"You are a royal crown, my Lady," he whispered, spreading the cloth over her hair, "And you were right to make such a decision, and so command."
"A royal crown no longer. I am faranthroth." she smiled weakly as he tied the cloth beneath her chin.
"A royal crown, Elayeen. And you remind me who I am. Of late, I seem to have forgotten that. Now sleep. I shall keep watch."
Elayeen nodded, and Gawain lifted her hand, and kissed it. Then he stood, and walked away into the darkness.
It was strange, and strange aquamire flickered through him as he gazed out across the farak gorin, shimmering in weak moonlight that pierced a crack in the low clouds. Strange that Elayeen should recall to him his own royal heritage. As he stood and stared, tired but filled with duty to keep watch over his sleeping comrades, he felt a twinge of unexpected shame. This morning, in the Barak-nor, he had forgotten his dawn Remembrance. He had forgotten much, it seemed, since his dark rage upon the Point above Tarn.
As he surveyed the landscape, an arrow strung and in hand should the two black riders round the tip of Threlland, he remembered; Raheen, and the reason for the Sword of Justice upon his back. Morloch, and the reason for their presence here on the desolate northern slopes overlooking the Teeth and the river of nothing. Breezes wafted in, chill and bitter, from the Teeth, and Gawain cocked his head. He no longer heard Morloch's laughter.
Perhaps the joke had indeed been on him, these last weeks. He had seen with his own eyes the dreadful power of aquamire, and strange or not, it was in him. Had he succumbed to it, then? Were the elven wizards right when they claimed Gawain was Morloch-cursed? No, he thought with conviction. That was too far beyond the pail. But of late, Gawain had shouldered the battle against Morloch alone. Was that the arrogance of aquamire, that one man could truly believe himself the sole defender of all the southlands?
Elayeen had commanded in his absence. A threat had been sighted, and by Allazar of all people, and while others would have stayed in hiding, or remained to aid Gawain against the threat, Elayeen had commanded they abandon him to his own devices. A regal decision, and a worthy one. She had been right; the knowledge they all possessed must reach Eryk of Threlland, and all the other crowns in the south. What meant the life of one longsword warrior when the fate of all the southlands hung in the balance? That Elayeen was throth-bound to the warrior she abandoned spoke volumes, and filled Gawain with both pride and shame. Pride, that in spite of her own kind declaring her faranthroth, she yet thought of their safety above her own. Shame, that he had doubted her, doubted any of them.
Even the thalangard, dispatched by elven wizards with instructions to destroy the DarkSlayer, had opened their eyes, witnessed truth, and would have remained in the Barak-nor to aid his escape. Doubt, Gawain now knew, was as powerful an enemy as his old allies against the Ramoths, fear and terror. Both were insidious, both consumed and weakened, eating away at the insides like a maggot in an apple, leaving the outside looking fresh while the core rotted.
Gawain sighed, and blinked back the strange aquamire. He had no need of it, not here and not now. Allazar had been right. He had become cruel. It was a cruelty born of arrogance, conceit, and a belief in his own power and invincibility. Now that the enemy had been sighted, Gawain knew that invincibility to be nothing but an aquamire fantasy, conceived beneath the Teeth when the lens of Ramoth had been smashed. The hunger and thirst he'd felt as he ran through the nightmare landscape of the Barak-nor testified to his mortality, as did the fear and revulsion he'd experienced gazing down upon the dark enemy in their stronghold. As did his tiredness now.
Yet through it all, the small group of elves and dwarves, and a useless human whitebeard, had followed him into that nightmare land, had willingly taken up the foul arts of brigandry and subterfuge, and yet slept soundly, trusting him to keep watch over them with a dread and relentless enemy hunting them still.
Gawain stiffened his back, and summoned the memory of his family. Forgive me, he thought silently, remembering his father's last words to him: "I have always been proud of you. I know you will do well. Remember who you are, and be true to yourself, and to Raheen."
Gawain nodded to his father's memory. Lately, he had been true to nothing but his own anger and aquamire rage. Raheen had been completely forgotten, as had The Fallen. Rak had been right, too. The horror they had witnessed must be shared. It was too much for one man alone to bear. Gawain sighed, and kept his lonely vigil, wondering how long it would take for Morloch's black riders to regain their trail, and track them here. With luck, and with the rains they'd suffered, perhaps never. But he knew that was unlikely, and maintained it until Sarek relieved him.
Elayeen was sleeping soundly when he lay down beside her and closed his eyes. He could hear her gentle breathing, and it eased him into a dreamless sleep.
He awoke with a start in the darkest of hours, and sat up, reaching for his longsword. Gwyn had snuffled a warning. He glanced around the camp, saw that Sarek too was sitting upright, loading a bolt into his crossbow, and noted that the thalangard were missing from their blankets. Bows creaked, there was a thrum of strings, and then two aquamire death-blasts screeched through the still night air as stone-tipped elven arrows ripped through charmed armour and the creatures within.
Gawain smiled grimly, let his sword lie, and lay back down beside Elayeen.
"They are friends, mithroth." She murmured, her eyes blinking through sleep.
But Gawain was already asleep.
36. Home, in Haste
Urgency became their watchword, and there was little time for pleasantries as they sped their journey to Tarn. All were filled with a grim determination, and the darkest of resolves. In the relative peace of the gentler landscape all around them, the horrors they had witnessed seemed all the more obscene, and drove them relentlessly.
Even when they were obliged to dismount and walk their horses, they strode purposefully, anxious to put as much distance between themselves, the Barak-nor, and Morloch's eastern army as they could.
Sleep did not come easy, except for Gawain and Sarek, who were both long used to making the most of opportunities for rest whenever they arose. But Sarek seemed withdrawn, sombre, and much given to frowning darkly and polishing his blade. At first, Gawain was concerned, and believed that the hideous sights witnessed by the Threlland officer had warped the Captain's mind. But on the seventh day of their flight along the northern slopes, as dawn rose, Gawain remembered Raheen, and understood the dark burning behind Sarek's eyes. The enemy was in Sarek's land, and had offended him…
That afternoon, as clouds evaporated to reveal an azure sky and the promise of spring to come, Sarek riding at point brought the column to an abrupt halt, and directed them to take cover in the trees higher up the slopes. It was done in moments, and as they waited with bows at the ready, Gawain couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. All of them, including Allazar, were concealed from view like professional brigands; their faces streaked with mud as they peered along the track, eyes narrowed mercilessly.
There was a rumbling of hooves, and from around the distant point, a Threlland patrol hove into view, twenty-strong, and riding with great purpose, oblivious to the ambush that lay in wait for them.
Sarek sniffed, and shook his head sadly, levelling his crossbow, drawing anxious looks from all his comrades. "They need to learn." He whispered, as the others eased their strings and waited.