By the time the three of them reached the town, dusk had already settled in. Rowan moved easily through the streets, greeting familiar faces using Evan's memories as a guide. After a simple meal at the tavern and a taste of the region's rough but flavorful ale, he parted ways with Al and Apa and returned to his small house.
"At least this body has no family left," Rowan muttered as he closed the door. "That would've been troublesome."
He swept the room clean with a quick spell and sat on the bed, slipping into meditation.
Evan's father had been a hunter as well. When Evan was twelve, his father tried to bring down an Aravûr wild bull and was killed instantly. The creature was said to descend from the sacred cattle of the Hunt-god Oromë, its massive white horns prized beyond measure. Success would have made Evan's father a hero of the tribe.
He never came home.
Evan's mother followed a few years later, leaving the boy alone. Now even Evan himself had died on a hunt, replaced by Rowan's arrival. In a world like this, survival was never guaranteed.
"This place really does boost meditation," Rowan thought.
An hour here felt like three elsewhere.
Night fell. The moon rose, born of the sacred Tree's last fruit, but its light was dim tonight, veiled by drifting black smoke.
To the north of Hithlum stretched the wide plains of Ard-galen, beyond them the Noldor fortresses leading all the way to the slopes of Thangorodrim. Past that lay Angband, Morgoth's ancient stronghold, buried in the Iron Mountains and choked with poisonous fumes.
To the west rose the Ered Wethrin, lands ruled by the High King Fingolfin. To the east stood Himring, guarded by the sons of Fëanor.
Three fronts.
A ring of steel and light around Angband.
If Morgoth wanted dominion over Middle-earth, he would have to break that ring.
Tonight, as smoke blotted out the moon, he moved.
A great dragon stirred. Balrogs marched. Orcs bred for centuries poured forth. The assault split into three tides, crashing toward the surrounding defenses.
A horn boomed.
Rowan's eyes snapped open.
That sound wasn't random.
It was the war horn of the House of Bëor.
He stepped outside to chaos. Torches blazed across the town. Bregolas, broad as a bear and clad in elven-forged armor, stood at the center, spear raised as he roared orders.
"The elven city is under attack! They've sheltered us for generations. Tonight we repay that debt! All warriors, ride with me to the city! The rest prepare to evacuate. If the worst happens, the men hold the line while the women and children flee south!"
The orders were given without hesitation.
Eight hundred warriors mounted up.
No fear. No doubt.
With grim resolve, they thundered toward the distant glow of smoke rising over the elven city.
Rowan watched them go, something heavy stirring in his chest.
"These humans really are different," he murmured.
They knew what Morgoth was. They knew this was likely a death march. They still went. Arrangements made. Goodbyes unspoken.
In another age, people might have chosen to run.
Here, they rode toward the fire.
"For me," Rowan said quietly, "this is perfect timing."
If he could help hold the central front, he would become a benefactor to the elves of this land. Learning their magic and craft would no longer be a distant hope but an open invitation.
And if things went truly wrong, he could still extract key figures and retreat.
"Evan! Evan!" Al and Apa came running. "Old Jim wants us at the northern edge to set traps and defenses!"
Hunters, not warriors. Their duty was to delay the enemy if the city fell.
Rowan smiled. "Tell Jim I'm heading to support the elven city."
Before they could argue, white wings unfurled from his back.
He waved once and took to the sky.
Al and Apa froze, mouths hanging open.
"Did… did Evan just grow wings?" one of them whispered.
Rowan flew fast, quickly catching up to the charging riders. The warriors nearly reached for their bows when they spotted him overhead, but recognition came just in time.
"That's the hunter, Evan! Since when can he fly?"
Rowan dropped to ride alongside Bregolas.
"Chieftain," he said evenly, "I know a bit of magic. I'm going to help the elves."
Bregolas stared, then laughed, slamming his spear against his shield. "Magic, eh? I'll take it! That's the spirit of the House of Bëor. Ride with us!"
He'd seen elven magic often enough. A human with strange talents was surprising, but not unthinkable.
They rode hard.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the elven city.
The gates were shattered.
The walls were cracked and burning.
The battle had already begun.
...
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