Island of Sorrow RPG

[Firefoot]

Lómwë’s headlong rush had slowed to a miserable, witless wander. He could hardly distinguish the present from the past, or truth from imaginings. His companions were forgotten, smothered in the recesses of his mind. Only Ellothiel, her sweet face but also her mangled body, remained prominent in his mind.

He knew that he had to find the grotto, but had no idea what or where such a place might be, and his frame of mind was too torn apart for him to figure it out. It finally occurred to him as he passed a broken down section of Himring’s wall that a grotto would probably be found outside the city walls, not within them. He climbed over the remains wearily. There were no paths here, only long-abandoned wilderness that stretched and sometimes plummeted down to the Sea. He might search for hours. Blindly he set off, too occupied with thoughts to pay much attention to his path. He hardly even cared whether he discovered the grotto anymore, so long as he found Ellothiel.

He stumbled over the uneven ground numerous times, once falling down a drop of three feet. Even this could hardly even faze him. He was lost, in more than one way, and even in his confused state he recognized this truth. Who am I – really? What parts of me are alive – really? Have I done anything in the past several thousand years worth living for – really living for? I have done nothing, I am like nothing, and nothing gives me joy. Not without Ellothiel. Because she is gone – and it is my fault. Can I ever be anything again? Yet some insatiable shred of his mind remained convinced that Ellothiel might be found here on this island.

By some chance his wanderings brought him to a stretch of green grass, giving him a clear view of the Sea. Only an ugly tangle of vines and brambles marred the scene – and it was with these brambles that Lómwë most identified.

“Lómwë? Lómwë!” The call jerked him out of this reverie. The voice… Endamir’s. He approached the edge of the precipice and found his companion standing at the bottom with the unconscious bodies of Lindir and Orëmir. Lómwë knew that he was not as relieved to have found them as Endamir sounded to have found him.

“Lómwë, I need your help – we need to get Lindir and Orëmir to the top.” He indicated the large basket and rope.

Lómwë shrugged. “I don’t see why it matters. I don’t know why any of this matters. I can’t escape it, Endamir. She’s gone, and I might as well be, too. Maybe you can still see some point to this all, but I don’t anymore. In fact, I don’t remember if I ever did. If it makes a difference, I can help you with the basket… but I don’t know why. I’ve lost it, Endamir. I lost it a long time ago.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

The piteous pleas of Lindir that had echoed unceasingly through the Diviner's mind came to an abrupt halt. The tall figure whirled around in surprise, her skirt and hair caught up in a great gust of wind, as she stared off in the direction of the grotto. It was too far away for the Diviner to see or hear what was going on merely by using her physical senses. But she clung stubbornly to the link that Lindir had thrown to her. The Diviner could feel the Elf trying to pull away, but she refused to withdraw, clinging to his fëa like a woman possessed.

Something was happening in the grotto, the Diviner was sure of that. But what that something was, she could not say. When the Seneschal lunged towards her with an outstretched blade, she parried clumsily and hurried up to the timbered rafters where the shadows lay heavy, anxious for a moment to choose her path. It was urgent that she understand what was going on in the grotto, the cavern she had chosen as the scene of her triumph. On an impulse, she gingerly reached out with her mind, crooning softly to her lover of aeons past: I have so missed you. Of course, I am coming. Tarry now, and we will stand side-by-side, just as we did long ago. But first you must tell me what is happening so I may help you properly.

Remembering only the promised joy of the past that had never found its fulfillment, oblivious to the real danger that the Diviner presented to them all, Lindir raced to embrace his sweet lady, crying out in anticipation. Endamir has come. He has beaten down the door, thrust back the Orc who threatened me, and now he unleashes some of the Bones into the Sea. Come and join us.

All pretence of gentleness was quickly swept aside as the sweet fingers clenched into tight, balled fists. Who dares to disturb the grotto? It is my kingdom, that which I have chosen to be the scene of my triumph. Let this Endamir beware for I will disconnect his head from his shoulders. Reaching outward into the stillness, the Dark Lady of the Grotto pushed Lindir back for she could sense the fëar of the two Elves, so similar in appearance and shape, that lay just beyond her grasp. With a mighty howl, she pressed towards the one called Endamir, seeking to force her way into his mind. At the same time she flitted out of the enclosure and raced towards the tall cliffs, determined to stop this pesky Elf who threatened to undermine her power and control. Behind her, the Seneschal followed....

[Anguirel]

"It is time, I believe, to go home," Tasa had said, appealing to Malris with her wide, shimmering eyes.

He did not answer for a moment. His left arm was stiff from the flailing and contorting he had had put it to during the fight, his right arm covered with scratches when he had thrown it in front of his battle, the blood of his hands mixing with Tasa's. He felt the left, sword-arm creak as he bent it back into line to sheath Cirlach. The ease with which the steel slid into its scabbard, fitting perfectly, seemed to rebuke both his physical state and the trouble in his mind.

Giledhel had not reached Mandos. It still scarcely bore thinking about. That she had clung to this dank failed dream of military triumph, with her slayers for company, rather than return to the love of her family, the mother and sisters back in Tirion. Malris had never met any of these, nor her father, killed in the Aglareb; they all belonged to a separate existence of Giledhel's, and when she had chosen life with Malris it had been forever. For that life with Malris she had remained here, clinging to a loom and a defunct marriage-bed.

"We must hope that Endamir and Lomwe had more success than we did," he said at last. "We can't leave this island, Tasa, while Lindir's hroa is still in danger. I brought him here against his fears. Though he concealed the cursed Dragon-helm from me, I cannot let him suffer torment...I know you understand..."

He was struggling to use osanwe-kenta to find Endamir. Tasa still seemed shaken, and he kept clasping at her hand, absently, to reassure them both, as he struggled to find his friend's errant mind.

Endamir, how goes it? Have you found the Diviner?

Nothing. He repeated the question. Equally barren. Perplexed and irritated, he tried a third time.

"Malris," Tasareni chided gently, "that last time you spoke aloud. It's this place...something about this room...I can't reach outside it; in the One's name, let's go..."

"Aye," said Malris curtly. Every step down the crumbling stairs seemed like a coward's retreat. Giledhel and the Orcs were gone; but he knew he was leaving her to return to this place, to the loom and the bed, eventually...

She has to come to Mandos. I will go back. I will.

"I think the crows hurt my arm slightly...I can't...open this door," Tasa gasped out.

"Let me do it," Malris answered, a touch impatiently. "I heard it slam hard before. Perhaps a piece of rock holds it too fast..."

But when he wrested with the ancient handle, layers, centuries of rust adhering to his weary palm, the effects were small and the door stood firm. Tasa joined in, and they strove against the stubborn door together, but it remained turned, obdurate, against their exit.

"It's as if the join...just doesn't exist anymore..." Malris muttered darkly. "The cruel trick of a malign spirit...to trap ones such as we in a marriage-chamber..."

Exhausted in body and thought, he slumped back upon the stairs.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

It proved a restless bed the three Orcs settled into. Something pulled at the core of each of them . . . tugged hard at them beneath the stones.

A fresh breeze slipped into the cracks in the bloodied stone. It bore a feel of cool mists and smelled of salt. The songs of seabirds echoed faintly in its passing. It troubled the three fëar . . . bringing both alarm and an uneasy longing . . .

‘M’Lady?’ Gorgu said, his voice low with an uncertain edginess. ‘What is happening?’ The other two crowded close behind him, waiting for the sound of her voice.

[piosenniel]

Endamir had secured Orëmir and Lindir into the big wooden bucket. Clinging onto the vines on the side of the cliff, he called up to where Lómwë stood waiting. He heard the last of the man’s words, but in his anxious state for his brother and his friend he did not hear them clearly.

. . . I can help you with the basket… but I . . . I’ve lost it, Endamir. I lost it . . . The rest was obscured in the breezes that blew up from the sea below.

Endamir cupped his hands about his mouth and called loudly up to Lómwë. ‘It’s right here,’ he said, shaking the rope so that the other could see it. ‘You haven’t lost it at all. I’ve loaded my brother and Lindir into the bucket, pull hard on the rope, Lómwë, and bring them up.’ He shook the thick coil and watched as the wood and rope contraption began to ascend. ‘Send it back for me once you’ve got them out.’ He stepped back, away from the lip of the ledge and leaned against the rocky wall. His body sagged against it in relief. Orëmir would be fine and Lindir would recover, he was sure.

Endamir moved away from the wall after a few moments of rest intending to see if the bucket had reached the top of the cliff. He was almost to the edge when the force of the Diviner’s mind hit him. He stumbled back, his feet slipping on the bones that had rolled out of the grotto. The rage and hatred of the Diviner was merciless in its battering.

He was not prepared to fight back. Endamir’s mind crumpled beneath the cruel invasion and only darkness remained.

[Envinyatar]

The pain his brother reeled under wrenched Orëmir from Lindir’s mind. He sat up with a gasp, looking wildly about him, half disoriented. He and Lindir were sprawled on the grassy sward above the cliff which held the grotto. Near them stood Lómwë. He seemed despondent and distraught, all at the same time.

Orëmir lurched to his feet, grabbing onto Lómwë’s arm as he did so. ‘Take care of Lindir. Keep him safe,’ he rasped. ‘I’m going down to fetch Endamir.’ He grasped the front of Lómwë’s tunic. ‘I’m going to need your help. I can get myself down there, but when I call out to you, you’ll need to haul us both up as quick as you can.’

~*~

The wooden bucket bumped down the side of the cliff much as it had when Orëmir and Lindir had first gone down. He peeked over the side of the container as it descended. On the lip of the grotto he could see Endamir, lying dangerously close to the edge. Strewn across the ledge were skulls and bones. In the dark whirlwind that played about his brother’s form, the bones shifted and moved, many of them rolling off the edge and into the sea below.

Orëmir closed his mind fast to the Diviner’s intrusion as he dragged his brother’s form to the wooden bucket. ‘Leave us be, foul wight!’ he growled as the stinging wind lashed at him. Behind him he could hear even more of the river of bones tumbling over one another and down into the waters. The whole of them seemed to rumble loudly as the bones echoed in the inner chambers.

‘Lómwë!’ Endamir called loudly, clinging to his brother’s limp form. ‘Bring us up! Quickly!’

The awful touch of the Diviner’s mind withdrew as it seemed another force now fought against him . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir's attempts to struggle to his knees and stand upright met with little success. Earlier, his leg had given way under the surging flood of bones and his ankle had twisted underneath him, an injury that prevented him from moving swiftly. Although the sprain was minor and would soon heal, the Elf lacked the ability to rush forward and climb into the bucket to offer assistance to his friends.

Still, he could feel the presence of the Diviner through the minds of the brothers. She knew him too well. Yet he could not say the same of her. He could feel her implaccable will bearing down upon Orëmir, threatening to bludgeon the Elf into submission. Lindir had spent years thinking and dreaming of her, berating himself for his inability to find and bury her body. She had always been proud and haughty, yet she had once possessed a gentler side, a caring side that had responded to laughter and to his personal touch and voice. Where was the Elf that he had known? He saw no resemblance to the woman he had loved in this half mad Diviner who bore down upon them all.


How many knew her real name? As far as Lindir knew, he was the only one. Elliel, sweet one.... He whispered the name under his breath but there was no sign of recognition from the shrouded figure whose devouring presence seemed little different than a cataclysmic force of nature, impersonal and empty. Lindir tried to remember back over the endless years. Once, long ago, he had almost managed to make peace with himself and accept the fact that she was gone with a certain grace and resignation. But then had come the time he would rather forget, when he had put his hand to the forge in helping to fashion the rings. There had been no peace for him from that day forward. The events of the First Age had returned yet again to haunt him. She had filled his mind and life, not the real Elliel but some hideous apparition. Yet this is what she had become.

Reeling under the pressure from her mind and the weight of his memories, Lindir pulled back in horror. Never would he let this creature touch him! The thought filled him with revulsion. Whatever feeling and warmth had bound them together in the First Age had long disappeared. He could not save her. Perhaps that was why he had come here, with some foolish thought of undoing what had been done. But there is no undoing the music of Arda, a fact he recognized with a feeling almost akin to relief. He was not responsible for what she had become. There were things he could do and mend, but this was not one of them. As he felt the Diviner's presence pull back to rush forward to face Idrahil, Lindir was filled with peace and resolve. It was time to go home. His job here was finished, but there was another that called out for his attention. For the moment, at least, his home lay to the east, in the heart of Middle-earth.

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘The sea . . . and so close. I can smell it faintly.’ Giledhel turned a puzzled face toward the three Orcs. ‘How is this so?’

Up from their stony resting place, the four sat huddled together. The figures of the Orcs she noted, even as the last of her question hung in the air, had begun to waver and thin out, to fade. And she, herself, felt lighter somehow.

‘How is this so?’

The question caromed off the crumbling walls of the room; knocking away as it was considered, again and yet again, bits and pieces of her closely woven fantasies. They had told her in the early days, she now remembered, what had happened to this place that was her home. And had soon grown silent with this news of the changes that had been wrought when she could not, would not, hear of them.

Giledhel’s mind became clearer as the gauzy layers of fantasy fluttered away in the salty breezes. There against the wall slumped a familiar figure. ‘Malris?’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘He has grown so careworn.’ She drew near him, one insubstantial hand touching against his face. ‘And never have I seen him look so defeated.’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came Gorgu’s now thin, reedy voice. ‘Your Malris has come at last.’

‘But not for me,’ she returned, drawing back to where the Orcs had all but faded. ‘He lives. And I . . . I have been dead these many years . . . ages, even. Dead and clinging to what now are only long gone dreams . . .’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came the faintly whispered answers.

The pull of the sea grew stronger against her. She felt it lave her bones to their core. Amidst the surging of the waves, the Orcs’ bones rose and fell and rose again, breaking apart in the strong, insistent waters.

‘Go on,’ she called to them as they turned to shimmering mists borne on the westered air.

Giledhel’s gaze turned back to Malris. ‘Fare well, once and always beloved.’ With an even look she surveyed the figure of the woman who huddled against him. ‘May you find some measure of comfort, Malris. I will not hold you any longer to that long dead promise. It serves no purpose any longer, save for ill.’

The grace of the Valar be on you . . .

And even as her voice, her presence faded from the cold, shadowed room there came a strong wind, and the remnants of that long rotted weaving were caught in the currents and borne away.

[Firefoot]

How could he watch his friends in trouble so passively? He ought to be worried, really worried; he ought to want to do something to help. But he felt no anxiety for Orëmir descending the cliff, no fear for Endamir lying so suddenly unconscious at the bottom, and no connection with Lindir struggling to his feet. The only people he could bring himself to care about were those long dead.

The shout from below broke into his consciousness. “Lómwë! Bring us up! Quickly!” His body moved instinctively toward the rope and he strained against the rope mechanically, slowly drawing the basket upwards. Once it reached the top, however, he withdrew once more, not even greeting Orëmir or helping him with Endamir. He stared out blankly at the sea, realizing that, with the setting sun at his back, this was the very direction his home had been. So different now – so different. No more rolling hills or forests or plains – just water as far as the eye could see. All of it lay sunken in the waters at an unknown depth: utterly unreachable. He could not reach the old places, could not lay his heart at rest in any tangible way. Not like Malris, not like the others. They could go and see the places dearest to them, if they so desired. But not Lómwë – he could only drift, searching for what wasn’t there.

That hurt the most. He had come here hoping to find not only peace but also in some strange way hoping to find the past itself, something that no longer existed. But the knowledge that he could not fulfill these desires – or needs - only increased the longing.

And if peace could be found, he would not find it here. This place tore his heart and mind apart, not mended them. It would be better, he thought, if this place had been buried beneath the Sea with the rest of the land. Maybe it would have been better if they had not come to this place at all. An irrelevant issue, now.

“It is time to go,” he murmured to himself, and a light breeze carried his words out to the Sea. “Yes, time to go.”

[Anguirel]

For some moments, Idrahil remained shaken by the Diviner's display of power...as well as by the fact that the vulnerable sage he had respected and protected for so long possessed a character, nature, and visage...so totally foreign to what the Seneschal had known...

As he hovered in the comforting familiarity of the air's bite, Idrahil realised that if he pursued the elven-crone bent on the destruction of those he had sworn to succour...he would not survive in his form as one of the Houseless Spirits.

But there was fighting spirit in the ancient warrior yet, and he nodded slightly. He would fall, but he would take his last enemy with him. And what did he have to lose?

Himring, was the answer. The garrison he had kept in good order despite everything. The remnants of the Feanorian army, still in their correct battalions and quarters. The First Company at the Gatehouse. The Sentries of the Torch-Brackets in this very bastion, who seemed to be absent without leave. The armourers and forgers. The gaolers. The Watch. All lovingly trained and disciplined, for if Maedhros was no longer here to be served, they yet stood for his brother...

Trained enough, Idrahil thought, that they could ultimately do without their battered old captain. He and his former associate the Diviner were going to Mandos.

***

The Diviner had, in the event, neglected to draw on her full potency to sweep Idrahil far away over the ocean. She had other affairs to attend to, with her very cavern threatened by the blunderings of Lindir and his friends. Besides, she felt strange disturbances-some buried bones had been lost already. She might yet need to use Idrahil. Better to keep him and manipulate him as she had done so many times before.

"Still following me, Seneschal dear? You seem to have got rather...left behind..."

A mild buffet of stinging wind and he was off balance again. The Lady Diviner smiled. But rather to her surprise, Idrahil returned it.

"I don't suppose you will do me the courtesy of letting me...catch up..."

In but a few moments he was before her. Now the Diviner quailed in shock. Such efforts were outstanding and draining even by her standards. It was as if the Seneschal was engaged in a battle he had no intension of returning from...gripped by misgiving, she propelled her blade into her hand once more.

"Parry!"

She did, but he was moving so fast still, recklessly fast. He knew he was her superior with the sword, and was not letting her have a chance to exploit her...other skills...

She opened a gap in her guard which the Seneschal-as she had known he would-exploited at once. Spirit-sword cut spirit-side; but now Idrahil was equally exposed, and she sunk her rapier into his shoulder. Luminescence leaked from their wounds and tiny stars of bright light fluttered from their illusory steel...

"Be sensible, Idrahil. We need to talk. If you force me to drive my sword home and do likewise, we will both be gone."

The only reply was the Seneschal's sword piercing slightly further into her aether. She reciprocated. It was like a kind of love, this position in which they were pinioned.

"Yes, we will, Lady. Whatever be your true name, make amends to the Valar now. They are said to be forgiving."

And at that both swords, in the same split second, were plunged to the hilt through their adversaries. The impartial, chill mist of Himling hid them from sight, and neither were seen again on the Hither Shore.

[piosenniel]

The battle had raged on below as Orëmir sat on the grassy sward above, his brother cradled in his arms. Endamir’s mind was in turmoil as the Diviner and the Seneschal fought. She had not withdrawn from him when Idrahil had attacked, but had closed one icy claw of her mind around his own and battered at his spirit. He could feel Orëmir’s attempts to reach him, but feared were he to make that connection with his brother, then the Diviner might draw him, too, into her grasp.

The pain, the release, of the Diviner’s fëa as the Seneschal drove his spectral blade into her was . . . in a way . . . exquisite. And he felt himself carried along in the wake of her passing; his spirit drawn toward the blesséd light of Aman. Orëmir’s presence grew small, faded . . . as his own fëa raced westward.

Just at the edges of his consciousness he could hear Orëmir’s voice . . .

[Envinyatar]

No! No! Do not leave me, my brother! Not now. Not in this way.

Orëmir pressed deeply into his brother’s mind, following the fading thoughts. He had reconciled himself to Endamir’s leaving at the end of this . . . trip, he was going to say . . . but now, the word debacle came to mind.

He had wanted to stretch out what little time was left to them. And now that time was narrowing down to nothing.

Orëmir’s arms went slack; his head fell forward, resting against his brother’s brow.

I am with you . . . wait . . . wait . . .

[piosenniel]

This is not how it was meant to be . . . my brother did not wish to go . . . it is only his great affection for me which draws him on . . . not his desire to return to Aman . . .

His chest rose as the salt sea air rushed in. With a sigh of near regret he breathed it out again. Orëmir’s forehead rested against his. And on his still closed eyes Endamir could feel his brother’s pooling tears.


Endamir pushed himself up to a sitting position, shaking off the last of the Diviner’s assault. Harder to put away was the remembrance of the white shores he had but barely glimpsed and the sweet music which had reached out to him. He reached out his arms to his brother and cradled him against his shoulder.

A fool, Orëmir . . . that’s what I was, to think that I could leave you.

He laughed, his eyes glinting in the sea-light. And more the fool, you . . . for thinking I would . . . that I could . . . do so.

They sat together in silence for a short while. Then the sounds of their two companions near them drew their attention. ‘Lómwë! Lindir!’ they called out in unison. The two brothers stood and helped Lindir up on his good leg. They made their way slowly away from the grassy cliff, toward the place in the fortress from which they had started that morning. Lómwë followed along with the trio, quiet and seeming despondent.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ Endamir called out, his voice echoing among the stones of the empty space . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa sat away from Malris; close, but not touching, and in silence. She refused to probe his thoughts and so she sat tending to her own.

Though the hostility had faded away until none remained, she felt uncomfortable still. She was trapped with Malris in his dead wife's bed chamber... Giledhel had assaulted her spirit. Tasa could have stayed in the Golden Wood, fading ever until the last, and she would not have been forced to bear these ghosts.

She had expected emotion to run high during this last trip together, but assaults and near-death experiences had barely crossed her mind. With the wars of old long cast into legend, she had lain aside battle-lust and sword. Breathing deeply the golden flowers of Lothlorien, she had made for herself a sweet sanctuary. Elven Rangers guarded and Tasa stayed in quiet retirement, weaving, walking, and singing with the birds of the trees.

But Malris' letter had come. She had responded, befriended its messenger. They had travelled and they had met, joyous and ready to move onward. As friends they had taken to the boat and as friends they had kept it from sinking during that first storm. As friends they had camped together, stealing moments to watch the stars at night. Perhaps as more than friends, they had borrowed long moments from the journey to stand amidst the early rays of dawn, hand in hand. And as friends again, they had explored the island.

Now, Malris felt cold and distant, as far from Tasa as light and hope had been so recently as she battled desperately against shades of horror. She sat against the wall with her knees pulled against her, her clothing torn from battle and the smallest of her injuries already healing to silver-white scars. Those adorning her jawline felt cold, though no longer burned or froze as before.

The door beckoned to her, but she was not strong enough now to move it.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ The call echoed dully through the stone, coming more as intent than sound.

Yes Malris... where are you? Tasa thought sadly. She barely knew the form slumped dejectly before her. She was helpless. Unless he could come back to himself, and actually desire to leave, they would remain, for she could not leave him here even if he bade her to go.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With his ankle tightly wrapped in rags, Lindir made his way down the hill, all the while leaning heavily on Endamir's arm. Though encountering some difficulties with fallen debris and littered rocks, he had finally arrived back at the meeting point where they'd begun their search that morning. He was feeling much better than he had earlier in the day. The throbbing in his ankle was far preferable to the sense of isolation and despair that had overwhelmed him when the houseless spirit had threatened to evict his fëa.

Lindir located a stout branch that could serve as a cane and found he could hobble forward on his own as long as the ground was relatively even. The enclosure within the fortress was too littered with stones and rubble for him to go back into the ruins to hunt for Malris and Tasa, both of whom were apparently missing. Using his talents as a scout, he found a gentler path than the one they had originally taken that led towards the beach. Lindir decided to go down and secure a few items from the boat, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye open for Malris in the unlikely event that he and Tasa had ventured down to the shore.

The path was blocked in places by clumps of tall grass, but the descent was gradual, so that Lindir had no serious problems finding his way back to the ship. Arriving at the boat, he dug through his spare satchel and located a change of clothes, quickly pulling on clean breeches and a shirt. As he stopped for a moment to get a ladle of water from the barrel that stood in the middle of the deck, he realized that something on the ship was different. A few items on deck were shifted ever so slightly out of place. Hobbling as quickly as he could and navigating the ladder with some difficulty, Lindir checked the supplies and equipment first down below and then out on the main deck. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he could not shake his initial feeling that someone had come onto their ship and searched through their supplies and belongings, putting things back as closely as they could so as not to be discovered.

Lindir shook his head in frustration. He had his small hunting knife at his side, but had left his sword and bow back in the fortress, since these had only seemed like an extra burden at the time. Lindir had just decided he’d better go back to the others and get some help, when a rough voice sounded in back of him. Whirling around, he saw that four figures had encircled him dressed in rough mariner’s garb and were cutting off his means of escape.

A tough voice boomed out: “You’d best explain what you’re doing here. Elf or no, you owe us an explanation! We trawl these waters to ply our fishing trade and make sure no travelers set foot here. This isle is a killer of men. It’s been years since we’ve seen anyone on these shores. So what mischief brings you and your crew here today?”

[piosenniel]

There was no response to their calls from Malris or Tasa. And Lindir had hobbled off saying he would look for the two on the little strand where they had moored the ship. At loose ends, and oppressed by the wreck and ruin of the fortress, Endamir suggested after a short while that they all go down to the ship to await the pair’s return.

Lindir, it seemed, had found a less strenuous route back to the beach. Following along in his track, the two brothers stepped onto the sandy shore in short time and turned toward the boat. In the distance they could see the deck and upon it not one, but five figures.

Orëmir drew his sword and was about to run to Lindir’s aid when his brother stayed his hand. ‘Put up your sword. I’ve had enough of fighting.’ He called out to Lindir in a loud voice.

Lindir! Are you alright? Who’s come aboard?’

~*~

The four sailors turned their attention to the two new Elves. Their hands were near their weapons, and grim, wary looks upon their faces. In the distance, anchored off shore, were four fishing vessels, and as he spied them, Endamir smiled.

‘You’ve found us the answer then to our needs!’ he said, coming to stand near Lindir. The four fishermen relaxed their guarded stance, though their brows furrowed and they looked from one to another at the Elf’s words.

[Envinyatar]

‘You must forgive my brother’s eagerness,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand by Lindir and Endamir. ‘He’s not usually so vague. But this island, this mountain top where once stood our captain’s fortress has got us rather spooked. We’re eager to be away. And we would do so, on our little vessel here, save we have the obligation upon us to lay our comrades who fought at our side to rest. We have gathered their bones and would let the sea take them westward to their final peace.’

The fact that there were Orcish remains among those bones, he chose to pass over . . .

The sailors narrowed their eyes, and one or two nodded their heads, weighing the Elf’s words. ‘So, you’ve come to honor your dead,’ the taller of them said. His eyes glinted in a shrewd manner, calculating how they might turn this need of the Elves to their advantage. ‘Be it a ship you’re wanting?’ He looked out to where their boats were anchored. ‘Those ships be our livelihood. And as such they’ll be dear.’ There were murmurs of assent from the other sailors as they caught wind of what might turn to their profit.

As Orëmir began to bargain with the fishermen, Endamir went below to their quarters and brought up to the deck two of the small leather pouches they had brought on this journey, each filled with gold coin of various sizes.

‘Will this be enough for one of the smaller vessels?’ he asked, pouring the contents out onto the head of a nearby barrel. The men’s eyes widened and some were eager to say ‘yes’. But the tall man intervened saying, how hard it would be to let even the smallest of their ships leave their hands.

It was then that Lindir stepped forward, and unpinning the jeweled brooch from his tunic, he placed it atop the pile. The facets of the jewels caught the sun’s light and threw it out in a glimmering display. Before the tall fisherman could protest again the worth of the vessels, the owner of the smallest reached out his hands and clasped the brooch and gold in his fists.

‘She’s yours!’ he said with a grin at the glittering wealth that threatened to spill through his fingers . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir was not unhappy to see his brooch sacrificed as part of their agreement. Crafted by the Diviner in an age long ago, the silver brooch had become a grim reminder of how the woman he had loved had been transformed by the passage of time and the bitterness of war. Handing the jewelled piece over to the sailor, the Elf had felt something akin to relief, as if he was shedding a burden of guilt and sadness that had weighed heavily on his heart for countless years. He could only hope that his sweet Elliel would find in Mandos the peace that had eluded her during her life in Middle-earth.

He now felt he had a duty to perform. Somehow it was appropriate that Elliel's brooch help secure a funeral ship that would lay to rest the bones of all those who had died in battle. Maybe that tiny goodness would ease the pain of memory that she must surely feel after arriving in the Halls of Mandos and understanding what she had become. It was not only the bones of the Elves that were in Lindir's thoughts. How many in this age still remembered that the first Orcs had once been Elves, poor creatures dragged or enticed into the fortress of Lord Melko where they had been changed beyond recognition? He remembered his close friend Valindel who, distraught over the seemingly endless wars and the death of his wife, had wandered off one night towards Angband and had never been seen again. How often he had wondered what had become of him. Perhaps he had been mercifully killed and his fëa had flown on to find peace in Mandos. But often, in hard and lonely reflection, Lindir asked himself if his friend had suffered a much worse fate, one that could not be discussed even in the company of Elves.

With a flash of insight that tore at Lindir's heart, he realized that the fate of these Orcs and that of his beloved Elliel was perhaps not so terribly different. Joined by death and a common funeral byre, perhaps they would arrive in Mandos together and spend endless years ruminating on what had gone wrong. For the remainder of the day, Lindir joined in with the others to bring the bones down from the cavern. He ignored the pain that shot up his leg and, with a grim determination that was quite different from his earlier behavior, helped to load the baskets with the remains of Elves and Orcs, sending them down to the ledge and then to the shore, where they could be taken and loaded onto the ship. As the sun dipped down into the Sea, the Elves cranked down the last basket of bones and placed it gently onto the vessel. Their work, their real purpose for coming here, at long last was complete.

[piosenniel]

. . . it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters . . .


The fishermen had agreed to sail the ship well out beyond the breakers. ‘We’ll set the sails and secure the wheel. West, you say, aye?’ The tall fisherman narrowed his eyes as he looked toward the horizon. The sun was just dipping below the rim of the sea, and across the darkening waters spread a carpet of burning white fire. ‘Winds will have to take it after that,’ he went on. ‘Can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate.’ He eyed the three Elves, trying to read the thoughts behind the seas of their eyes. But their minds were hidden from him, the planes of their faces set smooth and impenetrable.

Endamir thanked them, giving into each of their hands a number of gold coins for their trouble. ‘The grace of the Valar be with you!’ he said in the old tongue as they turned toward their ships. And some paused, looking back at him, the last of the bright white light of day playing about his face. The words they did not recognize, but the force behind them caused more than a few to bow their heads to accept the blessing.

~*~

Fair and marvelous was that vessel made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elvengems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world . . .


They watched from the shore as the fishing vessels left their erstwhile companion to sail on her own. The sun had set, and in the moonlight and the starlight the little brown boats peeled away from the ship which bore the bones like little ducks leaving the wake of a fair swan.

The bones, the skulls were lit with a soft, glimmering light as the ship kept to its westward course. And above the far edge of the waters Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope, appeared, shining bright against the black dome of night. It seemed to draw the ship of bones toward it, a beacon of promise set against the overweening darkness.

‘Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned,’ came the soft voice of Endamir.

‘The looked for that cometh at unawares,’ took up Orëmir.

‘That longed for that cometh beyond hope!’ whispered Lindir, his eyes as bright with tears as were the others.

And then in unison and in silence their thoughts went mightily across the waters . . .

Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning.

~*~

Still as carven stones upon the strand, the Elves stood and bent their keen gazes upon the ship until the waters fell away beneath it and it sailed beyond their knowing and their sight.

And as they turned away, climbing up the narrow slope to where the fortress stood, their thoughts returned to their other companions and their need to find them, to finish this task of last farewells they had begun.

Endamir paused as they reached the grassy sward, calling to his brother and to Lindir to look where he pointed. In the west, Gil-Estel still blazed, and the other stars seemed to have caught his light and glittered like bright diamonds, outshining the moon himself.

He smiled, and recalling the words of the old tale, he spoke it aloud.

‘Eärendil stood before the Valar,’ he said, his eyes glittering as brightly as the stars he’d pointed to. ‘Do you remember?’ Orëmir nodded, a smile playing about his face. He put his arm about his brother’s shoulders and drew him near.

‘And pardon he asked for the Noldor,’ Orëmir continued, ‘and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.’

[Firefoot]

Despite his realization that it was time to leave this place, Lómwë could still feel it drawing at him, incessantly pulling him back, as if he still had something he needed to do. He had followed Endamir, Orëmir, and Lindir for a while, but he eventually lost track of them, not by conscious decision but rather lack of attention. He still felt too lost in his own affairs to care about any of theirs – something about bones?

He had not returned to the city but had wandered around it, keeping the eastern sea on his left as he walked southward, drinking a cup of combined sorrow and comfort by seeing the drowned place where he had once lived. Soon, he began to realize just how physically tired, how very sore he was, and wished he was back at their camp with a fire and food. But rather than going there – he was unsure of how far away it was anyway – he found a nearby fallen tree and sat down heavily on that. He let his thoughts wander and tried to clear his head, becoming engrossed in the movement of the waves on the sea, in some places gently lapping the shore while crashing into it in others.

After just a few short minutes, however, he became aware of another voice, whether audible or just in his head, he could not tell. Well, look who we’ve found here… all alone, and the city no where in sight, now. Lómwë slammed what was left of his mental barriers up as hard as he could in his weakened state. He recognized them more thoroughly now – not only as the orc fëar who had attacked him the previous night outside the city, but also as the spirits of the orcs who had killed his Ellothiel. Killed Aradol. A weak flame kindled inside of him. He drew his sword. “I have already defeated you – twice now,” he growled.

Ah, so you’ve faced the past now – that is how you Elves would put it? So you remember, don’t you, how we killed her, before you got to her? The spirit’s smugness was clearly evident. But you killed us before we could have our way with their bodies, it snarled. You won’t be beating us a third time. They – Lómwë could not tell how many, or was too weary to count – flew at him, assaulting, taunting. Lómwë swung his sword at them wherever they seemed to be – not that it had any effect. Lómwë had no hope – he would have no protection against these monsters once they broke past his barriers, and that would not be hard. They would destroy his mind, perhaps his fëa as well. He had no idea what they were capable of. Slowly he began to work his way back to the camp, even as he fought them. Perhaps they would find his body.

They had many weapons, and used them well. No matter how well Lómwë thought he had come to grips with his guilty conscience and his grief, they hurled these at him, desperately trying to rip his mind to shreds. Lómwë’s attacks became feebler. Perhaps, Ellothiel, I’ll be seeing you soon… One of the monsters seemed to break through; Lómwë cried out in pain. Coming, Ellothiel. I’ll escape these demons and come to you. The battle was lost, it seemed. Lómwë had nearly given way completely; they were too strong, too determined. That portion of his mind and memory that he had kept locked up so long became his solace – at least that pain he was familiar with. Now he locked himself into it. But the battle was so close to lost, so close. He seemed to see a black tunnel stretching before him – escape. He could escape these monsters, cease fighting… they could do nothing to an empty hröa. A light seemed to shine at the end of the tunnel. There. He would find Ellothiel there – perhaps… Any second now, and he would be flying towards the light. It seemed that it was the only point of hope that he had seen in all the long years since the Dagor Bragollach. Yes, there.

But suddenly… their attack seemed to abate, as if they were slowly losing power. It seemed that they were fighting another foe, wholly separate from him. They were withdrawn from his ravaged mind, still vainly trying to unleash their attacks. But slowly, oh so slowly, they faded away. And the black tunnel, or his need of it, seemed to fade away as well, though he fought to keep it there, for if the tunnel faded, so also would that light, that hope… but oddly enough, the light did not fade. The blackness turned into something else, something brighter and more focused, but the light stayed there at the center of his vision. He tried to orient himself, finally realized that his point of light was a star – Eärendil’s star appeared in the west. He did not turn and look back again at the eastern sea, but stumbled on westward towards the star, towards his hope.

After an unknown length of time, he came upon the gate of the fortress, heard voices, and for the first time since the attack turned his focus away from the shining star. He came upon Orëmir, Endamir, and Lindir, also gazing up at the star. Orëmir was speaking: “And pardon he asked for the Noldor, and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.”

Lómwë’s eyes lifted again to the stars. And there was hope. Now, perhaps, there was hope.

[Anguirel]

And as the long toil of the day and eve finally approached its setting, the company of Elves found themselves scattered. Malris and Tasa were sunk, isolated even from each other by sharp despair, against the unyielding granite that had been the male Elf's home so long ago. The twins, and Lindir, cured of wounds to his spirit and his heart, watched the boats separating in such symbolic directions; one to the west and the Deeps, the other to the fish-markets of Forochel, harsh lands of the tough survivors, Men, wrongly called Sickly Ones! Lomwe, his own struggle with memory and guilt subsided, now joined them.

All of the six would hear the music which now called out for the third time. It passed even the defeated stupor of the two Elves in Giledhel's old bed-chamber. Hearing this song, you knew you would have heard it from across a cataract, or amidst the cacophony of the wildest storm. Yet it had no empty bombast about it; it was not a strain to inspire marching bands, nor even to tell of melancholy decline. It was like a lullaby sung by a strong, confident, and deeply loving father. Or perhaps a brother; a brother in a large family, perpetually having to look to the needs of his younger siblings.

The words, however, would seem different for the Elves grouped on the beach from how they reached Malris and Tasa. The singer and harper, wherever he was hidden, could see all, would tell all, would sing all. So it was that each of the parties heard, to some extent, of the doings of the other.

On the beach the mighty voice sang:

Oh, how much love is there in friendship?
Does friendship blaze on passion's pyre?
What can a night's quarrel pull down
Or joining hands in motion set?

A friend had I right long ago, a loyal Elf was he
He clove unto his own and to my fierce family.
From race on grass to race on sea we travelled-oh, then see!
He got a wife and lost a wife and lived apart from me.

This friend of mine had a friend too
But she e'er thought of more
Apart from him she knew not who
Could her heart move so sore.

Among ye here they both have come
They travelled to the first's lady.
But she had borne strange childer
In a heart too long left lone.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel
Though her brave lord yet lives;
He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve.

Thus to the four Elves. But to Malris and Tasareni, a shorter song, with longer intervals of music:

Why so forlorn on Himring's point?
The quest ye strove on is fulfilled.
The parts of witch and knight are done:
The smith can breathe again.

The door that laid ye both so low
Do not regard much longer. Nay:
Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

A choice to part full dec'rously
Or yet to overcome heart's ice
Is come: Mandos takes Giledhel
And never will take me.

Look from the window of the gard
For Earendil's Silmaril.
'Twas Maitimo first sighted it
But I who bore it no ill-will.

The same realisation would come upon all the listeners. On the previous nights, what seemed to be Maglor himself, lost heir to Himring, had sung to the isle in general; but this time, for whatever reason, he was addressing his enchantingly lovely riddles to the travellers in a startingly particular manner...

Now it was only left to decipher them...

[piosenniel]

A little fire burned brightly on the grassy sward where the four Elves had gathered. They were waiting for Malris and Tasa to appear, to give the two the news of their day’s successful adventure and a task well done.

The darkness of the night seemed natural now, and not a projection of the spirits, beneficent as well as malevolent who had inhabited the decaying fortress all these years. There were no whisperings in the darker corners to trouble thoughts. The companions were tired; resting on their bedrolls and only the hiss and crackle of the wood they had gathered broke the silent evening.

That . . . and the song which had just reverberated through the night’s air.

‘Sounds to me as if he old songster is singing of them,’ said Endamir, rousing up on one elbow as the words hung in the air and then began to fade. ‘And tonight it seems to be about our absent companions.’ He had told no one of the handclasp he had seen between the two, nor the grudging reluctance of Malris that he and Tasa should have been intruded upon.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel . . .

‘Fair winds and a following sea to you, dear Lady,’ he whispered, glad that she had been one of the sprits freed from the island. She had always been gracious to him, the times he had been in her company.

Though her brave lord yet lives . . . ‘So Malris must be alive still; the song at least concirms that, no?’ He sat up completely, listening closer as the last strains blew away in the night’s breeze.

He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve . . .

Endamir rose to his feet, a worried look on his face. ‘You don’t suppose they’ve gotten caught in some cave-in in this wreck of a place, do you?’ He looked toward the shadowy fallen blocks of stone that had once been the fortress’ walls. ‘Is the singer saying they will need to dig themselves out, do you think, or that we should be looking for them to free them?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

"I don't know. But I am beginning to worry. Earlier today, I was wondering why they hadn't returned. I assumed they would come back at the same time we did. Just now, I tried to reach out with my mind, to sense where they might be, yet I found nothing." Lindir finished wrapping a bandage tightly about his ankle and rose to his feet with the aid of a stout staff.

He took a few steps over to stand beside Endamir and confided, "Whoever this songster is, and I have my own ideas on that as we may all have, I think he wishes us no harm. The song rings fair and true. I smell no deceit, no wickedness. I think we ought to take him seriously. Anyways it is better to do something useful than just to sit here wondering. I am well enough to search. First, though, I think we may wish to light some torches. I have no desire to stumble over a hole in the ruins and end up digging my own way out."

Lindir went over to a nearby stone wall and, with some difficulty, managed to pull out the remains of two torches that they had set there earlier that morning, the brands still held in place by the ancient metal holders. He bent down to light the torches in the fire and handed one to Endamir, "I believe this will do. Oh, yes, and I would prefer to keep together. Too many strange things happen on this isle."

With that pronouncement, Lindir turned to face the others in the circle, "Now does anyone have any ideas where Malris might be trapped? What sort of places on this aisle would require one to dig? Perhaps they've fallen through the ruins into some unused pit or dungeon, or there's a second cavern similar to the one that the Diviner had."

"Anyone have any ideas on this? And perhaps" he muttered under his breath, "our songster will see fit to give us another hint or two once we begin to look." Lindir had an odd feeling that the songster knew exactly where the missing Elves were.

[Envinyatar]

‘I have no idea where they might be trapped.’ Orëmir crouched down near the little fire they’d built to drive away the coming chill of night. ‘But . . .’ He picked up a stick and began scratching a series of lines on the dirt. With a snort of disgust he scuffed the lines away with his fingers and began again.

‘There was a plan in place, in case the fortress was taken, for those not critical to the defense to leave.’ He looked up at his brother who had come to see what he was scrawling. ‘You remember, don’t you, Endamir?’ Orëmir stood up, the tip of the stick pointing down to the diagram. ‘It didn’t really involve us; we were away on patrol so often. But the troops garrisoned here spoke of it sometimes. How they were to take their positions along the walls, depending upon the direction of the attack, while some of them were to open the hidden entryways to the tunnels delved beneath the living quarters.’

Orëmir snapped the stick in two and threw it into the fire. ‘Did you ever wonder, if we had stayed to fight, if we had been here, there might have been more that got away?’ He rubbed out the drawing he had made, watching the dust swirl about and settle on the toe of his boot. ‘An over inflated sense of our importance no doubt.’ He looked westward, where Vingilot floated above the rim of the world. ‘Brave men, they were, who stayed and faced the foul corruption that o’erflowed from Dor Daedeloth.

A bit of verse came unbidden to his lips. And he murmured it softly, recalling a captain of the lancers who had spoke it so long ago. A fierce opponent in battle, his face set grim and hard in battle. Yet he best remembered him at rest in a rough camp. His eyes had flashed in the fire’s light, and a ready smile had put his men at ease. They had come from one of many skirmishes against the Orc foe. And they had been victorious, but at a cost of a number of their fellows’ lives. Sindar and Green Elves had been some of those counted among the dead. The Noldorin captain had honored them with drink and the remembrances of their comrades. And had offered his own words in a voice husky with mingled sorrow and pride.

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when Earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What Valar abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

Orëmir put away the old images and words and refocused on the task that was now before him and his three companions. ‘I think I recall where one of the entryways was hidden. Let’s bring some lit brands with us as well as some extra should our search be a long one.’ He picked two torches and started toward where the family quarters had been located. ‘Let me know if the pace is too quick for your ankle, Lindir. The passages will be there whether we go quickly to them or slower.’

[Anguirel]

That voice, again! That much-beloved voice that seemed to physically lance the funeral shroud of despair...

Malris jerked bolt upright, listening with more attention than he could summon in the normal course of events. Partly, of course, there was the fact that the song was fascinating, enlivening, for its own sake, the poetry of the arrangement, filled with verbal tricks that surprised and delighted the listener.

"No one ever beat Maglor, no one," he muttered in something like disbelief. Becoming more aware of the space around him, he turned to Tasa, smiling slightly; though with the enthralment in which the song held him, he scarcely had energy left to express happiness.

Then, of course, there was the reassuring nature of the tidings the voice brought.

"The smith must be Lindir," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the staves of the music, behaving almost as if Maglor was close at hand and could be distracted by his speech, out of turn as it was. "They've cured Lindir's wound! The other party must have encountered the Diviner..."

Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

"Of course!" Malris cried, now throwing his sensitivity aside. "What a fool I was...why did I not think of it the moment the door failed?"

But the singer was still not finished, and had still more reassurance to deliver. When he realised his wife was freed from her long agony...separated presumably at last from those...creatures...Malris did not forgo weeping, though he wept silently, his eyes growing unaccustomedly large as he thanked the Powers of the West again and again, filled with emotion he scarcely understood.

"Maglor says Mandos will not take him. There he is pessimistic," Malris muttered. "A truer friend...saving you, Tasa, and His Lordship, and perhaps Endamir...there never was. If the Valar possess hearts...but come, Tasa. I must show you the secret way out of this bastion."

Malris got to his feet with some difficulty, his mind still partly absorbed by the memory of the song's last notes. He offered his arm to Tasa, waiting for her to rise and join him.

"It lies beneath the penultimate stair...and leads to the corridors beneath the fortress. A labyrinth with a thousand purposes...and who knows what state of repair it will be in...but it's a hope, Tasa. A way, promised by the Lord Maglor himself...we're going to find the others, and then we'll soon be home."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A way... a path to light and to dancing breezes and the smell of fires and starlight on damp grass instead of dusted stone and cold memory.

Tasa looked at Malris' outstretched hand, taking in every detail from the small scars that came to every fighter in his life to the faded light that shone dully upon his fingernails. She looked at her own, the long white fingers streaked with blood, the gouges in her palms still oozing slightly. She looked up at him mournfully, with dead eyes and pale cheeks. A single black feather lay tangled within her long blonde locks.

"No." Her voice echoed dully against the grey walls, lost into the shadow that kept them.

[Firefoot]

As the other three discussed the song and how to find Malris and Tasa, Lómwë could not help but feel rather isolated from the group. He knew that this was mostly of his own doing, but was not sure how to change it – was not sure if he wanted to. He felt emptied out, drained of all emotions relevant to the present. It was not that he did not care, as before, but more like he did not know how to care anymore. Even emotions pertaining to the past were blunted. Orëmir’s words Did you ever wonder, if we had stayed to fight, if we had been here, there might have been more that got away? had bounced around in his head for a bit, bringing pricks of guilt and sorrow, still mutedly poignant but not stabbingly painful. There was nowhere left for him to go, nothing left for him to do, it seemed, except to finally leave these eastern shores into the west.

For his companions’ sake, he tried to dredge up some piece of information pertinent to their search. The tunnels… yes, perhaps he did remember them. He had never used them as they were intended, but once he had showed them once to Aradol. But try as he might, he could remember nothing else of them, not where the entrances were hidden nor where they led. To the rest of his mind, the fact was apparently not important enough to be recalled.

As Orëmir began to lead the way, Lómwë picked up a torch of his own and fell into the rear, a position becoming oh so familiar. He had enough wits about him to be wary of any spirits in this place that might be intent on harm, although there seemed to be few of those left… most seemed to have departed, except for the mysterious minstrel.

The foursome treaded on in silence, which suited Lómwë perfectly. After a little while, Orëmir drew to a halt. “It was around here somewhere…” Lómwë could see little beyond his torchlight, but what was within it did not look promising as far as an entryway. He stepped a little closer to what appeared to be a short, dark alleyway. The walls, or perhaps the foundations themselves, had partially collapsed, urging Lómwë to caution. He could not tell, and he was unsure of what they were looking for, but this looked promising. “I’m not sure,” he called out to the group, “and it could be just an old alley, but does this look like a collapsed entryway to any of you…? If it is, it doesn't look entirely safe.”

[Anguirel]

Malris was not as shocked by Tasareni's refusal as might have been expected. He recalled the first night on the island, when he had been torn between his friends and Maglor's voice...when he had stumpled a few feet up the steep, sharp, mountain path to the ruins of Himring...when Tasa had reproached him so bitterly.

He had almost chosen the Voice in that hour, but Tasa's words had recalled him to the realities of the present. An awful moment.

But now things were different. Things were simpler. No longer two paths, two women and a Lord the Valar knew where. A chamber that had become a prison, an exit out, Tasa alone with him and his Lord, Kanafinwe Makalaure, the son of Curufinwe the Elder, called Feanaro; Maglor, his lord and friend, beckoned him to follow the only way that was left. And Tasa too, whether she trusted him or not.

"Yes," he replied simply; Malris had never wielded words as the Sons of Feanor did, lightly and elegantly, beautifully, and dangerously. He extended his left hand, calloused by the grip he had kept to Cirlach's hilt, and plucked the carrion bird's feather from Tasareni's stream of hair of pale gold.

Malris was short for the males among Elves; Tasareni tall among females. There was little between them, and he scarcely bent as he lightly kissed her cheek, breathing Yes into her toil-wearied mind.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

His lips burned her pale cheek. She pulled away, holding back exhausted tears. Her heart turned to ice and she felt sick. She swallowed and felt mild distress at her inability to find anything to say. Her voice cracked before words could escape her lips. She stepped away from Malris, colliding with the cold wall.

He reached for her, concerned, and took her by the hand. She pulled from his grip, afraid to let herself dream. It could never be... it would never be.

"No." Tears fell. "No."

"If you do not trust the words, trust me." He spoke simply as ever. "We must leave. I know the way. You must come."

Her voice strengthened, exhaustion lending a dangerously sharp edge to her thoughts. "I must do nothing. I am neither your child to be led by the hand nor your lover to be led by the heart. Perhaps you are tireless, but I can go no further without rest. Do you wish to carry me as one dead? I cannot continue upon my own legs.

"Perhaps you did not notice while you were busy concentrating on shadows of the past and whispers on the wind..." Her voice shook with bitterness. "It is not a traditional enemy that knows the depths of your heart and uses that knowledge to besiege you as she makes every attempt to take your hroa perforce. I will not go on tonight."

She stood defiantly before Malris, tears carefully tracing the silver scars upon her jawline. She trembled with emotion, her body weak. Her fingertips traced her sword hilt as she awaited his response.

[Anguirel]

Malris remained silent for several moments, his hands once more at his sides.

He had not expected to be...repulsed. For that was undoubtedly what had occurred. His mind throbbed, as if he had been struggling in some battle of the spirit once more, but confusion and guilt, not Orcs or Elves, were now his enemies.

His wife had found peace, at least. But Tasa, it seemed to him, had lost every vestige of it.

"Very well," he said at last. "We shall stop here...though it is...hardly conducive to sleep..."

Neither was it. The floor was as hard as the bedrock of the very isle, and as cold. The whole set of chambers were bare, except for the vast, oak-crafted bedstead, bereft of mattress or drapery. And Malris still felt the summons of that gentle son of Feanor so very keenly...

"There is unhealthy irony here," he added. "We are incarcerated in a room containing a bed neither of us can possibly want to sleep on."

It wasn't just Maglor's persuasion. The others...they would worry, they would search...would they stumble on more trouble, in the darkling places of the fortress that had too long defied Morgoth?

But Tasa was drained, utterly, and furthermore would despise him, would disarm him with the aggrievement of every Elven maid to every Elf, if he tried to talk her round...not necessarily even for her own good, which would naturally damn him utterly...but for the good of the others.

But what sort of authority do you hold over me, he could hear, an acerbic hypothetical utterance.

Who are you? Not father, not brother, not leader, not husband, your vows elsewhere...across the sea perhaps...

"You will at least take my cloak?" Malris asked, braving the actual Tasareni, despite his fears of the projected one. "I know I will have little need of it tonight."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

She looked at him, tired eyes dully lit by the moon. The half-smile that had so often decorated her dark lips was lost to the night. She shivered against the events of the past days as much as against the cold.

"I will take it." she said finally. He carefully unclasped it, aching to comfort his friend. Without word, she took it, hand trembling as it brushed against his. She sank against the wall, cloak pulled tight around her, allowing her legs to fold beneath her. She closed her eyes, not waiting to see if Malris joined her. Soon she felt his warmth beside her, near but not touching. This silent acceptance of her decision comforted her more than words ever could. She allowed her consciousness to drip away like ice in the mid-day sun.

Some time later she spoke, voice echoing lightly.

"Where are we going?" Her eyes remained closed; her head rested gently against the wall. Her breath was slow, peaceful. "Malris, what happens next."

[Envinyatar]

‘I’ll grant you that, Lómwë!’ Orëmir had thrust his torch into the murky entryway and looked about it. ‘It doesn’t look entirely safe.’ He glanced at Lindir, recalling their very recent . . . entombment, for want of a better word . . . in the grotto, and shuddered at the thought of putting himself in such a place again and so soon.

He ducked his head back out from the dark and crumbling place, picking cobwebs from his hair as he did so. ‘What do you say we go back to the guardroom? The one from which we started. A little rest would do us all good. And perhaps this way will look more promising when the day’s light has come. For now it is too dark. And I have had enough of darkness for a while . . .

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


The light here was so pure here. She had forgotten just how. And sweet it was . . . it teased the tongue and eyes and nose . . . and even the ears with its movements. Light, unmarred, and beneath it . . . no, suffusing it . . . was the music . . .

Time moved differently. Like a silvered stream that wove in and out of itself . . . now fast . . . now slow . . . now not at all . . . an intricate knot with light . . . and music . . .

Giledhel lingered in the soft cast shadows of the colonnade. She could not tell how long her spirit had hesitated there, nor did she care. And it was not that the light no longer gladdened her that she sighed. Her thoughts were heavy with the assurance she had given. Her spirit was downcast even amidst the splendors and the promise of this place.

Halls of Waiting . . . waiting . . . for my doom. And what is that to be? Shall I be deemed “liar”, a giver of false promises? Surely I cannot be delivered for ill or good until my assurances are deemed fair or found foul . . .

She sighed . . . the little waves of it pushing out from the shadows against the motes of dust sparkling in the air.

Where are you?

[Anguirel]

Malris was already on his feet, not far from where Tasa lay; watching her silently, draped as she was with his grey cloak. Her pale hair did not challenge in its light, harmonising gently with the gleam of his star brooch near the cloak's hem. Unavoidably reminded of ancient fealty sworn, Malris fingered his black surcoat, all the more visible without his cloak, on which the white Star of Feanor shone. And he did not repudiate it, still thinking of it with sorrowful pride. But at Tasa's question he broke off his thoughts and smiled. Sunlight was seeping through the windows; their third dawn on Himling.

"One of the stairs on the flight leading to this room is loose, Tasa. I can easily get it up with my sword; I crafted it long ago for just such a purpose. It leads into the Lord's Corridors; the maze below the fortress Maedhros had crafted, on the advice of Maglor, after the Bragollach...you recall, perhaps? It was to help should we need to effect a retreat. The Naugrim helped delve it.

"But fate hampered it from being as useful as it might have been. The Naugrim dug by mischance to a great lake beneath the mountains, which sapped at their work and slowed progress." Malris bit his lip. "Some spoke of the Doom at work; but as it may be...after the Nirnaeth few found the Corridors of help."

"The Labyrinth was dangerous then, and is surely perilous after many ages, the Sea leaking into it. But we are not trying to escape the whole fortress and domain, as the refugees did; just to get back to the isle's solid ground. It is a risk, but I think we may conquer it without too much trouble."

Malris shifted closer to Tasa, who had now opened one eye and smiled, as if she were a warm, sportive cat; though he knew her for a cold, exhausted Elf.

"Yes, I know," he admitted, replying to what she had not said. "I have not judged risks well hitherto..."

But he tossed his head back and laughed. It was morning, and they were strong and refreshed; and he trusted in Maglor's guidance. The most contorted paths were to him clear.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Giledhel, daughter of the Elves..... Come forward from the shadow. Stand in my presence. You can hide no longer."

A deep voice echoed through the ancient halls. The words held no underlying bitterness or rancor. If anything, the speaker's tone was cool and removed. The hooded figure stood up, his great form encased in flowing robes of purple and black. He held a mace of gold in his right hand, extending it outward in the direction of the Elf. It was clearly apparent that the Lord of Mandos could not be easily moved to tears or a show of emotion.

When there was no response from the Elven woman, Nàmo spoke again. This time, there was an undercurrent of impatience clearly reflected in his choice of words. "Come forward now, I say. Your doom is written upon your face, if one lacking a body can be said to possess a face. You are long overdue. The summons went out in ages past. Why have you kept me waiting so long?"

Giledhel took a tentative step forward. It was almost as if she was mesmerized by the voice of the Doomsman. Again, the voice rang out, this time in command. "Approach that I may look upon your fëa."

There was a strained moment of silence as the shapeless figure shuffled forward into the silvery light. Searching deep in the recesses of the woman's mind, Nàmo reached out and for a brief moment touched the cowering apparition. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he considered the sorry plight of the creature in front of him.

"There were others," he intoned in a stern voice, "who resisted my command. Their doom became entwined with yours. You should have helped lead them to me, for your life had much that theirs was lacking. Instead, you turned away from the true path, and from the duty you owed to husband and family and conspired to bind the fëar of the strangers to your side."

"Tell me, woman, what would you have of me? And where are these poor creatures whom you have helped mislead?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


Where are you?

Her question hung in the air, in the light. And they moved forward, toward her, awkward in these new forms. Gone were the familiar shapes, or rather changed were the ways in which they now viewed themselves. Unhoused fëar still, yet there was less apprehension as they moved through the light filled spaces, and the subtle harmonies and strains no longer jarred.

They were naked in these rare surroundings. Or at lease they felt so. As if each passing other could see and judge them. Unworthy . . . defiled . . . profane . . . And yet, none who did pass drew back as if from something foul. And such was a wonder to them.

In some space of time, they drew near her; though, the question she had asked seemed still to hang in the air. They rejoiced at the sight of her, for she seemed much the same . . . familiar and comforting in her ordinariness.

They would have rushed to her, as they had so often done in other times. But now between them and her stood a being of splendor and light and power beyond any they might conceive. And he was chastising her!

Small as they felt, still they rose up in her defense.

‘Begging your pardon, my Lord.’ The hesitant voice of Calëlindo intruded into the space left by Nàmo’s question. ‘It wasn’t her abandoned husband and family.’ The other two crowded in close about him, murmuring their agreement. Calëlindo went on, his voice a little less timorous. ‘All those years as she was trapped in death on that grace-forsaken isle, and still didn’t she keep her thoughts on her dear husband and plan for his homecoming, though it took a good several ages for him to get round to returning.’ His voice trailed off. Nàmo’s expression showed neither acceptance nor rejection of what he said.

‘Go on!’ whispered the other two of his companions, crowding him even closer.

He didn’t want to sound petty or foolish to the Lord of Mandos, but still he felt he should know the facts. ‘And when he did get round to coming home, didn’t he bring some old girl of his he was always sweet on.’

There, he’d said it, and he was still intact. He held a hushed conference with his fellows and stepped forward a little further.

‘She didn’t bind us to her side . . . Sir.’ He glanced with a certain measure of fondness toward Giledhel as she stood before the Vala. His voice wavered, as if with sorrow and regret. With an effort he mastered the new, unfamiliar emotions and his voice, though quieter with his next words, grew stronger in intent.

‘We murdered her . . . in her bedchamber. And it was a deed most foully done.’

He stifled a sob at the telling of it, even as his companions wept. ‘No amount of apology, sincere as it might be, can excuse this dreadful, hideous thing we did. We despoiled her and as she died we laughed, her blood staining the stones at the foot of her marriage bed.’ He paused for a moment recalling the sequence of events. ‘And then, at the hands of the fortress guards, we too, met our deaths, in the same chamber in which she met hers.’

‘She didn’t bind us to her . . .’ he said again. ‘Save if you call her forgiveness of our deeds against her some sort of binding. And if that’s so, then "yes" we are bound tight to her.’

‘We don’t feel she misled us, either, my Lord. Her mind grew a little . . . hazy . . . as the years passed. Things seemed to slip away from her more easily. We tried, in our way to serve her. And for her part she was always kind to us and taught us what she thought we should know. Though I think her mind slipped more and more as the uncountable days went on, and now I wonder how she really saw us.’

He hesitated for length of time, and quiet filled in the spaces of that little tableau. ‘It’s not her fault,’ he began in her defense when he spoke again. Then thinking better of it, he continued in a different vein. ‘It was our fault, from the first, that all this came to pass with her. Let us take the blame.’ He looked again toward Giledhel. ‘We are not those poor, misled creatures you spoke of, my Lord. She was only kind to us, and we are richer for it.'

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


Giledhel struggled to understand who was speaking. Her gaze took in someone tall, with a certain radiance that encircled him. His voice, too, was fair. How did she know him, this one who spoke in her defense? And with such a knowledge of what had happened to her.

We murdered her . . .

Her brow furrowed. And she began to remember how her companions of that space of time had tried to speak with her about this. But even now, the act, itself, remained gone from her memories. Blotted out she supposed by the awfulness of it.

Without a word she moved round Nàmo, stepping closer to this other being. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Her aspect lightened at the familiar feel of his presence. ‘You’re one I called for, didn’t I?’ ‘And you . . . and you . . .’ she said with the beginnings of recognition as she drew the others forward.

Were there tears to cry, they would have lit her eyes as she touched each one of those tall, fair beings who stood round her. The winds had indeed borne them West as her heart hoped they would do.

‘Your names, your names. How shall I call you now?’

Her voice faltered with the next question. She took a step backward to take them all in with her gaze. ‘Do you remember?’

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘Yes, my lady,’ came the voice of Calëlindo. ‘We do remember . . .’

‘Our names, our lives . . .’ followed Salmarion. His voice dropped low, filled with regret and sorrow as he went on. ‘And our dark, evil acts.’

‘And your kindness, my lady,’ came Alcamírië. ‘We clung to those words of hope, slender as that promise seemed. And here we are.’ He pointed to each of his companions. ‘Calëlindo, who in those long dark ages was called Gor--’

A thunderous look of disapproval from Námo recalled the admonition against speaking the Black Language in this place and he swallowed the rest of the name. With a hurried stutter he went on.

‘And I . . . I am Alcamírië. And here, too, is Salmarion.’

Calëlindo could not hold back. A great smile lit his face, and he stepped near her to pat her on the arm as he had done so many times before. ‘We are so glad to find you here, my lady.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Mandos listened intently to the plea of the fallen ones and the obvious respect and gentleness that they had tendered to Giledhel. For a long time, he stood immobile and silent, his eyes grave and imponderable as he weighed what had just transpired in his presence. Náma was not one given to foolish shows of emotion. There was a price to be paid for every evil deed, and these four were no exceptions. The Noldor who had so foolishly deserted Aman had received no blessing from him, but only an unbreakable curse. Surely, these four deserved no more or less, she for her faithlessness to her husband and family, and they for their unspeakable deeds.

This was not the first time Mandos had confronted the fëar of corrupted Elves. Such creatures were rare, but they occasionally hung out in the gloomy anterooms of Mandos, refusing to come within the Great Hall and face their Doom. Instead, they stubbornly remained in the most distant courtyard, letting slip away whatever tiny chance they might have to regain who and what they had once been. Sometimes even those who were brave enough to approach him could not be helped. The ugliness of their lives still weighed too heavily on their hearts. The kindest thing he could do was to have Lórien lay heavy bonds of sleep upon them, sending them into the strange dream world where they could ponder their misdeeds for age after age until they could begin to face who and what they had become. Perhaps, he should do the same for these....

Still, Nàmo felt that somehow these poor creatures were different. He honestly could not recall any situation similar to this. He thrust deep within his mind, searching through his memories that had been given to him at the very dawn of creation. Both he and Manwë had been granted the gift of understanding certain strains and threads in the music that no other Vala had been privileged to hear. What few knew or understood was that he heard the strains of the music still and that sometimes it revealed a new secret. He never spoke of these things to others, but only to Manwë when he requested him to do so.

A tiny light flickered within Nàmo's mind, its sparking ray extending out even into the darknesss of Mandos. There was no difference between that ray of light and the melody that had come to him while in a dreamlike state. The music had been utterly clear in its meaning. The time was drawing near when those who had been most corrupted might be granted one last chance. Many would refuse but a few would find their way back to where they had begun, utterly changed and yet not changed. Perhaps this strange quartet was the first who would go down such a path. For somehow the fate of the woman was not too different than that of her male companions. They could not be split apart.

Turning towards Giledhel and the other three, Mandos addressed them in cool, even tones. "What would you have me do then to help you? What boon do you request? You may not leave these halls for Aman. The bloody path that you followed in life will not permit you to venture yet to Tol Eressea or the shores beyond it, for surely the silver light there would be more than your eyes could bear. Still, I think you have things yet to learn. What do you ask of me?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘A boon?’ Alcamirië’s voice took on an uncertain tone. ‘What can he mean, Calëlindo?’ He stole a hesitant glance toward Nàmo. ‘Does he mean to strike a bargain with us? We have nothing to offer.’

Salmarion drew them into a little ring, an old habit from former days. ‘We do have something he might want.’ He cocked his head toward Giledhel. ‘Maybe he wants us to leave her alone. Her “dear Malris” did.’

‘Oh surely he won’t make us do that. We’ve just found her again.’ Alcamirië looked troubled, his hand clenching onto Calëlindo’s arm.

Calëlindo leaned in toward his companions. ‘He means to do us a favor . . . something given freely, I think. Lord Nàmo wants to know how he can help us.’ He pitched his voice even lower. ‘And besides, the Lady is not ours to bargain with. Remember . . .’

The three turned toward Nàmo.

‘It seems enough for us now,’ said Calëlindo, ‘just to be here where we are. The silver light you speak of . . . we don’t recall it. And the light here, it is bright and fair enough to us.’ He turned questioningly toward the other two. ‘Ask him,’ urged Salmarion, Alcamirië nodding ‘yes’ behind him.

‘Just one favor, Lord Nàmo. Let us stay with the Lady . . . here . . . until she wishes to move on . . .