Cardanith stood in a vast sea of grey. The sand underneath his feet gave way, shifting under his weight, his boot sinking in the ground. A bloodied spear looms tall in his hand, this point of silver, tainted by crimson. No mantle adorns his shoulders, and a faint yearning, a calling beckons him to the foulest of places. To Iron and stone. To a place where all withers, and where, bound in rusted chain, awaits an oath sworn long ago.
They fought for ten days, without respite, without relief. Valeris stood atop the charred stone, hoisting the proud standard of The Host in his hand, wrought in deep hues of crimson, bearing the sigil of a spear, crowned by lightning upon it’s breast.
“Stand fast, Sworn-Blades!” The First Autarch calls, driving the point of his spear into one of the oncoming foes. He fought like a lion, dauntless, unrelenting. He was a tower of silver and gold, beset by a tide of black, yet he faltered not a step. The Autarch stood for ten days, never giving ground. At his side, clad in heavy plate, fought Cardanith, Second Autarch, the second-most senior blade in the Host. They were joined by Mallossel, her blade reaping a bloody toll in the Yrch lines. The past and future of the Host Palantine joined in a single, defiant stand against The Enemy. Valeris heaved the standard high and cried in a mighty voice. “Tangado haid!” The Lord called, and the Host set unto the enemy like a sudden storm. Cardanith strode into the fray once more, slamming his broad shield into the nearest foe, pinning him, before punching through the thick armour with his spear. He had settled into a rhythm now, he blocked and parried, the retaliated in kind, his spear finding it’s mark each and every time.
“We are pushing them back!” He thought, and brought his shield to bear. A snapping glance escaped him, his eyes searching for Valeris and Mallossel. Cardanith found them, perched upon a tall, dark mound, the bodies of slain Orcs littered around them. The Standard stood proud still. Pushing his way through the black sea, the Noldo cut his way through flesh and bone to reach them, flanking Valeris from the side, protecting the Autarch with the dauntless shape of his shield. Planting his feet firmly into the ground, he thrust back and forth with his spear, fighting back against the tide that now swelled, poised to drown them.
And then, in a single, fickle moment, Valeris gave his last command. The First Autarch, The Unbroken, fell into the Orcs, a barbed arrow stuck between the slits in his mighty helm. Cardanith roared, splitting the head of the nearest Orc, before throwing his shield away. He gripped the spear with both hands, and, bringing it down in a great arc, struck back against the foes, punching through dark steel and foul skin. He felt it, now. A burden on his shoulders. A calling, a distant yearning, as if the lives of all his comrades, of all of The Host, had been placed upon him. There, upon the charred slopes of Angband, he would ascend. In the chaos, he caught a glimpse of Mallossel, her gaze softened, and naught but a simple nod was shared between two, for words were not needed. Duty had issued it’s call, and Cardanith answered. Bracing the Standard high, he drew his sword, and called to all that would heed him. “To me, Sworn-Blades! Duty unto death! Drive them back!” He stood proud, cloaked in the deep crimson of the banner, this beacon of silver and gold, a tower standing undaunted amidst blackened smoke. What he was before was cast aside, and in it’s place stood Cardanith Galadnaith, Lord of The First, Castellan of the Silver Keep, Star-Sworn, and Bearer of The Mantle.
They fought for twenty days more, never faltering a single step, until the dawn finally broke. The dark skies gave way to The Star, and it’s coming was clad in silver and white.
“Any who would oppose, speak your mind now.” Baelor spoke firmly. None answered.
“Very well. Be It so then. Cardanith Galadnaith, Keeper of The Standard. The Council has tried you, and you were not found wanting. Will you bear The Mantle?” He asked, warding the mantle of silver and gold in his cradling hold.
“I will.”
“Then let it be known, from this day, until the End, we name you Cardanith Galadnaith, Bearer of the Mantle, Castellan of the Silver Keep, Star-Sworn, He Who Carried The Standard, Lord of The First, and First Autarch of The Host. Duty Unto Death, My Lord.”
Cardanith spoke no word. The Mantle slid over his shoulders, cladding in it’s bearing weight, an oath written on every one of it’s silver leaves. The First Autarch rose from his seat, looking over the sworn, his sworn, faces he had come to know better than any other. And he looked to her, her eyes stricken with both grief and pride.
He stood before them, a tower of silver and gold, and bore his tall helm upon a proud brow.
“Duty unto death.”
