The IRE of Winter

Chapter 31: STORM OF SWORDS Part 1

Flying low and steady, I clung tighter pressing myself against the dragon's back. Jaharo provided me a breastplate and red scarf,  strange as it may seem, despite the blades and armour, it doesn't feel like I am riding to battle.  Perhaps I am not, if only King Thranduil would step down and swallow his pride, there might be a chance for peace.

The dawn broke clear and cold, the hurling wind hinted that the sun was about to climb from behind the mountains fading white into grey. Miraak steadied his wings as we followed the wind's current down South, down to the wilderpines East of Dale.

Desperation and trust is seldom allies, Gandalf told me. He, and all of all wise and old wolfmen who tried to counsel a vaurg, did so little. His poetical exaggeration of me being a dragonrider who thrives for good and justice was quite endearing, but not good enough to change my mind. There was a moment I wanted to believe him, that the lands need heroes and martyrs, those who would embrace death believing there is justice in this poisoned world, they were wrong.

Guilt is a terrible thing. And when there is guilt comes distrust.

I will never make the same mistake again!

We glided farther down, almost touching the tips of the pines below. This day should be good, or good Valar will witness how the mountains will smoke. I shivered.

'I can feel your breath, Sah...fih...rah,' Miraak's thoughts echoed in my head. 'You owe me no loyalty. Words are wind, they do not bind you to anything.'

'Honor, that's what men call it,' I said looking at the distance.

'And what names a man who does not keep his vows?'

I sniffed trying to unravel his words. 'Disgraced, when honor is lost, so does respect. Honor is not my concern, you should know it well by now.'

The dragon dipped up and down, snorting wisp of fire. His massive wings brought waves to the very air, shoving the pines down below. Something disturbed him, or was it something that I have said?

'I feel how you feel. You are uncertain. You are afraid.'

'I'm not afraid of him!'

'You are not. You fear yourself more than anyone else.'

Miraak was right, I am afraid to kill so many innocent souls again. If justice means killing a thousand more, I am really willing to forgive? I've asked the same question over and over again. Sleep tortures me. Conscience hunts me in my wake, seeing weeping wives, orphaned children and broken men. Each soul is a heavy chain dragging me back to that very day. Only by giving them justice will set them free. And though I wanted to forget and forgive, the past was already a part of me.

No, I can't! What he did was beyond forgiveness. Wound heals but the scar remains.

Miraak finally found an old giant rock to perch, our journey was over but ended. The dragon's weight cracked the nearby trees, leaves shivered loudly until he thudded atop the boulder. I watched for a while, still on the dragon's back, I witnessed the sun rising from the behind the grey horizon, blinding light of yellow and white. Pulling off my helm, I squinted to the sight of flapping green banners at the distance. Thick pine-forest stands between me and the elven camp. They have occupied a quarter of the Eislediran valley, a vast and green meadows sitting at the tip of Mirkwood and East of Dale. Carrock's a few hours flight and the elven halls not too far from there.