– One excerpt in a compilation of many recordings of the Thaliondor brothers and what occurred to, by, and between them during the Age of the Obsidian Throne. –

The pitch-black warhorse thundered through the night, the branches of the dense trees that lined the road whipping and snatching at its rider. The surrounding forest was dark, thick, foreboding, and could be concealing any number of enemies. Indeed, it did conceal one – a dark-cloaked assassin whose face was hidden by the shadows of his hood and by a black mask over his mouth and nose. Only his dark eyes glittered in the wan light of the setting crescent moon. He crouched upon a stout bough, many feet above the road, watching horse and rider gallop swiftly closer. His half-gloved grip tightened around the long knife he held in one hand. Slowly, softly, under his breath he counted out the seconds that ticked by. 

3…

2…

1…

The horse passed beneath the overhanging tree. The assassin leapt from the bough. He plummeted downward and struck the knight, knocking him from the saddle. The two men crashed heavily to the ground in the clash-and-clatter of plate armor and a tangle of limbs. Gasps of pain and grunted curses were lost in the clamor of their fall and in the thunder of the warhorse’s hooves as it galloped onward. The horse quickly vanished in the swirling dark mists of the night. 

The black-clad assailant was the first to recover from the fall. He grasped the handle of his knife, the blade of which was buried in the knight’s upper arm between two armor plates. The knight yelled in pain as his attacker yanked the weapon free. The two men rolled in the loam and dead leaves, fighting for control of the knife. The knight sent his fist crashing into his attacker’s face and the smaller man’s head snapped backward. His body was sent flying backward off atop the knight. The knife was knocked in the opposite direction, skidding in the leaves, flinging scarlet droplets in a wide arc. 

The assassin thudded to the ground and lay still. The knight staggered to his feet, blood running down his arm and soaking the sleeve of his leather jerkin. He glanced around, spotted the knife. Stumbled toward it only to be yanked backwards by the assassin. The smaller man wrapped his arms around the knight’s neck and heaved backwards. The knight writhed in the assassin’s grip; they crashed back down into the stirred-up dirt and leaves. The assassin grunted as the knight’s full weight landed on top of him. Leaves flew up in the air as the knight kicked and struggled against this attacker’s tight hold. He almost broke free as he scrabbled for the dagger at his belt and attempted to drive the short blade into the smaller man’s neck and face. The assassin twisted away and almost lost his grip. He hooked his fingers through the eye-holes of the knight’s helm. Both men cried out from pain and exertion as the assailant pulled the helm from the larger man’s head. The knight swung his dagger up at his attacker’s face once more and his fist made contact with the smaller man’s nose. The assassin grunted and twisted free from beneath the knight’s body, tossing the helm away as he did so. The knight struggled to his hands and knees and crouched, dagger in hand, facing his opponent. The rough mail of the larger man’s gauntlet had torn away some of the assassin’s mask, and the knight squinted at his opponent’s half-revealed face. 

“Gildran?” He whispered incredulously. “Gil?” The smaller man tensed. Then exhaled and retreated a step. 

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“Yes.” He replied quietly. “What of it?”

The knight swore and spat out a mouthful of blood. “How– how in the world–” He stuttered, and swore again. “You cannot mean to tell me that you’re working for Eldragor now, can you? Brother?” His tone was laden with grief, anger, and betrayal. “I know the markings of his assassins. You would kill me, Gil? After all he did to us?”

“He saved me.” Gil replied flatly. 

“He murdered you!” The knight screamed. “I saw you die, Gildran! With my own eyes I saw you perish at his hand!” 

Gil shook his head. “What you saw was not real, Aerandír. He… imprisoned me, yes. But my death was ruse. Now… I am bound to serve him. I am sorry, brother. Truly.” 

“No, you’re not.” Aerandír spat out coldly. “If you were truly sorry, you would die before submitting to that traitorous snake, Gildran eldn Thaliondor!” 

Gil shook his head again. “I… am denied the release of death at this time, Aerandír. I’m sorry. My orders tonight are to take you as a prisoner or kill you if I cannot. Brother… please forgive me.” His voice broke slightly and he unsheathed another long knife. 

“Never.” Aerandír snarled, tossing his dagger to his other hand and drawing his sword. “Kill me then, because I will never yield to Eldragor, traitor.” 

Gildran flinched, then dashed at the knight. The two men clashed in a whirlwind of furious blows. Aerandír was graceful and skilled with his blade, but he was wounded and Gildran was quick on his feet and supplemented his shorter knife with a dagger he had pulled from somewhere. After a few minutes Gildran began to take the upper hand. His brother’s injury began to betray him more and more. Aerandír panted and gasped for breath, sweat trickling down his brow, dripping from his jaw and the tips of his pointed ears, mingling its saltiness with the blood that continued to seep into his sleeve. At last, Gildran swept Aerandír’s legs out from under him with a well-placed kick. Aerandír thudded onto his back, too winded to cry out. Gil knelt and laid the edge of his knife at his brother’s throat. 

“Yield.” He commanded quietly. Aerandír stared up at his brother, fury smoldering in his gaze. 

“Never.” He choked out between gasping breaths. 

Gilran shrugged and lifted his knife. Then brought it down, pommel first, on the side of Aerandír’s skull.                                                  

                                                             ~

From the shadows beneath the dense trees another figure in a dark cloak reclined against a tree trunk. They bore no visible weapons, their arms were folded over their chest, and they appeared to be in a state of slumber. But they were not, in fact, sleeping. 

From beneath that shadowed hood peeked a woman’s gaze, locked onto the assassin as he retrieved the runaway horse and hoisted the knight’s limp body onto the saddle. The woman made no move to intervene, had deliberately made no move before. She was merely a watcher. A neutral party. Someone whose task was not to interfere with the events of the world, but merely to record them. 

The crescent moon slipped down to the horizon and shone its wan light beneath the trees. The faint, silver rays caught on patches of embroidery along the edges of the woman’s cloak– shimmering feather quill pens. 

But the assassin never noticed. He finished tying his burden down and led the horse down the road, his steps slow and heavy with something akin to grief. The watcher’s gaze stayed with him. 

After a minute, the woman did more than watch. She followed, silent as the moon that slipped below the horizon.