The relentless rain washes the honorable blood from the rooftop as Galadriel watches. The air crackles with an eerie silence, broken only by the fading storm and the distant cries of mourning from the city below.
Galadriel stands at the pinnacle of the command center; the weight of her newfound responsibility settles on her shoulders like wet sandbags. The crew around her remains silent waiting for her guidance, their eyes filled with grief and uncertainty.
Even in the midst of her sorrow, Galadriel knows that she cannot allow herself to be consumed by grief. The legacy of Captain Faelivrin, the hero who sacrificed himself for their city, now rests upon her. Her heart swells with awe and pride at her heroic uncle and Captain.
“Hard to starboard, let us put some distance from us and the Ebony Dragon,” Galadriel commands turning back to the window.
“Galadriel, I see you have taken it upon yourself to claim the mantle of leadership,” Thaliora says, her voice dripping with skepticism.
Galadriel turns to see Thaliora stepping from the shadows in a tight white and blue jacket buttoned up from naval to the jaw. Her long silver hair cascades down her back and flows out around her hips. The woman stands with her nose in the air and her painted-red lips pursed. Her arms are crossed behind her back with her chest puffed out. Thaliora casts a cold glare around the room causing all to stop at their stations.
The chief mate stands and salutes the older elf. “Counselor.”
Thaliora nods to the chief mate and turns back to Galadriel looking down her nose at the younger elf. “I see you have taken it upon yourself to claim the mantle of leadership,” Her voice dripping with skepticism. “But do you truly believe you possess the experience and wisdom to guide the grand Terre Goth? I for one have my doubts.
Galadriel straightens her posture, her grief momentarily overshadowed by a flicker of determination. She meets Thaliora’s gaze with unwavering confidence, her voice firm and resolute.
“Councilor Thaliora, your concerns are noted,” Galadriel begins her words measured and composed. “But the legacy of Captain Faelivrin demands that someone steps forward to lead in his absence. I may not possess his years of experience, but I have learned from him, and I carry the spirit of my uncle in my heart. Terre Goth needs a leader who is willing to make necessary sacrifices and fight for our people’s future.”
Thaliora raises an eyebrow, a condescending smile playing at her lips. “Ah the sentimental notions of youth,” she snarls, “But sentimentality alone does not make a leader, my dear. Leadership requires cunning, political insight, and understanding of the delicate balance of power.”
Galadriel’s eyes narrow, and the cold disregard for the captain's death makes her grind her teeth. She digs her nails into her palms behind her back. She focuses on showing forth a demeanor of respect and humility. “I fear you underestimate me, Councilor,” she retorts making a concentrated effort to keep the steel out of her voice. She takes a breath, “I may be young, but I have studied the political landscape of our people. I am prepared to navigate them.”
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Thaliora snorts a short laugh. “You have studied.” She laughs again, “She studied,” her smile fades and her face hardens. “I have lived it. I was there on the virgin voyage of Terre Goth. I fought in the Maimon War. I cut my teeth at the Swords of the Fallen Sun. You studied what I lived.” Her tone is ice but her words are fire.
Galadriel swallows but remains firm. “Yet I am the X.O. and the captain is dead. That means I am in charge and you are on my bridge. Officer on Watch, escort the counselor off my bridge.” Galadriel turns her back and faces her crew. “Set a course east.”
The tension in the room thickens as Galadriel’s orders hang in the air. The crew exchanges nervous glances, caught between the authority of their new leader and the imposing presence of Councilor Thaliora. The chief mate, torn between loyalty and deference to the councilor, hesitates momentarily before finally stepping forward.
“Councilor Thaliora, I must ask you to leave the bridge,” the chief mate says, his voice strained with the weight of the citation. “Our X.O. has assumed command, and we must follow her orders.”
Thaliora’s eyes narrow, her lips curling into a thinly veiled sneer. She regards the chief mate with a mixture of disdain and silent fury before finally complying with a stiff nod. “Very well,” she concedes through gritted teeth. “But mark my words Galadriel, you shall not sit long in the captain's chair. I suggest not sitting all the way down. I will ensure the council hears of this insubordination.”
With her ominous words still ringing through the bridge, Thaliora turns on her heel and strides off the bridge, leaving a palpable tension in her wake. A door slams and Galadriel hopes her crew doesn’t notice her body jolt. The team momentarily relieved, turns their attention back to Galadriel, awaiting her next command.
Galadriel takes a deep breath, her eyes scanning the faces of her loyal crew. This challenge to her authority is only the beginning of the trials she will face as the new leader of Terre Goth. Already she imagines she can see the cracks forming among the crew.
“Set a course east.” Galadriel commands and the buzz of the crew is immediate. Galadriel stands relieved before the captain’s chair. She looks down at the leather-sown black chair. It sits high on its pedestal. It feels as if it looms over her. She swallows hard and decides not to sit for now.
The movements of the crew are swift and purposeful. The ship responds to their skilled hands, adjusting course, guided by Galadriel’s unwavering direction. Despite the storm still raging outside, the city-ship presses forward against the raging waves. The mammoth structure holds true.
Galadriel leans against the bridge railing, her gaze fixed on the dark horizon. The weight of her new role squeezes about her chest. The doubts and challenges swirl in her mind. She draws strength from the memory of her uncle. She wouldn’t let him be remembered by anything other than a hero. She couldn’t let this be taken from her yet. She must ensure he would be remembered and not washed away in some ensuing power struggle.
The road ahead will be arduous, filled with dissension and who knows what other dangers. She glares out the glass. But this is what he had prepared her for right? He taught her resilience; he made her clever and firm. He must have foreseen this.
Galadriel watches as the dark clouds part, revealing a sliver of moonlight breaking through. At that moment, she finds solace and reassurance that the spirit of Captain Faelivrin yet speaks to her. The challenge to her authority may be just beginning but she resolves to meet it with a steadfast spirit. She sets her sight on the future, ready to lead her people through the tempest into a new dawn.