Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

It is a curious thing to leave behind your house in any circumstances. A house is forged and tempered to appear, if not like its owner’s soul, then like a perception of that soul. It wrenches the spirit to abandon it.

How much odder, then, the Elf reflected, that he-who had been driven out of his last home by all the might of the Valarin Host-now countenanced leaving his small, utilitarian hall behind willingly; leaving it intact, pristine, down to the smithy, armoury, everything-but without anything but mice to dwell in it. And why was he doing this? Because of some water mixed with salt. O Sea, beloved thing, yet a stifler of hopes. The gulls were singing again as he looked out from the harbour of Mithlond.

But Malris had one last errand to attend to; half a tribute to lost friends, half, as he had to admit, self-indulgence and nostalgia. Before he set out to Tol Eressea, he would visit another domicile; the place he had lived when life still held excitement, possibilities; when the Long Defeat still looked like victory. He, and the five other survivors of Maedhros the Tall’s host, would go back to Himring.

Why else, after all, he thought, did the Valar preserve it? Surely if it alone survived the ruin of Beleriand, there is some greater purpose bound up with it. But what care I for things arranged by the uncaring Lords of the West? No; my reasons are private ones. I would look on the castle of Maedhros one more time before it is lost to me. And the others feel the same; have felt the same all this long age, or they would not have agreed to come.

“Gnome! Cease your maundering!” a harsh voice cried, scattering his thoughts. It was Cirdan’s harbour master, and like most of the Telerin Elves here, he hated Malris the moment he saw the Star of Feanor on his chest.

“Are you moving on or aren’t you?”

“I want a boat, fisherman.”

“Why don’t you kill for it? You’ve done it before.”

“And little good it did me. Silver,” Malris muttered, “is cheaper than steel. I learnt that eventually.”

“Yet you wear the murderer’s ensign.”

“I wear it for Maedhros,” Malris answered, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “For the beautiful, unmatched, fearless Prince who kept your lands safe from Orcs.”

“He proved little better than an Orc himself. I lost my wife at Sirion, blood-drinker.”

“Then,” Malris said, “we are more similar than you imagine. Find me a boat that will carry six, and then, truly, Teler, you will never have to set eyes on me again.”

There was a cough behind them. At first sight the new arrival might have been said to resemble an old bearded Man; but his eyes were too bright with starlight and wisdom.

“Malris of Forlindon. I received your missive. A vessel is provided for you and your five companions. In a week, return here, and we will take the Straight Road together.”

“I thank you, Shipwright,” Malris replied with a slight bow. “Now I will go to the boat. Tell the others where I have gone. Namarie, for better or worse.”


-- Anguirel --

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age's post

Lindir stood silent on the banks of the Lhûn, vacantly fixed on the churning waters that emptied into the Gulf. Far beyond, he could glimpse the distant Sea. At his back, to the north and west, hung the peaks of the Ered Lhûn. It was strange, he reflected, that the river and the mountains were called by the ancient Grey-elven term that meant “Blue” in the Common Tongue. In the past week, he had seen no hint of blue, only brown and green, in the miles of tangled forest and matted bracken through which he had trudged. Nor did the waters in front of him show any bluish hue, despite the bright sunshine that beat down from the heavens. He saw only dusky grey waters that gave no promise of comfort or a glimpse of better things to come. A lone gull appeared overhead, circled once, and then disapeared.

Lindir felt he had come to the end of his journey. He could not stay on in Middle-earth. The shores of Lindon and the lands further east brought no relief to his aching discomfort. Yet that decision held no measure of joy or anticipation. His journey from the Havens was not a well deserved rest after a life of purposeful activitity, but almost an admission of guilt of too many mistakes and missed chances that had slipped through his grasp. The events of the First Age as well as those of the Second had left him uneasy, deeply aware of the evil that shadowed the world and the fact that he was seemingly unable to do little to alleviate it. It was not only the bloodshed of the First Age that preyed on his mind, as ghastly as that had been, but his bungled attempts to atone for things at Eregion that had ended in such disaster.

When Malris had come to him some time ago with the suggestion that they pay a final visit to Himring and then sail from the Havens, Lindir had promised to think on the idea, but had not given his consent. Now, after spending a week secluded in the mountains, he had finally decided that Malris was right. It was time to leave behind the past and sail West. Whatever awaited him there surely could not be worse than what had happened in Middle-earth.

He had thought of asking Malris to forego the trek to Himring and have the group head straight out to the West. Himring was fraught with bitter memories, and Lindir could see little good in awakening these images. But Malris seemed determined; Lindir felt he had no chance of changing his comrade's mind, and he did not wish to disappoint him. There were too few Elves whom he could still call by the name of "friend". With a sigh, he picked up his pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders continuing on his path towards the harbor as he wondered what the morrow might bring.

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Tasarënì wiped away a quiet tear as she slowly passed through her deserted home for the last time. She had lived in Lothlorien as a maiden of the Lady of the Golden Wood for years beyond count. Though named for her love of the willows, the mallorns quickly became their equals in her heart, and she was loathe to leave them behind. She had watched silently as many of the first born passed from the land, tarrying long. For what had seemed an age, Tasarënì waited for an unknown sign, certain she would recognize it when it came. Every twilight she would walk the silent woods, marvelling. Song birds came to her, singing quiries of her sadness, and she smiled.

She looked to the sky, noting a single ray of starlight passing through the canopy. She smiled softly, eyes downcast. It was time. She turned, glancing for the last time at the water by her feet, the trees that had been her silent companions for many long years, bearing witness to her grief, never condemning her, and never asking of her what she cared not to answer.

A harsh cry pierced the air and she looked up, startled. A swift falcon was weaving carefully through the trees, making its way to Tasarënì. She lifted her arm, sending out a quick prayer that the handsome bird's sharp talons not hold too tightly. He landed gracefully and met her eye with the intelligence of his kind. She looked at him in amazement, noting not without a start the roll of paper bound to his leg.

She removed it quickly with one delicate hand as he perched patiently. With a flick of her wrist, Tasa unrolled the letter, tears coming to her eyes as she received the long awaited message... Malris requested her presence, accompanied by Lómwë, at the Grey Havens. It is time, she thought. Time to go home.

Silently, but with a small smile, Tasarënì walked through the woods, seeking for Lómwë. They would leave at the first light.

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

Dreary step by eager step, Lómwë drew ever nearer to the Grey Havens. He and Tasarënì would reach their destination by midday, he estimated. The journey had been long if uneventful, and traveled mostly in silence. It was not that there existed any particular aversion between the two; rather, they had nothing of importance that they cared to share. Lómwë could scarce remember the last time he had had a lengthy conversation of any real import – import to him, that is. The truth was, very little seemed important to him anymore. Now this trip; this was important. It was everything he had longed for and tried to escape for the last six and a half thousand years, and naturally, after so long he had some very strong feelings about it, feelings which he had expressed to no one. He had made it clear early on (subtly) that this topic was not open for conversation on his part, and fortunately Tasarënì did not seem overeager to discuss the subject either. Always though it lurked around the corner, ready to come up in discussion like a dark cloud preparing to storm. So, they hadn’t done a whole lot of discussing.

As was the norm, Lómwë was wrapped in his own thoughts, and currently his mind was turned towards the thought of home. He was going there, he supposed, though he was not exactly sure where “there” was. Certainly, home was not Lórien, where he had dwelt for so many years. In sunken Beleriand? Maybe. Valinor? Perhaps. He honestly wasn’t sure. He had long since lost a feeling of belonging anywhere. He wondered if finding this home, this sense of belonging, was his desire for the trip to Himring – now Himling, he corrected. He honestly did not know, for with the belonging he had also lost an ultimate purpose. It had all seemed so clear before we left Valinor, when Fëanor explained it, he mused. Yet it hadn’t been clear at all, nor was it now.

With a shake of his head, he cleared his thoughts. He had found that dwelling on these things changed the past not at all and his feelings about them hardly. If he did not fear to forget, he would not think of it at all, if he could help it.

Instead he concentrated on the path, for something to do rather than for need. He tried to think of something to say to Tasarënì to lighten the quiet, but found nothing. Thus the remainder of the trip was continued in silence.

They knew they were getting closer as the grey gulls wheeled overhead in increasing frequency. Soon the harbor came into view: the end, and the beginning. One of these grey ships would carry them on a voyage into the past, a past Lómwë felt ready to confront, or at least knew he needed to. It was a past full of sorrow and defeat mingled with valor and glory. Yet none of these were what Lómwë sought.

He sought peace.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post

The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll.

Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food.

His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading.

It had not proved so.

And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made.

In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys.

‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel’s post

There had been a brief pause for the evening meal. Made briefer by the silence which had grown on them since they’d come down from Lake Nenuial, heading south to Mithlond. Endamir cleared away the remains of the food and drink, then settled in, cross-legged, his pack within easy reach. A battered leather journal lay open on his left knee; the pot of ink on the ground by the same thigh. His eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into the distance, gathering his thoughts to continue.

. . . So little is left of that fair land. Once we would have ridden for days, following the course of the Sirion, until we reached the great bay. And from there a ship would have borne us to the Isle of Balar. No longer. Beneath the might of the Valar, the land fell; the sea rushed in.

The sea rushed in with a will those days.

It covered the places where we fought and fell; it could not cover our deeds . . .

Endamir’s quill moved quickly over the page. His eyes narrowed at the last few sentences. His hand hesitated, the quill raised, as if he might cross off the offending thoughts. ‘Leave them,’ he thought to himself. ‘It matters not. They will be left behind with none but Men to read them. And what will they know of undying sorrow and cankerous wrongs. Their little lives are too short for such consideration.’

Tomorrow will find us at the Grey Havens. Will we see Cirdan there? I wonder what he thinks of this last of the Havens. Does he find it rude in comparison to his others? Most likely not. He seems from all accounts an accommodating and adaptable sort. I wonder, too, how he can stand to return and wait for us who have taken so long to come to the sea. Does he pity us? Is that what fuels his patience. Does he gather us in like some shepherd with his bleating flock? Or like a father, his strayed sons.

I feel like neither – sheep nor child. Nor have I want of pity.

There is only that one small flame of hope, far in the distance. By the grace of the Valar, Cirdan and his ship will bear me there . . .

And Malris, he is sure to be there. And what of the others? Will they . . .

A stream of colorful words, heated imprecations, distracted him from his thoughts. Orëmir had cut his finger and was having no luck in bandaging it. With a half smile at his brother’s predicament he helped him fix the small strip of linen that held the mossy pad to the wound.

‘Now who is the healer?’ he chided, holding the bandaged digit up for Orëmir’s inspection. ‘And nicely done, I might add. Though there are smudges of ink on the knot, I fear.’

His brother smiled and Endamir found himself returning it in kind. ‘Come, brother,’ he said, slipping the carving knife back into its sheath. ‘It grows too dark for playing with knives or quills. Let us put them away for the night and make us a small fire to drive away the growing chill.’ He laughed, drawing his cloak more tightly about him as he gathered up his journal, quill, and ink and tucked them in the front pocket of his pack. ‘It was always so cold here,’ he continued. ‘You remember, don’t you? I must say that is one thing I have not missed these long years . . .’

~*~

Day found them leaning together, backs against a tall rock, their shoulders pressed against one another. Huddled within their cloaks, talking still. They had put that final question aside for a little while, now that the sea was so near; their arrival so final. And were for each other the brothers they had been in their younger years.

With lighter hearts, the truce still unbroken, they rode through the morning and arrived before mid-day at the Havens. With a minimum of false starts they found their way to the ship someone had told them was Malris’ vessel. Dismounting from their horses, they approached the boarding plank and seeing no one on deck, Endamir called out in a loud voice.

‘Malris! Are you there?’

[Anguirel]

The ship-and it might be going too far to give it such a grand title-was a simple, slender craft, with a single mast. It was, in most respects, like the other vessels at Mithlond, built of silver-grey wood; elegant, well-prowed, swift, in all probability. The only thing that set it aside was the sail furled up against its spar; what could be seen of it was not white, but black.

Glancing over the ramp, Endamir and Orëmir would discern several bales of pale grey rope; sacks, presumably containing provisions, that looked as though they could last for about a week; and one long, woollen blanket, with a peculiar lump under it.

“Utulie’n aurë!” Malris sprung from beneath the covering he had used to conceal himself as his friends approached. He looked better, happier, than he had done for some time; though the brothers had not seen much of him in the depths of his despondency. Now he almost smiled as he looked up to them; for both of the twins towered above the comparatively short, sinewy Noldo.

“The kind of thing Curufin used to do. I am sorry...no doubt you saw it coming...”

He referred to his jest, but his brow darkened as he and his listeners realised that the same phrase could very well apply to this journey. His left hand strayed, as of its own will, to his belt, where Cirlach, the splendid sword of Curufin’s making, hung, as it had not done for years, in its bejewelled sheath. His other hand caressed the embroidered star at his chest.

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, Endamir...and Orëmir,” he exclaimed. “I hope the Sea-elves further back gave you no trouble. They seem to object to my mode of dress. How do you like the sloop the Shipwright allotted me? I hear she is the most meagre craft he possesses. I called her the Ghostbearer. I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also? Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest. And then,” he finished with a wry chuckle, “then, I’ll...we’ll...confess that the Valar have defeated me. I do not know if it is healing or surrender. Or both.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The falcon had travelled in a highly unconventional way, perched upon Tasarënì's shoulder and chattering socially into her ear as the miles slowly passed. Lómwë had glanced hesitantly at Tasa many times through the long journey as though contemplating breaking the silence until finally, nearing the end, she spoke.

"Do you feel it, Lómwë? The bittersweet touch of ocean air..." she finished softly, staring into nothing. He looked at her and saw that she walked already in her mind upon the hither shore. He envied her that she could seem so at peace with the world at a single breeze touched by the salty tang of the waters.

They were startled by a rush of wind as the falcon rose from his perch and raced with what could only be described as winged speed from their sight. Tasa sighed, missing the friendly weight upon her shoulder already. They rode onward for a short time until, rounding the final bend, the Havens came into view.

A short and not altogether friendly conversation with a local directed them to the small vessel a short distance away. With a quick look to Lómwë, Tasa dismounted and made her way to the ship alone. Upon hearing Malris' voice, she smiled and walked into view.

[Envinyatar]

By the One! He still bears the star upon his breast. And see how his hand strays to it and the other to his blade.

Orëmir nodded his head at Malris’ acknowledgement. His eyes, though, were on his brother. Endamir’s hood was up and he could not see his brother’s face. He sent a light touch to the edge of his brother’s thoughts; one of support.

‘I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also?’ Malris asked. ‘Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest.’

‘It is a wearisome burden, these ghosts and memories, are they not Malris? And how does one lay to rest that which bears no substance save what we lend it with our own . . . self-regret? A difficult task, at best.’

And at Himring! he thought to himself, thinking it better to be silent on this.

The sound of a light step below caused him to turn before he spoke again. There on the quay stood a familiar face . . . Tasarëni . . . Tasa, he recalled; her glimmering eyes fixed on a point beyond him and his brother. Orëmir returned his gaze to their host, wondering how he would greet this new arrival.

[piosenniel]

‘We have been here barely the space of a breath, and already you have loosed your sharp tongue. The years in Imladris have indeed changed you much.’ Endamir stepped back next to his brother and pushing back his hood, leaned close to him. ‘I know already how you feel on this matter. A small request – do not make me the intermediary between you two.’ He looked closely into his twin’s face. ‘Play an old familiar role, if you must. The cheerful tagalong on an adventure with your brother; or perhaps the quiet healer who takes in all that is said and keeps it to himself. Whatever it takes to keep some semblance of peace.’

Endamir’s eyes were filled with a great weariness. ‘I have not the strength or will to fight you on this again, my brother.’ His eyes flicked down to where their mounts waited patiently near the edge of the boarding plank. ‘Perhaps we should bring our gear on board. Let Malris greet his other guests.’

Ghosts and memories will still remain . . .

[Firefoot]

After a short moment, Lómwë also dismounted and followed after Tasarënì. As he stepped onto the harbor Malris’ words drifted out to meet him: “…I called her the Ghostbearer. I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also? Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest. And then,” he finished with a wry chuckle, “then, I’ll...we’ll...confess that the Valar have defeated me. I do not know if it is healing or surrender. Or both.” Defeat? wondered Lómwë, not paying attention to the response. No… not defeat. Surrender? In a way. And ghosts? Certainly, though I speak of them not.

He strode into sight as Tasa was being greeted. Malris was there, of course, and also the brothers, Orëmir and Endamir, as he recalled, none of whom he had seen for a long length of time. He did not know that any could be called friends, per se, though they shared a history together, and that meant something.

“Mae govannen,” he greeted them. “It has been a long time.”

[Anguirel]

Malris looked hard into Orëmir's eyes, and found there nothing he could understand, try as might. He smiled to cover his incomprehension, hoping that the past Age would not have taken Endamir beyond him too; the brother he had always been closer to.

"All the splendour of Himring may be gone now, but she is clean of the Enemy, at least. I have...we all have...so much to settle there. In the courtyard rot the catapultas and ballistae I helped fire at our own walls. The blades and armour warriors who bought a little time with their hroar rust in the dirt. But there are happier memories there too, of the days of success. How can we recreate a new life of contentment in the West or Endor if contentment has forgotten us? I want to relearn our glories...to go to Tol Eressea proud that I toiled in the North. Why, my marriage bed is in that ruin somewhere."

At some point, he realised he was speaking to both the brothers; not just the one who had argued with him. But a familiar presence cut him short, and as he looked up in anticipation he smiled. A golden head he had not seen for so very long; a gap wider even than the divide that lay between Malris and the twins. But a friend of the heart nonetheless; and on her side, he had always known, rather more. A pity; one of the many Elven loves that could bear no fruit. But still, he had always felt a kinship with her; and her defection after the Nirnaeth had piled a new wound on the gash of his wife's loss.

"Tasa. Welcome. I thought you would answer...I was sure of it. One such as you cannot stay a handmaid forever...particularly if the rumours are true, and Artanis grows weary of Middle-earth herself."

As Lómwë joined her, Malris nodded to him. What quaint Nandorin garb he seemed to prefer nowadays. "You also lift my heart, friend. Now we only awaint Lindir, of Lindon, as am I...and he has not far to travel. Soon you will see the most beautiful facet of the Ghostbearer."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"You have always known me well, Malris. At times better than I have known myself." Tasa looked down, eying her delicately embroidered over-robe. The soft breeze tugged at the hem, revealing bare feet. It had been so long since she had looked upon the face of the one she would always love. Though he could never return it, Tasa bore him no ill will and took their relationship as the blessing that it was. She smiled widely and with true pleasure for the first time in many a long year, meeting his eyes. Of the aquaintances she had made serving Galadriel, none would ever even nearly rival her friendship with Malris. Friends of the heart, they were, and as close as kin.

She spoke as they embraced, looking to the brothers and to Lómwë who had followed. "My friends... long have we tarried, and at last we meet again upon the shores of Middle Earth... but one face I do not see that I had expected... where is Lindir?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir halted near the harbor's edge slightly north of the spot where his companions had gathered; he stared out at the ship that was chosen to take the band to Himring. Although the Elf was hidden by a rocky outcrop that rose up from the shore, he was still close enough to hear snatches of conversation that were going on between those awaiting his arrival.

What he heard and saw did nothing to reassure him. Although the ship's sail was tightly furled about the spar, its gloomy black hue was all too evident. Lindir scowled in disapproval. Was this someone's idea of a fine joke? And the name Malris had chosen for his vessel was little better: Ghostbearer! Were they to be the ghosts who sailed back in time, or had other ghostly creatures, unseen even to Elvish eyes, elected to come along on their journey. At this grim thought, Lindir involuntarily shuddered. A poor choice indeed, and perhaps a harbinger of worse to come!

Ever since his stay in Eregion, Lindir had developed an uncanny ability to glimpse the reality of evil that lay half buried on the fringes of life. Sometimes, staring out at the world, he felt nearly suffocated by the overwhelming sense of the presence of the Shadow. And Lindir did not like how he was feeling now. An overwhelming sense of foreboding crowded over his brow. All this was an unfortunate legacy of the time he had spent in Eregion helping the master-smiths forge the rings of power. He had fled the city before the crafting of the master ring and the subsequent conflict with Sauron, but the entire series of events had left him with many an unresolved question. One of his main reasons for leaving Middle-earth and searching out the Havens to sail West was to find some respite from this uncomfortable sensation.

With a determined sigh, Lindir shook off his gloomy mood, coming to the end of the rocky outcrop and clambering awkwardly over a series of boulders. As he rounded the bend in the coastline, he could hear the distinct words of Tasa's query: but one face I do not see that I had expected... where is Lindir?

Pushing through the bushes and bracken that fringed the meeting place, he quickly emerged in the sight of all those who had gathered in a tight circle, "You shall, my lady. You shall. Tis me. I am here. And glad to see all of you. And yet....." Here Lindir ruefully shook his head and growled, "If anyone other than Malris had asked me to return to that cursed spot, I would have turned him down outright. " Lowering his voice, he added, "I tell you this way lies madness. Let us leave now for the West, and put aside this foolish plan. No good can come of walking again on that bloodsoaked ground!"

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood on the edge of the small group, watching their host as he greeted the others. Malris had such an easy way about him still and Endamir could see the affection with which he greeted Tasa. His grey eyes had brightened with delight at the sight of her it seemed. A pleasant change from older memories of a grim and hard eyed leader. Endamir wondered what else had changed about the companion he had fought next to many times. And the others,too, how had they changed?

He had heard often enough from those men who came to Rivendell how beautiful and graceful they thought the Elves. How the years seemed not to touch them, but only to add a deeper air of fair charm . . . and of distance, too, they had said. ‘It seems a true enough observation,’ he thought, glancing at his companions. ‘But what lies beneath the mask, I wonder.’

In silvered mirrors that graced the halls in Imladris, reflecting the ageless beauty of the place, he had often chanced to catch a fleeting image of himself. More often than not he had purposely kept his eyes from the reflections, especially on those days when old memories haunted his footsteps. The fair mask he wore would slip, then. A certain sadness – no, shame, he named it - and weariness would cloud his features as faces as fair as his own rose up clamoring for answers.

He had made his way round to where Lómwë stood, near Tasa. ‘Greetings to you, Lómwë,’ he said. ‘How was your journey from the Golden Wood? Uneventful, I hope.’ He smiled looking about the ship. ‘One last adventure, eh? Sightseeing amidst the ruins of past glories; a last stand on the battlements of Beleriand.’ He pointed to where Orëmir was stowing their gear on deck. ‘My blade is sharpened and a new string graces my bow. I wonder what Malris has planned. If there are any foe left to vanquish on that cold, chill isle. Shall we be young again and full of ourselves a last time before we sail West?’ He shivered as a cool breeze blew over the bow of The Ghostbearer. Endamir laughed, breaking the gloomy tenor of his words. ‘Just a weary, old Elf. Woolgathering. Think naught of it. Come, tell me a little of yourself, if you will.’

Before Lómwë could answer, Lindir had appeared; springing up from the bushes near the ship like some quick ghost himself. ‘Madness?’ echoed Endamir, letting the Elf’s dire words fall into silence before speaking. ‘Perhaps it is madness, I cannot say yes or no to that.’ He leaned over the siderail of the ship. ‘I can say I agree with you on the last of your words, though. Let us go straight away into the West and leave the dead and ruined to the waves.’

[Envinyatar]

Better yet to call it all madness, thought Orëmir, and go neither to the island or the West. He looked to his brother and then to Lindir. But if some choice must be made from these two offerings, I would rather we delay the leave-taking for Aman. I would turn my brother from that final choice if I can.

‘Lindir!’ he called out, coming to stand beside Endamir. Lindir’s eyes looked up at him, filled if it were possible, with more sadness than Orëmir remembered. The Elf turned slightly to look at him, a sudden light glinting from the silvered jewel hung near his throat.

Orëmir smiled down at Lindir. ‘Come up; come up! And let us greet you properly. The ship does indeed bear a foreboding name. But we here are no ghosts. Come up, friend.’

[Anguirel]

Malris looked on in shock and disbelief. Though all the followers of Maedhros remaining in Middle-earth were assembled, the Spirit of Fire had apparently left them all. Oremir was querulous, grudging, his words biting as his steps were reluctant. Lindir was pale with fear, to an uncanny and unnatural degree. And their words seemed to sway Endamir, who now, despite his earlier fervour, thought of passing Himring by.

Maglor, I need your eloquence. Curufin, your cunning. Maedhros, your flame. Even hated Celegorm; if only I had your tongue at my side, rather than this blunt object betwixt my lips.

"I am going," he said, shortly. "I have little knowledge of sailing, but if needs be I will take the current to Himling's shores alone. But I think perhaps some of you may care to follow me." Malris glanced at Tasa in confidence; at Lomwe in hope; and at Endamir in pleading.

"Himring is either cursed, or empty. If empty...it will ease my heart to look at the old stones. If, as Lindir has said, blood seeps the walls and crys for more to flow through my prince's corridors, rank crimson liquid death...then it is a curse we have a duty to cleanse, my friends. We intend to leave Middle-earth. On that...most of us are agreed, at least in a part of our soul. Himring is our matter, our duty, our responsibility, our past. We cannot leave it for Men to conclude its long and dark tale. They do not know its ways, its history, its danger. If it is more than a shell, a ruin...then we must make it so. One last noble deed, friends. Why else would the Valar have left it standing?"

He paused, briefly, before starting again. "What have we done to deserve our rest across the sea? Blood is on all our hands. If Himring is still darkened, then its continued presence is a gift from fate. A chance for redemption. A chance for repentance. A chance to render us all the innocents we once were. And I intend to take that chance."

[Firefoot]

Innocence? Nothing we ever do can give us back our innocence. Pardon and redemption we may have, but never innocence. I - we - have seen, have done too much for that.

"I do not particularly agree with your reasoning, Malris," answered Lómwë unheatedly, "or even if I agree with the plan. Part of me woulds that we leave the past be past, and continue straight on to Valinor. But wait! I am not done yet," he said, seeing the look of disbelief and disappointment on Malris' face. "I do, however, believe that there may be some validity in your desire to return to Himring for a final visit. If for reasons other than you describe, I am willing to go with you, even desiring it myself.

"I think you put too much hope in such a journey. Blood is on our hands, you say, and it still will be what ever deeds we may do on Himring. Do not fool yourself into thinking we can return to innocence. Yet no matter the result, I think you to be right in saying that visiting the island is something we must do." Something I must do. Not to do a noble deed, not to earn some measure of redemption, but for myself.

The problem, Lómwë mused, was that all the five that Malris summoned have changed, yet Malris has not. He had noted with some doubt how Malris still wore the star of Meadhros, yet glanced askance at his own Galadhrim garb. Malris seemed still to think that the glory of the Elder Days was yet at hand, and did not seem to realize that sorrow, too, lies on the island. All he seems to see is the potential for a noble deed, for valour. He spoke of redemption, yet did he truly understand? For he also spoke of innocence like something to be gained.

Lómwë had come to the harbor expecting to accept the leadership of Malris, but now he was not so sure. For if the leader had not grown and changed as his followers had, what kind of leader was he to be?

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Follow? Never!" cried Tasa with grin and a flash of her old spark. "We will travel side by side, my friend, like in the days of old. Or did you think that years of servitude had dulled my spirit? I do seem to remember a swift save of you on many occasions, or did the years fade the memories?" She stopped, eyes haunted, and was suddenly silent. Though teasing in nature, her words pierced deeply. She above all knew that no amount of time could fade emotions... no number of years could soften the pulling of old scars.

She looked down, her glimpse of the past overshadowed like a ray of sunlight hidden by a dark storm. She remembered fondly travelling with friends, fighting evil side by side with those she loved and trusted. But the sickness she felt deeply in her shame would not release her long. This was why she had come... this is why she would return to that place... the place that haunted her... the place where her demons lived.

"Friends... though I sense reluctance here... let us depart. Would we all have responded, were we not eager to heed Malris' words? Let us leave... perhaps soon we will be as free as we once were..." Her last words were whispers, directed more toward her clasped hands than to her companions, but nonetheless, each ear detected her message. Glancing around, she swiftly turned and boarded, skirts billowing in the breeze, hair pulling about her face, and she faced West, praying for strength to burn away the shadow that rested within her.

[piosenniel]

Endamir made his way down to where Lindir stood. He clasped his old companion’s arm in greeting, walking with him up to the deck of the ship. ‘I do not think that Malris is wise in this want of his to visit Himling. Were it my choice alone, I would say we seek out Círdan and sail West as soon as is possible. Despite what Malris says, I cannot go back and become the innocent I once was. There can be no ease for my heart to look on the hill’s old stones. Nor do I think these hands can cleanse the curse as he names it from the blood soaked rocks.’ His eyes flicked up to where Malris stood, as beautiful and as brave as he recalled him of old. ‘But this is his request of us, that we accompany him. And all the times that his strong arm defended and sheltered me from certain doom count still for much with me. I will be at his side as I was so many times in those ages, lending my strength to his as I may.’

‘I cannot say what you mean by madness,’ Endamir went on. ‘But if it be that darkness will rise up and mock us in our tainted victories, then I have already walked that thin line that we think separates us from shadow. We . . . I did much wrong and have such regret that I wonder if even the fair light of Aman can bring me ease.’ Though I hope with each breath it may,’ he said in a softer tone.

A fleeting smile graced the tall Elf’s somber features. ‘I have said too much, I suppose. These last years have found me thinking much on this. Even my kind-hearted brother is weary with my gloomy bent of mind.’ He nodded toward where Orëmir stood. ‘He does not want me to go, you know. Over the Sea. His own choice would be to stay here, serving men with his healing arts. He chafes at the fact he cannot heal me of this dark humor.’ Endamir shrugged at this last observation, his gaze resting lightly on Lindir’s face.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Endamir, I know your heart is troubled, and I do not wish to add to its burden. Only, like you, I have seen and known too much to rest easy in this matter....not merely in the First Age but through all the long years that followed. I have seen Elves start out with grace and goodness, only to be overwhelmed by an evil that is almost too great for them to comprehend. It is hard for me to believe that any good can come from this venture. But, yes, you are also right about Malris."

With a sigh, Lindir shook his head, staring out at the vessel that was to bear the party to Himring, "I will stand by Malris, despite my belief that it would be best to let this thing lie. Whether the journey brings the hope and peace he desires, or only travail and pain for us, I will not turn my back on him. Let us go now. For Malris approaches, and may have something to say to us."

[Anguirel]

Malris nodded as he listened to the rest of the companions reacting to his words. The reproaches hurt him, but he was prepared to accept them, up to a point-and that point was the exploration of Himring.

"Tasa...let me apologise for barking orders at you," he teased. "I shall in future remember that it was entirely your tactical skills, your courage, your initiative, that single-handedly won us the Dagor Aglareb. Fingon? Do not speak of Fingon, nor of Maedhros...'twas all the work of Tasareni the Fair..."

Still, I was not wrong to count on her help, he thought. And Endamir stands by be what the Halflings call "auld lang syne", as well, though the expedition goes against his wishes. Lomwe has adopted a position of unassailable wisdom, and qualifies my rhetoric...but he is for going. It is Oremir and Lindir, then, that are still to be persuaded.

"Lindir...none of my dull words will make you feel as I feel, most probably. You have seen the journey as ill-starred, and worse. But all I can do is repeat...would you have unknowing humans, mariners of the race of Men, whether of the Big or Little Folks, tread on such an unfortunate spot? We should leave them a gift by lifting fear and peril from the Chill Mount. But if you will not come...you will not. As for Oremir...all I can say, is that I understand your love of Endor, and wish with all my heart I still shared it."

Malris drew Cirlach suddenly, swinging it upwards and slicing the rope that kept the black sail bound. The canvas careered downwards, and in its dark expanse a white star gleamed.

"I sewed it on myself," Malris explained proudly. "Cirdan insulted me with the colour...I repaid him with the device. It is a beautiful sail now, to my mind...and Elbereth's mercy may watch it. Aboard, Lindir, unless you still desire another, safer passage...and the sea will be our road once again, my friends."

[Envinyatar]

The star which Malris wore upon his tunic had hardly prepared him for this.The emblem of Feanor and his house on a great field of black!

Even now his breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. For all its bloody history it was a powerful symbol for him, recalling the deep bonds forged among those whom he’d fought beside. Many of whom had died, he reminded himself. Did they find the peace my brother seeks on their return to Aman? he mused. How long did Mandos’ halls echo their steps before they were allowed to leave? Or did they still walk there with Fëanor even now?

The sail rippled in the breezes; the star glinting brightly as it caught the light. A sudden, short gust from the north caught the material and snapped it into a deep fold. From his vantage point, the star all but disappeared beneath the darkness of the billowing sail.

A cold chill ran up his spine. Goose walking over your grave! the old women left in the Angle’s hidden Rangers’ fastness would say, making a sign of warding against it. The feeling recalled the doom he’d heard in Lindir’s caution about the trip to Himling.

The wind had gentled now; the inky field lay at rest. The star, again, shone out brightly. The grace of the Valar be with us! he murmured.

Orëmir tore his eyes from the sail. His hands unclenched, prompting him to consider what he might do with them to keep them busy and his mind free of thought. Gear needed to be stored, secured against the rocky waves of the northern sea. Of especial concern to him were the weapons they had brought. From the feeling that had crept over him he feared they might indeed have use of them. And his satchel of herbs and unguents and potions. He should be ready, he thought, to use his healer’s arts if needed.

A little ways away from him, Orëmir saw Lómwë, also looking at the sail. He called out to him to come lend him a hand. ‘We should get our gear below,’ he said, drawing nearer to him. ‘Will you lend me a hand?’

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood near Malris as the ship slipped from the quay and entered the widening waters of the Gulf of Lune. Protected by the surrounding lands, the gulf remained relatively calm; its waters buffered for the most part from the heavings of the sea. Still, for someone of a less seaworthy nature, even the small rolling waves of the gulf could send his stomach into a rather queasy state.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Endamir said, watching as Malris steered the ship into the middle channel, heading west. The black sail with its striking device snapped crisply in the breezes. ‘I have never liked sailing. No, say rather that sailing does not like me.’ He put his hand out onto a nearby railing to steady himself, taking a deep breath as he did so. ‘Always thought we should just have hastened northward overland in pursuit of the Dark Thief.’ He smiled grimly, remembering no voice in the matter had been given Fëanor’s followers. And perhaps, he thought, if there had been, the first of the kinslayings might have been averted . . . at least somewhat. ‘At any rate, I’m just letting you know that if you find me hugging the ship’s rail and gazing down at the ocean, it will not be that I have taken a sudden and intense interest in the workings of sea waters. It will be more likely that I am simply sharing whatever recent meal I have had with the welcoming waves.’

He looked up to where Orëmir stood with some of the other companions. His brother’s face held a faintly amused look of concern. ‘I suppose I ought to humble myself and ask him for some of his tincture for roiling stomachs, though it will come with an ‘And didn’t I just tell you this would happen addendum.’ Endamir smiled and waved at his brother. He focused back on Malris, finding it was easier if he kept his range of vision on nearby objects to minimize the perception of objects at a distance pitching up and down . . . and up and down . . . and . . .

‘How long do you think the voyage to Himling will take?’ he asked Malris, hoping he had succeeded in keeping the note of anticipated dread from his voice.

[Anguirel]

For one of the Noldor, Malris seemed to possess an unusual liking for the feeling of the breeze and the spray, the rolling gait of the boat. The truth was, since returning to Lindon after the Dagorlad three thousand years ago, he had occasionally borrowed a boat, as he did now, and floated upon the waves as his sea-longing crept upon him.

While the Teleri of Mithlond were still far superior to Malris in a sailor's arts, the Noldo liked to think he put up a respectable attempt, at any rate. He casually slipped his hand over the side into the salt water, enjoying its frigidity for a moment. His other hand he laid in comfort on Endamir's shoulder.

"Don't worry, my friend; tonight we will sleep on Himling's shores, beneath the turrets of the great fortress. Although perhaps it is a case," he added ironically, "of running from Orcs to be cornered by Wargs...not literally, or at least, I doubt it..."

He smiled at Orëmir. "Anyway, we'll have nothing to fear with such a stalwart healer aboard...although in all honesty...we're in Ossë's hands. We should be prepared to strive hard against the great Ocean, if need be. This calm disturbs me..."

Malris gestured to the grey, sedate clouds above. "You learn to respect those sober messengers. The pale white wisps carry news of hope; the great marsh-coloured expanses speak only grave words...but clouds like that one, that dark triangle like an arrowhead...bring us tidings of fear."

Even as Malris finished speaking, thunder sounded, still distantly...but ominously all the same. As the ship progressed, a cloud seemed to stem from the sea itself, but darker, solider, more terrible than its partners in the sky. This was the companions' first sight of Himling, with the remnants of Himring's castle upon it, for two long Ages. A glittering spear illuminated it, with a deeper crash of thunder.

"Endamir, get within," Malris yelled. "Get under the tarpaulin. You're a landsman, and I fear you'll be more hindrance than help. Lomwe, shorten the sail; you must have some experience from the rivers of Ossiriand, and the Anduin? Orëmir, Lindir, prepare to bail out water. Tasa, grab an oar, and help me give us some more speed..."

[Firefoot]

Lómwë doubted that he had had as much experience with ships as Malris was ascribing to him, and, at any rate, those ships he had used were more suited for rivers not oceans. Nevertheless, he supposed he could figure it out. The ship was small and the riggings not overly complex.

He studied the mechanism briefly before setting to work. He was fortunate in that the system was basic and should be easily manipulated. On the other hand, the bucking waves made footing on the boat treacherous and gusting wind seemed determined to keep the sail open. This also did not help, as the wind was not really blowing in any one direction, so neither did the ship sail in a given direction for very long.

When the first fat drops began to fall, the deck became slippery. Catching sight of some of the others securing a rope about their waists, he did the same. One could never be too sure, and in this weather, going overboard was all too likely.

As he struggled with the ropes, he couldn’t help but feel that the star on the sail was beaming down on him. What an awful sign to set sail under, a sign more of woe now than valour. He knew from his brief conversation with Orëmir while stowing the gear that he was not alone in these misgivings, and Lómwë was becoming increasingly convinced of them as the storm raged on, figuring it had probably been sent as a warning.

He strained against the riggings of the ship, fighting to get the sail shortened. He suddenly realized it was done when he noticed that the ship’s path, while still jostled from the waves, was smoothened as the wind lost its grip on the ship.

And for the time being, anyway, the star is no longer gazing down upon our voyage…

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her eyes grew wide as Malris called for her help. All teasing aside, Tasa knew that Malris was the leader between them... she would guide at need, but was more than willing to follow orders from one better suited to the command. In this case, the command belonged to her friend, and so with no hesitation, she grasped the oar as though her life hung in the balance, which, she thought, it very well might.

Leaving the bailing to those better suited for the work than her, Tasa rowed with all her strength, cascades of water streaming down her cheeks, the brine stinging her bright eyes. The wind tugged at her hair, pulling the wet locks before her eyes. As the storm broke, the ship tossed roughly through the waters. At many points, her oar missed the water entirely as she was jostled away from the edge.

A sign, she thought passively as she fought with all of her against a foe that could consume her quickly with one wrong move on the part of anyone. The Valar are testing us... if we can brave this storm... if we can make our way home... through whatever trials we encounter... they may just allow us back... but first... we must prove... ourselves. Her thoughts were fragmented, broken up much as speech by the motion of rowing. Tasa prayed as she rowed, for forgiveness, for strength, and for the will to carry on.

[Envinyatar]

The familiar sound of Malris barking out orders in rapid succession brought a faint smile to Orëmir’s lips. Captain of his troop still, he was setting them in the roles he needed against a looming foe. Orëmir did not grudge him this position. Malris was very good at it. ‘But this time,’ Orëmir thought to himself, ‘I will keep the larger view in mind when I make my choice to act with him.’

This moment’s choice, though, was clear. He grabbed two buckets stored in a compartment in the bow and handed one to Lindir as he approached.

His eye caught his brother’s figure hurrying toward the well anchored tarp which covered the group’s supplies. Grabbing an extra bucket, Orëmir made a quick beeline to him just as he bent to squeeze himself under the covering. With a sympathetic look he handed him the pail and whispered a few directions in his ear as to where he might find the tincture for stomach troubles. The look in Endamir’s eyes was one of mixed gratitude and dread. Orëmir saluted him with his own bucket and made sure the tarp was fastened tightly all around. Near where his brother had secured himself, there were a number of coils of rope. Orëmir took two, tucking them in his belt as he ran to his place. Passing Lindir on his way to the opposite side of the ship, he threw him one of the ropes.

Orëmir positioned himself securely against the railing of the ship, his bucket in hand. The rope, he tied about his waist with the free end tied to the rail. Now he need only wait. And studying the clouds that were threatening in the sky above he knew it would not be a long one.

‘The grace of the Valar be with us,’ he murmured, hoping it was not they who had sent the impending storm in the first place.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir lost no time in following Orëmir's example, hurriedly fastening one end of the rope onto the railing while securing the other about his waist. Large drops of rain had already escaped the threatening clouds and were beginning to cascade downward, hitting the wooden planks of the small vessel with an ominous ringing sound. For a single instant, Lindir paused to reflect. It seemed that all his worst fears were coming true even before they had come within sight of the cursed island.

Then there was no more time to think. Tiny stinging drops gave way almost instantaneously to a gushing fountain of water, thick and unremitting sheets of rain blasted sideways by a fierce wind that looked likely to engulf the ship in its clutches even before the waves responded in kind. Only a second later, the Sea broke its silence. The smooth surface of the water gave way to a churning and heaving mass of waves as the vessel leapt up and down in an escalating dance of death.

Lindir stared mesmerized at the macabre scene, which was certain to get worse before things improved. Then he jumped forward with his pail as the spray from the first gigantic wave came flooding back over the deck. "There, Orëmir," screamed Lindir over the howling of the wind, gesturing to the spot where they needed to begin bailing. "I fear your brother has scant protection under that tarp. And it looks as though we will need barrels rather than buckets ere this weather has passed." With that final pronouncement, Lindir leaned over and put his strength into the act of bailing , scooping up a bucket of water and flinging it over the side, then bending down to repeat the same action again.

[piosenniel]

Endamir raised one edge of the tarp to see what was going on. Mixed with the sound of wind and rain slapping hard against the meager covering, he could catch the shouted words of his brother and Lindir. Both were madly scooping water from the deck and heaving it overboard. The rain was falling so hard and so wildly that it seemed a useless effort on the two Elves part. As fast as they scooped, the rain renewed the barely depleted volume. And oft times as they threw their buckets of water overboard, the pernicious wind would hurl much of it back in their faces.

The roiling of the sea’s waves matched that of Endamir’s stomach. He had already lost the meager breakfast they’d taken before arriving at the ship. And in the toss and turn of the ship’s deck, he could not find his brother’s pack that held his medicines. It was dark under the tarp, and close, and stuffy, all increasing his sense of disorientation and nausea. The onslaught of the storm had also showed the tarp to be not much protection. Rain mixed with sea water and flowed back and forth beneath the tarp. The wind howled and raged and picked up any of the tarp’s edge that was not battened down.

Endamir groped about in the darkness. Somewhere by his knees he recalled there was a little stack of coiled ropes. Following his brother’s example, he tied one about his waist, and grabbing his bucket he caromed out from beneath the tarp making for where Orëmir stood.

As luck . . . bad luck, that is . . . would have it, his boots could find no purchase on the slippery wood of the deck. The ship pitched at a precipitous angle and he found himself sliding dangerously toward the ships railing. Odd thoughts ran through his mind as the side came nearer. He glanced at his tunic, where a bit of breakfast revisited had deposited itself. ‘Well, at least my shirt will be clean when I die,’ he thought. His bucket went skittering along the deck, free of his grip now and plummeted over the edge.

He called out to the Lady of the Seas and was about to consign himself to a face to face meeting with her spouse when a strong hand gripped his arm hard and hauled him back to safety . . .

[Envinyatar]

‘What are you doing, you fool!’ Orëmir chastised his brother even as he pulled him close for safety. His words were lost in the howling wind it seemed, as Endamir looked at him blankly. He tied the loosed end of the rope about his brother’s waist securely to the railing. Endamir’s face was a pale shade of green and he looked dazedly at Orëmir for a moment, as if he weren’t really sure who he was.

There was no time bring him back to his senses in a gentle way. Orëmir slapped his brother’s face to focus his attention and thrust one of his extra buckets into his hands. ‘Bail!’ he yelled, bending down to scoop some water with his own pail and heave it over the side. ‘Put your back to it, Endamir! Bend and bail!’

Orëmir watched for a moment as his brother began the seemingly hopeless task of clearing the ship of water. He glanced over to where Lindir was working as feverishly at the backbreaking chore. The wind an rain battered against the other Elf, shoving him this way and that, at times. Orëmir hunched over once again and scooped up another pailful. As he threw it over the side, he could see Lomwë struggling with the sail as Tasa fought the waves with her oar. Malris, too, was near them, his hands on the rudder. Another wave came crashing over the ship’s side, and Orëmir’s attention returned to his desperate charge.

[Anguirel]

Over the shrieking of the gale, Malris' shouts struggled to make themselves heard, but still he persevered. The wood of the rudder grated angrily against his hand, and the oar he held to his left was wild as an unbroken stallion, but he didn't care. He was exhilarated, grinning without restraint. He had seen storms before, and had learnt quickly to laugh in the midst of them.

"Look on the bright side," he thundered. "If the wind doesn't smash us to driftwood, it'll blow us to Himling before nightfall. The Ghostbearer is going like an eagle in this weather..."

He nodded to Orëmir in approval. "That's right...good work, and Lindir too...sorry about this, Endamir, it cannot be improving your impression of sea voyages much..."

Malris beamed as he looked about him, proud of the crew he had called. Just as in the old days, the followers of Maedhros were united, determined, their arguments and differences behind them as they strove to conquer the enemy at hand, their hair and clothes soaking, their hands calloused, but their eyes steely and unbeaten.

"Every one of you has proved himself a mariner this evening. You may justly feel satisfied in yourselves, whether Ossë takes you or not. But by Uien, I don't think he will. We've fought our part and deserve our passage. Behold! The clouds part, and the sun is setting..."

The sky was an alarming sight; or skies, for truly on this occasion the firmament deserved the plural. Blue black storm-clouds, massive, imposing, but receding nonetheless, formed one sky; the Moon, shining his rays from afar amid milder grey clouds, was another; and finally Arien gleamed, and her sky was bathed in pink. As the waters calmed, then, and the Elves thanked the Valar and the Maiar of the Sea for their deliverance, it was Arien's bounty that showed them Himling for the second time; different from the fraught glimpse they had seen through the lightning, more gentle, lingering and bittersweet. As Malris looked up, there were tears in his eyes.

"There. A thousand storms are nothing to that sight."

[piosenniel]

Endamir was chilled to the bone. Clothes soaked; hair in disarray and dripping down into the sodden collar of his tunic. He shivered, casting a glance about for some dry blanket or perhaps his cloak. There was nothing; it was all as wet as he.

At the helm he could see Malris gazing round at his crew, a smile of . . . satisfaction, he thought, on his face. The captain’s calloused hand rested lightly on the rudder now, his steely eyes glinting with this little victory. Endamir felt anything but victorious. He was tired and hungry. His hands, which had held nothing rougher than a quill for many years, were abraded and bleeding from helping to bail out the seawater from the ship.

Endamir looked up as Malris spoke. ‘There. A thousand storms are nothing to that sight.’ What had once been the tall, chill peak of Himring now poked its higher reaches above the sea waters. This cold, rough, northern sea whose waves battered at the old peak’s bare, rocky slopes, beating them into a sandy strand.

A scrap from one of the old lays rose in his mind, reminding him of the majesty of the humble isle that lay ahead.

. . . far off, where Himring’s watchful hill
o’er Aglon’s gorge hung tall and still.

The Ghostbreaker was moving steadily toward the shallow sandy shore that passed for the beach on the southern edge of Himling. Malris steered her safely between the few rocks that poked up in the shallower waters extending out from the island. Endamir shaded his eyes with his hand and looked closely at the once familiar sight. The old peak’s wide, flat top looked tumbled with some of the blocks, at least, that had once made up Maedhros’ fortress. It was hard to tell from this distance how much still stood.

As the prow scraped lightly against the sandy shore laying beneath the lapping waves, two of the Elves jumped from the sides to secure the ship with thick rope lines to two of the upjutting rocks. Endamir followed closely on their heels. Wet already, he did not care that the water wicked up his breeches as he stepped into the thigh high surf.

He steadied himself with a hand on one of the rocky sentinels guarding this little coastal strand. The sand beneath his feet shifted with the outgoing waves, making his steps unsteady at times. Still, he grinned . . . the closer to the little beach he got, the firmer the ground beneath his feet. His stomach, empty from the hours on the tossing boat, grumbled with his exertions.

Endamir turned for a moment and waved back at his brother. ‘Bring some food with you!’ he called, cupping his hands about his mouth to make it louder. ‘And tea! And something to make it in.’


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

--- fragment of poem from The Lay of Leithian -- Canto X; J.R.R. Tolkien

[Envinyatar]

‘Food, you say,’ mumbled Orëmir to himself. ‘And tea, too.’ He was crouched down by the small chests which had held the food for the expedition, sorting through the damp packets. Some of the dried meats that had been wrapped in cloth and laid on top had gotten wet from the driving rain and the waves. Not badly though, he thought. And since they were salted anyway, it would hardly matter that the sea had salted them once again. A folded tarp had been layered in between the meats and the dried vegetables, so that they had escaped the encroaching dampness . . . for now. Orëmir removed the meats and the dampish tarp, leaving the remaining contents of the chest to their dry environs.

The meats he wrapped in a dry cloth from his own pack and stuffed them in a small pot he found among the jumble of pots and utensils beneath the tarp Endamir had taken refuge during the storm. Some wizened apples were also tossed in – something to tide Endamir over until a proper meal could be made. A larger kettle was found; good for tea water he thought. And into it went some packets of tea leaves, cups for drinking, and the sealed pot of honey Endamir had procured on their passage through the Shire. ‘Best blackberry honey this side o’ the Tower Hills,’ the old gammer had told them. Only the lack of space in their packs had prevented his sweet-tooth brother from buying an additional pot.

Orëmir took one of the smaller coils of rope and tied the cookery pots and kettle onto both his and his brother’s packs. Hefting a pack onto each shoulder he eased himself over the side of the ship and dropped into the shallow surf. He could see Endamir waving at him urging him to hurry onto the beach. Orëmir shook his head and grinned. ‘Just like old times . . .’

[Firefoot]

As the ship’s hull grounded on the shallow ocean floor, Lómwë took a heavy rope in hand. The jagged rocks jutting up from the surf would provide good anchors with the ropes tied to them. Indeed, the ship bore two thick ropes for such a purpose. “Come, Lindir,” he said to the other Elf, who was nearest to him. “Let us take these ropes and anchor the ship here on the beach.” Without waiting he jumped over the side of the boat, landing in the almost waist-deep water. While far from warm, the water was no colder than the sheets of rain that had already soaked him.

Rope in hand he waded over to a protruding rock, one that he judged to be tall enough to still be visible even under a high tide since he did not know how much higher the water could rise. Deftly he looped the rope around the rock and tied a secure knot, effectively anchoring the ship to shore.

This done, he began to make his way to the sandy beach. This made him smile sadly. At one point in time, if he were to have been told that Himring, once so far inland, was to be a deserted island complete with beaches, he would have scoffed. Such a thing as the drowning of Beleriand would have seemed impossible; still did, in some ways. It was strange to equate this island with the fortress he remembered so clearly. Elves of strength and valor had defended the mighty fortress, colorful banners had waved defiantly from the walls, the air had been full of courage, and hope. Now all that remained of those valiant hosts were these six; the only banner to wave was that single white star on black of the sail; and the air now was filled with memories and ghosts of the past. And they were here to reawaken that past, for better or for worse.

He was shaken from his reverie by Endamir’s shout, “Bring some food with you! And tea! And something to make it in.” Lómwë realised that he was in fact quite hungry from their journey. That would be well; they could eat first, and worry about the ghosts of Himring later. So, with practiced ease, he shoved the ghosts of the past from his mind and turned to the events at present.

Upon reaching the shore he found Endamir already waiting there. “If Orëmir is to bring tea, we should probably find some wood and get a fire going," Lómwë said, then grinned. “I wouldn’t mind drying off, either.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir had followed Lómwë’s lead, helping him secure the ropes and anchor the ship to a rock in the shallow waters. Already, the others were bringing provisions on shore and beginning to set up camp on a grassy but protected ledge that stood near the stretch of harbor where their ship was moored. After making certain the knots on the rope held firm, Lindir turned back to Orëmir and offered to help bring their supplies ashore, noting that, unless things had changed much, they would surely need blankets. Himring had always been known for its cold night air. The moon approaches,” Lindir observed to his companion, “Malris is not likely to ask us to do more tonight.”

Despite the ship's tortured path to the island and the grey storm clouds that could still be glimpsed in the distant sky, the land spread out in front of Lindir seemed sweet and fresh, like a tiny jewel lovingly nurtured and polished by the hands of the Sea. Even in the soft shadows of the evening, Lindir could see meadows reaching back from the shore that boasted a carpet of colored flowers along with small rocks and pebbles scattered haphazardly over the ground. Here on the shore, the isle seemed little different than a dozen other places that Lindir had seen in the course of his travels. He had no sense of foreboding or doom such as had plagued his dreams ever since he had received the summons to join his companions. It was only when he looked upward at the crested hill with its shadowy stones half tumbled down that his fingers strayed to the silver brooch at his throat, and he again felt uneasy. But perhaps that feeling would disappear by the light of the day.

The Elf spied a shallow pond, its surface quiet and shimmering in the faint rays of the moonlight, a pool of water teeming with life that had been left behind by the wind and water. “Look there, Orëmir. After a storm, the fish will be biting. I am off to catch a few. Come with me if you would like.”

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood up from where he’d been stooped over, gathering some old dried branches from the ground. They’d snapped off in the storm, it seemed, and though they were wet on the surface, the water had not penetrated to the dry core. He arched his back, working the kinks out of it. Seeing Lómwë a short ways away he smiled, noting the other Elf was looking his way. ‘I have to admit the only bending and stooping I’ve done in the last . . . oh, many, many, many years . . . is to pick up a stray quill should it fall to the floor. And even then, there is a young fellow assigned to be my assistant. Does most of the bending and stooping.’ He looked down at the load of firewood he had cradled in his arms. ‘Does most of the carrying, too . . . manuscripts and books and such. But I’m rather babbling, aren’t I?’

The two walked to a little clearing they’d found not far from the shore and dropped their wood. Both knelt down and Endamir handed Lómwë the pieces of firewood, watching him as he built the fire. Once the flames had caught, the two enjoyed the feel of the heat for a few moments, then Endamir stood up saying perhaps they should find some fresh water and set it boiling. As they walked toward where Lómwë remembered a little stream had run, Endamir made some general conversation, talking about Imladris and the library there and his work. ‘What about you, Lómwë? I had heard you were in Lothlorien. If you don’t mind my asking, did you go there directly after our group went their separate ways, or was your journey there as circuitous as mine and my brother’s? And what did you do there . . .?’

He bit back the words . . . ‘to drive back the demons’ and left the question hanging.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir looked curiously at Lindir as they walked along. ‘I see no pole, no line, no hook . . . no net, either,’ he said to himself. ‘How does he intend us to catch fish, I wonder.’ Orëmir looked down at his hands and flexed his long fingers. He remembered seeing an Elvish child once, lying along the bank of a river, where the water eddied in a deep pool. He had crouched down by the child, whose arm hung very still, immersed in the water. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked in a soft voice. ‘Letting the fish tickle my fingers,’ the child had said. ‘They start to think my fingers are just the long rootlets of some willow and they hide among them. Then, when they are quite unsuspecting I snatch them up and let them look me in the eye.’ The child had shaken his head when asked if he took them home for dinner. ‘No, I just let them go.’
Oremir had always meant to try this most interesting technique; now perhaps would be his chance. ‘Luckily,’ he thought to himself, ‘I’ve brought some of the dried meat strips to eat. This could be a long job of fishing.’

The fingers of Lindir’s right hand, he noted, strayed at times to the silver pin at his throat. Especially at those times when his gaze slid to the ruins of the old fortress that lay in the distance. Some charm against the memories that haunt this place, Orëmir wondered. If so, it didn’t seem to help him all that much. Behind the grey of his companion’s eyes lurked some uneasiness. ‘And what is that to you,’ Orëmir asked himself. ‘You have your own “uneasy” memories. It is too lenient a word, “uneasy” for that . . . place. Better the whole of Himring had slipped below the sea to lie with the other sunken lands.’

Shaking off this descent into grave musings, Orëmir tapped Lindir on the arm and offered him a strip of dried meat to chew on. ‘Not all that tasty, really. but it will stave off hunger until we can catch and cook some fish.’ He looked thoughtfully at the piece of dried meat. ‘And of course, if you wish, you can always use it for bait. That is,’ he went on, looking from one of Lindir’s hands to the other, ‘that is, if you have a hook to thread it on. Or have your years in Lindon taught you a new trick for luring fish from water to dish?’

[Anguirel]

Malris stood by the ship's prow, watching as Lindir and Orëmir rushed off in pursuit of fish, as if they possessed but a century apiece, and as Endamir ponderously began to gather driftwood. He was still smiling; and Tasa returned his grin, as they saw joy sprout again on a shore which had known only mourning for two ages of the Sun.

Then she leapt nimbly into the water, with a silvery shower about her. "Come on, Malris...surely you are not afraid?"

He laughed. "My lady, I have not your height. The sea you amble in so easily would lap against my very heart...besides, I know a faster way to land..."

Holding Cirlach in front of him, Malris bounded into the air, nonchalantly landing upright on the sand. "Just like the days when I ran and jumped in Tirion. Look at us, Tasa. Look at all of us," he addressed her, as she splashed to his side. "Why, we are young again..."

He bent down and scooped up a handful of sand. "I wonder where this came from? The Outer Bastion? The road-walls? One of the granuaries? Who knows. But I think the main body of the fortress we know is still on Himring's...Himling's...peak. So hard to tell, but the houses, the outmost defences, must have fallen into the very same Aglon's gorge that Endamir spoke of. And hear is all that remains of them." He shrugged.

"How strange. But there is a kind of wonder in it. We will sleep here when night is fully upon us, by the fire Endamir is setting up; residues lying on a residue."

[Child of the 7th Age]

A wry but poignant smile spread slowly over Lindir's face as the Elf accepted the piece of meat and turned to face his friend. "No new trick....only the old ones. You forget, Orëmir, I am no artisan spending my whole day over the forge as once I did. Since the middle of the Second Age, I have foresworn all shaping of metal, whether sharp blades or jewelled rings. Too much peril lies there." Lindir's figners strayed once more to the brooch he wore at the base of his neck. He gave a soft sigh, and silently recalled the promise he had made.

Then he pulled himself back and added, "For over three thousand years, I have roamed the forests and the coasts making my way as a scout. In all that travelling, I have learned a thing or two about fish. Many a time, I have kept my stomach filled this way." Lindir deftly removed the bow that had been slung over his left shoulder and carefully removed its bowstring, reaching under his belt and pulling out a hook of bone along with a small stone sinker. These he attached to the end of the string. "I have no net so it will be hard to bag the big ones," he added, "but perhaps we can pull in a mess of smaller fish and store them in my leather pouch. If all else fails, we can dig near the edge of the pond where the shell fish bury deep in the mud."

With that, Lindir squatted on the damp ground, after putting a piece of meat on his hook, and slipped the line into the water. He was surprised to discover that the pond was not as shallow as it had first appeared. His line sunk down more than two feet before it touched the bottom.