Loyal to the Light

The Steps of the Gravewalker

New orcs, new Captains, more to swell the army of the Bright Lord and bring closer the eventual goal of bringing down Sauron once and for all. "Little by little." Talion murmured, sitting on the roof of one of the houses in Sharkburz. The sun was going down, its rays shining full on the eastern walls of the fort and lighting up the front of the castle. It was warm on Talion's face and hands; he reached out towards it, almost able to feel each ray flowing between his fingers. It was a nice moment of quiet.

He could hear the muffled sounds of orc voices below him, some complaining, some singing, some looking for more grog. So many of them were important to his ultimate goal. "Tell me, Celebrimbor," he said aloud, "do you miss the feel of the sun?"

The world turned blue and greenish-white, streaking into blurred lines and muting the sounds of the world around him, but enhancing every voice. The scarred wraith of Celebrimbor appeared at Talion's side, his arms resting on his knees, face turned towards the whiteness that was the sun. "Sometimes." He replied.

Talion could not tell if the elf was bitter or being surprisingly honest. He studied Celbrimbor's expression before speaking again. As usual, it was difficult to read. Celebrimbor used his centuries of experience to keep his emotions better hidden than Talion could, but he was gradually learning to read the tiny movements that even the elf could not suppress. Now Celebrimbor had his head tilted to the right just a little, the fingers of both hands were barely touching and the left corner of his mouth was tightened so as to make a vague scowl. Talion decided to try a guess. "One day, when Sauron is finally destroyed, you can be free of your curse and go to the utter West. To Valinor." Watching the elf's face, he added, "You can feel the sun again."

"Hm." Celebrimbor grunted. "I wish I could remember it. But there are far more important things to attend to than the memory of the warmth of the sun." He folded his hands firmly, looking towards the streets below. "Our army is growing well. Soon we shall be ready to take on the next fortress."

"Indeed." Talion replied. Moment over, it seems, he thought to himself. Perhaps one day Celebrimbor would open up a bit more...but not today. "Rakhâsh did well in the pits. He could become a valuable asset to us."

"Rakhâsh." Celebrimbor mused. "He does not have the ambition required to aid us properly. A true ally would be able to act on his own and Rakhâsh is a follower only." He narrowed his eyes at the sun.

Talion nodded thoughtfully. "Do you have someone in mind?"

The elf shook his head. "Many of our Captains are good, but I would keep an eye on any among the grunts who show potential. You know how it can lie hidden."

"Yes," Talion snorted, "hidden in their blades when I let them strike me down. Are you suggesting I give that opportunity to some of our recruits?"

This time, a slight huff indicated Celebrimbor found this suggestion amusing. "Hardly. Observing them should be enough for now. Their training and actions during their off hours should be enough to tell us what they're like." He stood up. "Come, Talion. Let us find what we can." He vanished, and the rest of the world returned to normal once more.

Talion remained on the roof a few moments longer, watching the light play over the clouds. Gold and red and orange flamed out from the west, but the sun was almost down. Soon it would be dark and night brought out its own interests. Turning away, he leapt off the edge of the roof.

The orcs didn't bat an eye as he landed. Those who had been here longest were used by now to his sudden appearances and tendency to leapt from unearthly heights no one else could survive, and those who had been here for a shorter time were just trying to pretend they were used to it. Talion walked slowly through the streets, listening to the conversation of the orcs around him and wondering how to tell which of them would be good Captain material. Eventually he arrived at the training grounds, where the grunts stood whacking at dummies and targets with their clubs, cleaver-like swords and crossbows.