#amathan

17: Ranger OC (Aderthor) & magically unconscious

With a wild clang! Amathan's sword-hand at last succumed to the force battering upon it, and his blade went skittering away across the packed dirt of the guards' training ground. Its erstwhile bearer, on the other hand, collapsed where he stood, head falling back with a similar clang.

"I don't---" he gasped to catch his breath, "---I don't think I'm cut out to be a guard."

Somewhere above him, his brother laughed, sheathing his own sword and offering his hand to help him up. Amathan ignored it, much preferring to remain where he was, and instead surveyed the slowly lightening sky above. Usually, two boys as young as they would not be permitted to use the city guard's equipment and land, but their father had struck some sort of agreement with the captain, and so for the meagre price of a few chores done and errands run, Aderthor and Amathan had the run of the place in the dark of predawn.

"I think Ada has long given up on either of you becomming any kind of soldier." his brother said, interrupting his musing, "You don't have to be a guard to find a sword useful,"

With a huff, Amathan sat up, though he did not deign to stand. If I don't get up, he can't make me go another round. He was still struggling to keep his breath even while Aderthor--- damn him--- had barely broken a sweat.

"So what, I'll be a brigand?"

"Not with that kind of stance you won't," Aderthor replied easily, and he caught at Amathan's arm, easily dragging the shorter boy up to his feet with only the smallest wince of effort. Amathan had half a mind to plop back down, but previous experiance told him that would merely perpetuate the cycle. He shook his head, and his helm gave up and slid off at the sudden movement, clanging once more to the dirt.

"I'll work on the docks, then, like Areher," he said. To the east, a stray sunbeam at last breached the city walls and arched over the barracks. It caught on the sword and helm in the dirt, and on Aderthor's teeth as he smiled. Amathan's heart lifted with the new sun, not least for that the guards would be arriving soon and Aderthor would have no further oppurtunity to beat him into the dust.

"You could," Aderthor agreed, and he removed his own helm, shaking back sweaty dark hair from his face. He reached in to muss Amathan's hair before the latter could stave him off and laughed once more. "You might need to grow a foot or so first, though."

Both standing on the packed dirt, Amathan's head barely crested Aderthor's chin, and though Areher wasn't nearly as tall as their eldest brother, he also stood far above Amathan. It wasn't an entirely fair contest, of course, for Amathan had turned fifteen the winter before, and Aderthor would be twenty-four come August.

He scowled fiercely and bent to collect both sword and helm. They, and both brothers' other practice armour, they would return to the city's armoury--- hopefully before the lieutenent showed up to scold them, permission or no.

Aderthor's sword, though, was his own, gifted by their father at his coming of age. When Amathan finally grew a bit more, he thought, he would have one of his own, and perhaps it would suit him a bit better than the blunted blade he carried now.

Barghests howl through the night, occasionally breaking into frantic barks like kicked dogs. Amathan does not wonder why: they are only alive insofar as they are dying. He keeps walking, instead. The only thing dumber than going into the Downs at night (he is told) is camping in them.

So he walks. Slow and hazy for lack of sleep.

There is an end to the Downs, where the land slopes up and then down to the green earth, the grassy road, and friendly voices. He cannot find it in this endless night with its strange stars.

“It’s hot,” says Amathan. Aderthor whirls around to find his brother holding his hands over the surface, ungloved and too close. “Definitely emanating heat. Are there hot springs here? Don’t look at me like that, I am not going to touch it.”

Aderthor does not look away until Amathan’s gloves are back on. His brother, even all in shades of eerie green and roughed up from a fight with ghosts, is squinting and humming at the not-water as if it is a puzzle.

“Hm. Do you think we can bring a vial back?” Amathan fishes the emptied poison-vial from his pocket and pokes at it, the thin neck and leather padding. “If I scoop it in with a rock...”

“Good luck with that.” The hissing from further up the bank is still going, and Aderthor has a terrible idea what it is. Selecting a dusty bit of masonry from the debris, he tosses it far past Amathan into the center of the glowing pond.

The stone is visible for just a second on the surface, hissing and starting to glow, before it sinks. Right where it was the liquid pops and gurgles with a new shade, the red-white of magma.

Thanks for the tag @a-lonely-dunedain! Here I will answer three OC questions from her post, and then tag a couple people to answer the questions I'll come up with (if they want to). These are for Amathan and Aderthor, as they're the OCs clearest in my head and also the ones who've been banging down the door for the last monthish.

1. What is a trait your OC can't stand in other people vs. a trait that they find themself drawn to

Amathan - he tends to be pretty short-tempered and low-filter around people who tick him off, and he doesn't have a short list of these. A specific trait (rather than general immorality) would probably be laziness, especially where it matters. Didn't set up that barricade right? Thought you'd just keep up that meaningless conversation rather than pay attention to what you're doing with a blade in a crowded workspace? You've got another think coming. On the flip side, professionalism (when warranted, and the genuine kind instead of posturing) does a great job of convincing him you actually know what you're doing. He's not himself a leader, but does not accept leadership from someone who even he can see is doing it wrong.

Aderthor - as a generally easy-going guy, it takes more seriously terrible traits to get to "can't stand" territory. Cruelty of any kind gets him angry, but what gets him furious is cruelty without a point. Doing that didn't even get you anything. You just ripped hurt into existence and your gain was itself. You did that for fun. The additional confusion that it adds to the equation makes it even worse. He can't understand it and he can't understand the people who do it and that drives him crazy in addition to angry. As for what he is drawn to, generally the opposite: people he can understand and who want to be understood, even unconsciously. People who feel their own kinship with every other person around them and share in it. (This is a reason he gets attached to Corunir so quickly.)

2. What animal would you associate with your OC? can be for in-character reasons (I.E their favorite animal) or a more symbolic reason

Amathan - A chihuahua. I've never actually thought of animals in relation to most of my characters, so all I've got on the top of my head are dumb jokes. Let me google some stuff think real quick. A WOLF. He's often perceived as a 'lone wolf' by those around him, especially those who met him recently, but in reality he's much more of a pack animal, and is fiercely protective of his family and friends. He's intelligent, but has a penchant for diving over his head and wildly overestimating his own martial ability on his own. He works far better in a team. Lastadron absolutely stayed with him partly out of a conviction that this guy is alive purely because of duct tape and spite.

I really want to equate Lehtion with a horse for humor and also symbolism, but horse symbolism and Lehtion's Lehtionness isn't cooperating. (Most of his character development ends up circled around Rohan, despite me not actually planning it that way.)

3. What is their biggest regret? was it truly their fault or some unavoidable tragedy? (and can they tell the difference)

I'm going to take this question as it pertains to backstory, as it occurs to me my characters have way more regrets post-Epic, most of them every other player character is going to share.

Amathan - his biggest regret is probably not taking off after Aderthor immediately after they realized something had gone wrong (or better yet, going with him). Yes, he actually found him alive even after ten years out of contact, but in Amathan's view he could have also done that perfectly well without the ten years of thinking his brother was dead. The question of whether that would have worked (a lot of factors contributed to the overthrow of the False-king in Angmar, not just Amathan and Lastadron showing up, and the Ram Duath really was impassible for a good long while there) is not one he has considered in depth. He also hasn't considered how twenty-year-old-Amathan might have reacted to being thrown into the Epic. So, while deciding not to go after Aderthor immediately could be his fault (which is NOT the right word), Angmar not getting overthrown ten years earlier absolutely was not.

Aderthor - WE COULD'VE AT LEAST TOLD SOMEONE WHERE WE WERE GOING DANG IT. The whole situation around trapped-in-Angmar-for-ten-years is one big regret for Aderthor. Whenever he gets stuck in a circle around thinking it (especially before Amathan and Lastadron show up) he mostly loops THIS WAS PREVENTABLE!!!!! around every tragedy and every death. Whether anything that was within his power at the time (telling Halbarad, staying with Corunir, and... nothing else really) would've helped anything is not clear, and most of the time he can see that. The pointlessness (from his view) of it all is what really galls him, even if he can't actually think of One Thing that anyone could've done to prevent it.

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Now for my own questions! Hmm, let me think...

What is your OC's family relationships like? Is he/she close with his/her birth family? Any siblings? Living parents? Extended relatives? How does he/she think of any found family--- in those terms, or more shy about it?

Does your OC more easily connect with people inside of a context--- a task, a specific conversation topic, a common goal--- or during downtime when they can do whatever they want?

How good are most good-intentioned people at reading your OC, or how correct are their general assumptions about him/her? Does your OC present him/herself as open to other people or closed-off?

"Flowers?" Amathan demands increduously, and Lastadron nods, smiling perhaps a little too gleefully.

"Aye, flowers she said, and as many as we can carry. Dozens of people are being sent out for them, and hundreds are growing them in plots and pots right in the city. Apparantly they're downright essential for a Midsummer wedding."

A burst of song is heard as a nearby tavern door swungs open, despite the early hour, but by now it is no surprise to the pair. Of late the taverns and pubs of the city have been employed more as social hubs and performing stages than their intended use, and a place to gather and rejoice away from the stifling heat of high summer. Amathan more than slightly wishes himself among the throngs of revellers now, as Lastadron drags him cheerfully down through the streets and out the open gate onto Pelennor.

The day is bright and young, the green fields rolling out before them in endless waves and birds singing out the louder as the two tramp further away from the noise by the road.

Though most of the post-war work had already been completed in the nearly three months since their return to the city, there still remained a myriad of other ways they could have assisted this day. They might have gone down to Harlond to help with the repairs, or joined the clearing patrols through Osgiliath, or even tracked down Rodwen to make certain everything was going to plan. Now, though, the day’s schedule seems to consist entirely of picking flowers, courtesy of Lastadron opening his mouth when he shouldn’t have.

Even with a week to go before the ordained day of the wedding, garlands and bouquets adorn Minas Tirith by the hundreds, but always more are needed. Lastadron already has filled his quiver with tall orchids, and Amathan his belt pouch with a crowd of glittering snap-dragons. Their main haul, a wide woven basket, is piled high with colorful flora.

The Sun’s heat, pleasently warm at its rising, sits heavy and hot over the fields, and Amathan can feel himself wilting as they work their way clockwise round the city, though the flowers themselves don’t seem much the worse for it. Lastadron, condemned bearer of the basket, laughs when Amathan voices this thought near the foot of the mountains. There are quite a few other gatherers out on the fields, but flowers have grown incredibly thick and plentiful this year and there is no lack for them.

“And hardy, it seems,” Lastadron says, studying a bright yellow blossom before tucking into the basket. “Not one has broken since dawn.”

Amathan rises from a crouch with an armful of miniature white stars, dumping them atop the mound of flowers carefully. They have been out for hours already and soon they will need to return--- to empty their basket if nothing else.

His scabbard, at least, is clear of flowers, and his hand settles naturally upon it as he surveys the rolling fields of Pelennor. Farms and home, fields and crops, all have been labled high priority with the restoration of the city grounds, and now the fields are returned to a bright and peaceful scene.

Amathan, though, cannot help but see the black and red sky looming overhead through the thin blue veneer when he gazes across it, and the sharp scent of smoke hanging ever on the breeze. Three months it has been, and still at times one can stumble over a rusted orc-helm or a half-buried bone, and the crops grow taller for the blood that soaks the ground.

A light touch upon his arm, and he starts. Lastadron dangles a pair of tiny blue flowers before his face.

“What do you think?” his friend asks, and his smile is slightly wan, “Too small for Merilien?”

“Nay,” he answers, and pushes back soaked hair from his face. It is sweat, not blood, that trickles down his back, and birdsong that echoes through the air. “Doubtless she will find a place to stick them, or an unsatisfactory gap in an arrangement somewhere to suit them.”

An arc of lightning flashes across what little sky is visible, a rolling boom of thunder following only a second later. Hudded beneath the meager protection of this small copse of trees, Amathan burrows deeper into his cloak. It is a good cloak, thick and brown and oiled to keep off water, but even the best of cloaks cannot resist rain rain forever, and he is as sopping wet as the rest of his camp.

He stares glumly into the neat ring of stones he had built earlier, before the flash-storm came down with ferocity he had never seen in Gondor. This northern land is harsh, and even with the wondor and awe he is finding himself unexpectedly homesick lately. Another roll of thunder sounds overhead and the rains beats a rhythmic song all around.

He leans back against the rough bark of an oak tree, and thinks that perhaps he should be sleeping. The stormy skies and wind blow all around, though, kicking up his thoughts like so many leaves scattered upon the sodden grass. In Gondor, perhaps, the trees would not have fully turned yet, still green and bright upon their branches as children ran wild and laughing underneath. The land had been safe, then, for the young to roam at will, but when he had left, things had already greatly changed, and perhaps they have changed further still in his absence.

Nearly five weeks have passed since he crossed the Mering stream out of Gondor, and twenty-three days since his crossing of the Isen. The North-South road has taken him far into the wilds of Dunland and Minhiriath, that which had been Cardolan in the days of old. Relentlessly has he tread this path, ever northwards and ever deeper into the looping, narrow script of decade-old letters, recounting the lands he sees now with each passing hour.

If it were drier perhaps, and he a little more tired, he would reach now for the crackling paper folded in his tunic pocket and trace once more the faded words. The letters are short and rambling, their author unaccustomed to the writing of such, but there are many of them. He would write three, sometimes four letters in the course of a week, always jotting down one more off-topic anecdote and small adventure on the wayside, jamming them into the same package to send southwards back along the worn roads before starting a new one only the next day. The last one, at the bottom of the stack, is the shortest of the lot, and as impersonal as Amathan has ever heard his brother be.

I do not believe I will be writing for a while...  I have found my errand's end, and though I cannot commit it here to paper I hope you know...

It is all in the same vein, succinct but not at all to the point, and it is the mystery and grief left in that letter--- the last that had ever come down the road to their home--- that Amathan chases now northward. Years old is the trail he follows, but he does not plan to turn from it.