Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo had found Alassante in the camp. Their reunion was happy and tearful. Cainenyo was so relieved to find his family in one piece. They were all alive: Alassanter, Arenwino, even little Nessime. He heard their story of escape over and over again, amazed at their survival from the burning city. And they heard Cainenyo's story about the fighting at the gate and running through the alleys and searching for a way out. He kept close to his family in the next few weeks, always thankful they were still alive.

Once, while the refugees were camped near the Hollin Ridge, Cainenyo and Alassante left Nessime with her older brother and took a walk through the forest. They climbed as far up the hills as they dared, and even saw far away the last wisps of smoke from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. Standing on a rocky outcrop, they watched the smoke for some time.

"Where will we live now?" Alassante said after several minutes of silence, "We have no home."

"We will go with the rest of the survivors. We might even found a new city, just as beautiful as Ost-in-Edhil," Cainenyo said. He wrapped a comforting arm about his wife. She sighed, and hugged him back.

"We should return to the camp. The children are waiting," she suggested. They climbed their way back down the hill and to the camp, where the children waited with the rest of the families.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was a little surprised by Ondomirë's request. Though she had ridden alongside him for a fortnight now she felt she knew him little better. She had been ostensibly and actually treated as one of his men. There had been a few smirks and raised eyebrows when she had first joined his company of archers but now she was accepted simply as one of them and she often now set her bedroll among their ranks rather than joining the refugees, unless it was her turn to mind the children. .

Perhaps though his indifference had been easier to bear than this sudden increased attention. For two weeks she had felt pangs of joy on seeing him each morning and regret if higher matters kept him away from the company long. The accidental brush of his hand against hers sent a frisson up, it seemed, to her heart causing a dull ache. She was no longer able to deceive herself even though she managed to hide her feelings to the outside world well enough. "You fool, Losrian," she had chided herself, "falling in love with the first man who shows you any kindness. Why would someone like him be interested in you - he who must have had the choice of ladies noble, fair and wise? He took pity on you that is all ...."

Her brother had used to tease her about Artamir, speculate whether the handsome son was the true reason she had been so keen to be his mother's apprentice, and that if so, she was aiming high. So much higher was Ondomirë that she might as well try to take a star in her grasp. Consequently she strived to master the secret rush of delight at his words reasoning that the "pleasant company" referred to her little nephew and his friends whose antics she now found absolutely enchanting.

"Of course my Lord, you are most welcome, Galmir can be most diverting though I fear you will not find his conversation elevating", Losrian rose to her feet and fell into step beside Ondomirë as they walked towards the area where the refugees were making their camp. Galmir greeted his aunt with delight and she swung him into her arms. "now Gally, say hello to Lor... to Ondomirë.."

"'lo Ondomirë" obliged Galmir stretching out his arms to him and so was transferred. This friend of his aunt's didn't have the fascinating beard of the dwarf, and in the daylight he could see quite well that he was not his ada but he had a braid of dark hair like ada's which just asked to be pulled..... Losrian's attention was drawn by the orphaned girl who stood near, looking hopefully to be included. "Hello Isilmë, do you want to come and eat with us?". the little girl nodded and Losrian took her hand.

Ondomirë looked at her enquiringly and Losrian explained swiftly in the Westron so that the children would not understand. "She is an orphan - and Galmir's constant companion. I fear us getting too attached to each other. Although since I must look after one child, I feel I might as well look after two, I know it would be selfish - better for her to be fostered where she might have two parents, if her own kin are not found. However it is hard to deprive her of affection when she has noone. "

Losrian's voice tailed off and she was glad for once that the two children were demanding games while they waited for the evening meal to be ready.

[Envinyatar]

Not all memories are fair ones . . .

As the servants of Morgoth swept up the sheer sides of rock upon which the city rested, his kinsmen had been set along the walls, their great bows raining arrows upon the advancing horde. But it was not enough, strong though their bow arms be and deadly accurate their aim. There were too many of the foul creatures . . . the Orcs . . . the Balrogs which drove them with whips of flame . . . and the dragons upon whose piled up forms the forces of the Constrainer climbed like ants . . .

They had fallen back, defending smaller enclaves in the city . . . falling back further, still, until they stood before the King’s tower, but to no avail. Morgoth would have his day, his dark shadowed army pushing their way over all the fair city, until the bright tower of Turgon was crushed beneath their malice.

His father had ordered Ondomirë to retreat to the house of the King’s daughter. ‘She gathers some of our folk to leave the city. Your bow and blade must be there to protect them.’ He hurried, fighting those foe who would bar his way with a savageness that nearly matched their own.

There were only a few of the Gondrolindrim that had managed to make it to Idril’s house; and even less were the Folk of the Swallow who were counted in their number. It was a frantic Ondomirë who searched the faces looking for any of his own family. There were none . . . no sisters . . . no children of their children. And those he spoke to, his voice barely under control shook their heads, their already sorrowful eyes turning away from his new grief.

Another of the warriors grabbed him as he had turned, thinking to make his way to his family’s houses. ‘All of Gondolin is burning now. None remain save the dead who bear witness to Maeglin’s treachery and even now their spirits gather in the Halls of Mandos. This is the last of the seed from our city. Come! We will see it to a fertile and more fair ground.’

Ondomirë recalled his last sight of Gondolin. The Tower of the King was in flames, matching the smaller fires set about the city. Hideous cries of triumph echoed in the smoke-reeked streets, replacing the sweet sounds of the fountains now stoppered up with the dead and dying. His eyes, that had begun to tear up at the understanding of all that was lost, now dried up, too. He put away the memories of faces he had loved; walled away the grief that would have slain him with its sharp blade.

And all these many years he had spent a warrior in the service of Gil-galad . . .

Gally’s chubby little hands tugged hard at Ondomirë’s braid. The little one’s eyes glittered mischievously and laughter, bright and melodious, as ever poured from the fountains of his youth played round the older Elf. A name came unbidden to Ondomire’s lips. ‘Rusco!’ he said aloud, causing the small boy to look up at him for explanation. Ondomirë smiled, holding the wriggling boy at arms’ length. ‘I knew a little foxling, just like you,’ he laughed, tucking Gally against his hip, his arm protectively about him. ‘He pulled my braid, too. Though your grip I think the stronger of the two!’ He looked down at the little one, his face set in a half serious look. ‘And do you know what I would do to him?’ Gally’s eyes went wide and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘I would tickle him!’ Peals of laughter issued forth as Ondomirë put action to words.

‘Enough!’ Ondomirë said, after a short while. He sat down, sitting Gally on the grass near him. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked, noting Isilmë had let go of Losrian’s hand and come near them. On her face was a certain longing to be included, though her shyness held her back. He patted another area on the grass, inviting her to sit near. Gally had already clambered up to sit on his knee and was clapping his hands.

‘Shall we play a little game? To pass the time until supper is ready?’

Ondomirë picked up a small pebble and put it in the middle of his left palm. Closing his fist over it, he hid the hand and his other behind his back and spoke a little nonsense rhyme. When it was done he pulled out both his hands to the front and showed the closed fists to the two children. ‘Pick the hand that has the rock and get a sweet if you find it.’ Little known save to his horse and the cook who kept him supplied with boiled sweets, Ondomirë always had on him a little tin of the sugary confections; a small, hidden weakness, of sorts. When neither of the children made a choice, he nodded to Losrian.

‘Perhaps your auntie will show you how to play.’ He grinned at her, his brow raised, and offered his closed fists to her. ‘Come . . . make your choice. There are sweets to be had.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian returned the smile. She could not believe how relaxed Ondomirë was with the two children - far more relaxed than he often seemed with adults. She wondered at the source of his reserve but his grey eyes kept their secrets, hiding the wells of memory beyond.

" I think, " she said kneeling in front of him and scooping the Isilmë on to her lap, "it may be the sweet part they don't understand... Galmir, I doubt has ever tasted them - we were under siege all the days of his life and the fare was somewhat plain by the time he was old enough to eat it. As for this little scrap ... she is a bit older but even she may not remember" .

Losrian could hardly remember herself the last time she had tasted such a delicacy but her mind turned to early childhood when she would be rewarded with some sweetmeat. "My mother would say that it will spoil their appetite for supper but I do not think it will do them much harm... Now my poppets - a sweet is a nice thing to eat and you shall have one if we guess correctly. This one! " she finished touching Ondomirë's right hand and meeting his gaze as steadily as she could.

"No stone, no sweet hmm we shall have to try again." But the children had grasped the idea and were soon discovering the bliss of sugar. Losrian sat now next to Ondomirë and knowing that the children were unlikely to be distracted by anything so dull as the converstion of grown-ups she risked her question, she did not look him in the eye now but focused her gaze on the little girl's head, smmothing her soft hair.

"Who was Rusco?"

[Folwren]

After Skald had asked who would go give the Lord Elrond their message of wanting to depart, there had been a short pause. Then Rori and another Dwarf, Floin, offered.

‘Another should go,’ Rori said. ‘Three at least.’

‘Well, I’ll go, too, I guess,’ Bror said, half lifting his hand. ‘No one else seems too keen on telling him.’ He glanced briefly at Skald, but his brother either didn’t see him, or intentionally ignored it. ‘Weapons?’ he queried, glancing back towards Rori and Floin.

Rori gave him a look that showed his disagreement with the offer. ‘We’re not going to go execute him,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they have a bad enough impression of us already, knowing how stuck up they can be and how taken they are with looking as fair as they do. No, no - it wouldn’t do to carry battle axes in to Lord Elrond.’

‘What if he doesn’t let us go?’ Bror grumbled.

‘Don’t show off your ignorance,’ Skald replied quietly.

‘I’ll keep quiet, how’s that?’ Bror offered, picking up his cloak and putting it about his shoulders. ‘Then no one will know any more or less about said ignorance.’

The three Dwarves turned and threaded their way through the groups of elves, and the wagons with the refugees in them, and finally came to where the Lords Elrond and Celeborn and others had set up their tents.

‘Excuse me,’ Rori said, addressing an elf who appeared to be standing on guard. ‘Which is Lord Elrond’s tent?’ The elf looked doubtful and Rori gave his reason. ‘We have a message that we would like to tell him.’

‘Lord Elrond is in conversation with the Counsel Maegisil, from the ruined city. I don’t think that he’ll be able to receive you.’

‘Would you go and see?’ Rori asked, putting on a show of patience. Bror cleared his throat to hide the chuckle and dropped his eyes from the elf’s face. For a moment, the elf didn’t move and then he nodded slightly and turned and walked away. Bror lifted his head and the three of them watched him as he stopped by a tent and spoke with another elf standing there. A few words were exchanged and then he came back.

‘It is impossible to interrupt him.’

‘Tell the Lord Elrond, then, (when he is available), that Rori of the Dwarves would have a word with him. . .at his convenience,’ he added.

‘The message will be delivered.’

The Dwarves thanked him and turned to go back. When they reached the other Dwarves, they were received with inquiring looks, for they hadn’t been gone half as long as they expected. ‘Didn’t even see him,’ Bror said, walking across and sitting down beside his brother. ‘He was indisposed.’

[Envinyatar]

‘Rusco . . . yes, well . . .’

The heat of her shoulder near his arm was disquieting, in a way. He moved a little apart as if he meant to turn and look at her as he spoke. But he did not turn, his gaze held on the two children who had now taken to turning about like little whirlwinds only to fall down giggling on the grass as they got dizzy. He grinned at their antics, and they taking his smile as approval, got up drunkenly and tried again.

His smile faded to a thoughtful look and unthinking, he rubbed his fingers along his right jawline. ‘I wasn’t always Captain of the Archers,’ he said quietly, a hint of humor in his voice at this beginning. ‘Despite the fact that many think I must have sprung bow in hand and quiver at back from my poor mother. Though I understand why they must think so; I have been at it so very long.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I had . . . have,’ he corrected himself, ‘three sisters – two older, and one younger. And many opportunities from all of them to be an uncle and then uncle, also, to the children of my nieces and nephews.’

He waved to Isilmë as she waved to him. ‘They are forgiving and accepting little creatures, are they not? Nothing need be proved to them, save you remain their playmate. And all the awful things that must be done by you in your life apart from them are of no import. It’s ”Uncle, did you bring me sweets?” and “Will you play a game with me?” and “Please, Uncle ‘Mirë! A story!”. That’s all that they require.’

Ondomirë turned his face toward Losrian, his gaze softly considering her for a moment. ‘My younger sister’s daughter bore a son with red highlights in his hair – from his father’s kin. He was called Rusco, a nickname, really . . . little Fox, he was . . .’ Ondomirë fell silent for a space of time, his grey eyes clouded. ‘But he . . . they are gone now. All gone. And Ondolindë fallen silent. We could not save her . . . save them.’

‘Nor your city, either,’ he said as a quiet afterthought. ‘Sometimes, it seems these many years and their attendant battles have proved nothing more than a long defeat despite what gifts and talents we Eldar might bring to them.’

Gally had wandered up to where the two adults sat. His chubby hand patted Ondomirë’s arm. ‘Eat?’ he said, looking hopefully from Losrian to Ondomirë. ‘Gally hungry!’ Ondomirë’s mouth curved up in a smile. ‘Hungry? Me, too, Gally.’

With an economy of motion, he stood, gathering the boy up in the crook of his left arm. He stooped over a little, offering his right hand to the still seated Losrian. ‘Perhaps a full belly might push these grey thoughts away for a while,’ he said, gripping her hand firmly as she rose. ‘Or at least put them into some sort of shortsighted perspective that might make my presence more bearable during a meal.’ He kept his eyes on her face as she stood. ‘That is, of course, If I’m invited to share it with you . . . you, all.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian's heart filled with emotion that sought release in tears. She quelled the impulse (though her eyes grew too bright for a while), telling herself that this was his grief not hers. But how to express the compassion that she felt so deeply, and the shame that she had ever thought of Galmir as a burden, a duty. Ondomirë had been left quite alone and had it seemed remained so. Before when she had heard he had escaped the fall of Gondolin she had only been in awe of the great events he had witnessed, not equating his personal tragedy with her own. She had not yet either the words to utter, or the nerve to embrace him. All she could do was squeeze the hand that still grasped hers as she rose to her feet.

"Of course... we would love your company; we can offer distraction if not consolation" Losrian stumbled over the words a little... her stomach seemed in such a knot she doubted she would manage to eat at all "in fact I fear you may never be able to rid yourself of Galmir's company. He seems quite at home there ". Her nephew flashed her a mischievous grin before giggling and shaking his dark curls he buried his face in Ondomirë's tunic.

They would have made a fairly unremarkable family group save that the whole camp knew that they were not; Losrian was aware of more than a few interested gazes as they collected bread, cheese and steaming bowls of broth.

Let the gossips stare thought Losrian, realising she no longer cared what the likes of Geldion might think. She held her head high as she walked alongside Ondomirë until they found a quiet spot to sit and eat. Ondomirë managed both to eat and to amuse the children. Losrian smiled as well but took the children's fascination with the soldier to compose her thoughts. Finally as Galmir and Isilmë grew sleepy having eaten their fill, and the stars of Elbereth emerged in the darkling sky, she spoke. Her voice soft and as calm as she could manage she gently laid her hand on his arm.

"You could not save either city but you have saved us - we refugees would have little hope without this guard. Women and children alone in the wilderness? You cannot fire a bow with a child in your arms. ..... it is surely not less honourable to live protecting people than to die protecting a city. " she paused, took a deep breath and continued.

"A long defeat maybe, but there is some virtue in the struggle perhaps? The Noldor have not given up, but regrouped, rebuilt, tried again. Though we have fallen into folly and this latest not the least I fear, there is something that prevents us all seeking the havens... you have not thought of it though you might hope now for reunion with your kin?...." Losrian's voice trailed into silence and she watched Ondomirë's face anxiously.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had been the looking for a way to escape since he entered the Lord's tent, but now he found himself a little more pleased with being there. Elrond had not seem to shown any change in emotion when Maegisil told him the truth of the death of Celebrimbor, but the former counselor noticed that his hands were clenched much more tightly on his chair. Maegisil smirked. It felt good, for some reason, to see some sign of fear, shock, pain...any uncomfortable feeling, in the appearance of the elf-lord. But there was such a small hint of it. Cool, blank expressions, empty tones, haughty disposition...Maegisil wondered what would happen to all of that if Elrond was in the place of Celebrimbor a month ago. For a moment he could see the lord looking as haggard as the deceased, and doing the same: nothing.

“Lord Celebrimbor was faced with many decisions. Because of those, I was faced with my own, and I chose accordingly. Tell me, Lord Elrond, what would you have done?”

His tone was mocking, and his words biting. He once again turned the elf's title into a joke, but again the lord did not laugh. Rather, Elrond's hands tightened a bit more, his knuckles pale. His teeth seemed to be gritted now, most likely in an attempt to keep himself from bursting out in anger at the elf across from him. It seemed that if he let himself go just slightly, he would rise from his seat with sword drawn, prepared to strike Maegisil down, who was only smiling more. Maegisil found it amusing the way these lords felt there was some kind of brotherhood among them, when all there may have been was some of the same blood. The old houses were gone now. The Elven kingdoms had already begun their slow downfall; Eregion was at an end, and Maegisil wondered who would be next. Even when all prospered, the King had no dominion over anything beyond Lindon. Gil-galad was simply a name in Eregion. Celebrimbor may have known him, but Maegisil doubted there was ever a strong bond between the two, particularly after centuries miles apart. No, Celebrimbor had been a craftsman, an artist, a lover of beautiful things. But he was also a lord. And to Maegisil, that meant he was a fool. Whether it was simply due to the person, or the position, he was not sure.

“First you must tell me, Counselor Maegisil,” began Elrond, his tone almost as cool as ever, with only a bit of edge to it, “how exactly you were given this ‘choice.’”

Maegisil practically bared his teeth at the lord at hearing the title before his name. He slouched more in his chair. “I was given a choice, by a creature of the Servant of Morgoth, the commander of the armies that slaughtered my people. I could save my life and that of my wife, or the life of my lord.”

“Why was it that you did not try to save your lord?”

“You make it sound so simple, Lord Elrond.”

“It is a simple question of whether or not you care for your lord and your land.” The Herald of Gil-galad was now clearly growing more and more furious with every moment that he had to see Maegisil's defiant stare, and hear his scornful words. It was so simple to him. It was a simple matter of life or death, for he was a lord. He could have been in Celebrimbor's place; he knew it.

“Lord and land, or love and family. Those who abandoned you, or those you had abandoned. Those are the things that I had to choose between.” He rose up in his chair, and though the lord did not shrink back physically, he saw many things in those grey eyes that he did not like. “Is it really such a simple choice, Elrond? What would you have done?”

The lord seemed about to speak, still in his rage. But then it seemed Maegisil's words reached him, and he sat back more in his seat, in silence, leaving the question unanswered, as it should have been. Maegisil rose to leave, and found himself unhindered. He hesitated for a moment, and it seemed Elrond had found one more thing to say, just in time.

“You really are so much like Celebrimbor used to be, if you have not yet realized it. Were our places exchanged, I would follow you as my lord without misgiving,” he paused, but the mírdan did not turn to him. “Perhaps what I see now is where the elf I knew escaped to.”

Maegisil hurried out of the Herald’s tent, daring not to look the lord in the eyes again, lest he see his own shining with tears.

[Envinyatar]

‘Hope. You know, Men use that word in an interesting way. It is something like a “wish” for them. That somehow the something they wish for will be fulfilled . . . at a later time.’

‘The Eldar, hold hope in a different way, or so it seems to me. We have estel. Not a wish, but how our minds are tempered; that they should be steady, fixed in purpose, not easily dissuaded. Not likely to despair or to abandon intention. We have the assurance of hope already given. We have only to trust in it. Yes, and there’s the hard part, isn’t it . . . the trust.’

‘I think perhaps it would not be so hard to have hope were we all in Tirion.’

He caught the expression on her face as hope fled it. The pressure on his arm lightened as her hand withdrew. He caught it in his own.

‘I’m only thinking aloud, Losrian. It is a fault of mine. Bear with me, if you will. You’ve said some heartfelt things to me; I’m only trying to work them about in my own mind. Along with other thoughts that have occupied much of my waking hours these past weeks.’

‘You gave me your thanks, and I’m grateful for that. And spoke of honor. And of virtue. But it is hope that I wish to speak of now.’ He was quiet for a moment, her hand still held in his.

‘No . . . I do not hope to see my kin soon. I must admit I had thought on it when Gil-galad sent me out with Lord Elrond – that at the end of this campaign I would return to the Havens and sail West. But not now.’

‘Lord Elrond will have need of me. He has already asked that I stay on, even after we reach a place of safety. He brings a rare hope to these lands, I think. I wish to help him accomplish what tasks he has set for himself.’

He fell quiet again. The sounds of the camp as it settled in to rest took up the space his silence left. ‘Ah! I am no good at this!’ he muttered to himself, thinking how much easier it was to command a company of men than it was to speak to Losrian at this moment.

‘I have another hope, m’lady.’

Come, man! he chided himself. Speak! Or act!

He drew her near him, and placing his hands aside her head he raised her face to his. His lips brushed the center of her brow in a brief kiss. ‘Would you think to have me as your life’s companion, Losrian? Would you bind yourself to me?’

Gally stirred in his sleep. Some bad dream making him restless. ‘Ammë!’ he cried out, frightened . . .

[Arry]

‘Indisposed, eh?’ said Skald. ‘Well, isn’t that a fine how’d-ye-do. We can’t go off tomorrow without letting him know, now, can we. It would be one more fault for some of the Elves to catalog against us: Dwarves – a rude people; and unreliable to boot!’ Though most of the Elves in the company had been tolerant and some even welcoming of the Dwarves, the sharp ears of the little band led by Rori Ironfoot could not help but hear a few of the asides others of the Elves had made.

And speaking of Elves . . . of the better sort, that is. Where’s old Cap’n Ondomirë got off to, I wonder. He’s usually made his rounds by now, telling us where we’re to station ourselves.’ Skald stood up, his eyes drifting about the camp. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to get ourselves out to the picket line.’ He clapped his helmet on his head and picked up his axe and buckler.

He waited as Bror got ready; then followed his brother out to their usual places beyond the perimeter of the camp. ‘You know, I was just thinking. That broth we had at lunch was just shy of being “off”. I wonder if Lord Elrond has a delicate stomach – like Great-granny Stonecut had. May her bones rest in peace beneath the mountain! Remember? If she ate something a bit too old, it would turn on her so to speak. Back-door-trotties something fierce. Wonder if that’s what the Elves mean by “indisposed”.’ He nodded his head as he thought on it. ‘Now that’s something you can forgive him for – being “indisposed”.’

The more he thought on it, the funnier it seemed to him. And soon he was drawing odd looks as he walked along chuckling.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Losrian felt as if she had been hit by a thunderbolt, though she was unsure which had the most impact his words or his touch - the gentle strength in the hands that cradled her face, the fleeting tenderness of his kiss or the unexpected proposal. She gasped in amazement and could not speak, only look into those deep grey eyes seeking for some confirmation that this was not some dream. It had never occurred to her that her feelings were reciprocated. That his reserve might be because she was as disturbing to his equilibrium as he was to hers. A few hours ago she was convinced of his indifference but had she not also concealed her feelings? She might think it impossible that he should want her .... but the kiss had been real enough. Perhaps she could trust his judgement even if if she could not believe herself worthy. Indeed the trust was the hard part.

And now Galmir was crying for his mother in his sleep .... "Hush Gally, you're safe.. I'm here ... " she forced herself to turn from Ondomirë, though it caused an almost physical pain, and tend to the child, stroking his hair away from his face. As she knelt over him she remembered Ondomirë's words of earlier in the evening as he had watched the children play:
"They are ....accepting little creatures, are they not? Nothing need be proved to them......" Why am I making this so difficult ? she thought. I love him and it seems he loves me. He has spent an age of the world alone and has asked me to marry him and now he probably thinks I am rejecting him.

She was aware that Ondomirë now stood with his back turned and head lowered. Another gasp of horror and her voice softened as she relaxed having resolved her own mind. "We are here Galmir, you are safe...". It seemed the child quietened immediately and she rose to her feet and placed her hand on Ondomirë's shoulder.

"My lord, will you receive my answer?". Ondomirë turned to her and as he did so she slipped her arms around his neck rising to tiptoe so that she was nearly on the same level. She studied his face for a moment then, tilting her head slightly, tentatively kissed his mouth. Then she spoke, her voice grave but her eyes full of love.

" I shall trust in hope, and in you - I fear no fate, for you are my fate, my love, my 'Mirë. And, if it truly is your will, I shall be your spouse, your helpmate in your endeavours, and I will dwell with you wherever they may take us"

[piosenniel]

The camp is attacked . . .

From the low-lying rises beyond the camp, five pairs of stone dark eyes surveyed the happenings. Little fires dotted the area where the Elves and Dwarves had gathered for the night. Along the outside of the camp’s perimeter were picketed the horses; three clumps of them at equal distances along the outside edge. And beyond that there were armed warriors, Dwarves and Elves stationed, their weapons at hand.

A small band of Hill Trolls had come in as close as they dared to the camp. Unlike their cousins, those lumbering creatures of the night – the Stone Trolls, these trolls had no fear of the sun’s light. They had, in fact, been tracking the Elven party all that day as they moved into their territory.

They were smaller, too, than their stone cousins. The height of a man, in fact, but larger built, and covered with hard scales. They were savage creatures; very territorial. And in them was a deep-seated hatred of all those who were fair to look on. Their eyes glittered at the sight of the Elves, and their large hands clenched about their stout handled, stone-headed hammers.

‘The horses,’ growled the leader. ‘Make sure we get enough of them to feed on for several days. Kill the foul Elves. Mash their pretty faces into crow food.’

‘Them Dwarves is what I want!’ another rasped. ‘Little fiends with their sharp pointy axes! Bash their helmets into their shoulders, I will!’ ‘Yesss!’ snarled another. ‘Them and their nosy ways come picking around our hills for the shiny stones that belong to us!’

On silent feet, the five trolls fanned out about the half of the camp’s edge nearest them, trying to stay downwind of the horses. The leader raised his mighty hammer and gave a bestial bellow as he started at a dead run toward the now nearby camp.

His companions picked up the cry and moved in, bashing at whatever stood in their way . . .

[Arry]

‘What’s that noise?’ cried Skald climbing up on a low, rocky rise near where he and Bror were patrolling. A little ways to the south, he could see the horses picketed there beginning to panic. They whinnied loudly and stamped their hooves at the first bellowing sounds of the nearing Trolls, and then began to rear on their hind legs and paw the air with their hooves.

He could see one of the attacking creatures making for the picketed animals. The Troll lumbered in among the horses, their striking hooves glancing off his thick scaled hide. With a blow of his great hammer to the head, brought one down, and began dragging it away from the camp.

Elves rushed up at the cries from the horses and were attempting to bring down the Troll as he made off with the horse. But several of them were knocked down by yet another Troll who swung his hammer with great savagery.

‘Trolls!’ yelled Skald, clambering down from his viewpoint. He motioned for Bror and others of the Dwarves who were nearby to come with him. Axes raised, the little band of five Dwarves, gave a mighty yell, as they ran at one of the Trolls near the horses.

Their blows were fierce ones, but barely dented the tough scales of the Troll. It was Rori Ironfoot, standing near the Troll’s arm as he raised his stone hammer who noted the brute’s armpit was unscaled. He swung his spiked axe hard at the creature’s exposed skin, sinking it deep into the flesh. Blood gushed out in a great torrent.

The Troll staggered and blows from both of the Stonecut brothers to the backs of its legs brought the now ungainly adversary to its knees. A single shot from one of the Elven archers pierced the Troll’s eye, bringing death to it.

‘We’re needed there!’ one of the Dwarves shouted, pointing to where another of the fiendish creatures was raining blows on several Elves with swords who were trying to keep it from penetrating deeper into the camp . . .

[Envinyatar]

He drew her to him and clasped her tightly; his chin resting on the crown of her head. And he might have kissed her once more, save the alarm was raised and there was no time for tenderness now.

‘Captain!’ cried one of his men who had come to fetch him. He averted his eyes until Ondomirë turned to him. ‘There are Trolls come into camp. They’ve attacked the horses along the southern perimeter and are dragging off the ones they kill. They slay anyone in their way; several of our men have gone down beneath their giant hammers.

“I’ll be there directly,’ Ondomirë said, his eyes gone hard at the news of intruders. ‘Fetch my bow and quiver, if you will and meet me at the second picketline – they have not gone there yet, if I understand you correctly.’ The bowman nodded his head and was about to run off, when Ondomirë called him back. ‘Tell Hensirë to send a squad of his spearmen here to the central area. The refugees must be protected. And let the leader of Blue squad archers know his men are to fall back, too, to this position.’ The bowman hastened from Ondomirë even as the last words still hung between them.

‘And you,’ he said speaking in a clipped manner to Losrian. ‘You will arm yourself with bow and fall in among the archers who will be here soon. For now push all the others who cannot defend themselves into a tight core. Tell them to stay behind the spearmen and the archers.’

He put his finger to her lips seeing she might protest his decision. ‘It is the Captain of the Bowman who speaks now, Losrian. You must make safe the refugees . . . the little ones,’ he went on, his voice a shade softer. He turned, a look of mingled regret and duty, to follow after the bowman messenger.

I will see you after! he sent to her as he ran toward the sounds of battle. The grace of the Valar guide our arrows! He was gone from sight, when one last instruction came to her.

Aim for their eyes if you can. Or the small opening of their ears . . .

[Folwren]

The Troll was making a rather large dent and causing damage and much havoc, fighting farther into the camp. Bror scrambled over rocks and pushed his way through rushing elves and panicking children. The refugees were being pulled away from the beastly creatures and the archers were coming in from one side, with elves wielding spears advancing on the other.

Skald ran on Bror’s right, and Rori and two other Dwarves to his other side. Bror and the others finally came to where he stood, but they halted as a pause seemed to fill the air. The troll stood surrounded by a half circle of a wall of elves, bristling with arrow tips and spears. Bror bent to look below the elbow of an elf he stood behind to see the troll. The thing seemed unsure of himself and a fierce, angry look was plastered on his idiotic face.

It was only a momentary pause, and then with a roar the beast lunged forward towards his adversaries, swinging his huge club and planning on taking half a dozen down with one sweep. He hadn’t even reached the first rank of archers before two dozen arrows left the bow strings and hissed through the air. Most of them found their mark, and quite a few could have killed the troll on its own. He fell with a deafening roar and a crash, killed.

Bror’s mouth curled with disgust as he drew back from the ruin. There were two left, but there were other elven warriors already surrounding it. They would not likely be needing any help. He turned to look at Skald and let his breath out with something like a sigh.

“I really wish we could go back, Skald,” he said, walking towards him. “All this killing and surprise attacks and unsafe wandering is making me sick. I’m tired of it. And I’m sorry to complain to you,” he added as an afterthought. “And it’s not as if it’s your fault. I know that.” He let out another sigh and shook his head. “Should we get back to our watch, do you suppose?” And then another thought struck him. “I say, Skald,” he said, “whoever was keeping watch on that side of the camp wasn’t keeping a very sharp one.”

[Mithalwen]

In her beloved's arms, Losrian received a tantalising taste of bliss but how shortlived it was. They were under attack and Ondomirë was gone - only his words floating in her mind were remained...she raced for her bow but dared not take the time to put on the mailshirt she had discarded when they set camp. She scooped up the drowsy children and entrusted them again to Alassante.

She had never seen a troll and the sight so close and so unexpected was terrifying. Her fear was heightened by the fear she felt for the children and Ondomirë but she concentrated on his instructions and felt more secure once the spearmen had surrounded the unarmed refugees.

Quelling her horror at the sight of the hideous being she drew her bow and held it at anchor point trying to target the eyes as its head moved in rythm with the hammer swings. She fired but just missed and grazed the troll's ...well it had to be its nose. Another elf had more luck and seconds later a startled but doomed troll had a elfdart deep in his ear. The huge fist had released the hammer it held at mid point in the arc of the swing. It soared above the elf-warrior's heads towards the vulnerable refugees.


Losrian, tall, lithe and with the sharp reactions of both her race and extreme youth dropped her bow and leapt to seize the handle as it passed over her head. Her thoughts if she had any were of the children. "Her" children in particular and what the crude but powerful weapon could do to them.

So relieved was she to have the handle in her grasp she thought little of the landing but the weight of the hammer meant she could not land on her feet andfell striking her head on the stone hammer as she did so.

She was in a green place, nowhere she had been before, dusk was falling and she could hear the sound of running water, a waterfall maybe. A wooded valley with mountains behind.. Maybe it was Lindon after all but no, she felt not. Now laughter - children? Galmir was there at least, she was sure but he seemed rather older, Ondomirë was by her side and ....

"Losrian! Come back to us!" .... to the surprise of the concerned people who surrounded her, a smile played around her lips and she seemed reluctant to return to consciousness.

Alassante's voice roused her swiftly though since she was clearly comforting Galmir," Don't worry, I am sure it looks worse than it is"

Losrian raised her hand to her brow and flinched as she felt pain and blood. Imagining how dramatic this would look with her pale colouring she tried to speak as confidently as she could. "I am fine Gally, just cut my head that is all" ... still dazed she ascertained that the troll was dead & the children safe and her thoughts then were all for Ondomirë. She sought to reach him with her mind even as she uttered his name.

[Arry]

‘You’re right, Bror,’ Skald replied as they watched the elves battle the two remaining Trolls. ‘It looks as if the Elves have got this situation under control. ‘Let’s gather up the rest of our fellows and go patrol the perimeter so any other murderous beasts don’t get in.’

The two set off at a run and soon had gathered up the rest of the Dwarves’ contingent. They walked along the perimeter, fanning out a little, their eyes and ears alert for any new Trolls who may have crossed the line.

There were none, it seemed. Rori Ironfoot stationed them in groups of twos and threes along a small section of the camp’s edge where the first Trolls had gotten in. They were within sight and hailing distance of one another, weapons at hand.

From within the camp, hidden in a clump of low growing trees, two beady black eyes stared out at the gathered Dwarves. It was the fifth Troll, he had been occupied with killing a few of the picketed horses and dragging their bodies out of the camp. He had re-entered just a short while prior to the Dwarves’ arrival, intent on taking out a few more carcasses. His eyes narrowed at his good fortune. He hated the Dwarves and their cave and tunnel grabbing ways. They were no more than stink-bugs to his mind; they deserved to be crushed beneath their betters’ heels. The horses could wait, he decided, until he’d smashed as many of the Foul little creatures as he could.

His hand clenched more tightly about his giant stone hammer and he took a deep breath as he sprang from his hiding place at the nearest group of three. For once, he held back the Hill Troll battle cry, coming upon the unfortunate Dwarves with a savage vengeance. His hammer blow was hard and swift, killing one and smashing the shield arm of another. The third Dwarf raised a loud cry and wielding his pole-axe, took a mighty blow at the Troll’s knees.

Bror heard the call, first, and motioned for his brother to hurry with him. When they’d got there, five other Dwarves nearby had also rushed in and were trying to ring in the Troll. As several Dwarves engaged the creature from the front, others came at him from behind, battering at the less scaley areas behind his knees.

Skald grabbed a coil of rope left near where the horses had been picketed and threw one end to Bror. Other Dwarves had come into the fray by now, and several of them grabbed on to either end.

The Dwarves who were harrying the Troll from the front, now pushed him even harder in an all out assault, driving him backwards. As the back of his knees neared the rope, the Dwarves that held it pulled it taut, setting their boots hard against the ground as they did so.

Unbalanced as the rope struck hard against his legs, the Troll stumbled. And hit relentlessly by the Dwarves axes, he fell backwards, sprawling on the ground. The Dwarves holding the rope ends quickly entangled his lower legs in the rope coil. Rori, bearing an iron-headed stave, pushed it hard into the Troll’s ear. Bror and Skald lent their weight behind him. Soon the downed creature lay twitching on the ground. As a last blow, one of the Dwarves brought the end of his poleaxe down in a forceful swing toward the Troll’s face. The sharp-pointed end of it, crushed through the fallen brute’s eye, pulverizing the weaker boned socket and penetrating the Troll’s brain with a final deadly result.

Skald sat down with an oomph! trying to regain his composure as well as his breath from the exertion. He turned his head to his brother, who’d come to sit beside him. ‘I’m tired of this, too, Bror. I’m glad you’ve had your fill of it now. And I agree with what you said – the sooner we’re home beneath the mountains, the better it will be.’

[Folwren]

‘You’re glad I’ve had my fill of it?’ Bror replied, blinking in surprise. ‘Why, brother, if you’d asked me two weeks ago, I’d have told you I’d have my fill of it.’ They were both silent for a moment. Bror looked out. He faced away from the camp and his eyes scanned the dark landscape.

‘Skald,’ he said, turning his head halfway towards his brother. ‘I’ve been thinking. They came from the gates and drew the entire assault away from us mostly, way back at the battle, you know. You don’t suppose. . .do you think that they managed to get back all safe and not getting hurt? I mean, I suppose Papi - that is - Father, and Riv were both fighting there.’ A light sprang up into his eyes and he couldn’t keep back the smile. ‘Can’t you just see it? Both of them up in the front lines fighting right beside the King?’

He turned his eyes back outwards, towards the darkness, and towards home. ‘Being in the front lines, I guess, would bring more danger. But they couldn’t have been killed, could they? Not Riv. We both made it out alive. . .surely he would. Yes, we did both make it out alive. . .’he trailed off into silence.

That thought in itself seemed to comfort him. Surely if Skald and much less he himself had managed to fight in a battle and come out pretty much unscathed, Riv and Father could. After all these days and weeks of being out, why turn thoughts bad and begin to worry? But that was only his own consideration.

‘What do you think, Skald? Do you suppose they all made it back home safely?’

[Envinyatar]

Ondomirë found his mind in two places at once. There was scarce any of the battle he need attend to with his bow; so well had the Elves and Dwarves had taken care of the attacking Trolls, he’d found. There were four of them dead by report of the squad leaders.

A fifth Troll, Hensirë’s lancers reported, had been killed near the refugees and the supply wagons. He sought the names of any who had been injured or killed in the defense. But, the captain of the lancers was called to attend to others of his troops who had fallen in other parts of the camp.

A certain chill settled on him as he sought Losrian. For a moment, her bright mind seemed to slip away from him. He steeled himself for another loss. And then came his name, faint at first, then stronger. His long held breath now was released as relief came flooding in.

Ondomirë!

Melda! Where did you go! I could not find you. He closed his eyes, and shut off his other senses for a moment. Near her he could sense the small, sparkling presences of Gally and Isilmë. You . . . all of you, are alright, then . . . I have some tasks to see to, then I will be with you.

The watch was set, and this time under the eye of Ondomirë. He took no time to chasten himself for the previous lapse in his attentions, only sought now to make sure the camp was secure from another attack.

And now the work of gathering together the Dwarves and Elves who had fallen in the attack had begun. A shallow grave it would be for them, with a cairn raised high and heavy upon them, so that none might disturb them as the earth claimed their flesh and bones. The two horses the Trolls had managed to drag from camp were also set beneath the rocks. No fire for the fallen, as was their usual way . . . none wished to draw the eyes of any more of the enemy to them.

Once satisfied that all was taken care of, and having spoken briefly to Lord Elrond, himself on the way to pay his respects to the fallen defenders, Ondomirë hastened back to the center of the camp. He stopped, surveying the area. He could see where the Troll had been brought down, and the wide track where it was hauled off. Losrian was sitting propped against beech tree trunk. Her head was bound with a strip of cloth through which a stain of blood had seeped through. Leaning against her were Gally and Isilmë, playing some quiet game of their own. Save for the wound on her brow, it was a welcome sight. He smiled, not caring if he seemed foolish for it, as his eyes drank in the three of them.

It was Isilmë who was the first to see him. Her face curved into a grin, mirroring his own. ‘Mirë!’ she cried in a piping voice. ‘Mirë is here!’ Her little legs propelled her swiftly to him; Gally taking up the cry and following close on her heels. Ondomirë crouched down as they neared and took the two in his arms. They chattered at him. Talking of the Troll and the spears and Losrian’s wound and all the while patting at the pockets on his tunic in search of the tin of sweets.

Losrian attempted to struggle to her feet to greet him, also. But he reached her quickly, and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sit, please. We’ll come to you,’ he said drawing her back down as he sat on the ground beside her. For a moment he inspected her bandage, his touch gentle as he looked closely at the wound beneath it. The blood had dried, and he was satisfied she would lose no more.

Gally’s little fingers had prised the tin from his pocket and now he held it up hopefully of Ondomirë. ‘Here you go! You, too!’ he said, turning to Isilmë and offering her a sweet. The two were content to lean against his crossed legs and suck on their prizes. Ondomirë turned his attention back to Losrian, regarding her gravely. ‘For a moment all hope fled me, when I could not find you,’ he said quietly. He pushed back a strand of her silvered hair from her cheek. His hand sought hers and he held it against his own cheek. ‘But here you are.’

[Arry]

‘And why do you blink in surprise at my question, little brother?’ Skald frowned at Bror as he spoke. ‘Wasn’t it you who wanted to stay when Riv and the others were leaving? Wasn’t it you who told Riv how our home was safe, and how you wanted to help save the Elven city?’

Weeks of frustration and pent up fear spilled out unchecked from Skald.

‘Really, what good has this done anyone? We’ve lost more of our companions. And what little we’ve accomplished I think the Elves could have done on their own.’ Skald took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘We should have gone home with Riv. There! I’ve said it. It was a mistake for us to stay.’

Skald stared off into the distance, as if his eyes could penetrate the leagues that lay between them and the mountain. ‘Don’t play the wide-eyed child with me any longer, Bror. You’ve been here in this inglorious series of skirmishes and flight. There’s no glory in “being in the frontlines, right beside the king”, especially against the great number of foe who rode against us. The frontlines . . . pah!. That’s where death rides on his great horse; his sword, or club, or spear held high; his face hung with a skull’s grin as we’re mowed down.’

He turned a face, bled of all hope, to Bror. ‘Do you want me to reassure you that in the end everything will be alright? I can’t do that. They could be dead . . . the one of them, the both of them. I just don’t know.’ Skald shook his head slowly.

‘I do know this. We should have been there with them . . . we should have, the both of us . . . we should have . . .’

-----

Most of the Dwarves did not sleep at all that night. Too on edge, they sat in small groups, near each other, talking low. They built no fires; the only lights in the darkness that distinguished them were the glowing embers of their pipes.

A small delegation were sent to Lord Elrond’s tent. He had listened closely to them as they told him of their planned departure, then thanked them graciously for their generous aid. They in turn thanked him for his offer of horses for the long journey that lay ahead, saying that perhaps the Elves could put the beasts to better use. ‘Begging your pardon, Lord Elrond,’ said Rori Ironfoot. ‘Your offer was very kind and much appreciated, but we Dwarves feel much better with our own two feet on the ground.’

-----

When the sun had barely cleared the mountains to the west, the Dwarves shouldered their packs and made their way out of camp. There were many of the Elves who had fought beside them who called out farewells to them as they passed.

Then, when the Dwarves had passed a fair ways east and south of the camp, the captains of the Elven troops were given orders to make their men ready. At Lord Elrond’s command, the Elven company would set off, too, their journey taking them a little further north and then east in search of a place of refuge, where they might recoup their strength for the days yet to come . . .

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

No one had slept much for what remained of the night. "All in all it has been quite a day" Losrian thought wryly. Ondomirë had not let her sleep because of her head wound, and instead, as they watched over the the children (who they had eventually managed to settle after all the excitement), Losrian had discovered that the Osanwë-Kenta was actually quite easy if you had the right motivation. Aside from the precious details she was learning about her meldisse, she learnt that the dwarves would depart at first light and knew that she wanted to make her farewell to Skald at least.

As the glow of dawn first coloured the mountain tops, Ondomirë went to resume his duties and Losrian, sporting an extremely colourful black eye but as clear headed as a maid so newly and deeply in love could be, roused the children and led them over to where Skald was making up his pack.

"I did not want you to leave without us saying goodbye, Skald, and without thanking you" she said softly. The dwarf turned and looked up at her. Her silver hair was gilded by the new sun and, despite her injury, a light was in her face that gave her somewhat solemn features a serene beauty. She had come along way from the grimy and careworn girl who they had found in the hut a fortnight ago he thought and he knew the transformation wasn't down to a few hot meals, a wash and a change of clothes. The relationship between the refugee girl and the Captain of Archers was second only to troll attack as subject of discussion in camp and there was no point in denying it even if she could conceal her joy.

" Thank me? I should be congratulating you - you have got a good man there, even if he is a st...."

"Stuffy elf? " Losrian completed the phrase for him for she had heard the dwarves jest while sharing their watch but she grinned for she could understand it. Ondomirë felt so much and showed so little.

"Still waters run deep" she said thinking of the moment of their reunion last night He had made no dramatic gesture of sweeping her into his arms but had conveyed intense emotion with a simple clasp of her hand in his.

Then she added mischievously "And I am so very glad I didn't shoot him - but really I must thank you, your advice was good as was your example ." She smiled down at Galmir who was taking a final chance to indulge his fascination with dwarvish beards. "Maybe things would have been otherwise, if I hadn't learned to look outward." In other words " if you hadn't made me realise how selfish I was" she thought and winced.

"I do not know if the fates of the world will allow us to meet again, for our path takes us ever further from Khazad-dum and the halls of Durin, but I would give you this as a token of our friendship and my gratitude". She placed in his hand her own cloak pin, a garland of flowers and leaves.

"It is unworthy as a remembrance of the Mirdain for it is but an apprentice piece - yet it was the best my craft could manage at the time and my later skill was devoted alas to the implements of war." Losrian sighed, then smiled "I wanted so much to be a mirdan and now the only jewels I care for are Ondomirë and Galmir. "

"If our paths cross again I hope I may give you a finer example of our craft - as it is this serves only to prove how the dwarves surpass the Noldor in metalwork." She grinned again. "But I do not expect to have much time for smithying for a while - other than what is necessary to help in the building of our new dwellings. These living treasures are far more appealing than metal and stone." She smiled at Galmir and Isilmë who were now in the arms of Skald and Bror respectively. Bror she knew had found the little girl by her mother's body.

"And maybe you will add a few more treasures to your collection once you're wedded" Skald added mischievous in his turn.

Losrian blushed and mumured "These two will keep me busy enough to start with," but the accompanying smile confirmed that the thought had already occured to her .

And then it was time for them to depart and Losrian gathered up the children and took her leave of Skald and his brother. "I hope you return safely and find all your kin safe and sound.... my nephew will miss you but yours will be glad to have you back...."

The trio stood and waved until the dwarves were out of sight. And so ended the closest association of the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë that ever existed in Middle Earth.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Minutes after Maegisil, Narisiel arrived at the palace, almost skidding to a halt in front of the courtyard gates, her feet slipping on tiles now slick with oil spilt from the lamps shattered from their brackets. She had run with as much speed as her stately garb would allow her, only making one stop on the way at her forge – empty, thank the gods, for she was as yet unarmed. For once, she was glad that Losrian hadn’t arrived on time: the room was almost unrecognisable, the mighty anvil turned over and the coals from the furnace scattered over the floor, which was littered with debris from the cupboards which had evidently been rifled through in a search for anyone hiding, or for anything worth taking. Her life’s work destroyed. But the black hoards who now ravaged the city like a plague of locusts had not taken everything…Steadying herself on the gatepost, the councillor caught her breath, resting her other hand on the hilt of her sword, taken from the workshop, as if taking comfort from it. She looked up to the palace – and froze. Above her, halfway up the steps, was a sight maybe none had witnessed on the shores of Middle Earth ever before: Maegisil, an elf, one of the first born, kneeling to an invader of their city.

Traitor.

The word flashed through Narisiel’s mind, and in that instant she felt like her heart was ripping in two, to see one of her greatest friends so humbled, so humiliated. Her hand tightened on her sword handle at her waist as she bit her lip to fight down the scream that welled up inside her, but the worst was yet to come.

“…I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.” Maegisil’s words as he condemned the Lord he had sworn to serve ad protect with his life could not have been more of a betrayal to his fellow councillor, and as Narisiel’s every impression of her friend fell apart, she pulled herself upright once more and, tears in her eyes, she ran from the hideous scene in front of her. Maegisil was on his own now: the fiery woman who now fled from the courtyard where he had lowered himself would now quite happily have taken her own sword to him right that minute, but she knew where this black messenger of Sauron would go next – and even if Maegisil had betrayed Celebrimbor, Narisiel was not ready to give up on him yet. She couldn’t leave it as she had at their last meeting…

Running around to the side, Narisiel pushed at the door in smaller entrance and leapt backwards as the hinges gave way sending the door crashing into the corridor beyond: she wasn’t the first to enter the palace through this entrance, although she could only pray that she would be first to Celebrimbor. Lifting her skirts, the sword swinging awkwardly against her leg, Narisiel sprinted up the narrow staircase inside the corridor, at the end of which were Celebrimbor’s chambers and, she could now hear, the sounds of battle. Heart pounding in her throat, she took the last few steps three at a time to the top of the staircase and threw herself with all her weight against the door that stood between her…and destruction. There in Celebrimbor’s chambers, a battle was already raging, a few remaining guards putting up what fight they could against the forces of Sauron who had entered, huge, burly men who were more animal than human. All the training they had had could not help them against the sheer strength of their foes, and indeed, bodies were already scattered, broken, clad in the armour of Eregion, a bloody trail of defeat that led up to the throne…where Celebrimbor still sat. And as she watched him, still an unnoticed observer almost beyond the scene that lay before her horrified eyes, Narisiel suddenly saw the mighty Lord of Eregion for what he was now, maybe for what he had been for a long time: an old man, alone now on a throne guarded by none, with all who had stood by him either having fled or fallen, his only guards now the silent suits of armour that lined the walls, watching as if the judgemental eyes of his cursed ancestors themselves dwelt there. Just a sad, lonely old man who had made too many mistakes – and had been too stubborn to ask for help as he watched his past destroy the future of his domain.

These thoughts in their fullness only hit Narisiel afterwards, for her greatest challenge was yet to come – and it stood, hideous and vile, between herself and Celebrimbor, sword raised and ready to strike: the creature to whom Maegisil had knelt. Narisiel felt loathing swell up in her throat as the creature spoke. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” And, having intoned these prophetic words, Angoroth drew back his sword and slashed Celebrimbor viciously across the stomach.

Narisiel felt Celebrimbor’s scream more than she heard it, and, without meaning to, gave out a cry of her own, melding in with her lord’s as he writhed in pain at the cruel, fatal wounds across his abdomen. But Angoroth was not finished yet: laughing cruelly, he stepped forward, taking the elf’s chin in one giant hand and raising it so that Celebrimbor was forced to look at his face. As the monster murmured something to the elf, relishing in his victim’s pain as he prepared to watch his slow, painful death, Narisiel barely thought. Drawing her sword, a yell ripped through her throat, more a scream of anguish than a battlecry, and she took the distance between herself and Angoroth at a run. Narisiel herself had no military training: where the trained soldiers of Eregion had failed in killing Angoroth, she knew she wouldn’t succeed. But that wasn’t her aim, and she had help: the owner of these suits of armour might have long since passed from military service, but they could help her yet. Pulling back her sword as she came close to Angoroth, half turning towards her now, Narisiel swung it at one of the suits of armour nearest to the monster. Muscles trained by years of service in her forge came into play, tensed and rippling under the fine material of her elegant dress as the sleeves swung around. Narisiel’s entire weight and strength went into that strike and as her arms jarred painfully against the solid metal of the armour, her strike paid off: with a mighty crash, the figure crashed down – straight onto Angoroth’s back.

The monster gave an enraged yell, trying to disentangle himself, and as he staggered away from Celebrimbor, he collided with a second suit of armour and further entangled himself, losing his balance and falling beneath the heavy unwieldy chunks of metal, an image that would have been almost comical if Narisiel had had time to take it in. But she had achieved her aim: Angoroth was distracted and she was at Celebrimbor’s side in an instant. Narisiel was no trained doctor, and even if she had been, even the greatest medic or magician in Arda could have done nothing for the elven lord at this stage: his eyes rolled up deliriously, only the whites now visible, and his robe, slashed twice horizontally across his torso, was soaked in his lifeblood and his innards were actually visible beneath them. Narisiel took a deep breath and steeled herself: she had no time to even be shocked at his horrific wounds – she had one last duty to perform to Celebrimbor. Positioning herself behind the throne, she pulled the other elf’s head up almost roughly in her haste, and placed her sword across his throat, his shin less than an inch above the bright, polished blade. Caught for an instance in the irony of her position, about to use her own weapon on the one she had sworn she would serve for her whole immortal life, Narisiel gritted her teeth against tears that threatened her eyes. She leant down, her loose hair skimming Celebrimbor’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. “I’m so sorry…”

Celebrimbor’s hand came up to her face, trembling and twitching spasmodically as he pressed against her cheek, and as Narisiel closed her eyes, the blood on his fingers melded with the water of the tear that fell onto them. Taking a deep breath, Narisiel straightened up and gritted her teeth, one hand holding his head, the one her sword, both of them still and untrembling on her sword’s hilt: years of careful work with jewels and minute carving paid off and would allow Celebrimbor the swift release that she intended to give him, a last, merciful gift. “May the Valar speed your soul back to them, Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion. Rest in peace there…” And having given him a last obituary, Narisiel did her duty: her sword slid across his throat and released Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion into death.

An almighty crash of armour and a furious yell announced that Angoroth had finally removed himself from the clutches of Narisiel’s ‘distraction’. For a moment they stood unmoving, a frozen tableau: Narisiel, her eyes glistening with tears and her sword hilt and blade, carved so fittingly with asphodel, glistening with blood, as she glared defiantly at the furious fallen Maia as he realised that his torture victim had been stolen from him. Then Narisiel gave a small, defiant smile. “Not today, Angoroth: my death will not be at your hands!” And as Angoroth lunged towards her, Narisiel leapt, her arms covering her face against the glass that smashed over her – as she threw herself out of the second storey window to the ruin beneath.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“My lady…my lady, are you…? Sairien, I think this one stirs, at last, she’s waking, I think…my dear, come to us, come on…”

“Good gracious…” The kindly, elderly voice which called Narisiel to wake was followed by a gasp, then a hand touched her face, gently turning it to the side. “Good gracious, Tisinwe, I…my husband knows this elf, I believe, her name…her name is Narisiel. Narisiel Mirdain.”

At her name, Narisiel stirred, the fog in her mind clearing as, almost reluctantly, she opened her eyes, narrowing them against the sudden light of the sun that shone through the walls of the medical tent. Above her, a kindly, beautiful face, framed by dark hair, drew back in shock, and the cool, soft hand on the side of her face drew away suddenly. That face was familiar to Narisiel, her beauty standing out in a crowd as she watched her husband standing beside Celebrimbor…Narisiel tried weakly to clear her throat which felt as if it had sat one hundred years unused, then gave up and croaked, “Sairien?”

Sairien gasped once again and reached for Narisiel’s hand. “Yes! Yes indeed – Narisiel, my husband…Maegisil…we presumed you dead! Why, he has no idea you are here, wait, wait until I go to find him—”
“No!” Narisiel’s reply was sharp as she interrupted, her fingers curling around Sairien’s to stop her as she went to stand, presumably to fetch Maegisil, and she started up herself – a mistake. Wincing, she clutched at her side, almost doubling up in pain as the kind hands of the nurse who sat beside her caught her, gently lowering her back onto her pillow. Narisiel felt blood on her hands and drew them away from her stomach – to see them covered in blood. Her eyes widened in horror and her breathing sped up. “No…no, I…I did not…it had to be done, he was in such pain, it was a kinder way to finish it, I would never have-” Narisiel was becoming frantic now, struggling to rise out of the bed despite the pain that ripped through her abdomen, more blood spilling out onto her hands. Blood, blood on her hands – Celebrimbor’s blood, surely. Death, death, death… The crippling pain from her stomach finally got the better of her, and Narisiel yielded to it and the gentle hands that forced her back onto the bed, tears welling up in her eyes as she wept bitter tears. “It…it had to be done…” she whispered desperately through her tears.

“Narisiel, please, calm yourself – w-what had to be done? What are you talking about?”

Narisiel looked up sharply at Sairien, searching the woman’s face for any sign of deceit, for surely, she felt, they had to know, had to have found out what she had done…but she found only sincerity and concern in the woman’s fine features. And pain. Plenty of pain. But Maegisil…Urgency took hold of her once again and she gripped Sairien’s hand fiercely. “Sairien, your husband, the counsellor Maegisil-?”

“He is alive, Narisiel, alive and well, although I shall not say that he has not also been harmed by the battle, if not physically.” She frowned and looked away, her forehead creasing slightly into newly formed lines of anxiety. “The fall of Eregion and the death of Celebrimbor...” she turned back to Narisiel, shaking her head. “He could have done no more to protect the Lord Celebrimbor, though my telling him so seems to make no difference. Not that it is known for sure whether he is dead, although Maegisil seems convinced of the fact…”

Ah. So this woman was not entirely knowledgeable about the events of the fall of the city. An image flashed through Narisiel’s mind: Maegisil kneeling before Angoroth, swearing an oath that betrayed Celebrimbor. She looked away and something in her expression must have alerted Sairien, for the elf leant forward. “What, what is it? You know something of Celebrimbor?”

Narisiel turned slowly back to Sairien, and she gave a sad smile. Oh, all I know of Celebrimbor… She turned to the nurse and, giving her her thanks, asked her to leave. Studying Sairien’s earnest features, she prepared to reveal her secret…

…then hesitated.

Why should she reveal this secret to Sairien? Maegisil had kept his secrets close, evidently, somehow omitting to tell his wife of the vow he had sworn to Angoroth. But that, too, was not Narisiel’s secret to tell. Let Maegisil reveal what he saw fit to his wife, of the ring, of Angoroth, of Celebrimbor… Her eyes flitted critically over Sairien’s features, again searching for some sign that the woman knew any more than she was letting on, but she came up only with simple consternation and anxiety, not only for Narisiel but for Maegisil as well. For all the years the two counsellors had known each other, Narisiel had only ever met Sairien a few times, and always fleetingly. But whenever she had seen husband and wife together, she had seen the same adoring, simple love as resided between herself and Sirithlonnior. . She smiled. “You are every bit as beautiful as Maegisil said,” she replied quietly. Sairien smiled, blushing slightly, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. But Narisiel’s smile was a sad one: she envied this woman that she still had her husband, loving, alive.

“Today is not our dying day…” Her husband’s words echoed back to her painfully and Narisiel almost flinched, her eyes glistening. She knew, as surely as she knew of her own existence, more surely even, that Sirith was dead. His words had been proved false, but she could never tease him about it in the way that she would have done, could never again mock him, tease, embrace him… The elf took a deep, ragged breath in, then out, blinking away the tears in her eyes. She looked up at Sairien and gave her a brief, tight smile. “You are lucky, Sairien. You…” she paused, taking a deep breath against the grief that welled up in her throat. “My husband,” she continued quietly. “I don’t suppose…” Sairien’s eyes told her what she needed to know before she had even finished the sentence. She gave a quick, curt nod, a quick, almost business-like sniff, opening her mouth to speak again, then deciding that she did not trust herself with the words. The other elf, as if understanding, squeezed her hand gently and, without another word, drifted away, leaving Narisiel alone.

“Today is not our dying day…” No. Death had been stolen from Narisiel as surely as she had stolen life from Celebrimbor, although how she had been taken from the city she was not sure – later, the nurse would tell her that she had been carried from the city by a soldier, mistaking her for another, although she did not know that for now, and had slept for several days, unconscious, after having been left at survivors’ camp. She remained alive where her son and husband were surely dead, but how?! Surely, a leap through a pane of glass from a second storey window onto hard ground below could only have one result! She had expected death, maybe even yearned for it after she had jumped, the blood staining her fingers not her own but that of the friend and lord she had sworn to protect. Two fractured ribs and a wrist broken from the impact, along with scratches and cuts galore, she had – but, miraculously, life also remained hers. And as she lay in that medical tent for the week or so after the battle, recovering slowly from her body, she both cursed and blessed that fact.

Maegisil did not come to see her: Sairien, although she did not know why Narisiel craved secrecy, respected her wishes and did not tell her husband of her prescence, and she mused on whether she was perhaps disgraced, fallen in his eyes – she heard little of the counsellor, lapsing as she did in and out of consciousness, maybe through concussion, maybe also through simply a lack of motivation to live. But after a week and a half in this state, when she was finally able to leave the medical tent and walk in the sunlight in the makeshift camp, the elven woman had concocted a plan, simple though it was. She would simply leave the camp. Leave the camp, leave the elves, leave Maegisil and all the secrets they held, shared and individually – too many secrets, over all the years. To keep them bottled up, both knowing of them but neither voicing their fears and concerns, twists the soul, and Narisiel wanted no more part in it. Such deceit over the past century had caused her enough pain for a lifetime, even that of an immortal. Deceit to her people, to her family, to herself even – and now that she had lost both her people and her family, Narisiel even found that she barely knew herself anymore.

No. No more secrets, no more lies.

And so it was, under the bright, winter’s morning sun, that Narisiel Mirdain stood at the outskirts of the camp looking up, surveying it one last time. Here, in this small area of land, was all that was left of the first great, white city. Yet although Ost-in-Edhil had fallen, life went on: children remained, their mothers’ faces newly lined with pain and sorrow, brightening to watch them play together, for children, a sign of life, speak of a future to come, even if it was a future that some would have to face alone. The soldiers of Elrond talked among themselves and to the elves of Eregion, sharing stories with pipeweed as they laughed together, the sound of cheer that echoed through the camp no longer so strange as it turned from a place of mourning to…well, somewhere people could go to. Each would start a new life – and Narisiel’s started here, on this hill, paused under this holly bush, with just a few belongings, provisions and the sword at her side, hidden discreetly under a borrowed travelling cloak. A smile creased her features as she surveyed the camp, then, finally, turned to leave – and paused.

“Sairien, are you ready? No, don’t worry, it’s nothing, I don’t want to talk about it…of course, of course…”

Narisiel stood, frozen, watching from her distant position the familiar figure who spoke to his wife, hurrying out of Elrond’s tent. He was a little gaunter, a little aged in the two weeks since Narisiel had last seen him, but nonetheless, there was the face from a lifetime ago, for a face of a century’s worth of friendship does not easily fade from the memory. Maegisil.

In the time since she had arrived at the camp, Narisiel had heard her own name referenced once or twice, always by strangers, for she knew barely a soul from her previous life. Her name was not unknown amongst them, for she had, of course, been of some standing in Ost-in-Edhil, and it seemed people always knew more than was expected – rumours, half-truths, whole truths which she would never verify all drifted in the minds of those who speculated about Celebrimbor and the rings. Maybe there would one day be a ballad, a poem, an epic work made of the great, fallen city of Ost-in-Edhil, and of the Mirdain, those greatest smiths who worked there. Maybe…maybe Narisiel herself would come into it. Maybe even the forging of the rings… Narisiel turned away. Better to be remembered in whatever way the remainder of that mighty people saw fit than to bring her broken secrets amongst them to scandalise and then, finally, fade away. No. With a dead son, a dead husband and the remainders of such a beautiful life gone sour, honey that turned bittersweet in the mouth when finally tasted, Narisiel turned from the camp and struck out for a new life. Whether Maegisil, as he hurried from the tent, might have chanced to turn to look up the hill, to catch the winter’s sun as she rose to her glorious pinnacle in the sky, and might have seen illuminated there a solitary figure he may have remembered her from a thousand years and a different lifetime before; maybe not. If he did, he never let on, and Narisiel Mirdain passed from the camp, quietly, and alone.

If Sairien never told her husband of her brief encounter with Narisiel in the medicine tent, why then, Maegisil would never know the elf-smith had even escaped: Narisiel Mirdain could well have died with her family in the city she loved. Let Sairien keep her secret, let Maegisil keep his. And Narisiel? Well, she too would keep her secrets now. Let them believe what they would! Of the rings, of the elves who made them, of Celebrimbor – and of his eventual fate. Let them all be remembered in whatever fashion the storytellers saw fit to conjure up! Let them hope, let them dream. Maybe that was all existence had ever been based on: a hope, a dream. And now, for Narisiel, a new dream had begun.

[piosenniel]

A month or more had passed since King Durin led his troops from the West-gate and set them against the dark foe. The battle had been fierce; the Dwarves fanning out from the entrance to the mountain to meet the Orcs and Easterlings on a number of fronts. Their numbers, large as they were, drawn from the families throughout the caverns, were no match, however, for the overwhelming number of the enemy.

But King Durin was a wise commander and he had a plan in mind. Not to vanquish Sauron’s troops, nor even to win against them in a short term foray. Those he knew would be only vainly tried, and many Dwarves would be lost in the trying. Instead, he had devised a hit and run tactic. Sting the enemy from the rear in a number of places, retreat, regroup elsewhere, and then harry them again. This maddened the Orcs and Men and set them chasing the Dwarves willy-nilly, in a futile attempt to stomp out their aggravating attacks. The King’s objective was to draw off Sauron’s army in an attempt to take the pressure off the combined troops of Elrond, Celeborn, and those Dwarves led by Rori Ironfoot.

It had proved an effective maneuver. But not without its own terrible consequences. The whole of the dark army turned upon the Dwarves of Khazad-dum and pushed against them mercilessly, driving them back to the stone gates. Many fell, defending the gates as their friends and kin retreated to the safety of the caverns and the halls. And when the gates were at last shut hard against Sauron’s wicked mignons, the names of those dead defenders were tallied . . . and read out in the King’s own hall . . .

~*~

Unna left the small oil lamp burning in her chambers. Leifr was snuggled in against her back, his eyes closed, lost in dreams. Tonight, she thanked Mahal, they were seeming pleasant ones. Ginna fretted in the oaken cradle next to the bed. Unhappy at her circumstances, she stiffened her tiny arms and pushed her fists hard against the blankets that were settled over them.

‘Sshhh!’ crooned Unna, taking the little one up in her arms and nestling her in the crook of her arm. ‘You’ll wake your brother.’ She brushed back the damp curls from her daughter’s fretful brow, and let her nurse to quiet her. ‘Let him sleep, little one,’ she murmured in a singsong manner. ‘Let him sleep . . . sleep . . . and you , too . . .’

Half drowsing, she pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Both her babes were quiet now, lost in the sweet release of sleep. She caught herself listening for the fall of her husband’s boots on the stone tiled floor, and half rose up on an elbow, waiting for him to push open the door and join them in the family bed. His great arms would settle the little ones between them, and he would reach above their heads to kiss her cheek. Then smiling, his fingers would graze her cheek for a moment and a few tender words would pass between them, scattered among the ordinary tellings of the day gone by. He would drift into sleep, then, she recalled, smiling at the image – his eyes growing heavy, his breathing softer and more shallow.

In the soft light of lamp, her eyes grew bright with tears . . .

There were only these memories now of him to comfort her. No sounds of footsteps drew near; the door stayed firmly shut; no familiar weight of him on the other side of the mattress, no lingering warmth where his lips had touched her cheek.

Riv was gone from her. One of the fallen, defending heroes.

Cold comfort, those words. Her pride at his actions could not fill the aching loss. Nor had the hurt and sorrow abated since first the news had come to her.

Leifr stirred in his sleep. Turning, she pulled him closer, kissing his brow. She reached back for Ginna and brought her to lie between them. ‘It will be alright,’ she murmured to them. And again, more softly, ‘It will be alright . . .’

As if the saying of the words might make it so . . .

[Arry]

A quarter year’s journey . . . . . . SA 1697

They had had to take the long way round. The West Gate was shut fast and boulders and trees and whatever the foul servants of Sauron could find had been thrown against it, in an effort it seemed, to break into the Dwarves’ stronghold. But the Doors of Durin, secured by Elven spell and the craftsmanship of the Dwarves, had held fast.

Over the spine of the mountains they made their cautious way, their path often deviating from the shortest route as they avoided the unsafe places where remnants of Orc and other might still lurk. There were too few of them to stand against an attack. Of the twenty who had stayed to fight alongside the Elves, only eleven now remained, still led by Rori Ironfoot. And when at last they reached the Dimrill Stair, their hearts grew lighter. There lay Kheled-zaram, below; still and smooth were its waters, and the encircling mountains stood guard about it, within and without.

There was wonder in the faces of the guards who stood watch at the approach to the eastern gate. They hailed their road-worn kin and sent a runner back to the gate that those long thought perished with the Elves had come home.

Many were gathered in the great hall that formed the eastern entryway. Looks of hope turned for some to cries of joy as they saw their family member and rejoiced. For others, the hope was short-lived, and tears streaked the now grim faces. Many of the returned companions stepped forward to console those who had lost men, giving comfort with words as they might.

Skald was eager to be away to the Stonecut Hall at the western end of the caverns. Eager to see his family once again, to put down his weapon and his armor and to put on his thick leather apron and take up the tools of his trade. But most of all, he wished to see his father and Riv. He had asked for news of them, but the answers were vague – most of those gathered more concerned with finding their own kin or what had happened to them.

Less than two days longer, and he and Bror had traversed the long route from the east to west gate. It was very early in the morning when they arrived; none were stirring yet in the great hall. Flinging their packs and weapons on the floor of the entryway, they hurried quickly to the kitchen, hoping to find some.

‘Riv will be there,’ chuckled Skald. ‘Making his third cup of tea, I’ll bet. And staring into the fire. He never was a hurrier . . . our brother. He’ll be waiting for Unna to come up and cook his breakfast.’ Skald paused and turned Bror at his side. ‘Eggs, if you have them,’ they began in sing-song imitation of their brother’s usual morning request. ‘And don’t break the yolks, please. And if we don’t have eggs, then mush with honey and milk. And four slices of thick, toasted bread.’ They were laughing as they entered the kitchen.

It was Viss who looked up from his cup of tea at them – a look of utter disbelief on his face. He set his mug down shakily on the table and got up quickly, his chair clattering to the stone floor as he rose. His face, they noted was more lined and care worn, and there were tears in his eyes as he stumbled toward them. ‘My sons, my sons,’ he rasped out in a voice heavy with relief at the sight of them. Taking them both in his outspread arms he clasped them tightly to his chest.

Others of the family had come into the kitchen to see the source of the commotion; they, too, surrounded Bror and Skald, touching them often, making sure they were really there. Little Leifr ran to clutch at his uncles’ legs, his mouth bowed up in a great smile.

Unna was the last. She transferred the wriggling Ginna to her grandpa’s arms and put a hand, then, each to Skald and Bror’s faces. ‘Oh, more than welcome are your faces . . . my heart . . . our hearts are bursting with the joy of your return,’ she said to them.’

Skald looked toward the door, and not seeing the face he expected to have come, too; his brow furrowed. ‘And where is Riv?’ he asked. ‘He’s not abed yet, is he? The sluggard!’ Unna’s eyes clouded at his question. And Leifr, Skald noted, looked sadly toward his mother.

‘Come,’ said Viss, once more in control of himself. He pulled out two chairs and sat down motioning for his sons to take a seat. Unna gathered up the two little ones and retreated, as did the others of the Stonecut clan. When the kitchen was quiet, and only the hiss and pop of the fire in the grate remained, Viss spoke.

‘It was like this,’ he began, his eyes fixed on the worn, familiar surface of family table, as if seeing the field of battle once more . . .

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

Five years later – Skald’s workshop . . . . . SA 1702

It was the turn of the new year. News had come from a company of Dwarves passing near the edges of Lorien. Men had come to the aid of the Lindon Elves. Men in great ships from across the western sea. They had pushed Sauron south and east out of Eriador and at the Gwathlo River they had overcome his army. Sauron, it was said, had escaped and now hid himself away within the walls of Mordor.

Viss sat on a chair that Skald had brought into his workshop especially for him. A thick bear hide was thrown over it, cushioning the aging bones and joints of the elder Dwarf. Ginna, now almost five years old sat on his knee. Her dark eyes swiveled from her uncle to her Grandpa and back again as they rehashed the news that had traveled from the eastern halls.

‘He’s a bad, bad man,’ she pronounced at a lull in the conversation. ‘I hope his mountains fall on him!’

Skald looked from her to his father, his brows raised. He wanted to agree with her; the anger and the sadness that surrounded Riv’s death had barely dimmed in these intervening years. It was still a sharp pain that crept up on him at time and took his breath away at the memory of it.

Unna had come to the doorway; she had brought the mid-day meal in a covered basket for him and Viss. As he looked away from Viss toward Ginna, thinking on what to say to her, he saw Unna looking at him expectantly. And he nodded at her, a half smile acknowledging what was needed here and now. It had come easier now, these times when he was called to put aside his own feelings and consider how the oldest brother should act . . . how Riv would expect him to act. Skald wondered if there would ever come the time that he did not first reflect on what his brother would do.

I’m trying my best, Riv. I’m stepping up . . . as you asked me to . . . and as best I can.

He scooped Ginna up in his arms. ‘He is a bad man, little one. But let’s leave what happens to him in the hands of Mahal and those who can strike the blow needed to make him stop his badness.’ He tickled her a little, getting a high squeal of laughter in return. ‘Let’s think of something happier to hope for,’ he said setting her back down on the floor.

‘Well, I’m hoping Unna has made those thick ham sandwiches with smoked cheese, sliced thin. And that good mustard I saw her putting up just last week.’ Viss chuckled deep in his chest and picked up the corner of the cloth that covered the basket. He smiled, seeing just the sort of sandwich his belly was clamoring for.

Leifr, now a gangly lad of ten, glared at his sister as he entered the workshop behind his mother. ‘Well, I know what I’m hoping for!’ he said sticking his tongue out at Ginna from behind Unna’s back. ‘That you turn into a lizard and get stuck in a hole somewhere!’ Ginna had inherited her family’s love of practical joking, and though she was half the age of her brother, she was much better at thinking up pranks than he was.

Ginna hmmmmph’d at him, her eyes lighting up at the thought of getting back at him. ‘Well, I have a new wish. And one much nicer than thinking about that Sour-One.’

Unna stifled a laugh and urged her daughter to go on.

Drawing close to her mother, Ginna put her small hand on Unna’s swollen belly. ‘And I hope,’ she said loudly, looking directly at her brother. ‘I hope that I get a brand new sister. Then me and her are gonna get you good!!!!’

Leifr protested, folding his arms over his chest. He glared back at his sister. ‘That’s not fair!’ Skald put his hand on Leifr’s shoulder and bent down to whisper in his ear, bringing a grin to the boy’s face.

‘Yes, it could be a new sister,’ Unna laughed, looking at Ginna and coming to stand by her less-than-a-year’s-turning husband. She slipped her hand into Skald’s and gave it a squeeze. ‘Or it could be a little brother.’ She nodded reassuringly at Leifr. Unna smiled mischievously and put Skald's hand on her belly. ‘Or it could be both!’

Cries of ‘No fair!’ rang out at this announcement, from both Ginna and her brother.

‘Hush now! Grandpa’s got something to say!’ Viss’ voice boomed out above the sibling argument. He held up the basket and patted his own belly. ‘Grandpa is hungrier than an old cave bear!’ He put on a fierce face and swung his head back and forth much like a bear might do, his eyes flicking from Ginna to Leifr and back again. His voice rumbled from deep in his chest. ‘Now, let’s get to eating these good sandwiches . . . before I have to eat the two of you!’

[Folwren]

Bror leaned back away from the gleaming and shining edge of his axe. His eyes studied the curving blade with the utmost scrutiny. With a grunt of some satisfaction, he bent forward again and continued to sharpen it. It had been fortunate enough to send a few orcs to their death this last excursion, and for that, at least, Bror was pleased.

A young, piping voice hailed him from the door way. ‘Skald said you’d be back!’

Bror turned his head and smiled broadly as his nephew walked in. ‘Well, well, Leifr! What are you doing here?’ He lowered the axe to his knee and watched the boy approach him.

‘Mami said that I could come down and watch you fix your axes until supper,’ he replied, ‘then to tell you that you are to come promptly to the kitchen, wash up, and join us.’

‘Your mother said that, did she?’ Bror asked, another smile coming to his face. ‘Well, I guess I’d better obey orders. But this axe needs finishing up first. Sit down, my lad.’ Leifr did as he was bidden and Bror took back up his weapon and the sharpening stone. They were both silent for the first few careful strokes and a cold ringing resounded with each one.

‘Did you meet any orcs this time?’ the child asked after a pause.

‘Yes, indeed! In the valley below the gate. We beat them sorely. Not a single of them left to carry any of their measly news to their leaders.’ A strange light flickered in his eyes an instant and then went out. ‘It was only a small group. But enough,’ he added in a muttered tone to himself. ‘There,’ he said the next instant, ‘that’s finished. Let’s go promptly to the kitchen, then. Supper won’t be quite ready, but I’d like to see everyone as soon as possible.’ He stood up and hung the axe carefully in its place and then came back and took Leifr’s waiting hand.

They walked through the bright halls and corridors. Bror greeted people as he passed, everyone going home after a day’s work. At the door of the Stonecut halls, they met up with Skald. The brothers greeted each other warmly and clasps hands, and then they all went in together.

‘I figured you’d be back today,’ Skald said as they entered the kitchen.

‘Then you figured correctly,’ Bror replied, grinning. ‘Hello, Unna.’ She waved to them from the stove and continued her work. Bror stopped and watched Skald go to her to get his homecoming kiss and a few sweet, quiet words passed between the two of them. He barely stifled a sigh and then turned his glance towards the doorway as Ginna came running through it. She gave an excited exclamation and came straight to him. He caught her up in his arms, laughing.

‘I put a great chunk of ice in Leifr’s bed last night,’ the girl whispered in his ear first thing. ‘You should’ve heard him yell and holler.’ Bror concealed his smile and glanced briefly towards Leifr. The boy was busy setting the table and hadn’t heard.

‘Thought that one up all by yourself?’ he asked, in the same quiet tone of voice. She nodded, a wide grin on her face. ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Now go help your brother.’ He set her down and she scampered off to lend a hand. Whether she ended up being more of a burden than a help, Bror didn’t wait to see. Skald was approaching him again and they were soon in close conversation.

The meal was wonderfully good (as only Unna could make it, Skald insisted) and everyone present enjoyed it. Bror was asked how the scouting had been and how far they had gone and other such details. Since the battle in Eregion, there had been many orcs wandering over the mountains and there were often parties of Dwarves going out and skirmishing with them.

Bror went with those scouting parties rather often lately. Skald had asked him why some time ago, and he had simply answered, ‘Because of Riv,’ and that seemed to have been enough. At least, Skald hadn’t asked again or argued with him. Bror didn’t know what else to do. Skald had Unna and Leifr and Ginna, and another one on the way. But Bror was too young to have a wife yet. . .but still, coming home, and being with them all again was always better than the long marches, and the hot, bloody battles, regardless of how many orcs he killed himself. Yes, the return was always better than the going away.

When they had finished the meal (and it took a rather long time), Bror whispered something to Leifr, and the boy went off immediately, coming back in a moment with Bror’s harp cradled carefully in his arms. His Uncle took it from his hands gently and quietly tuned it. Then he played simple, quiet melodies until Unna was finished cleaning.

Most of the lamps and candles were blown out, and the fire was the main source of light left. Skald sat smoking his old pipe, and Unna mended socks without the need of extra light. The children sat on the ground before the fire, and Bror said in the shadows just on the edge of the flickering light.

‘This is for you, Unna and Skald,’ he said. ‘You’ll remember this one.’ His fingers felt the familiar strings in the darkness and he played softly in the stillness an old song. The introduction lifted Unna’s head and he caught the glimmer of her eyes in the firelight as he began to sing.

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head. . .

An image of his brother rose in Bror’s mind. Life may continue, and happy times come again, but he would never be forgotten. A soft melancholy smile came to Bror’s face as he continued.

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

[Durelin]

Mithalwen's post


Spring SA 1705

Losrian woke to the now familiar sounds of Imladris but it seemed as if the world had been cast anew. She looked across at the one who slept peacefully next to her and smiled. She had not thought such happiness was possible. It had been hard bought but still she felt it undeserved.

Fifteen years earlier, not yet of age she had left Lindon and her parents and gone to seek what she thought to be her destiny in Ost-in Edhil. The fate was not as expected but, given that she could not return the dead to life, she would not exchange it. She looked up at the carved beams of her ceiling and laughed inwardly to think what Ferin would have said had he known how much of her time had been spent at working wood since the day when the Army of Elrond and the refugees of Eregion had come across the hidden valley of Rivendell. So few of the craftsmen had survived that even an apprentice such as herself had increased status and while she still loved metalwork most, in Imladris it seemed natural to shape the buildings to be in harmony with their environment and even the metal work took organic form.

It would be long before the work would be completed but once the essentials of shelter had been met, the natural inclination of the Eldar and the Noldor in particular to marry beauty with function had surfaced. Naturally Losrian had not neglected her own dwelling. Less affected by the loss of Ost in Edhil itself than many of those who had lived there longer, she approached the task of building the refuge with great enthusiasm, fuelled by her own happiness. Before they had met, Losrian had imagined marriage as somthing that would stifle her but Ondomirë's love had increased her self confidence and her creativity had flowered.She remembered the moment she had first seen the valley, and the rush of joy that had seized her, knowing instantly that their wandering was over, that this would be her home with Ondomirë.

A little time had been spared from essentials in those early days for her to craft with the more expert help of Cainenyo two slender bands of silver and the formal betrothal of Losrian and Ondomirë. was the first celebration held at Imladris. Losrian had worn the dress crafted for her coming of age by Laswen which had somehow survived months in a bag in a cart along with the few non-essential possessions that she had brought out from the ruin of Eregion. It was she thought, probably the first time Ondomirë had seen her in a dress.

The next time was at their wedding a year later. She had joked that the only reason she did not resent the customary delay was the need to sew her wedding gown and had hoped that the other elf women would take pity on her as Laswen had, especially since she worked long hours at forge and lathe in the common good. However to her surprise, with their guidance she found that her needle flew and she realised that as with the osanwë-kenta motivation was all. She wanted the dress to be as fair as possible as an expression of her love for Ondomirë and her will seemed to mould her skill. Though by the time of their wedding, their happiness was tempered by the knowledge that the valley was an isolated island in a sea of evil they trusted in "estel" that it would not always be so. Lying safe in her husband's embrace, their hair mingled raven and silver on the pillow Losrian found it easy to have faith.

In the early days the deepest shadow on Losrian's heart was a bittersweet one. As she had predicted some of the farming folk of Eregion had taken refuge in the foothills of the mountains; scouts had found them and guided them to Imladris. Among them had been Isilmë's maternal grandparents. Although Losrian had always spoken the proviso that she would care for the little girl unless her kin could be found the likelihood that this would happen seemed so remote that she had ceased to think it, and had started to think of the girl as part of her family. Although the child would dwell in Rivendell and she would see her daily, yielding the lass to her own delighted family had caused her an exquisite pain that she managed to conceal from most. Not from Ondomirë in whose tender arms she had wept long in private and not from Elrond who saw many things. He had stood at her side and watched with her as Galmir and Isilmë played together. His voice reached her mind "I think in the long term it will be better that those twain are not raised as brother and sister" . Losrian caught his meaning and was comforted. He added "and you will have more children in your house in time". "But not in time of war" she answered. "Wars do not last forever Losrian" he said before leaving her to her thoughts.

Galmir grew, thrived and treated the valley as a giant playground. While Losrian and Ondomirë worked hard they devoted as much time as they could to him and little boy who had been delighted when he realised that the wedding meant that they would live together "like ada and ammë" and had called Ondomirë, Ada-mirë.

Elrond had been right. Sauron's hold over had been short lived. The king of Numenor had sent a great army to the aid of Middle Earth and in 1701 the Dark Lord had been driven back to Mordor and the Westlands would have peace for many years.

As Galmir grew he began to show more traits in face and personality to his parents and grandparents. While he provided such fair remembrance of her lost kin, Losrian felt an increased yearning for another child, one who would reflect the likeness of her beloved Ondomirë and his kin, mingled with her own. In Coirë a year ago, all three of them had gone for a walk in the woods that lined the valley. Ondomirë and she had sat on a fallen trunk and watched Galmir attempt to climb a beech. Noting his lengthening limbs and increasing confidence, Ondomirë had commented that he would soon teach the lad archery and commented that he wasn't a baby any more. He had been surprised by his wife's wistful sigh at his remark. "What is the matter, melda? " he asked silently " You have seemed restless lately..... do you wish to go to Lindon to see your parents .... now that it is safe? " "No! - I mean yes I would love to see them again but .... that is not it " and she opened her mind to reveal the one thing she had tried to conceal from him since their marriage.

Understanding her he had laughed but asked why she had not spoken before knowing how much he loved Galmir. "I thought you would think we should wait a while longer ... but I do not want to wait any more" she said gazing at her feet.
"If you are ready, I am ready " he said and drew her to him, resting his head against hers in the same gesture he had made when she had accepted him nearly eight years before.

In the spring, Losrian conceived and it seemed to her that the changes in her body mimicked nature as it softened and swelled while the flowers budded and blossomed. The plants however rushed to full ripeness and in the autumn while they yielded their harvest, Losrian felt the first stirring of the new life within herself . Unable to express her joy in craft she took up her lute again and made music as long as she could accomodate the roundness of the intrument's belly against her own. In her happiness she lost her shyness and cared not who heard her as she sang and played. Ondomirë was as loving and attentive as she could wish and Galmir, to her relief was looking forward to the arrival of the child that would link them all. "Would you like it to be a boy or a girl?" she had asked him as he rested his little hands on her feeling for the movement of the unborn child with a rapt expression on his face. "Both " he replied. "Well I am fairly certain there is just one in there - you will have to make do with one or the other and hope we don't get the same again next time" she had answered. "Already you think about next time?" asked Ondomirë, and she had seen no reason not to, her pregnancy had given her much joy and little trouble at least until her labour had started.

Now as she lay back on her pillows, little more than a day later, those memories were already fading, overwhelmed by the love she felt for her firstborn, her husband and Galmir the child of her heart. The baby woke and holding the child against her Losrian wondered at the perfection of its tiny limbs and gazed into grey eyes which were so like Ondomirë's.

As if in answer to the thought he arrived with Galmir and she passed the baby to its father while she embraced the little boy, reassuring him that he was loved no less than the new arrival.

The infant seemed even tinier cradled in Ondomirë's arms and watching them with Galmir at her side, she committed the image to her memory, whatever the future brought, this moment would sustain her trust in days when it was harder to believe in Estel. But this was not the time to think of such things. It was a time for joy, for celebration. She smiled at Ondomirë

"So, have you chosen a name?"


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Envinyatar's post


SA 1712



It had been a six month’s journey, from Imladris to Lórien and return. Lord Elrond, with a number of his counselors, had met with Celeborn and Galadriel. There were matters to discuss concerning Sauron. Though a certain level of peace reigned from Rhovanion to Forlindon, still he was not vanquished totally, only gone to ground for now. And once he had rewoven his foul deceits, they knew he would return again to pursue his schemes.

In order to accompany Lord Elrond on this mission, Ondomirë had taken off his leather apron, the one he used to work on the shelves for the library Elrond desired to be built; put away the hammer, the nails, and the attendant rolls of bandage that often cushioned his unfortunate forays into anything more complicated than nailing one board to another. And pick up his bow and armour once again.

That Ondomirë was a master of the bow was never questioned, but clearly his talents in the art of carpentry and woodworking left much to be learned. Still he persisted at it, to the amusement of the other Elves involved. He liked the feeling of building something, of making even as simple a thing as a shelf. It was worlds away from his long years of war, of killing.

The trip was uneventful, as far as any danger from Orcs or other of Sauron’s creatures left to fend for themselves since his departure. Instead there was a bit of good fortune for Ondomirë on a short patrol he’d gone on with three others of his bowmen.......

---

‘Atya! Atya!’

The chorus of nearing voices grew louder the closer he drew to his dwelling. It was Miril, first, his thin little legs pumping hard as he ran toward his daddy. And Gally, the older brother, holding him up by his tunic shoulder so that he didn’t stumble. Ondomirë smiled at this image of the two boys . . . of his two boys. He leaned down and grabbed them up as they came windmilling to him. They wriggled and squealed against his armour, giving him quick hugs about the neck, and then reaching down to grab at the clasp of the leather pouch strung over one shoulder. He put them down and handed over the pouch, directing Gally to give out the presents that he’d brought from Lórien. ‘The one with the dark blue ribbon is yours,’ he told the boy, ruffling his hair as eager fingers lifted out the prizes. ‘Red for Miril . . . and where’s my girl?’ he asked, looking to where Losrian stood, their two-year old daughter in her arms.

‘Come, Ancalimë, my bright little bird.’ The little girl clutched onto her mother, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Come . . . here, atya will take off his armour, his bow, his sword.’ Her face smoothed out as he spoke softly to her, and once he was down to his breeches and tunic, his weapons and such at his feet, she looked as if she might recognize him.

‘You’re missing out, Anca!’ cried Gally, holding up a pretty, little, soft sewn dolly. ‘Look! She has silver hair, just like you and ammë. And her dress is green, too, just like yours!’

‘Atya?’ she said as Losrian crouched down and nudged her toward her father. He, too, knelt down as she ran toward him. A generous, wet kiss was planted on his cheek and the dolly clutched to her own chest as Gally handed it off. She toddled happily back to her mother to show it off.

‘Don’t worry, atya,’ Gally offered, his hands on his hips as he watched his little sister. ‘She’s a big ammë’s-girl since you left.’ He snorted, already wondering at the ways of females. ‘Me and Miril have built a little fort down by the little stream,’ he went on, turning back. ‘You can come play with us . . . if you want,’ he added hopefully. Ondomirë chuckled at the invitation, saying ‘yes’, but tomorrow, it would have to be. “I want to spend some time with ammë . . .’

Anca had gone off to play with her brothers as Ondomirë stood back up. Losrian’s eyes were on her daughter, a smile of simple delight at the scene lighting up her face. He watched her for a moment, drinking in the familiar grace of her. The breeze picked up a few stray strands of her hair, fanning them out. They shimmered silvery against the evening’s sky.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said softly, drawing her to his side as he came near.

‘And your supper, too,’ she teased him. ‘Many times over by my reckoning!’ Taking his hand she urged him back to their dwelling, saying the children would be occupied with their toys and the fireflies that would soon be out.

He watched her as she moved easily about the little kitchen area. Filling a bowl for him, offering him bread . . . and would he have wine, or water. She flitted about much as the bright fireflies the children were so fond of catching. ‘Alight for a moment,’ he said grasping her wrist as she placed a mug of wine in front of him. ‘I have news of Skald and his family.’

There had been a brief encounter as they crossed back over the mountains near Lórien, heading back towards Imladris. Ondomirë and several of his bowmen had circled back behind the group of Elves to scout for anyone or anything following them. Skald and several other Dwarves were spotted heading south, back towards Khazad-dum, the Elves supposed. ‘We would have let them pass without knowing we were there, save that I recognized the brooch the lead Dwarf wore on his cloak. It was your gift to him, Losrian. He still has it . . . the garland of flowers and leaves.’ She nodded for him to go on, her eyes bright with anticipation.

‘He looks as . . . well, good as ever. Dwarvishly good. His eyes twinkle with a new happiness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘One we did not see . . . back then. ‘There was sad news . . . his older brother, Riv, died in that last assault from beneath the mountain - when they drew the Orcs and others from us. But Skald and his younger brother, Bror, returned safely to their hall.’ He smiled, recalling the glad news they both had exchanged of wedding and of family. ‘He’s taken a wife, or as he put it – she’s taken him. His brother Riv’s widow. And they have a son themselves. Rauði, he’s called; three years older than our Miril. And Riv’s son and daughter are part of their little brood, of course.’

‘We spoke of some our time together, his and mine. And I joked at my, our, first sighting of you and how glad I was your arrow had not pierced me when first we found you and Gally. It was Skald who slapped me on the back at the recollection and laughed that from where he sat, your arrow had flown straight to my heart.’ Ondomirë reached up to tuck a stray silver hair behind her ear. His finger lingered for a moment, then trailed down the hollow of her neck from earlobe to collarbone. ‘Clever Dwarf!’ He sat back and looked at her face.

‘But I forget myself . . . he taught me a song, as we sat about a little campfire in the evening. Said it was a present for us. An old song, from before the lands sank beneath the sea. There was a small country in the far northwest where the Dwarves had halls once. And he said that when he sang it, he often thought of you and me and wondered what had become of us. You are the lovely Queen and I, apparently, the stricken suitor.’

‘He said he wished that his brother Bror were there with him. He plays the harp it seems and his voice is far better than Skald’s – or so Skald says. But I told him, mine was not much meant for singing, either. So he would be a fine enough teacher for the likes of me.

Losrian clapped her hands and grinned at him, commanding him to sing it. He stood up from the chair, grabbing a clean pan from the counter to use as a drum. With a look of mild apology, he cleared his throat and began . . .

~o~

Gentlemen it is me duty
To inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favour
Not to seek her for a while
Though I own she is a creature
Of character and feature
No words can paint the picture
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

On the evening that I mentioned
I passed with light intention
Through a part of our dear country
Known for beauty and for style
In the place of noble thinkers
Of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendour
Shone the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

So my lads I needs must leave you
My intentions no' to grieve you
Nor indeed would I deceive you
Oh I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her
To court her and attain her
I fear my heart's in danger
From the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty

Of the Queen of all Argyll . . .

~o~

‘Atya is singing!’ Miril’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it. The trio of little ones stood in the entry way listening.

‘Yes,’ said Gally, his grubby hands holding tight to those of his brother and sister. ‘Come on, Anca . . . Miri . . .’ He looked, smiling, back to where his mother and father now had their arms wrapped about each other. ‘Bring your toys. I think we can get ourselves off to bed . . . don’t you?’

[Durelin]

Many said that the guiding hand of Ilúvatar had led his suffering children to the valley, which he protected, as he would always, from the growing shadow. It certainly was a beautiful sanctuary, and some boasted that they would build a city more wonderful even than Ost-in-edhil, a flower blooming amidst the ruins and so prettier than before. But all knew in their hearts that this could not be. There would never be another Ost-in-edhil – the Mírdain would never be the same. And in the minds of many, it was certain that the doom of the Mírdain had already come, and the few survivors that clung to the many memories that they could gather up, were but the death throws of a dying breed. They had seen the River Sirannon flowing red, the walls of Ost-in-edhil crumble, their lord and founder fail: their doom had long since come.

They were betrayed.

“I will not follow another lord who seeks to glorify his name further by founding a new city. And I will not let my people be led by an elf who never even dwelt in Eregion.”

Maegisil was furious, his eyes flashing and his hands tightened into fists as he once again sat in meeting with the Lord Elrond. The refugees, as well as Elrond and the remainder of his army, had been occupying the valley that they named Imladris for some time, building at a considerable rate. Every one of the Mírdain spoke of what the citizens of their fallen city could have accomplished in the same amount of time, but some were beginning to find new hope. But the Herald of Gil-galad had sent word to the High King in Lindon, telling him of the fate of Eregion and the establishment of Imladris, many months ago; and they had just received word back. Maegisil did not like the news. But, for some reason, Elrond had wished to share it with him.

“I did not ask for this, you know that.” The lord’s voice was as calm as ever, though his intensity was clear. He never took his gaze away from Maegisil, who began to feel uncomfortable. He had not felt real comfort in several years, and that his wife sometimes wept for him did not help. Nor had he done anything to help in the building of a new city within the valley; he avoided contact with anyone but Sairien. She of course busied herself with whatever work she could do, and sometimes he heard her laugh – but it was never with him. He watched people often, wondering what they might be feeling, wondering how many times a day they thought of someone who they had not seen in almost two years. One day he thought he saw Narisiel from a distance, but having caught only a glimpse, he discarded the thought as impossible. There was no way she escaped from the city if he had not seen her yet. If she had been picked up as a refugee, he would have known. Someone would have told him; Sairien would have.

“Why do these people require a lord?” Maegisil asked, skirting away from any issues concerning what this lord did or did not want. “It is obvious that they are quite capable of governing themselves.”

“The people always look to a leader, particularly in times of trouble.” Elrond knew that he had poured salt on the former counselor’s wounds with those words, but he continued to simply watch the elf seated across from him. But Maegisil’s reaction was not what he expected. The elf’s skin grew paler than usual, and his jaw was tight as he gritted his teeth seemingly in pain. His hands slid out of tight balls and he brought them up to his face, running them over his face as they trembled. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees, and held his head there for many moments. Elrond waited patiently. He was a lord; waiting was something he was an expert at.

When Maegisil finally spoke, raising his head only slightly from his hands, his voice obviously shook with emotion, though the lord could not apply a name to what he heard. It was not biting as if he were angry, nor was it edgy, or sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. Elrond would not forget his words, and, later, he would decide that perhaps the mirdan’s voice has simply been that empty: so vacant of any feeling or care that it reverberated in a void.

“There is a reason that we were called the ‘Dark Elves,’ Lord Elrond. It would have been better if we had left when it was our time, when we first heard the call of the sea. But now we cling to this world, this Middle-earth. And here we are, with lords and kings, wars and death, and the Shadow still a threat to us all; we are left with nothing but empty words and actions and a violent death. Thus is the life of the immortal, tied to this world. And thus have we made the world.”

“Maegisil--”

“Thus have I made the world.”

“Maegisil!” The lord’s voice rang out with pure authority, a natural sound of command that demanded to be heard. The former counselor grew silent. He had not yet forgotten what that voice meant. Celebrimbor had been a lord through and through. That elf Angoroth had killed was not Celebrimbor. Maegisil would never stop telling himself that.

“Maegisil…” Elrond began again, his voice calm again – almost pleading. He looked tired, and Maegisil was almost afraid to look him in the eyes, for fear of seeing something from the past. It was the same kind of fear he had for closing his eyes. He was trying to erase them, those faces from his mind. He would never see them again, and he was afraid to. “We are building a new world for ourselves here. Please, you can help us, and you can build a new life with us.”

“Do you really think it will be any different?”

“I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

“Celebrimbor would have said the same thing.”

Elrond sighed, and his façade of calm was broken as he ran his own hands over his face, looking more and more disheveled. It seemed that the past few years had taken as much toll on him as it had Maegisil, though the former counselor did not want to really believe that. He observed the elf’s hard features, though, as they tensed up, and watched his eyes as they shifted to stare down at the small table before him that served as a desk. It was strangely empty but for a few papers and a candle that looked as if tonight would be its last night to burn. Both the elves in that tent felt much like that lump of wax, sitting in the makeshift room because Elrond had insisted that there were many more important things to be built than lordly halls and chambers. Maegisil had conveniently forgotten that, and should have remembered that Celebrimbor’s palace was the first thing to be completed in Ost-in-edhil, with the rest of the city sprawling out around it. Of course it had been planned that way, but it had not simply been due to happenstance.

Suddenly Elrond held the other elf’s gaze again, and he seemed to read part of what went on in the former counselor’s mind, having watched the warring emotions twisting his face. Maegisil dropped his eyes again, and clutched his hands together, appearing as if he was in prayer. And if he indeed was, he was praying for forgiveness.

“There are words, and there are actions,” Elrond said simply, watching Maegisil intently. He was trying to express to the elf something without actually saying it, for putting such a thing into words would do it no justice. It would sound silly, and childish, for the lord to say simply that he would not make the same mistake, or that things really would be different. And he of course could not prove that he would be at all different from Celebrimbor. But there was trust. Maegisil had been betrayed just as Eregion and all its people had been betrayed, and he in return had betrayed the betrayer. Elrond knew that the elf had seen that there was no end to it. He had to see now why there was trust, and why it was not to be taken lightly. It was necessary, as it was dangerous.

“You know there are greater powers at work here,” the lord said slowly after several more moments of silence: slowly, as Maegisil began to break from his shell. The mirdan would have to reconcile with much from the past, and he would have to do that on his own, but Elrond wanted to give him some kind of hope for the future. There was a reason that this was known as the Second Age. An Age of recollection had already passed, and the land itself had changed shape since the beginning of Eä. Peoples had changed and traveled, building cities and kingdoms, only to seem them destroyed or simply slip away into dust and memory. And always there came something new, whether those who rebuilt remembered who they succeeded or not. Imladris could not forget.

Maegisil’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes slightly at the lord. “You speak of the Rings. What has happened to the Rings?”

“They are still safe in the hands of those they were given to. Círdan bears one, as does Galadriel. Lindon and Lorien are protected by their power.”

“But what of the third?”

Elrond held out his hand, and Maegisil was filled with wonder.

“It has been passed on.”

~*~*~*~

Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would be the doom of his people. The glory of the Mírdain could never have shown brighter during his reign there, and all the skill and wonder of their art was encompassed in those Rings. It was the last Ring forged, not amidst the holly plains of Eregion, but in the blasted lands of Mordor, that was the undoing of them all. Celebrimbor, the great lord of Eregion, was deceived by the Deceiver. All would remember that, and all would remember how he learned of this deception and insured the safety of the most powerful of the Rings. And they would remember how he died with his city. As most recalled it, he seemed a hero. So few could ever dare to question how the lord came to be deceived, and how the city really met its doom. Of course, all those questions were assumed to be answered by one name: Sauron, the Servant of Melkor. In two Ages, he spread the Shadow over the lands of Middle-earth. So few could withstand him – why would he not overtake even such a great lord, as well?

He was betrayed.

Celebrimbor’s death surely could not have been avoided, though it was revenge the Dark Lord sought. It was the folly of the lord that brought destruction to Eregion so soon. But would it have only been a matter of time? Few would blame Celebrimbor. And no one has any rememberance of the name Maegisil. Eregion is remembered, as is its greatest city, home of its lord. It is remembered that many died there. The legacy of the Rings lived on. Some could say that they truly brought many new terrors upon Middle-earth. But of course no one could blame Celebrimbor for all of that. He did not know; he could not. And he died because of it.

But he was betrayed.

Maegisil was not remembered, in fame or infamy. He would not have wished it to be any other way. He watched a lord fall, and a friend wither away, sitting by while the world changed rapidly around him. It was as if time stood still in Eregion, as it would be said it did in Lorien, perhaps due to the power of the Nenya. But there were no Rings in Eregion. They passed on to bearers whose names would come before Celebrimbor’s in memory. Perhaps it was not his pride that forced him to be silent all those years. But who would dare say that such a great lord would ever be afraid? It was only his fate and the fate of all his people that seemed to be determined: all by nineteen Rings, forged by the Mírdain’s own hands.

They were betrayed.

Sauron the Deceiver he was known as. But there is no one known as the Betrayer. Who then, were the Mírdain betrayed by? The destruction of Ost-in-edhil was the merciless revenge of the Servant of Melkor, for he was wroth that he had not attained the Three strongest of the Rings of Power. And why had they not been with the others? Because they were Celebrimbor’s creations, and his alone. He would not have given them up for his life – he had told himself that. They were his masterpieces, and his art was his life. But the lord sat in his hall in his city, until it fell into dust and ashes. The Rings lived on. Would he have wished to live to see what evil they caused?

But here was Imladris, Rivendell, the valley where Elrond would be lord. A new land, a new lord – it seemed fate, and all were happy to rebuild, though they feared the Shadow. The land flourished, and history would be made there during the War of the Ring. And a Ring would reside there, passed on to Elrond by the High King Gil-galad. The people there would be protected. After all, the Three Rings – Narya, Nenya, and Vilya – were the most powerful. The last strongholds of the Elves would be Rivendell and Lorien, where the power of the Rings reigned. And when the Third Age came to an end, and what some called the ‘Age of Men’ began, the Three Rings would be reunited upon the western shores. Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would protect his people and make the journey that he would never be able to make himself, into the West. Thus was the life of the immortal.

[piosenniel]

---------- Finis ---------

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~