The Court of Ardor by AliceNWonder000137  

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Infiltrating the Court

As the ritual nears, Featur leads a small group to discover the secrets of the Citadel.  Disguised as his sister, he risks infiltrating the Court.  Warning for a scene of intimacy.

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38)  Infiltrating the Court - Year of the Sun 473 Ninui (Winter)

 

Fëatur

In the immediate aftermath of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Unnumbered Tears, the neither the Guild nor The Three could focus.  Chaos reigned in the confusion over reports that Morgoth had conquered the north.  He would, no doubt, be coming for them in the south next.  Fëatur was a wreck with the dark thoughts that Morelen was in the thick of the fighting. Was she alive?  Was she dead?  He could not push the fear from his mind, and it was devouring him.  When he met with Yavëkamba in one of their secret caves, she was besides herself with worry, her face taut.  She grasped her crystal pendant nervously.  She had delivered Morelan and Moran, and both were dear to her heart.  They wanted to head north and search for her, but they knew that their duty was here in the south.  If the north was lost as they thought, the battle would soon come here.

“You need to let me know what you find out,” she told him.  She kept twirling her dark hair while tapping her foot.  “I need to know that she is alive.”  She fidgeted nervously, her eyes intense, darting back and forth.  Her characteristic calm was cracking.

Holding her in his arms from behind, he nodded, his blond hair mingling with hers.  “I will.  I swear it.” He felt just as anxious.  Fear consumed them.

“I don’t care about the risk!” she said in a strained voice, her soft features suddenly sharp.  “I need to know!”

He was a little annoyed at first and narrowed his eyes.  “Don’t you think I want to-.  No, I’m sorry.  I’m just as worried.  I swear I will find a way to let you know the moment I hear anything.  Anything at all.”  They were both extremely tense.  He began to massage her shoulders, and she closed her eyes, a tear rolling down her cheek and onto her blue tunic.

“I delivered them, Fë. I held them in my hands as they were born.”

“I know, Yavë.  I was there, remember?  I know.  Your heart is always so full.  So full of love.  I cannot leave the south.  Not yet. But I will keep every line of communication open.  I will ask, beg, demand.  I will find you an answer.”  Their meeting had to be brief.  The power of the Court was growing and Yavë would be missed soon.

It took months before word came south.  The shipments of arms and armor had also stopped.  At least they had the High King’s smiths…well, late High King.  Fëatur sat at a simple wooden desk in Chrys’ manor house in Tumlindë, reading a scroll.  The elegant décor of a silver and golden tree in the corners of the main hall, intertwined with live branches and flowering vines did little to offset the tension in the room.  Only the roar of the central fireplace could be heard.

His plain brown robes were disheveled as was his blond hair.  He felt like he had not slept or meditated in days and his already slender face was lined with fatigue, the lids of his blue eyes heavy.  Elves were resilient, but the strain was clearly showing. He then breathed a heavy sigh of relief and looked up at Chrys and the other Guild members along with The Three and The Enclave.  “Morelen’s alive,” he said, holding back a flood of emotions, putting his hand over his mouth.  His deepest hopes had come true and he wanted to rush off and tell Yavë, but it would have to wait.  He gulped hard and then took another deep breath.  “She’s alive.  The news is all bad though.  The High King…the High King was slain…by cursed Gothmog,” he said slowly to horrified gasps and open mouths.  “The disaster was complete.  So many were slain that the orcs built a mound of skulls on the Anfauglith.  We’ve lost most of the north, she says. There’ll be no regular shipments to us from now on.”  More concerned murmurs from the group.  “They now need every sword they can get.  Maedhros has lost the entire east.  They were betrayed by one of the Easterling tribes, Ulfang…he stabbed them in the back, but he was slain by Maglor.  Morgoth has conquered all of Hithlum and Dor-Lómin and much of Nevrast.  The Falas are under siege now too.”  He sighed heavily and looked at the gathering, long faces on all.  “Fingon’s riders have sworn to Orodreth in Nargothrond.  They should be safe for now.”

“What does this mean for the south?” asked Lyaan, his green eyes focused, pinching his lips with his fingers.  “Will they strike here?”  He pulled his white tunic tighter as if it would protect him from what was to come.

Fëatur looked back down at the scroll and inhaled.  “Morelen doesn’t think that the Dark Lord will send forces south.  He is entirely focused on his vengeance against them in the north.  He’ll probably leave us to the Court.  He’s working on subjugating the east though through spies and sacrifices…essentially what Moran is doing here.  Whatever Morgoth’s plan is, it does not bode well for us.”

Chrys narrowed his blue eyes, thinking deeply.  He pulled at the high collar of his emerald green doublet and ran a hand through his blond hair.  He was nearly the spitting image of his late cousin, Finrod Felagund, though slightly shorter and stockier.  “This is not good, but we need to put it in perspective,” he said, thinking carefully upon his words.  “First, our holds are well fortified, staffed and supplied.  Second, the smiths from the north are producing at record levels and our troops have high quality weapons and armor.  Third, we are still hidden, but we know the location of the Court’s Citadel.”

“Though we lack the forces to assault it,” Fëatur noted.

“Cheerful as always,” Elerior quipped in a dark tone.  Even the Minister of Air’s eternal optimism was dampened by the disaster.  His sky-blue robes were usually a mirror of his airy nature, but not today.

“At least he’s realistic,” Talan said with a snort.  The Minister of Water had always been known for his dour, taciturn nature.  He shook his head, his ebony hair moving about his face. “We need to fortify further and prepare for increasing attacks by the Court.  We are quickly losing ground in terms of numbers.  Ardana has been more than successful in subjugating the humans and some of the dwarves of the region.”

“We cannot just sit and wait,” Laurre Menelrana said, jumping in, his voice strong.  The young man had matured in the last couple of centuries and had become a leader in his own right.  “If the Court is indeed growing and outpacing us, waiting is death. While I am training the troops of the Guild, we are not many, not nearly as many as the Court.  Fëatur, is there a way into the Citadel that is held secret? We all know that the ritual is coming. Has there been any more information from your source?”  Chrys glanced at him with a nod and a faint smile.  His son was strikingly similar in appearance except he had a bit of Silvan in him from his mother, Aelrie, his hair a bit more auburn and his complexion a bit more ruddy.

Fëatur nodded.  “My…source is no longer at the Citadel, but travels there once a year now from Angkirya.  I will ask. And I must meet them with news of Morelen in any case.  They believe that the ritual is now less than a century away.”

Ralian, the Minister of Light, nodded in agreement.  His silk robes were of silver and white with a mithril circlet on his head, a single strand of the metal, set with a diamond.  “The stars concur.  As I read them, we are now about seventy to eighty years from the great eclipse.  I am still not entirely convinced that the Court has the power to destroy the sun and moon, but we should take no chances and behave as if they do.”

“The Enclave concurs as well,” said Elvëon, the head of The Enclave.  He wore robes of brilliant deep blue, covered with a scattering of silver stars woven into the luxurious fabric.  The Enclave was quiet group of mystics and astrologers, usually very reserved, only speaking when something important needed to be said.  “The stars have been shining less brightly since the disaster in the north.  Dark times are coming, my friends.  The West is closed to us.  We must make our stand here.”

“These are troubled times indeed when an astrologer tells us that we need to fight,” Chrys chimed in. “How I wish for the times when you could just gaze at the stars in peace.  How I wish we could just spend time with our families, building and growing. But it is not to be.”

Lysa stretched out her hand.  “It shall be again, my friend.  I sense this, but we will have to go through fire and steel to get there.  This will not be easy.  Still, Fëatur,” she said, looking at him with gentle compassion, her gray eyes soft, “Thank you for sharing news of Morelen.  She is like a daughter to me.  I dearly wish for her to return to the south, but I know she has important work to do there.”

Chrys clapped his hands once, getting everyone’s attention.  “I believe we have a course of action.  Laurre, continue to train the troops of the guild.  I need a tally of our manpower when you can.  Lyaan, are your light infantry able to conduct more scouting?  We need to find the locations of the other Court holds.”  Lyaan nodded.  “Elvëon, we need to narrow down the time of the ritual.  It will creep up upon us if we are not vigilant.”  He also nodded.  “Lastly, it again comes down to you, my friend, Fëatur.  We need you to meet with your source again.  We need a way into the Citadel.  We cannot hope to assault it directly with their army surrounding it.  Any information beyond that will be invaluable.  The Guild will provide wards to all of our holds to confuse, delay or harm any invaders.  Time is growing short.  Though we are immortal, we cannot wait forever.  This evening, we will hold a ceremony of grieving for High King Fingon and the fallen in the north.  Fëatur, was there anything else from your daughter?”

“She leaves off saying that Turgon has become High King of the Noldor, though he remains in the hidden city of Gondolin.  Fingon’s son, Gil-Galad and Cirdan are preparing to flee to the Isle of Balar and the Mouths of the Sirion.  She and Notaldo say that Nargothrond is secure so there is still hope of resistance in the north.  I will send a message back north, paying our respects and give our oaths of loyalty to Turgon.  If he should call, we cannot send much, but we will send what we can.”   He stood and went to the window where a sparrow sat on the windowsill.  It chirped at him, and he whispered words into the bird’s ear.  It took off and flew north.  Another bird landed on the sill, waiting for him.  “I will send word to my source now.  They will want to know all of this right away.”  He whispered to that bird and it took flight.

As with Elven ceremonies, the time of grieving was ethereal.  As it grew dark, the members of the Luingon Alliance stood on the grass outside of the manor house, surrounded by tall trees.  The gentle scent of jasmine floated on the air.  Then, pained voices called up to the stars as instruments played the tragedy of the north.  Lanterns floated in the air, lighting the glade of Tumlindë.  Sorrow was upon every gathered face.  Aelrie and her sister, Miriani wept openly as did Lysa, the two ladies singing in spite of their pain.  Chrys and Fëatur stifled tears, but they could not hold them in. Fëatur shook in grief, biting one hand as he squeezed a fist with the other.

“Snow White, Snow White, O Lady Clear,

O Queen beyond the Western Seas,

O Light to let us wander there,

Amid the world of woven trees.

O Elbereth Gilthoniel,

We still remember, we who dwell,

In this far land beneath the trees,

Thy starlight on the Western Seas,” they sang in praise of Varda.  They went on to lament the fall of Fingolfin and Valiant Fingon and all of the elves, men and dwarves that perished in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears.  Fëatur raised his hands up, thanking Varda, Manwë and Mandos for one more day.  One more day to defeat the dark enemy.

Aelrie and Miriani raised their arms skyward, their red hair fluttering in the breeze, and then blew out a long breath, their magic pushing the lanterns into the night, vanishing in the distance.  They resumed the song of grief, angelic voices full of sorrow.  The words of the music, the voice of the Quendi, floated into Fëatur’s ears and he began to see Valinor again.  Before the freeing of Melkor, he could see Varda, her eyes so bright that one could not bear to look into them, her hand outstretched to the heavens, stars forming at her touch.  He could feel the wind and the cold, high above Middle Earth and see the wonder of the constellations.  The singers then shifted and a lament to the fallen rose into the sky.

“Once wide and smooth a plain was spread,
where King Fingolfin proudly led
his silver armies on the green,
his horses white, his lances keen;
his helmets tall of steel were hewn,
his shields were shining as the moon.
There trumpets sang both long and loud,
and challenge rang unto the cloud
that lay on Morgoth's northern tower,
while Morgoth waited for his hour.”

Fëatur saw the images in his mind: Fingolfin riding to battle the Dark Lord, the duel, the Eagle carrying his body away.  Then the Unnumbered Tears and Fingon’s final battle against the balrogs.  It was as if he were there, feeling the terror and the heat. The sisters, Aelrie and Miriani then fell to their knees, collapsing onto the ground.  Aelrie tore the soft grass with her fingers.  “It hurts so much, Chrys.  I hurt for every life lost in this tragedy.  I fear that we won’t survived this.”

Chrys took her hands and raised her up.  She was shaking like a leaf.  “We will get through this.  We’ve dealt with all other crises since before the sun and the moon.  We will survive as a family.”

She looked up into his eyes and then buried her head on his shoulder.  “But Chrys, I’m not a warrior.  I’m not a mage.  I’m a bard and a dancer.  How can I fight the enemy when they come?”

He pointed to Laurre and then the others.  “We will protect you.  This I swear. I would lay down my life for you and Laurre without a second thought.”

Fëatur stepped up, not wanting to interrupt, but he had important news.  A sparrow sat on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry to step in, but I have received word from my source.  I will set out right away.”

Chrys nodded. “Yes.  Thank you and please tell her that we will do everything that we can for her safety and thank her for her risk.  She is absolutely crucial to our efforts,” he said, acknowledging who the source was.  “Travel safely and return to us with positive news.”

Fëatur nodded with a smile. For all of the death and disaster, the thought of seeing Yavë again was electric.  If there was one bright light in this dark world, it was her.  He turned to walk to the stables but Lyrin approached him.

“I know that things have been tense between us,” Lyrin said, looking down and scratching his head beneath his wavy auburn hair.  “I would like to accompany you on this journey.  I need to…I need to make amends.  The fishing village, it…it changed me.”

Fëatur nodded.  “You know, I was hoping you’d say that.  I am sorry for how this has changed us all.  As Eru’s children, we were meant for bliss and serenity.  I’m not sure what part of his plan this plays, but we must trust him and follow our hearts to bring about that ultimate plan.”

Lyrin gave a wan smile, clearly embarrassed.  “I was…arrogant and childish.  I see that now.  I am hoping to change.”  There was still a lot of the boyish immaturity in him, but this was a start. “I still have a long way to go.”

“If I can help you in any way, please ask.  I owe your family an enormous debt that I can never repay.”

The young elf chuckled and that sly grin of his reappeared.  “I won’t let you forget it either.”  He looked over to his friends, standing with his mother.  They seemed to be waiting anxiously for any word from him. “Might I invite my fellow initiates and friends?  We have been training together, and I think it would be a good opportunity for us.”

Fëatur thought for a moment and then nodded.  It was actually a good idea and it showed some forethought and leadership on Lyrin’s part.  “I would appreciate the company.  Please, bring them over.”

Lyrin waved to them, and they ran over, excitement on their young faces.  Their Ikashas bouncing at their sides over their white robes.  “Edenor, Anuven, Caladiel, pack your things. We’re going on an outing.”

Caladiel was a bright-faced young Sindarin woman about a head shorter than Lyrin.  “We’re already packed, Lyrin,” she said, her blue eyes beaming beneath straight blonde hair.  She turned to Fëatur.  “Thank you, thank you sir for letting us help.  We have trained in Ty-Ar-Rana for centuries now and we wish to be more involved in the struggle to protect our people.”  The other two young men, both Noldor, nodded.  Fëatur recalled meeting Edenor and Anuven many years ago.  They seemed even more boyish than Lyrin.

Fëatur smiled.  “No need to call me sir.  My name is fine.  Meet me at the stables in ten minutes.  Do you know what we are doing yet?”

“Lyrin told us all about it,” she said, blushing and looking down as if she had revealed some secret.  “We will protect you with our lives.”  The young woman just radiated innocence.

Fëatur looked at Lyrin and smirked.  “I see you had this all planned out,” he said and Lyrin’s eyes shot wide open, having been caught.  “No, this is good,” he continued.  “I’ve wanted to see you think ahead and think of other people.  I am…I am pleased.  And you might want to change out of those white robes.  They get dirty real quick.”

Teldin, the stable boy in the fishing village, who had nearly been killed, greeted them at the stables.  They had accepted him with open arms in Tumlindë and he was a loyal, dedicated worker. He had taken the time to feed, water, brush and saddle their horses and he bowed as the group approached, his dirty blond hair falling in front of his face.  Fëatur waved him off.  “Teldin, you do not bow to me.  We are all in this together.  I am just so glad that you are safe here with us.  You are always welcome, and I appreciate your hard work.  I can see how well cared for are the horses.”

Now a young elven man, he smiled and gestured to the mounts.  “All clean and ready for you.  I will never forget…,” he began, his voice breaking, “I will never forget how you and the mistress saved me.”  Fëatur grasped him warmly by the shoulder and then climbed into the saddle.

The journey was pleasant and the normally hot, humid weather of the region was cooler. Tropical birds sang as they rode through the thick jungle to the ruined fishing village.  Fëatur thought about the tangy fish soup that the villagers used to make and the easy, friendly nature of the people.  They would be missed.  He sighed heavily, lost in the memory of a better, more peaceful time. The young elves joked and yucked it up for a time before they neared the ruins.  The two young men were the most boisterous, trading fake punches and making jokes.  Caladiel seemed more focused as if thinking.  As they neared the ruins though, they became quiet, more serious, scanning the jungle.

Lyrin looked to his friends.  “It was…it was horrible.  Women, children, butchered.  They were no threat to anyone,” he said in a somber tone that was so unlike him.  His friends listened in silence.  Now, only the wind and the songs of the birds wafted along the path.  The village ruins were unchanged since they were last here with the exception of the fires and the dead.  They rode past the graves that they had dug, still covered with soil, some now growing grass and flowering plants.  Lyrin looked down.  “I remember every soul that we buried here.”

They saw Yavëkamba waiting within the ruins of the inn.  She was in a simple blue tunic and pants with crystal pendant around her neck. The burnt wood had been cleared out, and she had created an area in which to meet, a small carpet and towels arranged on the ground.  Her face lit up when she saw them ride up.  They dismounted and approached.  Yavë ran up and embraced Fëatur tightly.  “Time grows short, love.  I am so glad you reached out.  Do you have news of Morelen?” she said in anticipation.  He smiled at her and that said it all.  She shook for a moment before breathing again.  “I was so worried.  So worried.  How is she? Please tell me.  Have a seat.  I have food for us.”

They sat down and Fëatur introduced Lyrin’s friends.  They bowed respectfully to one who had seen the light of the Trees.  “Morelen fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, as we knew that she would.  There was no chance anyone would talk her out of it.  She and Notaldo survived, and the riders have sworn to Orodreth in Nargothrond. They will be safe for now, but I fear that it may not always be so.”

Yavë nodded, listening to every word with great interest.  She then blew out a sigh of relief.  “Thank you. Thank you for bringing me this information.  The Court is ecstatic about Morgoth’s victory in the north.  They believe that it gives them breathing room here in the south to complete the ritual.  Morthaur has completed final testing on the gems of unlight.  I believe that they will work as he has stated.  Moran is clueless as to what they plan to do to him. Fë…it breaks my heart.  I want to tell him.  He needs to know,” she said, speaking rapidly.  “But if I do, he will react and I will be found out.  We need to come up with a plan to free him.”

“That is exactly why I am here, Yavë.”  He looked at Lyrin and the others, who listened intently.  “This may just be the most important mission for anyone on the side of the Free Peoples,” he said, impressing the young elves as to how dire the situation was.  “We need a way into the Citadel.  Do you know of any secret entrances?”

Yavë thought for a moment, putting her thumb up to her lips.  “A direct assault on the island would be suicide,” she said darkly but then perked up. “But we talked about you impersonating your sister again.  Your friends will play our servants, no offense.  We can leave this evening on my boat.  I do not know of any secret entrances, but knowing Ardana and the inner circle, we can bet that one exists.”

Fëatur gave the group a faint smile and a head nod.  “I can work with that.  And, I know, I have to dress up as my sister again.  It’s been a while.  Not since Moran and Morelen were born.  You’ve helped me in the past so let’s get me suited up.”

Yavë snorted out a chuckle. “I got rather good at it.  Here, step into my parlor,” she said, gesturing to an undamaged area of the inn.  She pulled clothing out of her bag.  “I was prepared for this.”

Fëatur made a face at the group and then followed her to the room.  “The things I do for the Guild,” he said with a rare, lighthearted edge. Yavë brought out the best in him.

She yanked his robes off, exposing him, then she strapped a harness to his chest to simulate female breasts.  Next, she pointed to his manhood.  “We need to…ummm bind that thing up.  You remember,” she said as she held up a gauzy wrap.  She let her fingers brush him and he shuddered, sighing deeply.  He nodded as she held him gently and wrapped him with the gauze.  He gulped hard.  “You need to relax otherwise this isn’t going to work,” she said snidely.

“I can’t help it,” he groaned.

Yavë snickered and then extended his power into him.  It was soothing, peaceful, gentle and loving.  “There, that’s better.  All done. I will…take care of it when we return.” She tied the gauze down on his thigh and then handed him a different robe, full, flowing and black.  “These are your sister’s newest robes.  I managed to sew perfect replicas.  She is creating a new order that will serve her, called the Darin Tesarath, the Sisterhood of the Mind.  It is composed entirely of female elves who are experts in spy craft, interrogation, assassination and hand to hand combat. They are fearsome from what I have seen. She is building a temple for their training grounds, but I know not where.  In the confrontation in the courtyard, when she drew her kynac, I saw fear in Gorthaur’s eyes.”  She placed a golden cord around his head and then applied light makeup on his face and eyes. “When she caused Silion to be infested with eels…I don’t even want to think about it.  But also, I have a map for you of the location of Angkirya, my new home, which is ruled by your sister.”  She added some eye liner and mascara.  “There…the twin of your sister.  Now give me the look.”

Fëatur made a petulant scowl, his best imitation of her.  He tightened his abdomen and forced his voice slightly higher.  “How’s that?”

“Mmmm, perfect.  I can’t even tell the difference and I’m around her all of the time.  And here, take this,” she said, handing him a large card that was made of shalk, a thick, paper like material that was easy to infuse with magic.  

“Are these the cards of the Ardan Deck?  I’ve only heard rumors and what you told me earlier.  What does it do?”  He looked it over, flipping it back and forth.  It showed a blond elf gazing into a mirror, but the reflection was distorted.

She nodded. “Yes.  It has only minimal powers right now, but I know that you can infuse it with your magic.  It allows communication between the members, but, with the right incantation, you may listen in to some of the conversations between them.”

His eyes lit up. “This is…this is invaluable. Thank you,” he said, kissing her. “I have just the incantations to make it useful.”  They walked out back to the group and the elves from Ty-Ar-Rana stared.

“You’re quite pretty, Fëatur,” Lyrin said with chuckle.  “I think I’m quite smitten.”

Fëatur winked.  “Just remember that my sister could rip you to pieces without a second though.”

A bit of Lyrin’s old boyish bravado returned.  “She could try,” he said, throwing mock blows at his friends.

Fëatur would give him this one.  The young man had come a long way after that rude awakening to the reality of evil.  He looked down at the black robes and his ‘new’ body.  It had been a long time since he had impersonated her.  Could he still remember her mannerisms and speech?  He would just have to do his best.  “This may be a stupid question, but she’s not at the Citadel, is she?”

“No,” Yavëkamba said with a head shake.  “She’s been at Angirya for a week now.  I double checked with the cards.”  She handed Lyrin and the acolytes robes as well, blue for the men and a black Darin Tesarath robe for Caladiel.  “You seem adept in hand-to-hand combat,” she told the elven woman.  The two men pulled off their clothing right away, but Caladiel blushed and went to the back room.

Yavë led them to her boat, which was moored where the ruins of the dock were.  It was a small skiff with a single, triangular sail of canvas. They all boarded and Yavë raised her hand and blew out a breath.  A breeze came up and caught the sail, filling it up and the skiff sailed out at a fast pace. She pointed to the men.  “You are my healing assistants.  I recruited you recently and we have yet to go to Angirya. Almariel, my first assistant, will be at the Citadel.  I will introduce you.  She is…a good person but she is enamored of Morgoth, thinking him to be the benevolent ruler of Middle Earth,” she said with a grimace.  “And you, Caladiel, you are Fëatur’s assistant and a new recruit to the Darin Tesarath.  You must behave as if you are arrogant and petulant.  She likes that in her acolytes.  We will take care of the rest.”    

With the speed of the boat, the journey was quick, and the Island of Ardinaak grew with every passing minute. A feeling of dread grew over Fëatur, and he fought it down only with difficulty.  He could see the anxiety on the faces of his young friends.  Only Yavë seemed calm.  This was just another trip to the mainland.  The island looked like a giant ‘C’ with a bay entrance to the east, facing them.  “We have to navigate the shoals, but I know them by heart now,” she said.  She pointed to the young acolytes.  “Pay attention and remember.  This is how you will get to the Citadel.”  They nodded solemnly, becoming more quiet and serious as the Citadel grew large, its octagonal walls, made of black marble, glistened in the light of the setting sun.  Yavë sailed up to a dock and she guided the rope with her powers to tie the boat down.

They walked up a long, circular stairway to the main gate of the Citadel.  As they passed through the courtyard, Yavë took his hand and squeezed it hard.  He knew what that meant.  This was where they were nearly murdered and burned.  Troops now trained in the area.  Fëatur studied all of the notes that were made from Yavë’s descriptions, and he felt reasonably sure of what to expect.  The main gate was enormous, forty feet tall and wide, made of black iron.  The whole setup was designed to be foreboding. Four human guards came to attention as they approached and then bowed.  They were dressed in heavy chainmail hauberks and conical helms with broadswords at their waists.  “Lady Fëatur, Lady Yavëkamba, welcome back to the Citadel,” the lead guard called and then waved up to a gatesman.  There was an aura of fear on the faces of the guards in the presence of Fëatur.  She had a reputation for cruelty and vengeance over minor slights.  A man called down and then the great gate split in the middle and each side rolled into the wall to reveal the entryway.

Yavë led them down a staircase to the Ritual Chamber in the caverns under the Citadel.  It had a cool, moist feeling as they descended.  They could hear waves and flowing water.  Fëatur reached out to Caladiel and grasped her arm. “You’re shaking.  We’ll be alright.  Just breathe deeply.”  Eyes huge, she just nodded.  At the bottom of the stairs were walkways over ocean water that all met in the center of the cavern at a circular platform.  On top of the platform was a round altar of obsidian.  The altar was essentially a bed for someone with straps to hold the person’s limbs and bind them to the altar.

Yavë shuddered. “This is where Ardana and Morthaur will sacrifice Moran,” she said grimly.  “Those platforms along the walls will hold the Gems of Unlight.”  She looked around.  “There must be a secret entrance here somewhere though I have not seen it yet.”  She pointed down the walkways that were over the water.  “Let’s spread out and search along the walls.  Look for anything that might be a crack or some mechanism.”

“If someone comes down here, what do we say?” asked Fëatur.

She thought for a moment, putting her finger to her lips.  “You are ensuring the security of the Ritual Chamber because you don’t trust Gorthaur.  I have been ordered to participate in the ritual so I’ve come to ensure that the altar is appropriate.”

The group nodded and then split up, going down the walkways and began searching.  At the end of one walkway, Fëatur ran his hands along the cavern wall, feeling the craggy stone that was moist from humidity and seawater. He closed his eyes for a moment, just listening to the sound of the ocean, lapping against the walkways.  Even in the heart of horror he could enjoy the simple things.  He drew upon his power and extended it into the stone.  He thought that a dwarf would be much better at this, but it was all that he had.  His energy passed into the crevices and cracks in the wall, but he felt nothing. He turned back and waved to the group, shaking his head.  It appeared as if the others were not having any luck either.  At the very end of the walkway sat a receptacle.  This must be where one of the Gems of Unlight would sit. He would do everything that he could to save Moran and defeat the ritual.  For a moment, he imagined the four of them, he, Yavë, Moran and Morelen as a family, enjoying the sunlight in Tumlindë.  Foolish.  Such dreams never came to pass.  He shook it off.

He walked back to the central platform and met the group.  There were still two walkways left, one directly north and the other south. Then, they heard footsteps coming down the stairs.  Fëatur’s heart froze in his chest.  It was Ardana.  She wore her star gown, silver and black and covered in glittering gems like the night sky full of stars.  She was flanked by two women bearing the clothing of the Suit of Staves, the Lords of Fire, those working for Rilia the Sorceress.  Fëatur closed his eyes for a moment.  Ardana had once been his world, his cause.  Her charisma led him to Melkor.  She had a passion and intensity that could not be denied and he felt the draw once again.  He focused his mind to get into character.  He would become his sister.

Fëatur opened his eyes and raised his chin as his sister would do, a pose of smug superiority.  He looked down at the two women in short, revealing red robes and snorted, not acknowledging them beyond that.  Then he made eye contact with Ardana and smiled. “My lady,” he said with a very slight head nod.

She nodded in return. “Lady Fëatur, what brings you down here?” she asked, a hint of suspicion in her voice.  Her eyes were entirely black, like the void of night.

He felt Lyrin and the others shake, and he grasped Caladiel by the wrist to calm her and then gave a stern look to the men.  “Forgive me, Lady Ardana.  I took it upon myself to inspect the cavern.  The time draws nigh, does it not?”

Ardana nodded once. “It does.  However, is this not the task of Gorthaur to complete?”

He snorted derisively. “Do you trust him?  I do not,” he said imperiously, nose raised in haughty disagreement.  “Do you remember that fool in the courtyard?  Just my appearance made him quail.  I will do it myself to my satisfaction.”

Ardana smiled.  “Very well.  I like the initiative and yes, I do not entirely trust Gorthaur.  Not after the courtyard.”  She then gestured to the two other women.  “This is Fairië and Ramarë of the Suit of Staves.  Fairië is an assassin and Ramarë is a bard in service to Rilia…part of her inner circle.”  Fairië was a Silvan elf who was very petite, standing much shorter than the rest with short brown hair.  Her red robes were cut very low, with cleavage down well past her navel and the hem of the robe was barely down below her buttocks.  While not ethereally beautiful like Ardana or Yavë or other High Elves, Fairië was devastatingly cute with an undeniable energy.  Ramarë was Sindarin with curly blonde hair, wearing the same robe.  There was a sensuous allure to her.  “Rilia recruited them as a counter to your Darin Tesarath,” Ardana added.  “Infiltration and seduction are their trade.  I’m sure you will want to up the training of your order to meet this new…challenge,” she said, clearly prodding.

“Oh, I shall see to it,” he said, pursing his lips, and then scowled at Caladiel, who looked like she was about to cry.  “The Darin Tesarath will have no rivals in that area, I can assure you.  My assistant here will be the instrument of many of our enemy’s falls.”  Caladiel did her best to sneer.  It needed work.  Still, it seemed to do the job.

Ardana seemed pleased that Fëatur took the bait.  She gave them a satisfied smile and then motioned the two women along one of the walkways.  This might be it.  The secret entrance.  What else would they be doing here?  Fairië and Ramarë glared at Caladiel as they walked by, but then brushed their hands seductively along Lyrin’s face, down to his crotch, then doing the same to the other two men.  The three young men watched the ladies walk away, their mouths open.  These two could do a lot of damage, but at least the Alliance was aware of them now.  Caladiel elbowed Lyrin in the ribs and he shut his mouth.

Fëatur watched intently as Ardana led them down the southern walkway.  At the end, she held her hand upon the stone and part of the wall began to move.  It made a grinding noise and then peeled away into the wall itself, revealing a water passageway to the sea.  There was a small dock beyond where several skiffs were moored.  Ardana and the women boarded, and the Astrologer held up her hand and blew upon the sail, propelling the boat down the passageway.  The portal soon ground back into place, leaving no trace of its existence.  Fëatur grinned broadly, barely able to contain himself.  He motioned the group down the walkway and they ran to the wall. Fëatur placed his hand where Ardana had but nothing happened.  He narrowed his eyes, thinking.  “Yavë, give it a try.”

She took his place and placed the palm of her hand on the wall.  A grinding sound emanated from the wall and it began to move.  Fëatur put his hands together, thanking Mandos.  Then, he made a fist and a satisfied grunt.  “We did it,” he told the group, and they all glowed with happiness.  As before, the portal opened to the dock.  They stepped through and saw a place where Yavë could open the door from the other side.  “We got what we came for.  We should not stay too long, else our cover fail.”

Yavë raised a finger. “There is one thing that we must do, else we appear out of character.  Just follow me and remember what I said.”  She led them back up the staircase to the sixth floor where she went to a solid oak door and knocked.

Her assistant Almariel answered.  Upon seeing Yavëkamba and Fëatur, she lowered her eyes and bowed.  She wore a sky-blue robe, and her black hair was tied back into a ponytail.  “My ladies, how may I help you?”

Fëatur pushed past her, and the assistant jumped back, eyes huge, giving him a wide berth.  “How is Moran?” he asked pointedly.  He hated being like this but it was the role. They could not let anyone suspect.

She gestured into the room where Moran sat with a lute.  “We were just…we were just playing music,” she said nervously.  Moran put the lute down, stood and bowed.  Fëatur’s heart leapt at seeing the man who he hoped would be his son someday.  All that he could remember was his birth and the descriptions that Yavë had given him. Almariel ran back to Moran and then knelt towards the group.  He could tell that Almariel had some chemistry with Moran, but was it just part of her playing as Yavë.  Perhaps it was real.

Yavë shot him a warm look, and he chanced a faint smile.  He looked back at the two.  “I am pleased that you are well.  I’ve been concerned about your health since the courtyard,” he said to both.

Almariel blushed, lowering her head.  “I thank you, mistress, for saving myself and Lady Yavëkamba.  I give thanks to Lord Morgoth, King of the World, for his kindness and benevolence.”  He had once felt that way too.  He hoped that one day, the young lady would see the truth as he did.

Moran made eye contact. He seemed less mature than Morelen, less confident.  He had been through so much with the heinous sacrifices, it truly messed with is emotions. “Yes, thank you Lady Fëatur.  You came just in time.  We will forever be in your debt.”  He gave Yavëkamba a look that only spoke of love.

Fëatur felt a pang of jealousy, but he knew better.  “Good, don’t forget it,” he said in a haughty tone, but his eyes betrayed his true feelings. Moran gave him a curious look, but he turned away.  “We have what we need.  Come, let us depart.”

Yavë touched Almariel on the arm.  “Wait for me here.  I’ll escort Lady Fëatur out and then return for you.  Pray, continue your music.  We need some beauty in this place.”  The two bowed as they departed.

The journey back was swift by boat as the moon shone large and crescent in the night sky.  The group was silent, but a sense of success and excitement pervaded.  Smiles grew as they reached the ruined dock.  The skiff came to a stop and Yavë made the rope tie to a post.  Fëatur nodded, satisfaction written all over his face.  “Morelen is alive and we discovered the secret entrance. It has been a good couple of days.” He turned to Lyrin and the acolytes. “I have some final business to conclude here.  Please return to Chrys and give him the good news.  I’ll be along soon.”

Lyrin gave him a knowing smirk and Caladiel blushed, looking down.  Lyrin motioned them to the horses.  “Have fun.  Come on, acolytes, let’s bring the good news back to the Alliance.  I can’t wait to tell father and Chrys.  We have a win today.”  Indeed, they did.  Fëatur found some pride in the young man.  He was truly on a better path.  Not there yet, but on his way.  But who was ever at the end of their journey of growth?

When the group had ridden out of sight, Yavë pulled on his black robes.  “We need to get you changed back.  Keep the robes.  You’ll need them.  I have a suspicion that, when you enchant the card, it will work on the entrance.”  She removed the gold cord around his head and then untied his robes and set the weapons aside.

“I’m glad I didn’t need to fight,” he said, wiping his face of the makeup, lip gloss and eye shadow. “My sister is much better at it than I am.  I’ll have to improve my skill.”

Yavë yanked the robe off, letting her hand glide down his back.  He felt a tingle along his skin.  From behind, she reached through his legs to remove the gauze around his genitals.  He shuddered and closed his eyes.  Yavë was his greatest port in this storm.  His heart raced as she grasped him and kissed his behind.  He started to turn, but she stopped him.  “Not yet.  I’m not done.”  His breath came in gulps and he groaned.  When he thought he could no longer stand it, she spun him around, still kneeling.  She looked up at him with longing eyes and removed her pants and tunic.  He looked down at her bare back and gazed into her eyes.

“I can’t stand it anymore,” he said softly and moved her onto her back on the towel.  She wore only her boots.  He lay on top of her, smiling.  “You are my tether, the one who always brings me back home.  One day, we will be free.  We will be together,” he whispered as he slid inside her.

She moaned quietly.  “I cannot wait for that day, as long as it may take.”

---

Chapter End Notes

The secret entrance to the Citadel has been found.  What will the Alliance do with that information?  A little more on Lyrin's character arc.  He's coming along but still has a long way to go and his immaturity will factor in the future.