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| 6 Fourth Age: Danse Macabre; [ Closed ] | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: 4 Nov 2008, 06:14 PM (393 Views) | |
| Deleted User | 4 Nov 2008, 06:14 PM Post #1 |
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The caravan stretched along the baked earth like a black serpent slithering over the dunes. The people of Ateker weaved in their line, never quite straight, yet not disjointed either. They were like a giant beast slinking towards Gondor. The head of the beast, the War Lord, once fifth in line to the throne of Harad, walked with his shoulders hunched. The physical exhaustion of their trek across the desert, along with the grief of losing his wife and two children and the shame of retreating to a foreign King to beg for asylum, and therefore, his life, had weakened Aydin. The burden had been trebled, and he could not bear it. His reason for living had abandoned him. He would never find vengeance now, he was willingly sacrificing his honor to keep the people of Ateker alive, and his love, his Anahera, was dead. Destroyed as he was, Aydin’s footsteps never faltered. What little pride he had left urged him to show courage in the face of adversity, not for himself, but for his only living child and the survivors of Ateker. Their caravan had traveled through the desert in the blazes of summer and weathered the perpetual sandstorms that sprang up after a season of no rain. They were mortally tired and so near dehydration there was almost no point of continuing. Aydin could not give in to the despair, not while one hundred and fifty souls depended on his leadership. Gondor was ahead, somewhere not far beyond this desolate wasteland the Corsairs dared to called a country. In the heart of Gondor, Elessar sat upon the throne of the Reunited Kingdom. He had pardoned Aydin after the Battle of the Pelennor. It was hope in the kindness and humanity of a foreign victor that spurred Aydin onwards. The women and children of Ateker would find sanctuary in Minas Tirith. Among them, Ayla and Derya. There was nothing else in the world Aydin cared about except his sister and daughter. It was not far into Harondor when the survivors came to a small tributary of the Anduin. The water trickled in a wide plain, not so much a stream as a rocky pit in the earth. It would have to do. “Derya, take the children first,” Aydin said. His voice was hoarse from lack of use and water. The dryness did not hurt as much as the sight of Derya, gaunt and pale from the journey, standing behind her playmates. Like a true leader of men, she would not drink until her people were satisfied. “Ayla.” He was too exhausted to issue the order. His sister would know it was the women’s turn next, and she was capable of organizing them. The War Lord watched the procession to the water plain with dull, hollow eyes. Worry gnawed at his insides—worry that there would not be enough water for the men, let alone for fifty horses. |
| Deleted User | 12 Nov 2008, 05:25 PM Post #2 |
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Ayla had done as well as the strongest men in the caravan as they made the long journey towards Gondor. She had walked the entire way, leaving what horses there were for other women or elderly, and had shared what supplies she had to help keep thirst at bay with everyone and taken none for herself. The little green plant was useful to a point, it kept tongues and lips moist with the small amount of water it carried if a person chewed it. An old Ateker trick of the wisdoms that had been one of the first things she had been taught. She had also made sure to keep Derya in her sight constantly. When the girl walked faster, Ayla seemed to mimick, if Derya slowed or stumbled, Ayla caught her if Aydin hadn't been there first. Proudly though, the girl hadn't needed much help at all. Even now, as the stream was in reach, Derya waited until all the other children had their share first and foremost. The women went next and Ayla organized them swiftly and drank last as well. When she did drink, it was very little and hardly suffice for the dryness of her throat but didn't make a move to correct the matter. Instead she re-focused on the women and children, gathering them together in one spot to wait for the men to split what remaining water was left amongst them. "Derya?" She called from across the sea of bobbing childrens heads and watched as the sea divided subtly and the small girl approached. Ayla knelt down before her neice, her eyes constantly moving from the men and Aydin back to the gathering of women and childen. "Take this, it is the last of my bundle. Share it amongst the children, to those who need it most and for yourself. You must use them as well, you need to retain your strength." What was placed inside Derya's palm was the last remaining stems of plant. About fifteen sticks that would offer a little assistance to the young. Ayla held contact for awhile longer to Derya's hand, closing the girls finger over top of the vegetation while the opposing hand gently rubbed the back of her fingers down the slope of her nieces jaw. It was hard to not take these quiet moments with her niece when they came. Ayla, like she suspected of Aydin too, needed them for reassurance and some small measure hope & peace. |
| Deleted User | 25 Nov 2008, 02:57 PM Post #3 |
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Aydin remained rooted to the spot, his black eyes watching the scene before him. The children and women had taken their share of the water. The men moved down towards the water plain now. There were no elderly among them. The old and sickly had not survived the journey. The unfolding image swam like rivers washing over his eyes. The world tilted and swirled as it had done so many times under the unforgiving eyes of the sun. The War Lord reached out a hand for something steady to support his weight. It would pass if he gave it a few moments. “My Lord,” someone said, and Aydin realized they were inviting him to take his share of the water before the horses drank. He breathed in deeply to find the courage needed to give his next order. The thirst was insatiable. His throat rough and tongue swelled, stuck to the roof of his mouth, cried out for liquid. Princes of the Blood, however, were not given to indulgence before duty. Nor would he allow the people of Ateker to see him stumble down to the water like a desperate beast clinging to the last dregs of life. “Fill seven water casks,” he ordered, “That will satisfy us until we reach the Anduin three days hence.” He waited there, holding onto his horse’s tack for support, but the swimming world did not abate as it had done before. In his heart, Aydin had known that the charade could not continue for much longer, but he had hoped to reach Minas Tirith and speak with Elessar. The effects of dehydration and grief had assaulted his middle aged body too diligently. He was forced now to concede that he would never set foot inside Gondor again. “Ayla, my sister, come and speak with me. Derya, you will come as well, my child.” Aydin watched his only remaining family approach. To his vision, it appeared that the earth was quaking violently and jostling them up and down. But they were not harmed by his blurred eyes. When they were near to him, he released the tack of his warhorse and placed one hand on each of their shoulders. “Wisdom and perseverance,” Aydin began, “made the House of Maati great once, and it may do so again. This world darkens to me. The gods have not seen fit to grant me the strength to do this myself. You must do it for me, Ayla and Derya. You have served our family well by doing everything I have asked of you. I give to you one last request. Mourn me only when our people are safe.” The world swayed more violently than it had done before. Aydin’s cheek found the muddy ground along the water plain. He heard Derya’s cry and felt her small hands on his shoulder, turning him over to face her once cherubic face. He took his daughter’s hand and reached out for his sister. “For Love. For Honor. For Vengeance, “ he said, repeating the motto of the House of Maati. In this, his final moment, Aydin could see which path he had chosen, and why he was dying in a foreign land robbed of all his nobility. As surely as grief and dehydration had taken his life, so too had vengeance and the hatred he had harbored in his heart for so many years. For Love, he tried to repeat, but no sound escaped his throat. He wished to tell Ayla and Derya to live for love, not for vengeance. But his body, consumed with the darkness his anger had allowed in, would not permit the words to be spoken. His eyes shifted from Derya to Ayla, as if in a silent good-bye, and then turned to the cloud-filled sky. The wind battered the clouds across the cerulean blanket, and as it did so, one thick cloud morphed into the shape of a door identical to the family’s mausoleum in the capital. The invitation to the Halls of Fathers lingered in the sky, waiting for Aydin. I am summoned, he attempted to say. Home was one breath away. He breathed in deeply, savoring all the joys and sorrows of this life in one instant, and then gladly dispelled all his burdens and troubles with his final breath. |
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