Chapter Text
The Garden was beautiful.
Lady Melina Stormcrow stood in front of her daughter's barrow and fingered a soft white morello blossom which had drifted to her upon the wind only moments ago. It was dead, of course; a blossom which had clung stubbornly to the branches over the course of autumn and now, as winter loomed, finally relinquished its' hard-earned hold and quietly fallen to Melina's feet.
Melina crushed it.
Two weeks ago, Alastair had returned from Pelargir with her daughter's broken, heavy body wrapped in a white sheet. A week later, she'd been buried.
Melina felt as though she were living in some sort of dreadful nightmare and had only now just awoken to the scent of freshly churned earth, ashy wind from the south, and a bitter smell which might've been sorrow.
"I am the master of these lands," Melina said out loud, "Yet I could not prevent this. How is that so?"
"You are not to be blamed, my lady." The voice behind her was soft and sad. Melina did not turn around. "It was I who lost her."
"From what you tell me, it was Helena's decision to leave you," Melina said sternly, "There was nothing to be done, Alastair."
It was now she turned to look her captain and former would-be-son-in-law in the eyes.
Alastair had grown a little thinner since his fiancee's death. A little paler. A little haggard around the face. His blue eyes were glossy with unshed sorrow, like frosted glass.
Melina sighed as she scattered the mangled petals of the cherry blossom from her fingers, allowing the wind to scatter the flower's remains wherever it would.
"Come, captain," Melina offered her arm to Alastair, "Walk with me."
Alastair hesitated, obviously concerned at the propriety of such a gesture.
But his grief, like her own, was great, and he took hold of what was offered, allowing Melina to support him as they left the Garden.
Stormcrows and their kin had been buried in that place for many years; it was believed by their people that the body was a gift from the powers above, and that upon the release of the soul, the body needed to be returned to those who lent it. The corpses were buried, and plots of seedlings were planted above the grave, so that the rotting flesh might sustain a bountiful harvest for many years to come.
All were allowed to visit and eat the fruit of the dead; it was a gift of the land, and of those who could no longer walk upon it.
It was a way of physically tasting memory, if only just for a bit.
The Garden itself was nestled in the peaks of the Blackbird Mountains, on the borders of the Southlands, or, as many of Melina's superstitious citizens referred to it, Mordor.
Many were uncomfortable that the dead were nestled so close to such a blighted place, and furthermore, some worried that the ash would taint the harvest. But it was set in a comfortable little valley, with many peaks and mountains guarding it from the southward ash and flotsam that was blown over the border.
Actually, there were many of Melina's subjects who thought remaining so close to Mordor itself was a perilous endeavor, what with the evil things said to roam just over the mountains.
Melina, however, did not fear an empty wasteland of ash and dust, especially since word had long reached her ears that the lord of that land, Adar, had died at the hands of the Elves in some foolish war to the west.
The path was well tended, and the stones smooth, so despite the meandering, at times steep zig-zag it took down the northern mountainside, Melina and Alastair had no lack of footholds upon the road.
Alastair glanced anxiously at the grey, heady sky above them.
"I hope we do not get a storm," he murmured, "It is hard to tell with all the ash in the air."
A byproduct of the neighboring land; the moorlands were often overcast and gloomy thanks to the ash blown in from the south.
"It is wintertime, Captain," Melina said calmly, "We always have storms during winter."
Alastair returned the comment with a ghost of a smile as they joined the main thoroughfare which ran from Crowfoot Village in the north, to Blackbird Gate in the south.
From the clifftops, far above them, the gloomy tower of Widow's Keep frowned down at them disapprovingly. Melina frowned right back.
Nobody knew the story of the keep; only that it had been there even before Lady Lenore, the first Protectorate lord's time. Legend held that a grieving mortal widow, upon hearing her husband had perished in the Elvish wars of old, had thrown herself from the topmost window onto the rocks below.
Now, it was just a watchtower; convenient for espying the rocky, orc-ridden lands to the south.
Melina inhaled sharply as she espied the craggy, dark fortress of Blackbird's Gate in the distance. With Stormcrow Castle a day's ride to the north, Melina had remained at the lesser fortress of the Province after the funeral, to establish a stronger border and inspect many of the small garrisons lying along the Mordor-Stormcrow border.
After Alastair's report the lands were inhabited by Halbrand and a strange Elf lord no one had yet seen, Melina wanted no chances taken—especially since her spies informed her that in the aftermath of the riots, Halbrand had taken many of the Southlanders from Pelargir and led them into Mordor itself, on the grounds of reestablishing the old kingdom there.
Good luck and good riddance to him, Melina thought sourly, as she approached the gates now, when his people realize his plans involve starving for grandeur in ashen wastes, I will not have to do anything; they will kill him themselves.
Alastair detached himself from his lady's arm and bowed to her.
"I will take my leave, my lady, and return to my post."
Melina nodded curtly.
"As you will."
Upon seeing her at the gate, the two guards immediately nodded their heads as she moved beneath the portcullis and into the large, walled courtyard, where the citadel towered in the middle.
Blackbird Gate wasn't exactly a gate in the traditional sense; it was a large citadel straddling the width of the canyon bordering the Southlands and the Stormcrow Province.
Of old, it was a market for trade and commerce. Merchants dwelt in the luxuriant chambers of the fortress, and vendors were set up in the courtyard.
Now, the portcullises and the fortress itself served as a garrison to keep nasty things from crossing the border.
As Melina glided through the courtyard, her long, black velvet gown flowing around her body like a river of black feathers, an ashen, iron-scented breeze flew up from the south, whipping her grey veil and sleeves around her like wings.
A crow cried from the citadel's roof, diving down to Melina, who stretched her arm out cautiously. The crow landed on her forearm, clasping her wrist with black talons and dipping its' head to Melina with another harsh "Craaaak!"
Melina gently held out her left hand, palm upward, and the crow deposited a shiny, tarnished piece of metal into her hands. A brooch, twisted and dented from the fires and ash which shaped Mordor.
Trash to many; treasure to a crow.
Genuinely moved, Melina gratefully closed her hand around the trinket, and smiled at the jerky, fluttering bird which she held on her forearm.
"Thank you, Mora," she said, before moving her arm in a gentle, upward motion, signaling to the bird she could return. Mora rustled off in a flapping of black wings, joining her cawing brethren in the grey skies as the circled the keep.
Melina smiled, slipping the dented little pin into her pocket.
The Stormcrows did not train hunting falcons. Rather, they often mastered crows for war, hunting, and messaging, releasing them into the wild after a certain point. The magic of it was, the crows remembered their masters and often returned to them with trinkets and small shiny baubles which they had collected over their journeys.
It was not a bond of master and bird; it was a bond of genuine love.
"My lady!"
Melina's head snapped around as she saw a young, dark haired girl, dressed in the dark livery of one of her own maidservants rushing toward her, clutching her skirts, her veil billowing around her head.
"What is it, Katya?" Melina asked, sensing something wrong in the girl's stance and wide eyes.
"There is a man at the southward gate," Katya panted, "He wants to see you."
"The southward gate?" Melina repeated, slowly. She was incredulous about this. The southward gate was the path which led directly into the old Blackbird Pass—a one way road in and out of the Southlands.
"Yes, my lady," Katya's hands twitched nervously, "His dress and speech suggest he is a man of those lands. He is demanding to speak with you."
Melina's lip curled in disgust as she moved past Katya, eager for the warm firelight and spiced wine of the citadel.
"I do not entertain beggars," she said dismissively, "Give him bread, and send him from my gates."
"Lady," Katya moved like a rabbit, bounding in front of Melina and halting her in her tracks. "He is no beggar. He is..." Katya's wild eyes met Melina's icy blue ones. "It is he, my lady. The one you said would come."
Melina paused at this. She clasped her fingers, tapping her lips thoughtfully. A smile creased her mouth, beneath her fingertip. Not a smile of mirth. Not a joyous smile. A dark, smoldering smile; the kind which a spider might have when it detects a fly dancing upon its' web.
"Send Captain Alastair to the gate," Melina instructed, brushing past her handmaid. "I will see the Lord Halbrand in my own chambers."