The Fall

The smell of burning filled the air.

He stood on the roof of the keep, looking out through the shattered gates of Thidranki Faste. He saw the red banner waving in the air; swarming shapes moved up outside the walls, edging up to the gates once more. Several bodies- Norse and Troll- lay where they had fallen in the courtyard. The battle had raged day and night, and many of Midgard had fallen to the ragged Hibernian defenders. Elation now gave way to inevitable defeat, much as an intense love grown cold until it was but a memory with little force.

Suddenly a Ranger appeared, bow drawn, and shot a Valkyn just outside the gates. The Valkyn yelled in pain, and ran back towards the bridge below. A ragged cheer went up from the exhausted few left on the walls.

He carefully made his way to the parapet, and then down the wooden stairs. He moved along the wall to the spot near the keep steps. There it was- the little patch of garden kept on a whim; growing things, life, in the midst of destruction. He broke off one of the few rose blooms left upon the wall trellis, and went back towards the stairs.

A Shadowblade, a Norseman dressed in black, watched him curiously from the shadows; on impulse, he let the man go, watching him as he ascended the steps, flower in hand, a rather homely Celt, the expression on his face showing that he was...elsewhere.

Warhorns sounded, and the red banner advanced, along with the Midgard host. He slipped back into the keep, through the thick oaken door.

Inside, the narrow corridor was packed with the dead and the dying. Moans, talking, prayers filled his ears. He picked his way carefully down the corridor.

"Sire?" a voice said to him as he passed by, a hand reaching out to brush his leg. "Is it true that the Red Banner flies? Will we all be put to the sword?"

He paused briefly, looked down at the man- a handsome young Hero, sitting propped up against the wall, with both legs, crippled and useless, outstretched before him.

So much suffering and waste, he thought.

He nodded briefly at him, smiling slightly, and then continued on.

He found her where he had left her, laying upon an old blanket, his pack under her head, used as a crude pillow; still silently sobbing, the tears coursing down her cheeks.

~~~

He had first met her, months ago, in the Spraggon Den. She was a Bard, lending her songs to all for inspiration to fight. When he joined them, she greeted him with a curtsey and smiled. As a Druid, he had assisted her in healing the Heroes and Champions as they battled the strange monsters found deep within the earth, in the eerie orange glow of the rock corridors. They had spoken briefly of the healing arts; she was vital, happy, alive.

By the end of that day, he had fallen for her.

Many a day he thought of how to tell her. He painfully wrote out what he would say, then discarded the words, and started over. He had learned from the past that he was inadequate to the task. One woman had actually laughed in his face when he had tried to recite her a small verse he had composed for her. Not being a handsome man, he had turned towards words to attempt to make up for his looks. But apparently his words were as plain as his face.

After days of thinking, of writing, he finally realized what he had to say would not make her feel one way or the other. He sought her out, trying not to get his hopes up, but inside his chest there was a bright burning spark, of hope, of longing, of love; so much to give, to feel, to say, never shared with another.

He found her on the riverbank near Ardee; she was with someone else. As he strode up to her, he saw the handsome Champion fastening a flower in her blonde hair as she looked adoringly into his eyes.

They turned to him; the smile was still upon his face, but the light in his eyes had dimmed, as the spark in his chest extinguished, and he felt cold, cold, as if he had died but his body had not realized it yet.

He spoke a few inconsequential words to them, and he saw that they knew; he saw the pity in her eyes, the gentle sadness in his expression, and he turned to leave. The Champion called out to him; he invited him to join them in a hunt the next day. He realized that the man was not only fair of face, but also good of heart, and knew inside that he was the best man for her. He nodded and smiled, and turned once more to leave.

He was often in their company following that, and became friends with them. Having never had many friends before, he appreciated them very much. His bittersweet feelings he accepted, realizing what they had together was more than he could give, more than he was.

~~~

He sat down beside her. She stared sightlessly at the roof, face wet, and spoke his name yet again.

In the fierce fighting, her Champion, the best man that he had ever met, had gone down, slain by warriors of Midgard. She was devastated, grief-stricken; he had had to drag her away from his body, back to the keep.

As she cried, he tenderly fastened the rose in her hair. But she looked not at him; she was thinking of her love, shutting out the rest of the world around her in the agony of her grief, as her life slipped away, bereft of his touch, his fair words, his reassuring presence.

Downstairs, the battering ram crashed against the keep door repeatedly. He would not let her fall into their red hands; it would be his first and final gift to her.

He mixed the poison into his water-flask, and took a long drink.

He then held her head up, placing the flask to her lips; she drank automatically, still not aware of what was around her, in her grief.

As the door splintered downstairs, and he felt the cold of the poison work its way through his body, he recited to her the words he had planned to say to her, on that long-ago, sunny, hopeful day along the riverbank. The words flowed out of him, and he smiled as he told her in hushed tones of his feelings for her as he stroked her hair, how wonderful she was, how just being near her made his life complete.

She gazed into his eyes, a slight frown upon her tear-streaked face; startled, she raised her hand to touch his face with her fingertips, and she saw love in his eyes, and took what comfort she could in his love, though she thought of her Champion with her last dying thought.

A tear fell from his cheek and landed on her face, and their tears mingled together as their bodies grew cold, and the door was smashed in down below.




[What follows is the response from a reader who had read my original story at Kelryck's DAoC Role Play Community site; his name is Gaberiel Godslayer, and he retold the story from a different point of view. He wrote very well:]


Reply to 'The Fall'

I wanted to say that I thoroughly enjoyed reading your story. I mean no offense by offering up my own version of the story. You inspired me, and any merit I might be able to garner from the story I have written is therefore wholey owed to you.

I only hope that I can do you some justice by posting it.


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He watched.

His blades, both polished and gleaming when he was alone and relatively safe in his room back home, were blackened with grease tonight to prevent them from catching the light of the torch fires.

Sitting, waiting on a parapet, feeling the cold stone beneath his leather clad feet, he watched.

The kobold who was once as a young boy in his home village, there jokingly nicknamed 'the old wolf,' felt the breeze pull at his darkened cloak, and peered up at the half full moon, bit into the cold night air, and felt his grip tighten on the two leather wrapped and oiled blades. There was horror to be wrought here this night.

Oh how far things have come, he thought.

The defenders were exhausted. Days upon days of siege had worn even the hardiest of fighters inside the keep thin. Their faces were haggard; their eyes were locked on things that were not there. They each wore the blank look of the damned. Despite how hard they still fought when the arrows flew and the rams came charging for the door, when the lulls in battle came, he saw how truly drawn the defenders were. With nothing physical to defend against, they turned their thoughts inward, and battled themselves.

He watched as a single celt wandered by him, not a few arm's lengths away, holding a flower in his hand, walking like a man in a dream or a nightmare. The shadowblade could not decide which.

The Old Wolf put a staying hand on a fellow shadowblade, calming his bretheren and letting the celt go. On a whim, the norse obeyed, and began to stalk other prey. The Old Wolf turned his attention back to the wandering celt.

He watched.

A day ago this very celt in this very keep had dragged a screaming and distraught young woman from the dead body of a fallen champion. The Old Wolf had been there then, working the parapets of the keep, sowing chaos and fear. The sight of the young woman had made him stop in his tracks. He momentarily lost his pull on the shadows around him and became visible for a split second he was so struck by the plight of the woman before him.

A male celt dragged the female inside forcibly, firmly. He saw such grief as he had never expected to see on the face of his enemy. He thought back to the woman he had left behind in his village. The memory of her face was fading slowly from his mind, but a lock of her hair he kept hidden in his pouch reminded him constantly of the sweet smell of her. The male celt got the young woman inside to safety just ahead of the onrushing horde, and he didn't know what he should feel. For an instant, he completely lost the will to fight these people from Hibernia.

A lurikeen defender had no such reservations. Noticing the inert kobold in the shadows, a nightshade materialized out of nowhere and thrust his blade towards The Old Wolf's heart. Had he been locked on the sight of the sobbing celt a moment longer, the kobold would have gone to meet his ancestors that day. Regaining sense enough to survive, the Old Wolf evaded the assault that the lurikeen was throwing at him, climbed a nearby battlement, hopped over the wall, and disappeared into the night, the image of the young woman's cries over the fallen champion still fresh in his mind.

That same shadowblade now watched the celt that had pulled the young woman into the keep. Curiously, he stared at the man as the celt's thoughts wandered. The female was nowhere to be seen, and this was strangely troubling. The celt walked past and the shadowblade felt a growing unease.

Behind the shadowblade, over the walls, the horns of the horde were sounding, and the red banner was flying. His brethren were setting themselves upon the keep with a renewed and primal fury, like wild animals that have taken note of the scent of blood. Troll and norse roared in unison, and the Old Wolf suppressed a shiver.

Across the courtyard, the tower keep itself reeked of rot and death. The Old Wolf knew this would not be a day of victory for those from Hibernia.

He watched as the homely celt went to the tower and entered the inner keep. On impulse and against his better judgment, the Old Wolf decided to track him further.

Inside the hushed tones of tired men and women could be heard. Strange words, none of the recognizable, all easily understood. He had heard the sounds of defeat a hundred times. Most of his brethren on the field who cried their battle cries but did not have the talent to get so close to the enemy had no idea that the sounds of despair and defeat were indeed universal. The horde made such a furious din that they were scarcely aware that the enemy breathed, let alone sobbed, cried, wailed, or prayed. The shadowblade was keenly aware of it.

Oh how far things have come, the Old Wolf thought with a sigh.

He could not find a way into the tower keep, as was normal for the defensive structures he was used to. The stone was far too smooth, and the overhangs were far too pronounced. The guards of the keep also seemed to posses a keen and almost supernatural sense of their surroundings, and not even the shadows could protect the Old Wolf from their notice. So he went looking for a window or hole instead of an entrance, and found a crack in the stones and mortar that showed his celt once more, leaning over the prone form of the young woman.

He watched.

The young celt sat hunched with his back to the Old Wolf. He seemed to uncork his water-flask and take a drink, and then offer one to the young woman. To the shadowblade's surprise, the prone form of the woman came alive, and took a drink of water. The Old Wolf had thought her dead. Then the celt said some hushed unintelligible words to the young woman, and they both looked at each other. Her hands reached up and touched his face as he caressed her hair, the raw emotion of the exchange bringing tears to the kobold's eyes.

The door below him was beginning to splinter, snapping the Old Wolf back into focus, and the shadowblade made up his mind.

'It will be quick for both of you, I will make sure of it. You deserve no less,' he whispered with as iron a will as he had ever had.

The gods be damned, he thought. If they oppose me on this, THEY deserve no less.

The door exploded inward below him, and he raced to get to the front of the onrushing horde. Ignoring the defeated and prone bodies of the soon to be slain defenders, he rushed as fast as he could ahead of his brethren, leaping over bodies and dodging feeble swings of myriad weapons, racing to spare the two celts the slow and painful death at the hands of the horde.

When he finally came to the small room with the two young celts, he stopped dead in his tracks. His stomach sank, his breath caught, and the gods laughed at him in all his shame.

Walking over to their still bodies, he felt the artery under their chins, sensed no life in either of them, and felt his legs nearly buckle beneath him. Regaining his balance with an effort, he noticed the rose in the young woman's hair, and once more felt his eyes water, though he could not reason why.

Feeling no more appatite for blood, he passed back through the halls of the keep. The occasional jeers of one or two of his brethren followed him as he held a small rose in his right hand. They roared with mocking laughter as he wrapped himself in the comforting blanket of the shadows. He said nothing in return as he suppressed a shiver and left the keep.

Oh, how far things have come, he though, as he placed the rose inside his pouch, next to the lock of hair. Oh how very far indeed.