Chapter 3: Tyrion's Lament

Tyrion looks back to a time when Medion was a very different place.

Chapter 3: Tyrion’s Lament

Tyrion stood outside on the balcony, the wind whipping his hair. He gazed out into Centuria City, the centre of a kingdom.

Kingdom. Thought Tyrion bitterly. I remember when this was true, but it is a kingdom no longer.

He continued to gaze out over the city. They called this place beautiful. Tyrion called it cold. The entire city was devoid of any beauty in his opinion. The once white stone now turned a dull grey, and the elegant outline now replaced with more militarised design, made for strength rather than beauty. This was no place of beauty; it was a place of sorrow, a tombstone of a kingdom standing in a graveyard.

Tyrion gazed into the sky. Dark clouds, darker than the city walls covered the sky like a veil. He turned his head to stare north, knowing somewhere, in a field in Narda, laid the grave of his brother. The city disappeared, and the memory began.

*******

A group of mounted men moved down the road in a loose formation. The thick trees around them and dark, cloud covered sky draped their path in darkness. The men moved slowly, shielded by their grey cloaks against the unrelenting rain. They all had the hoods up, protecting their heads from the downpour. The deep brown mud clung to the hooves of their horses, as they snorted but otherwise, did not protest to the constant rain. The men were silent, making occasional glances to the side or behind them. Hanging off some their saddles were tall, broad objects wrapped in dull green cloth. Others had quivers strapped to their backs. From a distance, one might not notice them. One might not even see them. They rode forward along the muddy road. Slowly they spread out into a longer, thinner formation as the road became thinner and more enclosed. The men were now on higher alert, scanning the trees for any signs of ambush. Slowly, another sound began to drown out the sound of the constant rain, though it was also of water. The group of mounted men slowly began to fan out further as the path grew wider, but the tree cover started to spread out as well. They started to fan out into the trees as well as the road. For most, navigating this maze of trees would be difficult on foot, let alone on horseback. But these men were experts in both cases, and their steeds trained and disciplined. The noise of gushing water grew louder and louder as they approached the river. It was as dark as the sky above, and muddy. They still had ample tree cover, yet they could easily see their quarry. Just beyond the muddy banks of the river, their prey almost blended into the mud. Their skin was varied, being in shades of grey and brown and shades of red or orange. Their already dirty clothes, if they could be called such, were covered in muck and grime. They stood hunched, bow legged and grunting amongst themselves, the slight sheen of their steel armour and weapons reflecting the dismal mud.

One of the mounted men raised a hand, and the group came to a halt. He held a long, elegant spear in one hand. He lowered his hood revealing his long, rich brown hair, his tapered ears and his green eyes. He surveyed the enemy. This was one of the few times that his men had found the enemy first. They were disorganised but greater in number. They would simply have to cut them down fast enough and fear would do the rest. A single swift charge ought to do it.

He looked over to another elf next to him. His crystalline blue eyes shined from within his hood. He nodded his head in agreement. Both he and his companion knew what to do. Slowly and silently, the elves drew the elegantly curved blades and those who had shields removed them from their protective cloths, dull gold in the unrelenting darkness.  Others instead drew their tall, elegant longbows, and nocked arrows to the strings. The leader turned to his friend, who was drawing a sword of similar make, yet with a shorter handle and a longer blade. They remained silent, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. The leader continued to watch the orcs’ every move.

“Earendil, make your move.” The blue eyed elf whispered to the leader.

Earendil continued to stare, as though he had ignored his friend all together. But then, he lowered his spear. The elves charged without a sound. There was no battle cry, there was no horn. There was simply a charge. The horses too remained silent, the sounds of their hooves masked by the thundering of the river and the crashing of the rain. The elves moved swiftly through the trees, quickly closing the gap between them and their quarry. The orcs seemed mainly unaware of the doom swiftly approaching them. One of them raised its head and looked in the direction of the elves, but he had obviously not seen them, because then he turned his gaze back towards his comrades.

The elves broke the tree line and crashed into the river. The orcs became suddenly aware of the attack, many charging forward to meet them. Elven arrows launched themselves into orc flesh, many causing fatal wounds. Others were knocked down by the fast flowing river and trampled. The sound of steel ringing on steel filled the air, joining the cacophony of the rain and the river. The elves broke ranks, riding through the orcs, each going after his own quarry. Earendil surged through the orcs, swinging and thrusting his long bladed spear into his enemies, all falling before his might. His grey steed easily outran his enemies and pummelled them into the mud. Only now in the din of battle could the clothing of the elves be seen. Long tunics in a shade of grey lighter than their cloaks layered upon a shirt of chainmail. Also, they wore black leather boots and brown leather vambraces.

Earendil quickly assessed the battle. They were pushing the orcs back, but they weren’t at breaking point yet. They still had numerical supremacy. He looked to see a tall, black skinned orc surrounded by his followers, wearing a helm with two large, knarled horns jutting out of either side and wielding a tall, by orcish standards, bladed bow. He drew an arrow as his guard launched themselves into the fray. Earendil made an observation and knew who the orc’s aim was focused on.

“Tyrion!” Earendil shouted.

The blue eyed elf, his silvery hair flowing out behind him, turned his gaze and spotted the orc chieftain. He leant back as the black arrow soared past where his chest was seconds before. The chieftain snarled menacingly. Tyrion spurred his white steed towards the chieftain. The brute took aim again, but his arrow never left the string. Tyrion swung his long blade down upon the orcish chieftain, separating his head from his shoulders. Black orc blood surged out of the wound. That was the straw that broke the oxen’s back. The orcs, without a leader and their courage abandoning them, fled before elven might.

“Scatter after them. Make sure that they’re dead!” Earendil shouted.

Several of the elves dashed after the orcs in all directions. Earendil, Tyrion and a dozen others remained in the clearing, dismounting from their horses. Earendil looked over to see Tyrion, hacking the heads of orcs and stabbing them in the gut.

“If he wasn’t dead before, he sure is now.” Tyrion smiled.

Earendil allowed a half smile at his twin’s comment.

“We should mount their heads on stakes,” said Tyrion, suddenly returning to his serious air “make an example to others who try to do the same.”

“We are not orcs are we? Such savagery is not our way.” Said an elf nearby.

“Do you think they’d show us the same courtesy?” Tyrion asked.

“Tyrion is right.” Earendil said. “Mount the heads on poles.”

“What of the bodies my lord?” another elf asked.

“Pile them up and leave them for the ravens. They’ll never catch fire in this rain.” Earendil commanded.

“Yes my lord.” The elf replied, setting the other elves to work.

Earendil walked over to the river, placed his spear into it, and shook it to get the blood off. Tyrion wiped his sword on a nearby orc corpse and sheathed it. Earendil pulled his hood back up and mounted his horse. Tyrion continued to pace along the river bank, searching for arrows that could be salvaged.

The other elves returned. All of them had slain the orcs. Tyrion and the other elves mounted their steeds, and they began to head north.

“This is the one thing I hate about Andor.” Tyrion said, pulling his hood back up over his head.

“What?” Earendil asked.

“The sun almost never shines.”

Earendil nodded his head in agreement. The elven cavalry gathered speed, with Earendil at the head and Tyrion just behind him. They rode north, the rain still pouring out of the sky.

 

*******

The company of elven cavalry rode forth for many days, until they passed from Andor and into the Vale of Huiron. The group stopped before a tall gate set into the mountain. A few elves in golden armour patrolled the battlements.

“The choices of one led to the fate of all. Now all must suffer their father’s sin. Of what do I speak?” an elf called from the battlements.

“You speak of the fate of men, to pass from this world from the slow decay of time. You speak of death.” Earendil called back.

The gates slowly swung inward and the company rode through them into the darkness of the tunnel. They rode forward for some time before they appeared on the other side.

And then they saw the beauty of the hidden city of Villiandria. Its white walls and domed towers seemed to have grown out of the mountain itself. As always, the forest surrounding it was a vibrant green and golden sunlight shone down upon the plains. The mountains had hidden the city well, and the high elves intended it to remain so.

“Home.” Earendil said “For now at least.”

Tyrion nodded in agreement. The elven riders rode forth towards the city gates. The gates swung open upon their arrival, and they rode through the city streets, making their way up to the grand white building that sat high above the rest of the city. This was the Tower of Villiandria. They arrived at the stables where they dismounted and stored their horses. Tyrion and Earendil walked out of the stables and through the grand, oak doors that led into the main hall. Seated on a throne crafted of wood and adorned with symbols of eagles, stars and trees was an elf with long, brown hair and crystalline blue eyes. He wore fur trimmed robes of rich blue and gold and grey. A tall, elven sword stood sheathed against the wall next to him. A gold circlet sat on his head. His eyes lit up upon his sons’ arrival and he rose from his throne.

“My sons!” he cried. The first person he came to, as Tyrion knew he would, was Earendil. Earendil was almost a spitting image of his father. “Was the hunt successful? Are they dead?”

“We slew the orcs in Andor. They shall not follow us again.” Earendil said.

“But they were very close to discovering Villiandria. If the enemy knew the location of our strongholds and cities, then he could ruin all things we hold dear.” said their father “I once had the power to maintain my entire kingdom, but alas, now, I must return to Vandelin, to our Undying Isles, and govern our strength there. I shall return from time to time, but here, in Medion, I will need another to lead our people. You, shall be that other Earendil.”

“Father, are you sure?” Earendil asked.

“Of this, I have never been surer in my life. Lead them well.” their father said. “And do not think I have forgotten you Tyrion.” he added “you too shall lead the people with your brother, as his equal.”

“Thank you father.” Tyrion said.

“Excellent. Now, go to your chambers and do as you wish. The days are yours, for now.”

Earendil and Tyrion left the great hall and made their way up the staircase to their quarters. They reached the top of the stairs and went down a hallway. They had barely passed the first door when they heard a high voice scream “Teclis! They’re back!” and a young elven girl came shooting out of the first room and clamped onto Tyrion’s leg.

“Idril, it’s good to see you.” Tyrion said, picking her up off the ground and sitting her on his shoulders. She was very young, by human standards she would have looked about ten but in reality, she was thirty years of age. Another elven child, a male, with long dark hair and grey eyes poked his head around the door. He looked twelve but was in reality around forty six.

“Teclis, come here.” Earendil said, and the young elf ran up to Earendil and hugged him tightly.

Another elf, a woman, walked through the door and leant on the door frame. She still looked fairly young, certainly not as young as Tyrion or Earendil, but beautiful none the less. She had long, dark hair that fell past her shoulders and at its longest point reached her waist. Her grey eyes watched them as they hugged and laughed.

“It is moments such as these that make me thank the Ancients that they blessed me with four children.”

“Mother.” Tyrion smiled, and both Tyrion and Earendil walked over to her and gave her a hug.

“Oh, how I’ve missed you my firstborn.” she said to the twins.

“We’ve missed you too.” Earendil confessed.

“Did Finrodril tell you the news?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m shocked.” Earendil admitted.

“I’m not,” Tyrion said “trust father to give Earendil a rousing speech about the good of our people and then turn to me and add me in as an afterthought.”

“Now, now. He loves you both Tyrion. You remember that. We both love you very much.”

“Yes Tyrion. I don’t know what you speak of.” Earendil said.

“That is easy for you to say, being the favoured son.” Tyrion said.

“See that Teclis, I told you.” Idril said “How come we aren’t allowed to argue and they are?”

Their mother grinned and Tyrion and Earendil exchanged looks.

“They aren’t because they are very naughty boys and are being sent away to their rooms. Go on, out. Take your arguing elsewhere.” she commanded, a sly grin on her face.

“Quickly brother, we must flee.” Earendil laughed.

“We have fought orcs, trolls and demons, but none can with stand mother’s wrath. Fly!” Tyrion shouted.

The twins ran down the hall and up another flight of stairs. When they reached the top they burst out laughing.

“Do you remember ever having this much fun as children?” Earendil chuckled.

“Of course I do. I’ve never seen you run so fast.” Tyrion laughed.

When the laughing subsided, it was Earendil who first spoke.

“We will have to swear an oath tomorrow. Our positions here will require it.”

“Aye,” Tyrion agreed “think of it. We shall command all of the high elven might in Medion.”

“It was going to happen eventually.” Earendil said “We couldn’t remain young hunters forever could we?”

“No, but it was good while it lasted.” Tyrion agreed “Alas, the time has come for us to become who we were born to be.”

*********

Earendil and Tyrion stood before Finrodril, their father, dressed in ceremonial robes, Tyrion’s of grey and blue, Earendil’s of green and gold. Aredhel, their mother and their two siblings stood to one side, and behind them stood the gathered city of Villiandria.

“On this day, before the Gods themselves, we watch as my sons, Earendil and Tyrion, take forth the oaths of fealty and of office. Today, you take on the mantle of being Marshals of the high elves. You shall lead your people with honour and courage. You shall carry the titles you are bestowed with for your life, and only those of your direct bloodline can your title be passed down to. Lead well your kingdom, and may the Gods protect you.”

He placed golden circlets upon their heads.

“Rise as Marshals of the high elves!” Finrodril announced proudly.

The twins rose and turned to face the crowd. There was cheering from the elves. They were now the leaders of the high elves.

Author's Note

Co-written by Last King Caradin.