Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir slouched against a boulder vainly trying to support his body. He simply could not go on. The blood that had once been a trickle was now a spreading pool of crimson that covered not only his shirt but his outer cloak as well. He could hear Orëmir speaking to him, offering to tend to his wounds. The voice sounded muffled and faint as if the words were spoken from a great distance through a tunnel. With considerable difficulty, he turned his head to try and focus on the other companions, but nothing seemed clear or distinct. The ground rose and fell as if he sat astride the back of a rearing steed.

Lindir had been grateful that someone had even noticed the situation he was in. He felt amazingly foolish. He chided himself for his foolish pride in keeping the problem to himself. Struggling to respond to Orëmir, he was unable to make a single sound. His knees suddenly gave way as his body slid awkwardly to the ground. All pretense of Elven grace had been stripped away. He looked little better than a lumbering Orc.

The last thing Lindir remembered was staring up at the sky and wondering if this was how it felt to die. Perhaps I'll go to Mandos and maybe I can talk my way back to Elvenhome. That was the last conscious thought he had.

[Anguirel]

Malris' teeth were set, his mind contorted with anger, seemingly undimmed by its expression earlier. Was this all that was left of the host of Feanor? Some of them hiding guilt with sanctimonious reproach towards him; others despairing after a brief battle...alright, it had been a trial of all their spirits. But they had emerged, just-no thanks to whoever brought the Helm...

There came the stumbling block. He knew who "whoever brought the Helm" was. Others of the company might have helped him, but the actual bearer of the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin had incontestably been Lindir. Lindir, who was scarcely breathing, sorely wounded, who needed assistance, and quickly. Malris could not blame an invalid. Now was not the moment to be severe about poetic justice. And so he had turned his fury on Oremir and Endamir, certainly nothing more than accomplices. And yet Endamir still bore it. Not out of love for him any longer; but out of all the rest, only Endamir was pressing on, practicality on his mind, towards the voices of those gallant soldiers, the backbone of that most courageous army...

Thank Illuvatar for Endamir, Malris thought quietly. I know what I must do now. We cannot go on like this; I shall turn around. I will conciliate my friends. And then together, we'll enter that gatehouse, and if we can't find a way to save Lindir, then we are not of the Eldar...

Just as Malris slowly, deliberately, swivelled to face Endamir, not far behind him, and the others, scattered about further back, just within the courtyard, a petrifying slump disturbed the dust. Malris mouthed an entreaty to Varda. "Don't let Lindir have died, Lady...don't let him have died with resentment against me etched in his mind..."

Oremir, who had been about to see to Lindir's few physical wounds, knelt to the ground and held the unconscious Elf cradled in his arms. Tasa quickly rushed to the scene as well. Lomwe, Endamir and Malris kept back. The others were unwilling, most likely, to crowd Lindir. But Malris simply knew he could not step further to the friend he thought he had now failed. "Varda, Varda..." he repeated, slightly louder now, despairingly.

"Oremir, is he cold? His eyes...does any fire of the heart linger in them?" he asked, feeling the uselessness, the idleness, helplessness, of such words. "If any life remains...we ought to take him to the gatehouse where the soldiers' ditty came from. Perhaps those poor houseless braves can tell us of some source of succour."

Or even, he thought, but did not dare to say, of the Lord Maglor. Maglor, whose staves had driven off the ghastly Orcs...Maglor, whom he had held up from fainting in a foot-race, Ages ago.

[Envinyatar]

‘Bring his pack along, someone!’ Orëmir’s quick inspection of Lindir’s wound showed a deep gash on his right side, extending upward from the ninth to the 7th rib. From what manipulation he had been able to make, the ribs did not appear to be broken. With the long practice gained of carrying downed men and Elves from the field of battle, Orëmir slung the injured Elf over his left shoulder and took him to the gatehouse. One of the other Elves had gone ahead and made clear a space to lay Lindir down. A blanket had been unrolled for him to rest on and another folded into a neat square made for a pillow.

With an economy of motion Orëmir pushed up Lindir’s bloodied tunic and wiped away what blood he could with a clean section of it as he went. Someone had placed his medicine chest near him and he fished about in it for his bottle of distilled spirits. Pouring a thin stream of it into the gash, he used a clean wad of cloth to clear away the crusted blood and dirt at the edges of the wound. The blood had already stopped flowing. With salve and soft fluffed cloths, he covered the wound and bound it securely with a roll of long linen strips.

During all this, Lindir made no sounds nor did he move as the gash was cleaned and bound. His face was pale, his brow beaded with sweat. And beneath his thin lids, his eyes darted furtively as if searching . . .

‘The wound will heal,’ Orëmir said, standing up from his friend’s still form. ‘It is a long gash, deep, but not such that the muscle below is breached. The ribs are intact; he breathes well.’ He paused for a moment a worried look on his face. Endamir straightened up from where he had bent to place a blanket over Lindir. He raised his brow at his brother.

‘It is usual when I take care of another Elf’s wounds for me to contact the other Elf, through osanwë. Even if they are not conscious, there is usually some point of contact where their energies can be focused on their wounds, helping them to heal more quickly.’ He gazed down at Lindir, lying still as stone. ‘But he has pulled himself away somewhere. To a place where my healer’s skills cannot reach him. I . . . I worry. It is sometimes like this when an Elf hovers between life and death. But it is not his wound which is causing this state. I’m puzzled . . . and I cannot think what to do for him. Save that we must somehow keep him safe until we can call him back to us.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

For the longest time, there was darkness and silence. Then Lindir felt a gentle tugging at his sleeve, hesitent but welcoming, as if beckoning him forward. The Elf could not see or hear anything, but he had the strangest sensation that someone was with him in this very odd place.

The tug came again, only this time insistent and a little less friendly, pulling him forward and upward. A tiny flame of fear flickered to life in some piece of himself that still bore life. Lindir realized he had very little control over what was happening. Surely, this can not be Mandos, he grimly mused. Someone wants something from me, and I am not so sure I want to offer it freely. His mind screamed out a warning for his body to resist. He tried thrashing out, struggling with his legs and arms, but he could not move them.

His resistence faded and was replaced by a heaviness, almost like sleep: an enticing siren call to leave this place and continue on. Suddenly, he sensed a gentle reassuring touch, whether on his head or within his fea he could not tell. There was someone with him. And then the words came, soft and sweet, impossible to resist: Rest easy, my fellow Elf. Struggle no more. We welcome you to our midst. Only a moment, and you will be free.

Something cracked and there was no more reason to struggle. Lindir had broken loose and was gazing down with a puzzled look at his own body. The poor, broken thing lay on the ground, ashen and lifeless, with his companions gathered around in a tight circle of concern. He wished he could have spoken to them, to let them know he was alright, but no words came out of his mouth.

The presence, the Elf, whoever or whatever it was, urged him ever forward. Lindir turned and followed the strange grey shadow up the hill and through the broken gates into the heart of the old stone fortress.....

[piosenniel]

Endamir shivered at his brother’s words. ‘Keep him safe . . .’ he mused aloud. ‘I wonder . . .’ Orëmir looked over at him; his expression urging Endamir to go on.

‘I wonder how we can keep him safe,’ Endamir said so all could hear. ‘Or if we can at all . . .’ He crouched down beside Lindir, and placed his hand on the Elf’s brow. His hand felt hot against the coolness of Lindir’s skin. Endamir looked about, his eyes unfocused, as if he sought some thing or things lingering about the still form.

‘When we were outside the courtyard and were assailed, it was not so much the physical mauling that bothered me, but rather a sort of pulling and pushing against my very spirit that I felt keenly. Almost as if I was to be pushed aside or out, rather, and some other spirit to take my body as the battle prize.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if to shrug off that awful feeling. ‘It was a hungry, malevolent force. Thirsty for my life, in a way. And I was not wounded as is Lindir.’

He stood, looking about the courtyard, the scene of old and terrible battles. ‘I do not feel that thing pressing in on me here. I suppose it was one of the Orcs or several that haunt the outer battlefield.’ He paused for a moment, rubbing his hands together as if to warm them from a sudden chill. ‘But there were betrayals, here, even within the fortress . . . weren’t there?’ he asked, looking round at the strewn rubble. ‘And despite the cheering song from the ranks we heard, who’s to say there are not grudges and envies even here . . . and held by our own . . .’ A look of concern crossed his features as he gazed back down at Lindir. ‘Perhaps even now he is pursued in his dreamings. He is so weak . . . how long can he escape his memories, his despair, and the desires of those left behind?’

[Firefoot]

Lómwë trailed the group into the gatehouse, not really part of the action. He was, on one hand, rather ashamed that he had been so wrapped up in himself so as not to notice Lindir’s weakened state. Even though Lindir had tried to hide it, shouldn’t his problems have been obvious? Yet, Lómwë also found himself feeling selfish irritation at Lindir for collapsing as he had. The rest of them (and by this, Lómwë primarily meant himself) suffered in silence, not burdening others with their troubles; each of them had enough of those on their own.

And while he did not care much over the issue of the Dragon-helm, he thought that if Lindir did have to bring it, shouldn’t he at least have enough strength to bear it? Then he was berating himself again; Lindir needed such help as they could give. After all, Lindir was, or had been (Lómwë wasn’t sure), his friend, and wasn’t aid but a trifling thing to give?

Then there was Malris, so ready to show open concern for Lindir so immediately after his heavy berating. Lómwë had seen the remorse in Malris’ face and guessed that it was not just for Lindir’s sake that Malris desired Lindir’s health. Regretting harsh words, was he? Yet how quickly the edge of concern had fled in light of the prospect to go into the gatehouse. Observing closely, Lómwë had observed the now-familiar almost-mad light spring into Malris’ eyes. Lómwë figured that Malris probably would have brought them in here regardless.

Morgoth ever delights in the divisions of his enemies. Lómwë had heard such long ago and saw the application now for what it was – but he didn’t feel any differently. He felt as if the voices in his head were laughing at him.

[piosenniel]

“Lindir”

It was warm. Familiar . . . comforting, almost. The ceaseless clamoring of the others was shut out . . . their mutterings and imprecations, their howls of frustration. They’d gone . . . all gone . . . when the spirit this body had housed had risen to join them.

Ingir had pushed close about the fallen Elf as his captain has asked him to do, willing the fellow to give up and join them. ‘That body’s nearly dead,’ the self-claimed captain had said. ‘Let’s claim his spirit for our side.’

But not quite dead. There was a vacuum left behind that pulled at Ingir even as the others had pulled away, their ghostly arms slung over their new cohort’s shoulders in a welcoming camaraderie. And Ingir’s desires pulled just as hard at the body left behind. He had not wanted to die. He’d been young . . . was still young . . . and the thirst for life still ran strong in him.

Ingir slipped in, putting on this cloak of a body . . . wrapping it about him with a mighty will.

There was a sharp pain in his side and beneath him he could feel the pebbly ground pushing at his back uncomfortably. He moved a bit, opening his eyes a slit and slamming them shut just as quickly at the sharp, clear vision of an unfamiliar face hovering above him.

‘Lindir?’ he heard some voice call.

‘Ingir,’ he mumbled. He could sense the lips moving and the air as it forced from his lungs and made his voice. Familiar motions . . . yet new . . . and exciting. He groaned again and opened his eyes, willing them to take in what he could see without fright.

‘Lindir!’ some voice said again.

‘Water,’ he rasped. He felt the light touch of another's mind and shut his tightly against intrusion.

[Anguirel]

Malris looked as if a sword hanging precariously above his head had been removed when Lindir turned out to breathe still...as it seemed. He was first to pour a little of his flask of water into the Elf's mouth; giving nourishment to the body, confidence, though he did not know it, to the alien spirit.

"He's on the mend," Malris muttered. "Yes, you'll live, my friend. You always had uncommon strength in you, Lindir..." He smiled, and the invalid returned the smile, so slightly and mirthlessly it was almost a grimace.

No uncommon strength had I, thought Ingir. Perhaps a little guile, but that was all. Now trickery serves me again in the hroa of another...

But the Elf who had given him the water was not looking at him anymore. He was gazing around the gatehouse as if transfixed...and then he began to cry out...

"Soldiers of Maedhros!" Malris called. "Followers of the lord we all served! I know you are within this chamber. We saw you urge us on at the gate; you put terror into Orcish hearts. The same creatures sorely wounded one of our company. He now urgently needs...some kind of healing...of the spirit."

Malris paused, taking the measure of his surroundings. Aye, there the sentries of the gate would have stood their guard. There the archers. There the murder holes would have been manned. And at that table would have sat the elves-at-arms, with that shift's captain at the head; playing at cards or singing before a fire against the frigid wind. The grate was now cold, and no sign of ashes remained. Malris turned and addressed himself to the head of the table.

"Captain at the Gate, if ye be present here," he concluded, "tell us in Lord Maedhros and Maglor's name where healing for our brave friend may be found. Perhaps you remember him; Lindir the smith. He dwelt here once. As did we all. A valourous and true Elf."

As did we all.

Yes, Ingir remembered him vaguely. Decent as the smiths went, though perhaps slow to laugh. Sorrow had probably consumed him quickly. He would fit in well enough as a houseless spirit...Ingir had few regrets. He tightened his grip with his mind. Was the fea trying to come back? The hroa was proving truculent...but he would not let go, not for a smith...

[Envinyatar]

It was Orëmir who’d reached out to speak mind to mind with Lindir. The wounded Elf seemed to be coming back to himself and Orëmir wished only to strengthen his spirit with some words of encouragement. But . . . how odd! Where once his mind could find no point of contact, now Lindir seemed to have gathered his resolve about him and with a surprising strength, he’d barred the healer’s way.

Well, then, perhaps that was good. Lindir had always been a taciturn fellow. This little expedition had brought more comment from him than Orëmir recalled him offering in their younger days. Mayhap, he had rallied, here in this place, where the warriors had given their support to one another and was pulling himself together, body and spirit.

Malris was calling on the spirits of those Elves who yet lingered in this place to assist their fallen comrade. Orëmir was unsure of this approach. His healer’s senses balked at it. For him it would be as if using an untried medicine on a very ill patient. The thought of it made him uneasy. How could they really know the intent of those who’d lingered here long after their bodies had decayed into dust. Weren’t there old tales of the houseless ones, hungry to have a body once more? He sifted through the stories he’d heard, the few scrolls he’d read on this. There were no particulars that stood out in his memory, save that such fëar were more than likely, the longer they had stayed off the Straight Road, to be of a malevolent nature.

Orëmir crouched down beside Lindir and putting his arm beneath his shoulders, brought him up to a sitting position. The injured Elf seemed steady enough now, though his face had still a grayish hue. Orëmir’s hand reached into his breeches pocket for the twist of paper he’d put there. It was a mild concoction, one to ease pain and give a restful sleep. ‘Here,’ he said, taking the flask of water and pouring a little into a mug his brother had brought to him. ‘Take a sip of this, Lindir,’ he went on, stirring the powdery contents of the paper into the liquid. ‘It will ease your pain.’ Orëmir wrapped Lindir’s left hand about the cup, urging him to drink.

[piosenniel]

Ingir blinked as the cup was placed in his left hand. ‘Take a sip of this, Lindir,’ the Elf had said. ‘It will ease your pain.’ Ingir turned his head to look at the healer. His face was familiar. And just as suddenly he looked up and there, standing by the healer was an identical face. The twins! Now he recalled them. Orëmir and Endamir. But which was which? He could not tell.

He narrowed his new eyes and looked slowly round at all those gathered near him. ‘I shall have to be careful. Or they will find me out,’ he thought to himself.

The cup felt awkward in his left hand. He switched it to his right and pushed it back toward the healer. The pain in his side had subsided somewhat, been pushed down by his other concerns. And now as he concentrated on it, to be truthful he gloried in the feel of it. He did not want to sleep . . . he’d been asleep far too long it seemed to him . . . numbed all these long years.

‘I’m feeling better now . . . thanks. Help me up. I wish to stand.’

The legs beneath him were wobbly, but still he reveled in the feel of his feet in boots and the hardness of the paved courtyard beneath them. The pressure of one of the other Elves hands on his elbow as they steadied him was almost too much to bear. It had been ages since he’d felt the touch of another. He shrugged off the helping hands and took a few steps forward, gazing about the place with new eyes; gazing at Lindir’s ring of companions, their flesh solid against the background of stone and sky.

Ingir’s right hand came up, pressing against his chest, as he looked about. He could feel his heart beating. His fingers strayed across some cool piece of metal attached near the color of his tunic. His fingers fumbled at the clasp and soon had removed it. ‘A pretty thing,’ he thought. ‘It should be worth something, I think.’ He stuffed it unceremoniously into his breeches pocket for safekeeping.

His left hand strayed to his belt. A hunting knife hung there. A serviceable one, he noted. Good, sharp blade. And long enough to make a kill if need be. It felt well balanced as he held it in his hand. Ingir returned the blade to its sheath and moved the sheath to his right side, where it would be more easily accessible.

The pain in his side had now increased with the effort of his activity. Ingir took a deep breath and pressed in against the bandage Orëmir had bound there. His hand encountered a sticky, wetness and pulling it away he saw it coated with blood. The stain on his shirt had freshened and extended once again and as he took a few steps, intending to sit down on a nearby shelf of rock, drops of bright red blood splashed down staining the paving stones.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a while Lindir drifted aimlessly about, half awake, half asleep, uncertain where he was going except that a will stronger than his own was pulling him towards the fortress. Despite his own lack of control, the sensation was not unpleasant. It seemed easier to be carried along haphazardly with the current, as if inside a great protective bubble, rather than thrashing about and trying to resist. In any case, how could be resist? He had no hands or arms, no head or eyes, and as yet had no real idea how to control his spirit form, which was flitting in circles, first this way, then that. He did not even have the correct words to describe the sensations he was feeling. He could somehow see and smell and touch by using only his feä, although his physical form had entirely vanished. He still found himself clinging to words and images more appropriately applied to the old Lindir, an incarnate creature with a physical self. He could not yet imagine his existence any other away.

He supposed he should be alarmed at this strange situation, but somehow nothing seemed to matter any more. Then, without warning, Lindir felt a sensation so strong that he could not ignore it. Cold! Cold! How could a feä without a body be so cold?

An icy blast had gusted down from the restless sea to the north, commanded by some chance wind that battered against the small isle and seemed to be focused on Lindir alone; the chilled air accompanying it pushed the Elf out of his comfortable womb and brought him back to his senses as he bounced violently up and down in the wind drafts above the fortress, still wondering if he should go inside the fort. There were creatures down below but whether friendly or not Lindir could not tell. Something was still pulling him forward, yet another voice from within now refused to be silent and was frantically urging him to turn back to see something.

From his perch above the massive hill, he could see or at least sense the entire configuration of the isle. The land was poor and rugged, the shore jagged with rocks, a lonely place with grey shadows where no ship would willingly beach. Whatever strange creatures dwelled within this doomed fortress, there had been no mannish or Elven visitors here for countless years.

Now awake and unable to ignore the cautionary voice, Lindir suddenly pulled back and whirled around so that he had a clear view of the half broken gate where his companions stood waiting. He looked once, then twice, staring in disbelief. His slumped body, once prostrate on the ground, was now half standing and attempting to talk. First puzzlement, then anger, poured out from Lindir's feä. No object he had ever crafted, no fine sword or jewelled helm, looked as precious and shining as his broken body as it stood half upright on the ground.

Enraged at what he was seeing, the hapless Elf cried out in a voice that could not be heard. What trick is this? Who dares steal my body? Bandit and thief, you shall not touch a hair on my head. Leave here now!

With a determined heave, Lindir tossed off the inertia that threatened to imprison him forever and resisted the urge to slip docilely inside the fortress. Instead, he swooped down to confront his newly animated body and began pounding relentlessly against the unknown spirit that had wrongfully occupied the familiar shell, all the while bellowing at his companions to warn them about the no-good trickster. Even while trying to create a ruckus, Lindir was very careful not to do harm to the physical form that the stranger had apparently borrowed. The Elf continued with his assault but grumbled to his companions, much as he had done in the old days of battle: I need a healer over here quickly.....someone to bind up this wound.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

Zlog had made it first to the top of the crumbling chimney that had served the Lady’s fireplace in better days. He scooted himself to a comfortable position with his legs hanging over the sooted remains of brickwork. Gorgu followed quickly after. Ashukh came last, muttering all the way of heights and falling; though he was only a spirit now, his fear of being far off the ground still had him firmly in its clutches. His thirst to see for himself, though, what was going on, urged him on.

There were tall, live creatures in the courtyard. ‘Elves!’ Zlog hissed quietly to his companions his eye looking down to where Giledhel sat brushing her hair. ‘Live ‘uns and some of those what died down there, too.

Gorgu and Ashukh craned their necks round their companion, trying to puzzle out who these invaders might be. ‘There’s one at’s bleeding,’ said Gorgu. His eyes lit up at the prospect, and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Oh, what I’d give for one more go at one o’ them leggy vipers!’ He elbowed Ashukh in his excitement. ‘Stinkin’ Elvish blades can’t hurt us now!’

It was Ashukh who’d often sat with the Lady as she worked at her loom or drew up long lists of guests for parties that never happened and were soon forgotten. Her favorite parts were those of who would sit where – from the favored positions to those whose placement indicated her great disfavor. She would describe the guests in detail, their hair, their faces, what they wore, how they moved. She would speak at length of herself and her beloved Lord . . . Malris. And so it was with a dawning recognition that Ashukh leaned as forward as his fear of heights allowed and took in the details of the island’s visitors.

‘Oy!’ he exclaimed, pointing excitedly to the live Elves. ‘By the Dark Lord’s hairy . . .’ he broke off his epithet and looked guiltily down toward Giledhel, recalling she had extracted a promise from him not to use coarse language. His two companions looked expectantly at him. ‘Them’s what the Lady has got on her list for the party!’ he went on. ‘And look . . . see that short-haired fellow . . . black hair. See if you can see what he’s got pinned on his shirt front.’

‘Shiny star,’ grunted Zlog leaning out at a precipitous angle.

‘That’s Malris, for sure then!’ nodded Ashukh.

Gorgu’s eyes burned bright with anticipation at the Elf he’d spotted. He cackled loudly, not caring if Giledhel heard him. She would, he thought, in fact be glad at this chance to see this one again. ‘And just look at the little tart at’s still trailing in his lordship’s wake. All pale and goldy haired, the little sneak.’

The three turned their gazes on Tasarënì.

‘Make a nice present for the Lady, eh?’ Ashukh offered, his thick lips pulled back from his sharp yellowed teeth in an anticipatory leer. ‘Very nice . . .’

[Anguirel]

On practically every level, the scene was now in confusion.

In the world of flesh, of pain and suffering, Lindir seemed to be recovering from the assaults of the Orcish spirits. But in the insubstantial twilight world, Lindir was beyond death or life, suspended, floating on the breeze, and struggling with all the smouldering force of a long dormant temper to reassert his control over his own body.

Ingir's-or Lindir's?-very well, the body that had belonged to the Elven-smith, that had worn a dark cloak pinned with a brooch of silver, that had collapsed a short distance from the threshold into the gatehouse-this body was almost whole now, was standing up with its former grace. But it quivered, the lights behind the grey eyes flickering, uncertain. Two souls confused it rapidly; particularly two so diverse. A reclusive, cautious, honourable artist strove with a brawling fighter, an Elf who cared for glory, and trusted only in his own strength.

Ingir recalled so many battles as he fought with the ailing artisan. He remembered the Kinslayings, all of them, service in the front line to Celegorm, his lord; in Himlad, at Himring, in Doriath...then the Fair one had fallen, and he had taken Maedhros for his master; a foolish choice. He should have stuck with young Umbarto, so easily impressed...Maedhros was a lord of a different stamp. He punished thiefs and plunderers whatever their skill. Then the Havens at Sirion had been Ingir's bane; he had sought Mandos and found only here...this echo of life, service under a grim Captain who manned the wall waiting for seven lords who would never come back. The smith's body was his one chance of escape...

He felt it, now, the spearing pain of the lash, the cat, and there was certainly room to swing her, now he was embodied. Again, and again, and again. The Captain of the Guard's condemnations in his ear.

You were always fit for nothing, soldier. Bumptious, and mutinous, lying, deceiving, robbing, scum...

The five companions of Lindir would see his newly restored body writhe as if being brutally whipped. The especially pejorative words could be heard-

Lying...robbing...scum!

"Leave him alone, whoever you are," Malris said, speaking in Lindir's direction, but to he knew not what. "He has told no lies and suffered enough..."

Cirlach leapt from its sheath. Malris grit his teeth. "There is fire still in us. Leave. Him. Alone."

And then the writhing ceased; and the puzzled look in the injured Elf's eyes. Lindir, himself again, gazed evenly back at Malris. The glance was not friendly, but it was without doubt the smith's own. Abruptly, Lindir felt for his silver brooch, and refastened it. Cirlach's light caught the brooch's gleam; it shone whiter, wider...

And in the refracted rays from the blade, glimpses of the scene lying beneath the mere appearance of reality could be seen. An Elf on the floor; but no stone crumbling beneath him. A tall helmeted sentry Captain standing above him, the lash in his pale hand. The other guards scattered about.

"I apologise for this...traitor," said the officer in a voice that belonged thousands of winters away. "Your friend...should see...the Diviner...if he wishes to be healed. The Lord's soothsayer. Perhaps you remember him."

"Where will we find him?" Oremir asked, his lips pressed together, taut in distrust, matching a sceptical look.

"Wherever the Seneschal stands, there the Diviner is found. But we are wanted on the rampart; and you are weary. The Gatehouse stands empty this watch. You may...sleep here."

And the sentries departed, in single file, Ingir caught in the grip of the two at the rear; leaving the gatehouse infinitesimally warmer.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had trailed the group alertly, but with little thought on what was happening. She had held her blade at the ready, guarding their backs, as they moved toward shelter. She shuddered still at phantom pains... though she was no longer beseiged by angry fëa, she could feel the cold of the piercings still. Like the cuts that came from a careless slip of paper, her physically healed flesh stung. Her jawline ached deeply with the memory of her ancient scar. She concentrated her thought on the new white line, painfully decorating her other cheek. The same orc... she thought, the very same.

They had reached the shelter and Lindir was laid out on the floor. She left her blade unsheathed, useless though it seemed, and kept watch at the door. Though she cared deeply for her comrade's injury, she was not nearly the match as a healer as her companions. It would be more prudent for her to concentrate on what she could do: guard from orcs.

She shivered slightly... a cold wind seemed to pass her, though coming from the gatehouse. It felt vaguely of the orcs that had attacked them, but with the absence of malice. She cast it from her mind at the sound of Lindir's voice. She turned for a moment, hearing his hoarse request for water. A few moments passed, with the Elf regaining his feet and stumbling a bit. He had a look in his eye very much unlike one she had ever seen. She placed the blame on his injuries. She could see thin white scars where his beautiful flesh had been pierced. Suddenly the moment turned. Her clothes seemed almost to rustle as the wind blew angrily from the direction of the fortress. Tasa shivered at the cold, confused at the turn of events. As she looked on in shock, ghostly Elves faded into sight. The captain spoke quiet words with Malris, and within moments, the soldiers filed past her, recognizing her with nods. One, abashed and angry, was held tight in the grasp of two others.

As she moved forward to her friends, Lindir slumped once more, though not falling. "Water..." he repeated, and she gave him hers.

[Envinyatar]

‘Let me help you sit up.’ Orëmir braced Lindir as Tasa helped the injured Elf drink from her water skin. ‘Just enough to wet your mouth . . . don’t take too much at first.’ Orëmir looked at Tasa as she crouched on the other side of Lindir. ‘Help me lay him down.’ He pointed to where he’d dropped his pack. ‘If you’ll bring it to me,’ he nodded, ‘I’ll see if I can redress his wound. It’s still bleeding. Quite a lot, really. That’s why he feels so thirsty.’

Orëmir rolled up one of his blankets and placed it behind Lindir’s head. The Elf’s eyes were open, though they seemed focused more on something beyond the present happenings. Pushing up the now re-bloodied tunic, Orëmir removed the old dressing and laid a new one in its place, binding it securely with some strips of linen.

Once he had finished, he placed his hand lightly against Lindir’s brow and spoke a few words of comfort. ‘Good to have you back, friend.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Body and feä finally reunited, the "real" Lindir drifted in and out of hazy consciousness. The profuse bleeding from his wound had slowed. For a moment he had actually struggled to his feet, stared evenly at Malris and deftly refastened his silver brooch. He had taken a small drink of water and listened to gentle words of welcome from a friend. But then something had happened and his body had given way, leaving him in a crumpled heap in the midst of his companions. A dull, thudding ache still knawed at Lindir's side, marking the spot where he had tumbled down and met the edge of the jagged rock. Yet this physical wound, by itself, could not account for the inner pain and weariness and the conflicted feelings that now poured into his heart.

All the sadness of a lifetime--wrong choices, misunderstandings, times when he had purposely turned away when he should have looked more closely-- flooded back over his feä. It was not that Lindir had led such an evil life. The Elf had been an honorable craftsman and then an honorable scout but he had seen too much evil and sadness to be wholly unaffected. Still, there was clearly something else at work. Something tugged at his feä as if determined to pull him onward; only this time it was not in the direction of the crumbled fortress. A thick mist threatened to envelope him and pull him downward through a very long tunnel. At the end of the tunnel was a thickly draped curtain. Somehow Lindir sensed that if he took one step past that doorway he would never return to Arda again.

One piece of his head cooly counselled that he should simply stop fighting and pass through the hazy curtain. After all, he was going on a ship to the West. This might be the long way around, but the path through Mandos would eventually get him to the same place. In Mandos, he could sit and reflect on his life, come to terms with what he had seen and done, and finally learn to accept that reality. At that point, it was said Elves were redirected back within the circles of the world and reunited with their kin in the West. This was not such a terrible fate.

Still, another voice whispered words of warning. You're not done, Lindir. Your time in Arda is not yet over. You have not learned everything within your grasp or understood much of what has happened to you. Who are you? A craftsman or a scout? You can not even answer that question. Only the lazy wait for Mandos to make their decisions for them.

Lindir hesitated for an instant, wondering which way to turn. But it was only for an instant. The realization of what he had done and failed to do was too compelling to ignore. It was not yet time! Not for Mandos, nor even for the West. What a self-centered fool he had been, focusing on an ancient helm rather than the pain of those old friends who were travelling with him. With a great effort of will, Lindir scrambled to hold his body and feä together, resisting the implacable force that was intent on pushing him down the tunnel and through that misty doorway.

[piosenniel]

In a combined effort, Tasa, Orëmir, and he lifted Lindir gently on a blanket sling and carried him into the gatehouse. They laid him down carefully on the stones, propping his head up on part of his pack and covered him with his cloak.

‘Did I hear correctly?’ asked Endamir, placing his pack next to his brother’s. He waited until Orëmir had finished putting away his dressings and bandages and pot of salve he'd thrown onto the blanket as they carried the distraught Elf in. ‘About the Diviner? Is that who I heard the . . . Captain . . . speak of?’

Endamir unrolled his blankets and sat down on them, cross-legged. He watched as his brother did the same, positioning himself near to his Lindir so as to keep an eye on his condition. Orëmir had nodded is head, ‘yes’, to his brother’s question as he leaned back against his pack with a sigh. Endamir searched through the pockets on his own pack, bringing out some dried fruit, dried strips of meat, and a few packets of waybread. These he shared about with the rest of the company as well as his brother.

As he chewed on the withered remnant of a pear, he looked about the once familiar gatehouse. ‘Why do you think the Captain gave us that piece of information? You’d think that they would all be like Ingir, wouldn’t you? Why would they want to help us?’ His grey eyes clouded as he sifted through his own musings. ‘I don’t know that I would be that generous. I mean . . . here we are . . . the living. It must seem to them we deserted them . . . left them here to their fate. I shouldn’t wonder if they wanted us to suffer as much as they did . . . they do.’

He took a swallow of water from the skin his brother offered him. The leathery fruit and meat had caught in his dry throat. He looked round at the others. ‘Does anyone remember this . . . Diviner? I must say I don’t. Will he be favorable toward us . . .?’

Or, is this to be some sort of trap? he wondered to himself.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

‘Does anyone remember this . . . Diviner? I must say I don’t. Will he be favorable toward us . . .?’
Tasa thought for a moment, chewing mechanically on the dried meat.

"I do not." she spoke at last. "But then, I was rarely in residence here. More oft, I was on the road, or asleep under the stars."

She thought back to a cold night many thousand years before. The wind had blown devilishly through the valley that her fighters had set camp in, but the sky was clear. Though they could have had peace under the trees, they had chosen rather to enjoy the song of starlight as it's unintelligible melody waited patiently for a listener. The scent of autumn had filled the air as her men lay relaxed upon the grass, basking in the faint light of the midnight hours. She had sat alone, thinking. The next day would be the day her forces joined those of Malris. They would combine troops and roust the orcs who had gained hld of the pass some leagues north. It would be an easy victory.

She pushed the memories from her thoughts. They had won, yes, but it had come at too high a cost. Many of her fighters had perished. She could only hope that their spirits had found their way to Mandos... whether they would blame her yet for their passing, she could not know. She did not wish to learn.

Suddenly she turned, staring blindly through the door and into the night.

"Is there someone there?" she demanded.

[Anguirel]

Malris was sunk in reflection, though whether on Endamir's words, or on some thing else, the spirits, the fortress, or some stirred memory, was difficult to say. Tasa's anxious question seemed to recall him from wherever he had wandered.

"All six of us are here," he observed, "and I think we have all had enough of the hospitality of the houseless ones." He rose his wiry body to its feet and walked over to the doorway, his steps firm, his gaze decided; he took hold of the handle and dragged the gate he held back to its shut position, while Tasa handled the other. Oremir slammed the great iron bolt through.

"Whether lock of frost-bitten iron will be enough to stop visitors I cannot tell," muttered Malris. "But one would hope the remnants of the garrison still respect the laws of entry and exit. We have a grate, at least; perhaps we could prize apart one of these chairs and get a fire going."

He was aware that his speech had been relentlessly practical. So he had intended it. He needed more time to think about Endamir's remark; and, by Elbereth, they all needed time. So much had happened on this first day and night on Himring; a pause for thought was nothing short of vital. Arrangements for a fire and perhaps a little supper would allow them a measure of comfort as they chewed over the past while, even as Tasa chewed over her meat. Meanwhile, he would try to reassure the company by telling them the little he remembered about a Diviner...

"The Lord Maedhros did employ a soothsayer," he said slowly, "towards the end of our time in Himring. He was...if I am right, he was a sort of joke, a buffoon. Maedhros made a show of consulting him with immense seriousness, and then we would laugh at his replies..." His voice trailed away.

"As for the Seneschal, several of you must remember him. A good, plain-speaking soldier, utterly loyal, he was called Idrahil, yes, Idrahil...he wouldn't leave the hill, he said it had been his home more than Tirion had ever been." He sighed. "And so we lost him in the retreat..." His voice choked, a nearer loss wiping Idrahil from his mind; but he swallowed his sorrow. From his pack he took some of the salmon from the night before-the cold had kept it well-as well as his other provisions. Even the Quendi needed sustenance and sleep, all the more so when they were so fraught with memory.

[Firefoot]

Strangely, Lómwë found himself trusting the displaced fëar. What reason there was for it, he could not say, but while he felt slightly dubious about this Diviner, he believed the spirits themselves were acting in good faith.

Nevertheless, he was glad that they were gone for now, leaving just the six of them in the gatehouse. Seeing the food being brought out, he recalled suddenly the small share of forgotten lembas in his pack. He dug some out and passed it around. “Here,” he said. “Everyone take some; it will do us all good.” After a few moments, he said, “The Diviner, I do not remember, and Seneschal only vaguely. I did not know him well, though he had a stout and loyal heart in life. Though,” he added wryly, but not without sorrow, “it seems that the traits of the living do not always remain… after…” He lapsed into silence, whether because he could not find words or cared not to speak them, he was not sure.

He felt himself distancing himself from the group, isolating himself from them. He was concerned with his own problems, and could bring himself to care only a little for theirs – take Lindir. Lómwë wanted him to get help – he clearly needed it, and badly, but somehow Lómwë could not seem to mind overly much about the outcome. He had done little to help since arriving here on top of the hill and did not know why. What’s wrong with you, anyway, not caring about these, your old friends? half of him wondered. The other half despondently did not respond.

[Anguirel]

And so, the weight of all the travails they had suffered and overcome so far burdening their tongues, the six Elves passed around their supplies and water, set about hacking apart a chair and lighting a fire, and ruminated in a moment of tranquility.

When they spoke, it was not to speculate on the character or the whereabouts of the Diviner, nor even to blame each other for the manifold events that had overtaken them, but to exchange words that seemed trivial. Of such moments is existence formed; not in the unnatural vividness of battle, the horror of approaching death, the confusion of the unknown, but of banter around a lowering flame; quiet words of appreciation on food or drink; glances that reminded all of the Elves who they were and why they were, and made where they were seem, temporarily, unimportant.

So the latest hours of the night passed; and finally the fire burnt out, and the company gratefully snatched the chance of a little sleep. It was agreed that Lomwe should take the first watch, then Endamir, and finally Tasareni. So Lomwe alone was left while the others drifted into sleep and dreams; Malris's confused, a succession of strange episodes.

He saw his wife, sitting at her loom, in the bedchamber they had shared; a raven fluttering across it; the room again, now crumbling and despoiled, an embroidery half finished...he could not see the words. A face. Her face. The crow's return again. A few bars of harp music; Tasareni tossing her head; and then, at last, dreamless repose.

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

Day or night was of little consequence to Giledhel. The past few days had found her increasingly restless. And at first she had shrugged off the odd moment of prescience; the sudden chill that prickled between her shoulder blades. ‘Goose walking over my grave,’ she laughed, a hollow sound, echoing dully against the cold, broken stones. But now, the air seemed to have grown heavier about her quarters. It pressed in on her; thick and weighty as those cloud-laden storms that drew in from the west . . . from the sea.

She had seen the sea once, though she recalled it as if it had been in some long ago dream. Looking out the slit window in the crenellated western wall of the fortress, it had beguiled her eyes. The sun had caught the smooth surface of the water as it rushed to shore. Shining silver with the light, it had splashed up upon the low lying rocks there at a distance; white spume flying into the air as if small flocks of lacy, white birds flew sunward and then disappeared. And while it was lovely at first to look upon the sea, it frightened her more and more. How had it come here, to beat almost against the fortress’ foundation? Where had those lowlands gone that had spread far out from the fortress’ grounds? The lush forests of pine and balsam that hewed the rocky slopes of the great hill with their persistent roots. She could not manage the apposition of the two images – the present and the one remembered . . .

And so the present reality was elided.

Giledhel’s memories slid easily over it. Her eyes turned inward to the accustomed scenes of long ago. She had been happy, then. Malris had loved her . . . did love her. He was the center of her life; she adored him. And it was her perception that he returned her love in kind that gave strength to her.

Time now stretched into one long day for her . . . the day before a grand party she was to throw. Thousands of years passed for the minutes and seconds of this day . . . this safe day . . . this familiar day . . .

She shivered again, the long fingers of her pale hands clasping at her unseen shawl, pulling it tighter about her shoulders. This day was passing. She could sense its ponderous movement as it began to slip away from her . . .

A new day was coming . . . the guests would indeed arrive . . . she could feel it . . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had sat quietly in a corner pondering through the watches until hers arrived. Unable to sleep, she considered all that had happened on this trip, ignoring the past and concentrating on just this event. This was not yet history... she was still living it. She considered this, tilting her head slightly at the thought. Nobody noticed, all being asleep or busy with their own thoughts. If what I am still living is not yet done... then perhaps the past is not too late to be fixed. But is there a way? Is there a way...

She dozed until Endamir woke her again for her watch. It was entirely uneventful save the simple passage of time: she watched the clouds pass silently over the island, casting a cloak about the bright moon. She felt the cool ocean breeze as she stood watch in the doorway. She smiled at her sleeping companions. They would miss this... the best part of the day. She thought for a moment before making a quick decision.

Swiftly and silently, she made her way to the sleeping Malris. Touching him lightly on the shoulder, she spoke.

"Wake, dear friend, and watch a new day begin with me? The sun will rise again in only a few moments. Already the sky over the ocean turns light."

[Anguirel]

Malris was on his feet in an instant, and scrabbled about the stone floor for his leather tunic, with its white Star of Feanor embossed on its centre. He was fastening its straps, and the buckles that held Cirlach's belt, as he wordlessly followed Tasa; her presence was immensely refreshing to him, clean, healthy, sane. His dark dreams faded, leaving only the residue that always lay in his heart, of Giledhel's pale, tender face. Malris was unreasonably excited by the prospect of witnessing Arien rise again; it seemed to be a signal of new opportunity, in contrast with the bleak mystery of the previous mourning.

"See how the rays creep under the fastened door," he murmured to Tasa. "Perhaps the spirits could reach us, but so can the sun's gift. That rallies me..." His voice took on a dreamy quality again. "Though Arien is not the only lady who reassures me. I am glad you decided to come, Tasa...now, let's get this door open, as quietly as possible. The others need their rest, Lindir especially..."

He smiled at her, an expression of real mirth, of childish guilt, guilt born of innocence, of ingenuous confidence. It was a smile he had not been able to indulge in for many long ages. As they struggled with the plank that Oremir had helped them fasten across the portal, their grin continued, defying any need for further talk.

At last the bolt was loose enough, and Malris laid it down; slipping the door a fraction open, Malris and Tasa stole into the glorious light of the morning, Tasa quickly drawing the door to to avoid rousing the others; and they stood content in the ancient courtyard, for all the world like a husband and wife gazing at the site of their first tryst; though this was not, never could be the case.

Malris stretched out his hand and held Tasareni's. It was a brief moment of joy, but he was determined to eke enough pleasure out of it to last through the trials ahead. Together, like youths in Valinor again, they watched Laurelin's fruit ascend to its allotted place in the heavens. Somewhere the song of a corncrake sounded, though it was blotted out by a gull's cry.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

‘Hiding again, he is, m’Lady. But I think this time you’ll catch a sight of him for sure.’ Gorgu led the way up the broken stones of the chamber’s east wall. The corncrake that sang its monotonous song in the mornings was at it again. And the Lady wanted to spy out the bird who serenaded her faithfully.

Giledhel followed close behind Gorgu, her hands daintily holding up the long skirt of her dress as if she were ascending some tall staircase. Ashukh and Zlog trailed her, as she had schooled them. They’d shrugged their shoulders at her admonition. ‘Gentlemen always allow a lady to precede them up the stairway. Were she to stumble, then the gentleman would be there to steady her, or catch her, stars forbid, were she to fall.’

‘Now how are we to do that?’ Zlog had whispered as she began her ascent. Ashukh snorted, cutting off a giggle. ‘Don’t know. Like as how she’d tumble right through us or drift to the ground.’ He moved closer to his companion. ‘Sometimes I wonder what goes on in that head of hers. Can’t be seeing the same things as I do. Gentlemen! Pah!!’

Zlog glared at the other Orc. ‘Just shove it and shut your trap! If the Lady wants to call me a gentleman I’ll let her.’ He puffed up his chest and raised one brow at Ashukh. ‘And I think I like it, too.’

Their grumblings at one another halted as they reached the top of the broken chamber. Gorgu reached out a hand to Giledhel to help her onto the rubble strewn wall. ‘Down there, m’Lady, he said, pointing to the clumps of tall iris just peeking above the surrounding taller grasses. Winging lazily westward was a gull, its raucous cry nearly drowning out the corncrake’s crek-crek.

‘Them’s tasty birds!’ Ashukh murmured, his appreciation bent more on the pleasure of eating them than listening to them. His sharp eye followed the bright chestnut wings against the bird’s body as it shifted in the grass.

It was Zlog who had turned his back on the rising sun, a creeping worry that somehow it might still hurt him if he stayed in it too long, that first saw the figures in the far courtyard. He squinted hard at them, then nudged Ashukh. Gorgu noted the other two Orcs looking at something other than the bird.

‘It’s cold up here,’ Gorgu said, trying to draw Giledhel’s attention to himself. ‘And we didn’t bring your cloak. Let’s go back down. We’ve seen what we can of that old bird. And wasn’t it nice of him to sing just for you?’ Not wanting her to be upset by what the others had spied out, he tried to maneuver her back to her chambers.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With a great effort of will, Lindir pushed back the cloak that had been laid over his body. He struggled to sit up, but could not seem to move his arms or legs. The door to the gatehouse had been pushed open an inch or two, and a thin band of light had spilled over onto the floor. Outside, Lindir could hear voices engaged in earnest conversation.

At least he was awake and just barely conscious of what was going on around him. But a sharp pain still clawed at his side. More ominously, Lindir could not organze his thoughts and was still profoundly weak. He slowly turned his head to the side to see what was going on. The room was bathed in shadow despite the rising of the sun. No one else seemed to be up yet. For a long time, it was quiet but then came a scuffling noise from the other side of the room. Someone was up, Lindir reasoned, but he could not see who it was.

Struggling to form coherent words, Lindir whispered in a cracked voice, "Water? Does someone have water? Is that you, Endamir or Lomwe? What is this place and where are we going?"

[Firefoot]

Lómwë had aroused slightly when Tasa had come to get Malris, but not so much that he was willing to get up. Instead he lay in place, savoring his for-once pleasant dream. In this pleasant illusioned state, he was not laying in the gatehouse with the remnants of Maedhros’ host, but in bed with his wife lying near. The soft golden light of dawn was beginning to filter in through the window, playing across Ellothiel’s beautiful face. One of those perfect, timeless moments, lost in the river of time. He could feel himself slipping towards the consciousness of waking, and the harder he tried to fight it, the faster the image slipped away. Slowly, regretfully, his eyes blinked open, and he was brought back to the harsh reality that was now. The hard ground had stiffened his back and shoulders, and the dim room was a poor comparison to his dream-morning.

With a sigh, he rolled up into a sitting position, rolling his shoulders around and stretching his arms. He was preparing to pack up his bedroll when a nearby voice rasped out, “Water? Does someone have water? Is that you, Endamir or Lómwë? What is this place and where are we going?” Lómwë knew without looking that the voice belonged to Lindir and took his water skin from where it was lying on the floor near his pack.

“This is Lómwë,” he identified himself. “Here, have some of my water.” And he helped Lindir to sit up and drink from it. Likely because of the restful night, Lómwë somehow felt more kindly towards his companions than he had the previous night. Not, perhaps, more connected, but more kindly. “We are currently in the old gatehouse off the courtyard – perhaps you remember it? – which was offered to us to spend the night.” Realizing he could be treading on dangerous territory considering Lindir’s state, he did not elaborate further on the strange visitation of the spirits last night. “Once everyone is awake, we will be heading up the hill to get you some help. What Malris has in mind after that, I have not yet figured out.”

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

Two figures stood in the distant courtyard. The nearer one she recognized by his familiar bearing, the darkness of his hair, the cut of his tunic, the planes and angles of his face. Malris stood there, looking eastward as the day’s light climbed into the sky. The sight of him made her smile and she took in a quick, gasp of a breath as she felt the pulse that beat in her long fair neck quicken.

‘My belovéd!’ she murmured, seeing his lips crease into a smile as the fair light washed over his face. Even now his distant presence made her tremble. And she was glad at heart that both he and she stood there in the rising day. The distance between them, she from her chamber and he in the courtyard was as nothing to her. She held him in her heart - were he by her side or off on some campaign for his Lord.

He had returned in time for her party! A frisson of joy crept up her spine, making her nearly giddy. She smiled again, thinking how he must have hastened from whatever place he had gone to . . . to be with her again.

And he’s brought a friend back! She must remind the servants to put another place at the table for this new arrival. Giledhel leaned further over the rough edges of her quarter’s wall, straining to catch a glimpse of Malris’ companion. ‘I wonder who . . .’ she began, her question left hanging in the dawn air.

Malris had stepped back a pace, urging his companion forward a little by the hand. His face was turned toward the sight of the person’s face, the tension of his body focused as much on this other figure as on the dawn’s layered beauty.

Giledhel’s already fair complexion, turned pale as death. What color she had drained from her cheeks, as did the joy from her spirit. She scarce noted the hardness of her grip as she clasped Gorgu’s hand.

‘Tasarënì!’ she hissed. It was her tall, slender form that Malris’ own had hidden from Giledhel’s sight. It was her foul hand had insinuated itself into Malris’ grip. The witch! What deviltry was she using to ensnare him? And here . . . of all places, here . . . within the walls where she and Malris made their home!

Giledhel turned away from the betrayal. No, not betrayal . . . Malris would not do this to her. He was her all. He loved her. It was that serpent spawned woman who had beguiled and ensnared him.

She stamped her foot hard on the ground. Eyes wild with grief and anger she raised her now clenched fists and shook them at the Sun itself. Her plaintive cry screamed forth; a vow, almost . . . fused into the remnants of the fortress by the witnessing wind.

‘Oh, I will not have it! Not at all! She will be dead before another day has come!’

One of her little boon companions had reached out a hand to steady her . . . to give her comfort in her distress, too, she thought. ‘Help me down the stairs, won’t you, dear?’ she asked him, leaning against his offered strength. Silence cushioned their footfalls and she dared not speak until they had come safely to her own bedroom, too close was she to tears.

Giledhel sat on the edge of her bed, tears now rolling down the pallid planes of her cheeks. Her friends sat at her feet, looking up at her, quiet against the immensity of her distress. She wiped at her eyes with a sleeve and took a few ragged breaths before some shadow of control took hold.

‘You’ll help me, won’t you dears?’ she asked in a shaky voice. ‘With what I have to do . . .’

[Envinyatar]

‘Endamir!’ Orëmir called softly to his brother. ‘Are you awake?’ There was a muffled response, and soon the blankets his brother had wrapped himself in for the night were thrown off. Bleary eyed in the pale morning light, Endamir regarded his twin.

‘Sorry! No tea. No hot water as yet.’ Orëmir handed his skin of water to Endamir, along with an offering of dried fruit and a piece of waybread. He watched as his brother took a long pull at the skin’s spout and took it from him when he had finished.

‘No, I don’t know where they’ve gone,’ he to his brother’s unspoken question. Endamir’s eyes had slid about the gatehouse, his count of the companions come up short.

Orëmir glanced over to where Lómwë was helping Lindir to drink. He could see him speak low to the injured Elf and see Lindir’s effort to follow what Lómwë said. ‘He’s in such a fragile state,’ Orëmir whispered to his brother. ‘The bleeding has stopped. But the damage done when that other fëa tried to command his body is still not fixed. Lindir’s hold on this life seems tenuous at times, as if his own fëa longs to be gone and quickly.’ He looked quickly toward the injured Elf and then back to his brother. ‘He will bear watching, until the Diviner, if there indeed is one still here, can see to him.’

With Endamir’s help, Orëmir got a small fire going and set a pot of water to boil. ‘Something hot to drink, soon,’ he said, drawing near where Lindir and Lómwë sat. He busied himself with finding mugs for each of them and stirring a handful of dried leaves into the now hot water. ‘I think,’ he said, handling a mug to Lindir with a caution to be careful, ‘that perhaps I should stay with you while the others go out to find the healer . . . the Diviner, that is. Just in case your wound needs redressing. The others can go out in teams of two.’ He looked over at Endamir and Lómwë. ‘You two, can search together; watch each others’ backs, so to speak. Malris and Tasa seem to have already gone. How does that sound to you?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir opened his mouth to protest while trying to push himself foward on his knees, struggling to stand erect. Surely, he could be more than a useless piece of baggage! The Elf put a hand on the stone ledge and leaned against the wall in an effort to steady himself and then slowly sought to clamber upward. For one reckless instant, he seemed to be successful. Then a wave of dizzying nausea descended, exploding inside his head, as the ground tilted precariously back and forth. Orëmir quickly reached out to grab onto Lindir's arm and steady his companion.

With a sigh of disappointment, the injured elf sank back to the ground. "Orëmir is right," Lindir gasped. "I am useless like this. Lómwë, go now with Endamir to search for this Diviner, whoever or whatever he is. And my sympathies go with you both. Would that I could also come to help! But do not take undue risks for my account. This place is filled with strange spirits and noises. And the sooner we leave here, the better."

Lindir shuddered slightly as he turned back to speak with Orëmir and whispered in a low voice, "In truth, I do not like talk of this Diviner. What kind of madness is this? To try to see the future? For what else can a Diviner do? I do not see how he can help me. I have no wish to die on this rocky isle. Indeed, I no longer have a wish even to sail off to the West. But perhaps, it would be best if you simply took me back to the shore, and I will take my chances with the healing breezes that sometimes blow in from the Sea. Then we may push off again. Or is Malris still so intent to find out the mystery of that broken down keep that he can not tear himself away? No good will come of it, I fear."

[Envinyatar]

‘No good has come of it already,’ Orëmir replied, helping Lindir to move so that his back was supported against a wall. ‘And I would take you, as well as my brother, back to the ship which brought us to this accursed place, save for the fact that you are far to weak to do so. And he,’ he said, shaking his head as he looked toward Endamir, ‘he still holds to that tenuous contract he’s made with himself to help out his old captain.’ Orëmir returned his gaze to Lindir. ‘Truth be told, I would not leave him behind. Not here at least; not now.’

He put a loose rolled blanket at the small of Lindir’s back to ease the strain of sitting. ‘And besides . . . at least here, within the confines of the old fortress, the restless spirits seem commanded by ones who will try to keep them in check. Beyond these walls, between us and the ship, are those Orcs . . . and their will seems bent on destroying us if they can.’ He chuckled a bit, at Lindir’s expense. ‘You’re in no state to run from them, my friend. And to be honest, you’ve put on a few pounds through the years and my joints have grown older . . . I simply cannot carry you!’

[piosenniel]

‘Well, Lómwë, I suppose we’d better be off as soon as we can. Don’t you think?’ Endamir knelt by his sleeping place and rolled up his blankets, securing them with leather thongs to his pack. ‘Orëmir and Lindir can keep an eye on our equipment,’ he continued, settling his belongings against the wall where Lindir rested.

‘I recall somewhat hazily the layout of the fortress. How about you?’ he said, buckling on his sword. He snorted as his hands drew out the blade for inspection. ‘And why I think this piece of metal will give me any sort of protection, I cannot say. And it won’t, I suppose. But the weight of it against my leg gives me some sense of comfort.’

Endamir picked up his near empty mug of tea and swallowed the last few drops. ‘I suppose we should be off then.’ He looked toward his three companions. ‘Do any of you have some remembrance of this Elf we are to look for? The Diviner. I've never met him . . . that is, that I can recall. Any thoughts on where such a one would be like to spend his time?’

[Firefoot]

Lómwë shook his head. “I did not know him either, and if I had heard of him, it would only have been in passing. I spent little time in Himring.” He set his packed up belongings near Endamir’s, intending to leave all save his sword and bow. “Yet, if what Malris told us last night was true, this Diviner was not particularly well respected in the city, to say the least… perhaps, then, he would have spent more of his time near Maedhros’ dwelling? But it is a guess at best; luck may be the key to this as Malris seems to be the only one ever to have heard of him.”

When neither Orëmir nor Lindir offered any new information, Lómwë indicated the door. “Shall we go, then?” Endamir nodded, and together they pushed open the door and headed out into the courtyard. Lómwë raised his eyebrows at the sight that immediately greeted him: that of Malris and Tasa standing together watching the rising sun. It was only a moment before the pair realized their presence, but the moment was long enough for Lómwë to briefly wonder at the curious relationship between the two – old friends, yet as if not a moment had gone by since last they had met.

“Ah, so you are up,” said Malris after a moment.

“Yes, and we thought you had already left to search for this Diviner,” answered Lómwë, “so we were about to begin looking as well. Orëmir is staying inside with Lindir. But since you are still here… do you know how we’re supposed to go about this search? Is there a better strategy than ‘getting lucky’?”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir watched in silence as Endamir and Lómwë disappeared through the gate and made their way into the courtyard. With a shake of his head, Lindir sighed, fidgeting nervously with his hands as he stared down at the ground. He looked up to steal a furtive glance at Orëmir. “Perhaps I should have said something. In truth, I do not know where the Diviner may be found, not now or in ages past. You can no more pin down the Diviner to a place or time than you can pin down the wild wind from the north.”

“If truth be told, part of me hopes the Diviner may never be found for sometimes the cure can be worse than the illness. Only once have I been alone with this Elf and that was no easy thing. A true soothsayer whose eyes are like burning brands and whose somber gaze touches a chord deep inside….. The one time, the one time, I came before…..”

Lindir’s voice broke and he shuddered involuntarily. For a long time, it seemed that the Elf would refuse to say anything more. But then he looked up as if struggling to explain something to himself. “I do not want to look into those eyes again. You see, the Diviner has a gift. When that gaze fixes upon you, it strips away the layers of pretense. You must face whatever lies inside. It is no easy thing. Do not be misled by what has been said. This is no buffoon or jokester as some have claimed. And as to Maedhros laughing….there are many times an Elf may laugh when he feels the night approaching. And do not think, Orëmir, that I will be the only one to feel the Diviner’s gaze for she will look into the hearts of all those who come before her….”

“She? Her? But Malris said….” Orëmir spoke quietly.

“To the outside world the Diviner appeared to be a male Elf, and that is how she wished those in court to think of her. But what lay under the robes was different. When she touched my mind, I knew her to be a woman. As to whether Malris knows this fact, I do not know with certainty. But it would not surprise me if he knew a great deal more than what he is telling us.”

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir was quiet for a while. In all the time he had been quartered here, he had not been one of the company who mingled with the staff of the fortress. He was one to find his company among the other Elven warriors when he felt social, or with his brother, more often than not, in the quiet enjoyment of each other’s company. A diviner was something beyond his ken. He could not recall one in Imladris. Though he thought perhaps Lord Elrond may have been considered one from Lindir’s words. His skill in osanwë was considered deep and powerful, though Orëmir had never been subjected to it. And he recalled certain stories of how Lord Elrond could see the fates of others if he bent his mind and will to it. But in comparison to this Diviner of which Lindir spoke, Lord Elrond seemed a kindly sort for all his depth of wisdom.

‘Were I you, Lindir, I would not want to subject myself to such a one . . . and certainly not for a second time.’ Orëmir shook his head at the thought. ‘And as for the layers of pretense – at some points in each of our lives that pretense is the only thing that keeps us sane enough to move forward and finish what tasks must be done.’

Orëmir poured himself another mug of hot tea and sat down near Lindir. His back rested against his pack and his long legs stretched before him, one ankle resting on the other. ‘I know ‘tis not the best decision to judge another before having met them. But – I think I do not care for this Diviner, already. There is too much power vested in him, or rather her. And power, I’ve noted from my own small acquaintance with those who wield it, often tends to abuse.’ He shivered at the thought of someone stripping away the layers of his mind, looking deep into his heart. ‘I am uneasy that my brother is going out to search for this Diviner. Uneasy that we are to trust your recovery to . . . her.’

He looked far into the distance, beyond the tumbled stones of the courtyard. His grey eyes seemed unfocused, looking inward as much as outward. Orëmir’s attention was held by an image his mind had conjured . . . a beam of clear white light shone brightly on the ground, hedged in by the darker shadings about its edge. It was hard to say whether the light pushed back the dark, or the dark defined the light. He blinked his eyes, willing away the image.

‘This is an ill-starred undertaking,’ he murmured. ‘We should not have come.’ He looked at Lindir with considering eyes, wondering if he and Endamir would be strong enough together to take him back to the ship. All his senses cried out to him to call back his brother and flee.

[Anguirel]

At the approach of Lomwe and Endamir, Malris hurriedly relinquished his hold on Tasa's had, though he suspected perhaps not quickly enough.

"Ah," he said, rather bitterly, to the others as they approached. What had happened seemed to be a symbol of his existence in relation to Tasa-always being snatched away. It was then that Giledhel's face surfaced in his mind again, and in guilt he dismissed the moment of joy to the cellar of his memory.

"So you are up," he concluded.

“Yes, and we thought you had already left to search for this Diviner,” Lómwë replied, “so we were about to begin looking as well. Orëmir is staying inside with Lindir. But since you are still here… do you know how we’re supposed to go about this search? Is there a better strategy than ‘getting lucky’?”

Malris was gratified that Lomwe, so suspicious and ready to blame him the night before, seemed his old self again, ready to act to help the ailing Lindir. Perhaps the coming of morning had accomplished this. It had been so before, had it not...they had set out with rifts forgiven and hopes high in the morning, and carped at each other-and chiefly him-by the evening...this cycle, Malris reflected, had the potential to become extremely wearing. He shrugged.

"Only that we have to remember that we've been told that the Diviner will be with the Seneschal. I take that as a sign that we should investigate where Master Idrahil is now...and as Seneschal he ought, I suppose to be within one of the bastions along the wall..."

Malris indicated what he meant with his arm. Apart from the four great watch-towers at the fortress's corners, and the vast edifice of the keep, there were smaller, square heights interspersed along the wall; the bastions of war that had made Himring in its day impossible to take by storm. It was in one of these that Malris and Giledhel had made their home, though the dereliction made it hard for him to work out which after so long.

"As for which one, I could not begin to guess. I suggest the two pairs of us proceed in different directions, investigating each of the bastions in turn, until we find anything...or anyone...of interest. If either party runs into trouble...we will speak by osanwe-kenta, and rush to succour each other. Does that sound practical?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir turned to respond to Orëmir but no words issued from his mouth. Instead, a thick shadowy veil swiftly descended over his eyes; only this time the curtain seemed as black as night. The Elf's face went slightly green, then pale and ashen, as he struggled to loose his mind from the darkness that threatened to engulf him. The black tunnel reappeared and a single hand reached out threatening to push him down the corridor towards a distant door. Minute by minute, the doorway loomed closer.

"Orëmir, help me!" the injured Elf pleaded. Not now, Elbereth, when I have sworn to remain here and undo the evil I have fashioned. There is too much to do. Clinging desperately to his companion's sleeve, Lindir had slipped into Osanwë, since he was no longer able to speak words that the outside world could distinguish. Lindir felt his grip loosen as he was tugged ever closer to the great locked door. Reaching out with his hand as if to push the door away, the Elf saw in horror as the key within the lock slowly began to turn. There was a moment of blackness and then Lindir knew no more....

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir, help me!

Lindir was slipping away. No, not slipping . . . it was as if he were being tugged through the slim door between life and death. Ordinarily, Orëmir would have slid gently into the Elf’s mind and eased his worried thoughts, giving what support he could to help the dying Elf accept the inevitable reality. This time though, he shouted NO! as strongly as his mind and spirit could muster.

Physically, Lindir should not be passing on. He’d been injured, but not critically. Given time and rest his body should mend. The descent into death was not inevitable from physical causes. And yet, the stricken Elf’s mind had gone black and there had been the panicked image of the long dark tunnel preceding it.

Orëmir drew his pack nearer and fetched out his wooden medicine box. In his long years as a healer, there was one preparation he had used very infrequently, fewer times than the fingers on one hand. It was a Southron healer, in fact, that had acquainted him with its use – mainly for bringing round those who had been tortured in body and mind so that they might face another round of questioning. Orëmir had found its properties somewhat useful in reviving stricken Elves and men when it was necessary that they be awake, alert, and able to move themselves for a short period of time, especially in order to remove them from a dangerous situation.

The decoction, though, had its drawbacks. While it invigorated the mind and body, giving the person some semblance of normality, it could not be predicted how long the effects would last. And two of his patients had been driven even deeper into collapse when the effects had worn off. Several of those he’d used it on had given no warning that the decoction was wearing off; they had simply dropped to the ground – and one of them had died. Another, though, had done well enough on it that he had been able to take a series of three doses before he had collapsed completely.

There was no way to know how Lindir might fare. And no other alternative. Should he hesitate, Lindir would be gone forever. Orëmir pulled off the stopper to the narrow-necked bottle and pulling down Lindir’s lower lip, he let fall a single, small drop of the grey, oily liquid between the Elf’s cheek and gum.

Now came the waiting . . . and hope that he had not done in his friend for good . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

One moment Lindir lay rigid on the ground as if transfixed, his face grey and ashen, his breathing shallow, barely discernible to the outside world. As the tiny drop went into his mouth, there was one long pause when nothing happened. The Elf appeared no different than he had before. Just an instant more, and it was as if a great storm had struck out of nowhere. Lindir's legs and arms began to beat wildly at the air; his whole body flailed back and forth in waves of convulsion. This continued for some time. Still, Orëmir could see that the color was gradually seeping back into his friend's face and that his eyes were now open. Finally, the wild movements ended. Lindir lay sprawled and quiet; his breathing seemed more natural.

"What happened? Where am I? What have you done?", Lindir spoke to Orëmir, at first hesitantly and then in a stronger tone. The Elf sprang to his feet and began to pace frantically about the guard house almost as if he was again possessed.

Without waiting for an answer, Lindir plunged ahead, "I am better. Much better. I do not know what you did, but I owe you many thanks. I have not felt such strength since I came to the Isle. I believe you have cured me. I no longer have need of the Diviner." There was relief evident in Lindir's voice, but his words were coming too quickly for normal speech. He ran over to the door and retrieved his sword, then pushed the gate open with a great heave, and glanced back over his shoulder at his friend.

"Come! Why do we stay here? Let us go tell the others that I have no need of any healer, and they may stop their search. Perhaps now, we can leave this accursed place."

Without looking to see if Orëmir was following, Lindir ran down the path at breakneck speed.

[piosenniel]

Endamir’s eyes narrowed briefly at the sight of Malris’ hand as it fell away from Tasa’s. ‘I could be charitable,’ he thought to himself, ‘and consider it a simple sign of affection as one friend might give another, or a brother give his sister.’ Until he heard the underlying tone of regret with which Malris greeted Lómwë and him. Endamir’s cheeks flushed with recognition of the gesture and he wondered if Malris would remain as true to Giledhel in her death as he had been in life.

At least, he supposed, he had been faithful to their vows. ‘You really know nothing about this,’ he chided himself. ‘Best you simply drop your ruminations on it altogether.’

‘The bastions, then,’ Endamir spoke aloud to the other three. ‘Why don’t Lómwë and I take the two long walls that run along the north and eastern faces of the fortress?’ He turned to Lómwë. ‘Let’s start with those on the east. As I recall, there were four of them, though my brief glance in that direction showed only three, I think.’ He laughed low, and a grim sound in reality it proved against the brightness of the new day. ‘Though I suppose those spirits who inhabit this place care not whether their abode still gleams with fresh plastering or even that it has few walls left or none.’

He nodded briefly to Malris and Tasa, wishing them good hunting. Then turning back to Lómwë he urged him to lead the way, saying he would pick up that task when they came to the northern wall.