He would have spent all night if that’s what it required to speak with everyone, but his duties were ever present. That much was obvious when Faylen herself approached, beckoning the War Mason away from the small group of Heavybellys.
“It’s Galanör,” she said.
“Finally,” Doran replied with relief. “Take me to ’im.”
They crossed most of the camp, heading further into Ilythyra. It was here that Doran discovered some of the debris and destruction caused by Malliath and Alijah when they killed Lady Ellöria. More than one of the gargantuan trees lay across the forest floor, barring the way, while others remained standing with charred bark, their trunks shattered in parts.
Their journey came to an end at the base of one of the intact trees, where the trunk had been partially hollowed out and its interior carved into the shape of a large chamber. Yellow-tinted orbs floated around, illuminating Galanör and Aenwyn, the only two elves inside. Galanör was leaning against the wooden table in the middle of the chamber, one hand running through his thick mane of chestnut hair. His distress was just as apparent as his fatigue.
“There was nothing you could have done,” Aenwyn was protesting.
“I could have killed him!” Galanör fired back. “Then she would…” He hesitated, his breath ragged. “Then Adilandra would still be alive.”
“The blame does not lie with you,” Faylen stated, stepping into the light. “Adilandra died as her sister did - defending us all.”
“I should have beaten him,” Galanör continued in vain. “I had him, right there! I had no intention of letting him live. I was prepared to kill him.”
“He has the power of Malliath running through him,” Faylen countered. “There is no greater foe, even for one of your skill.”
Aenwyn half raised her hand to halt any further conversation. “Galanör, you need to rest. You haven’t so much as stirred in two days. Eat, drink, sit a while.”
“Listen to her, lad,” Doran pleaded. “Whatever happened inside that tower, it were damned unnatural, an’ I’d bet Andaljor ye were right in the middle o’ it.”
Galanör let his head hang low so that his hair shielded his face. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this.”
Aenwyn moved to his side and guided him to the chair at the head of the table.
Faylen glanced at Doran before stepping closer to the elven ranger. “What happened in there, Galanör? Did Alijah succeed in whatever he was planning?”
Aenwyn met the High Guardian’s eyes across the table. “Faylen,” she said softly with an edge of caution. “He needs to rest.”
“We’re in the fight for our lives,” Faylen retorted. “Resting is a luxury our enemy will not afford us. We need to know what happened inside that tower. What was the purpose of his spell? Is Alijah recovering too? If he’s vulnerable, now is the time to attack.”
From the outside looking in, Doran could see Aenwyn struggling with the hierarchy that existed between them while the one she loved was caught in the crossfire. Doing what he could, the son of Dorain caught Faylen’s eye and gestured for her to take a moment.
“We’re all reelin’ from the cost o’ victory,” he began. “An’ aye, there’s a fight comin’, but if we don’ rest now we’ve already lost.”
Faylen slammed her fist into the table, her expression one of stone. There was a well of grief behind her eyes, desperate to be unleashed upon the world in the form of vengeance and wrath. She slowly brought her hand back to her side, leaving an impression of cracked wood behind.
“Victory you say,” she whispered. “This doesn’t feel like victory.”
Doran dwelt on the countless skirmishes, battles, and wars he had fought in Grimwhal’s name. “It rarely does,” he lamented. “But I’ve jus’ come from a camp o’ dwarves, more than a thousand strong, who wouldn’ know freedom if it weren’ for our actions on that wretched island. Ye knew Adilandra better than all o’ us. Wouldn’ she ’ave given her life for even one o’ ’em?”
With glassy eyes, Faylen stared hard at the damage she had caused to the table. “Yes,” she breathed. The High Guardian shut her eyes, breaking the barrier for a single tear to streak down her face.
“She will be honoured among me kin for all time,” Doran promised. “Ever will the name Adilandra be sung in Grarfath’s Hall as well as me own. She will be the first elven hero o’ the dwarves.”
Faylen nodded her appreciation, though the elf was clearly in need of something more substantial to see her through the grief. Unfortunately, Doran had nothing to offer her, their quarry miles away.
“I know that feeling,” Galanör said, watching Faylen. “You need to strike out at something, anything.”
Aenwyn placed her hands on his arm, motioning for him to focus on naught but the food and water on the table.
The elven ranger reassured her with a squeeze of the hand. “Adilandra’s sacrifice will be honoured,” he continued, “and her death will be answered for. And you’re both right. We need information if we’re to renew the fight. But we also need to rest and regroup if we are to even glimpse victory. So tell me everything that happened on Qamnaran.”
Doran pulled out a chair not far from the ranger and did his best to unfold the events that took place outside the tower. He made sure to mention Aenwyn’s efforts slaying the dragon Morgorth as well as Russell’s contribution in their defeat of Lord Kraiden. It was far harder to detail the loss of the Dragon Rider’s poisoned blade, though he left the obvious consequences unsaid. Faylen assumed command of the tale from there, informing Galanör of Alijah’s expulsion from the tower as well as the increasing lightning storm that bombarded the silvyr tower. When, at last, she spoke of that final bolt, their stories came together.
“That was the last thing I saw,” Galanör told them. “It must have struck us both,”
