New Dawn

Third Age, year 493

The sun glimmered off the recently bloodied sword--now clean--that rested on his shoulder as he walked idly down the path, the day's heat biting warmly at his tan skin. Despite the bloodshed several hours behind him, despite the drying gore splattered on his clothing and the cuts and bruising on his face, he whistled a tune as the wind gleefully ran through his long, bound dark hair, because the path he walked on led to his destination.

Home, he thought, to my love; Erie.

His gray eyes wandered west; in the direction of the rest of his patrol. The wearied soldiers would be going to the council to witness today's events.

Strange they were, Easterlings. More than usual had invaded the border of his territory, coming from the direction of a rising sun. Two of his patrol had been gravely injured, leaving thirteen to kill the rest of the Easterling warriors. All but one, one to run back and tell the tale. Frankly, he should be before the council witnessing, along with his fellow warriors, but his Captain gave permission for him to head home.

To Erie, his wife. And his newborn child.

A baby girl, he thought, the corners of his elven mouth turning up as he imagined her bright, bright gray eyes and her infectious joy—

He froze, feet coming to a sudden halt, making the dust rise in a plume of protest.

In the direction of his abode, a column of smoke was rising towards the cotton sky.

The warrior took off, fearing the worst and sheathing his sword. He ran in time with his panicked heart.

And then he skidded to a halt, barely having broken a sweat, before his home. A mountain of tree branches, green and not-so-dead, were aflame, emitting a cloud of billowing grey.

His home was untouched.

He breathed deeply, his racing heart struggling to slow. Going in a wide circle around the burning foliage, he entered his home—

Erie was sitting at the dining table, skillfully sewing a garment for Alyndra; their child. She sat rigid, hair tucked behind her ear, as she bit her cheek. Her hand, slipped; something it never did.

Her husband closed the door—and she stood up fast. Her wide eyes took in his. Then, she forced a smile and strode to him.

"Alagosson," she said, taking his jaw in her trembling hands, "what have you done with your face?"

"'Tis nothing, only a skirmish with Easterlings on the border." Her searched her face, noting the lines etched into her brow, the earlier slip of hand, her rigid stature. "What is wrong, my love?"

Again, a forced smile, her gray eyes conveying anything but. "Why nothing, my heart. Only glad to see you home." Her eyes darted to the side and Alagosson followed her gaze to the common room, then back to her. Her nimble hands tucked a strand of raven hair behind her ear as she met his eyes once more, so much terror and agony pooling in those gray irises of hers, it almost made Alagosson take in a startled breath.

Alagosson clutched her hands tightly, his heart beginning to race again. She's acting, he thought.

So, he'd play the part with her.

"And I as well." He clutched her close, feeling her body safely against his, and looking around the kitchen for signs of trouble. "Ellarian, where is Alyndra? Does she sleep well?"

"In the clutches of a fitful sleep," she answered, her voice shaking. "With dreams holding monsters and terrors."

He glanced down at Erie, true fear beginning to cage his heart. She clenched her teeth, her dark brows contorting into panic. "Alagosson--"