Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

In the first Years of the Sun, when Ambarturion was but a youth and the world was green and vital in the first strength of its awakening, the Elf had delighted to walk in the woods of Doriath in the spring and hear about him the calls of birds, and to feel upon his cheeks the gentle caress of last autumn’s leaves. In those days it had seemed that such days would last forever, and no darkness would sully the memories of the songs and deeds of that age. But then the Noldor had returned from the West, bringing with them their War of Pride, and the land had been laid to waste with their endless conflict with the powers of darkness. Their war had become Ambarturion’s, and he had learned through bitter experience that there was to be no victory, only a drawn out defeat. He had known this hard truth for millennia, but now that the time had come for him to taste of that defeat himself, the flavour was more ashen and cursed than he had imagined.

He lay upon the ground in the midst of the orc camp and sought to follow Megilaes into unconsciousness, but was unable to find that relief. The hatred of the orcs burned upon his mind like hot irons, and the sound of their gibbering was as the raucous cry of the carrion birds that were no doubt devouring Caranbaith at this very moment. His hatred for the monsters was boundless, and for a long time all he could see or think of was the delight that he would take in crushing the life from them all. He had expected that this hatred would sustain him through the torture, but the orcs had been prevented from their wicked pleasures by the Men. Ambarturion had not been afraid of the vulgar methods of sport employed by the orcs, for they could never touch or break his will. But he knew that eventually he would be taken before the seat of Sauron, and there no amount of rage could sustain him from the Eye. In mere moments he would be stripped of flesh and bone and become as a naked mind, withering in the blast of the Enemy’s malice – and in that gaze he would speak of the unspeakable; he would reveal the secret that his Lord and Lady had revealed only to their most intimate counsellors: that the One Ring had been found, and that it was being taken by halflings into the very heart of Mordor in a fruitless quest. Sauron would have this of him, and Middle-Earth would finally fall into the slavery and corruption that was its destiny. He felt neither sadness nor regret at this, for he had known that such a day would come, but he could not bear the shame that he would be the instrument of the Enemy’s final victory.

It was Coromswyth who brought him from the dark terrors of his mind, calling him back to a no less pleasant reality. He opened his eyes and looked at the orcs and Men who stood about them, still keeping at a respectable distance. The Sun was beginning to set and the army had set its watch fires about the perimeter. It was impossible to know their numbers from where they lay, but it was undoubtedly a great host – certainly the equal, at least, of the two armies that had already been thrown against the borders of Lorien. He took some comfort in the knowledge of their imminent defeat. Caranbaith’s murder would be avenged, even if not by him.

“Ambarturion,” Coromswyth said again, more urgently. “Do you hear me? Come back to the world Ambarturion, do not live amongst the shadows.”

“I am here,” he replied softly, “but not for long. Soon, I fear, we will both be in the shadows and there will be nothing there for us but cold and terror.”

“Do not speak of such things,” she replied soothingly. “Where there is life, there is hope.” Her words brought him no comfort. Seeing this, Coromswyth sought to distract his attention from his despair. “There is something strange about this army,” she said. “It is made up of more than orcs from Dol Guldur and their allies the wicked Men. There are captains here of both races who are doughty and resourceful. It was they who captured us…” She trailed off and Ambarturion knew that she was remembering her own capture. He did not offer her any comfort, for what could he say, who had no comfort to give himself? “I have been watching them,” she said. “There appears to be two armies. Or, rather, there is one army and a smaller band of much mightier troops. They keep together more or less, out just beyond the main force. It would seem that most of those who attacked us came from that group.”

Ambarturion nearly groaned. What use of talking of this? he thought. Lorien is protected by the power of the Lady; the Enemy cannot prevail for as long as Nenya remains in her possession. But even as he thought this there came to his mind, as clearly as though it were taking place before his waking eyes once more, the tactic that the orcs had used in capturing them: the main force had attacked in a frontal assault, while the more crafty and able fighters had come upon their flank and taken Coromswyth unawares…

His heart froze as his eyes met Coromswyth’s, and so great was the terror of his soul that even though they had known one another but a short time, he was able to speak with her mind. They plan to attack Lorien on two fronts! The army will be destroyed, but it will keep the attention of the Wood’s defenders while this other, smaller group will attack a different target. But what will that target be?

They remained like that, locked in one another’s gaze for what seemed like hours, but in truth it was but a moment. When Coromswyth replied, it was with such violent horror, that Ambarturion gasped aloud. Caras Galadhon! she wailed, The Lady Galadriel! They mean to attack the Lady directly, and to deprive the Woods of her protection!