought.

After all, it was rumoured that some of the Nenyan folk could even read thoughts. Rumoured... but likely not true.

She hoped.

A voice called out to her; from across the way, as the saying went. She smiled; beamed, in fact. Grinned from ear to ear; the Stars could not deny that.

Still, ever-careful, she wiped the soppy smile from her face, and turned, standing gracefully as she was required by law to do.

Her response, demure, quiet, hushed... and loving, to any ear that knows it, "Yes, my Lord?"

The Crown Prince was an oddity for a Nenyan. Blue eyes, blond hair... anyone to look at him would think he surely was not whom he claimed to be. But it was truly so. The runt-Prince, some had called him, at birth... but those voices had been, quite literally, silenced. A tongue cut from the mouth is surprisingly efficient.

"Come," he states firmly, trying his hardest to be... normal. Yet they do not. As they turn, to walk away, each opposing hand of the two secret lovers brushes... and then clutches, for a moment.

Across the way, so to say, eyes watch. And make a note on a tiny piece of crumpled paper, to be left on the Emperors bedside stand: 'Beware the bolt from the blue, dear friend, for the day has certainly come when the Sun has turned cold. - TF'

[OOC: A few hours after the last post... (bare in mind that this all happened -100 years from the present day)]

IC:

The Emperor awoke in his bed; a normal state of affairs, of course, but not this day. This day would be different; he knew it. The Emperor sighed. It wasn't every day that such a high responsibility presented itself; preservation of the Empire; in fact, those people beneath him who believed they held the true power had no idea of what was to come.

He hoped.

Rolling over, he snorted as he noticed the letter on the bedside stand. Groggily, he called out, "Nira, there's a letter here. Did you fetch it?"

No response. He snorted. Not a surprise... lazy sow was most likely snoring, in his arm chair, no less.

Reaching over, he grabbed the note and uncrumpled it, scowling and squinting at the barely legible type:

'Beware the bolt from the blue, dear friend, for the day has certainly come when the Sun has turned cold. - TF'


The Emperor's heart went cold in his chest; no, he thought weakly, even as he struggled from his bed to go to the window....

...a few strides, and he was there. A deep breath; a sigh. Nenyans seem to like to sigh. His eyes rove across the landscape outside; the lake, the sky, the land. The three promises; the three oaths. All important.

"The Empire must survive," he whispered beseechingly to the sky-

-too late. The bolt from blue arrives, and, without a thought of remorse or regret, embeds itself in the Emperor's skull.

Simit Denjari ux-Rihad, last of the First ux-Rihad Dynasty, was dead.

* * *

Below, the man wielding the crossbow snarled at the guards who advanced, swords raised, ready to strike.

But the voice came from the Lords Tower;

"Cease! That man is a patriot! The Emperor and the Empire was a falsehood! Long Live The Commonwealth!"

The words boom out across the Way, the guards shuddering in the face of the application of the Voice of Command...

...slowly, the swords lower.

And the Ma-tekian Commonwealth was soon to be born.

Rimashka had been, naturally, the one place where she felt safe: in her lovers arms. The screams of the attendants whom found the body, some minutes after the guards had lowered their weapons and calmly walked away, ignoring the cross-bow toting assassin that was making their getaway, brought both her and the Crown Prince up short, however.

Silence fell upon the pair; a finger to a pair of lips, and the silence is gently enforced.

"Shhhh," the Prince murmoured, reaching under the mattress slowly, fingers curling around the hilt of his ever-nearby blade.

Quietly, the Prince unfolded himself, standing - still a finger on his lips to indicate quietness - and opened the door...


...to a silent, empty corridor. "What the-," the Prince got out, but the shadow cast upon the opposite wall cut him short. He ducked back inside the room, slamming the door and turning to his love...

...as a bolt embeds in the outside of the door. "My dear," the Prince gets out relatively calmly, considering, "it would appear that we need to make a sharp exit."

Rimashka is never one to hedge. "Damned right," she murmoured, not bothering with her clothes - except to gather her scabbard and short sword in a fluid, smooth motion. The sword rings out, freed of its constraints... the scabbard drops to the floor, unwanted.

The door thuds, rocking in its hinges. The Prince and Rimashka are only mildly aware - they stand still, in the centre of the room. Silent. Perhaps considering how to escape...

* * *

The door swings open halfway, only to find an empty room. "What the devil," the head guard muttered under his breath, swinging the door open fully and stepping inside...

...Nothing. Not one person. Clothes lay on the floor, scattered... a scabbard... a used bed... but empty, besides. The guard swallows fearfully - success is to be rewarded, but failure...

...failure is not expected. The guard slams his teeth together, whispering, "I'm sorry," to a person unknown as he crumples to the ground.

A foot pokes the insensate body. "Fool," mutters an unseen but all-to-clear voice - the same voice that halted the guards outside the Tower.

The High Lord Relatta Menjda forces the partly-closed door open, banging it hard against the corpse that propped it half-closed. He scowls. Alot. And then-

He looks mortified at his own stupidity. As well he should. Loudly, "Oh, great STARS!"

He turns, and runs out of the room, hell for leather down the corridor...

* * *

The Prince, and Rimashka, are well away by now. The Gift had served them well; Nenyan Blood solves, as the saying went. And it certainly had. Rimshaka allowed herself a grin to her lover as they darted, barefoot (and bare of most things, actually), down the dusty road to their hopeful freedom.

The road carried them for weeks on end; they knew nothing of events behind them, and little of what to expect ahead of them - neither had ever left Nenya, after all. Slowly, but surely, they headed North... they didn't entirely know why, but something seemed to be right about that direction; a strange sensation, to be sure.

Onwards and onwards they went; their feet blistered, their eyes sore from wind casting up fines from the dusty roads that criss-crossed the Empire.

Sleep was a problem; little of it was available, and considering the taxing nature of the journey - and the lack of places to stop - it surely was no surprise when, after six days of this travel, they collapsed at the roadside, breathing heavily, feet and palms bloodied.

Gasping for air, Rimashka lay back on the dusty road - something she would never have dreamed of just a week prior - and sobbed quietly at the injustice of a world that promises everything, and then takes it away - not once, but twice.

Rimashka had been born a farm hand; a Nenyan farm hand; a fate worse than death to some. The scorn had been terrific; Menjda House members were rarely involved in anything so... so... disgusting.

And it was. She hated it; her breeding dictated otherwise. And so, apparently, did her parents; their star was a rising one, albeit slowly, and by her twelfth birthday she knew luxury.

A lucky lass, by all scales; but this luck was not, it would seem, to last. On her fifteenth birthday the Imperial Guard knocked down her parents door; killed her protesting brothers; and dragged their father away.

The next day, his head was displayed on the Gate.

The daughter of a traitor - although she never knew in what way her father was a traitor - she found nothing, and asked for nothing. Shunned, she eventually was 'conscripted' as a gardener; the Empires answer to unemployment. Strange, really. The one assasination attempt in the Empire's history had been by a gardener...

...and yet, she found this fantastic. Delirious with joy - and with a feeling of acceptance she had lacked for nigh on seven years - Rimashka did not think for a moment of running away from her duty, as many others of her time did.

No. And she grew to love her garden; and for her love of her garden, the Crown Prince had grown to love her. And through that? Through that, her star had been rising; she may one day have even been Queen - Nenyan Emperors had no restrictons, not even those of Society. Now the Crown Prince was no longer the Crown Prince, however...

She was screwed.

And so, she sobbed.

After this emotional, somewhat painful interlude, the pair resumed their journey. Some hours afterwards, they stumbled into the town of Rhia - which lay on the banks of the River Rhia, which in turn joined onto the major River Shelbattanu. From there, one could travel almost anywhere in the Empire via the waterways; but they had no such intention. Instead, they stumbled towards shelter; an inn, specifically.

The creaking oak door swung open, and twenty heads turned to look; not a good start. Cries of, "The Prince!" immediatley go up, despite the fact that said Prince looks very little as he did just six days ago; but then again, Imperial Imagery is rarely accurate at any rate. And the sword that hangs at his waist is a rather large, obvious clue; it is clearly Nenyan, with its ornate, long hilt, and slightly curved wickedly serated blade.

The Prince, for his part, pushes himself between the inn and his lover, his sword ringing out as it looses from his scabbard...

...but the effort is wasted. The innfolk surge around them, hugging them, lifting the Prince onto their shoulders; Long Live The Prince! they cry, tears streaming down many faces.

It would seem that things have changed a great deal in six days...

...or not.

After some conversation - and celebration - it becomes clear that this is a Rihad stronghold. Rihads are... always loyal, or almost always loyal. Strong, good Blood - the Prince says.

The innfolk agree; they nod their heads, faces aglow as they gather around the fireplace, and exchange their stories of the rebellion:

"Oh, aye, it was fierce, the fighting: they took Rhea, and Shelbattanu, and then we retook them! But it didn't last. The lines broke when Tek fell; I don't know why. I suppose everybody just felt there was no point fighting with the Prince gone..."

"It was awful; blood in the streets, yes. I was in Tek when it fell..."

And so on. Bloodletting seems to have been fierce the last six days; and the Prince sighs, eventually retiring to a corner of the inn with his lover. Quietly, they sit, each holding a hand under or over the others; shivering gently, despite the heat that they are not quite used to anymore.

And they gaze. Into each others eyes. Sadly. Their home, their mutual home, where they were both born, both brought up, and both grew to love lies in ruins; Nenya has fallen, in all its glory. But apparently, the city does remain; a few loyal subjects have been exiled there, for example - and the new order, this so-called Commonwealth is not interested in the old seat of power. Happy to 'let it rot', apparently.

Quietly, the two grieve for their lives; for their Empire; and for their future.

And for what seemed like the longest time in their memories, so they remained.

* * *

Elsewhere...


High Lord Relatta Menjda paced the corridor outside his Throne room. He was now the sole leader of the Ma-tekian Commonwealth - and trouble was at hand. The damned rebels in Ax-turath - loyalists - were proving a handful and a half, to be sure. It would be a long, difficult campaign. Perhaps easier to withdraw, keep Ma-tek alone.

Nenya could go to hell, for all he cared. The city was the very symbol of his hatred; a hatred that had lasted a very, very long time.

Relatta was not a young man. He was close to one hundred thirty years old - quite old, even for a Nenyan. Especially a lesser Nenyan, from House Menjda. His rise to power had been a difficult one; from slave to High Lord, at the Emperors bidding.

Of course, nothing had changed. He was still just as much a slave as before; no more freedom, except the trappings of richness. Which he hated, and ignored, with a righteous sense of correctness - but then, the fanatic may always afford himself such luxury.

Driven, he had been; his rise through the Court a difficult one, involving quite a few... suspicious... deaths. And manipulations of the Imperial Ladies, too. Naturally, the power laid with them...

...as had the High Lord.

Of course, they were all dead now. Killed in the initial overthrow - the entire Imperial Family ought be dead....

....if it were not for the eighteen who had survived - of three hundred nobles - then the High Lord would have a certain amount of comfort in which to enjoy the rise of his House to power.

Menjda was now a force to be reckoned with, he mused. Perhaps... perhaps one day they would retake Ax-turath. But for now...

"Garett! Send out the order: We're withdrawing from Ax-turath and Ma-Nenya entirely. They're worth more trouble than we can handle right now."

Garett bowed his head in acknowledgement - and he had not been there a moment ago. The boy had a habit of sneaking up on his Lord that ought be curbed, Relatta mused silently.

Then his mind shifted; what lay beneath the Palace? He would probably never know. Oft he had tried, as a High Lordling (not a young lord, but a High Lord who has not been Confirmed yet), but to no avail; once he had assumed his duties, it had become impossible.

He had always been too busy. But perhaps an expedition, some day, could be arranged.

"Yes," he decided, forgetting - as he had a thousand times already - that he had set up a Council to decide such things.

But what does a Council matter to the High Lord of The Commonwealth of Ma-tek?

...alot, allegedly, considering the Council was the very reason the uprising had happened. Conveniantly, Relatta forgot this.

Unconveniantly, he would regret it.

In Nenya....



A small boy cowers beneath the Arch of Lies, questioning why his parents had to be slaughtered. The blood on his hands, his clothes, and his face are a testiment to his grief; no tears smear the bloodstains - they are not needed, amidst his already-poignant pain.

Sobbing without tears or sound, the boy cries to the heavens above, "WHY?!"

And then, eerily, he rocks back on his heels once, and stands. And walks away.

In Turath...

...the residents point skywards excitedly as the storm-clouds brew. Yet it is not the season for such things; a cause for alarm - or, for the more dull-witted, excitement.

The varied reactions, however, are cut short by the Victory Bells crying out triumphantly; those bells are only (traditionally) rung on the eve or the after of a great battle that has been won.

Some of the people begin to cry, sobbing freely at the thought that the Empire they love is returning... but it is not, and this quickly becomes clear.

Looting follows the news of The Fall, and the beginning of the Long Night is a harsh, and violent, and dangerous one.

* * *

An old woman screams and cries out aloud at the injustice of it all as a gang of violent men carry off her daughter...

A man beats his father to death, safe in the knowledge that nobody will care...

A pair of closed hands relentlessly beats a screaming child, without fear of prosecution or shunning...

...and all for the dream of one misguided man.

* * *

The violence quickly spreads; brother turns against brother throughout the once-happy kingdoms of Ma-tek and Ax-turath; quickly, local feuds resurface, as town folk attack mountain folk - and wood folk attack homesteads, fearful of a lack of supplies;

Traitorous military units break away from their army, rampaging through the countryside, and stealing whatever they please;

War, strife, violence and fear cut through the Empire-that-no-longer-is like a relentlessly cutting scalpel, reaching for its still-beating heart...

...but oddly, the violence creeps around Ma-Nenya, barely touching it. Slowly, the Great Exodus begins - people leave the city, cursing its name as they grow hungry and tired.

But Ma-Nenya continues to sparkle like a jewel in the midday sun; it cares not for the affairs of Men.

But deep in its heart, something snaps; and a little boy gets the sense that something is forever broken.

And that little boy decides with all his heart that he must see the day when it is fixed - even if he does not know what that means.

The little boy shivered at the cold as he huddled inside the Palace. The heating system had been smashed, probably by the revolutionaries - hateful, hateful people, he thought vehemently. He clutched the sword that he had taken from one of the (many) corpses lying aroundabout in the Palace - a highly ornate affair, with an image of a Nenyan wood wolf carved into its hilt - but it was not particuarly heavy. He had no idea what it was made of - but it was gloriously light, and it brought him comfort, somehow.

Shivering violently, he decided to stand and move around - maybe it would get the blood flowing.

His footsteps echoed loudly down the corridor as he headed towards the Outer Door and the outside - a strange thing to do when one is cold, but he somehow had gotten it into his head that it would be warmer outside. And, actually, it might well be, if he could find a warm spot somewhere on the outer wall.

Except it wasn't. The sun had not warmed the walls of the Palace enough for them to sustain any useable heat during the night - and so, shivering, he slid down the wall and began to cry uncertainly.

Time passed, and the young boy slipped in and out of consciousness, only escaping hypothermia at the Stars whim, seemingly...

* * *

A hand clamped on his shoulder, shaking him. Eyes blink open, and the boy cries out at the pain of frozen lids snapping open-

And a female voice asks, worry clear in her tone, "What are you doing out here, little one?!"

The boy looks up, tensing despite the softness of the tone, his neck creaking alarmingly - how he is not dead is a mystery to the woman.

Correction: to the Nenyan woman. The boys eyes take in the amber eyes, and he relaxes - partly. Nenyans are always nice, after all.

Quietly, the woman huddles down next to him, folding him up in her warm arms - despite his slight reluctance. However... the offer of warmth wins through, and he relaxes, shivering mightily.

"Now then," she says quietly, "are you going to tell me your name?"

The little boy judders and shivers still, but manages to croak out from dry lips, "S-s-si ux-Rihad, m-m-ma'am."

The woman - actually, the girl, as she is not really all that older that little Si... but to his eyes, she is a woman - lets out a little ahhhh sound, and huddles closer. "And what are you doing out here, Si? Where are your parents?"

Si just shakes his head stiffly.

"Oh," she whispers, instantly understanding, "I'm the same," she mutters.

A time passes without words; the two merely rest, sharing their body heat and mutually being warmer thanks to it.

Finally, the girl-woman speaks again. "I'm Bao," she whispers.

And so went the first meeting of Bao Ling and Si ux-Rihad; at first, they stayed in place, huddled together for warmth.

But eventually, as is the universe' wont... they were forced to move on, despite the utter comfort and serenity of their spot. Hunger drove them to search; and search they did. Slowly, they were driven towards the Lake - Lake Nenya, the Lake of The Ring of Water - and its comfort. Bao fashioned a fishing rod, of sorts, and so they were fed. But again - as is the universe' wont, things were not set to last. For on the sixth day of their fishing stay, they were set upon by ruffians, desiring to steal whatever the small pair had about their persons - which, to be told, was much indeed; Si wore about his neck a necklace beset with the Sigil of Fire - and few indeed of these were made. No powers did they have, but many believed them so; and so...

"Hand it over, 'fore I run ye through with my painstick, littlun. If ye know whats good for ye, ye'll listen, and rightly so; I am Rijatti, the Painbringer - and you will be dead if ye do not comply."

Bao's jaw stuck out obstinatley, despite her bubbling fear; tears rolled down her cheeks, but to no avail - her spirit was too strong to give in.

"No!" she cried, with the rightousness of the right - and so, the sword came down, slashing across her cheek.

Blood welled forth, slowly, a testiment to agony and violent threat; and Si ux-Rihad could stand no more.

He, too, was frightened - but not to such an extent that his borrowed blade did not free itself from its scabbard, and embedded itself in the nearest ruffian. "Back, scoundrel!" he cried, with valour he did not truly posess-

The ruffians surged forwards, swords up-raised to do great harm to the pair-

But a strong, hardy voice did cry: "Halt! Halt if you value your life, scum, for I am the Lord of the Lake, and you... you are in my land."

Turning as one, the ruffians faced a man of armour and clear skill; his sword held before him, steady, eyes burning bright with an amber fire that seemed to urge the ruffians very souls to challenge him...

...but challenge they did not. Cowards rarely fight when challenged; and these were no exceptions.

For they fled.

Through sobbing, painful lips, Bao did cry, "Who goes there that saves us pair!"

Her eyes were full of tears; she could not see, and a great part of her did not want to: her ears were not listening, you see, before, and she had not heard the man state his title.

Si bent to knee; and in a trembling tone he asked with all the nobility he could muster, "My Lord, my life I owe to thee. Pray tell why thine sword was raised for our sakes, alone?"

The tall, valiant sword-beared bent to knee as well; and with a strong, but quietly gentle voice, he did say with equal nobility, "Little one, you were undefended, but had great courage. And courage above all is rewarded; the Stars reward those who face their fears, and your fears were faced with all possible aplomb - no debt to me do you owe, and to your feet I beg you rise."

Bao muttered quietly, "Your name, good sir?"

The man, remaining on one knee, quietly returned with: "I am Semi Ran, Lord of the Lake, and Keeper of Nenya. My Lord, the Emperor, is gone; the Empire is destroyed; but nowt may take a name from a man but his own good will - and my name remains Lord Semi Ran, Keeper of Nenya."

And so went the meeting of Bao and Si and Semi Ran.

And Semi Ran led them north, towards the Lake Nenya, despite the minor troubles that were sweeping through the slowly emptying city. Semi Ran spoke often on the journey, telling them of things that later they would not long remember; but one thing did stick in their minds, and would for many years to come:

"The world is a ball; but not a circle. Past experience never proves the future, little ones. Never forget that. Our Emperor (May He Live Forever!), I fear, did so. I advised Him much the same-"

Semi Ran halted. "Well, I told him similar, once."

And that was that. But the thought nagged at the pair: what was Ran going to say, before he halted? What mystery was he witholding? As children do, the two resolved to discover it... and set about prodding the Lord of the Lake towards an answer.

"What were you going to say, about the Emperor?" they would ask...

...but to no avail. Semi Ran was too long in the tooth to be outwitted, too; trick questions that lead in circles (and the pair became good at that, as a result of this trying mans ability to avoid issues) and came upon the true question without warning did not release one iota of information.

Quickly, they despaired of discovering the secret - whatever it was. But Bao had an inkling - it was something to do with this mans age, she was sure. He didn't look... right, somehow. A gleam in the eye spoke of wisdom built over too many years, to her piercing gaze - she had always posessed that, to the irritation of her parents - and despite his claims to be only fourty, he seemed to know so much about the past...

"There, upon that hill, is the place where Alratti finally laid his head to rest after the Battles of Reiki," he would say, with a knowing - and, Bao would swear, nostalgic - smile.

But he would say aught more about it, if prodded.

And they tarried not; they walked afar and afield, and over field and fell they marched, talking as they went. And upon the Amon Aelinar, the hill outside the lake, they gazed upon the ever-rippling, ever-singing surface of the Aelinenya; and Semi Ran did cry, "Lo! The Lake is alive, for it sings aloud and afar; and I am the Lord of Lake, and I have come."

And the lake did ripple, and the lake did sing, and Bao Ling and little Si did wonder at it; for the tinkling of the water was alike to a singing soprano, full of vigour and life - and it did seem in contrast to the world surround. And their eyes did uplift, after a time, to the stars in the sky as the sun fell; each one appeared, and their eyes lingered upon Wilwarin, Telumendil, Soronume, and Anarrima; and Menelmacar they gazed upon longest and hardest, The Swordsman of The Sky above, with his shining belt; and they sighed, for their journey was not yet done. Onwards, after a small, meagre feast, did they march; for the Tower of the Lake, Barad Aelin, was still ahead of them to the West.

Slowly did they come unto its heights; for Barad Aelin is not easily sighted, even from near-distance; but instead rises up, as one comes upon a hill topped and crested and surrounded by tree's, in surprise and shock. Yet the trees were sparse, and mostly firn, despite Aelin-nenya, which did have not a single willow upon it's shore: yet not a word was given to explain this lack to the two young ones.

As they neared Barad Aelin, Semi Ran did sigh, and he did whisper unto the air in a soft and lilting tongue unknown to the two whom walked with him, "Yea, Barad Aelin, thine master hath returned to thee; Semir-randil I be, and I call upon thy doors to swing forth, and supplant mine adopted children: for they grow weak, and soft, and require much nourishment."

And the doors did swing open upon a silent hinge, admitting their wondering eyes unto its bright interior; Semir-randil did cry, "I am home!" in a great and booming voice - yet there was no reply. No lady nor child nor man of fellowship nor son nor brother nor sister nor aunt nor uncle of the Lord of the Lake did live unto the Barad Aelin; it was empty, save for the the three that did enter it upon that day.

And therein did they dwell, for a time, in peace and fairness; they fished the lake at need, yet not too much, for they were upon the oath of the land, and no man nor woman nor Elf nor Nenyan may fish the lake more than they ought; and they ate well of fruit, for the Barad Aelin was not a simple tower, but was vast, and did surround a great fruit-field, wherein all kinds of fruit-tree did grow: and they were upon themselves happy, and without themselves sad. Bao Ling soon grew restless living in Barad Aelin, and she took to wandering the woods there about; her voice uplifted often in song, singing for lost days and times and lives; her mourning voice waivering and falling upon the end of each song, as does a nightingale upon the setting of the Sun. Her eyes carried a sadness, a great mourning, and she did not forget nor wish to forget her grief - and yet she would not speak of it. And little Si did grow, with great health, unto a man of strength, honour, and great power: inside the Armoury of the Barad Aelin Semir-randil did train the little-boy unto a man; and a great power with a sword in his hand he became. Words he did not learn well; he was rash, quick to anger, and slow to heal; and he did not understand it, but Semir-randil would oft mutter, "In days of old, you would be named Feagond." Feagond: spirit of stone; an apt name, and indeed, Si did say more than once with great passion: "Then Feagond I shall be!"

And Semir did respond at one time, when Si was rash with sword and upon his word did declare this statement, and his voice was soft, as one whom is teaching, and sad, as one who is mourning, yet hopeful, as one who is living within fear but without from that which they fear: "Rash thy heart is, Si Feagond, yet Feagond ye shall be, for all thy days and all thy nights: and many shall weep upon thy words of hardness."

Ever did time pass, and ever did the stars swing across the sky, for their light is unceasing, as is the Sun; Her rays waxing and waning unto dawn and unto dusk: and the days spread unto months, and the months unto years, and the years unto decades.

And Bao Ling and Si Feagond did gaze upon each other many times, and did sigh for the other; but neither had the courage of their heart to speak their mind or their soul or their spirit: and their love was unrequited therefore, despite themselves and their wants.

Alone and at thought, Semir-randil did oft wonder at this, for long in sight and vision was he; and to each alone he did eventually spoke words of mystery, to weave their paths together; to Bao: "Thy soul doth wander afar and afield, yet thy spirit dwells upon another, without thought or choice, and yet thy soul doth not admit this: thy choice will come, and if it doth come too late, thy shall lose all thy have asked for, and all shalt weep for it." Yet she did scorn his words, crying only words of despair and mistrust; for she had grown apart from her guide and mentor, and did not trust his words entirely: she suspected him of lust for herself, and in her folly she closed her ears and her eyes, and cried, "Thy heart is unpure, and thy words also so; I shalt not listen to thine words of not-wisdom any longer."

And so saying, she did depart, for a time, unto Turath in the south; and there she did dwell for years to come - yet afore she came she found much hardship and sorrow, and wept many times, for the road was hard and long and fraught with deadly danger: yet she passed upon it without danger, but within fear, for she was without the part of her spirit which she yearned for most. Yet no mortal threat came unto her, for her fate was not such; and safely unto Turath she came.

And unto Si Feagond Semir did say, "Thy spirit doth sit upon one and one alone, yet thy soul doth not; it wanders unto the wilderness, hoping for the return and splendour of thy ancestors and thy family: this shalt not be, yet thy heart wishes it were so with every beat - for this thy spirit forsaketh thy love. Feagond ye are named, and Feagond thee shall be: for thy sword and mine together shall dwell, in soul yet not spirit whilst your love tarries far afield, and our words at the appointed time shall mingle; and all who are foul shall fall before them."

And Si Feagond did bow his head, and sigh, and did say unto Semir truthfully, as was his wont: "Thy words are wise, great Lord, for thy heart doth speak unto mine: and my love is afar, and my spirit follows thus; but mine soul shalt stay with thee, until the appointed time."

And in the fullness of time, the appointed did come, and unto the land the word did spread; and many did flock who were persecuted to the Barad Aelin; and its number grew great. And buildings sprung up about it; and a new form was given it; and the Sun did shine upon it between dawn and dusk with unfailing brightness. And the stars did sprinkle their star-light upon it, and did make it brighter than all other places, except those to the North in the Land of the Swordsman of the Sky, wherein all such things are the norm; and the Shadow did creep away from the Aelinenya, wherin the ripples flow. And a great fastness of invisibile stature to the eye afar was constructed, and unto it RISE was born; and it stood for Ruthen Iant Serke Esgal or Ruthiantserkesgal, the angry bridge of hidden blood.

And so began the Dagor Iluvauromen, the Battle of the Eternal Dawn, being the birth of the Dor-Iluvauromen, the Land of the Eternal Dawn, or the Empire of the Eternal Dawn.

Aglar was a fairly young child. And, as children go, he was vastly curious. Not just the normal curiousity, no. And he had the extensive good luck to live North-West of Tek, in the Commonwealth of Ma-tek... not actually all that far from Nenya, actually. Just a few scant miles.

His parents were fairly remote types, and their home reflected this; the nearest settlement was some miles away.

But this was okay. They were quite self-sufficient, Aglar's parents. Quite self sufficient.

And so, considering this self-sufficiency (and the by-and-large automated nature of their agricultural land, and considering the remoteness from 'civilization'), they were quite willing to allow Aglar to roam. 'Child', of course, in the Empire, is anyone up to the age of 18. There are no teenagers in the Empire... that is to say, 'teenage' is not a word in the Nenyan vocabulary. Nor in the Human dialect of Nenyan, for that matter.

Nontheless, Aglar was a teenager, by outside definition. He roamed.

And one day, while roaming, he noted the odd shimmering of the building ahead of him. Noted it, and, as was usual for his curious nature, wondered what it was. He approached, at a canter, slightly wide-eyed and gasping from the long run to the... thingy... in question...

And slammed into a wall. Literally.

The wall hadn't been there when he looked the first time. It was, however, most definitley there now. Aglar blinked furiously, shaking his head and-

-the wall had gone again. He blinked. "What the-" he muttered, catching himself before swearing. His parents, great traditionalists, took no stock with such things. He was quite used to being cut short on such sentences - so much so, that he had started doing it himself.

That is, he had started cutting himself short. He, of course, didn't dare do it on the rare occasions that his parents had visitors.

He eyed the wall-that-was-not-there, and, deciding to test to see if he was... some big word that he couldn't remember... hallucinating... he took steps backwards... and to the side...

...and did the same again. Slower, this time. He walks, to where the wall ought to be...

...and finds nothing but air. And a whoosh. He blinks at the dark, gloomy nature of the place he finds himself in.

Wait, Aglar thought silently, but isn't it daylight outside? And if it's daylight then why is it that-

A hand catching on his shoulder silences the thought-

[ooc: coolness]

-quite rudely abruptly, too.

But that doesn't compare to the object he finds pressed against his temple.

Darkness falls, even as Aglar's mouth opens to scream at the indignity of having... something... pressed most violently against his forehead.

* * *

"He's just a boy," the Voice was muttering. "We can hardly keep him here just for being curious."

Aglar stirred, internally. Where am I?, was, naturally, his first thought. His second? His second consists of, Why am I here... wherever here is?

His eyes remain closed. Something tells him...

"He needs to be interrogated," insists a Second Voice.

...that he should a) keep quiet, and b) look unconscious.

He does so.

"And why the..."

The First Voice breaks off. Tick. "Ahhhhhh," comes the conclusion to the vaguely confusing beginning of a sentence.

Aglar thought, most loudly in his own head - his heart seemed to be rather loud, too, Why the what?

Too loud. "He's awake," intones the First Voice quietly, "I'd better go fetch Se-," the voice breaks off amidst a shhh sound from the Second Voice, and alters the name... (is it a name?) to, "Aran."

The interrogation began. It was not violent, but it was thorough. Poor Aglar was subjected to a deep mind scan - although not in the usual sense of the term. There was no telepathy involved; instead, an empath scoured his emotional state and, via LSR communications, suggested potential lines of questioning when one question or another arose a particular mental state.

The reason for the interrogation rapidly becomes quite clear, although not to Aglar, initially, until at last one of the men sighs and intones...

"Nope. Definitley not programmed."

Programmed?

Aglar had heard the term before, but he couldn't quite place where; and then the response came - and clarified things somewhat.

"Nope. So... nobody sent you to spy on us unwittingly, eh, little one? Well. I'm awfully sorry about this, but we'll have to wipe your memory. Not all of it, mind... that'd be cruel. No, no. We'll just wipe the most recent part. Any objections?"

Aglar shouted. Quite loudly. "Help!"

How cliche.

The Second Voice - who had not been called by name at all in Aglar's hearing - sighed quietly. His lips moved, but no sound came out - at first.

"Do be quiet, Aglar," he asked - with a slightly cold edge entering his tone. Aglar had, of course, informed them of his name during the interrogation. He had been quite terrified, naturally.

Aglar shivered. "I just want to go home," he murmoured...

"And you will," the Second Voice informed the trembling youth. "But only once we can be sure you won't tell anyone of our existance."

Now, for a young person, Aglar was surprisingly intelligent. And had a great deal of logical capability. He realized...

"But I don't know who you are!"

"And that, young man, is why you won't need to have your memory wiped," declared a third Voice. This voice was different to the other two; softer, more gentle. Yet it carried a powerful edge to it; a voice that intimated many, many years of experience.

Aglar looked at the source of the Voice...

...and blinked rapidly in confusion. The man - the Nenyan, for he had bright flaring amber eyes - was not, and could not, from his appearance, be as old as his ancient-sounding voice suggested. Perhaps he was just very wise...

Aglar blinked some more, rapidly. His eyes, he found, had become very dry the last few... however long he'd been in this damnable room. In a tone carrying and conveying an equal mixture of surprise and pleasure, he spoke: "I can?"

"Yes. Come," the Nenyan newcomer ordered. Implicitly, it was an order. Yet it was a gentle order; not harsh, but soft.

The two other men shrugged, and, without a word, walked out. One of them, however, whispers something in the Third Voice's ear before exiting - through a door that wasn't previously there - and draws a scowl from the Third Voice.

Aglar stood, and, took a few halting steps towards the Nenyan - but only once the other two had left. "Who are you?"

The Nenyan drew himself up. "I," he declared, "am the Lord of The Lake. And you?"

"Aglar," Aglar informed him weakly.

"Come," the Lord ordered, again, this time less softly and a little more insistantly.

The Lord walked out. Simply flicked a finger at Aglar, and walked out.

Aglar stood there, not knowing exactly what to do. There was little point in staying... but despite the apparent gentle nature of the man, he was still afraid.

Excitement at the whole adventurous nature of the incident was also evident in his psyche, but... the dominant emotion was fear.

Yet, after a couple of long minutes, he unfroze himself, as it were... and walked out of the door. The Lord was nowhere to be seen; but Aglar eyed the walls, taking in details he hadn't noticed before. Small, glass-looking objects adorned them; Aglar had seen them before, in programmes on his parents small television.

Laser-scanners. It suddenly dawned on him: this was a military installation! Or worse... an intelligence installation. The Commonwealth denied having an Internal Intelligence Service (the IIS), but it was common knowledge that, with Ax-turath always prepared for war, Ma-tek needed an intelligence service. An internal one, to weed out the spies. It was largely accepted, but out of sight... and largely out of mind.

Aglar gaped. And shivered. He knew he would never leave this place, now. No matter what the man had said, he was sure that the Lord - if that's who he was - was lying. Intelligence operatives frequently lied, he knew. Or they did in the tv shows, anyway.

He walked, though. Somehow he knew which direction; after a rapidly curving 'corner' to the corridor he walked down, he saw the man ahead of him. Something inside Aglar broke at his point; he had remained largely strong throughout the entire episode, and yet now...

...now he broke down and cried, sobs wracking his young body.

The Lord's visage softened instantly; he did something Aglar would never have expected: he gathered the young lad into his arms and hugged him, murmouring soothing words. But this just increased Aglar's fears; inside, a part of his mind seemed to snap, releasing something...

...and the Lord recoiled, gasping audibly in what sounded to Aglar like fear.

It wasn't. It was shock. Quietly, the Lord gathered himself up. "I'm sorry, son," he murmoured, "but you'll have to stay with us, now."

Aglar looked at him wide eyed, sniffing still. Through tears, he gasped out, "What?"

And pushed again, harder, again through instinct; emotions swelled out of him, bombarding the man who stood before him with a mixture of fear and sorrow and a dozen other, more conflicting, emotions. The Lord didn't flinch or blink.

"You're too valuable to let go," he intoned... sadly. Sorrow was also evident in the mans tone; Aglar drew himself up, emotions shifting to indignance; he felt very unstable, but wasn't about to show it.

"No," he declared.

The Lord didn't listen. "I'll be the one to train you... so you needn't fear. We'll... we'll make sure your parents aren't afraid."

Aglar flinched at this. He whispered, full of fear once more, "You'll... you'll kill them?"

"No," the Lord stated, shaking his head firmly. "Of course not."

He didn't add any more detail, however. Aglar, however, as has been mentioned, was logical. And intelligent. He put two and two together, and came up with-

"You'll wipe their memory," he gasped.

The Lord merely nodded. "Forget about it. Let it pass away." The Lord pushed himself, now, soothing the young lad in a way that was more gentle than one might expect; Aglar sighed, and, calmness spread through him. It didn't get rid of the fear or the sadness, exactly - but it was easier. He, already, thanks - or no thanks - to the push, was beginning to 'get over it'. Some would find this highly disgusting; the Lord was one of them. He sighed deeply at necessity. Quietly, he informed Aglar, "I will be your teacher. And, if I'm to teach you... you should know my name. I am the Lord of The Lake, Semi Ran. You are in a Ruthiantserkesgal facility; RISE, for short. We are the Empire in waiting; the Family reborn; the promise fulfilled. You should..."

Semi Ran almost choked on these next words. He didn't believe them for a moment...

"...feel honoured."

Ninety-Six Years Previous - What Came Before

Rimshaka and her love had sought protection from the locals in the pub that they had halted in, and protection they had gained.

Unfortunatley, the locals had paid in blood to allow the pair to escape; just days after their arrival, the IAF unit loyal to the new Commonwealth (and soon to be renamed the CAF) had arrived, and killed nigh on everyone in the town - which would later become a CAF stronghold.

Dust and blood mingled beneath the feet of Rimshaka and the Crown Prince as they staggered out of the blood-soaked township, and along a road fraught with danger.

* * *

A Prologue - Of Sorts

It had been a long road; but after many weeks (or was it months? It was hard to tell, after so long a journey - it could have been years, for all they knew), and going hungry for more of the time than either of them could actually remember, they had arrived at a small farmstead - deserted, the occupants no doubt dead. Sneaking inside, they had found the cot in disarray; plates smashed on the floor had sliced into the bare feet of Rimshaka, and she had cried out in agony - her battered feet were hardened, but bruised and sore, and she really had not needed a cut to make things worse.

Two days later, she had fallen ill.

* * *

'Now', BD 95

The Prince knelt anxiously betwixt the bed and the wall, a hand gently clasping that of his dearest love, Rimshaka. "Do not leave me," he whispered softly, helplessly.

Rimshaka's head lolled to one side, her face deathly pale - her foot was a sickly white, even paler than the rest of her body. Infections in a Nenyan were rare, to be true... but not completely unheard of, in certain conditions.

Dying from an infection was, however, not heard of. Death by disease was simply not a danger to become a Nenyan.

Yet despite intellectually being aware of this, the Prince - Galdren ux-Rihad - was still much afraid.

In fact, he was terrified. The words of his old nursemaid lingered in his mind; she had spoken them many, many times - and no doubt, her mother before her, to Galdren's father. There is always a first time, Galdren...

Galdren shivered. "Rimshaka..."

She stirred, eyes blinking open. Weakly, she questioned, "Galdren...?"

"My dear," he breathed, burying his head betwixt her breasts and sighing heavily, loathe to show his tears of fear to one so fragile...

Sleepily, Rimshaka lifted a weak hand and laid it against Galdren's cheek, whispering, "I'm so tired, órënya..."

If Galdren had been visible, his face would have displayed his shock. Rimshaka only used their Quenya pet-names for each other during the... well, the heat of passion. Was she that... fragile? He suppressed a shudder, and resolved to return the favour of their special names for each other.

Muffled, the Prince-who-was-no-more murmoured, "Sleep, melda... sleep."

* * *

Galdren lifted his head gingerly, laying it beside his love - and then changing his mind, and propping it up with one arm. If there had been room, he would have crawled onto the bed beside her, and held her gently; he did not think she was feverish anymore.

But there was not.

Uncomfortable but not in a position to notice, Galdren gazed at her.

As he watched, he became aware that her eyelids were slowly gaining colour; his breath caught in his throat, and he used all his might to prevent himself from lowering his lips to her face and smothering her in delighted kisses...

She will be okay, his heart decided, quite a ways behind his brain.

Gingerly, he reached out with his mind... and, feeling her calm, he 'stroked' her mind with his, lovingly. A tender, tender moment between Nenyans; even sleeping, she sighed happily, and the colour appeared to be racing into her features with even greater rapidity.

Time passed.

There was no timepiece, and so Galdren was not aware of how much; caught between delight and the face of his beloved slowly returning to the visage he so dearly loved, he did not even particuarly care.

But no matter how much time had passed, he gently lifted his head, trying hard not to disturb the mattress upon which Rimshaka rested.

He turned his head to look to her foot.

Normal. He heaved a sigh of relief. My dearest Aldra, he thought, pushing away the grief at the loss of his beloved nursemaid - one is never too old to love the one who reared you, after all, there is not a first time for this, at least. Or... not this time.

Galdren resolved to never, ever, ever fail to take care of Rimshaka correctly again. He should have done something. Anything. He could have ripped his own clothes to shreds, wrapped her feet in them...

...he shuddered, suddenly aware of the tears that stained his pale cheeks. A hand moves to wipe them, but it is not his; with an exclamation, he turns his head and gazes at Rimshaka... a smiling, healthy Rimshaka.

"Praise the Stars," he whispered automatically.

"Yes," she returned, voice waivering weakly still, "and praise the Blood." She cocks her head, slowly, clearly not all that strong despite her returned healthy shade of pink-white.

"Dear... were you frightened?" She looks... shocked. Her facial expression is soft, gentle - but her eyes are suprised, and even shocked at the suggestion.

Galdren, reared to never be afraid, immediatley exclaimed, "No!"

His expression had hardened; yet the instant the 'o' was out of his mouth, it softened yet again. "Yes," he admitted with a whisper.

Rimshaka did not know whether to laugh or cry. And so, in the best tradition of such situations... she did both.

* * *

Stealth was all-important. One did not rise through the ranks of the IAF without being silent, after all. Blades were blades, but one could not slit the throat of an enemy if they heard you coming.

Besides, Major R'kari was a Nenyan. He was born to sneak.

And he was rather cold. It was not a pleasant evening; the stars sparkled overhead, in their unusually bright way - this place was not far from Nenya, after all - but they brought no warmth.

He pressed his ear to the cot door, listening intently.

Whispers. Muted whispers.

With a near silent >sching!<, his sword left its sheathe.

R'kari eased the door open...

The door creaked.

The sound shattered a carefully constructed cocoon of silence that the two occupants had wound about themselves with infinite tenderness; the ex-Prince, Galdren, was up from the bed and to his sword in an instant.

There was no need.

The door swung wide, and the man who entered was clearly a loyalist.

He wore an IAF uniform - a giveaway.

Still, Galdren gave no quarter, and had his sword in place and tip towards the intruder in a flash.

"You, sir! Whyfore thyself goeth here?"

The man instantly fell to one knee, laying his sword afore his feet.

"M'Highness, its I, your Loyal Servant Major R'kari, First Nenyan Brigade, Imperial Assault Force."

"Prove it," Rimshaka murmoured, drawing the sheets up around herself.

"Yes," agreed the Prince.

R'kari grunted. "Proof, eh? What days is these when we needs proof to explains ourselfs to the nobilit'y? Who you think I would be, anydoubt?"

Despite his grumbling, he draws out - with the Prince taking a step forwards mildly - his papers, and hands them to the Prince.

"Mmm. Says you are who you say you are. Major, I expect an explanation. Why are you not at your post?"

"Post is goned, Highness. All me Brigade is scattered heresabout; a great many killed, ah, many passed on," he bows his head, touching a finger to his chin sorrowfully.

"They are loyal?"

"Ah, yes, m'Highness, definitleys loyal'is troops, Highness. Just 'umble grunt I am, Highness."

"I dare say you aren't. If I have the look of you," the Prince tilted his head, scanning the mans face with the scrutiny one bestows upon someone vaguely familiar, "then you'd be the cousin of the head of House Rihad. A noble. What game play you?"

"Greatest of games, my great Highness. 'Tis rumoured hereabouts that many a familiar face has been a-sighted, only for to find that they aren't what they seem to be, o-ho no. Quite a stir in the country, Highness. Rumour be that Nenya is safe - but we're so close as to be safe as can be. My division has set up camp nearby, m'Highness. The war is lost, but I'm sure you know that, eh? But we'll wait. Goodness patience knows, took us nigh on twenty generations to build the damned thing, won't take so long to rebuild it, say I."

"Mayhap," replied Rimshaka primly, "but not single summers day shall come til' the sun of our land shines on warm present, instead of merest memories of splendour."

The IAF officer bows his head, shaking it slightly with sadness - but then lifting it to nod with agreement partway through his talk; "Treasonous words, they once would've been, milady. But thisday no need for such pretense do I find; indeed, if the Prince wills it, may I profer my opinion?"

With a sigh, Galdren asserts, "My good man, you find no ears unwilling to hear opinions tonight. The Empire is fallen; no words not ill of it are possible - it was a horrid construct, yet built on the loftiest of dreams. All opinions are welcome; do as you will." The words ring with sadness, and regret. Galdren knew well what wrongs the Empire had committed. Not a good year had passed - not to his memory, nor his parents. All blood; and ended in blood. Fair, in a way-

"If I give my manner on the matter, Highness, milady, I would say that it might be wise to lay low on the matter a long while. Might be a good idea to regroup, pull together, so to speak. Nenya seems the place to be, but enemy troops are still roving - or so I hear. 'Tis all a matter of timing. We can set up aroundabout, make things nice and comfortable for you both, be as it may - and if your Highness and your Ladyship desire it, we can move you to safer surrounds when time hazards it."

"Be that as it may," Rimshaka noted quietly, "but I find no condition of myself currently to make a journey such as even eighty miles. Wait we must now, my love," she said returning her eyes to Galdren, "so better to have the protection of many than the protection of one alone worth many?"

Her eyes glittered with delight at her own double compliment weaved into her words; wordplay was not a strength of hers, but she knew it was merely confidence and learning.

"Verily, verily, my dearest love," the Prince agreed, eyes sparkling with a delight of their own - an amused delight at that - and turned back to the man. "There is, I assume, some place for you to stay rather than here? Privacy is most welcome, you understand."

"Aye, Highness, that there is," the Major replied, tilting his head in a manner indicative of a grin where there is no such thing, "and I'll be off to it. Just give a whistle if you need any of us; we aren't all that far apart, or shan't be soon. - Night well, Higness, Ladyship."

Bowing, and recieving a smile from both, the Major departed again...

...and the door creaked as it closed, cracking quietly against the frame.

<tag>

[bump - pending addition]

Galdren strode purposefully over the hill, peering curiously at the house that lay down there, way in the distance. It looked solid enough, he mused. Solid enough to live in. Solid enough to raise a family in.

He whistled.

Amusingly, the Nenya warrior was by his side almost immediately. "Following that closely, eh," he grunted.

"Aye, that I was," the Major reported with a smirk. "As ever, your loyal subject, milord."

The joke was wearing thin after eighteen months of hardship.

"The camp..."

"...is safe and secured," the Major finished.

Another minor irritant, Galdren mused - many of his 'subjects' finished his sentences for him. One of the many perks of the shift in status that they now enjoyed: interrupting the Crown Prince would have been unthinkable just two years ago.

Now it was commonplace.

He wondered how poorly things were going elsewhere - although he had heard of other units like this one, loyalists hiding out in the hills, gathering their forces silently...

He gazed up into the sky. If only we had wings, he pondered. Then we might defeat them with ease.

It was a simple seed of thought...

And yet it would determine an entire century.

"It'll never work," he grumbled, slapping the contraption with annoyance. Arms came around his waist, and he smiled-

"Yes, it will," came the quiet rejoinder from his wife.

"It won't!"

"Will too."

Two years had passed in the blink of an eye. Empire had fallen into Commonwealth - and yet he increasingly found he didn't care. Galdren tilted his head back to rest it on his wife's shoulder - she, like all Nenyar women, was quite tall - and smiled up at the sky. He had never quite realized-

"Okay, so maybe it will. But it is not working now!" Dim frustration coloured his tone, he observed - an emotion he was not at all used to. Even now. Two years wasn't that long, after all.

"Give it time," came the inevitable whisper, and then she was gone again. No doubt gone to take care of the little one. Not that he really needed it as much as she liked to pretend; Nenya children grew swiftly, and he was well-grown for one. He would be mighty when full-grown, the former Crown Prince thought proudly.

They had departed from tradition, there; technically, he probably should have been known as Galdshak, or Rimren, or Rildak - there were a number of potential combinations. But he wasn't.

Rimshaka had been dead-set on the name, although Galdren still didn't quite know why. She'd given some vague answer about ancestors and refused to say more - at least for now. But naming was the prerogative of the mother; and so it was.

"There's always time," he sighed to himself, and went back to scribbling on the sheet of paper he had brought out here with him.

Scribbling like a madman posessed with sanity.

[OOC: If this could be moved to NS, that'd be grand. It shouldn't be in II anyway, and I have NO idea why the heck I posted it here...

Must've been one of my 'moments' (ahem) of stupidity. Continuous though they are!]

OOC: Despite thy relative stupidity, this happens to be one of the best stories I've ever read to date on NS. Could ask a mod at any rate. *Two thumbs up*

OOC: Despite thy relative stupidity, this happens to be one of the best stories I've ever read to date on NS. Could ask a mod at any rate. *Two thumbs up*

[OOC: Thanks muchly! :D I'll probably prod a mod at some point. :)

And this post will magically transform into one with IC content tomorrow.]