Island of Sorrow RPG

[Firefoot]

As Lómwë climbed up the treacherous slope, he was all the more glad that they had not attempted such a climb in the night. The way was steep, and hand- and foot-holds had to be carefully picked out of the face of the rock. A single instance of misplaced weight or an ill-chosen handhold on the cliff could wreck dire consequences. Every so often bits of dust and pebbles would trickle down upon them from those climbers above, most notably from Malris in his eager climbing.

Yet Lómwë did not mind the strenuous climb in the least; indeed, he enjoyed the physical activity quite possibly more than any other deed they had yet attempted on this journey. For the climb required nearly his full concentration and he could almost forget the intent of the climb and their destination. Almost.

There was still that small corner of his mind that could not help but reflect on the fair road that had once led up to the high fortress. That road, like so many other links to the Elder Days, was gone, eroded by the passage time and the elements and lack of use. It existed only in their memories, but there the memories were sharp and clear, undimmed by the passage of time, or rather, re-illuminated by this island. But gone, Lómwë reflected sadly as he mechanically reached for the next hand-hold, his concentration momentarily lapsing.

It was at that moment that several things happened: Tasa cried out above him; a rain of dust and grit fell down upon him, momentarily blinding him; and his hand missed the crevice he had been reaching for. He swayed dangerously, scrabbling at the rock face. By lucky chance, his fingers found purchase on the rock face, and he clung tenuously, waiting for the dust to clear so that he could see enough to continue his climb.

After what seemed like ages just hanging to the rock, he looked up and saw that Tasa was now being raised with a rope to the top, and Endamir seemed to be mentally recovering. Had Tasa lost her grip? He glanced down; he was some 15 feet up, and over hard rock. That would have been a nasty fall. His mind stirred in unease; it was just one more near miss in a long string. How many more times would they get lucky? Would it be better to just turn back now? No. He had come this far, and he was going to see it through. There was too much riding on this venture, too much had been invested in it.

So he dug a little deeper and pulled himself a little higher, preparing to complete the final few feet of the ascent, the end of the beginning.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite the massive proportions of the Dragon-helm and the fact that the object had been strapped across his back, Lindir had encountered few problems in making his way to the top of the cliff. He was the first of the Elves to reach the summit. Once or twice during his hurried ascent, a cautionary voice had sounded inside his head, urging him to veer a bit to the left or try a different foodhold. It was almost as if someone or something had purposely guided Lindir forward over the safest and swiftest course, not because of any concern for his personal well-being but to ensure that the helm reach its ordained destination. Lindir pushed back this unsettling notion from his mind, but remained seated on the rocky cliff with the precious artifact clenched between his tightened fingers.

One moment he was ruminating on the odd set of circumstances that had brought them to this isle, and the next he was staring grimly at the tiny figures of Endamir and Tasa who now clung precariously to the side of the cliff. Lindir looked up alarmed. Clearly, the two Elves were in need of help. Common sense dictated that he should race over to where Malris was seated and offer to aid his friends, perhaps to be ready to sling out a second looped rope if the first did not reach its destination or at least to show outward concern. Despite his clear sense that something must be done, Lindir sat complacently rooted to the ground, unable to move or take the helm from his lap. He felt as if the thing had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions and was preventing him from standing up. He could not understand what was happening. One part of his mind refused to give up the precious treasure even for a second, while another part was troubled and embarassed that he had not come forward to assist his friends. Defeated and powerless, he slunk back within the tall grass and piles of rubble that framed the edge of the hilltop, hoping that no one else had noted his strange behavior.

[Anguirel]

Malris was livid with himself. Dwelling on insubstantial threats, and climbing carelessly, his clumsiness had been the origin, as far as he could feel, of this disaster. His face became pale as the foam of the sea as he swivelled abruptly, unbuckling his pack of supplies as quickly as he could. Seizing a loaf of waybread at the top, he nearly flung it aside before recalling that, with fortune against him, this would only cause another mishap, and placed in his lap. At last the grey reassurance of the rope was in his hands. There was no time to tie a loop; with good Lindon sea-rope, there was also no need to.

Malris let out the harsh cry, "Loke!", and its song echoed about the island as the rope curved into place. Its loop completed, Malris hurled it downwards, with the famous prayer of Fingon on his lips...

"O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this line and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!"

At this, the calls of the gulls-always present intermittently on Himling-began to magnify. One large black-headed bird soared into the rope's path, batting it with his long, cruel beak, ensuring that it flew truly to Endamir and Tasa below. The continued, monotous gull sounds prevented further words; but they were not required. Malris grimly held fast to his end of the silvery twine, mentally thanking the King of Arda whom he had impetuously defied with the others, long ago.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa balanced precariously on Endamir's booted toe, beginning to slip. Dust still stinging her eyes, she kept them closed as tears freely flowed beneath her lids, trying to wash them clear. Endamir held her close with one arm as he gripped the wall with all of his strength with the other. She tucked herself against her old friend's body, trying to shift her weight and distribute it evenly. Blinded, she worked by every other sense.

She smelled the salt tang of the sea, and the old dust of forgotten stones, disturbed by the storm of the day before. Tasa noted Endamir's scent as she helplessly held tight to him: sweet and musty as an ancient book, opened for the first time in ages. Bird cries disoriented her as they dipped on the breezes that plucked at her clothes and Malris' voice cried a prayer as well known as any from above. She nearly felt the air part for the good bit of Lindon rope to pass.

Endamir spoke quietly into her ear. "I am going to release you for just a moment, Tasa... hold tight." She tightened her already firm grip around his chest and for a moment, nearly panicked when she felt his strong arm pull away. All that held her now from a fall she had resigned herself to were her own bleeding fingers and a small foothold she could not open her eyes to see. Endamir wrapped his arm around her again, working one handed. "Tasa, the rope is in my hand. You must let go of me and take it. I will not let you fall." Eyes still closed, she loosened her grip, comforted by his steady hold. She snaked one arm from around him to fumble for his hand. He passed her the loop. "Tasa, can you fit it around yourself?" He helped her to slide the rope over her head and under her arms, working slowly. Any false moves would doubtlessly not be conducive to a painless journey. With the rope firmly wrapped around Tasa, she released Endamir. Her weight was entirely trusted to Malris.

Endamir called up to their leader and found his own holds again. Tasa felt herself being gently pulled upward.

[Anguirel]

The gulls were starting to disperse now, and Malris called down a curt affirmation that he had Tasa held safely. He braced his slight, wiry frame for the increased weight on the rope; Tasa's adjustment was slow, and his physical preparation proved quite enough for the change. The rope now in both of his hands, he murmured "loke" again into the wind; the line glided through his fists, caressing rather than burning, and coiled easily around his waist, securing itself absolutely.

"Tasa," he shouted downwards towards where he could see the bobbing of her golden head, "Tasa? I've bound myself to you. You'll be safe."

The phrase called back an unbidden-apparently unbidden-memory...a starrying evening...his friends and comrades gathered on the Great Southern Balcony of Himring...a voice, the mightiest voice of the Eldar, speaking...

"In this way Malris has bound himself to Giledhel...and while this fortress stands, an everpresent defiance and reproach to the Dark Enemy of the World, they shall be as content as any of our kind have ever been, and their union will flourish!"

A widespread cheer. Tasa in the crowd, shimmering happiness, nostalgia, sorrow caught in the globes of her eyes. Lomwe and his wife, some months pregnant, smiling widely. Maedhros, armoured as ever, laughing uproariously as he clapped his remaining hand on his breastplate, shaking his fiery head...Curufin teasing his musician brother...

Maglor, harp in hands, extatic, yes, but with solemnity in those eyes. How much did he see, Maglor the Harper? How much did he guess? He strikes up a rhythm now...and the memory fades.

[Envinyatar]

Often Orëmir had ridden out from Imladris, into the foothills of the Hithaeglir to try his strength and skills against those of the granite and basalt bones of the mountains. It was good medicine for his time spent as a healer in the Rangers’ enclave. Suffering and death and the thought processes needed to hold them at bay could be put aside. Just the rock . . . the often tricksy rock, keeping its secrets from the climber. Just the rock and the fingers and feet and the narrow focus of one’s mind.

Orëmir looked up at the sounds of the commotion happening above. A frown creased his brow seeing the precarious rescue of Tasa by his brother and Malris. Old habits kicked in and he scurried up the slope as if he were an old rock lizard. ‘What a fool I was to let you go haring up here by yourself,’ he said in a breathless voice, half tinged with aggravation half with concern. ‘Let me look at those fingers of yours, you great ninny! And step back here, where the ledge is wider.’

Endamir gave his brother an abashed grin, offering his bruised and bleeding fingers up for inspection. ‘What did you think you were doing?’ Orëmir said through gritted teeth. ‘You might have fallen off the slope yourself . . .’ His words trailed off as he glanced from fingers to his brother’s raised brow at the little tirade. ‘Yes, I know I would have done the same,’ Orëmir said reluctantly. ‘BUT . . . I would have know exactly what I was doing . . . not just trusted to the slim hope of a narrowed crevice to hold me up.’ He shook his head, laughing in relief. ‘You’ve always been lucky, you know . . . graced by some special circumstance.’ He nodded up to the top where the others were now gathering, indicating his brother should start back up. ‘By the One, please don’t push past the limits of that luck of yours.’

When they reached the top, Orëmir opened his pack and took out his chest of remedies. He saw to his brother’s fingers and to Tasa’s scrapes and bruises. For the most part they were superficial and would heal quickly. Still he shivered a little in the sunlight as a fleeting thought rose in his mind that perhaps he and his companions were not welcome here. Once done he tucked the chest back in his pack and standing, noted Lindir hunkered down in a patch of tall grass. His pack was off his back and clasped closely to him.

‘Are you ill, my friend?’ Orëmir asked, seeing the odd look on Lindir’s face. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Within a few short moments, Tasa was beside Malris, seated almost comfortably on a rock. Her eyes still watered as she fumbled at the ties of her pack, searching for clear water to rinse the grit away that her tears had missed. Malris took the bag from her lap, swiftly opening it and removing her waterskin. She took it from him with quiet thanks and rinsed first her scratched and stinging eyes, and then her lightly bleeding fingers. In seconds, she could see again. She examined her hands, noting a torn fingernail with sluggish blood welling from beneath it, many scratches, and a deep gouge in her right palm. Malris took her hand in his and picked a small stone carefully from the cut, tossing it aside.

She looked from her seat out to the sea, taking in the quiet clouds that brushed the horizen. A soft breeze picked at her; she ignored it. She sat quietly as Orëmir, now beside them, lightly cleaned her cuts and she began to hum a distant tune thoughtlessly. It was only after Orëmir finished dabbing her scraped up hands with fresh smelling and nastily stinging liquids that Tasa looked up and realized her singing had an accompaniment: Malris' melodious voice took up the refrain as Endamir's boot tapped to the rhythm. It was a well known song of old, but Tasa had not noticed herself singing until it was over. She smiled, looking at her clean and blood-free hands, and then frowned, shivering. The friendly breeze of before felt colder; more forbidding.

"Does anybody," she put forth quietly, "feel as unwelcome here as I?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir said nothing for the longest time, watching in silence as Oremir tended Tasa's wounds. The haunting lyrics of the song that now filled the air enveloped his fea with a grim sense of foreboding. Glancing over again at Oremir, he finally responded, "Ill? No, I am not ill, at least with any affliction of the body. But this place.....I do not like it."

The Elf's fingers slid over the curved rim of the helmet as he gazed out towards the Sea. He still could not bring himself to put the thing down. With a sigh, he added, "Too many memories, and too much desire." Oremir could barely hear Lindir's whispered words and, of what memories his friend was thinking, no one could even say.

[Anguirel]

The memory of his wedding receding for the moment, Malris indulged in a reassuring spell of thoughtless action, swimming in the warm sea of rest, (so unlike the ocean surrounding them here...) and attending to the needs of the others in general and Tasa in particular.

It did not take him long to realise that he had forgotten about the waybread he'd removed from his satchel while searching for the rope; it was probably even now being ingested by the gulls of Himling. He did not object to this; the lembas Tasa and Lomwe had brought was, in any case, far superior, and plentiful, while he still carried some salt meat, a few Mannish rolls filled with the remains of the salmon, several apples, his flask of water, and a bottle of cool, glistening white wine. He speedily unpacked these refreshments, and the rest of the company pooled their provisions as well; it was now late in the afternoon, almost twilight, but this repast would make up for their lost lunch.

Still idly setting about this business, he joined Oremir in seeing to Tasa's bruises, and particularly the gouge that looked as if it might scar on her arm; leaning over, he plucked out a pebble Oremir had passed by...and shivered, not from fear or even from the cold. The tips of his fingers were lightly layered with Tasa's crimson blood, so bright against the pale skin...

Giledhel was dead, dead on Endor, live on the Undying Lands, whither they would shortly be departing on Cirdan's craft. No; it must be the same answer he had always given in relation to Tasa, ever since the race. But this, he realised, was the first time he felt himself regretting that fact. He shrunk from thought again, the shadow of doubt and complexity that burdened him, and idly joined in Tasa's tune.

When it came to an end, she looked querulously from Oremir to him.

"Is anyone here feeling as unwelcome as I?"

She was quivering in the cold; her lips-a little darker than her blood-trembling. Malris set all his attention upon it now, even as he passed her a glass of wine. It was not merely the wind that had given Himring its name. It was the same chill he had felt the night before.

"Not entirely," he said finally. "I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers."

The air about began to twist, whistle, almost snarl. All six of the Elves now huddled together, though most were still unprepared for danger, with bread and wine, not weapons, in their hands...

[Envinyatar]

The Orcs and the Lady

‘Hinya! That bird - I think it means to make some mischief with my weaving.’

Ashukh hurried to where the Lady sat, looking up at some great black bird perched on the crumbling masonry of the fireplace. It hopped along the jagged edges of the broken stone and peered down with a calculating stare into the remains of the room below. The breezes fluttered the edges of the Lady’s as yet unfinished project, seeming to pique the intruder’s interest.

Though his hands bore neither strength nor substance, still he patted the tattered cloth and spoke as gently as he might. ‘Feather brained burzdug be gone soon enough, Lady. Not come back neither. Zlog take care that sneakin’ bird. Him be left to rot with t’other of his friends what was crushed against the rocks.

A loud, strangled squawk, cut off in mid protest echoed on the other side of the Lady’s bedroom. Through a large crack in the lower part of the wall a faint wisp of breeze seemed to stir along the cracked, chipped stones that paved the floor. It bore upon it a lone, black feather, bent nearly in two.

‘Oh that were fun!’ Zlog hunkered down near Ashukh, grinning widely. ‘Grabbed him, I did. Made him take old Zlog out a ways then turn around. Yes! Turn around we did and him flying as fast as I could make him.’ With a nearly soundless CLAP!, save for the sighing of the small bit of air displaced, Zlog described how the bird had rammed himself into the wall. ‘Slid down them rocks lika sticky glob a spit down a troll’s leg.’ He too reached out and patted the weaving. ‘Won’t be botherin’ ya no more, Lady.’

From the topmost stones of the fireplace another voice called down to them. ‘Be my turn, Lady, for bird-watch. No need worry. Gorgu be keeping you safe now . . . yes, he be doing that for sure . . . yes, he do . . .’ He went on like that for a space of time, his words weaving a sing-song assurance of security; a refuge inviolate.

For their part, Ashukh and Zlog were quiet as they sank restfully into the stones upon which rested the Lady’s cloth; their passage leaving undisturbed the rusty faded stains of long ago.

----------

hinya – my child (Quenyan)
burzdug – black-filth (Orcish/Black Speech)

[piosenniel]

His brother, he noted, had gone off to speak with Lindir. The man looked pale and disconcerted as he sat on the grass, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on his close stowed pack . . . almost, it seemed, in a protective way. What’s this? he wondered to himself. ‘Lindir looks as if he’s seen some ghost. Some unpleasant ghost, too, by the looks of it,’ Endamir murmured aloud.

Lómwë was standing near him, taking in the little tableaux. He was hardly winded from the climb, Endamir had observed when he’d reached the top at last. His gaze swept over the man’s lithely muscled form. Kept himself in good shape, I see, there among the golden trees. Unlike yourself . . . he chided himself mentally. Endamir shook his head at the image of himself, sitting comfortable in his chair in the great library of Imladris. And an assistant to fetch things to boot! What a lazy git you are!

Tasa’s question disturbed his further remonstrance of past folly.

‘Does anybody," she put forth quietly, ‘feel as unwelcome here as I?’

Malris’ reply fell into the anticipating silence that had gathered about the plateau.

‘Not entirely," he said finally. ‘I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers.’

And was greeted with a rising wind that whipped about the companions, ringing them in like a noose. Endamir pulled his cloak from his pack and drawing it about him, huddled in closer to the others. From the corner of his eye, in the space between light and shadow that gathered near a tumble of rocks he thought he saw something pass. It was gone as he looked more closely. ‘Some trick of the wind and the dust it stirs,’ he said, talking aloud to himself. He frowned, feeling disquieted.

‘What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories.’ He shivered in the folds of his cloak. ‘Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .’

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat -- The Orc Sentinel

Bazhrat the Skullcrusher drew deep into the shadows of the rocky outcropping, his ears straining to hear what the foul Elves were saying. ‘The Dark Lord take those sneaking, murdering Elves!’ he cursed, wrinkling his nose up at the perceived foul odor. ‘And gouge out eyes, first, of that nosy-parker!’ The Orc peered out from his dark hiding place and glared at Endamir.

Good thing none of the other Orcs assigned to watch for intruders from this side of the island were about. Sure enough one of those big-mouthed kiss-rumps would be telling the Cap’n how the stupid Bazhrat had managed to let himself be noticed. Bazhrat cackled crazily, a sudden thought caroming through the dim corridors of his mind. ‘Don’t really matter, does it?’ he crooned, rocking back and forth on his haunches. ‘Can’t kill old Skullcrusher, can he now? Already dead!!’ The thought sent him howling with maniacal laughter.

It pulsed and echoed through the wind that had sprung up around the Elven companions.

The Orc look guiltily around, wondering if the snoopy Elf suspected the sound and whatever he’d seen were somehow connected. ‘Put a lid on it, Bazhrat,' the Orc admonished himself. ‘Best we be getting back and saying what we spied out.’

Like a fine mist, the Orc drifted out from his hiding place and sped quickly from shadow to shadow back toward the place just outside the fortress’ old wooden gate where the Captain and his ever restless crew had stationed themselves.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë drew his grey-green cloak close about him, trying to block out the chill, hostile wind. The cloak, being of fine Lórien make, usually blocked out all but the sharpest and dampest winds, but now it was as if this breeze cut straight to him. Perhaps it was because the chill was not so much a physical as much an unearthly chill, one that seemed to gnaw at the corners of his mind and heart as well as his body.

“What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories. Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .”

“This place does not even feel like home to me,” said Lómwë flatly. “Not even a home in the hands of strangers, or even murderous strangers.” His eyes turned westward, where, were his view not obscured, he knew he would see naught but ocean stretching out where fair Beleriand once had lay, where his home had been. Himling… had been a fortress, a stronghold. But home – that had been little less than a day’s journey from here, in his small home with his wife and son. Home had been a place filled with love and warmth, and peace, however temporary and fleeting. Peace that was long gone, sunken beneath the waves like his home. This place held no warmth, no welcoming embrace. It had only ghosts – both of the memory and in reality – hostile ghosts, inhabiting even the rocks and the wind, as Endamir had said.

“Certainly, this place bears memories . . . many of them happy, though more of them sad. I remember Himring as it was – but no such place is this now. This is nothing but a cold, forbidding shell of the fortress it once was. Whatever – or whoever – inhabits this island now is not living, and I feel no welcome from them.” As he finished those words, a new wind whistled in their ears, seeming to carry the sound of harsh laughter. Lómwë shivered involuntarily. There seemed to be a mist about the mountain top, despite the sun shining overhead. “But welcoming or not, I think we have too much invested in this venture, too much of a purpose, to turn aside now. We should go forth warily, I think - we’ve been lucky so far; there’s no saying whether this luck, if luck it is, will continue . . .”

Lómwë looked up the rise to where the fortress had once stood, a short, easy hike away. Little remained . . . and yet, with a sudden flash of memory, Lómwë could see the fair city as it once had been. He felt a sudden desire as he had never felt in many long years to climb upon those high battlements and gaze out at the lands about him, to feel free and yet in control, to have only small concerns easily looked after. He wanted to recapture those last years of the Watchful Peace, to go back and experience them indefinitely.

Then the vision faded, leaving Lómwë feeling sick and empty inside.

[piosenniel]

‘What purpose is that, Lómwë?’ The question spilled from Endamir’s lips without thinking. He scuffed the toe of his right boot in the thin layer of dirt, tracing a faint spiral that coiled and recoiled upon itself. ‘For my part, I must say I’m beginning to lose what enthusiasm I had for this venture. I cannot think anymore the past will lay itself to rest when I’ve clapped eyes on old haunts of mine or set foot upon familiar places.’ With a certain deliberateness, he scuffed out the design he’d made. ‘And now I think further on it, the past will not suffer my tears, either. The burden of my former deeds will not diminish were I to weep as many drops as fills this unrelenting sea.’ He chewed the inner corner of his lip, looking up to cast his gaze out over the waters. ‘The journey, so far, has at least been good for this discovery.’ Endamir glanced back at Lómwë, his grey eyes narrowed as he peered toward the man in a thoughtful manner.

‘And now even my other pretexts for being here seem falsely reasoned.’ He nodded toward Malris as he sat talking to Tasa, the long gold of her hair mingling with his short dark locks as her head bent near his, sharing some thought. ‘He has no need of me. Nor I of him. Our bond has dissolved. Gone to ash. Even now the winds that stir here blow those frail ties away.’

Endamir bent down and picked up a pebble from the rocky ground. ‘And this old place . . .’ he went on, skipping the shard across a short, dusty area. His eyes flicked up dismissively to where the crumbling fortress stood in the distance. ‘Its glories fade more with each step my feet take. The memories of it retreat into ashes, too . . .’

He stepped back from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken. What had stirred them so deeply and in so ill a manner? ‘Your pardon, Lómwë,’ he said looking at his companion. ‘I had not meant to weigh you down with such burdensome maunderings. Who am I to question your purpose? You have your own needs to consider without taking on the onus of mine.’

In the distance, Endamir could hear the waters of the sea washing relentlessly up on the rocky strand below and the soft . . . whishhh . . . of the retreating foam as it drew back out again.

Brother! he called to Orëmir. You were right. I should have listened to your counsel . . . I . . .

[Envinyatar]

‘What fell wind is this that brings such a chill and leaves a lingering despair?’ Orëmir considered Lindir with a deep concern. Deny as he might that he was ill, Lindir gave off the impression of one caught deeply in some old web. And one of his own making for the most part, Orëmir thought to himself. His friend’s eyes looked far off on some old scene and by his words it was not one he looked on gladly.

Brother! . . .

And now the urgent calling of his brother reached out for him, trailing off into an untypical confusion. In a few, quick strides he was at Endamir’s side, his hand coming up to rest against his brother’s cheek. Endamir’s eyes were unfocused, his gaze turned inward, so it seemed. You’re distressed; I can feel it. Tell me . . . what weighs so heavily on you? A tangle of thoughts came tumbling out. Unsure, rambling thoughts crafted with a sort of fearful, twisted logic.

‘Is it some malicious will sets itself against us?’ Endamir murmured as he sorted through his brother’s meanderings. ‘First Lindir and now Endamir have their minds set on some dark path!’ Orëmir looked furtively about, expecting to find something, he knew not what, that would explain this puzzle. There was nothing he could ferret out.

He drew his brother down, sitting close to him, an arm around Orëmir’s shoulders. He had no other medicine than that of his own supportive presence. No compound, no draught to drive out the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty that washed against him. He spoke reassuringly to his brother as the stream of conflicted thoughts ran on.

And one eye he kept fixed on Lindir who sat still where he had left him; his gaze far away, his hand moving idly over his pack as if to reassure himself it was still there . . .

[Anguirel]

While the stray wind carrying Bazhrat's laughter continued to gnaw on the company's minds, breeding fear, hesitation, and division, the not-so-stealthy scout was drifting on the breeze to an odd looking pile of rocks, far further down the hill and out of sight of the Elves. The stones were too peculiarly round to have all gathered there by chance or nature. It was in fact a cairn; it housed the leader of an Orc-band and most of his followers, and had been hurriedly erected by the few survivors of the party.

The Orcish cairn was the only one of its kind standing on the island. The other graves, equally eroded and crumbling, still held about them the dignity that told of Elvish craft; for no Orcs since had dared to bury their dead on Maedhros the Tall's domain. This one, too small and lumpen to be a source of attention, had been allowed to stand.

Of course, it "housed" the Orc-band in more ways than one. Thought these yrch were of no particular distinction in bodily life, as spirits their common residence made them a larger group of Coavalta than any of the other slain Orcs, who mainly dwelled in ones and twos. Thus this relatively unsucessful chieftain found himself "Captain" of all the scattered Orcish ghosts of Himring. This had swelled his arrogance and nurtured his anger.

Naturally, Captain Ghashthurk remembered his death. The one the Orcs called the Red Fury had sliced him throat to groin. The others, they had long memories too. They remembered swords, bright brands with hard names, and dark-headed smiths. Noldor, filthy Noldor, despised all the more because they were what each Orc longed to be.

And they remembered the object of their raid, oh yes. They remembered the tough little Dwarves, so pitifully few in number, a diplomatic mission; with their queer war-masks and their shining Helm.

And so when Bazhrat, one of the filthy scavenging loners Ghashthurk held sway over, had come limping sheepishly over to tell of six Elves, Noldor, led bythe same one Kragscurk had seen at night...the one who had carried Red Fury's standard...with others they remembered, a tall grim weaponsmith...and with the Helm...yes, no mistake about it...revenge had come for Ghashthurk's clan.

The twelve warriors (thirteen with Bazhrat added) soared out of their rough cairn, gripping spears that would leave no lasting bite, but only a taste of purest terror.

Terror. It had finished others before, Ghashthurk thought. It would finish this lot; and the Dragonhelm would be his forever more...

[Firefoot]

After a moment, Lómwë too sat down across from Endamir and Orëmir. Still dwelling on Endamir’s words, he hardly noticed Orëmir’s presence. “Nay, Endamir, do not apologize. I have asked myself so many of the same questions and mused over the same thoughts. Were it just Malris holding me here, I should leave; he is as a stranger to me. No . . . but I can’t just leave . . . I have to finish it.

“I have no delusions that I can bring the past back, and yet every step I take in this place, every moment I spend here, it brings those memories of the past in to sharper relief - clearer to the memory and closer to the heart.” There came a haunted look into Lómwë’s eyes. “The old people and places, it’s like I can see them. My son, Aradol, and dear Ellothiel, oh Eru, Endamir, what I wouldn’t do to go back, or to have them still with me!” That did it for Lómwë; he couldn’t stop now. Never had he spoken in such a way of those two – ever. “I can’t forget the past, nor do I want to, though I’ve tried, how I’ve tried. Why did I go to Lórien, adopt their ways and style of dress? I haven’t really known it, not till now, but it’s all been an act, an attempt to escape the past. When thoughts get too close to home, I shut them away, refusing to let myself go there. I’m afraid of it, and afraid of this place: it’s present and it’s history. And since I can’t go back or bring the past forward, I have to face it. There’s no peace in hiding from the past.

“I guess that’s all I’m really looking for: peace. I’ve tried in so many ways, and I’m not sure that visiting this place is going to do it. But I’ve got to try.” Even as he spoke, another memory began to intrude upon his thoughts. War and fighting sounded in the distance, though Lómwë was not directly part of it for the time being. Homewards he headed, with all possible haste. . .

No. Not that one, Lómwë declared pleadingly, forcibly shoving it away. He knew that one . . . it had attempted to intrude upon his thoughts many a time in these long years. But he wouldn’t let it; it was too painful. “I’ve got to face the past,” he said miserably, “but I can’t. Not yet.”

[piosenniel]

Endamir had recovered himself for the most part. He shook his head a little, in an effort to clear the last of the dark, clingy cobwebs that had trapped his thoughts, instilling in them a venomous fear and uncertainty. Almost as quickly as the bleak, hopeless thoughts had come, they receded, as mist does before a sudden breeze.

‘I’ve got to face the past,' he heard a voice say, tinged with misery, 'but I can’t. Not yet.’ Lómwë’s words cut through the last traces of Endamir’s oppressive thought.

‘My friend,’ Endamir began, nodding at Lómwë, ‘too well do I understand the depth of feeling that underlies your words.’ Though not the specific reason you say them he thought to himself. ‘But do you not also feel some foul purpose here in this place that seeks to take those feelings and distort them? That is not to gainsay your feelings, your concerns. But, just now, I felt some malicious will unstick itself from my thoughts, drawback . . . and with it take the complete hopelessness it had brought with it.’

Endamir narrowed his eyes, gazing into the distance at the ruins of the fortress. ‘We should be on guard; don’t you think? Don’t you feel it?’ He adjusted his focus, bringing it back to Lómwë. ‘We are in danger, I sense, we who carry those deep wounds that have not healed.

[Anguirel]

Malris, deriving all the comfort he could from the Forlindon wine, the Lorien waybread, and the dressing he had made sure was applied to Tasareni's hurts, still felt the chill, the undeniable hostility in the air, that set the others on edge. His conversation with Tasa had come to the end of all that needed to be said; they now understood each other's anxiety, the nervousness all six of the Noldor gathered near Himring's majestic gate and rusting, raised portcullis were afflicted by. Something was far from right. Now only Endamir and Lomwe were still groping at its nature in their words; at any other time Malris would have verbally castigated Endamir's fears, but now...

Some instinct guided his storm-grey eyes upwards, to the lintel of the gate's arch. There he saw the arms of Maedhros, once High King, Lord of the Dispossessed, Elven-prince of Himring; and beside them the smaller ensign of Maglor, twin stars refueling the hope and rekindling the fire in his heart.

"Up! Quick! Friends...we need to get inside the courtyard..."

He finished the last draught of his wine-goblet and began to rush for the gate. The others would sense the tone; the order given when lord, life and land was at stake, the order that brooked no disobedience; and they would follow as quickly as they could, as the screaming of the wind rose.

***

So. The shorter one, like a filthy cat, the one who had carried Red Fury's banner when Ghashthurk's stalwarts had fallen...he was onto something, he was leading a rush for the gate. Wise, the long-dead Orc hieftain had to confess. It was true that he and his little band would never dare to venture in there. There were many restless Elves within, swifter than they, the Chamberlain of the Palace, the Mastersmith, the Seneschal, the Diviner, the Lady with her pack of Orcs gone funny.

But though incorpereal Elves could outstrip and torment bodiless Orcs, still bodiless Orcs were faster by far than Quendi tied to flesh. It was easy, very easy, to block the short fiery one's way, with four of his strongest minions. Meanwhile the rest of them went for the sullen craftsman, the bearer of the Dragonhelm. It could not adorn Ghashthurk's head now, but it would rest in the cairn. Bazhrat charged off in a completely variant direction; Ghashthurk knew his game, and chuckled. He was going to play with the Elven-maid.

The spirits flashed into occasional sight now, causing their victims to recoil, more in disgust and pity twisted to fury than outright fear; but horror would be enough to start with, and fear would come, after a little of the stinging. The wounds of Coavalta scarcely slit the body, but disconcerted the spirit. Eventually, these Noldor would separate from their hroar, leaving their corpses to moulder. They would flee into the fortress, and weep and wail with the other houseless Elves.

And the Dragonhelm would rest in the cairn.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had sprang to her feet at Malris' cry, following him automatically. The air had grown noticably colder and her vision seemed to blur just a few feet in front of her. She was thoroughly disconcerted as she hastily grabbed her pack and ran, tripping slightly on the harsh rocks. The straps of her bag cut into her sore fingers. She ignored the pain as she made to catch up with her companions. Having far fewer aches than she, they ran more quickly. The air suddenly became horrifyingly full of insubstantial faces. One in particular darted toward her, leering cruelly.

Tasa stopped short, a choked scream eminating. Far ahead, Malris paused, glancing behind to her. She dropped her pack, reaching for the long blade dangling from her hip. Her right hand grasped the hilt as she spun, eyes meeting with nothing. A ghostly blade suddenly darted forth to pierce her wrist. The wound healed almost instantly, leaving a line of fresh blood to flower through the light bandages still covering her hands. She dropped her blade as a wisp of a breeze took tranparent form before her.

She shuddered in disgust, sick at heart, at the maimed version of an orc that stood before her, wielding a shadow of a blade shining dimly with her blood. She had never imagined that facing ghosts of the past could be so literal.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir had already stood up as his brother began speaking to Lómwë. He could sense that his brother’s thoughts were clearing now, though they still carried a pall of fear and unease. He was about to go over to where Tasa sat with Malris when he saw Malris rise quickly to his feet and urge his companions into the courtyard. The tone of command was in his voice and he led them at a run into the fortress.

The wind was rising again, howling . . . beating at the Elves with its frenzied gusts. Orëmir paused for a moment before he took stride, his ears hearing sounds from a distant time . . . the harsh cries of Orcs raised in battle . . . their wrathful zeal as they shook and rattled their weapons, fiendish minds intent on a bloody destruction. The winded battered against him, malicious laughter prickled against his cheeks, running down the collar of his tunic to freeze him to inaction if it could. It pressed against him like an unwanted lover. He shut his mind against the assault.

Reaching down Orëmir hauled his brother to his feet and pulled him along quickly toward the supposed safety of the courtyard. He glanced back once to see that Lómwë followed along closely behind

It was not until the wind released them and they fell onto the hard ground that he turned to take account of the others.

Where was Lindir?

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

They heard her fretting; her voice low with worry. And rising from the paving stones where her weaving lay, they looked for her. In the pale light Ashukh and Zlog could just make out her wavering form, inconstant in the play of light and shadows as she pressed herself against the tumbled stones which once formed the foundation of a great window. It was once the framer of a view that much delighted her as it looked out toward her garden. Now the stones of the window’s frame had cracked and fallen and rolled out onto the parched earth. No flowers or sweet smelling shrubs grew there save in her mind.

Gorgu had drifted down beside her his hands fussing at the edge of her sleeve as he sought to pacify her. ‘She be worritting – her flowers’ll be shredded and such . . . at’s what she says.’ He turned toward Ashukh and Zlog, a frown puckering his brow. ‘Wind’s up,’ he went on, nodding out across the rocks toward where the dust and debris rose up in a maelstrom just beyond the place where the outer fortress walls once stood.

‘Something’s come,’ growled Ashukh, hearing the clamor of his kindred in the rising wind. ‘Best we keep a sharp eye out.’

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘Oh, my poor, poor flowers! Their petals will all be sundered from them by this awful wind. Then what will I say to the guests when they wish to stroll there after we’ve supped?’

Giledhel wrung her hands in worry. She’d so wanted this party to go well. Some of Malris’ close friends would be there as would Maedhros. And his brother, also, she thought. The one that sang. She’d invited some others of the fortress’ company, too . . . ones with wives. There were not many ladies in this cold keep and she savored the times she could be in their company.

A frown creased her forehead. ‘Nay, not all of them,’ she hissed to herself. ‘There is that . . . one. I’ve seen her looking at Malris, her with her shimmering eyes, her sly eyes.’ Giledhel’s own eyes narrowed, thinking of other gatherings she had attended. She clapped her hands, calling to her children.

‘Gracious me!’ she exclaimed nearly tripping over the three as she turned. She laughed, a sweet sound that tinkled merrily among the stones. ‘My dear boys! You are all that a mother could ask for.’ She glanced about the room becoming more and more impatient as she did not see the one she sought. ‘Now where can she have gone too? My lady’s-maid, have you seen her?’ With a shrug of her shoulders, she smiled at her three boys.

‘Be dears, will you?’ she asked, pointing to where her great wardrobe once stood. ‘Fetch me out my green dress . . . the one with the tapering sleeves and the beaded trim. Malris likes me in green; he’s said so often. Sets off my dark hair. I’ll have the gold fillet, too, for my hair. The one set with the emerald.’ Her lips curved into a halfsmirking smile. ‘See if her and her tatty blue and silver dress will catch any attention tonight.’

‘Oh! And ask the gardeners to see what they can do for my flowers . . . will you?’

[Anguirel]

The music of battle roaring in his mind as it had not since the Dagorlad...the grim euphoria that propels the limbs and drives the heart, as Malris drew his sword, more than half his height in length, and slashed it through the four spirits who blocked his way, careless of its utility, aware that the enemy had no flesh to harm, but ready to resist anyway. Hopeless war was the way of the Noldor, Malris thought, as Cirlach gleamed in the dusk. His memory invoked Feanor, Fingolfin, Glorfindel, Gwindor...

The Tengwar and Certh runes on Cirlach burned with sudden colour; the Tengwar red, the Certh purest white. Malris knew the inscription well. "Curufin made this for a friend and father-vengeance." Such a message all that smith's blades had born. Some distrusted Curufin as emotionless, calculating. Malris knew love of his father had driven him faster than he could control himself.

The Orcish coavalta shuddered and howled, jerking back from the sword's radiance, and Malris, with Lomwe close behind him, hurled himself forward. The gate was but a step away...

***

"Dungheaps!" Ghashthurk hissed. "It cannot hurt you, for all its light. You can hurt him. Do not let him go."

Still the band of four, led by Kragscurk, the second largest fighter in the war party, faltered.

"The runes, Cap'n. Look at them. It's one of them Star-lord swords. Garn, and you expect us to run onto it?"

"Star-lord sword or not," growled Ghashthurk, "resist it, or I will close the Cairn against you, craven muck."

Kragscurk and the others glanced at each other, and then whisked back into the fighting with a searing howl of the air. Being banned from the Cairn and left to wander outside, a nobody lone weakling like Bazhrat...well, it didn't bear even considering.

***

"They aren't yielding any more ground," Lomwe cried, his own fine sword Coruthel flashing as it pierced ethereal form again, and again, and again.

"Aye," answered Malris. "The cause is, they've remembered they're dead."

The point of a battered, pale grey spear cut into his side, leaving scarcely a mark; but a flicker of irresolution, of concern-even fear? in his eyes, quickly repressed as he whirled Cirlach pointlessly again...he cursed as he saw that another two coavalta had surged behind them, cutting the pair of swordsmen off from the others; Tasa was left to face the unhinged looking lone Orc alone, one of the ghastly, barely-visible shapes was assailing each twin, while Lindir, furthest back, was surrounded by four, his face pallid and suffused with sweat...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa stood frozen for a moment, staring through the etherial form before her. Daggers of uncertainty quite literally pierced her heart until she heard a cry from Malris. She looked to him, noting the way his beloved sword pierced the air, if nothing else. She swept her blade from the ground, steel resolve in her bright eyes. The vines of the hilt fit the contours of her hand lovingly, cradling her fingers. It was long for a dagger, silver, and deadly. Her twin blades were strapped to her pack and she thought of them with regret as she knew unpausingly that it would take too long to unbind them. Had she realized what danger this trip would provide... she had been so certain it would be a test of will, rather than strength. Perhaps it still was.

The crazed spirit rushed her once more, blade raised. She stood her ground, crouched into a fighter's position. She still wore her filthy and torn breeches, and her boots, soft at the uppers, were solid support on the treacherous rock. No protection, any of her garb, for any weapon, be it corporeal or no, yet it was very suited for quick dodges.

"Spirit," she murmered. "Why do you linger? Your dark master awaits you in the void." With this, she leapt forward, blade nothing more than a blur. The orc did not even slow. Grotesquely, he laughed a bone-chilling laugh as her blade pierced his formless body with no effect. Tasa hesitated, barely. Another hit landed on her, scratching across her face, a mirror image of her scar of old. She shuddered uncontrollably. The wounds, insubstantial as they were, took longer to heal each time they landed.

She spared a moment to look for escape. Her companions were as beseiged as she. Their battle seemed hopeless. While the wights landed blow after blow, continuing the strikes even through the blocking blades of her fellows, they were unable to truly affect the dead. Her opponent, thankfully only one, had returned. She looked to the sky, taking comfort in Eärendil's glimmering. She glared with unadulterated hatred at the unsettled death that stood before her, sizing her up. She could not begin to imagine what evil thoughts raced through his mind, but she could hope to force his hesitation long enough to gather her companions together.

"Auta i lómë." she spoke reasonably to the orc. "Aurë entuluva." He turned to the eastern horizen and she bolted, soundless. With a wrenching cry, he saw her motive and followed. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the feint before raising her voice above the din. The spirit froze at the horror she spoke; the Elves looked to her, perched upon a rock, shadowed, nearly hidden, and yet the center of the moment. The orcs halted their attacks.

"Hear me now, ye proud Noldor! We will leave this place. Hope stay in your hearts. Aurë entuluva! Hear me now, ye restless spirits! You shall not remain, with us or without! Leave now or we will dispatch of you in less merciful ways. Hear me now, and choose." She raised her blade to the sky, awaiting reaction in the sudden silence of the night.

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat --- encounter with the Elf Witch

Bazhrat clapped his hands to where his ears might have been. The nasty Elf was screeching. Elvish words in a big voice. She held up her pointy little Orc sticker, he saw. One of the burning, hurtful ones he’d had the bad luck to encounter that long, long time ago. It had been one of those biting Elvish knives that had gutted him on the rocky field that lay at the fortress’ feet. He clasped his long, spatulate fingers to his belly as the memory of pain burned bright within him once again.

And here she was looking out at the Orcs and cursing them with her foul Elvish words.

‘Ow! Ow!’ she cried in a grim voice, her eyes as hard as granite. ‘Ow! Ow!’ And some sneaking sounds to round the hurting words out.

He backed away from her, his eyes wide with fear. He was certain that if she once pointed that knife she held at him, he would indeed be swept away to whatever fate those long gone companions of his had met. He shrank in on himself, as does a shadow exposed to a bright light . . .

‘Witch!’ he heard one of the other Orcs hiss behind him. ‘Nasssty Elf witch. Tries to trick us with her words.’ Several of the other Orcs who had followed along behind him now pushed forward, their inconsequential forms swelling against him, carrying his along.

A number of their wraithlike figures bore no weapons save for their jagged, sharp teeth and their long, hard, ragged nails; others grasped the jagged blades they'd used in life. Moths to a bright flame, they rolled toward her . . . a great seething mass of hazy mist . . . stinging and cutting her where they touched bare skin. Cold . . . relentless . . . a frenzy of angry, malicious loathing . . . they pushed against her . . . willing her spirit to let them in . . .

‘Get behind her!’ Bazhrat heard one of the Orcs say. ‘Don’t let her reach the fortress. It’s us as has the rights to her not them murderin’, sneakin’ Elves inside. We saw her first . . .’

‘Quit yer shoving!’ Bazhrat yelled at the Orc who was now trying to elbow him out of the way. ‘I was here first!’ A fight broke out, even as they rolled about the Elf and her knife. ‘It’s me what’s got the first rights!’ yelled another of the larger Orcs. ‘You maggots stand back and let your better have first go!’

The Elven prize forgotten for the moment in the growing battle for positioning, the Orcs turned on themselves, screeching and clawing at each other with a vengeance . . .

[Anguirel]

Child of the 7th Age's post

Was he truly awake or asleep? At first Lindir was not sure. His fingers tightened stubbornly about the helm, cradling the precious artifact close against his chest. Dropping to his knee so that his body hunched protectively over the Dragon-helm, he gazed out unbelieving at the scene that assailed his senses. Waves of desire, sick and heavy, emanated from the intruders in an ever widening arc, directed more at the object in his arms than at himself as its lone Elven bearer. He was no more than an incidental, a thing to be mentally bludgeoned and tossed aside so that the object he carried could be claimed by those creatures who now stood before him.

Lindir sensed he had slipped unknowingly into his blackest night dream and was thrashing about to try and bring himself to waking. Yet his body refused to respond quickly. It was as though he was encumbered with a thousand blankets of steel that prevented him from disentangling his arms and legs to throw off the unyielding chains of sleep. He tried to reach for his sword but his fingers would not move the scant few inches that would bring his hand in contact with its hilt.

For a single instant he was not afraid. On one level, that of the rational, the situation made little sense. How could there be so many Orcs on such a small island when this many years had passed? Or could these creatures even be called Orcs? In all his years of battling the minions of Morgoth, he had never confronted any Orcs like these. For all their skill in battle, Orcs were usually witless folk who showed little hint that anything was going on inside, whose ugliness and rage was a flat outer mask that sheltered no inner complexities or glint of reflection. But this odd menagerie of combatants seemed different. The ugliness reflected in the Orcs' shadowy bodies and faces was as nothing compared to the horror that lay underneath. Thick layers of desire and obsession spun out to envelope the Elf, to catch him within a sticky, unrelenting web. It was as if these few members of the black host had spent a thousand years ruminating on a particular desire and now saw a means to achieve that wish, if only the unwelcome obstacle Lindir posed could be summarily eliminated.

Lindir struggled to rise to his feet, clutching the helm in his right hand while using his left to steady himself. He was finally moving but he was still too slow. The creatures were about him in an unrelenting circle, their movements nimble in a way he could never have foreseen. It made no sense. Elves were swift and adroit in their movements; Orcs eternally slow and clumsy. So how could this strange tableau be happening? A thick blade arced upward and then came down within inches of his head, barely catching the edge of his leather jerkin as pain resonated through his left side. Finally Lindir awoke. Whoever or whatever these assailants were, they were capable of inflicting injury and death, whether through physical blows or some other means.

Fear and anger exploded from within as Lindir sensed the real danger he was in. The helm dropped from his fingers onto the stoney ledge and, for the first time, he paid the thing no heed. His mind reminded him that he needed his sword. He desperately needed his sword, not to strike out at the things who were attacking him but to free his own being from the sticky strands of the web that now threatened to entangle his mind.

[Firefoot]

When Malris had called them to arms, Lómwë had jumped up to follow: not by conscious choice, but by old habit reawakened. His sword Coruthel had seemed to leap into his hand of its own accord. A drumming thudding in his ears seemed to dull his senses for a moment.

As they met the Orc spirits in battle, Lómwë came to himself again. His sword felt like a dead weight, unwieldy and uncomfortable in his hand. It slashed through the air, through the unhoused spirits without causing apparent harm. Two, now three, of the pale figures with their pale swords surrounded him. Once one of their blades made contact with his skin, beneath his eye. The cut stung, though it quickly healed, and Lómwë hardly noticed. Only in appearance was this a physical battle.

For their most effective weapons were mental rather than physical. Lómwë could feel his already weakened mental barriers crumbling under their barrage, and he remembered Endamir’s words: “We are in danger, I sense, we who carry those deep wounds that have not healed,” and knew them to be true. I think I know who you are, taunted one of the spirits. Didn’t do such a good job of protecting your own family, did you?

Get… out… Lómwë struggled to force the Orkish assaults out of his mind. He could feel their stinging attacks, more potent and more tolling than any physical injury. He swung his sword viciously, his physical attacks as a metaphor for his mental defense. No… more… Maintaining this tenuous compromise was sapping what small reserves of strength he had; he could feel himself slipping as a black chasm seemed to threaten to swallow him.

So it is you cajoled a second Orc. Had a young son, didn’t you? And a wife? She put up a fight, but she broke hard, like you’re breaking now –

Lómwë dug deep inside of himself and found a last push born of rage, effectively shutting the spirits out. Then, abruptly and just in time, came the needed reprieve…

[Envinyatar]

The Elves of the Courtyard

It was if the great stone maw of the gate opened wide and sucked inward on itself. Tall grey eyed, grim faced Elves pressed against the boundaries of the courtyard. And as one, they drew their blades, stirring a silent wind that seemed to pull the companions toward them.

A great shout went up . . . The Standard Bearer! . . . The Union stands . . . it is not broken! The low thrumming whisper of Maedhros! Maedhros! Has our Lord returned? Will we be avenged on those foul Orcs?

Loose dirt and debris rode the whirlwind that now stirred in the courtyard . . . they flew on the currents that coursed over the tumbled walls . . . driving hard against the attacking Orcs . . .

[Anguirel]

The Helm, Ghashthurk thought, as it toppled to the ground! The Dragonhelm was loosed, and the Elf scrabbling for his blade would soon be rent, spirit severed from body. He could tell by the grey veins in his weary face.

"Now, worm-filth!" the Captain shrieked. "The prize is ours..."

But his screeching imperatives went unheard in the sheer, irreparable chaos that was seizing the Orcs crowding for the Elf-maid's blood. Many had joined Bazhrat, eager to take her, remembering the twisted joy that torture of Elven females had brought them long ago. Only a few kept order;

Kragscurk and his detachment repelling the short one, the bearer of the shining broadsword, and his companions, the other blademaster and the pair similar of countenance, from their attempt to reach the gate. But that the twins had been able to reinforce the warriors was in itself a failure. Ghashthurk spat a gobbet of rheum that could no longer instil material disgust onto the ground. The one remaining Orc at his side, the stupendously dull but loyal Rubgrakh, looked to him for orders. Grashthurk spat.

"Possess the helm and roll it, cretin. I will handle the Elf and reorder the scum over there." Obediently, Rubgrakh's essence dissolved into the massive, darkly golden helmet, and it began to tumble down the hill...meanwhile Ghashthurk soared to the scene of the quarrel, slapping and snarling and biting. Cowed, the underlings would stream away from Tasareni, two blocking Lindir, the rest joining Malris's foes...

It was then that the shout from...from Them rang out calling the Elvish name of Red Fury, and even Ghashthurk felt that, had he been solid, his own water would be running down his leg. They wouldn't leave the gate, would they? Surely not? Kragscurk seemed to fear that they might; his lads were flailing their translucent arms with little enthusiasm now, backing away...

***

"The affairs of the deserters who left us to die in the retreat are not ours," said the Diviner coldly, ignoring the guards shouting their lost lord's name. "We should allow them to die and crawl back to us, repentant. Such are the ways of fate."

"Silence, soothsayer," answered the Seneschal with a growl. "They were obeying Lord Maedhros' orders. I knew Malris..."

"And I Lindir," the Mastersmith seconded. "They were no cowards."

"What of Tasareni? You should ask that poor little chit Giledhel about that faithless..." the Diviner began.

"It is time," the Chamberlain said simply, and the exhortations of the sentries and Elves-at-arms faded, along with the forms themselves. For a moment the Orcs would be filled with new heart; until, once more, the Island resounded with the strains of a harp and the sound of a peerlessly powerful, perpetually youthful Voice...

***

He burnt like a white fire within
He ne'er forgot the chains of yore
He would not shun dread battle's din
He hunted e'ermore.
The craven foes would shudder, flee,
Yet ne'er had swiftness as did he,
And when the Prince's trumpets sound,
The Orcs are filled with dole therefore...

***

Just as the Elves had mustered and then receded, so too did the Orcs, still more suddenly than they had come; the next strong wind took them with it, into the north and east. The six comrades gazed at each other; Malris, Lomwe, Endamir and Oremir, still in warlike postures as though trying to seize the gate; Tasa, elevated on the rock where she had crawled for her defiance; Lindir, pale, cold, and shivering, his sword unsteady in his hand, just drawn; and the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, visible in its dull aureate nature by starlight, an unspeaking denunciation.

[Envinyatar]

‘Come, friends!’ Orëmir shouted, breaking from the frozen tableaux. His hand clasped Endamir’s arm and hauled him, blinking, from his place. The wind which had blown away the Orcish spirits had died down, leaving only a few swirls of dust and small debris to settle to the ground. Both brothers rubbed at their eyes, wiping away the dust which had filmed them.

‘Let’s get inside the gate,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits.’ He bade Endamir go ahead and saw his brother clap Lómwë on the shoulder and nod toward the gate. Malris looked to be alright, and Orëmir was sure he would see to Tasa.

Lindir seemed the worst beset of all the companions. His sword hung limply now in his grasp, and he looked in a disconcerted manner toward the gate and then back toward where the helm he’d held now lay. ‘Leave it, Lindir,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand near him. ‘Let us go into the fortress, now. There are naught but us here who can carry the helm. It will be safe . . . safer than we are at the moment, especially if those creatures return.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her call to hope had done little good... though her comrades seemed for the moment encouraged, the bitter coldness of horror eminating from the restless spirits still pierced deep.

Tasa shrunk into the rock, trying unsuccessfully to remain unseen. To hide from shadow... what folly, most especially at night. she chided herself. She raised her dagger, shimmering in the moonlight, in hopes that memory of flashing swords and cries of the Eldar would torment these restless spirits. Their transparent faces seemed cowed for the moment... she began to back off of her precarious perch, feeling with her toes, eyes never leaving those of her persuers.

She screamed high as an ice cold blade seemed to pierce her from behind through the tough muscle by her shoulder. It seemed to melt as she turned and she felt her skin, endowed as it was by the grace of Eru, begin to knit itself together once more. The blade was not of this world, and yet it cut so deeply. She marvelled for a moment, admiring the desolate sheen. Her attention was locked on the ghosted blade perilously for a moment that lasted an age. Time stood still as she glanced at the markings... she trembled, unable to respond to the memories that tore through her mind.

She had lost grip on her left blade... it lay by her feet once more. Blocking with the right, she swept toward the ground, intent on retrieval. Malris' voice cut the air and she reacted, turning her head to the sound. She felt hot iron tear her skin as blood welled from her jawline. She glanced at the blade, now glistening crimson in the light of fires. She blocked its second pass easily, pulling her leg up and outward, breaking several of her enemy's ribs with one motion. She slit his throat mercilessly before wiping the streaming blood from her face with one gloved hand. She glanced at his fallen blade before returning to battle... harsh marking adorned it... the hilt was carved as a skull with glinting eyes laughing at her from the depths. She spat is distaste and turned her mind from it.

She looked still to the blade that had swept through the night and into her flesh once more. Ghosted rubies smiled terror in the shadows of the fight. She shuddered again, remembering that battle. She could still feel the warm blood coursing down her neck to pool slightly in her collar before dripping harmlessly to the ground as she cut down orc after orc, though that wound had healed so very long ago.

The orc advanced slowly and Tasa looked up, startled back to the present. She was completely surrounded by a gyrating throng of unresting death. Her stomach reeled at the wrongness of it all. She uttered a desparate prayer to the Valar and steeled herself against the cold that she felt so deeply. She crouched, ready to fight to the last. Suddenly their attention turned. The orcs screeched at each other in their harsh words and turned against themselves. As they began to tear into each other, the wind tore through the group, spreading them far and fast. Momentarily safe, Tasa ran at full speed across the rough ground and toward her companions. Upon reaching Malris, she nodded understanding at the quick question in his eyes. He had noticed the new scar adorning her face, mirroring that of old. She glanced her own quiery to him and he nodded.

She dropped to her knees, swinging her pack to the ground. He stood above her on guard as she quickly traded her short dagger for her twin blades. She hoisted her pack once more to her blood-stained shoulder and rose spinning, her silver swords flashing through the night. She stepped down, prepared for true battle should it again arise, as she stood by her dearest friends' sides outside the gates.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a good while, Lindir was silent. He thought of leaping to his feet and clawing his way back down the hill so that he could again retrieve the helm and cradle it near his chest. He seemed to hear a ghostly melody, echoing a wistful call that he must turn back even if it meant leaving his companions. For an instant, he struggled towards the helm while still on his hands and knees, but he was unable to propel his body upward. He felt weighted down under a heavy burden of sorrow and shame, as if all the ugly spirits of the past had raised their heads in rebellion, reminding him of so much he had tried to forget.

More than that, his body refused to cooperate. His fingers reached down under his jerkin, only to feel a sticky trail of blood. Somewhere in the earlier melee, he had been injured. He could not say exactly how or when. Perhaps the ghostly swords could inflict damage even on the living. Or perhaps it was the time he had fallen to the ground and struck his side against a boulder. Now, every time he breathed, a stabbing pain assailed him. The others in the group did not yet know, and he would do his best to keep that knowledge from them, at least until they returned to camp.

Defeated by the lengthening shadows in his head as well as the jagged waves of pain that spread in uneven waves throughout his body, Lindir glanced up at Oremir and shook his head. "I fear you are right. I would go back if I could. I hear the thing calling to me. But what my heart wants and what I can do seem to be two different things."

Doggedly, and with an arm from Oremir, Lindir rose once more and turned his face unwillingly to the fortress that stood above them. For a second his cloak fell forward. If any had looked, they could have seen a red stain that was even now visible on his shirt. Pushing the pain back down in a manner unique to those of his kind, Lindir flashed a sign of gratitude to Oremir for his words of assurance and steadying hand. At least he felt no anger there. He could not say the same about Malris. What madness was this to go forward after what they had seen?

Struggling forward to stand beside Malris, Lindir addressed him in a hushed but angry tone, "This place is full of evil. We do not belong here. Let us retrieve the helm and return to the ship while we still have time."

There was no audible response, only a harsh glance in return. "Very well, then," Lindir responded. "I have given my word and I follow you still. But if the very dead rise up against us, I do not know how much longer we can go forward, without madness descending on our heads."

Still, there was no response. For the first time, Lindir began to wonder if Malris had known all along what had awaited them on the isle, but had kept the secret to himself, fearing that otherwise his companions would not come. He muttered this dire thought to himself under his breath, now knowing or caring if Malris could hear the words. Then pain took over, and Lindir could do little more than put one foot in front of the other, willing his body up the hill.

[Firefoot]

Into the courtyard. Yes, of course. Lómwë nodded wearily as Endamir laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits,” Orëmir continued. Lómwë doubted it. What protection would stone be against spirits? Abruptly, he twisted around and looked down far below them at their ship, swaying in the tide. The best protection would be to leave this cursed fortress. His resolve to remain was rapidly decreasing as his doubt in his own judgment increased. What did he expect to find here?

Malris and Tasa were already at the gate. Endamir seemed to be waiting for him. “You are having doubts.”

“Yes. It is getting worse… storms, then voices, now an attack – yet, ‘On,’ we say, ‘push on.’ Maybe you were right. Maybe we ought to turn back.” Now they were drawing near to the gate, then they were through. Lómwë shivered slightly as they passed under the crumbling arch.

The first thing that struck him was the lack of color; the place felt dead. All that remained were dull metals and rock – no banners, no flowers, no nothing remained to enliven the ruins.

“Well, Malris,” said Lómwë, a twinge of accusation in his voice, “you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?”

[piosenniel]

Endamir found himself in a curious mood. The foggy thoughts, the rush of battle energy had now gone from him. He felt hollow, as if what were left had shrunk somehow and now rattled about in this shell of a body. The courtyard had an unreal feel to it, and despite his brother’s words to the contrary he felt no safer upon its paving stones than he had upon the rough ground outside the fortress.

As if from some far place, he could hear the sound of Lómwë’s voice. He focused his thoughts, trying to catch what he asked. ‘Well, Malris, you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?’ He looked toward Malris, waiting his response. He laughed grimly as his eyes went to the crumbling gate arch. It hung together precariously, one hard push against it and it, too, would come crashing down among its brother stones.

Endamir pulled his cloak about him, shivering and feeling suddenly quite weary. His knees felt like jelly. With a tired sigh, he leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword.

[Anguirel]

Malris walked through the gate in total silence, but his eyes would tell quite enough. They flashed alternately with fury and wonder; anger reaching the surface when he looked back at the Helm, amazement when he gazed skywards towards the Voice's second manifestation. To Lindir's reproach he made no sign of replying.

Instead, he turned abruptly and faced Oremir. "You seemed less than surprised," he said coldly, bitterly, "that Lindir brought the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin into this place, against my decision that it should be entrusted to Ulmo."

A pause, long enough to triple tension, short enough to cheat Oremir of a chance to defend himself.

"If you told me that you knew nothing of it, you would be a liar. You are one of the truest Elves I have known. Therefore confess to me. You allowed Lindir to bring the Helm, maybe even aided him. Some strip of pride, of exultation in possession, propelled you both-perhaps you too, Endamir," he adds sharply.

"I scarcely know who I can still trust. Oremir, both you and Lindir spoke against this voyage. At least have the strength to admit your fault. The ever-present Noldorin flaw of pride dragged that Helm to this place. It may have destroyed Lindir's hroar. Think on that, before you are so quick to accuse me again."

Malris now glanced back to Lomwe. "What now? I hope you all realise that all of us would lie in worse states than Lindir's were it not for that song. The strains of Maglor's Noldolante drove back the enemy this eve. It is in following those strains that the only hope of restoring Lindir in body and spirit lies. We must go into the fortress, and find the Voice's source, or at least others, like the spirits that cheered for us in the fighting's heat. And this time," he finished with a dark look at the Helm, "we leave accursed curiosities behind."

His answer made, Malris strode on into the courtyard's centre, and then turned left, pulled by the western wall, the cloisters, the chambers and the stairs that led to his old chambers, to the place he had inhabited with lost Giledhel. But something made him pause. He turned back to the southern wall, beckoning the others after. A noise was building up, slowly but surely; a vulgar Elven ditty sung among the common soldiers, fluttering on the breeze;

Yes, we will stand for Maitimo
For well-formed Coppertop
And bear our spears and scorn the wind
The snow, the orcs, we bear alike
We drive 'em back with fire and sword
For noble Coppertop!

It was a bizarre, incongruous sound, full of many comic memories quite ill-fitted to the situation; and despite themselves, despite division and danger, adversity and peril, despite Lindir's plight, something that was, absolutely literally, the ghost of a smile would shine briefly on six faces. Here and now, it was, far more than the echoing, epic beauty of Maglor's song that had repelled the Orcs, the sound of hope.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

‘Her flowers! The woman is daft!’ Ashukh looked out into the rubbled remains of what once had been The Lady Garden. A few weeds and tufts of grass clung bravely to the sparse soil, pushing their way up between the stones that had fallen from the fortress.

‘Oh, aye, she’s a bit tetched . . . but she treats us good enough, don’t she?’ Zlog looked out over the barren landscape, too. Words such as 'gentle' and 'kind' and 'forgiving' were not a part of his vocabulary. But were they so, he would have used them about the Lady Giledhel.

In life, he and his two companions had stripped her of her dignity with their murderous blows, bringing her low to bleed out upon the paving stones; her bright red blood now fading to rusty stains at the foot of her bed, where they’d dragged her.

Then they had been slain by several Elves left to secure the fortress until all had gone. And she . . . in death was kind and gentle and forgiving of them. Her fëa giving them some hope that beyond this horrid world there lay some hope for them. She nurtured them, and they, in turn, became her stalwart guardians when what little hold she had on her new reality faded away and she was lost among her old memories.

And so it was that Gorgu called out to her, as she fussed about the place where her wardrobe used to stand, her fingers touching silks and satins that had long gone away. ‘Lady, the gardeners be working hard. Looks as if all your flowers will be showing to their best!’

She went on contentedly about her little tasks as the three of them leaned as far out the window as they might. ‘Those Elves are singing! You heard them! Things feel different, don’t they? Something’s come inside the gate . . .

[piosenniel]

. . . We drive 'em back with fire and sword . . .For noble Coppertop!

Endamir sang the last of the ditty along with the fey voices. There was naught that he could see, save the plain, grey stones that were still standing of the southern wall. Those were simpler days; goals were clear; no shading into greys what should be done and what not.

These were good men who died here.

‘Orëmir,’ he said quietly to his brother. Orëmir’s face had hardened at the accusations of Malris. It was not difficult to read what his brother thought. ‘I want to see the rest of the fortress . . . I need to see it . . . I’m sure of this . . . make some small gesture of penance.’ He took his brother’s arm. ‘It may not be enough. Too little, too late some might say. But I must make a start.’

He pulled his brother a little ways away from the group. ‘You must do this for me. Stay and be with me this last while.’ Endamir looked to where Malris stood. ‘Don’t let his words sting you . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir bit back the bitter remarks that threatened on the tip of his tongue. He clamped his teeth together firmly. The little knots of muscle that lay over the jaws' hinges pulsed in an irritated manner. He could feel the increased pressure on his arm as Endamir clasped it firmly.

‘Yes, I’ll do this for you, as you ask, brother. But by the One if that . . .’

His further remarks were cut off as Endamir lifted his chin toward where Lindir moved slowly. The Elf’s cloak had swung forward, opening a view to the tunic beneath. A dark red stain flowered on Lindir’s shirt, his face looked a little ashen and sweat was beading on his brow.

‘Come! He looks as if he needs some help,’ said Orëmir, leading his brother to where Lindir now stood, trying to catch his breath. He directed Endamir to lend the Elf a steadying arm as he gave his support on the other side. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said quietly to Lindir. His eyes glanced down to where some splotches of blood had dropped on Lindir’s boot. ‘I have my medicine chest in my pack. Will you let me see to your wound?’

[Firefoot]

Not even the pleasant memories brought by the old ditty could wholly assuage Lómwë’s irritation at Malris’ terse tone. Malris, it seemed, still expected them all to follow him, like ducklings, maybe, or dogs that could be appropriately scolded and called to heel. Though he himself had not been the object of Malris’ annoyance, he found himself siding with Lindir and Orëmir. Leader though he once had been, in this situation Malris ought to have been acting more like the first among equals, and Lómwë was not even sure he even deserved that appellation anymore.

Malris had waved for them to follow him, just before the song had begun, but Lómwë stubbornly remained rooted in place. Endamir and Orëmir, he saw, had also removed themselves from the group a bit and were conversing quietly.

What reason have I to follow you, Malris? Then, directed to himself, You don’t do well following… haven’t you learned that about yourself by now? How many disasters of his life would have been averted by following his own counsel…?

“You have a family, Lómwë! Must you go?” Ellothiel’s voice was pleading, angry almost. He tried to stop the memories, leave them in the past, but his weakened mental barriers were of no use.

“You know I must go,” he chided gently, his face asking her to understand, though she did not see it; she had turned her back. Lómwë came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, but she pulled away and turned to face him, still saying nothing.

“We knew this time would come… eventually. I have to go. They’ve broken the siege, and if we do not stop them, all Beleriand will be laid waste…” His voice trailed off, his duty and love fighting for precedence.

“It’s that letter, isn’t it? Not the scant news we heard, but the letter.”

“Not wholly…” Lómwë answered. The previous day, he had received a letter from Malris, explaining the situation in detail – in other words, explaining the need for help. All along he had known somewhere in the back of his mind that this peace they had been experiencing was only a temporary respite, and Malris was an old friend. To fight was his duty.

“And if you don’t come back, Lómwë, then what?” Then, for the first time, he noticed the traces of fear in her eyes, and he understood.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I promise. But I have to go.” This time she didn’t pull away from his embrace.

“I know,” she answered. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to.”

He had left the next day, and ever after wished he hadn’t. Because if he hadn’t… No.

Mind reeling, he returned to the present. He knew he couldn’t blame Malris for that innocent letter sent thousands of years ago, but at least a part of him did. If he had thought, he would have known he wasn’t thinking straight, but that didn’t occur to him. Purposefully, he strode over to where Malris was waiting to be joined.

“I don’t know why I’m still following you, Malris,” he whispered fiercely as he passed. “In fact, I don’t even know if I am.” With that, he passed the other Elf, heading into the same section of the fortress where Malris had been going.