The Garden's End [PK]

[Kyrrn 345]

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"Fair shall the end be, though long and hard shall be the road.”
 

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The path turned and made its way back towards the now High Kingdom of Idunia. It was the very same in succession to the one he had served as they raised tents to hamlet to lordship and then kingdom. All within a land of Barrows from a time long past. No longer did he come as a lord carrying his House’s banner, but merely as a knight with little left to call his own. The kingdom’s first Tar, a once great friend and mentor, had long since abdicated his throne and died. That which had stood beside him against horrors from the Underdark had become only a memory.

The second Tar had come and gone as did more in the line of heirs.

Every knight and citizen he had once called brother or sister were now but memories too.

With what little he had left, he came with no expectations or requests which might harken back to his prior service. Instead, he asked only to serve the kingdom once more. In the place of a House he once built and halls he once lorded over, he found kinship in an unsuspecting place. The House of the Mithrenion, who gave him a place worth serving.

It was within the noble House of the Mithrenion that he gave his blade and heart and ultimately his life.

They did not ask why he chose service to them.

They only asked if he would stand with them.

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

The final battle found him late within the night.

The Lordship of Angrenost rang out with the toll of a bell which called for aid. In the duty with which he had not only sworn to, but his very soul demanded of him, he answered. In four centuries of life, he had not known purpose as much as he had upon this path. To raise his blade in the honour of his patron, the Aengul Malchediael. To bleed beside the very essence of that which he lived to protect within the battle of Light and Dark.

The enemy which marched upon the gates came with a young hostage, no more than fifteen years of age. In many ways, it was consequence which he fought, not the eidolic dregs from which Mysticism had wrought. It was the shape of every choice he had ever made, given teeth to bite with and hunger which drove it.

He fought.

Of course he fought.

But a century is a long time to carry a sword without a home to lay it down in.

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

“Are you certain?”

The words echoed and coiled past the window sill of his consciousness. He heard her voice, perhaps. Or was it his? Or maybe it was the cacophony of all those he had burnt in memorial during his life. It was asking the question he had asked himself a thousand times on the road.

“This path ends only one way.”

Whoever it was that tried to speak to him, he knew he had told them true.

“I want this. I want this purpose for all my life.”

Yet now he was laying in the mud, broken and bleeding from wounds that would have killed any other man. As his eyes struggled to focus on the Pale Lord that towered over him, he began to wonder if purpose and solitude had truly been the same word, spoken in different places.

Was he faithless? Too wayward?

An apology stuck like a rock in his throat. Not to the enemy, but to the garden.

The garden which they had once planted so many decades ago. It was one of family and progress. The kingdom he helped build from nothing. Somewhere beneath the depths of his steelish-blue eyes that garden still bloomed. Perfect. Green. Untouched by the century of rot he had walked through alone.

While the world before him burned with consequence, he sifted through the ashes. Though it was not another chance he sought. In his heart, he knew he was far too old for that lie. Desperate, the man clawed for the very thing which led to such misery. The first misstep on his journey. Whatever choice that traded their garden for this cruel and lonely road. If he could find it, he could name it. And if he could name it, he could finally stop carrying it.

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

A blade tore through his arm.

He spun as the cudgel careened into his shoulder, dropping him to the ground while the scene around him swam.

In an instant, three things happened all at the same time.

First, his weary soul pleaded only for the end. Though not one in death, but stillness. Yearning for the quiet after a long and hard road.

Second, every version of himself he had once been in the past suddenly converged on this single moment. The young teen who fell before the September Prince. The young man who sought the scholar’s life of his mother in a return to his homeland. The terrified mage who stared into the form of a Shade Father. The naive who looked upon the path of the Xannic Paladins, turned away by one who cared so much that he not end up in this forever war. The assassin who held the life of his homeland’s leader within his grasp. The fledgling knight. The lord who gave all of it away. The Hedgeknight who wandered too far for too long. All of them stared through his eyes at this blasphemous Black Templar and spoke in a haunting unison:

“This is where we always meant to arrive.”

The third and final part which utterly broke him was the feeling of its weight upon him. It was not the enemy’s, but the garden’s.

Every hand he had ever shook, every banner which he carried, every brother who had died in his arms, and every friend who had laughed at his terrible jokes were no longer here. No, they had been dead for decades. And yet-

Their eyes.

He felt them. A final glance.

And his heart began its old, familiar swell.

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

With little fanfare, he invoked it. He was no fool who clawed desperate and afraid. No, he called to his patron and his domain like a man lighting one last candle in an empty chapel.

Second Chance.

The wisps of his patron’s radiant flame did not blaze from him. It breathed a slow and deliberate pulse. His wounds began to stitch themselves closed as the fatigue of battle washed itself away.

And so, he rose.

And what stood before the enemy for the first time was no mere Hedgeknight. Nor was it a relic of some lonely elf who had outlived his world. Instead, this Pale Lord would see the man who had helped build that very kingdom he dared sully. The man who had stood in the cold and dark barrows when no throne, nor crown, nor certainty gave any assurance. All that he had was the promise that tomorrow would be better than today.

For one final time, his House’s warhammer drew back with its enwreathed radiant flame. In but a moment, the eidola before him crumbled.

There was no beauty or heroism in that final blow. Nothing personal was between this foul abomination of a Templar and himself. When it was all said and done, he stood over the crumbling remains as his patron’s flame began to ebb and diminish. For in that moment, his body was whole again, yet entirely hollow.

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

“Is this what feels to be a lord amongst this wasteland? To choke on the dust of your own reign?”

He looked down at his healed body which bore no blood nor any scars. All that remained was unmarked flesh, waiting for the next battle to come.

Though it would not come to be in this plane of existence. For clarity broke through all like a wave.

It was both her name and their name. The name of the garden and family he had once belonged to. In one seemingly improbable but beautiful moment he had once existed in, a moment where he truly belonged. Utterly and completely to something so much larger than his own self.

It was the only truth left hanging in his throat.

Every bit of what he had crafted from nothing only for him to then give up so easily. It was with every scar and every silence that had been written that the hammer fell in a silver promise. It was not one of glory, but instead one of witness. He had been there. He had loved them. He had left, and he had returned, and now he would carry their garden in his soul as he finally fell to his knees.

The silent word on his dying breath was not of any prayer.

It was a name.

“Seregon.”

· · ───── · ✦ · ───── · ·

The radiant white flame around him no longer faded. It began to lift as the fallen knight felt his soul separate from his flesh. His wounds had since closed and his battle was won. Yet beyond the veil was the realm of his patron which opened wide. 

One long and hard road. One return. One knight, finally at his fair end.

 

Spoiler

I could never begin to truly list out and thank everyone who has made a lasting impact on the story of this character. As he was the one I applied with, it is hard to fully fathom just how much he has grown and developed over the years. Thank you to everyone who touched this story and was touched by it. <3

 

[frvma 1014]

Somewhere in the world, continents ago, a hand-sewn blanket bearing an embroidered "H" waved in the wind. A gift to a dear friend, from another dear friend. While the recipient of this gift had long since passed before him, memories and small monuments like these would carry on in remembrance of his acts in the world. 

[tadabug2000 4918]

Junco learned of her claimed Uncle's passing. The man who taught her father, who listened patiently as she rambled on about the monsters she'd one day be old enough to fight. Chosen family. She loved him dearly. Race nor creed mattered not. He was simply her Uncle. Her friend. The man who held stories of greatness and had no trouble in telling her of them.

 

"-oh.." The young girls words came quiet, her normal excitement of the day fading to a dull hum. "I had so much to tell him still. I wanted to show him my new weapon, I," Her teeth ground, gaze dropping away to look anywhere else. "..I'm going out for a bit."

[Demented_Delila 1248]

Somewhere, an aging Templarii Hedge-Knight, without purpose or prose beyond her protection of pilgrim roads and lost souls, lay.

Sleeping.

 

In a cot that she did not own.

 

She had no bed. She had no home.

 

She awakes from a dream of yesteryear. 

 

Yesteryear was broken glass and raging fires, but it had been his shield beside her spear.

 

And she begins to weep for a missing piece of her heart that seared terribly upon her soul.

 

Who else would this world take from her?

[Cally 1080]

Somewhere in a distant hedge, a girlish knight-to-be laid along the crickets and gentle winds of an elm in the summer evenfall. 

 

As much as she wished to weep, tears did not find the squire of Elerrion. She simply smoothed water over the surface of the ancestral blade in her lap. Liar’s Bane, and its reflection had ceased to frighten her. But now, it made her frown. That terrible version of her staring back at her, dreams unfulfilled, life wasted…

 

And she vowed on her once always smiling face to be the knight he had wished her to be. 

 

Selfless, honest, caring, and fearless. 

 

Her head bowed to wipe her face on her cape. 

 

“Why did you never knight me, Ser?” 

 

 

 

On the other end of the celestial barge, a certain bard he had come to know as a deep and trusted friend… Spread her arms out as his dinghy boat arrived on the shores of the milky white beaches of Malchaediel’s bleached realm. 

 

“Y’er awful early—!”

 

Said the lady knight with white hair, laughing jovially as she brought him into a hard hug. Departing only to squeeze his shoulders. 

 

Her husband not far behind her in the line of templars who welcomed him home. 

[Farryn 860]

Athanas paused mid-reading as the news would reach him, a sad glint formed in his eyes as he bowed his head. He had only spoken once with Ser Elerrion yet that conversation alone left a strong impression - the two exchanged small stories of Templars and the lack of an arm. Words Athanas didn't realise he needed to hear until now. He had hoped to hear more from the Templar. He hoped to tell him that he finally chose the path he would walk, though not that of a Templar. Instead, that would be a tale he would not be able to share.

 

"Lady Aeriel, guide his soul to his patron's realm..." he prayed softly, "...Your duty is done, may you rest in peace, Ser Elerrion..."

[Wizry 1218]

Elerrion’s last words to his granddaughter was that he ‘loved her lots’.  It’s something Maeve dismissed at the time as something so casual, so common - she didn’t think of saying it back. 

 

His granddaughter’s reaction had been a very simple goodbye, and that was the very last thing she had said to him.
 

Regret filled the woman upon her finding out that the man had died. So many questions she could’ve asked, so many things she could’ve said - the Templar could’ve said more than just goodbye as a final word to Elerrion.

 

Out of remembrance, the elfess carved Elerrion’s name into a rock, leaving it on-top of a snowy mountain - before trundling northwards and away from the site of his death.

[Plausifraunz 361]

Her son, Merle Altwegg, had gone quite far in terms of his life since she had encouraged him to do more. Joined hand in hand with the templars, he'd even become one under one of them. This elf in particular, struck Arya as odd. Perhaps it was his demeanor, his regard for his own life. She cherished hers and he seemed so, tired.

One particular day, the aged woman stood just outside her manor, hovering near the mural of the Saint Lucian's War when he had approached. 

"He's a good kid you know."

 

"I know. He's just my last son. The last of my kin still alive. I worry for him as a mother does." Arya huffed, shaking her head gently.

 

"I see him like my own brother." Quipped the Templar. A hand on his hip.

 

"I'm glad. Promise me one thing, Elerrion."

 

"Hm?"

 

"Promise to be there for him. Even when I'm gone?" The mother's gaze lifted upwards to meet the hedgeknight's. 

 

"I will, Arya. I'd have it no other way."

 

With him gone, and the news broke, she held her son in her arms as he grieved until he chose to break away. There was no one else to watch over him. And when she was gone, who would then?  "Rest well, Sir Elerrion." Arya dipped her head. She intended to honor him, as long as she lived. 

 

[TomFunks 756]

The Black Templar was a perversion of courage, a stone amalgam of hatred which sought to cleanse the rot he saw within Malchediael’s brood. He had slain six Templars of meek resolve, believing them unworthy. The strength of their blessing was compared to that of his own, which to him when he had captured the sanctified blade of golden gem-steel.

Yet, those slain were in the groves of druids, elven pretenders who knew not the dogma of the Aengul against any other. He had heard many times now where the courageous truly burgeoned. In marching within the lands of the Templars, the Eidolon thought there would be no different outcome to the wars waged prior.

 

Yet it was Elerríon who proved defiant to the stone-lord’s charge. He had raised the banner of radiance to dispel darkness, brought divine-flame upon his stony exterior, and invoked the Aengul’s name to radiate a courage otherwise unseen by the accursed Templar until then. Against his holy light did the Black Templar realize that there were, indeed, worthy agents of Malchediael within the realm.

 

Reduced to dust and fragments, the menhir-craft was forced inert in the cinders of silver. The weavers might one day reform him, yet his own courage had been shaken. If ever he would rise again, he knew not his purpose. A scourge of the blessed had met his match against a true Templar.

 

Spoiler

Good fight! I'm glad I got to play a role in the end of such a legendary character. Thank you for the great roleplay, and combat.
 

 

[Rayalia 537]

The Iron Princess had watched towards the end of a frightful battle, burdened by grievous wounds and shielding her injured son, as Ser Elerríon invoked his second chance. She had known, of course, what the Templars did, how it worked, what would happen, and yet... she didn't recognize it until it was too late. She'd never witnessed such a thing before and, when the man's flame flickered from existence, she'd stood there, staring frozen at the spot where that man, that which had so recently come into their lives, had turned to naught but a ghost of a memory.

"Seregon? You mean Elerríon Seregon?"

The first time she'd met him, he'd seemed like a legend. Up the chocolate tree, to her office (truly, just a cover-up, an excuse to eat sweets in the middle of the day) had she brought him, never one to miss an opportunity to show off the centerpiece of her garden. Her father had taught her about the houses of olde, once. Seregon. A Haelun'orian family until their matriarch and patriarch converted to Canonism and took upon the Númenedain names of Lady Caliene and Lord Elerríon. The royal knew, then, that this man was the very same; he whom had abdicated his title to become a hedgeknight early within her Grandmother's reign, how his daughter had been the last to deal with the Seregon fiefdom before it was left abandoned, how their home had been used as a seat of power for the Delgorthadrim during the civil war. She had thought him dead, only Ser Caliene and Nerium outliving him. And yet, there he had been, standing before her, staring bewildered at the chocolates he had been surrounded by.

 

He had sought a purpose, and a home.

 

It had felt like the old days, he had once said to her. Angrenost felt like something familiar to him. The thought had pleased her, for what was this place if not somewhere to call home? That's all she had ever wanted it to be, for herself, for her family and her friends. All the politicks and bullshit, the catering and pretending and walking upon glass? That wasn't allowed here. Just... community. Safety. Comfort. A future. He was old and worn and she had wanted that for him too. He was becoming a fast ffrind, one she didn't mind bantering with, or speaking openly with, or spending time with, or inviting him to live within one of the lordly rooms of her Iron Tower. She reserved those offers only for those that she trusted; only those she knew would protect her children and her husband. He'd wished to serve them, to guide and teach them. She'd been all to happy to gift him the chance to do so; to have him take up the mantle he wished to brandish, to watch him grow as a Knight of Angrenost, as a Silver Stag, to let her children and the youths of the Viscounty pester him as a mentor.

 

"Do you wish to go scouting sometime, Lady Azruphêl?"

 

Ser Elerríon, she had decided, was a rare soul that she could reminisce about the past with and utilize her 'Kids These Days' with fun jape. No, she had not grown with him in her life; they had lived in two separate times. But there was enough kinship there, even in the short time he'd been with the Mithrenionath, that could be found solely in experience. In similar experience. It was refreshing and she'd been looking forward to hearing more about his histories, about his adventures, where her people had come from. The lost art of storytelling. The bygone eras of word weaving. It would be weeks after his death that the Royal would find herself sorely lacking in a collection of tales to remember him by and the grief would reply tenfold.

"Athaenis, Elerríon," she had beckoned, the two she had trusted most in the moment, regardless of their statures as Templars. "Walk beside me."

 

And they had. Athaenis on the left, Elerríon on the right. They gave her the strength to face horrors from her past. The battle didn't go the way she'd planned - but then, they never do, do they? The child they sought to save got lost in the fog, their stance beside each other crumbled in the chaos, her fury at the Wick blinded her logic.

 

Death stank the air like a toxin, her front doorstep made a bloodied, disjointed warzone. The child they sought to rescue, killed. Comrades they fought beside, killed. Her newest and yet one of her most trusted knights, killed. Her son...

 

Her son.

She would attribute, in the later hours, their survival to Ser Elerríon, once Patriarch and Lord of the House Seregon, once Wandering Hedgeknight of the Realms, once Silver Stag of Angrenost, once Mentor, Ffrind, Father, Husband, and so much more she might have learned him to hold title of. Tacked upon the end, she would add one more. One more that her family would come to know him of, the first of his kind.

 

Hero of Angrenost.

[The Vulgate Cycle 577]

A Fae-Touched Knight opened his eyes and found himself in the midst of a God's Wood. And there he sat, beneath the shadow of a white tree overlooking the cliffs. He had sat before a bonfire of his patron to meditate and in its flickering light, found peace. And though the air was still and he knew not what had befallen his home of youth, his mind stirred. A butterfly led his gaze to the west, where the iron gates sat closed, wherein he was compelled to stand and followed the invisible hand of fate out into the lower bailey. He had walked the path so many times, but this time felt different. The air was not lively, a new smell filled the air. Miasma... 

And so it was that Castamir came to the site of battle and bore witness to its aftermath. The people reeled, the animals were quiet, and it was here he learned the fate of Ser Elerrion Seregon. He stood in the spot where the Templar of Yore had died, and as if by compulsion, sought to find his boot-prints in the ground and match them. But he found the effort fruitless and he was humbled. Like Uther before him, he as struck by the suddenness of his demise, and he walked listlessly from the battleground awash with unfinished business. 

Tears stung his eyes, for a ready made friend, taken so soon. But despite his grief, despite his loss, a ferocious smile radiated off him. His heart pounded like a war drum as he exalted in the defeat of the damned. Elerrion had succeeded and his patrons purpose had been achieved. Bittersweet tears ran down his face as he exploded in laughter. And he laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Evil had been unmade that day and Elerrion- gruff, grumpy and old had made a worthy end to a storied life. 

He resolved to himself to not weep, but kill many more of Apostates of GOD in his name, to remember Seregon as he did Uther with every swing of his blade. And to wade in the blood of the darkspawn until time or fury carried him away in turn. And to seal his promise, spoke thus:

 

"Blessed Malchediael, the world drowns in corruption; the faithful perish and the wicked multiply.
Saint Michael, lend me your strength. Grant me the will to purge the corrupt, to smite the wicked, to bring hope when hope is lost.
By the Cross, the Flame and the Radiant Star, and upon the blade I pledge to the coming battle, I vow not to waver and to never retreat; to stand tall against the flames of perdition; to drive back the Shadow with your holy Light.
Through me, may the will of the Lord our God, Singular and Benevolent, be done. Amen."

 

And with resolve steeled, for Elerrion's sake and his own, concluded

 

"So Mote It Be"

[DragonofTaters 920]

Quiet. Something the youth usually found welcome. A moment to think, to tune himself to the world around. Stillness in the garden, where only the wind and small creatures disturbed the space. Silence in the upper reaches of the tower; on the pinnacle, where it was just him and the open skies.

Now it was oppressive. Horrific. The stillness of everything being wrong. Blood soaked the forest pathway. Birds and rodents, the little wild things which always made the fief feel alive now absent. Gate lowered, doors locked. Movement restricted within the towering walls. A hush of fear, panic, and grief sweeping across Angrenost.

It was the quiet which followed Elerrion's declaration and final act which seemed to follow him. Muffle every sound. His mother's voice held little to no inflection. Aunt brought to stillness, a weariness to her he'd never witnessed before. His own body wracked with pain, even after every treatment and surgery meant to make him whole again. Activity brought to a standstill, forced to do nothing. To sit. To think. To be quiet.

A sacrifice made; on behalf of him, his family, his home. A life given up, to bring light where darkness sought to take hold. A Templar, noble and true, and a Knight of Old, those his mother spoke of...
Lost.

How was he to repay that debt he'd incurred? An impossible idea, for no payment would ever equal Ser Elerrion's life.

He sat in silence, stillness, looking at water as it rippled. Alchemical mixtures meant to heal his body faster. Allow him to return to the life he'd known before. But that could never be.

The boy had born witness to the last moments of Ser Elerrion Seregon. The first death of a Templar he'd ever seen, and one which could never be forgotten. Burned into memory and spirit alike. All that was left for the boy was to try, try to learn and exhibit the same qualities he saw in that man who gave his life for Arathorn.

~*~

A 'Fenn stood overlooking the cliffs of Idunia's shores. Muscles tense, jaw clenched as tightly as the fists balled at her sides. Singular eye glaring out at the world as if in challenge. News of Elerrion's demise had been delivered. The rage which immediately surfaced old, ugly, and primal. Something buried in the depths of the Sea Witch's soul. Not seen since Arcas. Not given place to be acted upon in nearly three and a half centuries.

Now a friend had been ripped from her. The man who had never judged. Never sought anything from her save friendship; not for what it offered him, but because he genuinely wanted to support her, to share companionship and camaraderie. A soul as old as her own, who understood the path she had walked and why. Stolen.

Some would say given, some would say sacrificed. But she knew it for what it was. The spawn of the abyss and the hells, stealing that which they could. For they hated the Light, they despised the Noble, and they loathed the True. Elerrion, many things through many lifetimes, but those three, always. A man with the strength of will and integrity to turn away from temptation and walk the path she abandoned.

A rumble in the distance; thunder rolling over open waves as lightning crackled in the sky. Dark clouds hung low, a sheet of rain moving rapidly towards land. The storm approached, and the 'Fenn stood to meet it head on. It matched the roiling emotion in her soul, the burgeoning fury and wrath of the seas. Cursed by the Siren, or blessed by her hand; the Sea Witch would argue both. Her eyes darkened, the abyssal waters into which she'd delved rising within her being. Taking firm hold and consuming the gentleness which one might have once found within her. 

The tides cannot be stilled, nor waves made to cease. Embracing that, the Thrice-Cursed Witch turned. A name had been given. A target set. Death, or annihilation, would be the only end.

"The ocean's fury whispers secrets to the shore, reminding us that some moments are too powerful to be forgotten, only felt." - Omatee Hansraj

[DizzyGrey 1229]

Hanzo Vourkehardt hadn’t known the man he fought alongside, on the steps to the domain of the White Tower. Elerrion’s name was something forgotten to common story long before the bastard was born. 
 

Yet his actions that day would not be. Could not be.

 

The Ranger was unworthy. Unworthy to have been the one fighting beside the last moments of the heroic Templar. Unworthy in his own actions’ failure to make such sacrifice worth the cost. Unworthy to have borne the faith that had been placed within those around Elerrion in those moments. 
 

Yet even in death, the actions of the few can inspire the many. 
 

An oath was made, and not one done so lightly, for those of the shining kingdom treat such with solemnity. The third oath of Hanzo’s life, taken in silence and surrounded by the blood of evil slain and of innocents unjustly murdered.
 

A promise to make up for mistakes of violence, and to ensure the templar’s sacrifice was not in vain.