Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Nurumaiel]

The sound of music drifted to Heledharm's ears, and he followed it. He walked with his head bowed, and his expression was perturbed. When he found Erinlaer, strumming softly on her harp and skipping back and forth every so often. He watched her solemnly, and gradually she became aware of his presence. She looked up brightly, but her smile faded when she saw his expression.

"Is something the matter?"

"You do know," he said, speaking slowly and thoughtfully, his eyes lowered, "that we are preparing for war?"

"Why, yes," she said. "But I don't believe that war will come." He raised his eyes quickly to her face, and she laughed lightly. "I have heard talk of war from you, and from my mother and father," she said. "But I couldn't possibly believe that it's true. Everything seems the same... all light and happiness."

"It seems so to you, perhaps," said Heledharm, "but it is now war is considered a certainty. There will be war, Erinlaer." He hesitated, and looked away. He was afraid of her eyes when he told her what he had to tell. "An army is being assembled," he murmured, "and I have certainly decided to be part of it."

"It's quite right of you," she said with a smile. "It will certainly give my parents pride."

"You feel no fear?" he cried.

She tilted her head and gazed up at him in genuine bewilderment. "Why should I?" she asked. "Certainly nothing will happen to you." Then she lifted up her harp and began to play again.

He turned abruptly and made for the door. When he reached it he stopped, and half-turned his head, and almost made the decision to go back and speak with her again. But he decided against it, and left the room. Her music followed him... bright and merry, unburdened by any cares and fears.

He had been afraid that she would be frightened and distressed at hearing that he was to be in the army. He had not wanted that. But he was disturbed even more by her steadfast disbelief that evil might come, her insistence on cheerfulness. He wanted her to realise evil while he was there to comfort her, not when evil touched her by his death.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Narisiel noticed with surprise the way Celebrimbor silenced Maegisil, but it was not only that that caused her own indignation and almost disappointment in Celebrimbor. To see him so hunched in his chair now, to see him shoot down an old friend, to treat her like an afterthought merely 'dragged in' by some whim of Maegisil...what Lord acted in so petty and almost melodramatic a manner when on his borders lay...well, what?

Catching the Commander, Elgedon's, eye, she saw in his eyes the same sort of emotion - but along with it was such a look of defeat that the fear began to swell inside Narisiel's darkest worries. Turning to Celebrimbor, she raised her chin defiantly and spoke firmly, as if to an unruly child. "My Lord Celebrimbor, please, speak plainly to me: what has happened, exactly?"

"Maegisil did not tell you?" Celebrimbor looked up, surprised, but did not direct his at the male counsellor as well, and Narisiel once more wondered about the distance and formality that seemed to be growing between them. Was she doomed to such cold treatment as well, after the closeness that had grown up between them. But Celebrimbor gave her a soft, sad smile, the fondness in his eyes soothing her worry, before she caught herself in realising how petty it was. But he did not answer her question immediately, instead turning sharply away and staring intently out of the window. Bewildered, Narisiel turned instead to Elgedon. The Commander glanced at Celebrimbor as if for permission, but when the elf-lord made no move, he cleared his throat uneasily and stood stiffly. "We...we have sighted the dark army."

Something about the coining of such an ominour phrase made Narisiel question. "'Dark' army? Do you mean to say-"

"There are not only orcs," Elgedon finished shortly. He glanced at the scout in the side of the room, standing mutely with his eyes on his hands. Not only orcs... Although Elgedon seemed unsure of whether to continue or not, the sense of panic was speeding through Narisiel's mind as the sands of time seemed to be slipping from beneath her feet and the very foundations of her city. It was not the done thing, but as etiquette seemed to be of little matter now, she addressed the scout directly. "How many? What did you see?" she asked, not quite managing to keep her voice steadily.

The young scout looked up, startled, and glanced at Elgedon as if for permission to speak, a strange symmetry drawing itself between Elgedon's silent request to speak from the mute Celebrimbor. It seemed that no matter what their level, every individual was feeling the uncertainty of their world as it slipped towards the maw of war. When the scout spoke, his grey eyes were shining with the memory of what he had seen, widening as if he once more saw some fearsome sight even in the quiet, still rooms of the palace. "There...there were not only orcs, my Lady," he replied, his voice almost a croak. He glanced once more at Elgedon, then continued, blurting the words out. "Orcs...Uruk-hai, even some kind of goblin; and men, men by the thousands - Easterlings, Southrons, we could not get close enough to see clearly, but what we saw..."

"How many?"

The scout swallowed, licking dry lips as his eyes faltered away from the smith's, before he looked back and replied. And this time all the military training of the worlds best commanders could not hide the shake that was in his voice. "Tens of thousands, my Lady. At least twenty thousand - and that was merely what we could see straight away."

Narisiel closed her eyes and felt herself sway slightly, as if a gentle breeze shook her. This couldn't be happening, and yet had they not ll foreseen it, the entire city, building and building for over a century, had they not prepared for it? The armouries were stocked, military training ever fiercer, yet more elven men turning to the army, women preparing their families and their houses; and yet, after all of their hard work, the climax of the preparation of the busy bees was to have their hive totally smashed.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes and turned slowly to Celebrimbor, still seated gloomily, gazing intently out of the window as if willing the enemy away with his very eyes; but as she looked more closely, the smith was sure that she could see tears in his eyes. Shocked, she looked away, ridiculously embarassed, and looked back to Maegisil. The other elf's expression was rigid, but his eyes gave it away: unashamedly despairing. Yet within the fear, she noted, there was no shock. And neither was there in her eyes, she supposed, however terrible the news was. She had known. They all had known.

Following Celebrimbor's eyes, Narisiel breathed deeply, forcing her calm exterior to remain firm and still, oil over turbulent waters. But strong though she was, she could feel the panic and upset inside her that was purely female, a fear not so much for herself as for her way of life - and for her family, soldiers both...

"When will you tell the city?"

The question was a statement as much as a query, and Narisiel knew it: the time for waiting and whispering had passed. The busy little bees were to know as soon as possible, before that unruly child was to stomp on their hive - although little good it may do them now...

[Child of the 7th Age]

A single Wainrider bearing a curved blade stood stiffly poised outside Ulrung's tent, snapping a sharp salute in greeting as the Easterling captain approached. No mere footsoldier, Janeer was one of the elite charioteers, a scion of an aristocratic family. "Sire, if I may speak," the sentinel nervously intoned.

"Aye," growled Ulrung in response, hastily returning the military salute, "speak now. For there will be little time for words once battle begins."

"It is only this. Your officers have heard the news. We are well pleased that you have been made second to Lord Angoroth. The fortunes of the Wainriders ride high. We will no longer bend our backs to the Balchoth or other riffraff, but can soon take our rightful place as masters of the Sea of Rhûn."

Ulrung gave no hint of approval at these words and countered gruffly, "Silence! Keep your thoughts to yourself. What is given can easily be taken away. This Angoroth, whatever or whoever he is, is no fool. He will countenance no disobedience or idle talk. Go now. Retire for the night but tell the others to hold their tongues, or I will slice them out of their mouths."

Ulrung turned abruptly and, pushing aside the lowered flap, disappeared inside the inky shadows of the tent. He threw himself into a chair beside the small table, yanked off his boots, and lit a single candle, placing his head between his hands while emitting a weary sigh. If truth be told, the same sentiments had already occurred to Ulrung. He too was sick of bending a knee to that Easterling cur, the leader of the Balchoth tribe, who had served as second in command to the great Lord. He was not sorry to see him fall. The Easterling confederation was united in its desire to see the Elves and Men of the West fall to ruin. Other than that, however, the tribes agreed on little, and Ulrung was no exception in this regard.

Ulrung did not know if Angorath was aware of all the jostlings for power that transpired between the differing tribes that hailed from the Sea of Rhûn. Their Lord was no fool. Perhaps, he knew exactly what he had done by elevating one of the lowly Wainriders to a position of power. Then, again, it was clear Angorath had greater goals on his mind and may not have been wholly cognizant of the complicated relations between the differing tribes and their leaders. To him, they were only tools to be employed.

If only he could hold on to his newly won position as chief commander under the Dark Master, the Wainriders could emerge victorious, with power and wealth untold, lording it over the other eastern tribes as well as the men of the west. If he failed..... But, no. He would not think of that. Failure meant death and dishonor, both for himself and those Wainriders who served under him. There must be no failure. Let them destroy Eregion, grind her and her filthy Elves into the ground. And if the Dwarves stood with them, they must also be swept aside.

Lying on his cot, just on the verge of falling asleep, Ulrung stopped for a moment to wonder. Why Eregion? Why is the Dark Lord so intent on striking a blow against Ost-in-Edhil? Is there something there he desires, or some reason he bears the fortified city a special grudge? It was not the only place in Middle-earth where he might want to gain a hold. Somewhere, underneath the great Lord's grim visage, Ulrung sensed an untold story, some reason for the smouldering anger that seemed to brew in Angorath's eyes. But what that tale might be, Ulrung had not the slightest idea.

[Durelin]

Maegisil could see Narisiel’s growing frustration with the elf-lord, and he felt his own anger and grief grow inside of him. It was this day that he had dreaded for so long. The way in which Celebrimbor spoke filled him with the kind of dread he had felt when his lord had first revealed to him the secret of the Rings: that dreadful secret, that mockery of the Mirdain, their great city, and their crafts. But unlike the feelings of fear and anguish that had boiled in his stomach since that fateful day, he found something new that clouded his mind even more: disgust. The people of Ost-in-Edhil still do not know what their lord did in his spare time… He looked upon his lord, the elf he had sworn allegiance to and been ever ready to risk his life for, whom he had considered his greatest friend and the most admirable being in all of Middle-earth, and for a moment, he sneered. Celebrimbor caught his eye.

“What is it, my wise and noble counselor?” Now the mockery was clear in the lord’s voice, and Maegisil was silenced by shock. He dropped his head slightly, not wanting to meet Celebrimbor’s eyes. “Do you have nothing to say, Counselor Maegisil?” the elf-lord asked bitterly after he received only silence from the other elf. After another moment of silence, he turned away from Maegisil, shaking his head.

“I do have something to say, my lord,” Maegisil said suddenly, causing Celebrimbor to sharply turn back to him. The lord smirked at the use of his title. “You are being a fool and a coward.”

Celebrimbor stared at him. If the elf-lord had not always been good at holding on to his composure, he would have been gaping at his…former…friend. He wanted to scream in his anger. When he finally spoke, he stuttered slightly, choking on his words, which only made him angrier. “Am…Am I the fool?”

“And a coward.”

“You are a fool.”

Maegisil suddenly realized the childishness of this, and after taking a breath, spoke with more assurance than before. “You have had over a century to prepare your city for the future and what it held. After your mistake, you knew what it would come to. I knew. You are right; I am a fool. I did not do anything for the future of Eregion, but neither did you. But who am I? I am only Maegisil. You are the Lord of Eregion.”

“And what could I have done?” Celebrimbor was yelling now, all outward calm thrown out the window, seemingly along with everything else. “I sat here in this very room for over a century wondering what to do. I sat here for hours each day in utter torment, with the awareness of what I had done and the knowledge that I had to do something about it.”

The Lord of Eregion’s outburst sparked something in Maegisil that had long been kept quiet. He could not remember getting truly angry for a very long time. He had always held his temper, and looked at things calmly and rationally. His philosophy had always been that he should never approach something passionately. But now it all fell apart.

“You sat here for a hundred years wallowing in self pity!”

Everyone was shocked at the volume and intensity of his voice, particularly Narisiel and Celebrimbor, who knew him well. The lord did gape at his counselor this time, searching for words that would not come, all of his excuses and denials broken down by that one sentence. Truth hit him hard in the gut, and he found himself struggling.

“We must tell the people…we must get them out…” he almost muttered, his mind searching for a way out, panic and total despair replacing all of his anger.

“We must evacuate those who cannot fight to the west as quickly as possible,” Maegisil said, almost to his own surprise, as he felt like he was taking command for a brief moment.

“The people will not want to leave,” Narisiel said softly, looking at Maegisil but watching Celebrimbor out of the corner of her eye, obviously still just as disturbed by the previous events as the counselor was.

“No, but they will know that they must. We will not hide anything from them. We believe there are at least twenty thousand, and that is what we will tell them. And we must ask those who can to fight, facing them with the odds of victory.”

“Which are none…” the Lord Celebrimbor murmured despairingly.

[Folwren]

The Stonecut Hall was all ablaze with the light of many torches, and a huge, roaring fire in the massive fireplace at the far wall. There were many dwarves in the Hall already, talking and laughing and laughing together. The Stonecut family were spread for and wide about the hall, greeting guests, staying and talking with the better known, and, as in Bror’s case, amusing the little ones who got in the way of the mother’s in the kitchen.

Fori and Tori Ironfoot stood beside him as he explained to a group of seven or eight young dwarves the rules of the race. There was to be no tripping or purposefully getting in the way of another runner unless it was absolutely necessary in order to avoid running into some adult dwarf, they must run to that table over there, touch it, and return. First one back and to touch him was the winner.

They lined up where Bror directed and prepared themselves for a swift take off. Bror stepped back a few paces, paused, and then said slowly and carefully - ‘on your mark....Go!’ and the boys were off.

‘How long do you have to keep them amused?’ Fori asked ask the three of them watched them run.

‘Until dinner is served - which won’t be too long,’ he added with a glance towards the kitchen. They said nothing more. The racers were almost back. Next moment, Bror was practically knocked over by the force of the first boy’s impact and then by two or three more running into him for the mere fun of it. ‘Good work, lads!’ he said, laughing. ‘Who won?’ The proud runner stood out before him and Bror rummaged about in his pockets until he brought out a smooth, rounded and beautiful red stone (otherwise, it was useless) and gave it to him. To the rest he handed out green ones and then sent them off, for dinner had just been called.

Before he could follow them, Tori plucked his sleeve and he turned back around.

‘Let’s race,’ Tori said, indicating his brother as well.

‘Us three?’ Bror asked, looking at the two Ironfoot sons. He was almost small in comparison to them, certainly no match in height. But he used to be fast, when they were all the same size and younger, so after a pause, he agreed upon it. ‘Let’s go to the far end of the hall, though,’ he said. ‘Instead of to where I sent the boys.’

They agreed and the three of them lined up and prepared themselves. On the count of three, they took off. Bror put every ounce of speed and strength into his running. It lasted less than a minute - Tori pulled in the lead, and Fori and Bror pelted along behind him by two paces, neck and neck, and suddenly, Tori stopped. He tripped over his own feet to miss ramming into a dwarf stepping into his path, but it didn’t work, and he ran into him anyway and they both ended up on the floor. Bror and Fori stumbled to a stop a few paces on and then came back in breathless laughter to the heap of dwarves that turned out to be Tori and Skald.

‘Get off me, you great ox,’ Skald said, trying to get up. Tori scrambled off him as quickly as he could and then offered his hand. There was a pause for a moment, but Bror and Fori were laughing so hard already that the fallen and bruised Skald and Tori could not help but join in.

‘Clumsy fool,’ Bror said, clapping Skald on the back, ‘it’s time to eat, don’t you know? What do you mean by getting in the way of honest, hungry people going to the dinner table?’

‘Honest! Not very likely,’ Skald said with a merry twinkle in his eye. ‘I won’t take that from you, little brother.’ They laughed again and without another word, turned and started towards the long, board tables set up.

The meal was long and merry, filled with meat, newly brewed bear, bread and cheeses, and summed up with huge berry pies and cream. Bror was still eating when behind him came the sound of a harp. He turned his head and looked about. The player sat several yards away and his head was bent as though in thought beside the beautiful instrument. His hands moved slowly at first over the strings and the sound he produced sounded half melancholy, but suddenly, he lifted his head, and his eyes were merry. The tune quickened and he played as Bror hoped someday to play, a swift enticing tune. A moment later, a fiddle joined him and from some corner or shadow of the room came another dwarf. He looked at the harpist with a smile and shining eyes and they played together. The dwarves on the benches move in their seats by the lively music, and before long, some of them couldn’t help themselves, but bound suddenly to their feet and went out towards the middle of the open floor.

So the dancing started. The dwarves got up one after another. The more that came, the more room was made, and the intricate figures and circles were formed, weaving in and out. Bror sat with shining eyes, watching. He had never danced much, for as a child he had rather sit and listen to the music and watch the dancing than do it himself. Someday he intended to be one of the ones playing for the dancers. He thought of that now and his eyes flicked to the musicians. Two more dwarves had joined the original players and another was approaching with his instrument. Bror smiled and leaned back against the table and took another buttered roll in his hand.

[Amanaduial the archer]

A defeatist attitude? Do you really think that will help? Silently, Narisiel agreed with Maegisil: Celebrimbor had indeed been 'wallowing in self-pity' since the betrayal more than a century ago. One hundred years seemed to pass quickly in the lives of the elves, who counted their lives not by mere years but by millenia, but the lives of others in Middle Earth waxed and waned in less than even that short time: a man may live and die and take his joys and defeats with him to the grave in a century. Short as the lives of butterflies were the lives of men compared to the elves; yet had they not overcome odds of their own? Had not Minas Tirith, the fortified city of Gondor, held the plots and plans of the Lord of Men within it's walls, the silent stone and the songs of men all that recorded the victories and defeats of those within? But this fortress, this city, these stone walls as white as the bloodstained battlements of the White City. All that will be left of us to will be the songs...the laments...

"If all had as little faith as you, then no, probably not," Narisiel replied quietly. Her words, although softly spoken, made the other three turn to look at her in surprise. The shock, then the hurt registered on Celebrimbor's face and she saw him almost flinch away from the elven woman's words. But Narisiel's own anger and frustration was now welling up like a lump in the throat, and she even as she felt the distance growing between herself and Celebrimbor, her closest friend and her Lord, the hurt of his shying away barely registered. With the lump in her throat she could feel tears welling up.

"An army is made up of sons, brothers, fathers, friends, my Lord Celebrimbor; do you not think these people will fight with all the strength they have against any enemy, for their families if for nothing else? After all, what else is there to fight for, really?" Her final words were bitter, and although she did not voice what was on her mind, all in the room could have finished it for her. Who was going to fight for a Lord who had cloaked his actions in lies for two centuries? Celebrimbor had the grace not to try to reply, and she continued. "My husband and son are both in that army, Celebrimbor," she continued, her voice controlled with some difficulty. "Do you have no faith in those who protect you? The odds...true, they are overwhelming, true we probably will not come out of this alive, but to have such a statement from the one who is supposed to command us, to be the ultimate strength and force? Or did you give that responsibility up when you decided to hide the truth of the rings?"

"You hid it as well, Narisiel."

"It was not my secret to tell, Celebrimbor," she snapped in reply, a snake-fast return. "I could not tell the truth of something when I myself only did not even posess full knowledge. I am not blameless in this, of course not, but what use is a half truth? Such knowledge becomes the foundation of rumours, causing only fear and panic, and what use is that? The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth...only two beings knew that, so maybe that is something you would like to discuss with 'Lord Annatar'."

Celebrimbor sat but a few metres from her, but that distance could have been a chasm a mile across, and still widening as the earthquake still trembled, growing in confidence, shaking them apart. And as she looked across that void at him, Narisiel could not stop the tears from finally welling up in her eyes as she regarded him unblinkingly. In a few short seconds, the friendship of half a century passed between them, painfully scrutinised in such detail, the icy frosting of jadedness creeping into the corners, until finally Narisiel looked away. She was angry - furious - and painfully disappointed in the other elf, but there were some things that she could not let be scarred by this - not yet, at any rate, not in the heat of the moment. The room remained in silence for a moment that could have been an hour until Commander Elgedon finally spoke, rising from his seat.

"Am I to brief the army, my Lord?"

Celebrimbor remained silent and motionless, his eyes still on Narisiel.

"My Lord?"

Finally, the elven lord blinked and stirred, and as he did so his movements seemed creaky, those of an old man. "I...yes. Yes, thank you Commander. Tell them of the odds, tell them what preparations must be made, but..."

"...but you will tell the city yourself." Narisiel finished the sentence, not insolently, but with the determination and certain knowledge that that was what Celebrimbor needed to do - and whatever he had been about to say, he knew it as well. In two minutes he had had the hard fierceness of the truth burn him from the tongues of the two counselors he held closest, but even if their respect wavered, the respect of an entire city rested on stating the truth to them from his own lips.

Celebrimbor nodded slowly. "Yes," he replied softly.

Narisiel nodded curtly, and Elgedon dismissed himself from the room. "We shall spread the word of the announcement. Will one hour be sufficient, my Lord?" It was Maegisil who spoke this time, his word hard and clipped. Barely waiting for an answer, the elven counselor, who Narisiel had never known to be anything but the height of formality, calm and control, gave the shortest of bows, turned and strode out of the room, still bristling. Narisiel watched him go, then slowly turned her head back to face Celebrimbor. She did not speak, merely gave him a slow, stiff bow, as if she herself had gained a thousand years of weight, then wordlessly turned for the door. Finally, as she reached the door of the otherwise empty room, he seemed to spur himself into action, darting forward suddenly and seizing her wrist. "Narisiel, please...you shared that secret in the forge, you witnessed the power of what passed..."

The elvensmith stared into the face of her Lord for a moment, her arm tensed against his fingers, and eventually he loosened it, but still did not quite let go, as if trying to keep his grip onto her trust and friendship with a physical hold. For a second, she seemed unable to speak, or maybe just battling the fronts of what to actually say: her eyes were still shining, and despite all her anger, the pain inside her was caused also by the trust that she had placed in the other, a deep trust and respect and, what is more, a love, that refused to quite leave. But finally she made do with just one enigmatic statement. "The rest of the city is doing their duty now, Celebrimbor."

With that, with all the confused implications that could come from it, with the rumbling of the earthquake that had caused irreperable damage still growing in power, Narisiel left him.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo was at his forge again, striking a long piece of iron into a sword blade. His hammer strokes rang out into the street, and the heat of his forge was felt by bystanders as they passed the shop. Cainenyo was creating a sword for an officer in the army, the last thin layer of defense between Sauron and the city.

Much had happened in the last two years. Celebdur was killed by orcs on his way to the mountains; Cainenyo had attended his funeral; and Arenwino was now without work. These days he roamed the streets with his friends, who were mostly soldiers. Cainenyo just hoped that Arenwino would not follow suit and risk life and limb.

But there were also joys. A new daughter was born in Cainenyo's house, named Nessime. She spent most of her time in her protective mother's arms. Cainenyo sometimes wished that Nessime was born in less troublesome times, however.

Cainenyo's pockets were fuller, also. The price of good iron had increased significantly, and with the extra demand for arms and armor, Cainenyo was soon very wealthy. But money did not ease his worries, the thoughts in the back of his mind still told him that Ost-in-Edhil was doomed. He only reassured himself by knowing that his swords would be slaughtering orcs once in the hands of able soldiers.

Alassante, too, no longer disregarded war as gossip after Celebdur was killed. She was frightened, but she did not express her worries openly. She put on a straight face as she walked about the city, and gazed towards the ground when soldiers passed her way. Cainenyo guessed that she felt a bit shameful of her lack of foresight, and although he was never a great judge of people's emotions, he was near enough to the truth. Alassante spent most of her time with the new baby, which eased her mind a little.

Arenwino seemed especially hard hit by Celebdur's death. For days afterwards he would still head to the forge as usual, only to find that it was now owned by a goldsmith from across town, who had more or less weaseled his way into Celebdur's will. Arenwino now roamed the city with his friends, looking for work and adventure. Since some of his friends joined the ranks of the soldiers and guards of Ost-in-Edhil, the prospect of becoming a warrior was looking more and more favorable, and the opportunity to become an independent silversmith had not yet arrived. He would march down the street with his chums, dressed in the finest armor money can buy, and swinging long shining blades in the air, if only his love for silver and the memory of Celebdur were cast from his mind.

And so Cainenyo continued his work. The rhythmic hammer-falls created a peaceful music in his mind, and work was now often an escape from his troubles. The warm glow of the coals was comforting, too. And so Cainenyo continued shaping the iron into a sword, and shoved his worries to the furthest corners of his mind. He would save them for tomorrow.

[piosenniel]

The quick, lively music had wound down a bit as those who played and danced found their throats parched and their bellies growling for another plate of food. ‘Go on,’ said Riv, leaning forward to whisper in his wife’s ear. ‘Bror’s tuning up over there. Your going to sing that song of Durin with him, aren’t you?’

He reached forward and with his great hands he plucked little Ginna from her mother’s grasp. ‘I can hold the wee one while you sing.’ He cradled the little girl in the crook of his left arm, smiling as she fussed a little then settled back into her dreams. Leifr, for his part, had pulled a chair next to his father’s and was leaning against Riv’s right flank. His little tummy was quite full with cider and sweets, and more frequently now his eyes drooped and a tiny snore issued from his slack mouth. Unna smiled at the image and winked at Riv. ‘Don’t you dare drift off while I sing!’ she ordered in a whispering voice.

She crossed to the other side of the hall and bent down for a few words with Bror. He plucked a string on his harp and she hummed the note, on key. After a brief introduction of Bror’s playing, Unna nodded to where the present King Dain sat with his family and began the song. The conversations hushed as her clear voice rang out through the Hall . . .

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

As her voice faded with the last of the lyric, Bror’s nimble fingers picked up the melody and wove and intricate refrain. There was silence when he finished, and Unna looked at him, whispering nervously. ‘Mahal save us! We’ve ruined the party!’

Then the beat of pewter tankards on the oaken table tops began. And the king, himself, stood up from his chair, and shouted ‘Well done! Well done!’ in his great voice. Unna’s cheeks turned scarlet at the praise and Bror grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes glittering with delight . . .

[Arry]

While Unna sang, Skald stood with a number of his friends near the newly tapped keg of ale. He was well into his cups as were his companions. Their legs were a bit wobbly and their speech a little slurred. But, they were still standing . . . and for a Dwarf, that was call enough for another round.

‘Nice voice . . . your brother’s wife,’ whispered Olin Glitterfist, noting the lopsided grin on Skald’s face. ‘Not you! I’ve heard you sing . . . like an old rusty hinge!’

Skald raised his brows and was about to retort when he saw Riv motioning him over. ‘Just your luck my brother needs me,’ he said, punching Olin lightly in the arm. ‘Otherwise it would be me and you . . . hand to hand . . . and me wipin’ the very floor with you!’ Olin laughed and was quickly silenced by the shushes of those listening to the song.

With a decided list, Skald made it to the long table where Riv sat. Working his way down toward his brother’s seat he stumbled against many a chair, leaving a string of ‘Sorry!’ and ‘Your pardon!’ in his wake.

When he arrived, Riv pulled the empty chair next to his left and bade him sit down. Riv’s face had a serious look on it as did that of his father. They had pulled apart from their hushed conversations as Skald approached. Drawing a deep breath, Skald made an effort to pull his senses together. He was quite sober by the time Viss had relayed the content of their hurried whisperings to him.

[Folwren]

Bror was grinning broadly as he and Unna spoke a last word together. She went her way and Bror turned to put his harp somewhere safe until he could put it away after the gathering had broken up. He turned and walked back to his place at the table and was about to sit down again when he noticed his brothers and father sitting in a small knot several paces away.

His curiosity was instantly peaked and instead of taking a seat there, he walked towards the small group his family made. Reaching them, he leaned on both Skald and Riv and bent his head to hear the words they were speaking so soberly and quietly. The smile that was still flickering about his face faded as he caught his father’s words.

‘-Thousands of them storming about the city. I’ve heard them described as ants coming out of an ant hill...marching on in endless lines.’

‘What?’ Bror asked abruptly. ‘Thousands of what about what place?’

Riv waved him off, shrugging his shoulder to make him stand up. Bror stood accordingly and glanced about for a chair or stool of some sort. He pulled a nearby one up as Skald asked a question.

‘They want our help?’ Bror looked at him and at first was inclined to smile, but after a second’s thought decided not to. His brother had the look of having drunk overly much ale, but the very fact that he looked entirely in his right mind and without the least amount of merriness in any shadow of his face, caused Bror to think twice on the conversation he had just entered into. His eyes turned to his father as he answered.

‘They need help and have asked for it. Even if they hadn’t asked, I don’t think that we could very well sit here and let them all be destroyed. Our turn would come next, invariably. There’s little safety under any mountain when such an army is just outside of it, and swiftly growing.’

[Envinyatar]

Drawing closer to the city


As had been his wont, Lord Elrond kept them well west Tharbad; far from the prying eyes of as many folk as was posibble. They were a large force, relatively speaking, and horsed. But the Elven riders and handlers kept their charges quiet as they passed from the forested regions of Minhiriath.

Along the southern reaches of the River Gwathló they found a wide, shallow ford. The banks eased down from the trees’ edge in a gentle slope to a finely pebbled strand. A number of Elven warriors from the horsed columns crossed first, scouting the other side of the river for any sign of the enemy. When they assured themselves they could find no trace, the wagons began their slow crossing flanked by the rest of the columns. Lord Elrond rode ahead of this part of the van, joining his scouts on the other side.

It took most of the day for the entire force to cross. The wagons were big and heavily loaded. And often times the team would balk at the sight or feel of the river’s current.

The forest grew thinner as they drew away from the Gwathló, the countryside edging into what would soon become a vast expanse of hilly wastelands. Elrond turned them northward, passing just to the edge of the last dense stand of trees before stopping for the night.

‘He’s sent out scouts,’ Ondomirë told his squad captains when they had gathered in his tent after the evening meal. ‘They’ll map the lay of the land for us and spy out what forces Sauron has posted against any aid reaching Ost-in-edhil.’ He leaned forward in his chair and poured himself a glass of the dry, red wine his aide had left for the meeting. With a flick of his chin he passed it on to the man next to him, indicating it should make the rounds of the table. ‘I’ve also asked,’ he went on, ‘that the four bowmen we sent from our company scout out good, defensible positions for us to take should we need to fall back as the army advances. Most of the enemy we think will be concentrating further northward in the hilly lands to the north and south of the Sirannon and Glanduin rivers. From what we understand, Sauron is bent on destroying that enclave of the Noldorin jewel-smiths. Some very personal grudge, it would seem. And not just the city, but the population, too.’

They talked late into the night, then parted, each to their own squad’s billet. Lord Elrond held back their advance the next day, waiting for nightfall before crossing the Old South Road. From there, he took them into a sector of low-lying hills. They camped again in a hollow set among the hills, with sentries posted in the dense brush and rocky outcroppings that lined the hill tops. He sent out scouts again, instructing them to come as close as they might to the enemy’s troops.

They were now just a little more than a four day march from the city . . .

[piosenniel]

King Durin calls for counsel . . .


King Durin enjoyed times such as these. He was the third king blessed with the glorious name of Old Durin Himself and he looked with fondness over the gathered families in the Stonecut hall. Good food, strong drink, and the company of hearty friends and companions! he thought to himself. Mahal has surely graced our forges! May he continue to do so . . . he added, gazed slipping fondly from family to family.

He patted his wife’s knee fondly as she listened to the lovely song that Unna had just begun. ‘Youngest boy shows a growing talent with his harp, don’t you think?’ he whispered, leaning toward her. A movement to his left and an insistent calling of his name made him look away before she could answer him. It was young Tori Deepdiger, and by the look on his face it would not be welcome news.

~*~

Before Riv could answer Bror’s questions, a great wave of silence spread through the hall.

The King was standing on the small raised platform where his family sat and had raised his right hand high in the sky. To either side of him his sons stood calling for quiet and the attention of those gathered. The Stonecuts turned their faces to him, dark eyes troubling at what he would tell them all.

Bror looked questioning at his father. Viss leaned toward him, his eyes troubled. ‘It’s the same news that we were discussing just before you and Unna returned to the table,’ he said quietly. ‘And by the looks of the King’s face there will more unwelcome detail than we’d want to trouble us here beneath the mountain.’ He jutted his chin to where the Deepdigger lad had stepped down from the platform and was making his way toward the door. ‘Deepdigger boys drew the patrol about the Western Gate with some of the Brassbeards. There’s been fighting not a league from the mountain. A messenger from the city, bound for King Durin was ambushed by Orcs. Some of the lads tried to drive them off, but they were set on hard by the Orcs, who swarmed against them like vicious ants from an anthole. They near overwhelmed the patrol, who drew back quickly. Viss paused, a hard look in his eyes as he went on. ‘Two of the Deepdiggers were slain. They held back the Orc assault while their fellows found the safety of the mountain and closed the doors hard against the dark foe.’ Viss rubbed his big calloused hands along his thighs. ‘I’d taken a barrel of ale out to the fellows at the gates. And some meat and bread. Old Deepdigger had been brought to the gate by his sons and was just hearing the news. His sons were all for hacking their way through the Orcish mob to retrieve the fallen, but Old Deepdigger knew that naught would come of that save he lose more of his family. Council was taken quickly and I’m thinking that Tori was sent to the King to tell him what had happened. I hied myself back here to let riv and the others know what little I did.’

~*~

King Durin’s face was grey as the stones from which the hall was carved. In only a few short breaths of a man, the evening had gone from one of joy to one of disbelief, anger, and then sadness. But it was resolve now that set his features into deep hewn lines. He asked that the hall be cleared, women and children be taken to their quarters for now, the ale cups put away. The fathers and sons old enough for fighting he would have stay. There was grievous counsel to be heard tonight and hard counsel to be thought on for the morrow.

The story was told in clipped tones how the patrol had encountered the Orcs and how two of the Deepdiggers had fallen. The Elven messenger, the King had learned, had come from Celebrimbor, who feared that soon his city would be besieged. And beyond besieged, destroyed utterly and the Elves there along with it should the Sauron’s armies prevail. It was a surety they would prevail entirely should help not come. There were tens of thousands of foul men from the south, Orcs, and other loathsome creatures who were pouring into Eregion.

‘It is the Elves that their Dark Lord has some particular interest in,’ the King continued. ‘But he holds no love for the Dwarves, either. And once this goal of his is accomplished, who can say he will not turn his eye to us.’ He paused looking over the sea of somber faces gathered about him. ‘I would take counsel with you,’ he said, his gaze going about the group. ‘Celebrimbor is my good friend. And were it only me, I would lend him my axe without thinking. But it is not only my decision. Should we choose to assist the Elves wives will lose their husbands and sons, that is a surety. Perhaps we should just stay safe here beneath the mountain; ride out this dark storm. Strengthen our own defenses for an attack. Make safe our families and our forges.’ He saw some of the men nodding ‘yes’ to this statement; others narrowed their eyes, considering the costs, their minds uncertain.

‘What say you, Dwarves?’

[Durelin]

Maegisil walked quickly out of the palace, keeping his eyes straight ahead, moving his eyes only to look down at the steps he was taking down two at a time. His teeth were gritted and he repeatedly clenched and unclenched is fists, trying to release his anger while keeping his composure. It took all of his strength to just keep walking; he wanted to punch something and scream aloud like a child. He could not remember ever feeling this way, and he was unsure what to do, except to hold it all in and continue the disgusting feeling in his stomach.

Sooner than he expected, he found himself in the palace courtyard. He stopped for a moment, realizing that he was unsure of what exactly to do. Should he be the herald of Celebrimbor? Or should that job be passed to someone else? Should he even remain a counselor of the lord, or should he break all ties with the elf? Perhaps he should not even bother to get it announced to the city that the Lord of Eregion was going to speak…perhaps it was time to wash his hands of it all…

He looked around him, taking in the view of the courtyard, and seeing bits and pieces of the rest of the city. Renewed grief grew in his heart and he suddenly felt as if he could cry. He cursed himself for ever thinking that he would abandon his city to destruction, that he would save his own life and the life of his wife with no thought to his people. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he began walking again quickly across the courtyard. Soon he had reached the palace’s gate. It was not huge, but still quite large, and was beautifully crafted with mithril silver through the generosity and help of the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. The guards rushed to open the gate for him, observing his haste.

It was just past midday, the busiest time of day in the city. It was practically bustling with a speed greater than you would expect a city of immortals to ever move. The city had never been more alive. Maegisil felt a swell of pride in his chest as he thought about his people, and beheld the lively city, knowing that innumerable masterpieces had been created within its walls besides being a masterpiece itself. A few people turned to glanced as the palace gate opened. For a moment, Maegisil thought he saw hopeful faces be shot down, looking for the great Lord Celebrimbor, and receiving yet again only his counselor.

Maegisil could only remember shouting perhaps twice in his life. He had never liked shouting, he had never liked showing anger, and he certainly had never liked bringing attention to himself. Now he would do all three. He stood just outside the palace gate and took several more breaths as he closed his eyes, preparing for his heart to speak. Though it was not the composer of the words, it had composed the music.

“People of Eregion,” he called out to the elves in the streets. He paused for a moment, and not just for affect; he had shocked himself at the intensity and volume of his voice. He had gained the people’s attention. “The Lord Celebrimbor will speak to his people. Tell your friends and loved ones to gather in the palace courtyard to hear him.” He turned around to talk to the guards at the gate, still speaking loudly. “Leave the gates open for the people.”

It took several moments for the guards to respond, as they stood looking at Maegisil with some confusion. The palace gates had been opened for very few people over the years, and everyone had gotten used to the idea that the palace was off limits to most, and that their once visibly kind and benevolent and wise ruler was now a mysterious, invisible presence that represented the doom of the city rather than prosperity. But after the palace guards saw that Maegisil was in no mood to wait, they rushed to reopen the gate. All those who still watched the counselor were seemingly waiting for him to return to the palace, but he did not.

Maegisil now thought of his wife, and all the wrong that he knew that he had done to her over the years came rushing into his mind… He had let go of his anger that day, and it was time for him to let go of others. It had been too long; he had kept his heart away from his true love for too long, though it only should have belonged to her. He would be there when Celebrimbor, but so would she. He had kept his own wife in the dark for so long. He finally saw it was time to change this, when it was too late. He was no better than the feeble Lord of Eregion…

[Mithalwen]

Losrian heard Maegisil's call - the sound but not the words; it was too distant for even Elvish ears that were not focused on listening. She looked down and from her vantage point she could see the courtyard gates unexpectedly open and people starting to mill through them. Eager to see what was happening she sprang from her niche and ran lightly along the city wall to the nearest steps. She passed Artamir who seemed deep in conversation with his friend but something about her manner must have alerted him.

"Losrian - why are you running - have you left that forge alight and unattended? " he teased.

The girl paused and fixed him with her bright, grey eyes and did not rise to the bait. "The palace gates are open.. something is happening, I want to find out." She waited no longer and continued but was aware of the two young soldiers following her. She looked for her brother in the crowd but the space before the palace seemed full of strangers, all grim faced and anxious. She was glad when she turned to find Artamir next to her, a familiar face in strange times.

She felt that the moment had finally come, the storm was about to break and there was nothing they could do but face it. Neither her brother, the new father, nor Artamir, barely of age would be spared from the ranks and for herself ... for all her hours of practice and arrowmaking she wondered how she would cope if she joined the ranks of the archers. Could she really take a life? Even an orcish one. But she knew the enemy would show no mercy and expect none. She glanced again at Artamir who was staring at the palace. She wondered if he already knew what was to pass - for Narisiel, his mother, would surely be within. She had spent so much time there latterly.

[Alcarillo]

"Father, come with me!"

Arenwino had appeared at Cainenyo's forge. There was no panic in his face, but excitement. Cainenyo wondered what this could be.

"To what?" Cainenyo asked, "Surely the city is not falling to the orcs?" He spoke half-sarcastically, and later was a little unsure if it was the right thing to say at the time.

"No, father," Arenwino said with a this-is-serious frown, "The palace gates are opening. There is about to be an announcement. I heard it myself. I was just there a minute ago with Veurotur and Erundil." Cainenyo recognized the last two names as two of Arenwino's soldier friends.

"And this announcement is from Celebrimbor?" Cainenyo said. Such things were rare indeed.

Arenwino confirmed this, and Cainenyo dropped his hammer on a table. Together father and son made their way to the huge palace of Celebrimbor, dominating the city skyline. Others walked with anticipation in the direction of the gates. Through the streets many others were peering out of windows and looking down the lane towards the palace. What was this news?

[Folwren]

There was a long silence that prevailed over the Dwarves of the underground city of Khazad-Dum. The fire light flickered on their grim faces, and no one said anything. Finally, a thick set, black bearded Dwarf pushed himself forward.

‘My lord King,’ he said standing towards the front, ‘and my people,’ looking about him with dark, fierce eyes. ‘We have all heard rumors of this. Many of us have ignored it, hoping, and sometimes maybe believing that it would pass like so many shadows have in the past. But this time, the shadow has materialized and become larger as the time went. We have done little - next to nothing - to prepare for the war that has been being whispered in our ears. We can no longer sit in idleness here in our halls of stone, nor can we ignore the cries for help coming from the Elven city from without. It is not the lord Celebrimbor alone that asks our help. It is his people. There are wives and children there, no less precious than our own. If we go and fight, we run the risk of losing our own lives - leaving our families perhaps never to return, but at least our families will be safe after our deaths.

‘But if we do not go and fight, if we do not lend aid to our allies, we run the risk of an army so great that we can not conceive it even in our minds, turning again upon us and tearing us from our halls as a bird will a snail from its shell. We face the thoughts of cowardice and fear if we do not go out - forever reproached by the knowledge that we were afraid. Haunted until we go to our graves by the thoughts of the thousands of innocent women and children slaughtered in their burning homes by the hideous armies from Mordor because we didn’t go to help.

‘We have every reason and every ability to go out and help destroy and scatter the orcs and men under Sauron. I think that everyone one of us knows that there is no real reason to stay back, behind strong, safe walls of stone - safe for only the time being. We have only this one chance. If we do not go out now, there will be no chance of our surviving the attack that will surely come once the elves in Eregion have been destroyed.

‘I say we should go to the Lord Celebrimbor’s aid,’ the black bearded dwarf said, looking straight at the king. ‘And we should not delay.’

[Arry]

‘And I say we shouldn’t!’ Dari Glitterfist stood up, putting his hands on the table before him as he leaned forward to address the assembled Dwarves. ‘We’ve done enough, I say, carting the reinforcements from the Golden Wood through our halls, keeping ‘em safe from the Orcs until they could reach the smiths’ city. Granted, for most of those we brought through it was an easy enough job. But there were a few times when it was Dwarf lives that bought the safe passage.’ His brother Brand, sitting next to him, clapped his hand on Dari’s back, Both were remembering their brother Afi who fell to the foul Orcs in one of the expedition to fetch the Elven warriors sent from the Lady.

‘I’m standing with my brother, on this one,’ Brand said, getting up to speak. ‘I say our doors should be shut tight for now, and our forges turn to the making of weapons to defend ourselves.’

‘And besides,’ continued Dari, looking to the King for verification. ‘It wasn’t us that took that viper in his fair clothes in, now was it? They’re not dullards that can’t think for themselves. They’re just as sharp and shrewd as we are. They stood too close to the forger’s fire, and now they’ve got burnt, so we heard tell. Let them and their King figure out a way out of trouble. We should look to ourselves.’

There were murmurs of assent from little pockets of seated and standing Dwarves about the Hall. Many there were who would rather sharpen their axes and stand together at their own front door.

‘Now’s the time we should be closing ranks against outsiders; shore up our own defenses; look to the safety of our own families.’ Brand brought his great fist down on the thick oaken top of the table, his eyes glittering as they swept the room to see which opinion held sway.

[Folwren]

Bror bounded to his feet, his eyes flashing, wishing he could get close to one of the Glitterfist brothers. Skald reached up and pulled him back down.

‘But you can’t just let them talk like that!’ Bror exclaimed, turning towards his brother.

‘It’s not for you to contradict them. Let the others.’ Bror just gave him a furious look, jerked his arm out of Skald’s grip, and stood up again. But his father was already on his feet and addressing the Dwarves. His voice was calm - calmer than Bror thought possible in such circumstances - and it was strong and steady, loud enough to be heard, but not angry.

‘Of course Dwarves have died,’ he said, looking towards the Glitterfists. ‘This is the beginning of a war. More will die as time goes on. Closing our doors won’t solve our problem. Hoarding weapons, and sharping blades can’t guarantee that we will come out victors in the end of this.

‘It was not the elves that killed your brother. It wasn’t elves that killed the Deepdigger’s sons. Orcs did it. They are the ones that are guilty of these acts of war. Why punish the elves? In not answering their cry for help, will you leave your brother’s death unavenged? Will you stay here in search of safety, while your brother’s blood lies on the ground, crying out for vengeance? “Dwarves have been killed!” you say. Are you afraid to go out and run the risk of losing more?

‘Now is not the time to stay at home and hope for the best!’ he cried, looking over the assembly. ‘Whatever choice we make, it will end with blood shed, that much is certain. But if we can keep that away from our families and our homes, than that would be better. You may think that this is the elves’ war. They brought it upon themselves, let them finish it. I tell you, no. The Lord Celebrimbor and his elves are our allies, and this threat of invasion therefore doesn’t threaten only them, but also us. Is it to be said of the Dwarves in time to come, that we hid in our holes while our sworn friends were destroyed? They called for help - will we not answer them? Are you saying that we are willing to be friends when everything is good, the sun is shining and the gold is flowing, but as soon as the clouds come, and danger springs up out of the shadows, we shall flee? Seal our doors and hide our faces from the enemy? Deafen our ears to the pleas of aid? Cowards! We shall be called cowards and oath breakers - and rightly so! Their blood shall be on our heads if we do not do what is in our power to help them in their time of need.’

Bror, still standing and staring at his father, drew a shuddering breath in the silence that followed. His eyes never left Viss as he took a step back and reseated himself. There was nothing he could possibly say now that would do any more help than what was just voiced. Inside, he felt proud that his father could forge such words on a moment’s notice, but closer to the surface of his mind grew a black fear that those words might not convince the Dwarves that they must go out and that the title of coward might be branded to their names forever.

[piosenniel]

Old Fálki Ironforge stood up from his bench, waiting as the waves of ‘yay’ and ‘nay’ died down in the hall. There was many a family head who stood by Viss’ convictions and as many who were planted firmly on the side of the Glitterfists. The King nodded at the elder Dwarf, and a relative silence fell as Fálki made his way to the center of the hall.

‘I’m not opposed to lending my axe to the Elves if that is what we decide should be our course and the King commands. But . . .’ he paused and looked squarely at Viss and then at Afi. ‘I hope we can make that decision based on what’s best for all us who are Aulë’s Children. And not on what’s best for the Elves or best for one family in the clan.

‘The Elves have proved admirable, reliable trading partners. There has been great profit on both our sides. Our coffers are full, our knowledge of working with gems and metals enriched through them. And they in turn have profited from us. It is a good relationship, a sustaining relationship for our clan and their kindred. And it has proven an enduring one since first our forefathers treated with them in Beleriand. We should take this into consideration as we make our decisions on what kind of aid we can best offer them.’

He looked toward the tables where the Glitterfist men sat, their eyes fixed hard on him. ‘Dwarf lives have been lost in this long struggle with the Dark Lord – that first of them and now his servant and all their foul creatures. That is a fact that should never be taken lightly. To do so would be to cheapen the worth of those lost lives; to belittle the grief that their families endure.’ He drew a breath, pausing for a moment to collect his thoughts. A number of the Glitterfist family and those who felt as they did were nodding their heads in accord with what he said.

‘You know,’ he went on, looking round the hall, ‘we would all be hard put to find a family who has not lost a member or more to this long enmity the Orcs and their Masters bear for the Elves. It would seem almost natural that we Dwarves would want to close ranks and seek to protect ourselves from further loss. But what does that say of those who chose to go on the patrols to protect the Elven envoys and traders and who fell in battle? Are their deaths now demeaned because they followed a long established practice of ours and reached out a hand to help the Elves? Again, this is something I think we should take time to consider before a final decision is made.’

‘Now, about this thought of us as cowards and, worse yet, oathbreakers. Who would dare call us such? Have we not placed our axes and our strong arms between the Elves and the Orcs time and time again. None can call us cowards. None!’

‘And as for ‘oathbreaker’ – that is a harsh word to use for us and an untrue one. We have never sworn an oath to any of the Elves at any time in our long history with them. Our fealty, or so it seem to me, is to our King and his to us. And those oaths have not been broken.’

‘So, what shall we do? I can’t speak for you or for the King. But I’d like to see us offer our aid to the Elves as we have been doing. We can’t afford to send a large host of warriors. Or at least I don’t see how we can do so. We have two fronts of our own to defend – the East and the West Gate. To send a large unit of Dwarven warriors to the Elven city would stretch us far too thinly.’

‘What we can do is to continue harrying the Orcs and those mannish followers of Sauron from behind. With our small patrols. And from what I’ve heard of the size of force that the Dark Lord is sending against the city, I think we should be realistic. The Elves cannot hope to defend Ost-in-edhil with any success. It is a pretty thing, their city, but too vulnerable. It can offer no real resistance against the massive onslaught that Sauron plans. We cannot save the city, not even if we emptied our halls and all joined in.’

‘But we can aid the survivors, the refugees. Many can be brought to safety in the mines then helped to reach the protection of the Lady and her Woods. Most of Sauron’s army will be concentrated on the western side of the mountains. Small groups of us will be able to see the Elves to the protection of Lorien and at the same time there will be enough of us remaining in the mines to protect our families should need arise.’

'Anyway, that's what I think we can do - to honor our longstanding relationship with the Elves; our dead who have already fallen; and protect our own families.'

Done speaking, Fálki walked back to his seat. There were hushed murmurings as groups of Dwarves about the hall put their heads together to discuss what he had said.

~*~

King Durin called for one of his aides to pass among the heads of the families with the small bowl of pebbles for the vote. Each family head was to pick two of the small rounded pebbles – one white and one black. They would pass in a line before the King’s chair and drop one of the pebbles into a tall container. White for lending the Elves aid; black for staying out of the battle altogether. It was for the most part, a secret tally, but there were those among the families who were more than eager to share openly how they felt.

And so it was that as the head of the Stonecut Hall reached the container, he dropped the white pebble into it from a fair distance above the mouth. It glittered as it fell, catching the light from the bright lanterns, and fell with a small thunk against the pile already hidden within.

~*~

In the end, there were only a small scattering of black pebbles among the white. The King declared then that the Dwarves of Khazad–dum would assist the Elves of Ost-in-edhil in their battle against Sauron and his armies; that he would, as Fálki had suggested, continue the Dwarves’ smaller raids against the Orcs and the men who had now joined the ranks. And that in view of the certain dread outcome of this little war – the Dwarves would see to the rescue of as many Elven refugees as they could.

[Durelin]

As soon as he entered his house, Maegisil found his wife waiting for him. He stood for a moment to stare at her, and was overcome by her beauty, feeling his love for her renewed just from looking into her eyes. Overcome with emotions, he broke down, and soon found himself shuddering in Sairien’s embrace.

Sairien spoke, her voice full of concern and thick with emotion as she began to cry herself. “I am glad you have come home to me, Maegisil,” she said, running her hands through his hair and dreaming of happier days. Maegisil took several more shuddering breaths before he could respond, shocked by her words and wondering what they suggested.

“What do you mean, my darling? I want only to return to you always…”

His wife pulled away from him slightly, and looked sadly into his eyes. All in that one look, Maegisil understood all the pain he had caused her these past years, and his tears were not enough to express the grief it brought into his heart. He dropped his eyes, and as Sairien opened her mouth to speak he silenced her, softly putting his hand before her lips. He tenderly kissed her and then turned away, now feeling ashamed of his tears. “I am sorry,” he said. Sairien hesitated, wanting to bring him back into her arms, but knowing that he turn back to her on his own.

“I have done you so much wrong…”

“It is all passed,” she said simply, and Maegisil turned to face her again, bringing his eyes to stare into hers. He held her gaze, even in his shame and sorrow, and Sairien felt a new strength in her husband that she always known was there. Perhaps good things did come of the bad. But though Maegisil had finally decided to truly open up to his wife, there was more than Sairien could help him with. And she soon found out that they both needed help.

They talked for three quarters of an hour, and Sairien discovered the root of almost all of her husband’s troubles. It was indeed the Lord Celebrimbor’s fault, and she found herself even bitterer toward the elf-lord than she had been for a number of years passed, always having felt that the lord, in some ways, stole her husband away from her. She almost felt she hated the elf, though there was little room left in her mind for hate, fear overcoming her. After Maegisil fell silent and more tears gleamed in his eyes, she took her husband’s hand and squeezed it tightly, asking Ilúvatar for the courage to go on.

“We should go hear the Lord Celebrimbor speak,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. Maegisil found comfort in her strength, and they left together to go to the palace.

~*~*~*~

Celebrimbor had dismissed those still in his presence after Narisiel had left him, and he had begun pacing in his chamber, steeling himself for what he knew he had to do. He tried to make the excuse that he had never asked to be Lord of Eregion, but he knew it to be false. He would have been outraged if he had not been supported by the people to become Lord of his realm. And he had relished in the idea of serving his people, continuing the glory of the Elves and renewing the honor of the House of Fëanor through Eregion and its great city of Ost-in-Edhil. He now considered all of his dreams to be failures, as he had not made any plans concerning a threat to his people, nor had he ever considered an end to the Mirdain.

In his heart he knew that this would most likely be the death of the Elvensmiths, or at least to such a great presence in Eregion. Searching for hope, he found none, until he recalled the messenger from Lindon who had brought news of a force sent by the High King Gil-galad and led by the Lord Elrond himself. There had been no word of this force since that message over a year ago, and though it kindled some minute hope in his heart, Celebrimbor considered it just another mockery of his situation. But he had to tell the people something.

Suddenly the door to his chambers opened, and he immediately turned to see who was there, prepared to berate them for disturbing him. But seeing Taurnil’s face, he remembered telling his manservant to inform him when an hour had passed, when it was time… Fear exploded in his stomach as he realized that he still did not know what to say. All logic and reasoned failed him, and he found himself drowning in something that he could not think his way out of. But he squeezed his hands into two tight fists and breathed deeply before exiting his chambers, head held high but dreading every step he made.

Soon he had reached the great doors of the palace structure, which opened out onto an immense flight of stairs, as the building was raised above all others in the city. Celebrimbor had almost forgotten the pride that had influenced him to have it built that way. His usual air of such pride was nonexistent as he watched the palace doors open before him much as Maegisil had watched the palace gate an hour before. Stepping out onto the large landing before the stairs, Celebrimbor felt his mouth go dry and his heart skip a beat. The number of people gathered in the palace courtyard made him stare in awe from a moment. He had not spoken in the presence of more than a couple dozen in a long time, and this feeling was almost new to him.

It shocked even himself, though, when he was suddenly calm and confident, finding his footing and remembering that he was an Elf Lord. He began to speak with the pride and dignity that came with his title. “Gwaith-i-Mírdain,” he called out, and his following pause was welcomed with silence. “You are my people, and I have done you wrong.” There were a few murmurs in the crowd, and Celebrimbor almost choked on his words as his eyes flitted through the people, finding innumerable familiar faces. They really were his people.

“We are a great people, and this city is our finest creation. But it is threatened to be destroyed, as are we all.” He was forced to stop speaking for a moment, and he dropped his eyes, finding himself unable to look upon the faces of his people while knowing that it was they who he had doomed. He could feel the tension grow to a new height among the elves before him, and suddenly all was not quiet. Celebrimbor wished he could just let the noise continue and drown him out, so that he could go back to his chambers like a defeated child fleeing to his room to cry. But he brought his hand up to silence his people, and continued, his sorrow clear in his voice though it was still strong and resonant. “The Servant of Morgoth seeks to destroy Eregion, and an army of twenty thousand is even now nearing upon this great city.” He found new momentum in his speech and did not give the people enough time to react for need to listen to him. “Every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

For a moment, the Lord of Eregion hesitated as a swarm of sound rose up from the multitude of elves, and he felt his fear return to him as he considered continuing his speech. He had said it was the right of the people to know, but was it their right to know more? Surely they did not need to know everything. It was not something that should be of common knowledge, the doom of the last elf of the House of Fëanor. If he was to die, and even if his city were to die with him, the secret of the Rings of Power should die with him. If only he had not passed them on, if only he had not shared the secret with anyone, if only he had worked with Annatar alone… Suddenly Celebrimbor felt there should be a ring upon his finger, and he turned his back to his people to disappear once again through the palace doors.

[CaptainofDespair]

The sun had just broke over the horizon, and the denizens of Eregion were awakening to what they hoped would be another peaceful day. But, all was not well, and the sentries stationed upon the walls knew it. There were no birds in the sky, no wilderness creatures meandering their way down to the river. It seemed as if all had been silenced, gripped by in terror of shadow and malice. Some murmured, and brushed it off as what would be a stormy day. Others, especially the veteran sergeants, felt something else. And then, they saw them.

Rising out of the horizon, the fluttering banners of Mordor and its allies billowed in an early morning breeze. The time had come, they thought, for battle. The on-duty commander was immediately notified, and he dispatched a runner to his awaken his superiors. But, to all of their surprise, it was only a minor force; a probe if anything, they hoped. It was no great army of Mordor descending upon them, and for that at least they were relieved.

~*~

To Angoroth, it was like every other Elven city he had seen. There were greater cities to him. But, it was impressive nevertheless. He admired the structure they lived under, something the orcs his camp was overrun with knew nothing of. Having not been to a city of such magnitude since the First Age, he was quite pleased to see some form of culture. Captain Ulrung, his newest in a line of inept commanders, who so far was proving useful, had accompanied him to meet the Elves.

“This is what we have come to destroy, Captain.” Puzzled at the sudden outburst of his lord, he could only reply with a hesitant “Indeed, milord.” Questions flowed through the wainrider’s mind, and he wondered if now was the best opportunity to find out what was going on, exactly. After some internal deliberation, he piped up. “Milord, what exactly are we here for?” A deep, resonating laugh emanated from the barbute that covered the face of Angoroth. “We…are here for many things, Captain Ulrung. Our foremost concern is destroying the city, and slaying the Elves.” Without much hesitation this time, Ulrung spoke up again. “But, why are we here to destroy them? What purpose is there in this?” Angoroth was chuckling to himself now, amused at the inquisitiveness of his young protégé. “They have done many wrongs to the Dark Lord of Mordor. For this, they must pay. There are, of course, other reasons. But, they will be revealed on their own, in time.” Ulrung nodded, and they both fell into silence, sensing a sort of confrontation was near.

The Elves were shocked that only a handful of troops were being sent so close to the city. But, as it drew nigh, they realized it had a slightly different purpose. Under orders, they allowed it to draw close to the main gatehouse. A lone commander waited beneath it, with a small escort for his protection, though they all doubted an outright attack from their enemy. Angoroth, leaving Ulrung and their small cavalry bodyguard, approached the anxious elf lord. “Stay your blades, elves. I come without hostility, for now.” Taken back by the bluntness of their enemy, the elf-commander gave a seemingly routine reply. “What is your purpose here, servant of Mordor?” A nod and an inaudible chuckle led the way for Angoroth’s demands. “First, I will not speak to one such as you, as you are beneath me. Second, I come to speak only with the Lord of the City; or, if he cannot be bothered to tend to the whims of his enemy, a counselor of some form.” The commander, again, was taken back by this. Unsure of what to do in such a politically charged moment, he turned to an aid, and dispatched him to acquire the presence of their lord, or a counselor.

Patiently, though it did not quite seem so to those observing the dire situation, Angoroth waited for someone of importance to meet with him. Finally, that person came. Another male elf, though this one was arrayed in attire befitting a counselor. And that is who it was. Maegisil was his name, or at least that is what was gleaned from what he overheard as the elf-counselor approached. Bowing, though it seemed like a mockery of the formality, he spoke in a brief manner. “Why have you come here, dark one? Have you come to mock the Elves?” As if to mock the charade of formalities, the dark one replied rather sarcastically. “Of course, master elf. That is the entirety of my quest. I can now take my army and return home.” Though the response stung him a bit, the elf furthered the dialogue. “Then what is it that you have come here for? You have already worn out your welcome.” Nodding, the Maiar looked around, surveying the city, before responding. But, when he did, he made sure of its caustic aura. “I have come for an audience with the Lord of the City. If I do not receive it, I will leave. But, I will then return tomorrow, and I will pave over your city with the blood of your people.”

The harsh coldness with which his voice issued the threat curdled the blood, for they knew the truth in it. The servants of Mordor are never kind, and nor do they make empty threats towards the livelihood of an entire people. Whispering to an aid standing behind him, Maegisil ordered the runner to deliver the request to city’s Lord, Celebrimbor. Returning his attention to the enemy presented before him, he issued a rather formal directive. “When word is received, we will determine if you have been granted what you seek.” However, Angoroth was now impatient. Leaning in to speak to the counselor, he whispered and murmured his secret quest. “I have come for certain pieces of jewelry. If you do not take me to Celebrimbor now, I will reveal this, and dispatch your city into a chaos of great sorrow. Then, the slaughter begins.” The elf paled slightly, obviously disturbed by this dark one’s knowledge. He seemed to ponder a bit, hoping there was some alternative. But, at last, he relented. “Open the inner gate!”

The old metal of the gate shuddered, and swung open, creaking as it went. Before departing into the sanctum of the Elves, Angoroth motioned for Captain Ulrung to follow. The elven escort did not seem to care, and so the addition of his captain was allowed. They passed into the city’s core; the retinue of guards, Maegisil, and the two dark ones, who were now venturing deep into the festering haven of the enemy. The people were bustling about, to and fro. Some stopped to stare at the swift moving group, as it swept past them like a fiendish winter wind. Much seemed to be on the minds of the people, and they moved without their usual timidity, as the Maiar saw it at least. Angoroth, as he was pressed forward, did not have time to admire the city as he would have liked. Though he hated the Elves, he did enjoy much of their ways, as they were created for elegance and beauty, much unlike those orcs of his master, and his successor. His own wares were crafted with an air of methodic grace and elegance. And it was all the better to know your enemy.

Soon, however, they reached the palace structure of Celebrimbor. The escort parted, and allowed Maegisil to lead the two dark ones into the palace. The guards at the steps saluted, and opened the doors for the counselor. Passing into the depths of the entry-way, they came upon the doors of the Lord’s chamber. Hesitating, if but for a moment, Maegisil forced his way into the chamber, casting aside the doors that had barred their entry. There say Celebrimbor, Lord of the City. A runner was speaking to him as they burst in, and encircling him were many other elves, seemingly of great importance. Maegisil bowed, if only out of formality, and presented the emissaries to the city’s keeper. “Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you.” Even before he looked up at the emissaries, the Lord of the City felt the presence of something horrifically dark. Whoever these emissaries were, they were no mere eastern men following a wicked lord. Sighing inwardly, he rose up from his seat, looking distraught, as if the entire well of his emotions was now pouring over him. “Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

[Firefoot]

Ulwakh had thought life would be easier once their company joined the rest of the host. He had figured that the pair of them could descend into blessed anonymity and escape the ever watchful eyes of Kharn. And he had hoped that the whole affair could be forgotten and blown over.

Ulwakh had been wrong.

Almost as soon as their company joined the rest of the force, they had been given an assignment that removed them from the camp. Apparently, there had been some unease over the Dwarven stronghold to the east and some fear that the Elves might send for aid. Their company had been sent to monitor and hinder any communications between the Elves and Dwarves. The company had been split up into smaller groups so as to cover more ground; no messengers were to get through, and if there were to be a messenger, the preferable option would be that the Dwarves did not know of him at all. Preferably.

At first, little seemed to happen, but finally, when Grimkul and Ulwakh and their fellows were patrolling closer to the mountains than was usual, perhaps a league or so from the Dwarven gate, a scout brought word of an Elf coming their way. Eager for more fighting, the Orcs set up for ambush. The Elf proved a hardier warrior than any of them had expected, though he was on the verge of being overcome when a fierce band of Dwarves rushed in out of nowhere.

Grimkul whirled about to face this new foe on their flanks, wielding his scimitar mightily. Little love did he bear the Dwarves, in particular those select few that had so handily eluded his killing stroke in the last backfired ambush. In the back of his mind, he was disappointed to see that none of those now fighting were they, but he fought fiercely nonetheless, cleaning slicing through the neck of one Dwarf before they had retreated back behind their gates.

The members of the small band scowled and spat as the losses were tallied up: two Dwarves and the Elf messenger, compared to seven Orcs. But mostly, they counted it as a victory: the Elf had not gotten through, and the Dwarves’ attack had been turned to retreat almost immediately. Grinning maliciously, the Orcs set up their victory sign.

The three bodies of their foes were quickly despoiled and hacked apart, then left to rot or be consumed by scavengers. The heads were removed and speared on three stakes. The features of each face were horribly mangled but not beyond clear recognition. Then they were left to be found by their comrades and families as the Orcs headed off to report the skirmish to the Captain.

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo and Arenwino were now leaving Celebrimbor's palace, with his announcement still lingering in their ears. As the crowds were going their separate ways, a new sense of dread now filled Cainenyo's heart. An army of twenty thousand? Cainenyo imagined the slaughter for a brief moment and the city burning. Now he was genuinely afraid. He wondered if the dwarves would come to the city's aid, or perhaps Gil-Galad was on his way with a dazzling army of spearmen, or if there was no hope at all and all friends had abandoned the city. And where would he go? Where should his family hide? How soon would Ost-in-Edhil become a memory? But Caineneyo's thoughts were interrupted.

"I want to fight," Arenwino said. He looked dead serious.

"What?" Cainenyo said, "No, no, no, my son. You will go with your mother and sister. I will fight." He was surprised that his son would say such a thing, but as he listened he realized more and more that his son was a man now.

"Father, there's nothing else for me! I cannot become a celebdan without Celebdur, and he was killed by orcs! Let me avenge him, father, and let me protect my city!" His hands moved through the air in wild gestures. "There is no possible way for me to start my own business. Becoming a warrior is the only option available!"

"But my son, you cannot throw away your life like that," Cainenyo kept his voice calm, "I will fight. You have the rest of your life ahead of you. You will get married and have children of your own. None of that will happen if you are killed in battle."

"But I must, I want to," Arenwino's voice wavered for a moment, "I don't want to be the only one of my friends to not fight, to never have killed an orc! And what if you are killed in battle, father?"

"Then I will still have a son as my heir, and to take care of my widowed wife in her grief." Cainenyo's voice took on an angrier tone, "And your death would be worse than mine. I have lived a successful life, with my own wife and children. You still have time to wed, and to raise your own family." Arenwino opened his mouth to interject. "End of discussion!" was Cainenyo's rapid response.

They walked the rest of the way in cold silence.

[Arry]

There was no time now for his own handiwork. Skald had laid aside his cold chisels and tapping hammers and readied himself instead for the making of weapons. The Stonecut forges were heated white hot as ingots of iron were melted to a red hot liquid and poured into a myriad of molds – some for long barbed arrowheads, some for the slender, deadly points of the oaken staves.

Other halls were beating the metal into long-knives and swords; fashioning metal covers for the small wooden shields. And still others hammered long, sharp nails through thick oak clubs, making them bristle with death giving rippers. And each in their own hall were busy making ready their coats of mail, their thick leather vests, their vambraces, their greaves, their helmets.

An insistent hum filled the caverns beneath the mountains as the loud protests of iron against stone and metal melded together. Grindstones, whetstones, files, and honers all added their thrums to drone of deadly business.

Axes sang as they kissed the abrasive edges of the sharpening wheel. Baruk Khazâd!

The Longbeards were preparing for war . . .

[Folwren]

Bror’s hammer strokes rang in the silence. He turned the heated metal with his tongs and struck again before pausing to consider the iron and thrust it back into the coals. His thoughts didn’t let him sleep and he worked in the late and dark hours of night. The hot coals from the day’s work were easily rebuilt into flames and his dark eyes stared with melancholy into the red embers.

Thoughts of war turned over and over inside his brain. Images of the heads on the pikes some little distance from the front gate came in and out of his vision. He had gone out with a small scouting party yesterday, and though it had only gone a few miles out and they were not gone long, it was far enough to see where the orcs had been fought, and where the Deepdigger sons had been killed. They had stopped there and the bodies were taken away and carried back by some of their group.

‘Take it out of the fire, or you’ll have lost all your work and a good piece of metal.’ The voice of his uncle interrupted Bror’s thoughts and before turning around to face the newcomer, Bror hurried to obey. The metal was red with the heat and sparks flew up and sizzled like firecrackers. He lay it on the anvil and then turned.

‘Uncle Orin,’ he said in the quiet hushed voice that came at night when all else slept. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Coming to see what kept you awake.’ Bror gave one nod and then turned back to the anvil and lifted his hammer. Orin was silent while the blows lasted and only walked forward again when the iron became too cold to work with and Bror buried it again in the coals. ‘It won’t do you any good to stay up all night working like this.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ Bror replied without turning his head. ‘I keep thinking about the Deepdiggers.’

‘War brings those images. They’re not easily forgotten.’

‘I’m not afraid, Uncle Orin,’ Bror said, his shoulder heaving with a great breath that he took. ‘I’m not afraid of the war, understand that. But while I think of Deepdiggers, I can’t keep out the thought of Riv bleeding on the battle field like he did a year a go when we brought those elves through. I don’t think I could see him, or Skald, die.’

‘Take the iron out of the fire, Bror,’ Orin instructed quietly. His nephew fumbled with his tongs to take his piece of metal out. He plunged it into the bucket of water waiting close by. Steam went up from it, and until it passed, they both were silent. ‘We are not going to be fighting in open battle, Bror. Your brothers aren’t going to be in too much danger of dying. We didn’t vote to go off and fight them. We’re just going to help the refugees through this mountain. That work has to be done with as little fighting as possible, or else it wouldn’t do any good, because all those women and children will be killed anyway.’

Bror made no answer. He knew just as well as his Uncle that when they went to help the elves, there wasn’t supposed to have been any fighting. But there had been, and Riv and himself had come very close to being killed, and some Dwarves weren’t as lucky as they. He could not be comforted with such words. In the pause that followed, Orin realized that he had not convinced his nephew.

‘Whatever the case, Bror,’ he said in a gently, ‘no one can foresee the future, and it won’t do anyone any good to stay up like this and fret your nights away. Go to on to bed.’ Bror heaved another heavy breath and nodded. Orin sent him a small smile and turned to go. Bror took his piece of work from the water and laid it on the anvil before putting his tools away and leaving the forge.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As the crowd pushed and milled in the courtyard, waiting for Celebrimbor to speak, and around the edges the soldiers stood guard, carefully and calmly placed by Commander Elgedon, the tension was rife among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil. After years of silence, they had all but forgotten their mute lord, brooding unseen in his palace, but as rumours spilled out and seeped out...well, even an impenetrable city has broachable walls, for no citizen can stand firm in the face of every threat. And now...now they were to hear him speak, to hear for themselves the fear assuaged, the rumours dismissed; although worried, there was an air of optimism and cheerfulness which hung around the awaiting citizens, despite the hastily called meeting, despite the stern, grim-faced soldiers who stood around them, a ring of statues sprung from the stone paving of the courtyard.

In the midst of the crowd, yet at the same time slightly apart, elevating as she was by standing at the top of the few steps that led down into the courtyard, a female figure stood, as stiffly tense as the soldiers around her, waiting for Celebrimbor to make his announcement. Narisiel’s eyes were fixed on the top of the stairs upon which she knew the elven lord would soon appear – appear to make the speech to his people that was going to change everything, not only the city, but personally to each of the elves who waited now in anticipation in the crowded courtyard. Some more than others…Narisiel swallowed fiercely, her eyes quickly flitting over the soldiers around the perimeter of the crowd. Rimborien, Dagonithil, Taurquarien…the faces, impassive and unyielding as stone, were each familiar to her, friends and acquaintances of many years. Terithian, Mordenigor…and Sirithlonnior, her own, as stern faced as the others. What was he thinking, what was happening beneath that stone façade? Had he seen her? No; he made no move towards her, neither physically nor with his eyes, no smile or wink as he usually would exchange. Maybe he had simply not yet noticed her, maybe he assumed that she was still within the palace but…in his gaze, fixedly watching the top of the stairs above, in his gaze…was that a fierceness in his eyes that set him apart from his comrades? And why not… Narisiel swallowed once more, pressing down the butterflies in her stomach and, as the murmurs of the crowd rose further, she followed the gaze of her spouse up to the other man whose cares and mistakes had stolen away the past two centuries of her life…

As the murmurs and scattered applause died down to an expectant silence, Celebrimbor straightened himself and composed his words almost visibly – to Narisiel, at least – before he raised his hands, placed one hand carefully on the rail leading down, like an old man seeking something to keep his balance, and began to speak. Narisiel barely heard his words. For the first time in many years, many centuries, she was seeing the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil as she had first seen him: strong, in control, elevated above his people as he addressed them majestically. Was this the man she had stood and admired many years ago? Yes, most certainly, for still surrounding him was the air of charisma and power that took Narisiel back to her earliest days in Ost-in-Edhil, before the life she now had had been woven and spun into the intricate tapestry that it currently was, when the threads were barely coming together, when she had first seen Celebrimbor speak and his voice had begun to work the threads. But now there were other details included, previously unseen…Was that a greying streak in his light hair? Maybe it was a trick of the light; Celebrimbor was but yet young by elven reckoning. But when such a burden falls upon an elf, as upon a man, maybe mannish weaknesses may be seen in the former as well as the latter. And his eyes…they flitted somewhat more nervously over the crowd, or was that also merely a trick of Narisiel’s eyes, or her mind? His gaze, certainly, did not seem the firm, fixed, steely gaze of a man so in control that she remembered…. And as Narisiel watched Celebrimbor, a friend, a lord, a betrayal, the threads began to unwind themselves, the tapestry began to fall – or maybe the weaving had never been strong enough in the first place. Or maybe such strength as is in a broken trust can tear even the strongest of bindings…

The smith closed her eyes for an instant, wrapping her arms around herself for a moment as if the chill winds of the carrion-birds’ wings already swept across the plains of Eriador, and listened to the voice of the speaker above, so strong and yet betraying such doom now.

“…every one of our lives is threatened, and it is the right of the people to know this. And so I beg of you, all those who can fight: help me ensure that Ost-in-Edhil is not abandoned to her doom. But those of you who cannot or shall not, it is now that you must escape to the west. And it is for all of us to take some hope, knowing our strength, and remembering that we are not without allies.”

Doom. The doom of the Mirdain. Narisiel felt a lump well in her throat and took a deep breath, squeezing her eyes tight before she opened them, glittering with tears that she would not shed, although the lump in her throat and the pain in her heart tried to wring them out. Surrounded by people, the knowledge of the secrets that Celebrimbor still, even now hid from his people stung her, a wedge between herself and the rest of Ost-in-Edhil. Surrounded by people, Narisiel could not have felt more alone on the edge of Mount Doom itself.

Re-finding Sirithlonnior, Narisiel caught her husband’s eyes just for a moment, the flash of light from his helmet as he turned towards the courtyard entrance blinding her for a moment. But his gaze only remained for a second before Sirithlonnior, so deliberately it seemed to Narisiel, turned away from her, heading purposefully for the palace doors, marching up quickly past the two soldiers who stood guard there against the now restless mob, and out of sight. And as she looked up to the stairs to where Celebrimbor had stood, she was greeted also with an emptiness where he should have been.

Where are the explanations, Celebrimbor? Even we who know the truth of those forges do not understand – where are you now to lead us, O Lord of the Doom of the Mirdain? The lament flitted through Narisiel’s mind darkly, desperately. It must be just perfect to be able to disappear, to avoid all when the problems became to pressing.

It must be just perfect.
It must be just the solution.

It must be very lonely.

[Durelin]

He remembered the look on the messenger’s face. It had been pure terror, his face devoid of almost all its natural colour. Celebrimbor was still speaking at that point, and Maegisil had turned to the elf with anger when he felt a hand on his arm. The messenger was a guard, on duty at the city gates, and it looked like he had ran all the way to the city’s center, the palace. He breathlessly informed Maegisil of the reason for his urgency and fright, and the counselor then understood. Someone had arrived at the city gate: a man, a dark one…and the leader of the dread army that would bring Sauron’s wrath to Eregion.

Maegisil had left his wife frightened and worried for her husband's safety, and though he had wanted to stay with her and share in her tears, he knew he had a duty to his people, one that Lord Celebrimbor had up till this point neglected. He knew it was perhaps hypocritical to think this, as he had done very little for his people, and had not been strong enough to stand up to his lord and tell him what he was doing wrong. Perhaps he would have saved lives if he had done so. The thought of this frightened him to no end, and he quickly returned his mind to focus on the situation at hand.

This man who had arrived was truly an emissary from the Dark Lord. Only the Servant of Morgoth would have been able to enforce even the pretense of control over such a being. “I will pave over your city with the blood of your people…” Those heart-wrenching words still rung in his ears as he stood before Lord Celebrimbor once again. He felt as if he were a new person, seeing the lord sitting there, but knowing that Celebrimbor was not truly there anymore… He felt very alone, and prayed that Narisiel would arrive as he wished she would. He had sent a guard to find her on his way back to the palace with his new and unfortunate acquaintance, and though he did not expect her to come, he hoped that she would want to hold on to some scraps of loyalty to Celebrimbor in order to help Eregion. She had her family to take care of, though. It was not her job to baby-sit a lord as well.

“Milord, here are the emissaries sent by the Dark Lord to parley with you,” he muttered, now finding himself disgusted by formalities concerning the elf-lord.

Celebrimbor looked even more disheveled than how Maegisil had left him before. It seemed that speaking to his people, despite his past charisma and rhetoric, was now a tasking experience for him. The counselor did not feel any sympathy for his lord, though. He had run out of that feeling some time ago.

“Ah, then we shall hear what Mordor has to say.”

The elf-lord still sounded like one who has given up all hope, though now there was a new component to his attitude: the pretense of indifference. He was one who pretended he had accepted his defeat, denying the fact that he could not accept his defeat and ignoring emotions that were too strong and too deep for him to control. The dreadfully imposing presence in the room did not help Celebrimbor’s situation.

The man…no, the creature…looked down at the Lord of Eregion and skipped any formalities. It seemed that he would have spat on the elf if he did not have a certain amount of dignity that separated him from the majority of Sauron’s minions, the mindless orcs. It was obvious by his escort that he was at least smart enough to know that orcs were not the most trustworthy creatures, nor really worthy of anything. Maegisil held the man in almost as low regards, but he was not above speaking to him…not that he had much of a choice. This dark one was used to having his demands met, and Maegisil knew that he was not in the position to outright refuse them. He was now only afraid that Celebrimbor might go even farther than that. How ready was he to declare himself defeated?

[CaptainofDespair]

Angoroth could feel the arrogance of the Elves bearing down on him. It weighed heavy and hot upon his shoulders, like a far-flung molten boulder spat from the mouth of Mount Doom itself. He could not help but think a most pleasurable thought; forcing the Elves into submission, and dissolving their haughty ways, much as the sea washes away the sand. He stood before the Lord of the City, the once proud Celebrimbor, with Ulrung held slightly back and to the right. The other counselors and various representatives still surrounded their Lord, both protecting him physically, and symbolically. They stood with him, at least on the surface. That much Angoroth surmised from their forlorn eyes.

“And so it is complete, Celebrimbor,” mused the dark one. “Your father and grandfather fell to a similar fate. Now, it is time for you to fulfill the Oath, and take your place alongside them.” The elf-lord’s face shot up, as his eyes pierced into Angoroth’s, looking for some deeply embedded seed of knowledge, a tome that might reveal where this man had gotten such information. But, the dark one felt this, and countered. “Delve into your mind, O’ Pathetic Lord. Then, you will know who I am. I am no servant of a false Dark Lord in Mordor, but of the True Master, Melkor.” A shockwave of devastating awe spread through the assembled party. Could it be that another Maiar, much like Sauron, had survived the War of Wrath? It had to be so. There was no other explanation that seemed to fit.

Continuing, the Maiar stacked more upon his prior threats. “It is time for business, Celebrimbor. You have been silent, but now is your place. Hand over the Rings and you own person, and I will consider showing some form of mercy to your sniveling people. Do not, and you will all die, in a most cruel and bitter manner.” The elf-lord looked sullen, and did not speak immediately, but hesitated a moment or two. Finally, he spread his lips, and spoke. “I…I…cannot.” The answer did not amuse Angoroth. Beneath the barbute helm that covered his face, a restless anger boiled over into an ecstasy of hatred. Remaining calm and diplomatic, however, he reiterated his prior statement. Celebrimbor knew something, but would not answer in fullness. But, at this time, he seemed to reacquire some lost sense of his dignity. “I…will not relinquish what is the right of the Elves to keep!” In some twisted way, this showing of pride amused the Maiar. “You speak of rights, when you have none. You are but tenants upon this earth. You have no rights, and nor can you deny what is sought by those above your station.”

He was beginning to feel a bit of irritation. Dealings with the Elves were destined to be drawn out affairs, with their arrogant auras about them, and always ended in irritation. Thinking that their status with the Valar and Illuvatar gave them some sort of special say over all matters, they had sunken into an entrenched, defensive manner of arrogant rebuttal. Gathering himself once more, Angoroth spoke, “If that is your choice, then so be it. You have sealed the fates of every last denizen of this City. But, perhaps your faithful companions might turn your faulty thinking into a reasonable conclusion. Until that point, you may see this as the preface to a quick and bloody war.”

Motioning for a silent Ulrung to follow, they descended from the palace under heavy guard to the main gate. As they came upon it, Maegisil, who continued to follow the escort, silently motioned for them to depart from the city. But, as they prepared to exit, Angoroth had a stroke of cruel amusement. Leaning towards the counselor, he reached under his cloak into a pouch strapped to his belt, and extended his clenched fist. “I can see in your eyes, that you have a wife. You worry for her safety, and wish for her deep love. Give this ring to her, my own signet. I will undoubtedly reclaim it anyhow, so you might as well make peace with her, elf.” A dumbstruck Maegisil could only feel the ring being pressed into his open palm, and his fingers clasping around it, as he watched the dark ones pass through the gate.

Once out of sight of the city’s walls, their horses already tiring from the long day, Ulrung turned to Angoroth and spoke, with new sense of fear instilled in him. “Milord, what is to happen next? I would think it best not to allow them to recover from our visit.” The Servant of Morgoth, already weary from the chatter of Eregion, could only reply unenthusiastically. “We will…wait, Ulrung. Let the fear of my coming bring despair upon them. But, soon we will lay siege to them.” Ulrung nodded. His lord was a bit above his station, and he knew well of Angoroth’s penchant for slaying captains whom he did not like. “Also, Captain, recall all the orc war parties. It will soon be time to give them my orders.”

[piosenniel]

Under cover of darkness, Riv and his five companions crept as quickly as they could from hillock to hillock. Each had rubbed a thin layer of mud over the metal fittings of helm, shield, weapons, and mail so that no stray shaft of new moonlight betrayed them with its glintings. Not wanting to alert any enemy who might be listening in the darkness, they spoke no words to one another; only kept close enough that each might pass back the signals from the leader to the man following.

The West Gate was in sight when a sudden fall of pebbles and debris skittered down the mountain side. They crouched down quickly in the deep shadows of a rocky outcropping. Their dark eyes darted round them, looking for any signs of movement.

A breathless eternity passed, or so it seemed to Riv, before the signal was given to move on. And then the entryway was reached and passed, the Dwarf guards motioning them in quickly through the gate as others stood ready to defend against attack. The six Dwarves took no time to make themselves more presentable before they went to wake the King.

Alerted by his guards, he sat yawning in his chair as they entered his chambers. He’d had a skin of ale brought and cups and bade his serving man pour drinks all around. ‘Sit, sit,’ he urged the companions, pulling his robe closer about him in the chilly night air.

‘There’s been an embassy of some sort to the Elves,’ began the group’s leader. ‘We couldn’t get too close but we could see it wasn’t Sauron. Some big fellow, tall, was the leader. All dressed in black from head to toe, even his hair was dark as a starless night. Wore a great sword. And another man, shorter, rougher looking rode with him. It was just them and a few troops that came before the Elven gates.’

Riv spoke up, then saying, that even at a distance, there fell a dark pall of arrogant malice from the riders. ‘No, not both the riders,’ he reconsidered, ‘but the one dressed in black seemed like those old ones they tell about, in the old stories . . . the ones from the West who fought alongside the Dark One, Bauglir.’ Riv shook off a chill that had crept between his shoulders at the thought of such a one. ‘Large as he was, his body seemed barely able to contain the malevolence that issued from him. The Elves let the dark one and the other who followed him into the city. Then the two left unscathed, a short while later. We dared not follow them.’

It was late into the night, almost morning, in fact, before the King finished speaking with the six Dwarves. He had had his captains roused from their beds to hear the story repeated. Many questions were asked and re-asked. And accounts from other Dwarven parties who’d been out patrolling in other areas were considered in light of this most recent report.

Weary and still bearing the mud and dust with which he’d disguised himself, Riv made his way at last to the Stonecut hall. A kettle had been left on the hob, and he made himself a stout cup of tea. There would be little time for sleep this day, he thought to himself. War would soon be upon the Elves and the King would be wanting to lend what aid he might against the coming darkness.

[Arry]

‘You know, you’d better get yourself cleaned up before Unna sees the mud you’ve tracked all over!’ Skald poured himself a mug of steaming tea, lacing it with a generous helping of honey, and pulled out the chair opposite his brother. He sipped at the hot brew, looking out over the rim of his mug as he did so, grinning at the raggedy sight that presented itself.

Riv sat slumped against the back of his chair, his feet resting on the seat of another chair he’d pulled up close. Clots of dried mud fell onto the wooden seat as he shifted himself for comfort. His dirty, mud stained hands cradled the mug of tea he’d made for himself. Occasionally they would raise it to his mouth, in a bone weary manner. Skald’s grin faded from his face as he looked carefully at his brother. Beneath the layer of dirt and grime, Riv’s skin was pale, the area about his eyes drawn. He looked into some unseen distance, unbounded by the thick stone that formed the kitchen’s wall not ten paces away.

Skald scooted in closer to the table. Placing his elbows on its surface, he leaned forward, resting his chin on clasped hands. ‘Riv?’ he said. And then once again, more loudly. ‘Riv? What’s got into you? You look as if you’ve seen some old hobgoblin, like the ones Gran tried to scare us with in her stories.’

[Amanaduial the archer]

Almost immediately that Sirithlonnior turned towards the palace, Narisiel started after him; he deserved the truth, he deserved to know that which she was guilty - and innocent - of withholding from him. But almost as soon as she moved, an earnest voice halted her in her tracks. "Narisiel Mirdain?"

She turned, impatiently, and was confronted by a determined looking guard who she did not recognise, although he wore the insignia of Lord Celebrimbor's palace. Her face hardened. "I have nothing to say to the Lord Celebrimbor, you may tell him that-"

"No, I bear a message from the Counsellor Maegisil," the guard interrupted her. "He asked me to come to you with some urgency, requesting that you meet with himself and Celebrimbor, that there are...certain events that he wishes you to be privy to..." It was evident that the guard was speaking with some delicacy - after all, there were still many citizens nearby - but despite this indication that these 'events' were probably therefore of some importance, the ambiguousity of his words just frustrated Narisiel. Standing torn for a moment, she glance across at the place where Sirithlonnior had been, and found no sign of her husband. She made up her mind: she had spent too much time now holding Celebrimbor's hand, maybe, finally, it was time to realign her priorities...

"I have no time for this," she replied firmly. "I...I have no time. I cannot. I am sorry..." Stumbling away, Narisiel felt a pang of guilt, not for Celebrimbor, but for Maegisil - it was, after all, he who had sent for her, not Celebrimbor. What if he was in some sort of trouble now? How could she leave him in the lurch...but she had her own troubles to look after for now... Looking around frantically, she still found no sight of Sirithlonnior and at the entrance to the palace which he had gone through an angry crowd was now swelling, waxing and waning against the experienced, fiercely calm guards who stood against the doors, preventing the dissatisfied elves from entering. Had Sirith gone through into the palace to confront Celebrimbor, or had he merely taken the shorter route to their home? For a moment, Narisiel felt at a loss, but it was a barely a moment, then she turned up the courtyard steps to take an alternative route to their home. No matter how hard times had been for them, two centuries of marriage meant that she still knew her husband better than any other...

Or I hope so anyway...

~*~

"Mother!"

Artamir cried out after his mother's back as she retreated, but his words fell upon deaf ears: already she was too far away. The young soldier, caught up among the crowd, struggled forward, but he was pushing against the surge of the rest of the crowd who were already swelling towards the palace, a wave of dissatisfaction and fear surging forward. Tall as he was, Artamir looked around frantically and saw that his father was also gone; cursing their disappearance, Artamir also felt the fear and sickness in his stomach as he knew that another row was coming, and that this time...this time... He gritted his teeth and pushed once more against the crowd, battling his way through the people, a strange mix of anxiety and anger propelling him: anger that his mother could have withheld information from them, anxiety that he was wrong and also...also for the reasons why. Surely, with the amount of time Narisiel had spent at the palace, she would have known, or at least had some indication that there was a war to come...

...but maybe that stood also for his father? The thought stung Artamir and he finally reached the edge of the crowd, almost staggering as he broke through the barrier of the claustrophobic mass of people. Sirithlonnior was a high ranking soldier now, close to the commanders, although he would not have boasted about it in so many words, being relatively young for such a position...but that being as it was, wouldn't such a high-ranking soldier have heard something about an oncoming war? There had been rumours, of course, Artamir had heard them, of course, of course...but what if his parents had known their sources? How could they have kept something like that from him, their only son, their soldier son, who a war could...?

Artamir blocked the end of the thought out, hardly daring to mention it, even to himself. He was a foot soldier, and a young one as well: the first who would go into battle, this 'doom' that Celebrimbor had promised. Swallowing his tears back, the young elf broke into a run, heedless of the distant calls behind him, running towards his house, his parents, only one thought forming in his mind.

They couldn't have...

[piosenniel]

‘Old hobgoblin . . . and don’t I wish that was all it was that I had seen.’ Riv shifted himself in his chair and gave a grim chuckle. ‘Old Gran’s goblins were scary as ever back then, but we could always hide out beneath our quilts and wait til the night passed and the sun flooded down the shafts, driving them all away.’ He put moved his feet from off the chair he’d propped them on and put them down heavily on the floor.

‘I saw something on my last patrol; something I’d not seen before, nor having seen it, wish to see again . . .’ Skald raised his brows at this statement but kept quiet, knowing his older brother would continue when he’d gathered his thoughts. In bits and pieces the report to the King came out. And at first the man clad all in black was merely mentioned as the one who led the embassy to the Elven city. But then Riv’s tone took on a different tone, and an undercurrent of dread crept in.

‘It’s not so much that he was a large man,’ he said trying to describe the man in black. ‘Nor was it that his visage was terrible or his weapon horrific.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘No, it was that his very presence seemed to suck in the light, obliterating it. Drawing all hope from the air about him; leaving a bone chilling dread in its wake.’

Riv shivered though the kitchen was quite warm from the stove and the fire in the hearth. ‘I have a very bad feeling about this battle that’s coming up,’ he went on. ‘Hordes of Orc are one thing, but this fellow is just bad news.’ He stirred a little more honey into his tea then looked directly at his brother. ‘I think there is something we should speak of.’ Skald kept quiet still, waiting for Riv to go on.

‘I’m the oldest son in the family,’ he began. ‘Should something happen . . .’ He waved Skald to silence as he began to protest. ‘Should something happen,’ he began again, ‘I want you to promise me that you will step in and see that Unna and my children are looked after. You will be the eldest then, I need your assurance that you will do this for me. It will settle my mind somewhat about going into battle if I have your word.’

A sharp intake of breath came from the kitchen’s doorway. Unna stood there, having come quietly up while the brothers were speaking. ‘What’s all this grim talk?’ She stamped her foot and looked hard at the two of them. ‘And what’s this I hear about me? Am I to be traded about like a sack of oats?’

[Arry]

Skald stood quickly, knocking over his chair as he did so. His gaze pivoted from Riv to Unna and back again to his brother. ‘I . . . I can hardly think what to answer you . . . either of you.’ He pulled out a chair for Unna then righted his own and sat down heavily. His faced was flushed; the tips of his ears crimsoned with confusion and awkwardness.

‘Nay, nay! You’re surely no sack of oats!’ He blushed again, but stammered on. ‘It’s Riv that will have to tell you what he saw near the Elven city, Unna,’ he began, pulling on his beard as he collected his thoughts. ‘It was something terrible though . . . really terrible, it must have been . . . for him to say such things and ask such questions.’ He paused for a moment, then looked squarely at his brother.

‘First let me say this . . . nothing is going to happen to you . . . nothing . . . you hear me!’ Skald’s had risen to a distressed tone. ‘But for your peace of mind . . . and for mine, because I know you’ll hound me til you get the answer you seek . . . I swear I’ll do as you ask . . . as best I can . . . and as Unna allows,’ he added, looking toward her.

He ended with a sigh, seeing Riv nod to him. ‘Mayhap you two should discuss this in private,’ nodding at the both of them. In a hollow effort to lighten the heavy atmosphere in the room, he pointed to the mucky footsteps Riv had made on the kitchen floor. ‘And perhaps you can persuade my brother to clean himself up a bit . . .’

With a tired grunt Riv rose from his seat and offered a begrimed hand to Unna. She took it, with a hard look at him, and bringing it up to her, rested her cheek against it for a moment, a look of pain and puzzlement in her eyes.

Skald watched them as they left the room. He got up, too, and walking to the sink, poured out his mug of tea. A few steps to his right and he brought down the skin of ale that hung on the wall. With a shaking hand, he poured one mug of it and downed it in one gulp. Pouring another, he brought it and the skin back to the table.

‘Mahal take the dark demon and all his Orcs!’ he rasped out. He emptied his mug again and slammed it down on the table. Another mugful was poured, the foam from it running over the sides to puddle on the table . . .

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo now sat at the dining table in his home. Sunlight peered through the windows high on the wall. He rested his face in his hands; his gloves lay on the table near him. Alassante stood with her hands on the back of one of the elegant chairs, listening closely to Cainenyo's story. He had told her about Celebrimbor's announcement and was now finishing the end of his and Arenwino's row.

"And where is Arenwino now?" Alassante asked. Her eyes looked worried but she kept her composure.

"I don't now," Cainenyo said. He shifted his chin from one hand to another. "He stomped off. He's probably buying a sword and armor now." Cainenyo sighed. Alassante moved to her husband and put her arms around his shoulders.

"Don't worry. He's fine. He'll come back." She kissed her husband on the cheek. "Should I pack my belongings? Didn't Celebrimbor want us to escape to the West?" She looked worried, for the city and for her son.

Cainenyo stood. "Yes, I think he did want those who wouldn't fight to leave the city," he said, "We should all be ready when the orcs come. I'll get my sword." Alassante frowned, disappointed that her husband would fight. But she understood that it was best.

[Folwren]

‘Holy smokes, Skald!’ Bror exclaimed bursting into the kitchen like a great bolt of lightning. ‘What are you doing?’ Skald looked up at him, not in the least amused, apparently. There was a black look in his eyes, angry at being disturbed. ‘Don’t just stare at me,’ Bror said sharply. ‘That’s the third mug full you’ll be drinking in less than two minutes.’

Skald’s glare became darker, even less amused by the thought that this was the second time in a row that he’d been watched from the doorway. He deliberately lifted that third mug of ale to his lips and began to down it, too. He likely would have finished it in as little time as the others, but Bror took the remaining two steps to him, and with one blow sent the whole mug, ale and all, spinning from Skalds hand. Bror lifted his chin in defiance as Skald bounded to his feet.

‘You don’t just try to get drunk on a normal bases, Skald Stonecut,’ Bror said, thoroughly alarmed at Skald’s behavior. ‘Is Riv dead or something? No, there are all the marks here that he’s come home. What’s wrong with you? Who were you talking about? What orcs?’ He knew what orcs, he took that back. ‘What dark demon? Did Riv tell you what he saw?’

There were too many questions pounding around in his head. Skald - usually patient, and rarely angry unless he’d done some trick or prank that he didn’t necessarily deserve - looked on the verge of strangling him, and no where near the humor of answering all the questions. But the more Bror realized this, the faster some undefined fear and terror rose inside him. Had something happened to Riv? Was the City of Elves already destroyed? Were the dark forces on their doorstep?

The thoughts sped through his mind faster than can be recorded, and in expectant fear, he waited for Skald to make some sort of reply.

[Arry]

‘Not drunk enough yet, little brother. Not by half!’ Skald brought his grim gaze to bear on Bror. ‘How could he ask me that? How could he even think that?’ Skald’s words slipped out with a strangled gasp, his eyes shifting to where Riv and Unna had disappeared down the hallway. With a resigned thud, he sat down, cradling his head in his hands.

‘Fetch me some tea, Bror. Strong tea. And a chunk of bread to sop up what ale’s left in my belly.’

He fell silent, watching his brother move about the kitchen . . . slicing the bread . . . putting the jam on that he knew Skald favored . . . making the tea . . . For a moment the ordinary scene skewed and it was him fetching a mug and bit of bread for Riv in earlier days – with him asking advice on this and that and Riv there to give it.

I shall have to do that now . . . he thought with a start. That’s what he’s asked me, and I’ve said yes. He shook his head slightly. No amount of ale or Dwarven spirits’ll make it disappear . . .

Once the tea and bread were set before him, Skald mumbled a thanks and nodded toward the chair opposite him. ‘Sit down, Bror. My head’s clearing a bit. We need to talk. I’ll be needing your help on this if it comes to pass.’

With an economy of words, Skald laid out what Riv had told him of the embassy from Sauron to the Elves. He spoke of Riv’s fears and the request that Riv had made of him. ‘So that’s what happened just before you came in to find me trying to drown myself in with a skinful of ale.’ He gave a half-hearted laugh. ‘And now isn’t that just what Riv hadn’t asked for!’

His face became more serious. ‘It is something we do have to think about. And while I have the highest hopes none of this will come to pass, still we need to think about it . . . the both of us . . . you and me. You’re the next Stonecut brother in line. You’ve got to help me take care of Riv’s family if he’s not here, and if we’re both not around, then it falls to you completely.’ He took a long pull at his cooling tea. ‘Of course this could all be a moot point if we can figure out some way to keep us all hale and hearty.’

Skald sighed resignedly, knowing it wouldn’t be so.

‘There’s more Elves from Lorien coming through to Ost-in-edhil, though. They’ll still need us to go with them to see them safe to the city . . . and what if the King decides after all that his friendship with Celebrimbor is worth sending a great number of our warriors to his aid. And even if he doesn’t, there will still be the battles we have to fight with the Orcs if we’re to try to pick up refugees from the city. Where will we take them? To Lorien?’

‘So many unanswered questions,’ he said quietly. ‘So many . . .’

[Folwren]

But those many questions were lost on Bror. Different sort of questions were spinning on Bror’s mind. More and more as the minutes went by in silence. Finally he opened his mouth, but the words stuck in his throat. He lacked the ability to handle the emotion that Skald’s story gave him. His eyes were empty for a moment, trying to grasp in full what Skald had just imparted. Riv had asked him to do what? But he wasn’t going to die! He couldn’t! Riv had asked him to-

‘Look after Unna and Leifre and Ginna?’ Bror burst out, mid thought. ‘But Riv’s not going to die! Skald, he can’t die! He has - he has a wife, and...and two children!’ His voice was rising without his taking notice of it. He leaped up and backed away, as though he could run from the trouble he faced with. ‘And you can’t die either. I’m not the next Stonecut in line, I’m the last. The last, Skald. I can’t do that.’ He lifted his hands and dug them into his eyes, trying hard to calm himself. But his head had begun to hurt in the midst of Skald’s speaking, and now it pounded, and the blood churned in his ears.

The night of the conversation with Uncle Orin came back to mind, and from there it drifted to his short scouting excursion, and the horrible sight he had seen. Involuntary tears stung his eyes and he ground his teeth to keep them back. He heard Skald get up and come towards him a few paces. He began to speak but Bror stopped him.

‘No, Skald. Don’t explain.’ He was calm enough to talk sensibly now. ‘It just took me by surprise. I can’t...I don’t understand, though. Orin said that we won’t be fighting in open battle. He has hopes that we won’t, anyway. Is it...are we going to, then? Is it a certainty?’ He still held a small hope that what Orin had said may still be true, but the more he heard this evening, the more he came to think that avoiding fighting would be impossible.

He lifted his eyes to meet Skald’s and the look that he encountered was so full of uncertainty and fear and grief of what may be to come, that he was sorry he had asked any further into the issue. He walked backed towards the table, dropping his gaze, and waving his hand.

‘Never mind. It won’t do us any good speculating.’ He sat down heavily and laid his head on the table, a posture he hadn’t taken for years. ‘Where’s Riv?’

[Firefoot]

It hadn’t been more than a day or two before their company, along with all other raiding parties in the area, had been recalled back to the main force. Though Ulwakh and Grimkul had, to an extent, been able to blend into the monstrous camp, life was little improved. Ulwakh’s leg was bothering him immensely; it seemed to have become infected again. To distract himself, he was currently skewering a living mouse with his twisted daggers, taking a perverse pleasure in its pained squeaks. He knew it wouldn’t be long before it died; mice were not terribly hardy animals.

Grimkul had settled into a dark temper that refused to be lightened; Ulwakh knew it would only be a matter of time before he exploded in fury. He was stewing a little way away, becoming increasingly annoyed with Ulwakh’s fiddling with the small animal. Grimkul knew best of anyone that he was not suited for army life; he was sick and tired of it. He wanted to return to his dark mountain haunts, with no orders to obey but his own will, and perhaps occasionally Ulwakh’s word of advice. Yes, that was what he wanted, and why shouldn’t he have it?

Abruptly, he stood up. Ulwakh paid little attention until he spoke: “I’m leaving.” Ulwakh’s head jerked up in surprise; his knife slipped, cutting deep into the rodent. With a last cry of agony, the mouse slipped gratefully into death.

Ulwakh scowled, first at the mouse, then at Grimkul. “What do you mean, you’re leaving? You can’t just walk away from the camp!”

“Yes, I can, and I'm going to. Filthy pushdug commanders can try and stop me. Come if you want.” With that, he strode off into the camp. Ulwakh jumped up in alarm, wincing at the sudden movement of his leg. Surely this was a death trap! If he followed Grimkul and they were caught (as they almost certainly would be), they would be undoubtedly be punished, maybe to the point of death. But if he stayed and let Grimkul go alone, he knew he would be an easy target for the other Orcs in the camp. He glanced around uneasily before hurriedly limping after Grimkul. He wouldn’t go with, he decided, not unless everything seemed likely to succeed – but that meant he had to have an eye on Grimkul. He’d go to the edge of camp for now, no farther.

Grimkul didn’t give a care anymore what Ulwakh thought he ought to do. He couldn’t remember the last time Ulwakh had given him a really good reason to do something other than he just shouldn’t. The mountains were there, and he was going. Just someone try and stop him.

[Durelin]

Maegisil stood on his small balcony overlooking the streets of the city of Ost-in-edhil, playing with the ring in his hand. There was always something about rings. He stared out into the sky, which was growing a pale grey and pink with a mild sunset. The city had grown mostly quiet after all the chaos of the day. But it was a disconcerting feeling for it to be so quiet, particularly when you knew what horrors lay within a few miles of your own home. Soldiers were all that one could see moving, their mail softly shimmering red in the dying light. Maegisil turned around to peek through the door leading into his house to catch a glimpse of his wife within, busy with something. She was always keeping herself busy, and Maegisil did not blame her. Now that Celebrimbor had no more need for Maegisil's help, the counselor had too much time to think.

Turning back to look down at his hands, which still fiddled with the ring the dark creature had given him. He wondered what it must have been like, when Celebrimbor held one of his Rings in his hands, a beautiful piece of craftsmanship finally completed after years of work. Could he feel the magic in it? Did he also feel the treachery, even before he put it on? Was it a desire to have power that made him don his Three Rings, at least for a moment, until he realized fully the mistake he had made?

Suddenly Maegisil found himself slipping the ring onto his finger. He jumped when he felt its cold weight, but he felt nothing strange about the ring. It was simply a signet, as the creature had said. What else had he said? Maegisil wondered if the dark one had indeed suggested what the elf thought he had. Was there truly a way he could save Sairien? He could save himself, too. He did not want to die. He was a good soldier, and was the protector of his lord for hundreds of years. Now, he was the protector only of his wife, and of himself. Sairien wanted a child, and he had never been able to give her that. He felt that he had never been able to give her what she wanted, though he always desired to. It seemed they were running out of time. He needed more time; he was not ready to depart from Middle-earth yet, in any way.

~

Celebrimbor sat in his chair, staring sightlessly at an elaborate wall hanging. He had been there, slouched over and looking lost for hours. The arrival of an actual physical presence of Sauron through the emissary had been more than enough to destroy what was left of the lord's courage and faith. He thought about getting up and moving just far enough to make it into the next room and into his bed, but he was unable to make himself budge. It seemed he was lucky he could still exert enough effort to breath.

His thoughts were wild. One moment he was filled with guilt and grief, wanting to wail that it was all his fault, that it was he who brought doom to the Mírdain. The next moment, his mind darkened, and he was filled with anger, considering the possibilities, if only he had kept his Rings. He could have stood up to the might of Sauron, as the Rings of the Lord Celebrimbor were the most powerful - even Sauron knew that. They would be his, and he would be an everlasting presence of power and glory on Middle-earth, even when the population of his people dwindled and the race of Men grew. He could have been a King. Why should Gil-galad be the only King? He was certainly no King in Eregion. Lindon was far away to the West, and it was the East that both Elves and Men had to stand against.

I could have been responsible for the end of Sauron, not the end of my people. But I have no power now.

Several miles to the East of the great walls of Ost-in-edhil, the Dark Lord's army was fully assembled, and preparing their attack. It was too late even for surrender, now. Angoroth's cruel smile announced what all had been waiting for: Sauron's army would begin their siege before dawn.

I have no power now, if ever I had any...

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ulrung cursed the sorry fate that had led him into this miserable Orc camp. For the past day he had carefully followed the directive of his Master: to recall the Orc war parties in preparation for the fight that was soon to begin. Ulrung valued his skin too much to delegate the task to underlings. Underlings had a way of failing one at just the wrong moment. He had heard and seen what happened to officers who failed to live up to Angoroth's expectations. He had no intention of becoming one of those captains who lost the favor of the Master and ended up dead.

Despite Ulrung's initial resolve, he was sick of riding into Orc camps and negotiating with Orc officers. The overwhelming stench and disarray was almost more than any man could bear. He had faithfully carried Angoroth's message from camp to camp surrounded by a small but loyal bodyguard. At more than one point, he had spoken with Orcs who were so surly and defiant that he might have feared for his life, had it not been for the presence of his armed retinue. He was currently not in a very good mood, although he had been generally successfully in bludgeoning and bribing the Orc captains to comply with Angoroth's request.

"Cursed Orcs!" he muttered to himself. "So stupid that they do not even know who they are dealing with." Whoever or whatever Angoroth was, Ulrung was quite certain that his Master could take down a whole troop of Orcs by merely lifting a finger or two and giving them a frozen stare. Ulrung had just finished dealing with several of the Orc captains and was about to ride out of camp when he glimpsed two particularly stupid Orcs who were nervously walking up and down the far boundary of the camp and gazing outward with sheer desire in their eyes. It seemed quite clear to Ulrung that the two were about to desert, as soon as darkness and opportunity came their way.

Brandishing his sword over his head, he growled under his breath to the soldier riding at his side, "I've had it with these idiots. We need an example! Let's take these two back to their captain and threaten to execute them. Perhaps we'll do it and perhaps not, but at least we'll give them a scare."

In a loud voice he bellowed, "You two! Why are you skulking about on the edge of camp? Thinking of leaving us, huh? I can see your intentions in your eyes. Why aren't you back with the others making preparations for battle? Is this what your captain let's you do?"

Before the startled Orcs could even respond, Ulrung gave orders to his men who proceeded to herd the pair back to camp, tying a rope firmly about their waists. Coming to the very center where a giant fire burned, the Easterling captain snarled in a loud voice, "Where is the captain of these men? Answer now, or I swear I will roast every Orc officer in this camp over the firespit, and have them served to the soldiers for dinner!" Ulrung glanced around waiting for someone to answer.