Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

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

The thick, blue curtains that had once hung about Giledhel’s bed had rotted and fallen to the floor long, long ago. And only the ghostly remnants of them remained in the Orcs’ memories. They had clawed them apart when they entered her chamber that day the fortress was overtaken. She had been hiding behind the mound of pillows at the headboard, in the darkness of the drawn curtains, measuring out her breath so that she made scarce a sound. But it was not by her breathing they found her. It was the smell of her . . . the fair clean Elvish scent that nearly gagged them with its foulness. The room reeked of her and of her fear. And they found her . . . and defiled her . . . and killed her . . .

Now, gathered at her feet as she sat at the edge of her bed, they suffered with her as she fought back her tears. She who had once been only prey to them, was now their little star. More sane than she, if truth be told, still they were ensnared by her kindness to them . . . her mad kindness which had taken them under her care as the sons she never had. It was a conceit they nurtured, both in themselves and in her. Who could tell now if they did not half believe it themselves.

And so, as tears glistened on her cheeks, Gorgu offered up a scrap of cloth to her, so that she might dab them away. Ashukh patted her knee gently with his great, dark hand. It was Zlog who answered her trembling question with a firm ‘We will, m’lady! Of course we will.’

When her mind had drifted on to other things, as it was inclined to do; when she had gotten up to settle it a bit as she called it by working on her weaving, then did the three creatures recall their Orcish natures and begin to plan how they might accomplish her desires.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë accepted Endamir’s suggestion with a nod and a few words and lead the way off to the nearest of the eastern wall’s bastions. And as they walked, he allowed for the first time since arriving at this place the dammed up flow of memories to begin to trickle through. He recalled in surprising detail the layout of the old city, though it seemed that this was almost unnecessary: the way beneath his feet was almost as natural as if he had last gone this way only days rather than centuries ago. The memories that he experienced were not, however, of the same sort as the dream-memories which had been plaguing him; instead, he felt a bittersweet nostalgia over the place. Here had been the home of a friend; there had been a blacksmith’s shop – the list went on. All of the once-familiar landmarks had fallen into some state of decay, and while a few remained surprisingly close to intact, the effects of the passage of time were glaringly obvious to one who had known them in the city’s days of glory. Here, Lómwë had no choice but to confront the truth: Himring was dead. Its only life existed in the form of memories, and those alternating between too vivid and too vague.

Very soon, the pair arrived at the bastion. Lómwë hesitated before entering as an air of disquiet fell over him. He glanced over at Endamir, saying, “It is odd that the feet should remember so well the way. I wish I knew what we might find inside.” Hopefully whatever – or whoever – they found would not be ill meaning; perhaps they would even be helpful…

Cautiously, Lómwë took the remaining steps to the bastion and went inside, Endamir following just behind. Lómwë quickly noticed a hole in the roof to be the main source of light in the dim interior, but it was otherwise much as he had remembered. There was a stairway leading up to the wall, which was still mostly intact, having been made out of stone. Once, the bastion had served as a small armory and each one had usually held a soldier or two as watchmen. Unlike the stairway, however, the soldiers and weapons were both long gone. Or were they? Lómwë felt a sudden prickling on the back of his neck and realized the strange feeling of moving air. He looked around but saw nothing, though the aura of watchfulness about the place could not be shaken.

“I do not think we are alone,” Lómwë commented softly. Endamir nodded in agreement. Louder, Lómwë said, “We seek Idrahil, called Seneschal. We are told he may be able to help us.” But the words seemed to die, and no response was heard. After several moments, Lómwë sighed. “This could be difficult… without their help – whoever they are.” He gestured vaguely into space. He was beginning to feel once more that this whole mission was rather hopeless – he hoped that this Diviner really could help Lindir, and not at too dear a cost… “Perhaps we should try up the stairs?” he suggested.

[Envinyatar]

Well this is a new one! Orëmir hastily slung on his pack, his medicine chest now returned to it, and ran after Lindir. The Elf was apparently very sensitive to the effects of the Southron concoction. Next time he would remember to rub only a little on Lindir’s lips. But hopefully there will not be a next time. Perhaps we will find the Diviner and Lindir will be completely healed.

Lindir was still moving at a quick pace when Orëmir caught up to him. He seemed to be making a beeline for the north wall. ‘Shouldn’t we look in some of these side buildings?’ Orëmir asked, gesturing toward a number of half-standing brickwork walls. Lindir seemed to pay no heed to his question, he simply hurried on.

Perhaps he recalls something about the Seneschal that I’ve forgotten . . . which would not be hard, since I scarce recall the man at all. He seems driven though, unwavering. I wonder if the concoction has heightened his senses and abilities as well as his body. Does something draw him onward as a magnet draws iron?

Orëmir’s hand strayed to his belt, assuring himself that he had a weapon at the ready. But there was no pommel that his hand might rest on; he’d left his blade in his haste to catch up to Lindir. Just as well . . . I suppose. The only foe that is likely to come against us is one whom my sword could not hurt or turn away. A frown creased his brow. If Lindir were being drawn onwards by something he sensed, would it prove friendly to them when they reached it?

[piosenniel]

Up the stairs, or what there were left of them . . . Endamir eyed the scorched beams that crossed the ceiling of this bastion's first floor. The beams were thick, but in some places they looked charred near through. Some of the flooring, he noted, for the second floor was gone altogether, with large holes showing through to this floor’s ceiling. Surely the Diviner would want to be lodged in accommodations more suited to his station. Of course, since he was probably solely spirit, perhaps he imagined himself in more luxury than was reality. But then, who was to say what was the true fabric of reality . . . might it not change according to the one having the experience . . .

Endamir’s musings on the nature of reality were brought up short as his foot slipped off a crumbled edge of the stone stair. ‘Pardon,’ he said, bumping forward into Lómwë. ‘Woolgathering . . . and at the wrong time, as usual.’

The area that opened out from the stair landing was cast much in shadow. Part of the roof had survived and only a dim light from the morning’s sun slanted in through the slender slits that were the windows. The darkness seemed menacing somehow, gathering as it did in corners and along the carved lintels of the windows. There was a faint scratching sound as of some one or some thing moving cautiously in the gloom.

‘We should have brought a torch of some sort. Light would at least be proof against what seems to lurk in the shadows, don’t you thi---?’

His question was cut off by a loud screeching and the explosion of movement from the far corner that came at them in a rush . . .

[Firefoot]

Lómwë started violently at the loud crash across the room as a large loudly cawing crow flapped across the room straight towards them. The raucous bird made its way down to the lower floor and out the door, its cries soon fading. Lómwë felt rather foolish – it had been just a crow. This place was making him jumpy, was all. Yet… what had set it off? He doubted it was their mere presence – crows did not go twittering off at the slightest movement as did sparrows. It seemed to him that the sound of laughter carried in the air.

“I’m going to have a look,” he said, stepping carefully off the stair landing onto the wooden floor. He tested every step, making sure not to put his foot through one of the many holes in the dark room’s floor. What he did forget to watch for was for charred and corroded floorboards – before he had made it halfway across the room, he put his foot down on a board that felt sturdy but gave way as his full weight came down upon it. His fall stopped for the moment when his leg was sticking through the floor up to about the knee, but he could tell that the surrounding wood wouldn’t take much more before it, too, fell out. For the second time in about as many minutes, Lómwë found himself feeling undeniably foolish.

A flash of movement out of the corner of his eye showed Endamir taking steps to come help, but Lómwë waved him back, saying: “Wait, stay where you are – you might fall through, too. I think I can get myself out of this.” But as he carefully began to extricate himself, the sound of laughter became unmistakable – coming from that same far corner from which the crow had come. Lómwë froze as the laughter turned into words: “They think they want my help, don’t they? They want lots of help, help they can’t get here – help to find the Seneschal, help from the Seneschal, help from the Diviner – that’s what they really want. But will they like the help they get? I don’t think they will – foolish ones, don’t know what they want… or how to get there.” Lómwë guessed that last was aimed at him, but he didn’t have a chance to hear any more as the voice rapidly descended into mad laughter, which was just as abruptly cut off.

Lómwë worked quickly now at freeing himself, but only concentrating half way on the task at hand – his mind was racing at the words of the mad Elf – for it seemed clear to Lómwë that this was to whom the voice must belong, and he was glad that he could not recall any particular Elves that had once garrisoned this bastion. To think of the noble Eldar who had once dwelt here – sunken so low as that? Perhaps it was best not to think of it. But his words – he obviously knew something of Idrahil Seneschal and the Diviner, though Lómwë doubted they would get much more information, and what he knew did not seem to be pleasant. He wished he could shove these troubling thoughts away as he so often did with troubling memories, but Lindir’s problem was too pressing, too present.

Finally, he fully pried his leg free and found his breaches to have been torn. Fortunately that was all the damage that had been done. He made his way back to where Endamir was still waiting. “Well,” he said, “it seems we’re not going to find the Seneschal here…”

[piosenniel]

‘Are you sure your leg is alright?’ Endamir asked as Lómwë finished speaking. ‘Perhaps we should let my brother take a look at it.’ Lómwë waved him off, indicating his leg was fine. ‘Then let’s leave this area, the whole bastion, I think; and go onto the next one. The one nearer the middle of the wall.’

He raised his brows at Lómwë. ‘I didn’t like the sound of that laughter, nor less yet the fact that it suddenly ceased. I can’t tell whether the Elf it came from left or just went quiet and will try to follow us to cause trouble.’ He took a long look into the apparently empty room; his eyes straining to see some clue of the one who had spoken.

‘I do know that whether he be mad or not, I agree with part of what he said. They want lots of help, help they can’t get here – help to find the Seneschal, help from the Seneschal, help from the Diviner – that’s what they really want. But will they like the help they get? I don’t think they will – foolish ones, don’t know what they want…’ He shook his head at the last question - ‘But will they like the help they get?’ ‘I’m already not liking it and we haven’t even found it!’ They picked their way carefully across the strewn stone and broken beams, making their way northward. A chilling breeze seemed to eddy about them as they walked, though the sun was up and shining brightly.

The middle bastion offered no clues or clue-givers to the pair of them. The ceilings of the rooms were all caved in, and much of the walls were in great disrepair. Lómwë and Endamir trudged along the crumbling pathway that led along the eastern wall from one bastion to the next.

The third and last structure still standing, near the northern end of the eastern wall, was still fairly intact. From the outside, they could see the walls of the bastion go up two stories from the top of the wall, and the roof at the top seemed fairly intact. What rubble had fallen around the structure looked as if it had been pushed away somehow from the building, leaving the area about it looking more in order than had been true of the last two places they had looked.

‘This looks promising,’ Endamir remarked as they entered the arched doorway into the structure. ‘It looks as if some one or thing has made some attempt to put this place in order.’ A chill passed up his spine as the persistent breeze seemed to pass close about him. ‘Is it my imagination, or is this cold little wind, following along after us?’ In the empty room, the faint echo of some muffled sniggering passed from one side of the chamber to the other.

‘Is that . . . you, again . . . Elf?’ Endamir called out into the emptiness. And then a little louder. ‘Or are you here, Seneschal? If so we seek your aid.’ Endamir’s words were absorbed into the now deep quiet. His senses were on high alert for any sound or movement . . .

[Anguirel]

Should we let the silence last? Why tell them what they want to know? They did not dare to stand with us upon the Chill Mountain and defy the Dark Enemy of the World...

Beyond the sight or thought of Endamir or Lomwe, who stood motionless, absorbed in alert alistening, the two soldiers lurked. Soldiers still in profession, though in sight they were nothing more than a pair of rusting torch brackets. Rusting slowly, admittedly, considering their age; and occasionally they scraped a fraction to one side, and the grating noise would echo in the bastion, disrupting the still harmony. The small bats, living high in the gables of the bastion's tower, would hear the disturbance and huddle closer to each other, mothers covering batlings with a protective membrane wing.

Long ago the bats had followed the Foul Ones as they surged into the broken fortress, the Fair Ones all gone on their great horses. The bats knew that where the Fair Ones had driven them off with flame, the Foul Ones were indifferent to them, which was what they preferred. As a result, they followed the Dark Lord's armies, peaceable creatures in the main, searching for quiet corners, but ruled by bloated vampire-fiends that they feared and obeyed.

But the fortress had resisted the Foul Ones in an unexpected manner. For the inhabitants were not all gone. There were pockets of light and arrows singing, and strange glittering fire soared from a bastion in the east. And even after the Eldar were slain, their memories clung to swords, to masonry, to empty torch brackets. Now the Foul and Fair Ones and vampires and the Dark Lord were all gone, but a memory of terror lay within the twisted metal lumps.

You are being foolish and ungenerous, the other bracket replied. The Seneschal would be ashamed of you. Some of us still remember what it was to be Elven.

The bracket on the right veered violently to one side, and the echo shrieked about, startling Endamir and Lomwe. For many more minutes they heard more strange sounds, scratchings and dim crashes and howls of the omnipresent freezing wind. Then a voice they could understand sounded, in the antique Quenyan of Himring's court.

"I am Idrahil, the Seneschal. I bid you welcome, friends. Climb further up, and I shall speak to you in the shade-you cannot see me where the sun's rays are too bright."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Heedless of any danger lurking ahead, Lindir raced forward into the ruins of the fortress, with Orëmir following close behind. He passed the tumbled pile of masonry where Lómwë and Endamir had veered off to the far end of the eastern wall in their search for the stone structure that still stood intact. Still, Lindir paid no attention to the other Elves and instead rushed quickly through the scattered stones and rubble that littered the edge of the fortress. Clambering upward onto the remains of an ancient parapet that had plunged to the ground a thousand years before, Lindir turned around and gazed directly at his companion, urging him to hurry forward.

"It's here. I know it is." Lindir spoke with an air of certainty. Half running and half falling in his eagerness to find what he remembered, the Elf slipped down from the ruins onto a grassy embankment that overlooked the Sea. He was struggling to remember the old ways and paths that had once seemed so familiar. They were now on the far side of the island, just outside what had once been the eastern boundary of the castle walls. There were no signs of ghostly inhabitants. They stood at the edge of a sharp cliff. The ground beneath them was treacherous and rocky, precipitously dropping off towards the churning waters that slapped ominously at the base of the cliff.

Lindir beckoned Orëmir forward and pointed to a portion of rock where the drop was not so severe. There was a small ledge no more than twenty feet below on which two Elves could safely stand. They could see, dotted in the hillside at the inner portion of the ledge, a number of small entryways that seemingly led to caves nestled deep inside the bowels of the earth. Still, there did not seem to be any way to get down to that ledge.

Pushing through a pile of tangled brush, Lindir tentatively reached out with his hand and, to his amazement, felt the firm outline of a great wooden basket that was still attached to a massive rope. This was no ancient and rotting thing that had been left out in the weather for a hundred years. The wicker looked new; the craftsmenship was considerable. What ghostly hands could create or maintain such a device? Indeed, what ghost would even want such a thing? The whole machine was cleverly constructed. Two Elves could climb inside the basket and by tugging on a winch descend to the ledge, or bring themselves up to the top again.

"This is where the Diviner lived. She preferred to be by herself outside the castle walls, but in the safety of this cave. For there are endless mazes inside, and she would be in little danger even if all the forces of evil converged upon this ground. Indeed, I believe that this is the only corner of this cursed island that would not be stained with blood."

Lindir's fingers ran instinctively to the hilt of his sword, which he had retrieved earlier from the guard room. He stopped for a moment, then spoke, "Let us go now and see if she is here. I would rather meet her face to face on our terms than run into her unawares on some lonely stairwell. For truly I do not trust her, and it is better to meet an enemy head on. If her lair still lies here, you will be amazed. For, deep inside the cave is a wonderful chamber where she spent long hours at her studies. The Diviner possessed all manner of herbs and potions. She studied the winds and the air and the waters to learn what lay behind these things."

"You speak now as if you knew her..."

Lindir did not answer as they slipped into the basket and cranked it downward, peering out in the direction of the cave....

[piosenniel]

Despite the seriousness of the problem for which they sought the Diviner’s aid, Endamir was suddenly beset by a fit of laughter. No, not laughter . . . giggling was the more exact term. He put his hands on his knees and lowered his head for a few moments, taking in some deep breaths in an effort to regain his composure.

‘What must Lómwë think of me . . . laughing like this?’ he wondered to himself. ‘I am standing here admidst the wrack and ruin of this fortress of the Quendi, my old friend teetering on the edge of death . . . that should be sobering enough . . .’ He raised up his head to look about the ruins. ‘And yet, here I am spooked by crows, beset by mad spirits, looking about at empty air, and listening to voices on the wind. It is a jarring mixture of the serious and the absurd.’

Endamir stood up fully and took a deep breath. Up the stairs, in the gloomy recesses of some windowless room, or so he supposed it, there came the low whirring of little wings, the sharp protests of metal upon stone. ‘What do you suppose is up there?’ he questioned aloud, even as he made for the steps. ‘Creatures of Morgoth? Metal winged bats of some sort? No, it cannot be. It was the Seneschal’s voice we heard, I’m sure . . .’

[Envinyatar]

It was a fleeting thought as he stepped into the basket . . .

‘I do not recall an oath saying I need follow a patient to his death to save him!’ he muttered to himself.

Orëmir’s hands clutched tight to the rim of the basket as Lindir lowered them down the side of the cliff. The knuckles of those hands were as white as the Elf’s face. All blood had fled to his core as fright gripped him. ‘I will not look down . . . or out . . . or to the side, for that matter!’ he avowed silently, clamping his eyes shut tightly.

Endamir! A thousand curses on you for wanting to come on this demented venture. When I see you next . . . if I see you again . . . or anything for that matter should I be spared my death on the rocks below . . . I will drag you from this island if I have to bind you to do so!

The basket bumped down the rocky precipice, Orëmir’s stomach lurching into his throat with each increment. And then they were stopped. He could hear Lindir securing the rope to something and the sound as the Elf began to climb from the basket. The makeshift carrier teetered for a moment, sending a decided wave of nausea through Orëmir; then, all was still.

He ventured a look at the wall of stone where Lindir had gone into. There was a fair sized opening, though from the outside looking down from the top or up from the ground below, it would appear only as a great gash in the rock. Orëmir could hear Lindir crashing about inside. Crunching about, more like. He slipped into the gash and came after a few short paces into a large grotto entry-way.

Orëmir sneezed; it echoed loudly in the cavern. Lindir’s thrashing had thrown up a cloud of fine, mouldy smelling dust. He blinked his eyes, and near the center of the rock strewn floor, he could see that Lindir had managed to light a torch that must have been left here by the Diviner. The Elf was making his way toward the back of the cave, toward another vague opening Orëmir could just see. Not wanting to let his companion get too far beyond him, Orëmir stepped onto the grotto floor proper.

Something crunched beneath his boots as he moved. He looked down and with growing horror saw that it was not rocks that were strewn on the floor, but bones. An hysterical sort of laughter bubbled up from his tightly clenched throat, squeaking out in a thin, high stream. ‘By the One! Was she a vampire of some sort?’ he gasped out. ‘Or so feeble in her attempts at healing that most of her patients died?’

Lindir had turned to look back at him as he asked these terror-induced questions. He’d waved the torch at Orëmir beckoning him on. A cutting breeze swept against Orëmir’s back, and he felt as if icy hands drifted over his shoulders, numbing his face as they passed on before him.

Then, the light from the brand went out with a whoosh! and all was cast in darkness. From the darkness there came the sound of amused laughter echoing off the walls. A sigh of sorts followed . . . and after it, soft, considering words . . .

So . . . you’ve come back . . . as you once promised . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir whirled around abruptly and then stared in disbelief. He strained to peer ahead, but could see almost nothing. Only one shadow wavered in the distance, and it was impossible to say with certainty what this grey mist might signify. There was little light still visble within the lofty chamber. The torch had been extinguished, and only a few rays from the outside world had managed to slip inside and follow them down to the far end of the grotto, where they now stood waiting.

"This can not be! You were slain in the heat of battle. All said the same. Long days, I searched for you but could find nothing. I left after that. There was no reason to return. But why do you linger here?" Lindir cried out in desperation to the darkness, but there was no response to his query. His words bounced eerily off the walls of the cave and came back to his own ear again.

Motivated by frustration and the need to know more, the elf pressed forward towards the spot where he had first heard the voice, totally oblivious to the fact that the mounds of bones surrounding them were increasing in size and number....skeletons large and small precariously stacked up, one on top of the other. Despite all that had been said concerning the Diviner since he had landed on this cursed Isle, Lindir had never expected to hear her voice again, at least not on this side of the Sea.

Ahead lay a tunnel, black and foreboding. He stopped for a moment without looking to see if Oremir was still behind him. Then he heard a rustling at the far end of the blackened corridor. Oblivious to common sense, driven by the need to look once more upon the Diviner, he rushed forward at great speed and barely managed to keep his balance amid the ever growing mounds of bones. Once again he heard the soft sigh as he came to a massive door and, without hesitation, unlatched the rusty bolt to push it open. To his amazement, he stood inside a great chamber filled almost to the ceiling with the remains of those who had perished in the wars. Victors and vanquished, orcs and elves....their bones mingled and called out for remembrance.

What happened next, Lindir could never quite explain. There was a moment when the earth tipped forward and then back, until it stood perfectly still again, though somewhat at an angle. The wooden door behind them shut with a loud clang and piles of bones came loose from their mooring, beginning to shake and shift. Just a moment later and an avalanche of skeletons had broken free. For a single instant, Lindir stood perfectly still. Then he turned to the door and frantically tried to push it open in a vain attempt to get out. But the door would not move; a great pile of skeletons came cascading down upon his head. Lindir protectively cradled his head in his arms, curling into a ball as he called out to Varda to protect them in this realm of shadow.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir stood at the entrance to the tunnel. Lindir had already rushed into the dark maw of it and was at once lost to sight. For a moment Orëmir considered following after the manic Elf, but his common sense told him that while Lindir might know the ins and outs of these caverns, he did not.

He stepped back a few paces, into a pale shaft of light that pooled at the rear of the grotto. Dropping his pack from his back, he fished through one of the side pockets, looking for the tapers he kept there. He used them in his work when someone had fainted. The smoke from a singed feather held beneath the nose was oft times all that was needed to bring round the patient. ‘Yes, there they are,’ he said to himself, his fingers passing from the soft collection of feathers to the cool, smooth sides of the tapers. ‘Now where’s the flint?'

His fingers fumbled with the flint and steel he had stored there also, and soon he had a bit of a spark going in a pinch of dried moss. Dipping his candle’s wick into it, he lit it and soon had it secured in one of the little candle-lanterns tucked into another pocket on his pack

Orëmir shouldered his pack once again and proceeded into the tunnel, his little lantern throwing a faint beam before it. The floor of the tunnel was crowded with a thicker layer of bones than the grotto. They, too, crunched beneath his feet, but this time his feet did not sink down enough to touch the corridor’s stony floor. Beyond the feeble light was deep darkness and silence save for his footsteps. No voice whispered along the way, nor was there the chill breeze he had felt before.

‘It is Lindir that draws these phantasms; he is their lodestone. I wonder if it were so when he was whole and living in the fortress. Or is it only now because his mind and spirit are disquieted.’ A number of hesitating steps brought him at last to the end of the corridor. Holding up the lantern, he could see the outline of a massive wooden door. Lindir, it appeared, had forced the rusty bolt open and gone into whatever chamber it protected.

Setting his shoulder firmly against the door, Orëmir pushed with all his might against it. It budged only a little, making a small gap, three fingerwidths at the most. Orëmir held the little lantern near the narrow opening and tried to peer in above it. There was a high mound of various sized bones and skulls that had flowed up against the door, it seemed and blocked its opening. From somewhere near the door, he could hear a voice, Lindir’s he thought, whimpering a repeated muffled plea.

‘Varda protect us in this realm of shadow!’ he could hear the Elf call.

Orëmir’s mind raced, wondering how he could get Lindir from behind the stubborn door. In the state Lindir was in, he wondered if he might play upon his altered senses. He moved the candle-lantern up and down the narrow slit a number of times, sending a signal of light, he hoped, into the darkness beyond. Then pushing his mouth against the opening, he called out to the stricken Elf.

‘Lindir! The Kindler couldn’t come herself. She’s sent me in her stead with a light to guide you.’ He moved the beam of light up and down the opening, trying to signal his trapped companion. ‘Come toward the bright light, here on the other side of the door! And shove back the bones and skulls in your way as you do so.’

He listened closely for the sound of someone moving closer.

‘The light, Lindir! Come towards it!’ he called again.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir could hear Orëmir's voice urging him forward. A tiny light flickered, ran up and down the outer edge of the door frame, and then receded into shadow. Still, Orëmir's trick had shown Lindir the way he should proceed.

"I see the light. I am coming." Lindir feebly struggled to rise. With a great effort, he managed to stand upright in the middle of a Sea of Bones The problem was that the Sea would not stand still, but was continually shifting and churning in response to the Elf's attempts to escape from his prison. Lindir reached down and gathered up a handful of skulls, grimacing as he did so, and quickly tossed them over to the corner in a vain effort to clear a path to the doorway where Orëmir waited. But the moment Lindir had discarded the ones he was carrying, another pile slid down from the left and landed imediately in front of him, effectively blocking his efforts to leave the chamber behind. This happened three separate times until he began to believe that more than coincidence was involved. The wretched skeletons seemed to have a life and mind of their own and were determined that he not leave the chamber.

Frustration and confusion flooded Lindir's mind as he blurted out a plea to his companion. "I can not free myself. Bony fingers are tugging at my ankle." The last word was spoken barely above a whisper. Lindir had sunk into a pit of bones, that was deeper than before, and was struggling to keep his head aloft.

Orëmir pressed his ear against the door, sensing that something was very wrong. There was silence, then a sound of arms and legs thrashing wildly, followed by a high pitched scream for help, "Help me. I beg you. The skeletons live! I can not escape them...."

[piosenniel]

Endamir addresses the Seneschal

Two rusted torch brackets hung crazily askew on the wall of the short, dark passageway that led to the darkened room just off the landing. Endamir reached up a gloved hand and pushed gently at the first one he had come to. The pitted metal protested as it was moved, echoing loudly in the stairwell. In concert, its fellow bracket seemed to move just barely, but enough to echo its companion’s complaint.

‘And now the fixtures have begun to talk to me,’ he murmured, continuing to follow Lómwë up the stairs. He glanced at his companion’s back, wondering if he had heard them, too. Or whether this was a singular hallucination of his own. ‘Your pardon,’ he whispered to the brackets as he passed them. ‘And here I am answering them!’ he thought to himself.

The room above was large; that is, what they could see of it. Some of the ceiling beams had come down and the pale light from outside filtered in through the layers. Endamir glanced about the enclosure; his eyes darting into the pools of deepening shadow. Walking carefully across the floor to a place where the light flooded in, he stopped there. Fully clothed in the light, he stood waiting for the voice they had heard to speak again.

‘Are you here?’ he ventured after a few silent moments. He took a few tentative steps into the edges of the surrounding shadows, ‘Idrahil? Are you near?’

[Anguirel]

"This way. Come a little further into the shade. It may seem strange to you...but the Coavalta are scorched cruelly by light, and we cannot be seen under its glare..."

Their long foray had at last yielded a drop of success, and for a moment, Endamir felt alleviated of the burden of dread. For all its antique accents, Idrahil's voice sounded nothing more than less than what Malris had described-a bluff and benevolent soldier...

"Wait!" Lomwe hissed. "Hang on, Endamir. We can't all be like Malris and trust to wind-borne tongues."

"Malris is with you also?" the tones of Idrahil rung again, strange now, caught with a note both of sorrow and of hope. "Then he must..."

"It's not about Malris that we have come, spirit," Lomwe interrupted. "One of our companions is gravely hurt and needs the counsel of..."

"The Diviner, I know. But first," the Seneschal murmured, "will you trust to the wind-borne tongue?"

The pair of Elves looked into each other's eyes, till Lomwe turned away his gaze, glancing between his feet. Endamir's face set, and he stepped forward into the shaded part of the tower.

The figure before him was, as the Elves at the gatehouse had been, lustrous and translucent, as if formed from pale moonlight; only slivers of his form visible, rippling in and out of sight. Large, silver eyes bore down at the loremaster.

"You came in the end. Good. I will send for the Diviner," the Seneschal intoned, "but swaying him may not be easy..."

The Seneschal seized up a short bugle from his waist, blowing an eerie note on it. In answer, two more ghostly figures, shining faintly, drifted from the torch brackets.

"Fetch him hither," Idrahil commanded, "and hurry..."

***

The other search party, Malris and Tasa, were not receiving any such enlightenment. Each bastion they attempted was nothing more than a shattered dereliction, straddled by cobwebs so complex they resembled robes, which soon caught in Tasa's long, golden hair.

"You are Artanis's equal now," Malris teased. "Tresses of both gold and silver..."

Even with Lindir's peril in their minds, and, as it seemed, perpetual failure before them, there were a few such moments of gladness, whether in each other's company, or in sighting of aspects of Himring that evoked powerful memories. For Malris it was always the mundane, the humdrum, which stirred his heart most deeply; a piece of graffiti by an Elf named Iorlach who had fallen in the Nirnaeth-

Morgoth has only got two jewels
The other is snug in Thingol's Halls

Out of their sight or understanding, outside the bedchamber of Malris and Giledhel, in the fourth bastion he and Tasa were to enter, the Lady's Orcs made ready.

***

Why must I come? The Seneschal has no right to control me. I have no wish to shame myself by aiding the cowards.

The Diviner was back in the guise almost everyone, corporeal or not, saw. A petulant, frail-looking male Elf, pedantic and scholarly in tone, a sort better calculated to raise ridicule than fear.

Idrahil invokes your friendship. He says you have lost it if you do not come, said the taller, elder of the sentries of the torch brackets.

Very well. But do not expect me to leave my hermitage for long...or to provide any help...

Passing out of sight, the three spirits whirled from the cavern. Exhausted and frightened, Oremir and Lindir had heard and felt them only as a freezing breeze.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

‘She won’t like it,’ hissed Ashukh to Zlog, looking down to where the Lady sat amidst her weaving. ‘You know she hates them.’

The two Orcs were sitting on the crumbling eastern wall of Giledhel’s chamber. Near them perched a raven, his beady black eye intent on a string of shiny pearls and glittering gems the Orcs had laid out in a ragged line. He ruffled his feathers and cocked his head, listening hard. There were faint voices on the morning breeze he thought. But his eyes saw nothing near him, high atop this wall. And those shiny, shiny treasures . . . how they called to him . . .

‘Gorgu will tell her they’re the servants we’ve hired for her party. All dressed in formal black,’ Zlog watched the raven gather his courage to take a few steps toward the bait. ‘You know he’s good at calming her nerves.’

Ashukh nodded his grudging assent. He, too, eyed the nearing raven, who had since been joined on silent wings by a half score more of his companions. He was both nervous and excited at the prospect of trying what only Zlog had done before. Just let ‘em come near. he remembered Zlog saying . . . They be crafty for birds. But we be quicker. Reach out and touch him. Anywhere. Then slide right in and use the feathered devil as you want.

They could see Giledhel below, her worried face turned up to where the great birds gathered. And Gorgu, his hands patting her arm, his head nodding ‘yes’ to her questions. Finally, her face smoothed out and she smiled, waving up to them. Nodding her head from side to side slowly now, they could tell her attention had been turned to other matters and that she was considering something. As she walked to her wardrobe, they knew she would be some time thinking and rethinking her outfit once again.

Gorgu joined his companions atop the wall. There were voices now and the sound of footsteps coming through the darkened corridors below. ‘Birds getting restless,’ he said. ‘Best we take them now.’

Zlog slid under the gathered birds until he had come to the biggest one. He seemed the leader; the one from whom the others took their cue. A light touch to the bird’s neck and he was in. Gorgu and Ashukh assumed their raven bodies as well.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Outside the door to their Lady’s chambers were voices, one male, one female. There was no mistaking the face of him; the one whom Giledhel had spoken of countless times these long, long years. And the gold haired one, too! What a prize she would be for their Lady.

‘Steady now,’ Zlog croaked to his companions as well as the rest of the flock. ‘Fresh meat . . . and those that bring them down can have the eyes for treats

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa was content to simply walk beside her oldest friend, but as they explored, delving deeper into times better left forgotten, her smile wavered. When he teased her, she laughed lightly, but within moments, her face would become serious once more, bordering on fear. She was uneasy amid the ruin of the place once so grand. Even as it stood proud, a legend even before times passed, she had rarely ventured inside, preferring to sleep under the stars. While, before, the walls had merely seemed to bar her view of the land and trees and beloved flowers of white lace, perched daintily on long stems of palest green that danced in the wind, they now felt more enclosing... more ominous. She felt trapped by them, whether behind or merely beside them. They seemed to radiate cold, though Malris appeared not to notice.

She drew her cloak about her as they walked. Though the sun was warm, Tasa shivered. Every step seemed to bring the chill deeper. She did not want to continue but she would not leave Malris' side. They had been separated for too long. She would not leave her friend, her brother in arms... her love... to face the horror of old memory alone. They had come together and they would leave together. She trembled at the old feelings of fear and hate that still lingered, attributing them to the enemies of old. She had never wanted more to retreat. It was ever one instance to face an enemy with a sword, but how could one combat the shadow of the past?

Tasa was uncertain whether or not it was all in her mind. They drew nearer to Malris' old chambers and her steps became heavier. Malris' face had become unreadable when they reached the door of his chambers. He paused before it and looked back at her. She shook her head and beckoned him onward.

"These are paths upon which I have little right, if any, to tread. Dear friend, I will await you here. Do not tarry, please..." she added quietly. "I feel a cold that lingers even in the brightness of the rising sun."

[Envinyatar]

There was a cold breeze that swept out from the inner chamber as Orëmir pushed mightily against the door once again. A deathly chilling breeze. ‘Lindir! Are you alright?’

No voice issued from beyond the crack. Tentatively, Orëmir reached out with his mind to Lindir. Not dead! he gasped in relief. But he feared the man’s spirit had withdrawn again, deep within himself. And given the frail condition of his body, he worried that Lindir would break the connection in his panicked state and die.

There was no way he could open the door. It had moved as far as the sea of skulls and bone behind it would allow. In frustration, Orëmir gave a final push, moving it but a hair’s width . . . just enough for a single jawless skull to come rolling out.

Tired, he sat down in front of the door, his back leaning against it. He strengthened the link between himself and Lindir, willing the man to hold steady.

Run! Run! I cannot . . . cannot get away . . . Lindir’s thoughts were frantic.

Here I am, my friend . . . Orëmir’s words were soothingly spoken. And look! I’ve found us a way from this darkness. See . . . just there . . . a doorway, and beyond, a pleasant garden where we might wait for the others . . .

He drew Lindir’s scattered thoughts in with his own, giving him an image they might wander about in. It was his mother’s garden;a place he knew well, a place of happy memories. But they must come soon – the others. Left too long to wander, even he might forget the way. Then both he and Lindir would be lost . . .

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

From her wardrobe Giledhel plucked out her garnet dress, soft rich velvet with sheer sleeves from which the tips of her fingers would just barely peek. She laid it on her bed, careful not to wrinkle it and then fussed about the bottom of the wardrobe for the pair of matching shoes. She had danced with Malris in this dress, she recalled, a smile touching her lips. And where had her jewelry box got off to – there was a string of garnets on a fine gold chain he had given her. Her choice of raiment for the party changed daily or more often, depending on how her mind flitted about in her skewed stream of days and hours.

She was excited about the promise of dancing with Malris again, of being in his arms. Her brow puckered as she thought on how often he was gone now – busy with his tasks and his men and that wo . . . No! She would not go down that path today, she told herself. He will be all mine tonight; his eyes on me; his arms about my waist as we dance.

Giledhel smoothed the hair back from her brow, catching it back with a thin blue ribbon. ‘I’ll just work on my weaving a bit,’ she told herself. ‘That always soothes me.’ She picked up her cherrywood shuttle and stood looking for a moment at her design. Muffled voices from the corridor caught her attention; she turned to see who might be at her door.

[Anguirel]

Malris nodded at Tasa's request; it lifted a weight from his mind. He had been wondering himself about the wisdom of combining the beauty of the present with that of the past. Standing with golden Tasareni in his and Giledhel's room; it would have been confusing, even upsetting.

Another part of him hoped that the memories he was about to stir up would remind him of his duties as an Elf and a husband; would drive back what he felt for Tasa, had felt for Tasa increasingly over the last day. With such thoughts mingling in his head, he crossed the threshold into the place where he had last been happy, and fulfilled; glancing up to the carving of his and Giledhel's combined insignia in the lintel.

Of course, the bastion was no uplifting sight now. Loose blocks of stone. Cobwebs and dust. Stairs that looked as dangerous to navigate as those of Moria were said to be...

And circling shadows further up. Were those bats, Malris thought with a flicker of horror?

Caw, caw, caw. The Ravensong. Malris remembered a strange conversation-but what conversations were not strange between those brilliant minds?-that the Sons of Feanor had had, as they stood on the wall and watched birds descending on corpses of Orcs ambushed as they passed the fortress...

"What do you suppose the Orcs think of Raven-cries?" Maglor had asked quietly. When Maglor spoke quietly, he could be heard by any who cared to listen to him.

"Perhaps they delight in them," Curufin had suggested.

"That would be the logical conclusion, to distance them from us," Celegorm agreed coldly.

"I don't trust logic," Maedhros muttered. "Look at those birds tearing at those corpses. Remember that someday they may tear at ours."

"So the ravens remind Orcs, too, of the perishable nature of flesh?" Curufin remarked mischievously. "What philosophers our enemies must be..."

In any case, the shadows here were ravens, that was clear, not bats.
Curious and unnerving...they seemed to be nearing him...

Malris instinctively ducked as the largest, blackest scavenger dived at his head, and threw himself on the ground.

"Off! Off, corpse-eaters!"

He drew himself up in half a second, expecting them to be shooed away. But as if drawn by magnets, they veered about, going for the eyes...

"Cirlach! This blade is faster than you are!" Malris cried, hoping his boast was true, as the sword of Curufin's craft shone brilliant red.

It was a near thing. Sometimes the sword would outpace the ravens, and a corpse would fall. Sometimes the ravens would outpace the sword, and a talon would scratch. But the ravens always seemed to return, an accursed, aggressive trinity. Backing into a corner, Malris saw what was unmistakably an Orc-gleam in the eyes of the murder of ravens' leader.

So it was that Tasa heard a desperate osanwe appeal.

Tasa, this sounds ludicrous, but I believe I'm struggling with Coavalta in crow form...I need your aid...just like the Nirnaeth...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Malris, do not fear... I come.

Tasa unsheathed her blade, useless though it may be. She pulled a razor sharp dagger and positioned it in her left hand.

He had said that it was like the Nirnaeth. Tasa only allowed a few short memories to rise to her conscious thought: he'd been surrounded, it was desperate; she'd led her troops into an ambush in order to save him. But this was no ambush... this was a desperate cry for help. Tasa would recognize a call from Malris no matter how many long centuries had passed. The very feel of them was laced with the power of a forest fire, the will of the tide, the patience of a late spring awaiting winter's final storm.

Springing through the passage he had just disappeared into, Tasa heard the door slam behind her. She ignored it, searching, working her way toward her friend, guided only by feeling. She could see nothing.

[Child of the 7th Age]

One moment Lindir lay thrashing and frantic on the floor of the caverns, his mind teetering on the brink of disaster. The next instant, he found himself walking through a peaceful garden, one filled with birds and bees and all manner of small, living things. The feeling of terror was gone and, in its place, came a sensation of peace and fulfillment, the first real contentment he'd felt since setting foot on the vessel that had brought him to this isle.

One part of Lindir's mind was aware that his body still lay inside the cavern in a dire predicament, yet his thoughts refused to dwell on that, so delighted was the Elf to be in this lovely garden. Heedless of any need for caution or restraint, Lindir went hurrying down the path with Oremir following close behind. As they rounded a bend in the path, Lindir pointed excitedly towards two small figures just ahead, "Look, my friend, two young Elves! And how happy they look. Why, one could be the image of you. Perhaps they are your relations? And who is the other one who lingers close by his side?'

'Come now, we must say hello to your kinsmen." Lindir beamed and rushed forward, paying no attention to the look on his companion's face.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir

The path down which they’d gone led to a little stream, he knew. And those two boys that Lindir had hailed, he shook his head, trying to clear away the vision of them. It was his brother and him. They had just come from the water, a wide bend in the stream where the current moved lazily along the shore. They had built little boats, swan shaped, with white sails.

Orëmir had let his get too far toward midstream. It had crashed against a rock and sunk. The debris of it floating down the swifter current in the middle of the stream. He saw the look on his younger self’s face. He had been heart-broken, near to tears. And Endamir, distressed at his twin’s sorrow had his arm about Orëmir’s shoulders. ‘It’s alright, Ray-ray,’ he could just hear his brother saying to him. ‘We can share my boat. Let’s take it to the fountain and sail it in and out of the water falls.’ Endamir placed the swan ship in his brother’s hands and tugged at his sleeve to follow him.

‘Lindir!’ the older-Orëmir called out. ‘Leave them be. This is not part of my remembering, that you and I should meet them.’ But Lindir was not to be deterred. He waved and hailed the two boys who turned to look at him curiously.

From a little twisting sidetrack that ran through the small grove of hawthorn there came an all too familiar voice calling out. ‘Ray-ray! Enny! Where have you two got off to? It’s time for the mid-day meal. Come with me now and get washed up!’

He gave a gasp as she came into view.

Nénuwen wore her dove grey dress, with its soft lines and her hands clasped the skirt of it, picking it up a bit that she might move quickly along. Her long black hair was loose about her, flowing over her shoulders to reach her waist. Her face broke into a smile at the sight of her children, grey eyes twinkling.

By the One! She is so beautiful. How is it that I never noticed?

Her brow puckered slightly at the sight of the two strangers in her garden. ‘Are you lost, sirs?’ she asked.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady’s Orcs

The man was murderous with his blade. But the Orcs cared not, and why should they – they were dead already. There were a number flocks of birds, some ravens, some crows, that still lived in the forested areas of the island. Through that sort of avian way of messaging, they had come in hopes of cashing in on a bloody feast.

And now there were two bodies to pick on . . . more meat to be had . . .

The birds rained down on the man and woman, slashing at them with beak and talon.

Gorgu fled his bird’s body as it drew its last breath. He glanced upward, noting that Ashukh and Zlog still commanded the attack. The Lady Giledhel had fled into her weaving; he could see her, eyes wide with fright, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. Gorgu hunkered down near her, patting at her arm for comfort. ‘Your Malris has come, m’lady,’ he whispered to her. ‘But look! That woman has come and is trying to take him away.’

He held out his hand offering to help her up from where she now sat, knees drawn up to her chest. ‘You can take her; use her . . . really hold your beloved husband in your arms . . . you could do this . . . I can help you, little mother . . .’

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


Giledhel stook shakily, holding onto Gorgu’s hand. What did he mean he could help her? Of course, she would hold Malris in her arms, just as she always did. He was her husband. He was coming home soon. He would dance with her at the party. He would . . .

Her hazy gaze fixed on the man wielding the sword who stood in her bedroom. She rubbed at them with her fists, wondering how this had come to be. She was just going to work on her weaving, she remembered, and someone had been about to enter. Then the birds had come, the awful birds and she had fled. Leaning on Gorgu’s arm she walked closer to the warrior.

It was Malris!

His back was to her as he swung at the ravens. Giledhel reached out her hand to touch him, and gasped as her hand passed through him. She called his name then, and he did not seem to hear her. ‘What is this? What is this?’ she asked in a strangled voice, her hand now clenched on tight to Gorgu’s arm.

And then she recalled that her three protectors had spoken of this to her before. Had spoken gently to her of what had happened. But they had not pressed her to believe, and she had not believed . . . until this very moment.

Beyond Malris was Tasa, the air about her thick with the battering birds. Giledhel’s eyes glowed with hatred at this interloper. ‘Help me,’ she ordered Gorgu. ‘Show me how.’

She stood close to Tasa, watching her for a moment. ‘Yaxë! Cow!’ she murmured. Giledhel stepped closer, and yet again closer, pressing her focused will against the woman.

Let me in, let me in . . . he’s mine . . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa screamed in horror as she felt a cold and unnatural something prod the barriers of her mind. The very feel of it was wrong in every way.

Let me in. It ordered firmly, searching for a weakness. Tasa screamed again, still trying to fight the ravenous birds. Her golden hair was stained red with the blood that sprayed from above. Limbs and feathers were strewn about her and Malris. He fought amazingly, desperately, but calm. Tasa fought two battles, not knowing which was more dangerous to lose, not caring to find out.

She felt the cold tendrils of thought forcing their way in. She cowered, shrinking toward the wall and toward the warm comfort of Malris. He would protect her... he would not let her be harmed. She dropped her dagger first, clutching at her face with her free hand. There were eyes... she could see eyes, crazed and cold, uncaring and hateful. She wept as she tried to push the vision away.

A cold wind that affected nothing but Tasa pulled at her sword arm, demanding a blood tribute, tearing her sword from her. She held on with as much will as she could muster but it was not enough. Her blade whipped through the air, barely missing Malris. She shrunk against him and he dared not to look, too busy fending off the danger from above.

He is mine, the voice hissed. He was mine and will always be so.

Tasa strove with the voice, with the eyes. She could feel the harsh presence of orcs. She feared for Malris. Her mind was assaulted from all sides. She tried to call to him but her message was distorted and he heard nothing.

She closed her eyes and gasped. She could see faces clearly now, angry, hideous, relentless. She opened her eyes and closed them once more, trying to replace the fear with the bright whiteness of Malris. She began to feel warmer. The assault became less forceful until Tasa felt little sign of it. She gasped for breath, steeling herself for the next attack.

[Anguirel]

Guilt. Guilt.

How could he continue to feel guilt about his attachment to Tasareni so keenly as he fought for her very life? It made no sense, but it was true. It seemed somehow...bound up in the wind...

The crows seemed to be faltering before him now, more inclined to sweep off when he swung Cirlach through the air. Tasa's entrance, her blades drawn, was having a decidedly pronounced effect. As he severed the neck of yet another crow which had lingered just too long, it came to Malris, and he received another confirmation that Orc-spirits indeed were about here.

The whole murder was heading for his friend and ally. He was now nothing more than a distraction. The scavengers were whirling over his head and not returning because he no longer interested them. He had been the bait in this trap, not the mouse.

With a bellow of frustrated fury, he pushed his way towards her. The birds showing most animation, with slashing claws and hideous, experienced eyes, were now about Tasareni. Malris felt another twinge of guilt that caused him an almost physical chill. What was going on here?

"I am Malris," he said, softly at first, but so that it carried, so Tasa would be reassured. Then louder. "I am Malris."

"Crows and orcs and whatever else creeps behind black eyes, know that I was master of this place. I dwelt with my wife..." a sweep to one side, as Cirlach's edges grew pale and furious. An anticlimactic downfall of ragged black feathers.

"I dwelt with my love in the bastion you defile. It is me you have business with! Look to me, and leave the lady alone, lecherous cowards..." a lunge and a crack of a bird's skull. Still the fluctuating curtain of crowmeat kept him from Tasa.

"If any among you have speech...and I have seen Morgoth's craven folk among you...what do you want with us?"

[Firefoot]

The upper room fell still and silent. Now that their search had ended, Lómwë slid to the floor and finally allowed himself a moment of rest, more mental than physical. The immense energy required to stay focused on helping Lindir had been far more wearying than any physical search. He knew there was still more to do, but he allowed his mental barriers to relax anyway.

At first the memories that came were pleasant, if bittersweet now in retrospect: jovial times with friends, tender moments with Ellothiel, Aradol’s first lessons with bow and blade. But the timeline progressed rapidly, spiraling downward towards that one barricaded memory – and now Lómwë had no strength left to fight it off.

He had been fighting on the front now for weeks, defending the fortress at Himring. The news here was better than that of other parts of Beleriand – Morgoth’s troops were held back, and Lómwë had had no fear for the safety of his wife and son. That is, until now: word that a few negligibly sized raiding parties had broken through their line, not coming to Himring but terrorizing the countryside. Now did Lómwë fear. This news may not have reached Ellothiel; communications were chancy at best in wartime.

He had begged leave to go to his family, and it had been permitted under the circumstances. He hastened home with all possible speed. Fear and dread grew in him every step of the way and fueled him onwards. As he drew near his home, all the weariness caused by the long journey on foot was sucked from him at the sound of cries – unmistakably Orkish cries – in the distance.

He emerged from the woods into the clearing surrounding his home, and his heart almost stopped. White hot anger instantly swallowed any grief or shock bubbling up inside him at the sight of the Orcs regaling in his yard. Their subjects, two bloodied bodies, told him all he needed to know.

With a frenzied cry, Lómwë launched himself at the Orcs as his shining sword sprang to his hand. The first two fell before they could even get their blades up in defense. Three more tried to fight, but could not stand up to his fury. The last one had fled into the woods, but Lómwë found him, too, after a short chase. The offenders dead, Lómwë half-ran, half-stumbled back to his home and collapsed beside the body of his beloved Ellothiel. Her beautiful face was mangled; her body, despoiled. Aradol, similarly bloodied, lay not far away with his small sword still clenched in his hand. The brutal reality of the scene left no room for denial, only despair. For a long time, Lómwë knelt there and wept. His earlier anger gave way to weakness, to grief, and most of all to guilt. Her almost unrecognizable face seemed to accuse him: You said you’d come back – you promised, Lómwë. Where are you? Her words to him echoed in his mind: “And if you don’t come back, Lómwë, then what?”

He had promised.

And what had he done? Given empty words, instilled an empty hope, fostered empty trust, broken the last promise he had ever made to her. Now it was too late. He could do nothing.

But he had promised.

Something inside him had died that day, something that never had and never would return. And so he had learned to shut the pain into the farthest corner of his mind, locked away and never to be recovered. But now the pain and overwhelming guilt flooded back to him full force. Utterly devastated and undone, Lómwë could not look up, could not even care when some dim consciousness recognized that the two messengers and the Diviner entered the room. Let Endamir deal with it; Lómwë was far too sunk in his anguish to care about anything else. I’ll come back. I promise.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

The swirling winds threw the man's words back at him.

‘We have speech . . . Mal . . . risss . . .’ came a breathy trio of voices that swirled about the man.

‘Lecherous cowards he calls us, brothers! And defilers!’ came a voice from behind Malris.

‘Well he should know the depths of such names,’ spoke the voice of another. ‘And here in bastion where he dwelt with his love . . . which love is that, we wonder . . .’ Ashukh’s laughter echoed round the ruins of the room.

‘Leave the lady alone he commands us.’ Zlog gave a deep chuckle. ‘Who are you to command us . . . you who left your lady alone . . .?’

The three Orc spirits flew in among the birds attacking Tasa, driving them off. Giledhel had withdrawn to the safety of her loom with Malris’ loud outburst.

‘Who do you think cared for the Lady,’ Gorgu spoke, close to Malris’ ear, his voice taking on a tone of respect as he spoke of her. ‘Who helped her through these years upon years, wiped away her tears, tended to her as she desired of her sons, learned from her, protected her as she required.’

‘Not you, Malrisssss . . .’ A hissing wind stirred Tasa’s golden hair, pulling at it as it passed.

‘And now you’ve come back. And what have you done but frightened the Lady and given her a new sorrow?’

‘She only wished to dance with you . . . to feel your arms about her,’ Zlog rasped, stirring up a small whirlwind of dust and pebbles aimed at Tasa’s face.

The three Orcs settled protectively round the shattered pieces of wood where once Giledhel’s loom stood. Gorgu reached out a ghostly hand to pat her arm. In the shadows in which the broken loom lay, three dark, wavering forms could just be seen, their gazes fixed on Malris and Tasa.

The soiled, torn remnants of her unfinished tapestry stirred and fluttered beneath the Orc’s hand though no breeze now blew . . .

[Anguirel]

Malris paled as the voices mocked, starting to shudder, feeling uneasy on his feet. Cirlach slumped in his fist, formerly clenched so tight, now loosened by the lashings of guilt. So what his fea had felt had been, at its base, correct. The reproach he felt directed at him had not been incidental. It had been everything to do with this battle. But even so, some things seemed unfathomable. That his wife had not reached Mandos and the bliss of Aman, had been tied to this stagnant place of war, was bad enough. That his wife knew of his moment of weakness was a sore dishonour. That Orcish spirits should play as her messengers...should "care for her as sons..." was unimaginable.

Malris thought back to the scene at Mithlond, where so many of the party had begged that he abandon all thought of visiting Himring. He remembered his inescapable feeling of a story left unfinished, a blank page where a conclusion ought to have been, that made him press on. Valinor had seemed too neat, too easy and ending. And it seemed poor Giledhel had thought the same. Perhaps because she had not taken in her plight or the choice before her; perhaps because she feared the Valar; perhaps because she thought he would return for her. Perhaps for all these reasons.

What he longed for most now was to see Giledhel, to speak to her alone, to reassure and comfort her. But he found himself in the company of these ghastly interlopers...and of Tasareni. He stopped listening to the taunts around him, staring about the quarters that had once been the nest of his happiness. Malris gazed at the marriage bed further back, the drapery gone, the structure of the mahogany unchanged, a thin layer of dust coating it. He turned to the loom that faced him, the ruined loom and the creatures around it...his keen sight had already read what could still be seen of the words it bore, Malris, forgive...; what failing could he forgive in her? It was he who had wronged his wife now.

And then he saw the dark hair that had stirred him to passion in years long past; like black cream, he remembered thinking...the face looked drawn and haggard now, but the eyes were still beautiful...though not as soft as he remembered them, for they were fixed on Tasareni.

"Giledhel," Malris murmured. "You have waited for me for a long time. Longer than either of us could have guessed on the day of the retreat. Why must jealousy mar this?" He was speaking to an image in a loom, that flickered from his sight when he moved to a different angle, but he cared not. It was his wife. He wanted to drive his sword through the insubstantial hearts of the beasts who thought they were speaking for her. He wanted to embrace her even there was nothing to embrace.

"Tasareni is a faithful friend and a brave warrior. Think nothing else of her. Now, please, let your...companions...go, and allow Tasa to go back and join the rest of us. I brought five others, Giledhel."

"Five others? For the feast?" she replied innocently, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

"Yes, my love. We will...feast here, and then we're going to go home," said Malris, desperate, kneeling.

"Home? But we are home..." came her poignant, quiet, bemused voice.

"No," Malris said, crawling up to the torn, befouled tapestry. "We're going to go to Aman. You'll see your parents again...your father..." Both of their cheeks were bright with tears now.

"What about her? She going too?" came the harsh, mocking chorus, and Tasa's voice rose in a scream as she was seized by the arms.

"Don't bring her," Giledhel muttered with quiet distaste. "I didn't want her at the party anyway..."

But Malris had turned and drawn his sword, futile though his martial skill was proving.

"Take your...hands...off her, yrch..."

"They were rude at first," Giledhel admitted. "But now they're good to me, as children should be good to their mother..."

The forms of the creatures came into sight again, and Malris recognised a darker line across the largest Coavalta's finger. The object itself must have been long lost; but Malris recognised the image of a ring he knew well; forged by his mother for her son's wedding day...

"They are not your children, nor your servants, nor your friends," he cried. "They are parasites. They slew you...and they will slay us too if they can..."

Ducking, Malris grabbed Tasareni's sword in his right hand and rushed towards her, forcing the hilt through the icy mockery of the Orc that held her fast, into her writhing palm. Giledhel's face faded from the loom, a low moan echoing about the chamber.

[piosenniel]

The shadows in the room seemed to shift as the three presences entered the room. Lómwë had fallen silent, so silent he seemed a shadow himself. Endamir narrowed his eyes, trying to make out the different forms. Two sentries . . . the ones the seneschal had sent out . . . and there between them a slip of a man. So this was the Diviner. Endamir could not recall having met or even seen him in times past.

He stopped a distance away from Endamir. In the dim light it was near impossible to see the expression in his hooded eyes. But as the frail figure turned slightly to the side, speaking in whispers to the wavering form of Idrahil, Endamir could almost see a peevish frown slide across his features. Still there was naught to do but ask, cajole, entreat; whatever it might take to assure that Lindir would not die.

Endamir made a gesture with his hand, calling the attention of the others to his presence. ‘My Lord,’ he began, speaking to the pooling shadows which clung about the Diviner like some thick and layered cloak. ‘Lómwë,’ he said, motioning toward where the other Elf stood, ‘and I, Endamir, have come seeking aid which only you can provide.’ He paused for a moment. ‘We hope that you will give some further hope to us before our companion loses his way and is called to the Halls of Námo.’ His voice grew rough with emotion. ‘We . . . no, I, especially, had thought that he would travel the Straight Road with me . . .’ He did not finish the thought that he wanted to surround himself with his companions of old in an effort to lessen the pain that his brother would not sail with them.

The Diviner had given no indication of whether he would help or no. Endamir plunged onward, giving a brief explanation of how they had come to the island and what had happened since their arrival. He spoke of his brother’s attempts at keeping Lindir whole, telling what little he knew of the elixir Orëmir had given the stricken Elf.

‘Is there something you might do . . .’

His question broke off, his vision of the dark room tunneling down to a pinpoint.

From behind his eyes, it seemed, a grassy, flowered vista opened up. Bright; familiar in a way . . . and disconcerting, as familiar smells, and sights, and feelings flooded in. It was his Mother’s garden. And she was there.

‘By the One! She is so beautiful. How is it that I never noticed?’ he heard his brother say.

And there in the distance he saw two young boys, one with his arm about the other’s shoulders, a little swan ship held in his other . . . he could feel the warmth of his twin’s shoulders as his arm rested there.

Endamir frowned as a familiar figure hailed the two boys. Lindir! How could that be. A ways from Lindir the voice of his grown-up brother called out, warning the Elf away from interfering in the memory . . .

‘Orëmir!’ his voice rang out in the now sunless room. He shook his head in a futile effort to call his brother from those dreaming paths. ‘Orëmir,’ he called out in a softer and more desperate plea.

Endamir turned his stricken gaze back to where the Diviner and the others stood. ‘My brother,’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘He is drifting away; I cannot find him. I fear he has followed Lindir . . . and both are now lost . . .’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir looked upon the Lady and heard her gentle words. Immediately, his heart swelled with longing. How akin she was to to his own mother and sister who waited now far across the Sea. What he would give to glimpse their faces and hold them in his arms one more time. Yet surely they were better there, for they dwelled in a place of beauty and peace, as sweet and gentle as this garden.

Though eager to show courtesy and respond, a warning bell echoed within Lindir's head, telling him to wait until his friend approached. Lindir glanced back over his shoulder to where Öremir still stood. His friend gazed long and deep at the gentle Elf with the twinkling eyes and soft grey dress. There could be no doubt. His friend's face told all. Whoever this fair Lady was, she was well known to Öremir as someone he held dear. A hot flush spread over Lindir's cheeks as he recognized his blunder. He felt like a young lad who had unknowingly stumbled into a place where he should not be.

These two must be left to talk. Of that, Lindir was certain. Instinctively he bowed his head and quickly stepped backwards, whispering a hasty excuse that, although the Lady's courtesy was much appreciated, he must now take his leave. His friend, he assured her, would stay behind and talk. There was a light, so bright that it seered into the depths of Lindir's eyes, a single instant of waiting, and then he found himself being sucked down a tunnel, back into the ominous cavern where the bone things lived.

Without further warning, he was sinking into a pile of bones, his arms and legs flailing to find solid ground, all to no avail. Only this time the bones gave an eerie moaning to the depths of the cavern and mysteriously began to come together to form real skeletons, standing in front of him with half their eyes gone, their remaining hair askew, and pieces of their bodies missing. Whether this was real or merely a terror dredged up from some hidden corner of his mind, Lindir could not say. One of the bone things loomed over him, its visage angry and threatening, looking to be the remains of some long dead Orc. Stuck between the Orc's ribs was a part of the blade that had broken off in the death thrust. Ever the craftsman, Lindir looked closer at the shape and form of the blade. What he saw took his breath away, leaving him gasping for air. He would recognize that blade anywhere for he had crafted it with his own hands years before and had taken it with him to battle. He could easily call up an image of what had occurred. Hacking his way through a Sea of Orcs, hoping to clear a path to where he thought the Diviner was trapped, Lindir had come upon the mightiest of Orc chiefs and engaged him in battle, a bout that went on and on. In the end, they had both fallen to the ground: the Orc in the final throes of death, Lindir stunned and bleeding. When he had come to, the Orc lay dead and there was no sign of the Diviner, even though he serached for many days.

Now this nightmare had come back to haunt him. The Orc reached over and, in some wild rage, yanked the blade free from his side. Lifting it upward with both his scrawny arms, he held it over Lindir's head and made a swift downward movement.....

Lindir's mind called out for help: Öremir, are you not here? There was no immediate reply. And in one last desperate appeal, he cried out loud, "Diviner, do you still lie in this Sea of Bones? Can you not help me? Long did I search for a glimpse of your face, but it was not to be. Come now and we will battle this thing together."

[Anguirel]

Endamir's ominous premonition seemed to have an immediate effect on the spirits in the tower. The sentries from the torch-brackets exchanged a glance that could have been knowing, fearful or triumphant, so inscrutable it seemed to the corporeal Elves; they then faded from sight, and another grate of rusted iron against stone announced that they had returned to their hosts.

More telling was the reaction of the other two, the Seneschal and the Diviner. The former seemed puzzled, wary, uncertain.

"But my friend...how can this be? You said you left your wounded friend attended by your twin brother at the guardhouse? How then can they have fallen into danger..."

"Mayhap the guards proved faithless," the Diviner replied, and there was hideous satisfaction in his sanctimonious, pedant's voice. Idrahil grew angry, taking a step forward and laying a hand upon the other's shoulder. Could spirits feel each others' touch? It almost seemed so.

"Do not insult the soldiery of Himring, soothsayer. They are my Elves and I have trained them to remember that: first that they are Elves and secondly that they are mine."

"It seems this Ingir was slow to learn your lesson..." the Diviner taunted. But he had stepped too far. The Seneschal drew still closer to him and clasped the smaller figure's frail neck with his pale, mailed hands.

"Speak no further or thou art no friend of mine!"

"I no longer need you," came the unsettling reply from one that could no longer be called a he. Idrahil was thrown back as if by an unseen buffet. The Diviner now stood taller even than the mighty Seneschal, wild, long hair flying out behind...her...

"I know where your friends be. I know how to save them-travel to my grotto and bury the bones therein. But you never will. For I will end you here, and you will remain here, all six of you traitors who left us to die...you will never see Mandos, any more than I will..."

Three white sparks rose through the chilly air as Idrahil unsheathed his pale, shimmering longsword.

"You will have to reckon with me first, yrch. For I can find no other word for an Elf who behaves so...guards, to me!"

But there was no answer from the brackets. They were not taking sides. And so the Diviner and the Seneschal closed for combat...

[Firefoot]

The conflict arising in the dark recesses of the room had finally started to get through to Lómwë’s consciousness. "I know where your friends be. I know how to save them-travel to my grotto and bury the bones therein. But you never will. For I will end you here, and you will remain here, all six of you traitors who left us to die...you will never see Mandos, any more than I will..."

“Death,” mumbled Lómwë. “Now why should death be such a bad thing…? Perhaps I might find my Ellothiel waiting for me that way…” No! If it is death you seek, do not seek it by him… her! She would destroy you – not kill you, destroy you! The urgency of this thought slammed into his mind, and whether it came from himself or by osanwë Lómwë did not know. He was hesitant to accept this, his mind still bent on Ellothiel. What have I done? Oh, Ellothiel, wait for me, I’m coming…

But the strong little voice did not shut up. Don’t you understand? She would destroy you. A pause. There would be nothing left for Ellothiel to find, and no way that you could go to reach her! Lómwë registered this groggily and finally began to understand the very real danger.

Must get out. Out, out, out. Now.

Lómwë lethargically pushed himself to his feet, headed for the stairs. His feet worked mechanically; they seemed to understand better than his mind the necessity and hurried him down the stairs and out the door. Footsteps echoed behind him. Right - Endamir.

To the grotto – Lómwë could not recall why, but he knew that was where he was supposed to go. He frowned at his own memory – had it been to find Ellothiel? Perhaps, yes, that sounded right. Grotto – he knew he hadn’t already seen it, so it must not be in the direction they had come. He turned to face the unexplored part of the city. Yes, that way. Endamir already forgotten, Lómwë hurried off in that direction. I’m coming, Ellothiel!

[piosenniel]

‘We have all gone mad!’ Endamir staggered down the stairs, watching Lómwë’s back disappear around a bend off the next landing. The man seemed preoccupied . . . no . . . spellbound, as if he walked in a dream. Endamir called after him, but there was no answer nor did the man’s footsteps pause as if in recognition of the sound. He cast a baleful eye at the brackets on the wall, daring them to make comment.

Orëmir’s thoughts grew fainter as the moments passed. The dream that his brother had been caught in had broken into disjointed shards and he could feel Orëmir’s growing concern for Lindir and his fear as he followed after their companion’s spirit.

His attention given only slightly to the route he was taking, Endamir called mightily to his brother with his mind. His anger at the situation and the frustration of not being near enough to Orëmir to touch him and lend him strength pushed all caution aside. He went deeply into his twin’s thoughts.

All the pretty pieces had now fled . . . the two boys faded in the distance, their faces turning blank and with a wavering shimmer, the two disappeared altogether. The flowers of the garden smeared into patches of muddied color. And the figure of their mother melted into the darkening pool.

Endamir faltered, stumbling against a half crumbled wall as he stepped from the building and into the open square of the fortress’ interior. He shook his head, forcing the images of the dark tunnel and the overwhelming weight of bones upon bones.

Orëmir! Toronya! he hissed, catching the kernel of light his brother held in reserve. Show me the path to the grotto!

[Envinyatar]

Öremir, are you not here?

Lindir’s plea rang loudly in Orëmir’s mind. I am with you, Lindir! he shouted. But I cannot pass the door. It is still blocked against any entry.

He gave another shove against the stubborn door, but it would not move. Orëmir could feel the tenor of his companion’s thoughts change. A certain dread had come upon him. Not just the weight of the bones as his body lay trapped among them, but the fear of death was now on him. Orëmir lent the strength of his spirit to Lindir as the man called out for help to the Diviner.

At the very back of his mind, as if from a great distance, he could hear his brother calling, seeking. With an effort of will Orëmir pulled his twin’s thoughts in closer, seeking what strength he could from them.

I have gone too far in with him, brother mine. I am caught in the tangle of his fears and struggles. Here . . . here is the way to where we lie There was a pause in his thoughts as Lindir faced the sword held over him by the bony hand.

Hurry! Hurry! If the sword pierces him, we will both be gone . . .

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘They are not your children, nor your servants, nor your friends,’ Malris cried. ‘They are parasites. They slew you...and they will slay us too if they can...’

Giledhel rose up from her weaving, an air of patient quietude drawn round her like a fair cloak; an imperturbable raiment that held out the madness from without. And kept her own within . . .

I will not think of him like this. she said in a moment of skewed clarity.

I cannot. This is some imposter on whom the Diviner has put a glamour. She’s always hated me. Craven hag.

He bears my love’s face but his heart seethes with anger. And were we flesh as he, he would have killed us now.

Well . . . no, not me. But my boys . . .

And wouldn’t she just love that. The witch! To leave me here alone with no one to bide the time. Never mind she has the upper hand in all the other schemes and plans and doings about this wretched fortress.

She’ll not have my little part!

That Tasa was there was all but forgotten by Giledhel. Another phantasm crafted for the Diviner’s malicious purposes, perhaps.

‘We will not play in your game, Diviner!’ Giledhel called out.

‘Come,’ she called to the three Orcs. They gathered round her, wondering down what paths her mind now wandered. ‘We will sleep. Until these bad dreams have left us. And when we wake all these horrid shadows will be gone. The stones, my dears . . . now to them. And I, too, will sink down where the blood once ran.’

She was the last to shimmer and fade upon the stone floor. Her dark eyes kept watch on the two who had invaded her little world, then winked out. Only the dust motes danced in the pale sunlight that streamed from above. And silent and still and empty was the room.

[Child of the 7th Age]

The Diviner hastily unsheathed her sword and turned to face the Seneschal, springing towards him with a cry of triumph. How many years had she waited for this moment? Age after age had spun out in their endless sameness. She had waited for the days to pass by plotting her revenge. Someday Malris would return to Himring bringing his traitorous followers with him. They would pay dearly for what they had done. And one above all would be hers to command. Never would she forgive that milksop Lindir who had left her bones to rot on this windswept pile of rock. He would know the despair and terror that she had felt when the Orcs had swept over the Isle bringing their gift of living death.

Despite her slender form and ashen hue, the Diviner's face glowed with an unearthly light, one that spoke of an inner madness. In years long past, she had been a proud and haughty woman, determined to probe the secrets of earth and sky and thereby gain great knowledge and even greater power. Yet some tiny piece within had still been capable of showing an element of kindness to the craftsman Lindir, responding to his gentleness and love and to the beauty of his creations. He had taught her the secrets of his craft, not only the forging of blades but also how to fashion the lovely rings and brooches that had gained him such great esteem at court. But now, all that was gone, her last shred of Elven grace and gentleness swept away by the desire for revenge and the need to prove to the Seneschal that she would be the one to determine their fate.

If truth be told, the Diviner was tired of the game that she had devised inside her head. Yet she would agree to play it just one more time. Let the Seneschal think that the six Elves would rot in this living grave and that the great pile of skeletons would lie mouldering in the cavern along with the other little caches of bones, scattered and tossed about the island. If Lindir met his death here, that would please her immensely. Eventually, she would show the remaining Elves the secret grotto and force them to say the words of power that would set the bones at rest. While the Diviner had no special love of Mandos, she was too tired of unending existence in shadow to go on forever in this houseless state. But these fools did not have to know that.....not for a good long while. She was in no immediate hurry. Meanwhile, she would bully them into being her slaves, just as that other worthless woman had bullied the Orcs into serving her needs. For now, she wanted no one to approach the cavern, least of all the Seneschal. That was her source of power and control. These jumbled reflections flitted through her mind in a single instant.

Whipping out a slender rapier, she brandished it in front of the Seneschal, giving a high pitched laugh completely filled with disdain, "You will never beat me with your foolish toy sword. We live in a world where bodies mean nothing. Go ahead. Thrust yourself forward and try. I have studied all things in these dark circles and will throw you back with the powers of the night."

Hurling her sword down so that the tip of the blade quivered in the ground, she thrust her hands upward as if to command the elements. As the Seneschal strode forward, she gave a howl and easily evaded the arc of his blade by flitting around him and lighting on an overhead beam. Rushing down, she wrenched free one of the torches that the outsider was holding, and turned to hurl it at the Seneschal. Immediately the wind picked up carrying the burning brand far across the enclosure.

Laughing horribly, she considered if her next act should be to command the winds to pick up the houseless spirit of the Seneschal and carry it far from the Isle, out over the Sea. That should eliminate his meddling for a while. The Diviner was not completely certain whether she possessed the power to do such a thing. Yet she was certainly happy to try. She stretched out her hand and called out in the ancient tongue, but before anything could happen, her concentration was broken by an insistent, familiar voice echoing inside her head. The fool Lindir was calling on her to come to his aid. Let the Orc do his evil deed. Let him know how she had felt. With a grin, she turned back to play with the Seneschal. Things were going exactly as she had hoped.

[piosenniel]

The images that Orëmir threw hastily at his brother wove together in Endamir’s mind at last into some recognizable clues. He saw where his brother had first been with Lindir and followed the pastiche of events finally to the grassy embankment which overlooked the sea. Orëmir’s thoughts had grown more frantic as Endamir knelt down on the greensward and fumbled with his hand in the tangle of vines which he had seen in previous picture from his brother.

The rope . . . yes there it was . . . He pulled firmly on it and heard the scraping thumps of the large wooden bucket as it made its way to the top where he knelt. From the grass beside him he picked up the heavy iron headed battle axe he’d plucked from one of the piles in a section of the armory he’d passed by. It was rusted along the edges of the blade, but still, he thought, would prove enough of a sharp wedge to help splinter the door he’d seen his brother pushing against.

As cautious as one can be in a bucket ratcheting down the side of a steep cliff, Endamir lowered himself as quickly as he dared. The little lip of rocky shelf he landed on was a welcome sight.

Axe in hand he made his way cautiously into the cavern, working slowly toward where his brother’s thoughts were the strongest. He could feel the dry bones crunch beneath his boots as he walked. ‘What place is this?’ he muttered to himself, the fusty odor of bone dust mixed with the scent of what unfortunate little animals or birds had wandered in and died in the darkness.

Orëmir was clammy and barely coherent when his brother drew near him. He was crumpled down, a shoulder against the door. And through the narrow crack that Orëmir had managed to open into the room beyond, Endamir could hear the sounds of some sort of battle.

He grabbed his brother beneath the armpits and dragged him to one side. On the other side of the door, he knew that Lindir was fighting for his life, and if he did not win, Orëmir’s life would also be forfeit.

Endamir hefted his axe and swung savagely at the oak planked door. His stance was wide and solid, and he put all the muscle he could behind his swings. The door began to crack and splinter. And with a few more blows, he had knocked away a large section of the stubborn portal. With one of his blows, unbeknownst to him, a large piece of oak plank had gone careening into the room beyond, striking hard against the Orc who held the sword on Lindir.

All that Endamir knew was that the hole was now almost large enough to reach in and drag out Lindir’s body. And he hoped with all his might that the man’s spirit would follow along with it. He thrust in the head of the axe and caught the outer edge against the door wood from the inside, He heaved mightily on the axe pole pulling out a very large section of the door. He thrust the ax to one side, his goal accomplished and reached in blindly until his hand caught against the cloth of Lindir’s tunic.

He dragged the man through the opening with one hand and in a few steps backwards, he came to where his brother lay. Grabbling him up by the collar with the other hand, Endamir pulled them both over the bumpy floor of the grotto toward the ledge where the bucket waited.

In their wake, came a low rumbling and bumping . . . the sound of bones and skulls tumbling over one another as the large pile in the grotto sought release. They trickled out in a noisy little wave toward the stone ledge. And by the time the three Elves had hunkered in for safety at the corner of the ledge, the skeletal tide had flattened down to just a few bony remains, the most forward of which slipped and slid over the rocky edge. Among them was the bony hand still gripping the sword that had threatened both the life of Lindir and that of Orëmir. It splashed, unheard, into the clamorous waters below.

It was of no concern to Endamir, his only thoughts now were getting his brother and Lindir back up the cliff to safety . . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As Malris sliced through the shrieking air, Tasa fought for breath. She had felt the probing fingers of unnatural thought relent and she cherished the moment of mental purity.

She could sense Malris' thought, though she could not tell what it was. Her exhaustion began to overcome her as she slumped to the floor. Physical battling forgotten, she concentrated on keeping back those spirits that wished to overcome her mind. They now attacked again and she shuddered, sickened by the touch.

Give up, she-Elf, they hissed. You are ours. It is only a matter of time.

No! she screamed in her thought, battling silently and without movement.

Malris fought above her, keeping her safe from the airborne menace. He cried words to the evil creatures, demanding their attention. Few crows broke through his guard, but those who did scratched at Tasa. She made no move of protest.

"What do you want of us?" he cried. She could hear him more in her mind than with her delicately pointed ears. His fierce demand pierced the onslaught of angry will that dominated Tasa's concentration. She smiled weakly to know he remained beside her.

You will not succeed. Malris will stop you! She laughed bitterly at her enemies, feeling uncertain triumph as she sensed their growing uncertainty. One voice, tinged with madness, spoke more softly than the cackle of the orcs, like poisoned silk sliding over bare skin; cold, deadly, but so smooth and sweet.. Giledhel. Tasa's hopes waned.

He is mine. Already he turns from you.

Tasa forced her eyes open, searching through the black whirlwind of feathers and shrieks. Malris had gone. No claws now landed scratches, no beaks tore flesh from Tasa's white hands. Though the birds flew, they no longer attacked. Malris was gone from sight.

He comes to me. He leaves you alone... he does not love you and he never will. The voice cut deeper, softer. Tasa's body wept as she radiated bright defiance. Look... look through the storm of wings... you have lost.

The birds drifted apart... Malris knelt before an ancient loom, stained with age and broken. He spoke words that Tasa could not hear. Screeches of laughter assailed her from all sides.

Foolish wench. You have lost him.

Tasa could not scream, could not even part her lips to try. The wind tore at her though the birds did not. The weaving on the loom drifted in a breeze unfelt by Malris. He was entranced. Tasa felt her will weakening.

She did not hear herself scream as she was taken. She was cold and empty inside. No longer assailed by crows, her corporeal form was flanked by insubstantial ones of orcs long dead. Those that she perhaps had slain. Their touch was as daggers to her skin and she did not care. Malris had chosen... death over life... insanity and chaos over friendship and laughter and light. Tasa was helpless to sway him. He had chosen the past... the tortured past. She watched her friend as he knelt before a mirror of ages, lost to time and trust. She saw him as he spoke comforting words to a lost love. He barely moved as her body screamed protest. Her soul was silent. He had left her to be taken.

Now he turned and she did not see.

"Take your...hands...off her, yrch..."

They did not heed him. She did not care. Tasa was lost in anguish.

Suddenly her hilt was pressed into her hand. Warm flesh touched hers and Tasa awakened as though from a dream. She gasped for breath, choking on the cold air and sliced through the nothingness in the air around her. Revitalized, she could feel where Malris' skin had brushed hers as though it were on fire. Its warmth permeated her entire being as Giledhel shrieked madly in Tasa's mind. A moan echoed through the chamber as Tasa came to life once more. Malris took her hand and her blood stained his skin.

The birds shrieked once more as Tasa shivered against what had so nearly been the end. Hand in hand, they held their blades aloft, steel glittering in new sunlight.

"Malris..." she whispered. He leaned close to his friend. "It is time, I believe, to go home."