Island of Sorrow RPG

[Firefoot]

Lómwë sensed that there was more to Endamir’s question than had been asked, though he did not inquire further. He doubted it would be a question that he wanted to directly address. After a moment, he answered, “I did not join the Lady Galadriel’s following immediately, as Tasarënì did. No, I wandered a bit, after the War of Wrath, not really having a purpose. I did not belong anywhere...” He shrugged. “Eventually I joined the Noldorin following of Galadriel, about the same time they were settling in Lórien. I was welcomed there, and at that point their ways – those of the Galadhrim – seemed as good as any – better, perhaps, than some. I became a marchwarden on their borders, which suited me. It was something to do, though there were many an idle day, and generally in the company of only a few other Elves. I haven’t really left Lórien since. I just figured that Lórien was the right place to be, and I haven't paid much attention to the rest of the world - after everything else, it all seemed rather unexciting, and unimportant.

“It is interesting, really. In so many ways, Lórien was isolated from the rest of Middle-earth and its troubles, especially during the time between the Last Alliance and the War of the Ring. It was as an island in the midst of peril, where no shadow could touch. Yet not even that fair land could block out the sorrows of the past and the troubles that lie with those who bring them…” Lómwë’s voice had grown increasingly distant, and now trailed off altogether. It was a strange relief to say some of the things that he had bottled up inside of him, even if it was only vaguely. And it was a relief to be talking to someone that Lómwë felt fairly certain would understand.

He also realized that he had ceased talking directly to Endamir, and was rather looking out into a fixed point in the night. He forced a smile and knelt, recalling their purpose of fetching water from the stream, at which they had arrived. After filling the pot with water, they started the short hike back to their campsite and Lómwë spoke again. “But then, that’s more than you asked. I suppose all that time as a marchwarden has given me too much time to think. It confuses things, probably over-complicates them. Anyway,” he concluded as they arrived back at the campfire and set the water to boiling, “that’s what’s happened to me, so here I am.”

[piosenniel]

Endamir squatted down beside the little blaze and turned the pot of water near the base of it. It was near to boiling. He and Lómwë had fallen into a comfortable silence as they readied the smaller pot with tea leaves waiting to be steeped in the water they were heating. They’d also gathered a number of fair sized stones to lay about their fire in a ring, though there were really not that many trees about nor bushes that they need worry about them catching fire. When the water was done, they poured it over the leaves and fitted a thin, flat rock over the top of the smaller kettle to keep the heat in.

Lómwë and he then gathered a few stout branches to make a sort of haphazard drying rack over which they could throw their clothes and blankets to dry. They hunkered down near the fire, each of them taking turns to flip the blankets and clothing to dry on both sides.

A mug of tea in hand, Endamir leaned back against his pack and watched the spatks fly up like little sprites into the darkening sky. The wood crackled and popped, and hissed at times, sending up small clouds of steam when the flames reached a pocket of moisture.

‘My brother and I also traveled after the lands fell beneath the sea,’ he said, watching the fire’s flames dance along the wood. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, picking up the conversation where it last had ended.’ We were lucky, I think, to have each other for company. Many of those we met along the way had no inkling really of the great battles fought on the western parts of Middle-earth. We, at least, could remind each other of what had been done and how we might have chosen differently . . . and how in the end the actions done served for the good of all.

‘The world seemed much brighter to us then . . . or rather I should say, ‘to me’. I suppose it was that the Dark One had been vanquished and the bright light of the Valar had blazed gloriously in its conquest. The lands we traveled into were new to us and fresh. Orëmir found a new interest as we met new folk along the way. He was attracted to the healing arts. And I can understand why. He told me once he’d seen so much of death and pain and brought about so much of it himself, that he felt that even the smallest relief he could bring to someone would be a little reflection of the light the Valar brought back to this part of the world.

‘It was among men, especially, that he delved into the lore of herbs and their combinations. And many the old wisewoman there was who took the eager Elf beneath her wizened hand and showed him the ways of her tribe's local plants. It was there, too, that I began to listen to the tales men told of the great happenings and the small in their little domains. What they knew of the Elves, of each other, of the Blessed Lands . . . the stories they wove to pass their knowledge down from parent to child. It was mostly oral, their passing of tradition and belief, but sometimes, in some of the older realms there were the few scraps of written history that were proudly presented and carefully copied by me.

‘That was a good time, my brother and I. Moving from place to place. There were always new things new peoples to look to. He sipped his tea and sighed quietly. ‘The new kept the old at bay . . .’

Endamir shook his head considering what he might say next. ‘It was those long years in Imladris, really, that let those old remembrances come creeping back. Our kin there were kind enough. I wanted for nothing. And the Great Library there . . . what a treasure house! But there was too much time for thinking about things that I had done in my early years. Too much time to turn inward and reflect on ill chosen actions. Now it seemed as I thought on it more that often our actions did not always serve for the good of all, but sometimes for our own selfish needs.’

He turned his gaze from the fire to Lómwë’s face. ‘Is that how it was with you? Even in a place of great beauty, too much time remembering ghosts and trying to reconcile our arrogance with its outcomes?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Though Tasa chatted merrily with Malris, he could see that her mind was not truly on her words. Though friendly and interesting, as always, the distant look in her eyes betrayed her to him. By no means offended, he did however wonder what it was that drew his friend away.

She had unthinkingly jumped into the water, laughing at the cold bite of the sea, and smiling when her friend reached the shore in a single bound.

"Ah, but Malris, whatever is the point of a great leap, when you are already soaked to the skin?" They had both laughed and efficiently done their work, joining the group a little further inland. Now she thought quietly, speaking when spoken to, but not entirely in the moment.

She had wandered alone through the tall golden trees of Lorien and felt that no being could ever truly understand her. Now that she was with friends, she realized that she had simply been away too long. She looked with wonder at these Elves she had known for years beyond count, and saw the toll the ages had taken, resting heavily behind their dancing eyes. They had changed. She looked to herself... she had changed as well, but how?

Tasa thought of the days... the old days. She had fought brilliantly; deadly strokes of her twin blades dancing through the air like butterflies caught on the breeze. Those days she fought side by side with her companions, defending them even as they saved her. She fingered her scar unthinkingly... so many had died in that battle, and she blamed herself. After all, without her foolishness... without her haste, they would have realized the ambush.

She had seen Malris, his soldiers around him, flanked by the enemy, fighting desparately against seemingly endless lines of orcs. The road had been clear... she drove her soldiers forward, anxious to break the lines, when the attack came. It had been so tidily planned, she still grimaced at the thought. Orcs before them... trees on both sides, and in she rushed, swords drawn, her fury nearly tangible. They had reached the orcs and, like a great wave, came crashing upon them, and in their glory, the trap closed... hundreds more orcs closed in from behind, catching the troops swiftly. They fought desparately, with Tasa yelling commands over the deafening sounds of battle.

She had been struck down near the end... death would have claimed her, had it not been for Malris. As an enemy blade soared through the air, perfectly poised to catch her neck, the Elf cried out and Tasa turned. The metal sliced along her jawline, spraying blood and scraping bone, and she responded with a swift kick to the chest and a mercy stroke. It was a short time later, after Malris and Tasa combined troops, that she fell, her armor cloven asunder. She had been surrounded by enemies and she fought beautifully; a picture painted in crimson, with silver birds slicing through the surrounding air, as blackness drove ever onward; but in the end, she could not win. When she fell, Malris had made his way to her, ruthlessly slaughtering any who would have harmed her body, unaware that she still lived.

It was after that battle that she met Galadriel... the wounds had not kept her abed for long... she was healthy; young. Though her body healed with time, her heart was torn. Her love for Malris had driven her to lose sight of the lives in her control. Many innocent had died that day for her lack of judgement... for the fact that her thoughts had been clouded with worry for a friend. It was thus that the Golden Lady had found her, and a bond had formed. Tasa opened her heart to Galadriel and the lady offered her a place beside her; away from fresh reminders of what Tasa would always see as her greatest failure. She had accepted the offer and run from her fears... she had deserted her comrades.

She looked now at every face. These men had fought bravely, never admitting defeat. She had run away. Did she even truly deserve a place beside them, sharing a warm fire? Would she ever forgive herself those poor lives gone... She did not know. In the shadows, she brushed away a tear, and felt colder than she had ever felt before.

[Firefoot]

“Is that how it was with you? Even in a place of great beauty, too much time remembering ghosts and trying to reconcile our arrogance with its outcomes?”

Lómwë nodded slightly. “Something like that. Originally, I had thought Lórien to be a haven, an escape, from everything that had happened, thought I could make myself belong there. For the longest time, all I wanted was to forget, not that I could. I doubt anyone could. Memories came back, in the time I had to think in Lórien. I realized that I didn’t really want to forget – at least, not all of it. We had something back then, something that it seems we have lost. When we set out from Tirion, everything was fresh, and we were full of fire, ready to face the world. Then we saw too much, did too much, and brought on our own sorrows. But in spite of the sorrows, there were valiant and brave deeds done, then, and ever there was hope. But all that seems gone, now. Sometimes I wonder whether if we had done things differently, that old fire might still be there, but the sorrows, not.”

Lómwë picked up a long stick and prodded some charred ash that had tumbled free of their campfire. “Like these ashes… nothing but cold remnants of the blazing fire.” He prodded them through a gap in the ring of stones around the fire, nearer to the flames. The ash glowed red for a moment, then died back to the cool gray. With a sigh, Lómwë tossed the stick onto the fire as well.

Their conversation was stopped as Lómwë noticed Malris and Tasa approaching. While Tasa might understand, he somewhat doubted that Malris would. The two sat down, and some casual comments exchanged: about the storm, about the fish Lindir and Orëmir might be catching. Soon the four lapsed into silence, Lómwë still musing on his and Endamir’s conversation.

[Envinyatar]

A string of fine, fat fish flopped against Orëmir’s leg as he and Lindir made their way back to where the others had gathered. The land was darkening as the sun slipped beneath the rim of the world. The fire their companions tended drew them like a welcoming beacon. Orëmir regarded the racks of drying clothes and blankets with a pleased expression. His own shirt and breeches were still damp and chill and he relished the thought of warm, dry clothes against his cold skin, even though the scent of them would surely be sharp with smoke.

‘Look what we’ve brought,’ he said, holding his string of six land-locked salmon up for the others to see. Lindir came up along side him and held up another string of the silvered beauties a grin on his face. ‘The fishermen have been successful,’ Oremir laughed, stepping close to the fire. ‘Or the fish gracious enough to let us catch them easily, seeing our hungry faces peering down at them from above!’ He looked about for any of the small staves left from the makeshift drying rack the others had put together. ‘Any chance there are some sticks we can spit these on to cook over the coals?’

‘And look at what else we snagged from the bottom of the pool. Lindir and I could not decide who had worn it last. We took it to be some old helm, though it’s so crusted over with hardened silt it’s hard to say what crest it bore.’ He handed his string of fish to Endamir and turned the old relic over in his hands. ‘Heavy thing. Even aside from the layers of silt. Would have given me a headache to wear it for any length of time.’

Orëmir brought it close to the fire, pointing out a tiny place that Lindir had chipped away at, flaking off some of the sediment in a section where the layers had been thin. ‘Lindir said he saw a gleam of gold flash out as he held the helm up for inspection in the dying light. Isn’t that right?’ he asked, looking toward where Lindir had crouched down and was threading his fish onto some little sharpened poles on of the others had handed him.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Aye, that is right," Lindir responded. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."

Lindir set down the stake on which he had speared the fish and wandered over toward the others, bending down next to the fire to examine the find more closely. He could not see the surface of the helm, encrusted as it was in a thick coat of grime, but he could make out its outlines with his fingers. With the skill of one who has made his living at the forge, he cradled the object in his hands and ran his palm over the outside. At the top of the helm was a decorative crest, a shape that caught his memory even though he could not see the actual physical object. His eyes opened wide in surprise, as he shook his head in disbelief, scarcely believing what he might be holding.

"Look here, Orëmir. Malris, come quick," Lindir called out in excitement. "Do you see how heavy this thing is, and how the gold shines through? Observe how the crest is formed. Wings, and a tail....you can even make these out under the grime. I know of only one thing that fits this description, although I can scarcely believe my eyes.....the Dragon-helm of Dor-Lomin, that which once graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin and even sat in the hands of our own leader many years before."

Lindir dreamily mused, "But how is that possible? And, if true, what does it mean for this isle and for our fortunes? Or perhaps I am letting the old tales run away with my heart?" He stopped and sighed staring up at the crested hill that loomed above their heads and then continued in a firmer voice, "But if it is the Dragon helm, what I would give to see it in its glory. For Telchar of Nogrod made this as surely as he crafted Narsil and Angrist. He is the one Dwarf who could hold his own in any circle of Noldor craftsmen. Indeed, such an object is worthy of respect." Lindir clutched the helm tightly to his breast.

All the while, the Elf's eyes glowed with wonder and desire. For a moment, it seemed that over three thousand years spent trudging through the mountains had vanished in a single instant. Lindir the Scout was gone; in his place stood Lindir the Forgemaster who, along with other craftsmen, had helped to create blades and rings of amazing beauty, objects that could tempt the soul of an Elf and sometimes carry disasterous consequences.....

[piosenniel]

In the flickering light of the fire, Endamir's face bore a look of dismay, an awful dread. ‘You will excuse my words, Lindir, but I would speak plainly if that is indeed the heirloom of the House of Hador my brother has had the misfortune to find.’ He reached tentatively for the object, wanting to feel the weight of it; the heaviness of the metals themselves and the measure of years it bore. But Lindir kept it close; his fingers pinning it to his chest. Endamir withdrew his hands and stepped back a pace, letting his eyes take in the Master Smith and the prize he clung to so covetously.

‘You frighten me, Lindir. This sudden change I see in you. Where is the true spoken companion who warned us not to come on this last adventure. “This way lies madness” were the words you used.

It frightens me,’ he said, pointing to the crusted helm. ‘All of this frightens me.’ Endamir’s arm swept round in a large arc, taking in the greater part of the isle that lay in darkness before them. ‘Look at you, clutching that thing to you like some grand thing you made yourself. Even now the firelight picks out the same mad glint in your eyes that drove Fëanor after his beloved jewels when they were stolen.’

He stepped back further. ‘That is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place.’

‘No matter that a great master made it. It is made for war and destruction. And no matter how brightly the light glints from its shiny grey steel and golden crest, it draws death and darkness to it like a beacon. Throw it back into the pool that hid it these long years. I beg you. Follow your own warnings and be rid of it.’

[Anguirel]

Malris was startled by the uproar taking place around Lindir and Orëmir's peculiar catch; for himself, he was far more interested at first in the massive, plump wild salmon. Fish and fishing had been other tastes he had acquired during the long years of the Third Age. He had been absorbed in watching the flesh roast darker in the heat of the fire.

"All very well," he murmured with a smile, "and your roasting, Lindir, seems proficient enough; but have you tried the delights of salmon, properly cut, in the form which Uien sends?"

It was then that he realised that Lindir was not listening, nor was he intrigued now in the slightest by the stake and its rich, succulent burden.

"Aye, that is right," Lindir was saying, gesturing at the helm by Orëmir's leg. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."

Malris nodded as he approached. "Well, it is a puzzle. They would need the physique of an Elf, but the craftsmanship is not in the fine Noldorin style...'tis cruder to my eyes...more utilitarian, a helm such as the Atani wear...'twould seem it's some kind of elf-man's...adanedhel..." He jerked back as, seconds after Lindir, he realised the helmet's provenance. Lindir spoke for him.

"The Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin, which graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin..."

"Turin, who fell to Glaurung away to the south? How did his helm reach Himring?" Malris muttered sceptically. But there seemed indeed no other answer to the riddle. More than anything else, Lindir's excitement, as he clutched the thing like a child, could not be in vain; nor Endamir's foreboding as he reproached the elf-smith-for truly, Lindir was a smith again in this hour.

"This is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place."

Lindir, though, did not-could not-relent. The arguing voices grew louder and harsher. Malris sprang between the two Elves.

"We cannot come to dissension over this thing. Why, it is mere Orc-plunder. Think clearly. Himring was abandoned after the Nirnaeth. Turin died decades later. It was not Elves who brought this helm here, but Orc-soldiers, robbing a dead man's corpse they would never have dared to near in life. They rested in the ruins of the lower parts of Himring...and there they lost it, perhaps by mishap, or trickery, or fate.

"Once this might have been a great Man's helmet. Now it is soiled by the hands of cowards and scavengers, the same sort who killed my wife and Lomwë's. Do not grip it to you any longer, Lindir. It is not worthy of you."

A new smell interrupted the proceedings. The roasting salmon was starting to burn.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir glanced up at Malris and then at Endamir, oblivious to the smell of burning fish. With some effort of will, he unwrapped his fingers and set the helm down on a rock near the fire where all could view it. Then he spoke, "You misunderstand me. I do not seek this helm for my own. I seek only to put to rest what lies hidden here, still waiting to be found."

Lindir stood up from his squatting position and looked directly at Malris, "For the past two weeks, you have been urging me to come here. You have said that we come to these shores with the purpose of bringing peace to our hearts, to set our fears behind us so we will be free to journey West and find some way beyond all the sadness that has gone before. I seek the same thing for this helm: an honorable place for it to rest. Surely, this should be brought back to Valinor and kept there in safekeeping. Who may sail to this isle after us? Perhaps another party of Men, those with less wisdom in their hearts, who would only argue over the spoils and start great havoc."

"And the fact that the helm was crafted for war, does this really make a difference? Since when is the fine handicraft of Telchar tainted with evil? I do not see Elrond advising that the shreds of Narsil be thrown in a fire and consumed. It is no different with this helm. The overthrow of Glaurung was done not out of evil but with great and good intent."

"No," mused Lindir, "I am certain of one thing. Such an object has no place in a world of Men. Indeed, I believe this helm is the reason I was doomed to come on this expedition: to remove from the world something of value that can only bring dissension, not because of evil inherent in its form but because Men would fight and argue over such a great quantity of gold. I only ask that I be allowed to carry this prize to the West and surrender it there to those who know better than I. Perhaps, this is a small way to make amends for other, less honorable deeds I have done. I would ask you not to take that choice from me."

"But still," added Lindir with a sigh, "you are my leader. Malris, it is for you to decide now that you have heard my words. If you say yes, I will keep the helm close and bring it to safety over the Sea. But if you say no, I will respect your word. You may take it up from the rock and throw it back in the mud, and I will say nary a word against your judgment."

Then Lindir knelt down, averting his head and turning his eyes from Malris and Endamir, as he busied himself with the burning fish.

[Envinyatar]

‘It seems to me this object belongs very much to the world of Men.’ Orëmir raised his brow speculatively at his brother. ‘Stop me if I’m in error, Endamir; my sense of history is a little vaguer than yours. But a number of the great pieces that Telchar wrought now rest in the hands of Men. They have been used well by the Younger Children of Ilúvatar. Beren freed the Silmaril from the Iron Crown with Angrist; the new king to the east, Elessar, bore the reforged shards of Narsil as he strove against the Dark Lord. And Turin wore this heirloom of his house as he kept the Orcs from his homeland.’

He crouched down beside Lindir, helping to turn the spitted salmon and move it further from the fire. ‘It seems wrong to me to remove this piece of craftsmanship, despite the beauty and the mastery of its making, across the seas and preserve it there. Perhaps men will find it; perhaps they will fight over it, their greed driving them to wrest from another’s keeping. We surely cannot say our hands are clean from those sorts of actions. Or perhaps they will not. Mayhap they will honor it long as a relic of Hador’s house, a remembrance of the land of Lomin and the once fair lands that lie now beneath the sea. It’s part of their history, let them deal with it should it come once again into their hands. It’s not our part to make that decision for them. Or so it seems to me.’

Orëmir stood, stretching his tired back against the kinks that had come with the day’s efforts. ‘Let us keep the helm with us for now. Lindir can bear it as we revisit our old haunts on Himling.’ He turned and faced Lindir. ‘When we are done here, and time comes for the ship that will bear you across the Sea. Then give the helm into my keeping, if you will. I’ll take it to Tol Morwen and let it lie at the foot of the Stone of the Hapless. Should men journey there, and I should think few will as the isle has passed nearly into legend these later years, then let them look to the disposition of this relic from their past.’

From the corner of his eye he could see his brother’s face grow pale at these words.

‘What say you? Lindir? Malris?’

[Anguirel]

Malris sat still as Orëmir spoke, with an occasional approving nod, then spoke after him.

"You speak wisely, friend. Men should indeed keep this thing, their heirloom. It has nothing to do with Valinor. I am with you. But must one of us carry it to Tol Morwen himself?

"We are now in the Valar's hands; and it would seem they tested us upon the sea, and found us worthy. Is this not some new trial from the Lords of the West? And should we not answer it with fealty and submission-throwing the helm into the sea to be carried whither Ulmo wills?"

"Certainly it should not be returned to the pool...for it does not belong here at all. Myself, I support entrusting it to the clean waters of the ocean. It will be in good company there; Palantiri, the sword Anglachel, Maglor's Silmaril...even if it does not find its way to Tol Morwen."

It was at this point, with night fully upon the party, and the stars glinting high in the sky, Earendil supreme among them, that the six survivors of Maedhros' armies heard the Voice that was to be to them a riddle, a delight, a problem, a saviour and a doom. It was a mighty voice, driving all other matters from the mind; harp music ran beside it, beautiful and stirring to the heart.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame
And rings with the voices of hope.
A fire of sparks from an army of blades
As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.

Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World
Will shudder on his threshold in the North,
For where he sundered us two from one,
He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.

The last line of each verse was repeated, as if it had once formed a refrain, but only the Voice sang "As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope"; though the six Noldor knew it well, they were shocked to silence. But Malris rose, his hand on his heart, and sung "He sees now the wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf," with tears in his eyes. Then the Voice and its music ceased.

"Wonder of wonders!" Malris cried, a light in his eyes like one driven mad. "Maglor still breaths...come, we must seek him! Do you remember when we chorussed that ballad, and many other verses besides, before the Nirnaeth? Up, my slothful friends! Cast away yon helm and seek our lord's voice!"

[piosenniel]

In the confusion of responses to the ghostly song, Endamir strove to gather his wits about him. Malris bore a mad look in his eye, and certain that it was indeed Maglor who sang to them, he urged his companions to rise and seek out the long gone Elf.

‘Cast away yon helm and seek our lord’s voice.’ Malris voice rang out with urgency, as one possessed.

‘This cannot be,’ thought Endamir. ‘It is some trick of the wind and sea. Maglor does not sing to us. He is gone; thrown himself into the sea.’ ‘And besides, he spoke aloud, in a querulous, weary old voice, though no one stood near him, ‘it was Maedhros who bore the title of lord for me.’

Still, for all his doubts, he strode quickly to where his sword lay and picking it up from his heap of belongings, he buckled the belt which bore it round his hips. His hand rested lightly on the pommel. The feel of the cold metal was real against his flesh and he wondered how he thought he would defend himself and his friends against some fleshless spirit. If that is what had called to them . . .

His steps bore him to Malris’ side. As in the long past days his feet had done before. Malris called and he answered. It had seemed quite a simple task then.

Now his gaze turned to where Orëmir bent to give Lindir a hand. With his other hand, his brother picked up the helm that had so recently been the center of attention and handed it to the now standing Lindir. He could see Orëmir lean in close to Lindir, whispering a few words to him. Lindir nodded gravely and stuffed the helm into his pack.

For all of Malris’ exhortation, the helm would not be cast into the sea. Endamir saw in his brother’s face that Malris’ words had not convinced him. Orëmir respected the Valar, but he held dear the race of Men, too, as Malris did not. And who was Malris to speak for the Valar?

He was sure, too, that in that moment of quiet exchange, Orëmir had made a promise to Lindir. One he would carry through on. Endamir wondered if the others understood what his brother had meant by his offer to take it to Tol Morwen. Orëmir’s conviction was a sore point between the two siblings, but one they had not discussed with others. It was in Endamir’s mind that when the time came, his brother would choose the same as he . . . to go into the West. Now here was Orëmir saying those words in the presence of their old companions. Making them real, in a way. The intent behind them crystallized, cutting Enadamir’s heart.

He turned his attention back to Malris. ‘Let’s get on it with it then,’ he said curtly, shouldering his own pack. Perhaps the pursuit of some ephemeral voice would be engrossing enough to take his mind from the other bleak line of consideration.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Through the bickering, Tasa had sat alone, engrossed deeply in memory. Her companions' voices interrupted her thoughts but she cast them away, feeling unworthy... the world seemed darker and colder than ever before. Heroes... they were all heroes... and she sat beside them as an equal. She brushed a tear from her eye, staring blankly into the fire. The flames leapt and danced before her as she strove to escape a personal nightmare so surreal that she wanted nothing more than to sleep in peace, alone and unafraid. The falcon flew to her, landing carefully upon her shoulder and preened her hair while chirruping in a concerned and entirely unfalconly way. She smiled sadly, running a finger across his silky brow.

Suddenly an ethereal voice crooned to a ghosted melody, dancing upon the wind like the swallows that were her friends.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame

And rings with the voices of hope.

A fire of sparks from an army of blades

As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.

Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World

Will shudder on his threshold in the North,

For where he sundered us two from one,

He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.

Malris jumped to his feet, startling Tasa back to the present. She saw a splended helm beside Lindir, and wondered at it, but saved her questions for later. She had a sinking feeling that she had missed something important while she selfishly stole the time for herself.

"That voice..." she whispered... "I know that voice. Malris?" She looked at her friend with question in his eye. He read her glance and recognized it. If he would lead, she would follow.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir had been speaking with Lindir when “the Voice” began its song. ‘What is that, that sings of old deeds here on Himring’s top?’ Oremir asked? Lindir shrugged, his eyes flicking to where Malris stood with a delirious look in his eyes. The years had fallen away from Malris and now he commanded his little troop as of old, though now, it seemed, with a sort of rash hysteria.

‘. . . seek our Lord’s voice!’

Endamir, Orëmir noted, had taken up his blade with a slow reserve and had gone to stand by Malris. ‘Ever faithful to his old friends,’ he thought ungrudgingly. ‘But, brother mine, you can’t stop my wish to turn you from your choice by involving yourself in some foolhardy undertaking.’

‘Malris!’ Orëmir called aloud, drawing the attention of the two that had rallied about their old commander. ‘Sure as you are that this may be Maglor and his harping, more surely you will want to look to your troops first before you take off after some airy phantom. For our part, we’re tired and hungry. For your part, what proof is there that this is Maglor’s voice? Perhaps it is some old trick conjured by one of the Enemy’s spawn. Something to lure us to our deaths as revenge. The night is dark and there are many places among the rocks and further ruins that such a one or ones could hide. Would it not be better to secure our little camp with watches? And wait ‘til the sun drives back the darkness?’

He raised his brow at Malris. ‘Surely, if it is indeed Maglor, he will sing again to us in the daylight and draw us to him. Or if it be some other ill-willed spirit, then we will more ready after a meal and a rest to ferret him out. I’ll take the first watch after the meal, if you wish. What say you?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa was startled from her passive existence by the sound logic of Orëmir's talk. Looking around, she noted the darkness and the tricky terrain.

"Orëmir, you speak the truth." she shot an apologetic look to Malris, continuing. "Perhaps it would indeed be best to wait for morning. By then we shall be rested and strong again, and indeed if it is our lord, he will not forsake us for that we tarried but a few hours in finding him. If he has awaited us this long, he may wait a short while more."

She looked to her friend, awaiting his response. Now that she was back to her old self, her mood temporarily forgotten, she knew that she would keep him here by herself, if need be. Night time excursions, she remembered, required a state of calm and peace of mind. To leave on a whim at a sound that could so easily be a trick of their tired minds was folly. She would not mistakenly help lead friends to death again. Not if she could help it.

[Anguirel]

For a long time Malris continued to stare into the night, as if hoping to scry notes his ears could no longer detect. He started to plead, in a low voice, but it would be apparent to the others that he was his own interlocutor.

"We could climb by starlight, by Varda's own lamps and the Silmaril...to find Maglor. Maglor, whose like I thought had left the world entirely...but the others are tired, and with good reason...you too, you hunger after the salmon and a little rest. Is it cowardice? Weakness?" he asked, his voice growing louder again. "Or sound sense that bids them retreat and await the coming of Arien?"

"I..." He began again, turning now to Tasa and Endamir, close behind him. "I would try a little of the ascent alone, to test the rocks, as it were. Stay here...please."

Like an eager mountain cat, he soon found holds for his hands and feet. He climbed a few yards over the crags; then felt the water-warping of the rocks beneath him. He was unsure of his way now...he stretched out a hand to an outcrop; and felt a pain, a stap in it...he was bleeding. A strong, chill wind rushed over his head, and he was sure he felt a tug on his hair.

Bowing his head in submission, he slipped gracefully down. "I confess the path is thin, eroded in places, and difficult to follow. And besides..." He changed his mind. He would keep the secret of the malevolent wind, and attribut the stab to a jagged rock. He need not depress his friends further.

"And besides, the stones are sharp. Let us return to the fire and roast another salmon on it, ere we walk the lands of Lorien in sleep, that soon we shall see again in waking." He smiled confidently at the others. "I know I heard Maglor's voice; and I know it will come back. He will come back. Perhaps that is why we are here. To finish a mysterious end of the Music."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa watched her friend attempt the climb with bated breath, but did not stop him, seeing the sickly dangerous path he chose. He would never make it, so she felt no real need to hold him back. It would be better for him to think that it was of his own will that he stayed.

When he came back, her eyes strayed to the blood on his hand. She carefully washed and bound his hand as he spoke of the Music.

"I know I heard Maglor's voice; and I know it will come back. He will come back." Malris paused. "Perhaps that is why we are here. To finish a mysterious end of the Music."

She held his hand, forcing his gaze to meet her own. "My friend, it is known that Maglor met his fate with the sea. He could not be here... whether forever lost to the sea in the manner of the Jewel, or wandering for an eternity, I do not know, but our lord cannot be in this place... surely were he here, and were he wanting us, he would have sought us sooner... Malris, look at me. Tell me that you believe me..."

[piosenniel]

Endamir left Malris to the care of Tasa. Unbuckling the belt that held his blade, he wrapped it round the sheath and laid them down atop his pack. His thoughts were discomfited at the scene that had just played out; he felt his words would hold no credence with Malris, who seemed almost possessed with the singing they had heard.

He cocked his head listening closely for any further refrain, but there was none. And even now he wondered if the music and the singing were some trick of the night breezes through the old ruins. Malris was so keen on coming to this long dead place that perhaps his need had infected all their minds. Taking in a deep breath, he breathed it out slowly. There were enough ghosts of his own to consider and appease, he thought grimly to himself, without taking on those of another.

Lindir nodded as Endamir returned to the fire. He held out a crisp fish to Endamir, who took it gratefully. The hot fat dripped down his fingers, but it was scarcely noted, the enticing smell of food overcoming the discomfort. He smiled at Lindir and sat down cross-legged near the fire, his eyes asking the other Elf to take a seat near him since his fish-filled mouth could not. Nimble fingers picked the meat neatly from the stick, leaving only a bit of uncrisped skin as an offering to the fire.

Endamir licked his fingers, in a graceful motion, like a cat enjoying the last remembrances of a successful hunt and kill. Wiping them at last on his breeches, he picked up a stray stick and poked at the fire, sending up showers of little sparks into the dark sky. Across the fire, he could see Lómwë, lost in his own thoughts it seemed. From their previous conversation, Endamir wondered what he would think of Malris’ most recent actions. Had Lómwë heard the singing? What did he think of it?

His musings were interrupted as someone started to sit down next to him. A hand rested familiarly on his shoulder as the figure used it for support.

[Anguirel]

Malris had looked back at Tasa with an emotion between gratitude and pity in his eyes, as she bound his wound, and implored him to forget the fateful voice.

"Most named Daeron a greater musician and singer than Maglor," he said at last. It seemed a peculiar comment, and the long pause he left after it would not set his friend's mind at rest. Eventually he spoke again.

"I was not among them, of course. Partly because Maglor was my friend, my protector, and I his...but his voice always had a power to move me that the Dark Elf's did not. Mind you, I only heard Daeron once, when I came with Maglor and Maedhros to the Council of Peacemaking...which ended in ashes and ruin, like everything else. Everything else but those two bards...and this place."

His thoughts were rambling, circuituitous. He shook his head, suddenly, as if to clear it.

"What I am trying to say...is that I felt that power in my heart just now. And Maglor was always named the mightier singer, though many preferred the Wood Elf's subtleties. I believe Maglor has taken up his brother's fortress again. He is within Himring, but his voice reaches us, though he has no idea of it."

He took Tasa's hand gently. "Do not think me mad. A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait."

He smiled again, taking one of the fish off the fire. "It looks well done. The others are ready too, I think. Let us eat and then sleep at last."

[Envinyatar]

‘My leg is stiff,’ grumbled Orëmir. ‘Where the Orc club struck me in the hip . . . it’s the cold of this place, I think, that brings the aching back.’ He eased himself down beside his brother, tucking his cloak beneath his left hip to give it some padding. He’d brought his own pack as well as his brother’s over to the fire. Fishing about in the inner section of his own, he found some hard waybread bought at the western edge of The Tower Hills. The oiled parchment the old woman had wrapped it in had kept it safe for the most part from the rain and the sea. ‘Not as tasty as lembas,’ he acknowledged, levering a piece of it between his teeth to snap off a bite. ‘But it should fill in the crevices not taken up with fish.’ He passed the bread to his brother, indicating he should pass it on.

‘I brought our packs and weapons near,’ he said to his brother. ‘Whatever the source of that singing we heard, we should be prepared.’ He snorted, laying his hand on his own sword. ‘Though what protection these will be against ghosts will not be much if any. Rest and a clear mind will be of more aid, I think, than these metal blades.’ He looked to where Malris now sat, eating at his meal. ‘I worry about him . . . and in turn, all this group, since he has stepped up as acting leader on this expedition. I had hoped, at first, that this would be only a last look about of some old piece of our history, a tidying away of some rough details. Or perhaps tidying is too neat a word.’ He shook his head. ‘But I am tired and cannot think of a better. At any rate, I say we should keep alert for any more unreasoned outbursts from Malris. After all, fond though we may be of him and though for a time when we were young we did place our safety in his decisions and commands, we are no longer under his authority.’

He turned his gaze on his brother’s face. Endamir’s face was in profile, the light from the fire throwing shadows along the plane of his cheek, darkening the hollow of his eye. ‘I mean to keep you safe, brother. Be it for the voyage West or a return east with me. Death will not rob me of what few days and hours are left to us.’ The fingers of his right hand traced the fading vines that intertwined on the scabbard at his side; his left hand lay lightly on his brother’s knee.

[Firefoot]

As he sat down near the fire, Lómwë was privately glad that their short expedition had not gotten much past the beach. He did not know who… what… the voice had been, and he doubted that night was the time to find out. Maybe it was just a trick of the wind or rumours of the earth, or ghosts. He found Malris’ near-obsession with this dead place, with that voice, disturbing. Leave it be, leave it be, the voice in his head seemed to chant. Maglor was gone, long gone, and whatever the source of the song, it could not be Maglor, unless it was Maglor’s ghost, of which Lómwë was skeptical of, and hoped was not.

Lómwë was, however, becoming increasingly convinced that ghosts, whether tangible or not, did inhabit the isle. For the voice, whether Maglor’s or not, had been a ghost of sorts, and the long-forgotten memories that kept flashing in his mind, these were ghosts as well. Glancing up in the direction of the fortress, he recalled, as if it were yesterday…

It was a breezy summer day in the latter years of the Long Peace; Lómwë was standing on the tall battlements of the fortress at Himring, his son Aradol, seven years old at the time, was standing by him. Lómwë was pointing out the landmarks they could see as Aradol followed his gaze avidly.

“See, there are the River Aros and the Little Gelion,” he said, pointing each out.

Aradol looked out at the rivers for a few moments, then twisted around to look up at his father. “Where is our house at?” Lómwë knelt down and took Aradol’s arm and pointed to the east in the direction of their home which stood on one of the further hills. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s right about there, behind one of those hills.”

Aradol pondered this for a moment, then pointed out towards Ossiriand. “And nana used to live there, right?”

Lómwë smiled and nodded. “Yes, she did.” While the day was not chilly, he noticed that the breeze seemed to be getting to Aradol, who wore only a light tunic. “Shall we head down?”

Aradol looked out one more time longingly at the surrounding country. “I guess so…” He ran on ahead, Lómwë following behind. As they began to descend from the high wall, Lómwë noticed that his wife and Aradol’s mother Ellothiel was watching them from the ground below with a smile on her face and love in her eyes. Lómwë smiled back…

And just as abruptly as it had begun, the memory ended and Lómwë was brought back to the present. A shadow passed over his features; those had been the happiest years of his life, but they were long gone, now, merely memories, as were most of the noble and beautiful things that had once filled this place.

He was further shaken from his reverie when he was passed a piece of waybread. He tore off a bit and passed it on before biting into it. He was not very hungry, and the bread was not particularly good, but it took his mind off things. He tuned in to the conversations around him and caught some of Malris’ words: “…A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait.” But other things do matter, Malris, he thought. But is that why you brought us here? To dig up ghosts and painful memories of the past? But why? Maybe we should not have come. Maybe ghosts should be left in peace.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Do not think me mad. A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait."

Tasa looked with wonder upon her old friend. Tenacity she remembered, but this was beyond. She fixed him with an uncharacteristically hard stare.

"Nothing else matters? Would you now forsake your own life and those of your friends for the truth behind a voice on the wind? Would you forsake your happier memories of this place, of your wife, to replace them with hard-earned and hard-forgotten memories of battles and ghosted shadows? If love and friendship could so easily be forgotten; if..." she paused, trying with her gaze to make her friend see reason. "If nothing else matters," she spoke slowly and pointedly, driving her words deep, "then I do not believe I wish to continue this journey."

Her outburst had drawn the attention of the others. Even in her younger years, full of spirit and energy, she rarely spoke out thus, and never with the sole intent of making the listener writhe with guilt. Her mouth was fixed in a firm line, ungiving.

"Malris," she continued more softly. "It was a voice on the wind, and nothing more. If you insist, we may check it more thoroughly after the sun has risen and warmed the coldness of this place some. I think, my friend, that it is time for you to inform us why we are truly here... because I rode far to put hard memories to rest. I travelled long and silent to cast away my demons. Not to battle a whisper in the dark of night."

[piosenniel]

Endamir bit back the curt words that were forming just behind his tight pressed lips. They had been bickering back and forth for nearly a year now, each unwilling to accept the other’s decision. All the arguments had played and replayed; all the fine points they had mustered would not serve to sway their decisions. Nor would an injured tone, or worse yet a bitter one.

There had been a subtle change in Orëmir’s phrasings just now, he thought. His brother had left the possibility open that he and Endamir would take separate roads when this last task was done. And he’d voiced it in a gently offered way. Endamir softened at his twin’s words, and taking Oremir’s hand in his own, he cradled it against his cheek. ‘I will tell our mother and father that you kept your vow and were my defense against any who might keep me from returning home.’ He leaned forward, bringing his forehead in to rest against his brother’s. ‘And if at the last you still remain firm in your decision to stay here, in Middle-earth, when my ship leaves, then know I will keep watch for you and rejoice in the day when the white ship brings you home at last to me.’

They stayed locked in their communion for a space of time; the hard-edged barriers they had built between themselves, dissolving. Then, the voice of Tasa, raised in challenge, recalled them from their rediscovered affinity.

Of the two, Endamir was the first to turn his gaze to her. She had voiced her concerns and now demanded an explanation. Well said, Tasa! he thought, lending her his support. ‘What will he say, I wonder, in his defense,’ he said quietly to his brother, speaking loud enough though, that Lindir and Lómwë might pick up his words.

[Envinyatar]

‘If not mad, then surely he is what the goodwives in The Angle call “moonstruck”. He was never this foolish, or foolish at all, really, when he led us.’ Orëmir looked to where Lindir sat, remembering the words of warning he’d spoken before they’d sailed. ‘Perhaps this was an ill-fated little venture on our part. And this island . . . perhaps it strives against us, recalling the old wounds our battles with the Dark One caused it. I’ve heard it said that earth and its outcroppings and deep places hold long their memories. Perhaps this last remnant of a once mighty peak holds some grudge against those who caused its downfall.’ He looked at his brother and shrugged his shoulders at the thought. ‘Who knows?’

Orëmir picked up one of the sticks the fish had been spitted on. He poked at the little fire, pushing the glowing embers closer together before he piled on additional wood. ‘Here, use my blankets for now,’ he said, untying his bedroll and spreading it near the crackling flames. ‘It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll take the first watch, as I said.’ He grinned at his brother. ‘Once you’ve got the blankets nice and toasty, I’ll wake you for the second watch. Fair enough?’

He glanced over to where Tasa still looked to Malris for an answer. ‘It really won’t matter what he says. It’s unlikely we’ll bear him bound and protesting from this place to the ship and back to the Grey Havens. He’ll lead; we’ll follow cautiously. Protect ourselves; protect him as we can.’ He glanced upward to the top of the isle where the ruins lay. ‘Besides . . . I’ve decided I want to stand on whatever remains of the northern wall. My last look from there was on the darkness in the north that crept toward us and pushed against what small leaguer we tried to hold against it.’ He shook his head at those long ago memories. ‘He was an Ainu. An Ainu! And one of the mightiest. How wonderfully foolish we were then in our younger years to think we might defeat him.’

Standing, he picked up the belt with his sheathed blade on it and wrapped it round his hips. ‘Let us hope that whatever might infest this old place is something we stand a better chance against.’ His long strides carried him from out the brighter circle of his companions and to a small rocky outcropping nearby where he might keep watch for a while.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the fire burned low and dark shadows engulfed the small group, Lindir sat by himself, with legs hunched against his chest, totally unable to sleep. Even the physical presence of the dragon helm, which he cradled gently within his arms, provided little consolation for the events of the day.

What the voice was Lindir could not say. Though refusing to believe Maglor was alive, he could not deny that this strange music of the night carried an undertone of urgency not easily gainsaid. But what disturbed Lindir more than the ghostly whispering was the look of madness in Malris' face. He had seen that look before. His fingers slipped unwillingly to the golden brooch pinned near the top of his cloak as his mind slipped back to a time more than three thousand years before.....

The madness of battle, the urge to kill, could lead to destruction. He had seen too much of that in the First Age. But there was another road just as dangerous: the desire to do good....even beyond that, the unwavering belief that one can take things into one's hands and have complete control over the course of events.

Celebrimbor had been so certain his path would lead to goodness; he had convinced the others that the secrets Sauron had revealed could help them craft objects of great power that would heal the injuries of Arda. Lindir had been no different than the others. In great excitement and with absolute faith, he had helped forge the lesser rings and had begun work on the Seven and the Nine. But, as the Elves had continued their work and some had begun to question what they were doing, Celebrimbor had refused to listen, even withdrawing from the others to work on his own. Even when he had fully understood the deceit of Sauron, Celebrimbor had refused to alter his course, seemingly unable to stop himself.

Lindir shuddered in remembrance. Tonight Malris had seemed eerily like Celebrimbor. To push on blindly in the middle of the night attempting to scale a rocky cliff was little short of madness. Yet Malris apparently believed in the absolute goodness of what he was doing. And the voice he was following? Was it merely a ghost playing tricks with the wind, or something more dangerous that was sunk in evil and shadow?

Lindir was not sure. But he did know one thing. He had not followed Celebrimbor to the end. Seeing Celebrimbor headed towards what looked like an open precipice, Lindir had turned away and retraced his footsteps to Lindon, vowing two things: never again to place his hand on the forge and never to follow a madman to death. He had honored that pledge in all the years following. He did not intend to break that promise now, not even for Malris.

[Anguirel]

Malris did not answer Tasareni at all; guilt twisted his tongue and subdued it. His friend had made a serious accusation against him. Had his words been that senseless?

"I need sleep," he said at last, to the world in general. Then he turned to Endamir. "Don't let me rest too long...let me have the last watch of the night. I...I want to see the sun rise over Himring."

It was only then that he bowed his head. "I am sorry if I have done any wrong, or hurt...but I knew Maglor. I met him before any of the rest of you...even if only moments before Tasa," he acknowledged with a wry smile. "Whether or not that is his voice-and every note of it recalls him-it was bound to move me. But perhaps it stirred me too far. The morning will bring new light, new hope...new beauty."

Abruptly, Malris took Cirlach from its sheath and stabbed it into the sand; at last it was firmly in the earth, and Malris slumped onto its hilt and let Lorien take him, for the present.

There was little more talk as, gradually, the other five slumped into the realm of dreams, or, in Oremir's case, strolled upon the lower rampart, stared up into the ruinous heights of the fortress, and remembered. And high, high above them in the circles of the sky, Earendil the Mariner persevered on his endless rounds, and the Silmaril gleamed down with sorrowful benevolence.

The company did not wake Malris, as he asked, to perform the watch; but Lindir insisted that he should be allowed to see the dawn, at least, and so he was shaken back to Himring as Arien ascended.

The second day on the Island of Sorrow had begun.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As far as Tasa could tell, the night had passed with no further mishaps; though she could not be certain, for sleep had come upon her heavily, leaving her to dream restlessly of faces streaked with blood and tears, screaming helplessly for mercy and swift passage, with a subtle overtone of malicious laughter. She woke with a start, noting that a few already stood awake, marvelling at a long unseen sunrise.

She rose silently and joined them, looking like a ghost herself in a long billowing robe of palest ivory. The irony did not escape her, though at first light, she forgot it. The dawn was the loveliest she had seen in years beyond count, with rays of pure white light shot through with every shade of the rainbow. The skies above were clear, but not yet blue, calling lie to her memories of the weather of the day before. A perfect day for adventure, the youngest part of her mind told her. Pushing those thoughts down, she stood silent, watching the day awaken before her. Thoughts of the blinding glare off of gleaming swords in the early morning light invaded her sense of wonder. My blades are away... long since packed... and that is where they shall stay. she thought as she stood beside her friend.

Finally she spoke, breaking the peaceful silence. "The dawn has always called forth other new beginnings. Will you forgive me my accusations of the night, Malris? I cannot deny that if I heard my lady upon the wind, I would go to her."

[Envinyatar]

Just before leaving him to sleep, Orëmir had given his brother a few drops of a tincture he’d concocted in Imladris. It eased his brother’s dreams and let him rest well . . . at times. It had not worked as well this past night, it seemed. Endamir looked tired, his eyes haunted with old sorrows.

Others of the little group had twitched on their rude pallets as if battling old demons, too. In the moonlight as he kept his watch he could see Tasa moving restlessly, her arms pushing out, blade hand clenched as if engaged in fighting.

He’d wakened Endamir for the second watch, throwing his cloak about his brother’s shoulders as he rose from his bed. Slipping between the already warmed blankets, Orëmir had slept soundly, his dreams untroubled, save for that one he often had . . .

. . .walking into his brother’s room in Imladris . . . it was empty of Endamir’s presence . . . his books and writing materials packed away neatly in an old oaken chest that stood at the foot of his neatly made bed . . . the west facing window was open . . .

But this time the ache was less sharp, less filled with a sad sort of panic and confusion.

. . . a shaft of soft sun light fell in through the window this time, borne it seemed on a welcoming breeze. Motes danced along its course. A call had come from the hallway . . . his assistant . . . his services were needed . . .

Orëmir clambered to his feet and rubbed at his neck. Some stubborn rock had made an unyielding pillow for part of the night. More wood had been put on the fire, and a pot of water for tea was boiling. Fishing through one of the pockets on his pack, Orëmir pulled out a pouch filled with fragrant dried leaves and pale blossoms.

‘Anyone care for a hot cup of tea before we begin our campaign?’ he asked. ‘Something to get our blood flowing? Tasa, you look a mere ghost of yourself. Are you chilled?’ He held out a cup to her, smiling. ‘Come, the flowers are niphredil, sweet Luthien’s flower. They still hold their scent.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Thank you, Orëmir." Tasa murmered, gladly accepting the tea. She smiled as she inhaled the sweet scent, relaxing as she took a seat. She had never been able to resist a morning cup of tea; she smiled to see that her old companions remembered it.

Setting it on a rock for a moment to cool, she made her way back to her blankets, clearing the space swiftly. She pulled a pair of soft brown breeches and a pale blue shirt from her bags and changed behind a tree. She made her way to the stream to splash cold water on her face to clear her mind. She plaited her long hair swiftly, tucking random strands behind her slightly pointed ears. She came back, scooping up the cup and taking a place between the small fire and Orëmir.

"Do you think," she inquired quietly, nodding toward Malris, "that he will find what he seeks?"

[piosenniel]

Endamir rolled up his blanket roll, leaving his brother’s cloak hung over a nearby rock. ‘I’m old!’ he thought to himself, rubbing at the small of his back. ‘So much for the legendary recuperative powers of the Eldar!’ He grimaced as he twisted his back about a bit, working out the kinks and sore spots.

He flexed the fingers of his left hand. He’d slain a great tide of Orcs in his fitful dreams last night. His arm, too, was sore he found. It was slightly unnerving to look about their little campground in the early morning light. No hacked and bloodied corpses littered the strand; no stinking pyres burned. He could see his brother and Tasa crouched down near the fire. Sharing tea and speaking low. He could not catch what they were saying as he neared them.

Lindir was standing a little ways away from the fire. His eyes wandering at times to Malris and then to the ruined battlements beyond. ‘Come have a cup of Orëmir’s tea,’ he said drawing near to him. ‘We can see what there is to fortify ourselves for the excursion ahead’ ‘. . . our bodies, that is,’ he added with a small wry smile. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked as they walked toward the promise of a hot drink. ‘My own was filled with old phantoms from this place . . .’

'Ah! Malris!' There you are, too,' he added seeing him across the camp fire. 'Break your fast with us.'

[Envinyatar]

‘I don’t really know what he seeks,’ said Orëmir, feeding a few more small sticks to the flames. ‘I wonder if he himself knows. Is it nostalgia? Does he want to look again upon a place where once all was possible? A place where the idea of the long defeat did not intrude? Does he seek to remember those feelings of valor and honor and what seemed right before history judged us and our actions?’ Orëmir looked thoughtfully into the last of the swirling liquid left in his cup as if to read the answers to his questions there.

‘Who can tell? Maybe he is simply tired of holding up the public mask of his long years. Here among the last of his companions and in this familiar place he can lay it down.’

‘Or maybe he is quite mad. We shouldn’t eliminate that possibility. Brilliantly mad . . . And he has no idea what he seeks . . . nor what might seek him, for that matter. Who can tell?’

He poured himself a little more tea. ‘What about you? Do you think you’ll find what you are seeking?’ Orëmir’s gaze drifted to where his brother stood. His eyes, soft with affection, carefully studied the familiar figure from head to foot. ‘I already know that I will not.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"What I am seeking..." she repeated softly, looking down. "For so many years, I have hidden my sorrows from the world, seeming to them ever joyful. Elves are supposed to honor the beauty in life, and I do... but I can never forget the blood... or the tears. The mindless slaying of the Teleri..." she sighed. "We were like sheep." she stated suddenly, harshly. "Led by a mad shepherd, and with nothing to say to or against it. All given free will by the grace of Eru, and all rebelling against the guardians He provided for us in his wisdom. We were fools...

"Will I find what I seek? Perhaps... after I learn what it is. The days grow long, Orëmir. I spend them silent, thinking of the past... of the days when the future seemed bright; the possibilities endless. My heart was kindled by the son of Finwe, and I believed in our quest. I knew that the Kinslaying was wrong... and yet I continued. It is one thing, Orëmir, to slay an orc... and quite another to watch the spirit of a loving Elf drain slowly from behind his eyes and the blood matches it's pace from wounds you inflicted... and it all for ships." she stopped, looking at her still full cup of tea. She sipped, soothing herself and her thirst.

"I long to be a child again, Orëmir." she whispered, opening her soul. "A willful child who has disobeyed, and run crying to her mother that she has made a terrible mistake. And I long for that mother to hold me tenderly and tell me it will all be all right. And yet I cannot see an end as such to match what I have done. It was of my will that I left; of my will that I slayed the innocent; of my will that more were slain. I cannot hope for forgiveness, but perhaps I can help my oldest comrades lay their own hearts and minds to rest."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir knelt beside the fire and, retrieving a long stick from the ground, poked impatiently at the egg of a sea bird he had found earlier that morning, which now sat roasting on the edge of the coals. Rolling the egg out from the fire, he reached down to pick it up, burning the tips of two fingers while muttering to himself. The Elf was finding it difficult to concentrate on breakfast or anything else he should be doing when snatches of painful conversation and precarious memories surrounded him and threatened to overwhelm them all.

Glancing directly at Tasa, Lindir shook his head and sighed, choosing his words with care. The forced gruffness of his voice did little to mask the evident discomfort he was feeling upon hearing so much talk of the past. "Enough of this. Tasa, your words ring true. But what can we gain by sitting here and talking? The sun is up and we have finished our morning meal. Surely it is time to set words behind. Let us lie the voices and ghosts to rest, for once and all."

With that, Lindir went over to pick up his gear and heave it upon his shoulders, calling out to Malris, "Is it not time to be on our way? Last night, you could not wait. Let us make our way to the high hill that we may finish our errand before night comes, for I would not wish to be in that place when shadows fall. Too much blood was spilled there."

[Firefoot]

Lómwë sat at the fire with a quiet detachment from the group, absently sipping the tea that Orëmir had made. He watched the others passively, only half-listening to the conversations going on. He was not, however, so deep in thought as he had been the previous night; rather, his thoughts seemed to drift aimlessly from one thing to another. It was something about this place. It was affecting all of them, he could see; not, perhaps, as profoundly – or perhaps visibly was the better word – as Malris, but affected nonetheless. He had gotten little rest during the night and had seen how this place and its memories affected even the dreams of his comrades. And when he had finally drifted off to sleep, his own dreams had made sleep little more restful than waking. Not that they had been definitive dreams – more of images, or sensations, of areas he dared not go in waking. No, the night had not been restful.

Presently, he stirred restlessly on his log. He desired that they should do what they came for and be done with it. No more of this sitting around a fire and dwelling upon it. Tuning in once more to the others, he realized that Lindir was stating very much the same opinion.

Standing, he seconded Lindir’s thoughts. “Yes, let us go now. I think we have found what little refreshment that we may in this early morning, and I grow tired of waiting. The time has come, and putting off the job does not make it easier.”

Shouldering his pack, Lómwë faced the high fortress of Himring. Little love do I bear the place, yet ever my heart draws me back. Yet I wonder what my heart bids me seek there…

[Anguirel]

Malris seemed much calmed by his uninterrupted night's sleep, though he reacted to being left to it with some chagrin.

"At least you let me see the dawn, I suppose. Look at it..."

All six Elves were at last united in what their kind excelled at; appreciation of overpowering beauty, that stirs the depths of the soul. Malris saw that Lindir and Lomwe were moved by this spectacle even as he had been by Maglor's voice; but he would not criticise them for it. He turned instead to Tasa.

"A thousand times I would forgive you, of course, if you had committed any crime. You brought me back to a kind of humility. I stand in your debt...but if we hear the song again...in all probability we will not, but if we do...all of you, pay it all your attention, and do not be quick to scorn it, if you find it in your hearts..."

Malris got to his feet, and began to clamber onto the lower, tumbled down wall which Oremir had explored that night.

"Good masonry, the best in the world, for the Naugrim helped us lay it. I remember their King, Azaghal...I seem to recall you knew him best of us, Lindir? But in any case, you are all right. It is time to climb. It will require all the strength and prowess in you; grip the footholds, and keep the bright banners of yesterage in your mind, and we shall conquer all the ridges, cliffs and scree. To Himring's towers we go this morn...and in the eve we will stand in Maedhros' courtyard."

Malris began the long, steep journey, the others quickly following; and though the ascent was still treacherous, in the light of beauteous Arien paths could be devined, and the fell wills that had been set against Malris on the previous night did not yet dare to make themselves felt; though the Dragonhelm sorely tempted them.

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It’s him . . . again,’ she said with a resigned sigh. There was no one who sat beside her on the wreck of the great oaken bed; its frame crushed save for the carven cluster of oak leaves and acorns that had once graced the top of one of the headboard’s posts. The straw stuffed mattress had long ago disappeared, rats and ravens claiming the scraps for nests of their own.

No one who listened to her complaints . . . yet still she spoke on. ‘Nerdanel’s son. Your friend, Malris . . . you remember. The one who was forever writing poems and songs and such.’ She combed her long pale fingers through the thick dark waves of her hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘He was singing again last night.’ She made a fretful movement with her hands, pushing down the dark material of her dress as it lay along her bodice, pressing out the wrinkles with her palms. ‘He kept me awake again,’ she complained. ‘I shall have dark shadows beneath my eyes from lack of sleep. And then how shall I look for our guests on the morrow?’

Giledhel turned her large, plaintive eyes toward the empty space beside her. ‘Malris? Malris?’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘Now where has he got off to I wonder?’ With another sigh, she rose and stepped toward the shattered loom across the stone paved room. With a practiced eye she examined the piece she was crafting . . . her fingers traced the fine lettering . . . something for her beloved Malris . . . it bore his name . . . but what had she meant by her choice of words and how had she thought to finish it . . .

It was a puzzle too great for her fragile mind.

She returned to her bed. A bright shaft of sunlight poured over the wrecked walls of the keep. Giledhel turned her pale face toward it, hoping for a warmth that did not come.

~*~

On a pile of crumbling stone blocks that had once been the foundation for the bedroom’s fireplace a raven perched. His bright, acquisitive eyes looked down, hopeful that some bauble or bit of food would fortuitously appear. But there was nothing his dark, eager gaze could find. Weathered wood, twisted and shattered is all he saw. And cold grey, lifeless stone.

In the morning’s breeze a piece of some old, torn weaving fluttered. Weighted down by wood and stone debris, it could not free itself. Frayed edges riffled in the slight currents then lay still again.

By some trick of light, the old bird thought, there seemed the dark figure of a woman moved within it. It startled him as she turned her gaze to his; pale grey eyes looking straight through him. He ruffled his feathers, shaking off that lifeless stare. And with a disapproving croak, took wing . . .

[Envinyatar]

Himring’s towers . . . the courtyard . . . bright banners of yesterage . . .

Orëmir tied tight the straps to his pack and shrugged it on. In the large compartment on the face of the pack, the one secured with the leather straps and sturdy buckles, he’d put his wooden chest of herbs and medicines. He’d checked it carefully this morning, making sure those remedies he’d compounded for minds overwrought and minds frenzied were easily at hand. Malris continued to worry him. The man’s mind seemed fragile. And Orëmir wondered if his former captain’s words were shifting subtly from just metaphor to some crazed and feverish reality.

Adjusting the shoulder straps of his pack, Orëmir took a step aside, allowing the others to precede him up the cliffside. Tasa nodded as she passed by him, her eyes flicking away quickly to the rocky way, seeking to follow the hand and foot holds that Malris abandoned in his ascent. Endamir came next, with a ‘See you at the top, brother!’ Orëmir could see his brother’s back was still a bit stiff, his pace more careful and measured as he began the climb. Lómwë followed after, his bow secured to his back, well out of the way of his climbing legs and hands.

Lindir stopped near where Orëmir stood, raising his eyes in question at his companion. ‘After you?’ Lindir offered, nodding his head toward the cliff. ‘Nay, let me bring up the rear,’ Oremir answered, a hint of smile curving one corner of his lips. ‘I’ll try to catch any of you should you lose your footing,’ he chuckled, glancing up toward the spidery Elven forms as they made their way upwards. ‘Or barring that, I’ll mark where you’ve fallen, so we don’t forget to carry your broken body back to the ship.’ He laughed softly, seeing the look on Lindir’s face. ‘A small joke, my friend. To lighten the atmosphere of this morning.’ He gestured toward the dusty track. ‘Go on, now. And hold firm to the rocks.’

His turn at last. Orëmir glanced up, watching as Lindir’s pack shifted from side to side. When the cascade of dust and pebbles had diminished to a trickle, he started up the rocky way.

[Anguirel]

To the others, it would probably seem that Malris was steeped in the very essence of happiness as he led the way, testing handholds, then springing up them, hare-like in motion. Every now and then he would continue to make another joyous observation, recount another memory, or point out a familiar detail of the rocks they ascended. Indeed, in the main this appearance was true. Malris was content to be back here, proud of his friends for bearing him company, putting up with his errant thoughts, and, he was inclined to think, feeling the same awe and joy, ultimately, that he was experiencing.

Yet within a crevice of his mind a doubt had been allowed to lurk. The captain's instinct of responsibility for his men is hard to take out of the blood and the spirit; and this sense of responsibility nagged at him. He remembered the gust of...of something, the night before; the intense stab, leaving the light, insubstantial, stinging injury, which had not, he knew, been caused by a rock, as he had told the others. What it actually was he could only grope after; such imprecise guessing would only lower morale, discourage the others. But by keeping his fear back, was he endangering their lives?

Not yet. He had no positive proof for the most persistent, the most gnawing, the most ghastly of his suppositions. Besides, there was no reason for trouble. The company belonged here. He had lived with his wife here, had lost dozens of friends here, defended these stones. They still owed him something, he felt. They would not turn on him. Neither he nor his friends had committed any crime. The uncovering of the Dragonhelm, it is true, could have caused certain problems, had they brought it up with them. But he had commanded it to be thrown into the sea. To be given back to Ulmo. Why, he was even being obedient to the Valar, at last, he thought, smiling. No, there was no cause for concern.

And so secrets proved self-harming to Elves, as they ever had; as Oremir and Lindir concealed the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, and Malris of Forlindon did not speak of his wound's true origin. Small sins, small faults of trust between friends.

Light wounds may bleed long.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa climbed carefully, lost in the action rather than the thought. It felt good to strain her muscles some... she would ache in a few hours, but it would be the good sort of ache that comes when your body is repremanding you for lazily forgetting your own fitness. The sort of ache that reminds you not to do it again.

She had made an effort to avoid work such as this... it was too reminiscent of long passed battles... of climbing cliffs silently before dawn to stage an attack at first light. She knew now that she could not forever escape her past. Or if she could, then diving blindly into the future was certainly not the way. She climbed unconcernedly now. Her lithe muscles shifted imperceptibly as she reached from hold to hold, finding small outcroppings that her companions' larger hands and feet could not trust. She trained her entire thought on the joy of motion.

Not more than twenty feet of slow climbing had gone by before her concentration was broken. Malris, who climbed joyously above her, ever gaining a lead, had dislodged several small pebbles and bits of ancient dust. It rained onto Tasa's head, startling her. The bits of rock stung her eyes and unthinkingly, she paused in her climb and released the rock face with her looser hand to attend her pained orbs. The fragile bit of stone she perched on crumbled at the extra weight. Blinded temporarily, she grasped for a stronger hold. It was too late. The sharp edges of the rock cut into her long fingers as they tore loose from the wall.

[piosenniel]

Gravity seemed to be winning . . . or gravities, perhaps . . . the heaviness of Tasa’s body and the force by which the very ground seems to draw all objects to it . . .

A quick ‘oh!’ as if someone above were taken by surprise and then the sharp pattering sounds of loosed rock skittering down the slope. Endamir glanced up to where Tasa climbed a little to his right and several yards above him. She had lost her hold on the rocky wall and her fingers could find no purchase. Still she pressed her body to the slope, hugging the rock as she could; hoping, it seemed, the scraping of her clothes against the surface might slow her down.

His feet secure on a short, meager ledge, Endamir moved as quickly as he could to the right hand edge of the jutting stone. He had already scoped out the choice of hand holds as he’d climbed earlier to this spot. At this end of his foothold, there was only a narrow, oblique crevice. Hardly wide enough for a thin lizard to squeeze into.

Without a second’s thought, he jammed the fingers of his left hand into the crevice and, hugging the slope, reached as far to the right as he could with his free hand. His hand caught the sliding Elf by the waistband of her breeches and pushed her hard against the rock, stopping her descent.

‘Reach over with your left foot and find my boot toe. It has good support. It will give you something to secure yourself against.’ Endamir looked up to where Malris had paused and was looking down. ‘Throw down a looped rope for her!’ he shouted. ‘And hurry!’

Already he could his wedged fingers beginning to grow numb in their precarious hold . . .