Story - The Kidnapping

The doors had long since been closed.

The circular chamber lay in ordered gravity beneath a high, vaulted ceiling. The white stone rose in measured tiers, each ring of seating slightly elevated above the one before it, drawing the eye inward to the central floor where the matter of the realm was spoken into record.

Opposite the entrance stood the High King's seat — not a throne of dominion, but a raised chair of carved into the wall. Above and behind it, high in the wall, a vast window of clear crystal opened toward the outer sky. Pale light descended from it in long, cool shafts, falling across the chamber without illuminating what lay beyond.

Behind that wall, unseen from within, stood the memorial — the lost section of the Senate destroyed during the Crisis, now given over to the names of the fallen. The light that entered passed above it.

A circular balcony traced the inner wall above the highest tier. Observers stood there in silence.

The air carried the scent of warmed wax and dry parchment. Candles burned steadily in iron brackets. Recorder's soft hum noted the continuation of proceedings. Every word was captured by calibrated arrays that archived the session as it unfolded.

Mantles over left shoulder marked the divisions of thought.

Red for Carnil.
Green for Dúnedain.
Gold for Ar-Adûnâim.
White for Astar.

At the center, the High King wore medium blue — the color of the realm.

The debate was already in motion between individual senators.

"—you speak as though Denebol acts from benevolence," said Hallatan Arvegil, his gold mantle falling sharply along his back. He stood not in anger, but with quiet firmness. "They forbade genetic alteration when it unsettled them. Now they restore it when it suits them. The pattern is not difficult to discern."

Hallacar Minardil struck the floor with the Speaker's spear, allowing the chamber to quiet before speaking.

"Denebol's proposal is simple in form, yet weighty in consequence. They request trade in enchanted alloys. In return they offer what they consider a concession: shared oversight and joint advancement in our genetics, should the Accord be amended to permit such research once more."

A murmur moved along the rising tiers.

Hallacar continued.

"We all remember why those studies were buried. Some here were present when the Accord was signed. The Denebolians feared what such work might become. They feared instability. They feared the precedent."

His eyes moved slowly across the chamber.

"And we accepted that prohibition. Not out of weakness, but out of judgment."

Several senators inclined their heads.

"But the circumstances of both our civilizations have changed."

He stood aside.

Cirion Arandil rose slowly, the red mantle of Carnil falling from his left shoulder like a banner of restrained flame.

"My lords and ladies of the Senate," he began, his voice calm but resonant in the high chamber, "let us speak plainly. Denebol has not rediscovered some ancient moral courage. They have rediscovered necessity."

A faint ripple of approval came from several Carnil benches.

"They come not because genetics now troubles their conscience less. They come because they seek something only we possess."

He turned slightly, gesturing toward the chamber itself.

"Enchanted metallurgy."

Cirion paused, letting the word carry through the hall.

"They know as well as we do that no Denebolian forge has ever produced what even our lesser forges shape as routine armor plate. They may examine the alloys. They may test them, fracture them, dissect them under every instrument the Shield can devise."

A faint tightening of expressions appeared around the chamber.

"But they cannot replicate them."

He lowered his voice slightly.

"Not because the equations escape them. Not because the physics eludes them."

Cirion touched two fingers lightly against the stone railing before him.

"Because the work requires Arnorian hands."

That statement settled heavily.

"Our smiths do not merely refine metal," he continued. "They charge resonance into it."

He looked toward Hallacar briefly.

"Denebol knows this. The Shield certainly knows it. Which means this negotiation is not about discovery."

He allowed a thin smile.

"It is about supply."

Cirion sat.

Barahir Elentir of the Dúnedain mantle rose next, slower and more deliberate.

His tone carried the patience of someone accustomed to long memory.

"Senator Arandil speaks truth regarding Denebol's intentions," Barahir said. "But intentions are not the matter before us."

He rested both hands lightly on the stone before him.

"The matter before us is whether we choose to tighten or extend the web of mutual dependence that has bound our civilizations since the Accord."

His gaze moved across the hall.

"Some among Ar-Adûnaim speak as though the Shield's curiosity is an insult. Perhaps it is. The Shield has never been a sentimental institution."

A few quiet chuckles followed.

"But let us not pretend this is new behavior."

He gestured faintly.

"They already study our alloys. Of course they do. Every fragment, every damaged plate, every lost piece that leaves our hands of our people is measured in Denebolian laboratories within weeks."

A Carnil senator muttered something sharp, but Barahir continued smoothly.

"The question is not whether they experiment."

He lifted a finger slightly.

"The question is whether they begin to rely upon what only we can produce."

Now several heads turned.

"If Denebol succeeds in building a substitute—perhaps inferior, yet sufficient—or discovers a means to use our genetics to gain access to subdimensional powers, then our leverage disappears. If they remain dependent upon our production, the alliance remains balanced."

Barahir's voice hardened slightly.

"And alliances must be balanced."

He sat.

Elendur Caranthir of the Astar mantle rose almost immediately, white mantle catching the chamber light.

"Balance," he repeated, with a small nod. "Yes. Balance is precisely the word."

He looked toward Barahir approvingly.

"But balance is not preserved by withholding influence."

He spread one hand toward the chamber.

"Consider our position honestly. Our fleet expands. Our forges draw more alloy each year. The labor required to shape these materials grows no faster than the generations who must learn the craft."

A few senators nodded grimly.

"Yet Denebol's industry expands faster than ours in every mechanical field. Their electronics, their sensor arrays, their computation systems — all are things we rely upon daily."

He allowed the comparison to settle.

"They have not strangled those exports in order to maintain leverage."

Cirion shifted slightly, but did not interrupt.

Elendur continued.

"And now they offer us something else besides components. They offer the reopening of a field of knowledge we abandoned years ago."

He leaned slightly forward.

"Yes, genetics is no longer our path to strength. Subdimensional mastery has surpassed it. But knowledge abandoned is knowledge eventually lost."

His gaze swept across the Senate.

"Would we forbid its study forever simply because it no longer interests us?"

The white mantle shifted as he straightened.

"I suggest a more pragmatic view. Let Denebol pursue their research. It will occupy their attention and resources for decades. Meanwhile they remain dependent on our alloys."

He inclined his head slightly.

"And dependence, properly managed, is the most durable form of alliance."

He sat.

A strong voice rose from the Ar-Adûnâim benches again.

Gold mantle against the stone.

Hallatan Arvegil stood slowly, regarding the chamber with calm reserve.

"Or the most elegant form of chain."

Several heads turned.

The senator continued evenly.

"We speak here as though Denebol were a predictable machine. It is not. It is a civilization with ambitions as long as our own."

His gaze shifted briefly toward the white mantle benches.

"Senator Caranthir reminds us that Denebol has not strangled exports in order to maintain leverage."

A faint murmur moved across the chamber.

Hallatan inclined his head slightly.

"I would remind the Senate that during the Arnorian Crisis, Denebolian industry activated precisely such leverage."

Silence settled more heavily now.

"Supply restrictions. Martial law. Financial penalties — though they were politely named sanctions."

A few senators exchanged quiet glances.

"The effect, however, was simpler."

He rested one hand on the stone rail.

"Our heavy industry stalled. Our markets froze. Families depended upon products that ceased arriving."

His voice remained controlled.

"One might call that a killswitch."

The word hung in the air longer than the others.

Hallatan continued calmly.

"I do not say Denebol acted without reason. States act in their interests. That is not surprising."

He glanced again toward the Astar benches.

"But let us not pretend restraint where history records pressure."

He turned slightly, addressing the wider chamber.

"My concern is not only their curiosity."

He folded his hands.

"It is that we consider giving them material while our own state requisitions already strain production."

Now the chamber grew more attentive.

"Our mines are plentiful. Our labor is not."

A murmur followed.

"If we make alloy transfer to Denebol, where will that material come from?"

He allowed the question to hang.

"Civilian industry?"

He shook his head slightly.

"Legions or the fleet?"

Silence.

Candles burned.

The light from the high window fell steadily from behind the King's seat, pale and distant.

And the debate moved forward.

It was already dark when the High King sat at his massive walnut table, candlelight adding a soft flicker to the steady lantern glow that illuminated the white walls of his office. The scratching of a simple yet regal black-silver fountain pen in the High King's hand was the only sound in the silent room.

The doors to the office opened after a brief knock.

A tall Praetorian in smooth, polished silver armour entered. A black cloak and a front-divided skirt with silver lining hid most of it. He had to bow his head slightly to avoid striking the door casing with the wings of his helmet. The dim blue glow of his T-shaped visor illuminated the inside of his Corinthian outer visor.

Holding a spear in one hand and resting the other on the hilt of his longsword, he straightened.

"Cirion Failassë is here to see you."

The High King nodded. "Thank you, Ecthelion."

Cirion entered the room as the Praetorian departed, closing the door behind him.

"What stewarding news do you bring me, friend?"

Cirion offered a brief smile. "I wish to make certain that you will not remain here all night."

The High King motioned to the stacks of papers on his desk, each one a condolence letter already half written by generals.

"There are days when there are not any. This is not one of them."

Cirion's expression grew grim. "I know we talked about it, Anárion, but you do not have to do this."

The High King lifted his eyes from the paper. "Exactly. We have talked about it numerous times. They died because of my decisions. Directly, or indirectly by someone else's orders — their blood is still on my hands."

He returned his gaze to the stacks of papers.

"There have already been so many of them."

After a moment of silence, Cirion approached him.

"Do you remember what I told you years ago, when you considered abdication?"

The High King absently chuckled. "I remember you told me it would destabilize the nation."

Cirion shook his head. "No. You know what I mean. I told you that people chose to follow you. When you stood shoulder to shoulder with them. When you stayed with the rearguards. When you led them when all hope seemed lost. There is no one better suited to the duty of a king."

The High King returned to writing.

"I did not think so then, and I do not think so now. There were others to whom I owe my life — those braver, smarter, more skilled. You, your sister, Ecthelion behind those doors — he saved my life more than once."

He paused briefly.

"And so many others who are not here anymore. So many names. I remember all of them. I need to remember all of them. So please… let me remember these whom I have never met, who gave their lives for the nation I stirred into being."

Cirion looked both saddened and understanding. He left the High King to retreat into his writing, offering one final remark.

"This is why you are a great king — and why I follow you."

Turning at the door, Cirion smiled faintly again.

"See you at the Royal Council. Do not be early. Again."

The High King shook his head, smiling.

"Goddess help me."

Then, in the space of a heartbeat, his smile faded. His hand froze in the middle of an unfinished sentence.

The impossible happened.

In the far corner of the office, a jump occurred. However, instead of casting out those who had jumped it, the rift remained — flickering and bending reality around itself.

The High King lunged for his longsword, which leaned against his table, and unsheathed it just in time to parry the daemon charging at him from the tear.

A humanoid bird — dark, rainbow-sheened feathers, a gold-trimmed ornate round shield, and a jagged curved blade.

In the brief instant of parrying and countering with a long rightward cut, the sword hummed with a blue tint, its runes blazing with white light. The shield and the daemon itself were cleaved in two and hurled against the wall with a sonic crack of impact.

More of the creatures followed quickly behind.

Without waiting a second, the High King followed his strike with an Aard sign aimed at Cirion, sending him flying through the door, while the daemon attacking him was smashed against the doorframe.