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 (http://www.ringgame.net/SecondAge/feanor.gif) 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.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë sensed that there was more to Endamir’s question than had been asked, though he did not inquire further. He doubted it would be a question that he wanted to directly address. After a moment, he answered, “I did not join the Lady Galadriel’s following immediately, as Tasarënì did. No, I wandered a bit, after the War of Wrath, not really having a purpose. I did not belong anywhere...” He shrugged. “Eventually I joined the Noldorin following of Galadriel, about the same time they were settling in Lórien. I was welcomed there, and at that point their ways – those of the Galadhrim – seemed as good as any – better, perhaps, than some. I became a marchwarden on their borders, which suited me. It was something to do, though there were many an idle day, and generally in the company of only a few other Elves. I haven’t really left Lórien since. I just figured that Lórien was the right place to be, and I haven't paid much attention to the rest of the world - after everything else, it all seemed rather unexciting, and unimportant.

“It is interesting, really. In so many ways, Lórien was isolated from the rest of Middle-earth and its troubles, especially during the time between the Last Alliance and the War of the Ring. It was as an island in the midst of peril, where no shadow could touch. Yet not even that fair land could block out the sorrows of the past and the troubles that lie with those who bring them…” Lómwë’s voice had grown increasingly distant, and now trailed off altogether. It was a strange relief to say some of the things that he had bottled up inside of him, even if it was only vaguely. And it was a relief to be talking to someone that Lómwë felt fairly certain would understand.

He also realized that he had ceased talking directly to Endamir, and was rather looking out into a fixed point in the night. He forced a smile and knelt, recalling their purpose of fetching water from the stream, at which they had arrived. After filling the pot with water, they started the short hike back to their campsite and Lómwë spoke again. “But then, that’s more than you asked. I suppose all that time as a marchwarden has given me too much time to think. It confuses things, probably over-complicates them. Anyway,” he concluded as they arrived back at the campfire and set the water to boiling, “that’s what’s happened to me, so here I am.”

[piosenniel]

Endamir squatted down beside the little blaze and turned the pot of water near the base of it. It was near to boiling. He and Lómwë had fallen into a comfortable silence as they readied the smaller pot with tea leaves waiting to be steeped in the water they were heating. They’d also gathered a number of fair sized stones to lay about their fire in a ring, though there were really not that many trees about nor bushes that they need worry about them catching fire. When the water was done, they poured it over the leaves and fitted a thin, flat rock over the top of the smaller kettle to keep the heat in.

Lómwë and he then gathered a few stout branches to make a sort of haphazard drying rack over which they could throw their clothes and blankets to dry. They hunkered down near the fire, each of them taking turns to flip the blankets and clothing to dry on both sides.

A mug of tea in hand, Endamir leaned back against his pack and watched the spatks fly up like little sprites into the darkening sky. The wood crackled and popped, and hissed at times, sending up small clouds of steam when the flames reached a pocket of moisture.

‘My brother and I also traveled after the lands fell beneath the sea,’ he said, watching the fire’s flames dance along the wood. He eased himself into a more comfortable position, picking up the conversation where it last had ended.’ We were lucky, I think, to have each other for company. Many of those we met along the way had no inkling really of the great battles fought on the western parts of Middle-earth. We, at least, could remind each other of what had been done and how we might have chosen differently . . . and how in the end the actions done served for the good of all.

‘The world seemed much brighter to us then . . . or rather I should say, ‘to me’. I suppose it was that the Dark One had been vanquished and the bright light of the Valar had blazed gloriously in its conquest. The lands we traveled into were new to us and fresh. Orëmir found a new interest as we met new folk along the way. He was attracted to the healing arts. And I can understand why. He told me once he’d seen so much of death and pain and brought about so much of it himself, that he felt that even the smallest relief he could bring to someone would be a little reflection of the light the Valar brought back to this part of the world.

‘It was among men, especially, that he delved into the lore of herbs and their combinations. And many the old wisewoman there was who took the eager Elf beneath her wizened hand and showed him the ways of her tribe's local plants. It was there, too, that I began to listen to the tales men told of the great happenings and the small in their little domains. What they knew of the Elves, of each other, of the Blessed Lands . . . the stories they wove to pass their knowledge down from parent to child. It was mostly oral, their passing of tradition and belief, but sometimes, in some of the older realms there were the few scraps of written history that were proudly presented and carefully copied by me.

‘That was a good time, my brother and I. Moving from place to place. There were always new things new peoples to look to. He sipped his tea and sighed quietly. ‘The new kept the old at bay . . .’

Endamir shook his head considering what he might say next. ‘It was those long years in Imladris, really, that let those old remembrances come creeping back. Our kin there were kind enough. I wanted for nothing. And the Great Library there . . . what a treasure house! But there was too much time for thinking about things that I had done in my early years. Too much time to turn inward and reflect on ill chosen actions. Now it seemed as I thought on it more that often our actions did not always serve for the good of all, but sometimes for our own selfish needs.’

He turned his gaze from the fire to Lómwë’s face. ‘Is that how it was with you? Even in a place of great beauty, too much time remembering ghosts and trying to reconcile our arrogance with its outcomes?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Though Tasa chatted merrily with Malris, he could see that her mind was not truly on her words. Though friendly and interesting, as always, the distant look in her eyes betrayed her to him. By no means offended, he did however wonder what it was that drew his friend away.

She had unthinkingly jumped into the water, laughing at the cold bite of the sea, and smiling when her friend reached the shore in a single bound.

"Ah, but Malris, whatever is the point of a great leap, when you are already soaked to the skin?" They had both laughed and efficiently done their work, joining the group a little further inland. Now she thought quietly, speaking when spoken to, but not entirely in the moment.

She had wandered alone through the tall golden trees of Lorien and felt that no being could ever truly understand her. Now that she was with friends, she realized that she had simply been away too long. She looked with wonder at these Elves she had known for years beyond count, and saw the toll the ages had taken, resting heavily behind their dancing eyes. They had changed. She looked to herself... she had changed as well, but how?

Tasa thought of the days... the old days. She had fought brilliantly; deadly strokes of her twin blades dancing through the air like butterflies caught on the breeze. Those days she fought side by side with her companions, defending them even as they saved her. She fingered her scar unthinkingly... so many had died in that battle, and she blamed herself. After all, without her foolishness... without her haste, they would have realized the ambush.

She had seen Malris, his soldiers around him, flanked by the enemy, fighting desparately against seemingly endless lines of orcs. The road had been clear... she drove her soldiers forward, anxious to break the lines, when the attack came. It had been so tidily planned, she still grimaced at the thought. Orcs before them... trees on both sides, and in she rushed, swords drawn, her fury nearly tangible. They had reached the orcs and, like a great wave, came crashing upon them, and in their glory, the trap closed... hundreds more orcs closed in from behind, catching the troops swiftly. They fought desparately, with Tasa yelling commands over the deafening sounds of battle.

She had been struck down near the end... death would have claimed her, had it not been for Malris. As an enemy blade soared through the air, perfectly poised to catch her neck, the Elf cried out and Tasa turned. The metal sliced along her jawline, spraying blood and scraping bone, and she responded with a swift kick to the chest and a mercy stroke. It was a short time later, after Malris and Tasa combined troops, that she fell, her armor cloven asunder. She had been surrounded by enemies and she fought beautifully; a picture painted in crimson, with silver birds slicing through the surrounding air, as blackness drove ever onward; but in the end, she could not win. When she fell, Malris had made his way to her, ruthlessly slaughtering any who would have harmed her body, unaware that she still lived.

It was after that battle that she met Galadriel... the wounds had not kept her abed for long... she was healthy; young. Though her body healed with time, her heart was torn. Her love for Malris had driven her to lose sight of the lives in her control. Many innocent had died that day for her lack of judgement... for the fact that her thoughts had been clouded with worry for a friend. It was thus that the Golden Lady had found her, and a bond had formed. Tasa opened her heart to Galadriel and the lady offered her a place beside her; away from fresh reminders of what Tasa would always see as her greatest failure. She had accepted the offer and run from her fears... she had deserted her comrades.

She looked now at every face. These men had fought bravely, never admitting defeat. She had run away. Did she even truly deserve a place beside them, sharing a warm fire? Would she ever forgive herself those poor lives gone... She did not know. In the shadows, she brushed away a tear, and felt colder than she had ever felt before.

[Firefoot]

“Is that how it was with you? Even in a place of great beauty, too much time remembering ghosts and trying to reconcile our arrogance with its outcomes?”

Lómwë nodded slightly. “Something like that. Originally, I had thought Lórien to be a haven, an escape, from everything that had happened, thought I could make myself belong there. For the longest time, all I wanted was to forget, not that I could. I doubt anyone could. Memories came back, in the time I had to think in Lórien. I realized that I didn’t really want to forget – at least, not all of it. We had something back then, something that it seems we have lost. When we set out from Tirion, everything was fresh, and we were full of fire, ready to face the world. Then we saw too much, did too much, and brought on our own sorrows. But in spite of the sorrows, there were valiant and brave deeds done, then, and ever there was hope. But all that seems gone, now. Sometimes I wonder whether if we had done things differently, that old fire might still be there, but the sorrows, not.”

Lómwë picked up a long stick and prodded some charred ash that had tumbled free of their campfire. “Like these ashes… nothing but cold remnants of the blazing fire.” He prodded them through a gap in the ring of stones around the fire, nearer to the flames. The ash glowed red for a moment, then died back to the cool gray. With a sigh, Lómwë tossed the stick onto the fire as well.

Their conversation was stopped as Lómwë noticed Malris and Tasa approaching. While Tasa might understand, he somewhat doubted that Malris would. The two sat down, and some casual comments exchanged: about the storm, about the fish Lindir and Orëmir might be catching. Soon the four lapsed into silence, Lómwë still musing on his and Endamir’s conversation.

[Envinyatar]

A string of fine, fat fish flopped against Orëmir’s leg as he and Lindir made their way back to where the others had gathered. The land was darkening as the sun slipped beneath the rim of the world. The fire their companions tended drew them like a welcoming beacon. Orëmir regarded the racks of drying clothes and blankets with a pleased expression. His own shirt and breeches were still damp and chill and he relished the thought of warm, dry clothes against his cold skin, even though the scent of them would surely be sharp with smoke.

‘Look what we’ve brought,’ he said, holding his string of six land-locked salmon up for the others to see. Lindir came up along side him and held up another string of the silvered beauties a grin on his face. ‘The fishermen have been successful,’ Oremir laughed, stepping close to the fire. ‘Or the fish gracious enough to let us catch them easily, seeing our hungry faces peering down at them from above!’ He looked about for any of the small staves left from the makeshift drying rack the others had put together. ‘Any chance there are some sticks we can spit these on to cook over the coals?’

‘And look at what else we snagged from the bottom of the pool. Lindir and I could not decide who had worn it last. We took it to be some old helm, though it’s so crusted over with hardened silt it’s hard to say what crest it bore.’ He handed his string of fish to Endamir and turned the old relic over in his hands. ‘Heavy thing. Even aside from the layers of silt. Would have given me a headache to wear it for any length of time.’

Orëmir brought it close to the fire, pointing out a tiny place that Lindir had chipped away at, flaking off some of the sediment in a section where the layers had been thin. ‘Lindir said he saw a gleam of gold flash out as he held the helm up for inspection in the dying light. Isn’t that right?’ he asked, looking toward where Lindir had crouched down and was threading his fish onto some little sharpened poles on of the others had handed him.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Aye, that is right," Lindir responded. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."

Lindir set down the stake on which he had speared the fish and wandered over toward the others, bending down next to the fire to examine the find more closely. He could not see the surface of the helm, encrusted as it was in a thick coat of grime, but he could make out its outlines with his fingers. With the skill of one who has made his living at the forge, he cradled the object in his hands and ran his palm over the outside. At the top of the helm was a decorative crest, a shape that caught his memory even though he could not see the actual physical object. His eyes opened wide in surprise, as he shook his head in disbelief, scarcely believing what he might be holding.

"Look here, Orëmir. Malris, come quick," Lindir called out in excitement. "Do you see how heavy this thing is, and how the gold shines through? Observe how the crest is formed. Wings, and a tail....you can even make these out under the grime. I know of only one thing that fits this description, although I can scarcely believe my eyes.....the Dragon-helm of Dor-Lomin, that which once graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin and even sat in the hands of our own leader many years before."

Lindir dreamily mused, "But how is that possible? And, if true, what does it mean for this isle and for our fortunes? Or perhaps I am letting the old tales run away with my heart?" He stopped and sighed staring up at the crested hill that loomed above their heads and then continued in a firmer voice, "But if it is the Dragon helm, what I would give to see it in its glory. For Telchar of Nogrod made this as surely as he crafted Narsil and Angrist. He is the one Dwarf who could hold his own in any circle of Noldor craftsmen. Indeed, such an object is worthy of respect." Lindir clutched the helm tightly to his breast.

All the while, the Elf's eyes glowed with wonder and desire. For a moment, it seemed that over three thousand years spent trudging through the mountains had vanished in a single instant. Lindir the Scout was gone; in his place stood Lindir the Forgemaster who, along with other craftsmen, had helped to create blades and rings of amazing beauty, objects that could tempt the soul of an Elf and sometimes carry disasterous consequences.....

[piosenniel]

In the flickering light of the fire, Endamir's face bore a look of dismay, an awful dread. ‘You will excuse my words, Lindir, but I would speak plainly if that is indeed the heirloom of the House of Hador my brother has had the misfortune to find.’ He reached tentatively for the object, wanting to feel the weight of it; the heaviness of the metals themselves and the measure of years it bore. But Lindir kept it close; his fingers pinning it to his chest. Endamir withdrew his hands and stepped back a pace, letting his eyes take in the Master Smith and the prize he clung to so covetously.

‘You frighten me, Lindir. This sudden change I see in you. Where is the true spoken companion who warned us not to come on this last adventure. “This way lies madness” were the words you used.

It frightens me,’ he said, pointing to the crusted helm. ‘All of this frightens me.’ Endamir’s arm swept round in a large arc, taking in the greater part of the isle that lay in darkness before them. ‘Look at you, clutching that thing to you like some grand thing you made yourself. Even now the firelight picks out the same mad glint in your eyes that drove Fëanor after his beloved jewels when they were stolen.’

He stepped back further. ‘That is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place.’

‘No matter that a great master made it. It is made for war and destruction. And no matter how brightly the light glints from its shiny grey steel and golden crest, it draws death and darkness to it like a beacon. Throw it back into the pool that hid it these long years. I beg you. Follow your own warnings and be rid of it.’

[Anguirel]

Malris was startled by the uproar taking place around Lindir and Orëmir's peculiar catch; for himself, he was far more interested at first in the massive, plump wild salmon. Fish and fishing had been other tastes he had acquired during the long years of the Third Age. He had been absorbed in watching the flesh roast darker in the heat of the fire.

"All very well," he murmured with a smile, "and your roasting, Lindir, seems proficient enough; but have you tried the delights of salmon, properly cut, in the form which Uien sends?"

It was then that he realised that Lindir was not listening, nor was he intrigued now in the slightest by the stake and its rich, succulent burden.

"Aye, that is right," Lindir was saying, gesturing at the helm by Orëmir's leg. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."

Malris nodded as he approached. "Well, it is a puzzle. They would need the physique of an Elf, but the craftsmanship is not in the fine Noldorin style...'tis cruder to my eyes...more utilitarian, a helm such as the Atani wear...'twould seem it's some kind of elf-man's...adanedhel..." He jerked back as, seconds after Lindir, he realised the helmet's provenance. Lindir spoke for him.

"The Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin, which graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin..."

"Turin, who fell to Glaurung away to the south? How did his helm reach Himring?" Malris muttered sceptically. But there seemed indeed no other answer to the riddle. More than anything else, Lindir's excitement, as he clutched the thing like a child, could not be in vain; nor Endamir's foreboding as he reproached the elf-smith-for truly, Lindir was a smith again in this hour.

"This is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place."

Lindir, though, did not-could not-relent. The arguing voices grew louder and harsher. Malris sprang between the two Elves.

"We cannot come to dissension over this thing. Why, it is mere Orc-plunder. Think clearly. Himring was abandoned after the Nirnaeth. Turin died decades later. It was not Elves who brought this helm here, but Orc-soldiers, robbing a dead man's corpse they would never have dared to near in life. They rested in the ruins of the lower parts of Himring...and there they lost it, perhaps by mishap, or trickery, or fate.

"Once this might have been a great Man's helmet. Now it is soiled by the hands of cowards and scavengers, the same sort who killed my wife and Lomwë's. Do not grip it to you any longer, Lindir. It is not worthy of you."

A new smell interrupted the proceedings. The roasting salmon was starting to burn.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir glanced up at Malris and then at Endamir, oblivious to the smell of burning fish. With some effort of will, he unwrapped his fingers and set the helm down on a rock near the fire where all could view it. Then he spoke, "You misunderstand me. I do not seek this helm for my own. I seek only to put to rest what lies hidden here, still waiting to be found."

Lindir stood up from his squatting position and looked directly at Malris, "For the past two weeks, you have been urging me to come here. You have said that we come to these shores with the purpose of bringing peace to our hearts, to set our fears behind us so we will be free to journey West and find some way beyond all the sadness that has gone before. I seek the same thing for this helm: an honorable place for it to rest. Surely, this should be brought back to Valinor and kept there in safekeeping. Who may sail to this isle after us? Perhaps another party of Men, those with less wisdom in their hearts, who would only argue over the spoils and start great havoc."

"And the fact that the helm was crafted for war, does this really make a difference? Since when is the fine handicraft of Telchar tainted with evil? I do not see Elrond advising that the shreds of Narsil be thrown in a fire and consumed. It is no different with this helm. The overthrow of Glaurung was done not out of evil but with great and good intent."

"No," mused Lindir, "I am certain of one thing. Such an object has no place in a world of Men. Indeed, I believe this helm is the reason I was doomed to come on this expedition: to remove from the world something of value that can only bring dissension, not because of evil inherent in its form but because Men would fight and argue over such a great quantity of gold. I only ask that I be allowed to carry this prize to the West and surrender it there to those who know better than I. Perhaps, this is a small way to make amends for other, less honorable deeds I have done. I would ask you not to take that choice from me."

"But still," added Lindir with a sigh, "you are my leader. Malris, it is for you to decide now that you have heard my words. If you say yes, I will keep the helm close and bring it to safety over the Sea. But if you say no, I will respect your word. You may take it up from the rock and throw it back in the mud, and I will say nary a word against your judgment."

Then Lindir knelt down, averting his head and turning his eyes from Malris and Endamir, as he busied himself with the burning fish.

[Envinyatar]

‘It seems to me this object belongs very much to the world of Men.’ Orëmir raised his brow speculatively at his brother. ‘Stop me if I’m in error, Endamir; my sense of history is a little vaguer than yours. But a number of the great pieces that Telchar wrought now rest in the hands of Men. They have been used well by the Younger Children of Ilúvatar. Beren freed the Silmaril from the Iron Crown with Angrist; the new king to the east, Elessar, bore the reforged shards of Narsil as he strove against the Dark Lord. And Turin wore this heirloom of his house as he kept the Orcs from his homeland.’

He crouched down beside Lindir, helping to turn the spitted salmon and move it further from the fire. ‘It seems wrong to me to remove this piece of craftsmanship, despite the beauty and the mastery of its making, across the seas and preserve it there. Perhaps men will find it; perhaps they will fight over it, their greed driving them to wrest from another’s keeping. We surely cannot say our hands are clean from those sorts of actions. Or perhaps they will not. Mayhap they will honor it long as a relic of Hador’s house, a remembrance of the land of Lomin and the once fair lands that lie now beneath the sea. It’s part of their history, let them deal with it should it come once again into their hands. It’s not our part to make that decision for them. Or so it seems to me.’

Orëmir stood, stretching his tired back against the kinks that had come with the day’s efforts. ‘Let us keep the helm with us for now. Lindir can bear it as we revisit our old haunts on Himling.’ He turned and faced Lindir. ‘When we are done here, and time comes for the ship that will bear you across the Sea. Then give the helm into my keeping, if you will. I’ll take it to Tol Morwen and let it lie at the foot of the Stone of the Hapless. Should men journey there, and I should think few will as the isle has passed nearly into legend these later years, then let them look to the disposition of this relic from their past.’

From the corner of his eye he could see his brother’s face grow pale at these words.

‘What say you? Lindir? Malris?’

[Anguirel]

Malris sat still as Orëmir spoke, with an occasional approving nod, then spoke after him.

"You speak wisely, friend. Men should indeed keep this thing, their heirloom. It has nothing to do with Valinor. I am with you. But must one of us carry it to Tol Morwen himself?

"We are now in the Valar's hands; and it would seem they tested us upon the sea, and found us worthy. Is this not some new trial from the Lords of the West? And should we not answer it with fealty and submission-throwing the helm into the sea to be carried whither Ulmo wills?"

"Certainly it should not be returned to the pool...for it does not belong here at all. Myself, I support entrusting it to the clean waters of the ocean. It will be in good company there; Palantiri, the sword Anglachel, Maglor's Silmaril...even if it does not find its way to Tol Morwen."

It was at this point, with night fully upon the party, and the stars glinting high in the sky, Earendil supreme among them, that the six survivors of Maedhros' armies heard the Voice that was to be to them a riddle, a delight, a problem, a saviour and a doom. It was a mighty voice, driving all other matters from the mind; harp music ran beside it, beautiful and stirring to the heart.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame
And rings with the voices of hope.
A fire of sparks from an army of blades
As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.

Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World
Will shudder on his threshold in the North,
For where he sundered us two from one,
He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.

The last line of each verse was repeated, as if it had once formed a refrain, but only the Voice sang "As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope"; though the six Noldor knew it well, they were shocked to silence. But Malris rose, his hand on his heart, and sung "He sees now the wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf," with tears in his eyes. Then the Voice and its music ceased.

"Wonder of wonders!" Malris cried, a light in his eyes like one driven mad. "Maglor still breaths...come, we must seek him! Do you remember when we chorussed that ballad, and many other verses besides, before the Nirnaeth? Up, my slothful friends! Cast away yon helm and seek our lord's voice!"

[piosenniel]

In the confusion of responses to the ghostly song, Endamir strove to gather his wits about him. Malris bore a mad look in his eye, and certain that it was indeed Maglor who sang to them, he urged his companions to rise and seek out the long gone Elf.

‘Cast away yon helm and seek our lord’s voice.’ Malris voice rang out with urgency, as one possessed.

‘This cannot be,’ thought Endamir. ‘It is some trick of the wind and sea. Maglor does not sing to us. He is gone; thrown himself into the sea.’ ‘And besides, he spoke aloud, in a querulous, weary old voice, though no one stood near him, ‘it was Maedhros who bore the title of lord for me.’

Still, for all his doubts, he strode quickly to where his sword lay and picking it up from his heap of belongings, he buckled the belt which bore it round his hips. His hand rested lightly on the pommel. The feel of the cold metal was real against his flesh and he wondered how he thought he would defend himself and his friends against some fleshless spirit. If that is what had called to them . . .

His steps bore him to Malris’ side. As in the long past days his feet had done before. Malris called and he answered. It had seemed quite a simple task then.

Now his gaze turned to where Orëmir bent to give Lindir a hand. With his other hand, his brother picked up the helm that had so recently been the center of attention and handed it to the now standing Lindir. He could see Orëmir lean in close to Lindir, whispering a few words to him. Lindir nodded gravely and stuffed the helm into his pack.

For all of Malris’ exhortation, the helm would not be cast into the sea. Endamir saw in his brother’s face that Malris’ words had not convinced him. Orëmir respected the Valar, but he held dear the race of Men, too, as Malris did not. And who was Malris to speak for the Valar?

He was sure, too, that in that moment of quiet exchange, Orëmir had made a promise to Lindir. One he would carry through on. Endamir wondered if the others understood what his brother had meant by his offer to take it to Tol Morwen. Orëmir’s conviction was a sore point between the two siblings, but one they had not discussed with others. It was in Endamir’s mind that when the time came, his brother would choose the same as he . . . to go into the West. Now here was Orëmir saying those words in the presence of their old companions. Making them real, in a way. The intent behind them crystallized, cutting Enadamir’s heart.

He turned his attention back to Malris. ‘Let’s get on it with it then,’ he said curtly, shouldering his own pack. Perhaps the pursuit of some ephemeral voice would be engrossing enough to take his mind from the other bleak line of consideration.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Through the bickering, Tasa had sat alone, engrossed deeply in memory. Her companions' voices interrupted her thoughts but she cast them away, feeling unworthy... the world seemed darker and colder than ever before. Heroes... they were all heroes... and she sat beside them as an equal. She brushed a tear from her eye, staring blankly into the fire. The flames leapt and danced before her as she strove to escape a personal nightmare so surreal that she wanted nothing more than to sleep in peace, alone and unafraid. The falcon flew to her, landing carefully upon her shoulder and preened her hair while chirruping in a concerned and entirely unfalconly way. She smiled sadly, running a finger across his silky brow.

Suddenly an ethereal voice crooned to a ghosted melody, dancing upon the wind like the swallows that were her friends.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame
And rings with the voices of hope.
A fire of sparks from an army of blades
As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.


Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World
Will shudder on his threshold in the North,
For where he sundered us two from one,
He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.


Malris jumped to his feet, startling Tasa back to the present. She saw a splended helm beside Lindir, and wondered at it, but saved her questions for later. She had a sinking feeling that she had missed something important while she selfishly stole the time for herself.


"That voice..." she whispered... "I know that voice. Malris?" She looked at her friend with question in his eye. He read her glance and recognized it. If he would lead, she would follow.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir had been speaking with Lindir when “the Voice” began its song. ‘What is that, that sings of old deeds here on Himring’s top?’ Oremir asked? Lindir shrugged, his eyes flicking to where Malris stood with a delirious look in his eyes. The years had fallen away from Malris and now he commanded his little troop as of old, though now, it seemed, with a sort of rash hysteria.

‘. . . seek our Lord’s voice!’

Endamir, Orëmir noted, had taken up his blade with a slow reserve and had gone to stand by Malris. ‘Ever faithful to his old friends,’ he thought ungrudgingly. ‘But, brother mine, you can’t stop my wish to turn you from your choice by involving yourself in some foolhardy undertaking.’

‘Malris!’ Orëmir called aloud, drawing the attention of the two that had rallied about their old commander. ‘Sure as you are that this may be Maglor and his harping, more surely you will want to look to your troops first before you take off after some airy phantom. For our part, we’re tired and hungry. For your part, what proof is there that this is Maglor’s voice? Perhaps it is some old trick conjured by one of the Enemy’s spawn. Something to lure us to our deaths as revenge. The night is dark and there are many places among the rocks and further ruins that such a one or ones could hide. Would it not be better to secure our little camp with watches? And wait ‘til the sun drives back the darkness?’

He raised his brow at Malris. ‘Surely, if it is indeed Maglor, he will sing again to us in the daylight and draw us to him. Or if it be some other ill-willed spirit, then we will more ready after a meal and a rest to ferret him out. I’ll take the first watch after the meal, if you wish. What say you?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa was startled from her passive existence by the sound logic of Orëmir's talk. Looking around, she noted the darkness and the tricky terrain.

"Orëmir, you speak the truth." she shot an apologetic look to Malris, continuing. "Perhaps it would indeed be best to wait for morning. By then we shall be rested and strong again, and indeed if it is our lord, he will not forsake us for that we tarried but a few hours in finding him. If he has awaited us this long, he may wait a short while more."

She looked to her friend, awaiting his response. Now that she was back to her old self, her mood temporarily forgotten, she knew that she would keep him here by herself, if need be. Night time excursions, she remembered, required a state of calm and peace of mind. To leave on a whim at a sound that could so easily be a trick of their tired minds was folly. She would not mistakenly help lead friends to death again. Not if she could help it.

[Anguirel]

For a long time Malris continued to stare into the night, as if hoping to scry notes his ears could no longer detect. He started to plead, in a low voice, but it would be apparent to the others that he was his own interlocutor.

"We could climb by starlight, by Varda's own lamps and the Silmaril...to find Maglor. Maglor, whose like I thought had left the world entirely...but the others are tired, and with good reason...you too, you hunger after the salmon and a little rest. Is it cowardice? Weakness?" he asked, his voice growing louder again. "Or sound sense that bids them retreat and await the coming of Arien?"

"I..." He began again, turning now to Tasa and Endamir, close behind him. "I would try a little of the ascent alone, to test the rocks, as it were. Stay here...please."

Like an eager mountain cat, he soon found holds for his hands and feet. He climbed a few yards over the crags; then felt the water-warping of the rocks beneath him. He was unsure of his way now...he stretched out a hand to an outcrop; and felt a pain, a stap in it...he was bleeding. A strong, chill wind rushed over his head, and he was sure he felt a tug on his hair.

Bowing his head in submission, he slipped gracefully down. "I confess the path is thin, eroded in places, and difficult to follow. And besides..." He changed his mind. He would keep the secret of the malevolent wind, and attribut the stab to a jagged rock. He need not depress his friends further.

"And besides, the stones are sharp. Let us return to the fire and roast another salmon on it, ere we walk the lands of Lorien in sleep, that soon we shall see again in waking." He smiled confidently at the others. "I know I heard Maglor's voice; and I know it will come back. He will come back. Perhaps that is why we are here. To finish a mysterious end of the Music."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa watched her friend attempt the climb with bated breath, but did not stop him, seeing the sickly dangerous path he chose. He would never make it, so she felt no real need to hold him back. It would be better for him to think that it was of his own will that he stayed.

When he came back, her eyes strayed to the blood on his hand. She carefully washed and bound his hand as he spoke of the Music.

"I know I heard Maglor's voice; and I know it will come back. He will come back." Malris paused. "Perhaps that is why we are here. To finish a mysterious end of the Music."

She held his hand, forcing his gaze to meet her own. "My friend, it is known that Maglor met his fate with the sea. He could not be here... whether forever lost to the sea in the manner of the Jewel, or wandering for an eternity, I do not know, but our lord cannot be in this place... surely were he here, and were he wanting us, he would have sought us sooner... Malris, look at me. Tell me that you believe me..."

[piosenniel]

Endamir left Malris to the care of Tasa. Unbuckling the belt that held his blade, he wrapped it round the sheath and laid them down atop his pack. His thoughts were discomfited at the scene that had just played out; he felt his words would hold no credence with Malris, who seemed almost possessed with the singing they had heard.

He cocked his head listening closely for any further refrain, but there was none. And even now he wondered if the music and the singing were some trick of the night breezes through the old ruins. Malris was so keen on coming to this long dead place that perhaps his need had infected all their minds. Taking in a deep breath, he breathed it out slowly. There were enough ghosts of his own to consider and appease, he thought grimly to himself, without taking on those of another.

Lindir nodded as Endamir returned to the fire. He held out a crisp fish to Endamir, who took it gratefully. The hot fat dripped down his fingers, but it was scarcely noted, the enticing smell of food overcoming the discomfort. He smiled at Lindir and sat down cross-legged near the fire, his eyes asking the other Elf to take a seat near him since his fish-filled mouth could not. Nimble fingers picked the meat neatly from the stick, leaving only a bit of uncrisped skin as an offering to the fire.

Endamir licked his fingers, in a graceful motion, like a cat enjoying the last remembrances of a successful hunt and kill. Wiping them at last on his breeches, he picked up a stray stick and poked at the fire, sending up showers of little sparks into the dark sky. Across the fire, he could see Lómwë, lost in his own thoughts it seemed. From their previous conversation, Endamir wondered what he would think of Malris’ most recent actions. Had Lómwë heard the singing? What did he think of it?

His musings were interrupted as someone started to sit down next to him. A hand rested familiarly on his shoulder as the figure used it for support.

[Anguirel]

Malris had looked back at Tasa with an emotion between gratitude and pity in his eyes, as she bound his wound, and implored him to forget the fateful voice.

"Most named Daeron a greater musician and singer than Maglor," he said at last. It seemed a peculiar comment, and the long pause he left after it would not set his friend's mind at rest. Eventually he spoke again.

"I was not among them, of course. Partly because Maglor was my friend, my protector, and I his...but his voice always had a power to move me that the Dark Elf's did not. Mind you, I only heard Daeron once, when I came with Maglor and Maedhros to the Council of Peacemaking...which ended in ashes and ruin, like everything else. Everything else but those two bards...and this place."

His thoughts were rambling, circuituitous. He shook his head, suddenly, as if to clear it.

"What I am trying to say...is that I felt that power in my heart just now. And Maglor was always named the mightier singer, though many preferred the Wood Elf's subtleties. I believe Maglor has taken up his brother's fortress again. He is within Himring, but his voice reaches us, though he has no idea of it."

He took Tasa's hand gently. "Do not think me mad. A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait."

He smiled again, taking one of the fish off the fire. "It looks well done. The others are ready too, I think. Let us eat and then sleep at last."

[Envinyatar]

‘My leg is stiff,’ grumbled Orëmir. ‘Where the Orc club struck me in the hip . . . it’s the cold of this place, I think, that brings the aching back.’ He eased himself down beside his brother, tucking his cloak beneath his left hip to give it some padding. He’d brought his own pack as well as his brother’s over to the fire. Fishing about in the inner section of his own, he found some hard waybread bought at the western edge of The Tower Hills. The oiled parchment the old woman had wrapped it in had kept it safe for the most part from the rain and the sea. ‘Not as tasty as lembas,’ he acknowledged, levering a piece of it between his teeth to snap off a bite. ‘But it should fill in the crevices not taken up with fish.’ He passed the bread to his brother, indicating he should pass it on.

‘I brought our packs and weapons near,’ he said to his brother. ‘Whatever the source of that singing we heard, we should be prepared.’ He snorted, laying his hand on his own sword. ‘Though what protection these will be against ghosts will not be much if any. Rest and a clear mind will be of more aid, I think, than these metal blades.’ He looked to where Malris now sat, eating at his meal. ‘I worry about him . . . and in turn, all this group, since he has stepped up as acting leader on this expedition. I had hoped, at first, that this would be only a last look about of some old piece of our history, a tidying away of some rough details. Or perhaps tidying is too neat a word.’ He shook his head. ‘But I am tired and cannot think of a better. At any rate, I say we should keep alert for any more unreasoned outbursts from Malris. After all, fond though we may be of him and though for a time when we were young we did place our safety in his decisions and commands, we are no longer under his authority.’

He turned his gaze on his brother’s face. Endamir’s face was in profile, the light from the fire throwing shadows along the plane of his cheek, darkening the hollow of his eye. ‘I mean to keep you safe, brother. Be it for the voyage West or a return east with me. Death will not rob me of what few days and hours are left to us.’ The fingers of his right hand traced the fading vines that intertwined on the scabbard at his side; his left hand lay lightly on his brother’s knee.

[Firefoot]

As he sat down near the fire, Lómwë was privately glad that their short expedition had not gotten much past the beach. He did not know who… what… the voice had been, and he doubted that night was the time to find out. Maybe it was just a trick of the wind or rumours of the earth, or ghosts. He found Malris’ near-obsession with this dead place, with that voice, disturbing. Leave it be, leave it be, the voice in his head seemed to chant. Maglor was gone, long gone, and whatever the source of the song, it could not be Maglor, unless it was Maglor’s ghost, of which Lómwë was skeptical of, and hoped was not.

Lómwë was, however, becoming increasingly convinced that ghosts, whether tangible or not, did inhabit the isle. For the voice, whether Maglor’s or not, had been a ghost of sorts, and the long-forgotten memories that kept flashing in his mind, these were ghosts as well. Glancing up in the direction of the fortress, he recalled, as if it were yesterday…

It was a breezy summer day in the latter years of the Long Peace; Lómwë was standing on the tall battlements of the fortress at Himring, his son Aradol, seven years old at the time, was standing by him. Lómwë was pointing out the landmarks they could see as Aradol followed his gaze avidly.

“See, there are the River Aros and the Little Gelion,” he said, pointing each out.

Aradol looked out at the rivers for a few moments, then twisted around to look up at his father. “Where is our house at?” Lómwë knelt down and took Aradol’s arm and pointed to the east in the direction of their home which stood on one of the further hills. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s right about there, behind one of those hills.”

Aradol pondered this for a moment, then pointed out towards Ossiriand. “And nana used to live there, right?”

Lómwë smiled and nodded. “Yes, she did.” While the day was not chilly, he noticed that the breeze seemed to be getting to Aradol, who wore only a light tunic. “Shall we head down?”

Aradol looked out one more time longingly at the surrounding country. “I guess so…” He ran on ahead, Lómwë following behind. As they began to descend from the high wall, Lómwë noticed that his wife and Aradol’s mother Ellothiel was watching them from the ground below with a smile on her face and love in her eyes. Lómwë smiled back…

And just as abruptly as it had begun, the memory ended and Lómwë was brought back to the present. A shadow passed over his features; those had been the happiest years of his life, but they were long gone, now, merely memories, as were most of the noble and beautiful things that had once filled this place.

He was further shaken from his reverie when he was passed a piece of waybread. He tore off a bit and passed it on before biting into it. He was not very hungry, and the bread was not particularly good, but it took his mind off things. He tuned in to the conversations around him and caught some of Malris’ words: “…A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait.” But other things do matter, Malris, he thought. But is that why you brought us here? To dig up ghosts and painful memories of the past? But why? Maybe we should not have come. Maybe ghosts should be left in peace.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Do not think me mad. A great hope has possessed me. I spent years looking for him...and only found what was left of Lord Maedhros. If Maglor is here, then...then nothing else matters. But I will wait."

Tasa looked with wonder upon her old friend. Tenacity she remembered, but this was beyond. She fixed him with an uncharacteristically hard stare.

"Nothing else matters? Would you now forsake your own life and those of your friends for the truth behind a voice on the wind? Would you forsake your happier memories of this place, of your wife, to replace them with hard-earned and hard-forgotten memories of battles and ghosted shadows? If love and friendship could so easily be forgotten; if..." she paused, trying with her gaze to make her friend see reason. "If nothing else matters," she spoke slowly and pointedly, driving her words deep, "then I do not believe I wish to continue this journey."

Her outburst had drawn the attention of the others. Even in her younger years, full of spirit and energy, she rarely spoke out thus, and never with the sole intent of making the listener writhe with guilt. Her mouth was fixed in a firm line, ungiving.

"Malris," she continued more softly. "It was a voice on the wind, and nothing more. If you insist, we may check it more thoroughly after the sun has risen and warmed the coldness of this place some. I think, my friend, that it is time for you to inform us why we are truly here... because I rode far to put hard memories to rest. I travelled long and silent to cast away my demons. Not to battle a whisper in the dark of night."

[piosenniel]

Endamir bit back the curt words that were forming just behind his tight pressed lips. They had been bickering back and forth for nearly a year now, each unwilling to accept the other’s decision. All the arguments had played and replayed; all the fine points they had mustered would not serve to sway their decisions. Nor would an injured tone, or worse yet a bitter one.

There had been a subtle change in Orëmir’s phrasings just now, he thought. His brother had left the possibility open that he and Endamir would take separate roads when this last task was done. And he’d voiced it in a gently offered way. Endamir softened at his twin’s words, and taking Oremir’s hand in his own, he cradled it against his cheek. ‘I will tell our mother and father that you kept your vow and were my defense against any who might keep me from returning home.’ He leaned forward, bringing his forehead in to rest against his brother’s. ‘And if at the last you still remain firm in your decision to stay here, in Middle-earth, when my ship leaves, then know I will keep watch for you and rejoice in the day when the white ship brings you home at last to me.’

They stayed locked in their communion for a space of time; the hard-edged barriers they had built between themselves, dissolving. Then, the voice of Tasa, raised in challenge, recalled them from their rediscovered affinity.

Of the two, Endamir was the first to turn his gaze to her. She had voiced her concerns and now demanded an explanation. Well said, Tasa! he thought, lending her his support. ‘What will he say, I wonder, in his defense,’ he said quietly to his brother, speaking loud enough though, that Lindir and Lómwë might pick up his words.

[Envinyatar]

‘If not mad, then surely he is what the goodwives in The Angle call “moonstruck”. He was never this foolish, or foolish at all, really, when he led us.’ Orëmir looked to where Lindir sat, remembering the words of warning he’d spoken before they’d sailed. ‘Perhaps this was an ill-fated little venture on our part. And this island . . . perhaps it strives against us, recalling the old wounds our battles with the Dark One caused it. I’ve heard it said that earth and its outcroppings and deep places hold long their memories. Perhaps this last remnant of a once mighty peak holds some grudge against those who caused its downfall.’ He looked at his brother and shrugged his shoulders at the thought. ‘Who knows?’

Orëmir picked up one of the sticks the fish had been spitted on. He poked at the little fire, pushing the glowing embers closer together before he piled on additional wood. ‘Here, use my blankets for now,’ he said, untying his bedroll and spreading it near the crackling flames. ‘It’s been a long day. Why don’t you get some rest? I’ll take the first watch, as I said.’ He grinned at his brother. ‘Once you’ve got the blankets nice and toasty, I’ll wake you for the second watch. Fair enough?’

He glanced over to where Tasa still looked to Malris for an answer. ‘It really won’t matter what he says. It’s unlikely we’ll bear him bound and protesting from this place to the ship and back to the Grey Havens. He’ll lead; we’ll follow cautiously. Protect ourselves; protect him as we can.’ He glanced upward to the top of the isle where the ruins lay. ‘Besides . . . I’ve decided I want to stand on whatever remains of the northern wall. My last look from there was on the darkness in the north that crept toward us and pushed against what small leaguer we tried to hold against it.’ He shook his head at those long ago memories. ‘He was an Ainu. An Ainu! And one of the mightiest. How wonderfully foolish we were then in our younger years to think we might defeat him.’

Standing, he picked up the belt with his sheathed blade on it and wrapped it round his hips. ‘Let us hope that whatever might infest this old place is something we stand a better chance against.’ His long strides carried him from out the brighter circle of his companions and to a small rocky outcropping nearby where he might keep watch for a while.

[Child of the 7th Age]

As the fire burned low and dark shadows engulfed the small group, Lindir sat by himself, with legs hunched against his chest, totally unable to sleep. Even the physical presence of the dragon helm, which he cradled gently within his arms, provided little consolation for the events of the day.

What the voice was Lindir could not say. Though refusing to believe Maglor was alive, he could not deny that this strange music of the night carried an undertone of urgency not easily gainsaid. But what disturbed Lindir more than the ghostly whispering was the look of madness in Malris' face. He had seen that look before. His fingers slipped unwillingly to the golden brooch pinned near the top of his cloak as his mind slipped back to a time more than three thousand years before.....

The madness of battle, the urge to kill, could lead to destruction. He had seen too much of that in the First Age. But there was another road just as dangerous: the desire to do good....even beyond that, the unwavering belief that one can take things into one's hands and have complete control over the course of events.

Celebrimbor had been so certain his path would lead to goodness; he had convinced the others that the secrets Sauron had revealed could help them craft objects of great power that would heal the injuries of Arda. Lindir had been no different than the others. In great excitement and with absolute faith, he had helped forge the lesser rings and had begun work on the Seven and the Nine. But, as the Elves had continued their work and some had begun to question what they were doing, Celebrimbor had refused to listen, even withdrawing from the others to work on his own. Even when he had fully understood the deceit of Sauron, Celebrimbor had refused to alter his course, seemingly unable to stop himself.

Lindir shuddered in remembrance. Tonight Malris had seemed eerily like Celebrimbor. To push on blindly in the middle of the night attempting to scale a rocky cliff was little short of madness. Yet Malris apparently believed in the absolute goodness of what he was doing. And the voice he was following? Was it merely a ghost playing tricks with the wind, or something more dangerous that was sunk in evil and shadow?

Lindir was not sure. But he did know one thing. He had not followed Celebrimbor to the end. Seeing Celebrimbor headed towards what looked like an open precipice, Lindir had turned away and retraced his footsteps to Lindon, vowing two things: never again to place his hand on the forge and never to follow a madman to death. He had honored that pledge in all the years following. He did not intend to break that promise now, not even for Malris.

[Anguirel]

Malris did not answer Tasareni at all; guilt twisted his tongue and subdued it. His friend had made a serious accusation against him. Had his words been that senseless?

"I need sleep," he said at last, to the world in general. Then he turned to Endamir. "Don't let me rest too long...let me have the last watch of the night. I...I want to see the sun rise over Himring."

It was only then that he bowed his head. "I am sorry if I have done any wrong, or hurt...but I knew Maglor. I met him before any of the rest of you...even if only moments before Tasa," he acknowledged with a wry smile. "Whether or not that is his voice-and every note of it recalls him-it was bound to move me. But perhaps it stirred me too far. The morning will bring new light, new hope...new beauty."

Abruptly, Malris took Cirlach from its sheath and stabbed it into the sand; at last it was firmly in the earth, and Malris slumped onto its hilt and let Lorien take him, for the present.

There was little more talk as, gradually, the other five slumped into the realm of dreams, or, in Oremir's case, strolled upon the lower rampart, stared up into the ruinous heights of the fortress, and remembered. And high, high above them in the circles of the sky, Earendil the Mariner persevered on his endless rounds, and the Silmaril gleamed down with sorrowful benevolence.

The company did not wake Malris, as he asked, to perform the watch; but Lindir insisted that he should be allowed to see the dawn, at least, and so he was shaken back to Himring as Arien ascended.

The second day on the Island of Sorrow had begun.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

As far as Tasa could tell, the night had passed with no further mishaps; though she could not be certain, for sleep had come upon her heavily, leaving her to dream restlessly of faces streaked with blood and tears, screaming helplessly for mercy and swift passage, with a subtle overtone of malicious laughter. She woke with a start, noting that a few already stood awake, marvelling at a long unseen sunrise.

She rose silently and joined them, looking like a ghost herself in a long billowing robe of palest ivory. The irony did not escape her, though at first light, she forgot it. The dawn was the loveliest she had seen in years beyond count, with rays of pure white light shot through with every shade of the rainbow. The skies above were clear, but not yet blue, calling lie to her memories of the weather of the day before. A perfect day for adventure, the youngest part of her mind told her. Pushing those thoughts down, she stood silent, watching the day awaken before her. Thoughts of the blinding glare off of gleaming swords in the early morning light invaded her sense of wonder. My blades are away... long since packed... and that is where they shall stay. she thought as she stood beside her friend.

Finally she spoke, breaking the peaceful silence. "The dawn has always called forth other new beginnings. Will you forgive me my accusations of the night, Malris? I cannot deny that if I heard my lady upon the wind, I would go to her."

[Envinyatar]

Just before leaving him to sleep, Orëmir had given his brother a few drops of a tincture he’d concocted in Imladris. It eased his brother’s dreams and let him rest well . . . at times. It had not worked as well this past night, it seemed. Endamir looked tired, his eyes haunted with old sorrows.

Others of the little group had twitched on their rude pallets as if battling old demons, too. In the moonlight as he kept his watch he could see Tasa moving restlessly, her arms pushing out, blade hand clenched as if engaged in fighting.

He’d wakened Endamir for the second watch, throwing his cloak about his brother’s shoulders as he rose from his bed. Slipping between the already warmed blankets, Orëmir had slept soundly, his dreams untroubled, save for that one he often had . . .

. . .walking into his brother’s room in Imladris . . . it was empty of Endamir’s presence . . . his books and writing materials packed away neatly in an old oaken chest that stood at the foot of his neatly made bed . . . the west facing window was open . . .

But this time the ache was less sharp, less filled with a sad sort of panic and confusion.

. . . a shaft of soft sun light fell in through the window this time, borne it seemed on a welcoming breeze. Motes danced along its course. A call had come from the hallway . . . his assistant . . . his services were needed . . .

Orëmir clambered to his feet and rubbed at his neck. Some stubborn rock had made an unyielding pillow for part of the night. More wood had been put on the fire, and a pot of water for tea was boiling. Fishing through one of the pockets on his pack, Orëmir pulled out a pouch filled with fragrant dried leaves and pale blossoms.

‘Anyone care for a hot cup of tea before we begin our campaign?’ he asked. ‘Something to get our blood flowing? Tasa, you look a mere ghost of yourself. Are you chilled?’ He held out a cup to her, smiling. ‘Come, the flowers are niphredil, sweet Luthien’s flower. They still hold their scent.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"Thank you, Orëmir." Tasa murmered, gladly accepting the tea. She smiled as she inhaled the sweet scent, relaxing as she took a seat. She had never been able to resist a morning cup of tea; she smiled to see that her old companions remembered it.

Setting it on a rock for a moment to cool, she made her way back to her blankets, clearing the space swiftly. She pulled a pair of soft brown breeches and a pale blue shirt from her bags and changed behind a tree. She made her way to the stream to splash cold water on her face to clear her mind. She plaited her long hair swiftly, tucking random strands behind her slightly pointed ears. She came back, scooping up the cup and taking a place between the small fire and Orëmir.

"Do you think," she inquired quietly, nodding toward Malris, "that he will find what he seeks?"

[piosenniel]

Endamir rolled up his blanket roll, leaving his brother’s cloak hung over a nearby rock. ‘I’m old!’ he thought to himself, rubbing at the small of his back. ‘So much for the legendary recuperative powers of the Eldar!’ He grimaced as he twisted his back about a bit, working out the kinks and sore spots.

He flexed the fingers of his left hand. He’d slain a great tide of Orcs in his fitful dreams last night. His arm, too, was sore he found. It was slightly unnerving to look about their little campground in the early morning light. No hacked and bloodied corpses littered the strand; no stinking pyres burned. He could see his brother and Tasa crouched down near the fire. Sharing tea and speaking low. He could not catch what they were saying as he neared them.

Lindir was standing a little ways away from the fire. His eyes wandering at times to Malris and then to the ruined battlements beyond. ‘Come have a cup of Orëmir’s tea,’ he said drawing near to him. ‘We can see what there is to fortify ourselves for the excursion ahead’ ‘. . . our bodies, that is,’ he added with a small wry smile. ‘How did you sleep?’ he asked as they walked toward the promise of a hot drink. ‘My own was filled with old phantoms from this place . . .’

'Ah! Malris!' There you are, too,' he added seeing him across the camp fire. 'Break your fast with us.'

[Envinyatar]

‘I don’t really know what he seeks,’ said Orëmir, feeding a few more small sticks to the flames. ‘I wonder if he himself knows. Is it nostalgia? Does he want to look again upon a place where once all was possible? A place where the idea of the long defeat did not intrude? Does he seek to remember those feelings of valor and honor and what seemed right before history judged us and our actions?’ Orëmir looked thoughtfully into the last of the swirling liquid left in his cup as if to read the answers to his questions there.

‘Who can tell? Maybe he is simply tired of holding up the public mask of his long years. Here among the last of his companions and in this familiar place he can lay it down.’

‘Or maybe he is quite mad. We shouldn’t eliminate that possibility. Brilliantly mad . . . And he has no idea what he seeks . . . nor what might seek him, for that matter. Who can tell?’

He poured himself a little more tea. ‘What about you? Do you think you’ll find what you are seeking?’ Orëmir’s gaze drifted to where his brother stood. His eyes, soft with affection, carefully studied the familiar figure from head to foot. ‘I already know that I will not.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"What I am seeking..." she repeated softly, looking down. "For so many years, I have hidden my sorrows from the world, seeming to them ever joyful. Elves are supposed to honor the beauty in life, and I do... but I can never forget the blood... or the tears. The mindless slaying of the Teleri..." she sighed. "We were like sheep." she stated suddenly, harshly. "Led by a mad shepherd, and with nothing to say to or against it. All given free will by the grace of Eru, and all rebelling against the guardians He provided for us in his wisdom. We were fools...

"Will I find what I seek? Perhaps... after I learn what it is. The days grow long, Orëmir. I spend them silent, thinking of the past... of the days when the future seemed bright; the possibilities endless. My heart was kindled by the son of Finwe, and I believed in our quest. I knew that the Kinslaying was wrong... and yet I continued. It is one thing, Orëmir, to slay an orc... and quite another to watch the spirit of a loving Elf drain slowly from behind his eyes and the blood matches it's pace from wounds you inflicted... and it all for ships." she stopped, looking at her still full cup of tea. She sipped, soothing herself and her thirst.

"I long to be a child again, Orëmir." she whispered, opening her soul. "A willful child who has disobeyed, and run crying to her mother that she has made a terrible mistake. And I long for that mother to hold me tenderly and tell me it will all be all right. And yet I cannot see an end as such to match what I have done. It was of my will that I left; of my will that I slayed the innocent; of my will that more were slain. I cannot hope for forgiveness, but perhaps I can help my oldest comrades lay their own hearts and minds to rest."

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir knelt beside the fire and, retrieving a long stick from the ground, poked impatiently at the egg of a sea bird he had found earlier that morning, which now sat roasting on the edge of the coals. Rolling the egg out from the fire, he reached down to pick it up, burning the tips of two fingers while muttering to himself. The Elf was finding it difficult to concentrate on breakfast or anything else he should be doing when snatches of painful conversation and precarious memories surrounded him and threatened to overwhelm them all.

Glancing directly at Tasa, Lindir shook his head and sighed, choosing his words with care. The forced gruffness of his voice did little to mask the evident discomfort he was feeling upon hearing so much talk of the past. "Enough of this. Tasa, your words ring true. But what can we gain by sitting here and talking? The sun is up and we have finished our morning meal. Surely it is time to set words behind. Let us lie the voices and ghosts to rest, for once and all."

With that, Lindir went over to pick up his gear and heave it upon his shoulders, calling out to Malris, "Is it not time to be on our way? Last night, you could not wait. Let us make our way to the high hill that we may finish our errand before night comes, for I would not wish to be in that place when shadows fall. Too much blood was spilled there."

[Firefoot]

Lómwë sat at the fire with a quiet detachment from the group, absently sipping the tea that Orëmir had made. He watched the others passively, only half-listening to the conversations going on. He was not, however, so deep in thought as he had been the previous night; rather, his thoughts seemed to drift aimlessly from one thing to another. It was something about this place. It was affecting all of them, he could see; not, perhaps, as profoundly – or perhaps visibly was the better word – as Malris, but affected nonetheless. He had gotten little rest during the night and had seen how this place and its memories affected even the dreams of his comrades. And when he had finally drifted off to sleep, his own dreams had made sleep little more restful than waking. Not that they had been definitive dreams – more of images, or sensations, of areas he dared not go in waking. No, the night had not been restful.

Presently, he stirred restlessly on his log. He desired that they should do what they came for and be done with it. No more of this sitting around a fire and dwelling upon it. Tuning in once more to the others, he realized that Lindir was stating very much the same opinion.

Standing, he seconded Lindir’s thoughts. “Yes, let us go now. I think we have found what little refreshment that we may in this early morning, and I grow tired of waiting. The time has come, and putting off the job does not make it easier.”

Shouldering his pack, Lómwë faced the high fortress of Himring. Little love do I bear the place, yet ever my heart draws me back. Yet I wonder what my heart bids me seek there…

[Anguirel]

Malris seemed much calmed by his uninterrupted night's sleep, though he reacted to being left to it with some chagrin.

"At least you let me see the dawn, I suppose. Look at it..."

All six Elves were at last united in what their kind excelled at; appreciation of overpowering beauty, that stirs the depths of the soul. Malris saw that Lindir and Lomwe were moved by this spectacle even as he had been by Maglor's voice; but he would not criticise them for it. He turned instead to Tasa.

"A thousand times I would forgive you, of course, if you had committed any crime. You brought me back to a kind of humility. I stand in your debt...but if we hear the song again...in all probability we will not, but if we do...all of you, pay it all your attention, and do not be quick to scorn it, if you find it in your hearts..."

Malris got to his feet, and began to clamber onto the lower, tumbled down wall which Oremir had explored that night.

"Good masonry, the best in the world, for the Naugrim helped us lay it. I remember their King, Azaghal...I seem to recall you knew him best of us, Lindir? But in any case, you are all right. It is time to climb. It will require all the strength and prowess in you; grip the footholds, and keep the bright banners of yesterage in your mind, and we shall conquer all the ridges, cliffs and scree. To Himring's towers we go this morn...and in the eve we will stand in Maedhros' courtyard."

Malris began the long, steep journey, the others quickly following; and though the ascent was still treacherous, in the light of beauteous Arien paths could be devined, and the fell wills that had been set against Malris on the previous night did not yet dare to make themselves felt; though the Dragonhelm sorely tempted them.

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It’s him . . . again,’ she said with a resigned sigh. There was no one who sat beside her on the wreck of the great oaken bed; its frame crushed save for the carven cluster of oak leaves and acorns that had once graced the top of one of the headboard’s posts. The straw stuffed mattress had long ago disappeared, rats and ravens claiming the scraps for nests of their own.

No one who listened to her complaints . . . yet still she spoke on. ‘Nerdanel’s son. Your friend, Malris . . . you remember. The one who was forever writing poems and songs and such.’ She combed her long pale fingers through the thick dark waves of her hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘He was singing again last night.’ She made a fretful movement with her hands, pushing down the dark material of her dress as it lay along her bodice, pressing out the wrinkles with her palms. ‘He kept me awake again,’ she complained. ‘I shall have dark shadows beneath my eyes from lack of sleep. And then how shall I look for our guests on the morrow?’

Giledhel turned her large, plaintive eyes toward the empty space beside her. ‘Malris? Malris?’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘Now where has he got off to I wonder?’ With another sigh, she rose and stepped toward the shattered loom across the stone paved room. With a practiced eye she examined the piece she was crafting . . . her fingers traced the fine lettering . . . something for her beloved Malris . . . it bore his name . . . but what had she meant by her choice of words and how had she thought to finish it . . .

It was a puzzle too great for her fragile mind.

She returned to her bed. A bright shaft of sunlight poured over the wrecked walls of the keep. Giledhel turned her pale face toward it, hoping for a warmth that did not come.

~*~

On a pile of crumbling stone blocks that had once been the foundation for the bedroom’s fireplace a raven perched. His bright, acquisitive eyes looked down, hopeful that some bauble or bit of food would fortuitously appear. But there was nothing his dark, eager gaze could find. Weathered wood, twisted and shattered is all he saw. And cold grey, lifeless stone.

In the morning’s breeze a piece of some old, torn weaving fluttered. Weighted down by wood and stone debris, it could not free itself. Frayed edges riffled in the slight currents then lay still again.

By some trick of light, the old bird thought, there seemed the dark figure of a woman moved within it. It startled him as she turned her gaze to his; pale grey eyes looking straight through him. He ruffled his feathers, shaking off that lifeless stare. And with a disapproving croak, took wing . . .

[Envinyatar]

Himring’s towers . . . the courtyard . . . bright banners of yesterage . . .

Orëmir tied tight the straps to his pack and shrugged it on. In the large compartment on the face of the pack, the one secured with the leather straps and sturdy buckles, he’d put his wooden chest of herbs and medicines. He’d checked it carefully this morning, making sure those remedies he’d compounded for minds overwrought and minds frenzied were easily at hand. Malris continued to worry him. The man’s mind seemed fragile. And Orëmir wondered if his former captain’s words were shifting subtly from just metaphor to some crazed and feverish reality.

Adjusting the shoulder straps of his pack, Orëmir took a step aside, allowing the others to precede him up the cliffside. Tasa nodded as she passed by him, her eyes flicking away quickly to the rocky way, seeking to follow the hand and foot holds that Malris abandoned in his ascent. Endamir came next, with a ‘See you at the top, brother!’ Orëmir could see his brother’s back was still a bit stiff, his pace more careful and measured as he began the climb. Lómwë followed after, his bow secured to his back, well out of the way of his climbing legs and hands.

Lindir stopped near where Orëmir stood, raising his eyes in question at his companion. ‘After you?’ Lindir offered, nodding his head toward the cliff. ‘Nay, let me bring up the rear,’ Oremir answered, a hint of smile curving one corner of his lips. ‘I’ll try to catch any of you should you lose your footing,’ he chuckled, glancing up toward the spidery Elven forms as they made their way upwards. ‘Or barring that, I’ll mark where you’ve fallen, so we don’t forget to carry your broken body back to the ship.’ He laughed softly, seeing the look on Lindir’s face. ‘A small joke, my friend. To lighten the atmosphere of this morning.’ He gestured toward the dusty track. ‘Go on, now. And hold firm to the rocks.’

His turn at last. Orëmir glanced up, watching as Lindir’s pack shifted from side to side. When the cascade of dust and pebbles had diminished to a trickle, he started up the rocky way.

[Anguirel]

To the others, it would probably seem that Malris was steeped in the very essence of happiness as he led the way, testing handholds, then springing up them, hare-like in motion. Every now and then he would continue to make another joyous observation, recount another memory, or point out a familiar detail of the rocks they ascended. Indeed, in the main this appearance was true. Malris was content to be back here, proud of his friends for bearing him company, putting up with his errant thoughts, and, he was inclined to think, feeling the same awe and joy, ultimately, that he was experiencing.

Yet within a crevice of his mind a doubt had been allowed to lurk. The captain's instinct of responsibility for his men is hard to take out of the blood and the spirit; and this sense of responsibility nagged at him. He remembered the gust of...of something, the night before; the intense stab, leaving the light, insubstantial, stinging injury, which had not, he knew, been caused by a rock, as he had told the others. What it actually was he could only grope after; such imprecise guessing would only lower morale, discourage the others. But by keeping his fear back, was he endangering their lives?

Not yet. He had no positive proof for the most persistent, the most gnawing, the most ghastly of his suppositions. Besides, there was no reason for trouble. The company belonged here. He had lived with his wife here, had lost dozens of friends here, defended these stones. They still owed him something, he felt. They would not turn on him. Neither he nor his friends had committed any crime. The uncovering of the Dragonhelm, it is true, could have caused certain problems, had they brought it up with them. But he had commanded it to be thrown into the sea. To be given back to Ulmo. Why, he was even being obedient to the Valar, at last, he thought, smiling. No, there was no cause for concern.

And so secrets proved self-harming to Elves, as they ever had; as Oremir and Lindir concealed the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, and Malris of Forlindon did not speak of his wound's true origin. Small sins, small faults of trust between friends.

Light wounds may bleed long.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa climbed carefully, lost in the action rather than the thought. It felt good to strain her muscles some... she would ache in a few hours, but it would be the good sort of ache that comes when your body is repremanding you for lazily forgetting your own fitness. The sort of ache that reminds you not to do it again.

She had made an effort to avoid work such as this... it was too reminiscent of long passed battles... of climbing cliffs silently before dawn to stage an attack at first light. She knew now that she could not forever escape her past. Or if she could, then diving blindly into the future was certainly not the way. She climbed unconcernedly now. Her lithe muscles shifted imperceptibly as she reached from hold to hold, finding small outcroppings that her companions' larger hands and feet could not trust. She trained her entire thought on the joy of motion.

Not more than twenty feet of slow climbing had gone by before her concentration was broken. Malris, who climbed joyously above her, ever gaining a lead, had dislodged several small pebbles and bits of ancient dust. It rained onto Tasa's head, startling her. The bits of rock stung her eyes and unthinkingly, she paused in her climb and released the rock face with her looser hand to attend her pained orbs. The fragile bit of stone she perched on crumbled at the extra weight. Blinded temporarily, she grasped for a stronger hold. It was too late. The sharp edges of the rock cut into her long fingers as they tore loose from the wall.

[piosenniel]

Gravity seemed to be winning . . . or gravities, perhaps . . . the heaviness of Tasa’s body and the force by which the very ground seems to draw all objects to it . . .

A quick ‘oh!’ as if someone above were taken by surprise and then the sharp pattering sounds of loosed rock skittering down the slope. Endamir glanced up to where Tasa climbed a little to his right and several yards above him. She had lost her hold on the rocky wall and her fingers could find no purchase. Still she pressed her body to the slope, hugging the rock as she could; hoping, it seemed, the scraping of her clothes against the surface might slow her down.

His feet secure on a short, meager ledge, Endamir moved as quickly as he could to the right hand edge of the jutting stone. He had already scoped out the choice of hand holds as he’d climbed earlier to this spot. At this end of his foothold, there was only a narrow, oblique crevice. Hardly wide enough for a thin lizard to squeeze into.

Without a second’s thought, he jammed the fingers of his left hand into the crevice and, hugging the slope, reached as far to the right as he could with his free hand. His hand caught the sliding Elf by the waistband of her breeches and pushed her hard against the rock, stopping her descent.

‘Reach over with your left foot and find my boot toe. It has good support. It will give you something to secure yourself against.’ Endamir looked up to where Malris had paused and was looking down. ‘Throw down a looped rope for her!’ he shouted. ‘And hurry!’

Already he could his wedged fingers beginning to grow numb in their precarious hold . . .

[Firefoot]

As Lómwë climbed up the treacherous slope, he was all the more glad that they had not attempted such a climb in the night. The way was steep, and hand- and foot-holds had to be carefully picked out of the face of the rock. A single instance of misplaced weight or an ill-chosen handhold on the cliff could wreck dire consequences. Every so often bits of dust and pebbles would trickle down upon them from those climbers above, most notably from Malris in his eager climbing.

Yet Lómwë did not mind the strenuous climb in the least; indeed, he enjoyed the physical activity quite possibly more than any other deed they had yet attempted on this journey. For the climb required nearly his full concentration and he could almost forget the intent of the climb and their destination. Almost.

There was still that small corner of his mind that could not help but reflect on the fair road that had once led up to the high fortress. That road, like so many other links to the Elder Days, was gone, eroded by the passage time and the elements and lack of use. It existed only in their memories, but there the memories were sharp and clear, undimmed by the passage of time, or rather, re-illuminated by this island. But gone, Lómwë reflected sadly as he mechanically reached for the next hand-hold, his concentration momentarily lapsing.

It was at that moment that several things happened: Tasa cried out above him; a rain of dust and grit fell down upon him, momentarily blinding him; and his hand missed the crevice he had been reaching for. He swayed dangerously, scrabbling at the rock face. By lucky chance, his fingers found purchase on the rock face, and he clung tenuously, waiting for the dust to clear so that he could see enough to continue his climb.

After what seemed like ages just hanging to the rock, he looked up and saw that Tasa was now being raised with a rope to the top, and Endamir seemed to be mentally recovering. Had Tasa lost her grip? He glanced down; he was some 15 feet up, and over hard rock. That would have been a nasty fall. His mind stirred in unease; it was just one more near miss in a long string. How many more times would they get lucky? Would it be better to just turn back now? No. He had come this far, and he was going to see it through. There was too much riding on this venture, too much had been invested in it.

So he dug a little deeper and pulled himself a little higher, preparing to complete the final few feet of the ascent, the end of the beginning.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite the massive proportions of the Dragon-helm and the fact that the object had been strapped across his back, Lindir had encountered few problems in making his way to the top of the cliff. He was the first of the Elves to reach the summit. Once or twice during his hurried ascent, a cautionary voice had sounded inside his head, urging him to veer a bit to the left or try a different foodhold. It was almost as if someone or something had purposely guided Lindir forward over the safest and swiftest course, not because of any concern for his personal well-being but to ensure that the helm reach its ordained destination. Lindir pushed back this unsettling notion from his mind, but remained seated on the rocky cliff with the precious artifact clenched between his tightened fingers.

One moment he was ruminating on the odd set of circumstances that had brought them to this isle, and the next he was staring grimly at the tiny figures of Endamir and Tasa who now clung precariously to the side of the cliff. Lindir looked up alarmed. Clearly, the two Elves were in need of help. Common sense dictated that he should race over to where Malris was seated and offer to aid his friends, perhaps to be ready to sling out a second looped rope if the first did not reach its destination or at least to show outward concern. Despite his clear sense that something must be done, Lindir sat complacently rooted to the ground, unable to move or take the helm from his lap. He felt as if the thing had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions and was preventing him from standing up. He could not understand what was happening. One part of his mind refused to give up the precious treasure even for a second, while another part was troubled and embarassed that he had not come forward to assist his friends. Defeated and powerless, he slunk back within the tall grass and piles of rubble that framed the edge of the hilltop, hoping that no one else had noted his strange behavior.

[Anguirel]

Malris was livid with himself. Dwelling on insubstantial threats, and climbing carelessly, his clumsiness had been the origin, as far as he could feel, of this disaster. His face became pale as the foam of the sea as he swivelled abruptly, unbuckling his pack of supplies as quickly as he could. Seizing a loaf of waybread at the top, he nearly flung it aside before recalling that, with fortune against him, this would only cause another mishap, and placed in his lap. At last the grey reassurance of the rope was in his hands. There was no time to tie a loop; with good Lindon sea-rope, there was also no need to.

Malris let out the harsh cry, "Loke!", and its song echoed about the island as the rope curved into place. Its loop completed, Malris hurled it downwards, with the famous prayer of Fingon on his lips...

"O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this line and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!"

At this, the calls of the gulls-always present intermittently on Himling-began to magnify. One large black-headed bird soared into the rope's path, batting it with his long, cruel beak, ensuring that it flew truly to Endamir and Tasa below. The continued, monotous gull sounds prevented further words; but they were not required. Malris grimly held fast to his end of the silvery twine, mentally thanking the King of Arda whom he had impetuously defied with the others, long ago.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa balanced precariously on Endamir's booted toe, beginning to slip. Dust still stinging her eyes, she kept them closed as tears freely flowed beneath her lids, trying to wash them clear. Endamir held her close with one arm as he gripped the wall with all of his strength with the other. She tucked herself against her old friend's body, trying to shift her weight and distribute it evenly. Blinded, she worked by every other sense.

She smelled the salt tang of the sea, and the old dust of forgotten stones, disturbed by the storm of the day before. Tasa noted Endamir's scent as she helplessly held tight to him: sweet and musty as an ancient book, opened for the first time in ages. Bird cries disoriented her as they dipped on the breezes that plucked at her clothes and Malris' voice cried a prayer as well known as any from above. She nearly felt the air part for the good bit of Lindon rope to pass.

Endamir spoke quietly into her ear. "I am going to release you for just a moment, Tasa... hold tight." She tightened her already firm grip around his chest and for a moment, nearly panicked when she felt his strong arm pull away. All that held her now from a fall she had resigned herself to were her own bleeding fingers and a small foothold she could not open her eyes to see. Endamir wrapped his arm around her again, working one handed. "Tasa, the rope is in my hand. You must let go of me and take it. I will not let you fall." Eyes still closed, she loosened her grip, comforted by his steady hold. She snaked one arm from around him to fumble for his hand. He passed her the loop. "Tasa, can you fit it around yourself?" He helped her to slide the rope over her head and under her arms, working slowly. Any false moves would doubtlessly not be conducive to a painless journey. With the rope firmly wrapped around Tasa, she released Endamir. Her weight was entirely trusted to Malris.

Endamir called up to their leader and found his own holds again. Tasa felt herself being gently pulled upward.

[Anguirel]

The gulls were starting to disperse now, and Malris called down a curt affirmation that he had Tasa held safely. He braced his slight, wiry frame for the increased weight on the rope; Tasa's adjustment was slow, and his physical preparation proved quite enough for the change. The rope now in both of his hands, he murmured "loke" again into the wind; the line glided through his fists, caressing rather than burning, and coiled easily around his waist, securing itself absolutely.

"Tasa," he shouted downwards towards where he could see the bobbing of her golden head, "Tasa? I've bound myself to you. You'll be safe."

The phrase called back an unbidden-apparently unbidden-memory...a starrying evening...his friends and comrades gathered on the Great Southern Balcony of Himring...a voice, the mightiest voice of the Eldar, speaking...

"In this way Malris has bound himself to Giledhel...and while this fortress stands, an everpresent defiance and reproach to the Dark Enemy of the World, they shall be as content as any of our kind have ever been, and their union will flourish!"

A widespread cheer. Tasa in the crowd, shimmering happiness, nostalgia, sorrow caught in the globes of her eyes. Lomwe and his wife, some months pregnant, smiling widely. Maedhros, armoured as ever, laughing uproariously as he clapped his remaining hand on his breastplate, shaking his fiery head...Curufin teasing his musician brother...

Maglor, harp in hands, extatic, yes, but with solemnity in those eyes. How much did he see, Maglor the Harper? How much did he guess? He strikes up a rhythm now...and the memory fades.

[Envinyatar]

Often Orëmir had ridden out from Imladris, into the foothills of the Hithaeglir to try his strength and skills against those of the granite and basalt bones of the mountains. It was good medicine for his time spent as a healer in the Rangers’ enclave. Suffering and death and the thought processes needed to hold them at bay could be put aside. Just the rock . . . the often tricksy rock, keeping its secrets from the climber. Just the rock and the fingers and feet and the narrow focus of one’s mind.

Orëmir looked up at the sounds of the commotion happening above. A frown creased his brow seeing the precarious rescue of Tasa by his brother and Malris. Old habits kicked in and he scurried up the slope as if he were an old rock lizard. ‘What a fool I was to let you go haring up here by yourself,’ he said in a breathless voice, half tinged with aggravation half with concern. ‘Let me look at those fingers of yours, you great ninny! And step back here, where the ledge is wider.’

Endamir gave his brother an abashed grin, offering his bruised and bleeding fingers up for inspection. ‘What did you think you were doing?’ Orëmir said through gritted teeth. ‘You might have fallen off the slope yourself . . .’ His words trailed off as he glanced from fingers to his brother’s raised brow at the little tirade. ‘Yes, I know I would have done the same,’ Orëmir said reluctantly. ‘BUT . . . I would have know exactly what I was doing . . . not just trusted to the slim hope of a narrowed crevice to hold me up.’ He shook his head, laughing in relief. ‘You’ve always been lucky, you know . . . graced by some special circumstance.’ He nodded up to the top where the others were now gathering, indicating his brother should start back up. ‘By the One, please don’t push past the limits of that luck of yours.’

When they reached the top, Orëmir opened his pack and took out his chest of remedies. He saw to his brother’s fingers and to Tasa’s scrapes and bruises. For the most part they were superficial and would heal quickly. Still he shivered a little in the sunlight as a fleeting thought rose in his mind that perhaps he and his companions were not welcome here. Once done he tucked the chest back in his pack and standing, noted Lindir hunkered down in a patch of tall grass. His pack was off his back and clasped closely to him.

‘Are you ill, my friend?’ Orëmir asked, seeing the odd look on Lindir’s face. ‘Is there something I can do for you?’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Within a few short moments, Tasa was beside Malris, seated almost comfortably on a rock. Her eyes still watered as she fumbled at the ties of her pack, searching for clear water to rinse the grit away that her tears had missed. Malris took the bag from her lap, swiftly opening it and removing her waterskin. She took it from him with quiet thanks and rinsed first her scratched and stinging eyes, and then her lightly bleeding fingers. In seconds, she could see again. She examined her hands, noting a torn fingernail with sluggish blood welling from beneath it, many scratches, and a deep gouge in her right palm. Malris took her hand in his and picked a small stone carefully from the cut, tossing it aside.

She looked from her seat out to the sea, taking in the quiet clouds that brushed the horizen. A soft breeze picked at her; she ignored it. She sat quietly as Orëmir, now beside them, lightly cleaned her cuts and she began to hum a distant tune thoughtlessly. It was only after Orëmir finished dabbing her scraped up hands with fresh smelling and nastily stinging liquids that Tasa looked up and realized her singing had an accompaniment: Malris' melodious voice took up the refrain as Endamir's boot tapped to the rhythm. It was a well known song of old, but Tasa had not noticed herself singing until it was over. She smiled, looking at her clean and blood-free hands, and then frowned, shivering. The friendly breeze of before felt colder; more forbidding.

"Does anybody," she put forth quietly, "feel as unwelcome here as I?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir said nothing for the longest time, watching in silence as Oremir tended Tasa's wounds. The haunting lyrics of the song that now filled the air enveloped his fea with a grim sense of foreboding. Glancing over again at Oremir, he finally responded, "Ill? No, I am not ill, at least with any affliction of the body. But this place.....I do not like it."

The Elf's fingers slid over the curved rim of the helmet as he gazed out towards the Sea. He still could not bring himself to put the thing down. With a sigh, he added, "Too many memories, and too much desire." Oremir could barely hear Lindir's whispered words and, of what memories his friend was thinking, no one could even say.

[Anguirel]

The memory of his wedding receding for the moment, Malris indulged in a reassuring spell of thoughtless action, swimming in the warm sea of rest, (so unlike the ocean surrounding them here...) and attending to the needs of the others in general and Tasa in particular.

It did not take him long to realise that he had forgotten about the waybread he'd removed from his satchel while searching for the rope; it was probably even now being ingested by the gulls of Himling. He did not object to this; the lembas Tasa and Lomwe had brought was, in any case, far superior, and plentiful, while he still carried some salt meat, a few Mannish rolls filled with the remains of the salmon, several apples, his flask of water, and a bottle of cool, glistening white wine. He speedily unpacked these refreshments, and the rest of the company pooled their provisions as well; it was now late in the afternoon, almost twilight, but this repast would make up for their lost lunch.

Still idly setting about this business, he joined Oremir in seeing to Tasa's bruises, and particularly the gouge that looked as if it might scar on her arm; leaning over, he plucked out a pebble Oremir had passed by...and shivered, not from fear or even from the cold. The tips of his fingers were lightly layered with Tasa's crimson blood, so bright against the pale skin...

Giledhel was dead, dead on Endor, live on the Undying Lands, whither they would shortly be departing on Cirdan's craft. No; it must be the same answer he had always given in relation to Tasa, ever since the race. But this, he realised, was the first time he felt himself regretting that fact. He shrunk from thought again, the shadow of doubt and complexity that burdened him, and idly joined in Tasa's tune.

When it came to an end, she looked querulously from Oremir to him.

"Is anyone here feeling as unwelcome as I?"

She was quivering in the cold; her lips-a little darker than her blood-trembling. Malris set all his attention upon it now, even as he passed her a glass of wine. It was not merely the wind that had given Himring its name. It was the same chill he had felt the night before.

"Not entirely," he said finally. "I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers."

The air about began to twist, whistle, almost snarl. All six of the Elves now huddled together, though most were still unprepared for danger, with bread and wine, not weapons, in their hands...

[Envinyatar]

The Orcs and the Lady

‘Hinya! That bird - I think it means to make some mischief with my weaving.’

Ashukh hurried to where the Lady sat, looking up at some great black bird perched on the crumbling masonry of the fireplace. It hopped along the jagged edges of the broken stone and peered down with a calculating stare into the remains of the room below. The breezes fluttered the edges of the Lady’s as yet unfinished project, seeming to pique the intruder’s interest.

Though his hands bore neither strength nor substance, still he patted the tattered cloth and spoke as gently as he might. ‘Feather brained burzdug be gone soon enough, Lady. Not come back neither. Zlog take care that sneakin’ bird. Him be left to rot with t’other of his friends what was crushed against the rocks.

A loud, strangled squawk, cut off in mid protest echoed on the other side of the Lady’s bedroom. Through a large crack in the lower part of the wall a faint wisp of breeze seemed to stir along the cracked, chipped stones that paved the floor. It bore upon it a lone, black feather, bent nearly in two.

‘Oh that were fun!’ Zlog hunkered down near Ashukh, grinning widely. ‘Grabbed him, I did. Made him take old Zlog out a ways then turn around. Yes! Turn around we did and him flying as fast as I could make him.’ With a nearly soundless CLAP!, save for the sighing of the small bit of air displaced, Zlog described how the bird had rammed himself into the wall. ‘Slid down them rocks lika sticky glob a spit down a troll’s leg.’ He too reached out and patted the weaving. ‘Won’t be botherin’ ya no more, Lady.’

From the topmost stones of the fireplace another voice called down to them. ‘Be my turn, Lady, for bird-watch. No need worry. Gorgu be keeping you safe now . . . yes, he be doing that for sure . . . yes, he do . . .’ He went on like that for a space of time, his words weaving a sing-song assurance of security; a refuge inviolate.

For their part, Ashukh and Zlog were quiet as they sank restfully into the stones upon which rested the Lady’s cloth; their passage leaving undisturbed the rusty faded stains of long ago.

----------

hinya – my child (Quenyan)
burzdug – black-filth (Orcish/Black Speech)

[piosenniel]

His brother, he noted, had gone off to speak with Lindir. The man looked pale and disconcerted as he sat on the grass, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on his close stowed pack . . . almost, it seemed, in a protective way. What’s this? he wondered to himself. ‘Lindir looks as if he’s seen some ghost. Some unpleasant ghost, too, by the looks of it,’ Endamir murmured aloud.

Lómwë was standing near him, taking in the little tableaux. He was hardly winded from the climb, Endamir had observed when he’d reached the top at last. His gaze swept over the man’s lithely muscled form. Kept himself in good shape, I see, there among the golden trees. Unlike yourself . . . he chided himself mentally. Endamir shook his head at the image of himself, sitting comfortable in his chair in the great library of Imladris. And an assistant to fetch things to boot! What a lazy git you are!

Tasa’s question disturbed his further remonstrance of past folly.

‘Does anybody," she put forth quietly, ‘feel as unwelcome here as I?’

Malris’ reply fell into the anticipating silence that had gathered about the plateau.

‘Not entirely," he said finally. ‘I feel much like one who has returned from a long journey to find his house in the hands of strangers.’

And was greeted with a rising wind that whipped about the companions, ringing them in like a noose. Endamir pulled his cloak from his pack and drawing it about him, huddled in closer to the others. From the corner of his eye, in the space between light and shadow that gathered near a tumble of rocks he thought he saw something pass. It was gone as he looked more closely. ‘Some trick of the wind and the dust it stirs,’ he said, talking aloud to himself. He frowned, feeling disquieted.

‘What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories.’ He shivered in the folds of his cloak. ‘Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .’

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat -- The Orc Sentinel

Bazhrat the Skullcrusher drew deep into the shadows of the rocky outcropping, his ears straining to hear what the foul Elves were saying. ‘The Dark Lord take those sneaking, murdering Elves!’ he cursed, wrinkling his nose up at the perceived foul odor. ‘And gouge out eyes, first, of that nosy-parker!’ The Orc peered out from his dark hiding place and glared at Endamir.

Good thing none of the other Orcs assigned to watch for intruders from this side of the island were about. Sure enough one of those big-mouthed kiss-rumps would be telling the Cap’n how the stupid Bazhrat had managed to let himself be noticed. Bazhrat cackled crazily, a sudden thought caroming through the dim corridors of his mind. ‘Don’t really matter, does it?’ he crooned, rocking back and forth on his haunches. ‘Can’t kill old Skullcrusher, can he now? Already dead!!’ The thought sent him howling with maniacal laughter.

It pulsed and echoed through the wind that had sprung up around the Elven companions.

The Orc look guiltily around, wondering if the snoopy Elf suspected the sound and whatever he’d seen were somehow connected. ‘Put a lid on it, Bazhrat,' the Orc admonished himself. ‘Best we be getting back and saying what we spied out.’

Like a fine mist, the Orc drifted out from his hiding place and sped quickly from shadow to shadow back toward the place just outside the fortress’ old wooden gate where the Captain and his ever restless crew had stationed themselves.

[Firefoot]

Lómwë drew his grey-green cloak close about him, trying to block out the chill, hostile wind. The cloak, being of fine Lórien make, usually blocked out all but the sharpest and dampest winds, but now it was as if this breeze cut straight to him. Perhaps it was because the chill was not so much a physical as much an unearthly chill, one that seemed to gnaw at the corners of his mind and heart as well as his body.

“What say you, Lómwë? I think Tasa may have the right of it. And Malris, too, in his own way. This place belongs to others now. And not just some figments of our memories. Even the rocks seem haunted . . . and the wind . . . perhaps we should leave them be . . .”

“This place does not even feel like home to me,” said Lómwë flatly. “Not even a home in the hands of strangers, or even murderous strangers.” His eyes turned westward, where, were his view not obscured, he knew he would see naught but ocean stretching out where fair Beleriand once had lay, where his home had been. Himling… had been a fortress, a stronghold. But home – that had been little less than a day’s journey from here, in his small home with his wife and son. Home had been a place filled with love and warmth, and peace, however temporary and fleeting. Peace that was long gone, sunken beneath the waves like his home. This place held no warmth, no welcoming embrace. It had only ghosts – both of the memory and in reality – hostile ghosts, inhabiting even the rocks and the wind, as Endamir had said.

“Certainly, this place bears memories . . . many of them happy, though more of them sad. I remember Himring as it was – but no such place is this now. This is nothing but a cold, forbidding shell of the fortress it once was. Whatever – or whoever – inhabits this island now is not living, and I feel no welcome from them.” As he finished those words, a new wind whistled in their ears, seeming to carry the sound of harsh laughter. Lómwë shivered involuntarily. There seemed to be a mist about the mountain top, despite the sun shining overhead. “But welcoming or not, I think we have too much invested in this venture, too much of a purpose, to turn aside now. We should go forth warily, I think - we’ve been lucky so far; there’s no saying whether this luck, if luck it is, will continue . . .”

Lómwë looked up the rise to where the fortress had once stood, a short, easy hike away. Little remained . . . and yet, with a sudden flash of memory, Lómwë could see the fair city as it once had been. He felt a sudden desire as he had never felt in many long years to climb upon those high battlements and gaze out at the lands about him, to feel free and yet in control, to have only small concerns easily looked after. He wanted to recapture those last years of the Watchful Peace, to go back and experience them indefinitely.

Then the vision faded, leaving Lómwë feeling sick and empty inside.

[piosenniel]

‘What purpose is that, Lómwë?’ The question spilled from Endamir’s lips without thinking. He scuffed the toe of his right boot in the thin layer of dirt, tracing a faint spiral that coiled and recoiled upon itself. ‘For my part, I must say I’m beginning to lose what enthusiasm I had for this venture. I cannot think anymore the past will lay itself to rest when I’ve clapped eyes on old haunts of mine or set foot upon familiar places.’ With a certain deliberateness, he scuffed out the design he’d made. ‘And now I think further on it, the past will not suffer my tears, either. The burden of my former deeds will not diminish were I to weep as many drops as fills this unrelenting sea.’ He chewed the inner corner of his lip, looking up to cast his gaze out over the waters. ‘The journey, so far, has at least been good for this discovery.’ Endamir glanced back at Lómwë, his grey eyes narrowed as he peered toward the man in a thoughtful manner.

‘And now even my other pretexts for being here seem falsely reasoned.’ He nodded toward Malris as he sat talking to Tasa, the long gold of her hair mingling with his short dark locks as her head bent near his, sharing some thought. ‘He has no need of me. Nor I of him. Our bond has dissolved. Gone to ash. Even now the winds that stir here blow those frail ties away.’

Endamir bent down and picked up a pebble from the rocky ground. ‘And this old place . . .’ he went on, skipping the shard across a short, dusty area. His eyes flicked up dismissively to where the crumbling fortress stood in the distance. ‘Its glories fade more with each step my feet take. The memories of it retreat into ashes, too . . .’

He stepped back from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken. What had stirred them so deeply and in so ill a manner? ‘Your pardon, Lómwë,’ he said looking at his companion. ‘I had not meant to weigh you down with such burdensome maunderings. Who am I to question your purpose? You have your own needs to consider without taking on the onus of mine.’

In the distance, Endamir could hear the waters of the sea washing relentlessly up on the rocky strand below and the soft . . . whishhh . . . of the retreating foam as it drew back out again.

Brother! he called to Orëmir. You were right. I should have listened to your counsel . . . I . . .

[Envinyatar]

‘What fell wind is this that brings such a chill and leaves a lingering despair?’ Orëmir considered Lindir with a deep concern. Deny as he might that he was ill, Lindir gave off the impression of one caught deeply in some old web. And one of his own making for the most part, Orëmir thought to himself. His friend’s eyes looked far off on some old scene and by his words it was not one he looked on gladly.

Brother! . . .

And now the urgent calling of his brother reached out for him, trailing off into an untypical confusion. In a few, quick strides he was at Endamir’s side, his hand coming up to rest against his brother’s cheek. Endamir’s eyes were unfocused, his gaze turned inward, so it seemed. You’re distressed; I can feel it. Tell me . . . what weighs so heavily on you? A tangle of thoughts came tumbling out. Unsure, rambling thoughts crafted with a sort of fearful, twisted logic.

‘Is it some malicious will sets itself against us?’ Endamir murmured as he sorted through his brother’s meanderings. ‘First Lindir and now Endamir have their minds set on some dark path!’ Orëmir looked furtively about, expecting to find something, he knew not what, that would explain this puzzle. There was nothing he could ferret out.

He drew his brother down, sitting close to him, an arm around Orëmir’s shoulders. He had no other medicine than that of his own supportive presence. No compound, no draught to drive out the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty that washed against him. He spoke reassuringly to his brother as the stream of conflicted thoughts ran on.

And one eye he kept fixed on Lindir who sat still where he had left him; his gaze far away, his hand moving idly over his pack as if to reassure himself it was still there . . .

[Anguirel]

While the stray wind carrying Bazhrat's laughter continued to gnaw on the company's minds, breeding fear, hesitation, and division, the not-so-stealthy scout was drifting on the breeze to an odd looking pile of rocks, far further down the hill and out of sight of the Elves. The stones were too peculiarly round to have all gathered there by chance or nature. It was in fact a cairn; it housed the leader of an Orc-band and most of his followers, and had been hurriedly erected by the few survivors of the party.

The Orcish cairn was the only one of its kind standing on the island. The other graves, equally eroded and crumbling, still held about them the dignity that told of Elvish craft; for no Orcs since had dared to bury their dead on Maedhros the Tall's domain. This one, too small and lumpen to be a source of attention, had been allowed to stand.

Of course, it "housed" the Orc-band in more ways than one. Thought these yrch were of no particular distinction in bodily life, as spirits their common residence made them a larger group of Coavalta than any of the other slain Orcs, who mainly dwelled in ones and twos. Thus this relatively unsucessful chieftain found himself "Captain" of all the scattered Orcish ghosts of Himring. This had swelled his arrogance and nurtured his anger.

Naturally, Captain Ghashthurk remembered his death. The one the Orcs called the Red Fury had sliced him throat to groin. The others, they had long memories too. They remembered swords, bright brands with hard names, and dark-headed smiths. Noldor, filthy Noldor, despised all the more because they were what each Orc longed to be.

And they remembered the object of their raid, oh yes. They remembered the tough little Dwarves, so pitifully few in number, a diplomatic mission; with their queer war-masks and their shining Helm.

And so when Bazhrat, one of the filthy scavenging loners Ghashthurk held sway over, had come limping sheepishly over to tell of six Elves, Noldor, led bythe same one Kragscurk had seen at night...the one who had carried Red Fury's standard...with others they remembered, a tall grim weaponsmith...and with the Helm...yes, no mistake about it...revenge had come for Ghashthurk's clan.

The twelve warriors (thirteen with Bazhrat added) soared out of their rough cairn, gripping spears that would leave no lasting bite, but only a taste of purest terror.

Terror. It had finished others before, Ghashthurk thought. It would finish this lot; and the Dragonhelm would be his forever more...

[Firefoot]

After a moment, Lómwë too sat down across from Endamir and Orëmir. Still dwelling on Endamir’s words, he hardly noticed Orëmir’s presence. “Nay, Endamir, do not apologize. I have asked myself so many of the same questions and mused over the same thoughts. Were it just Malris holding me here, I should leave; he is as a stranger to me. No . . . but I can’t just leave . . . I have to finish it.

“I have no delusions that I can bring the past back, and yet every step I take in this place, every moment I spend here, it brings those memories of the past in to sharper relief - clearer to the memory and closer to the heart.” There came a haunted look into Lómwë’s eyes. “The old people and places, it’s like I can see them. My son, Aradol, and dear Ellothiel, oh Eru, Endamir, what I wouldn’t do to go back, or to have them still with me!” That did it for Lómwë; he couldn’t stop now. Never had he spoken in such a way of those two – ever. “I can’t forget the past, nor do I want to, though I’ve tried, how I’ve tried. Why did I go to Lórien, adopt their ways and style of dress? I haven’t really known it, not till now, but it’s all been an act, an attempt to escape the past. When thoughts get too close to home, I shut them away, refusing to let myself go there. I’m afraid of it, and afraid of this place: it’s present and it’s history. And since I can’t go back or bring the past forward, I have to face it. There’s no peace in hiding from the past.

“I guess that’s all I’m really looking for: peace. I’ve tried in so many ways, and I’m not sure that visiting this place is going to do it. But I’ve got to try.” Even as he spoke, another memory began to intrude upon his thoughts. War and fighting sounded in the distance, though Lómwë was not directly part of it for the time being. Homewards he headed, with all possible haste. . .

No. Not that one, Lómwë declared pleadingly, forcibly shoving it away. He knew that one . . . it had attempted to intrude upon his thoughts many a time in these long years. But he wouldn’t let it; it was too painful. “I’ve got to face the past,” he said miserably, “but I can’t. Not yet.”

[piosenniel]

Endamir had recovered himself for the most part. He shook his head a little, in an effort to clear the last of the dark, clingy cobwebs that had trapped his thoughts, instilling in them a venomous fear and uncertainty. Almost as quickly as the bleak, hopeless thoughts had come, they receded, as mist does before a sudden breeze.

‘I’ve got to face the past,' he heard a voice say, tinged with misery, 'but I can’t. Not yet.’ Lómwë’s words cut through the last traces of Endamir’s oppressive thought.

‘My friend,’ Endamir began, nodding at Lómwë, ‘too well do I understand the depth of feeling that underlies your words.’ Though not the specific reason you say them he thought to himself. ‘But do you not also feel some foul purpose here in this place that seeks to take those feelings and distort them? That is not to gainsay your feelings, your concerns. But, just now, I felt some malicious will unstick itself from my thoughts, drawback . . . and with it take the complete hopelessness it had brought with it.’

Endamir narrowed his eyes, gazing into the distance at the ruins of the fortress. ‘We should be on guard; don’t you think? Don’t you feel it?’ He adjusted his focus, bringing it back to Lómwë. ‘We are in danger, I sense, we who carry those deep wounds that have not healed.

[Anguirel]

Malris, deriving all the comfort he could from the Forlindon wine, the Lorien waybread, and the dressing he had made sure was applied to Tasareni's hurts, still felt the chill, the undeniable hostility in the air, that set the others on edge. His conversation with Tasa had come to the end of all that needed to be said; they now understood each other's anxiety, the nervousness all six of the Noldor gathered near Himring's majestic gate and rusting, raised portcullis were afflicted by. Something was far from right. Now only Endamir and Lomwe were still groping at its nature in their words; at any other time Malris would have verbally castigated Endamir's fears, but now...

Some instinct guided his storm-grey eyes upwards, to the lintel of the gate's arch. There he saw the arms of Maedhros, once High King, Lord of the Dispossessed, Elven-prince of Himring; and beside them the smaller ensign of Maglor, twin stars refueling the hope and rekindling the fire in his heart.

"Up! Quick! Friends...we need to get inside the courtyard..."

He finished the last draught of his wine-goblet and began to rush for the gate. The others would sense the tone; the order given when lord, life and land was at stake, the order that brooked no disobedience; and they would follow as quickly as they could, as the screaming of the wind rose.

***

So. The shorter one, like a filthy cat, the one who had carried Red Fury's banner when Ghashthurk's stalwarts had fallen...he was onto something, he was leading a rush for the gate. Wise, the long-dead Orc hieftain had to confess. It was true that he and his little band would never dare to venture in there. There were many restless Elves within, swifter than they, the Chamberlain of the Palace, the Mastersmith, the Seneschal, the Diviner, the Lady with her pack of Orcs gone funny.

But though incorpereal Elves could outstrip and torment bodiless Orcs, still bodiless Orcs were faster by far than Quendi tied to flesh. It was easy, very easy, to block the short fiery one's way, with four of his strongest minions. Meanwhile the rest of them went for the sullen craftsman, the bearer of the Dragonhelm. It could not adorn Ghashthurk's head now, but it would rest in the cairn. Bazhrat charged off in a completely variant direction; Ghashthurk knew his game, and chuckled. He was going to play with the Elven-maid.

The spirits flashed into occasional sight now, causing their victims to recoil, more in disgust and pity twisted to fury than outright fear; but horror would be enough to start with, and fear would come, after a little of the stinging. The wounds of Coavalta scarcely slit the body, but disconcerted the spirit. Eventually, these Noldor would separate from their hroar, leaving their corpses to moulder. They would flee into the fortress, and weep and wail with the other houseless Elves.

And the Dragonhelm would rest in the cairn.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had sprang to her feet at Malris' cry, following him automatically. The air had grown noticably colder and her vision seemed to blur just a few feet in front of her. She was thoroughly disconcerted as she hastily grabbed her pack and ran, tripping slightly on the harsh rocks. The straps of her bag cut into her sore fingers. She ignored the pain as she made to catch up with her companions. Having far fewer aches than she, they ran more quickly. The air suddenly became horrifyingly full of insubstantial faces. One in particular darted toward her, leering cruelly.

Tasa stopped short, a choked scream eminating. Far ahead, Malris paused, glancing behind to her. She dropped her pack, reaching for the long blade dangling from her hip. Her right hand grasped the hilt as she spun, eyes meeting with nothing. A ghostly blade suddenly darted forth to pierce her wrist. The wound healed almost instantly, leaving a line of fresh blood to flower through the light bandages still covering her hands. She dropped her blade as a wisp of a breeze took tranparent form before her.

She shuddered in disgust, sick at heart, at the maimed version of an orc that stood before her, wielding a shadow of a blade shining dimly with her blood. She had never imagined that facing ghosts of the past could be so literal.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir had already stood up as his brother began speaking to Lómwë. He could sense that his brother’s thoughts were clearing now, though they still carried a pall of fear and unease. He was about to go over to where Tasa sat with Malris when he saw Malris rise quickly to his feet and urge his companions into the courtyard. The tone of command was in his voice and he led them at a run into the fortress.

The wind was rising again, howling . . . beating at the Elves with its frenzied gusts. Orëmir paused for a moment before he took stride, his ears hearing sounds from a distant time . . . the harsh cries of Orcs raised in battle . . . their wrathful zeal as they shook and rattled their weapons, fiendish minds intent on a bloody destruction. The winded battered against him, malicious laughter prickled against his cheeks, running down the collar of his tunic to freeze him to inaction if it could. It pressed against him like an unwanted lover. He shut his mind against the assault.

Reaching down Orëmir hauled his brother to his feet and pulled him along quickly toward the supposed safety of the courtyard. He glanced back once to see that Lómwë followed along closely behind

It was not until the wind released them and they fell onto the hard ground that he turned to take account of the others.

Where was Lindir?

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

They heard her fretting; her voice low with worry. And rising from the paving stones where her weaving lay, they looked for her. In the pale light Ashukh and Zlog could just make out her wavering form, inconstant in the play of light and shadows as she pressed herself against the tumbled stones which once formed the foundation of a great window. It was once the framer of a view that much delighted her as it looked out toward her garden. Now the stones of the window’s frame had cracked and fallen and rolled out onto the parched earth. No flowers or sweet smelling shrubs grew there save in her mind.

Gorgu had drifted down beside her his hands fussing at the edge of her sleeve as he sought to pacify her. ‘She be worritting – her flowers’ll be shredded and such . . . at’s what she says.’ He turned toward Ashukh and Zlog, a frown puckering his brow. ‘Wind’s up,’ he went on, nodding out across the rocks toward where the dust and debris rose up in a maelstrom just beyond the place where the outer fortress walls once stood.

‘Something’s come,’ growled Ashukh, hearing the clamor of his kindred in the rising wind. ‘Best we keep a sharp eye out.’

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘Oh, my poor, poor flowers! Their petals will all be sundered from them by this awful wind. Then what will I say to the guests when they wish to stroll there after we’ve supped?’

Giledhel wrung her hands in worry. She’d so wanted this party to go well. Some of Malris’ close friends would be there as would Maedhros. And his brother, also, she thought. The one that sang. She’d invited some others of the fortress’ company, too . . . ones with wives. There were not many ladies in this cold keep and she savored the times she could be in their company.

A frown creased her forehead. ‘Nay, not all of them,’ she hissed to herself. ‘There is that . . . one. I’ve seen her looking at Malris, her with her shimmering eyes, her sly eyes.’ Giledhel’s own eyes narrowed, thinking of other gatherings she had attended. She clapped her hands, calling to her children.

‘Gracious me!’ she exclaimed nearly tripping over the three as she turned. She laughed, a sweet sound that tinkled merrily among the stones. ‘My dear boys! You are all that a mother could ask for.’ She glanced about the room becoming more and more impatient as she did not see the one she sought. ‘Now where can she have gone too? My lady’s-maid, have you seen her?’ With a shrug of her shoulders, she smiled at her three boys.

‘Be dears, will you?’ she asked, pointing to where her great wardrobe once stood. ‘Fetch me out my green dress . . . the one with the tapering sleeves and the beaded trim. Malris likes me in green; he’s said so often. Sets off my dark hair. I’ll have the gold fillet, too, for my hair. The one set with the emerald.’ Her lips curved into a halfsmirking smile. ‘See if her and her tatty blue and silver dress will catch any attention tonight.’

‘Oh! And ask the gardeners to see what they can do for my flowers . . . will you?’

[Anguirel]

The music of battle roaring in his mind as it had not since the Dagorlad...the grim euphoria that propels the limbs and drives the heart, as Malris drew his sword, more than half his height in length, and slashed it through the four spirits who blocked his way, careless of its utility, aware that the enemy had no flesh to harm, but ready to resist anyway. Hopeless war was the way of the Noldor, Malris thought, as Cirlach gleamed in the dusk. His memory invoked Feanor, Fingolfin, Glorfindel, Gwindor...

The Tengwar and Certh runes on Cirlach burned with sudden colour; the Tengwar red, the Certh purest white. Malris knew the inscription well. "Curufin made this for a friend and father-vengeance." Such a message all that smith's blades had born. Some distrusted Curufin as emotionless, calculating. Malris knew love of his father had driven him faster than he could control himself.

The Orcish coavalta shuddered and howled, jerking back from the sword's radiance, and Malris, with Lomwe close behind him, hurled himself forward. The gate was but a step away...

***

"Dungheaps!" Ghashthurk hissed. "It cannot hurt you, for all its light. You can hurt him. Do not let him go."

Still the band of four, led by Kragscurk, the second largest fighter in the war party, faltered.

"The runes, Cap'n. Look at them. It's one of them Star-lord swords. Garn, and you expect us to run onto it?"

"Star-lord sword or not," growled Ghashthurk, "resist it, or I will close the Cairn against you, craven muck."

Kragscurk and the others glanced at each other, and then whisked back into the fighting with a searing howl of the air. Being banned from the Cairn and left to wander outside, a nobody lone weakling like Bazhrat...well, it didn't bear even considering.

***

"They aren't yielding any more ground," Lomwe cried, his own fine sword Coruthel flashing as it pierced ethereal form again, and again, and again.

"Aye," answered Malris. "The cause is, they've remembered they're dead."

The point of a battered, pale grey spear cut into his side, leaving scarcely a mark; but a flicker of irresolution, of concern-even fear? in his eyes, quickly repressed as he whirled Cirlach pointlessly again...he cursed as he saw that another two coavalta had surged behind them, cutting the pair of swordsmen off from the others; Tasa was left to face the unhinged looking lone Orc alone, one of the ghastly, barely-visible shapes was assailing each twin, while Lindir, furthest back, was surrounded by four, his face pallid and suffused with sweat...

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa stood frozen for a moment, staring through the etherial form before her. Daggers of uncertainty quite literally pierced her heart until she heard a cry from Malris. She looked to him, noting the way his beloved sword pierced the air, if nothing else. She swept her blade from the ground, steel resolve in her bright eyes. The vines of the hilt fit the contours of her hand lovingly, cradling her fingers. It was long for a dagger, silver, and deadly. Her twin blades were strapped to her pack and she thought of them with regret as she knew unpausingly that it would take too long to unbind them. Had she realized what danger this trip would provide... she had been so certain it would be a test of will, rather than strength. Perhaps it still was.

The crazed spirit rushed her once more, blade raised. She stood her ground, crouched into a fighter's position. She still wore her filthy and torn breeches, and her boots, soft at the uppers, were solid support on the treacherous rock. No protection, any of her garb, for any weapon, be it corporeal or no, yet it was very suited for quick dodges.

"Spirit," she murmered. "Why do you linger? Your dark master awaits you in the void." With this, she leapt forward, blade nothing more than a blur. The orc did not even slow. Grotesquely, he laughed a bone-chilling laugh as her blade pierced his formless body with no effect. Tasa hesitated, barely. Another hit landed on her, scratching across her face, a mirror image of her scar of old. She shuddered uncontrollably. The wounds, insubstantial as they were, took longer to heal each time they landed.

She spared a moment to look for escape. Her companions were as beseiged as she. Their battle seemed hopeless. While the wights landed blow after blow, continuing the strikes even through the blocking blades of her fellows, they were unable to truly affect the dead. Her opponent, thankfully only one, had returned. She looked to the sky, taking comfort in Eärendil's glimmering. She glared with unadulterated hatred at the unsettled death that stood before her, sizing her up. She could not begin to imagine what evil thoughts raced through his mind, but she could hope to force his hesitation long enough to gather her companions together.

"Auta i lómë." she spoke reasonably to the orc. "Aurë entuluva." He turned to the eastern horizen and she bolted, soundless. With a wrenching cry, he saw her motive and followed. She nearly laughed at the absurdity of the feint before raising her voice above the din. The spirit froze at the horror she spoke; the Elves looked to her, perched upon a rock, shadowed, nearly hidden, and yet the center of the moment. The orcs halted their attacks.

"Hear me now, ye proud Noldor! We will leave this place. Hope stay in your hearts. Aurë entuluva! Hear me now, ye restless spirits! You shall not remain, with us or without! Leave now or we will dispatch of you in less merciful ways. Hear me now, and choose." She raised her blade to the sky, awaiting reaction in the sudden silence of the night.

[piosenniel]

Bazhrat --- encounter with the Elf Witch

Bazhrat clapped his hands to where his ears might have been. The nasty Elf was screeching. Elvish words in a big voice. She held up her pointy little Orc sticker, he saw. One of the burning, hurtful ones he’d had the bad luck to encounter that long, long time ago. It had been one of those biting Elvish knives that had gutted him on the rocky field that lay at the fortress’ feet. He clasped his long, spatulate fingers to his belly as the memory of pain burned bright within him once again.

And here she was looking out at the Orcs and cursing them with her foul Elvish words.

‘Ow! Ow!’ she cried in a grim voice, her eyes as hard as granite. ‘Ow! Ow!’ And some sneaking sounds to round the hurting words out.

He backed away from her, his eyes wide with fear. He was certain that if she once pointed that knife she held at him, he would indeed be swept away to whatever fate those long gone companions of his had met. He shrank in on himself, as does a shadow exposed to a bright light . . .

‘Witch!’ he heard one of the other Orcs hiss behind him. ‘Nasssty Elf witch. Tries to trick us with her words.’ Several of the other Orcs who had followed along behind him now pushed forward, their inconsequential forms swelling against him, carrying his along.

A number of their wraithlike figures bore no weapons save for their jagged, sharp teeth and their long, hard, ragged nails; others grasped the jagged blades they'd used in life. Moths to a bright flame, they rolled toward her . . . a great seething mass of hazy mist . . . stinging and cutting her where they touched bare skin. Cold . . . relentless . . . a frenzy of angry, malicious loathing . . . they pushed against her . . . willing her spirit to let them in . . .

‘Get behind her!’ Bazhrat heard one of the Orcs say. ‘Don’t let her reach the fortress. It’s us as has the rights to her not them murderin’, sneakin’ Elves inside. We saw her first . . .’

‘Quit yer shoving!’ Bazhrat yelled at the Orc who was now trying to elbow him out of the way. ‘I was here first!’ A fight broke out, even as they rolled about the Elf and her knife. ‘It’s me what’s got the first rights!’ yelled another of the larger Orcs. ‘You maggots stand back and let your better have first go!’

The Elven prize forgotten for the moment in the growing battle for positioning, the Orcs turned on themselves, screeching and clawing at each other with a vengeance . . .

[Anguirel]

Child of the 7th Age's post

Was he truly awake or asleep? At first Lindir was not sure. His fingers tightened stubbornly about the helm, cradling the precious artifact close against his chest. Dropping to his knee so that his body hunched protectively over the Dragon-helm, he gazed out unbelieving at the scene that assailed his senses. Waves of desire, sick and heavy, emanated from the intruders in an ever widening arc, directed more at the object in his arms than at himself as its lone Elven bearer. He was no more than an incidental, a thing to be mentally bludgeoned and tossed aside so that the object he carried could be claimed by those creatures who now stood before him.

Lindir sensed he had slipped unknowingly into his blackest night dream and was thrashing about to try and bring himself to waking. Yet his body refused to respond quickly. It was as though he was encumbered with a thousand blankets of steel that prevented him from disentangling his arms and legs to throw off the unyielding chains of sleep. He tried to reach for his sword but his fingers would not move the scant few inches that would bring his hand in contact with its hilt.

For a single instant he was not afraid. On one level, that of the rational, the situation made little sense. How could there be so many Orcs on such a small island when this many years had passed? Or could these creatures even be called Orcs? In all his years of battling the minions of Morgoth, he had never confronted any Orcs like these. For all their skill in battle, Orcs were usually witless folk who showed little hint that anything was going on inside, whose ugliness and rage was a flat outer mask that sheltered no inner complexities or glint of reflection. But this odd menagerie of combatants seemed different. The ugliness reflected in the Orcs' shadowy bodies and faces was as nothing compared to the horror that lay underneath. Thick layers of desire and obsession spun out to envelope the Elf, to catch him within a sticky, unrelenting web. It was as if these few members of the black host had spent a thousand years ruminating on a particular desire and now saw a means to achieve that wish, if only the unwelcome obstacle Lindir posed could be summarily eliminated.

Lindir struggled to rise to his feet, clutching the helm in his right hand while using his left to steady himself. He was finally moving but he was still too slow. The creatures were about him in an unrelenting circle, their movements nimble in a way he could never have foreseen. It made no sense. Elves were swift and adroit in their movements; Orcs eternally slow and clumsy. So how could this strange tableau be happening? A thick blade arced upward and then came down within inches of his head, barely catching the edge of his leather jerkin as pain resonated through his left side. Finally Lindir awoke. Whoever or whatever these assailants were, they were capable of inflicting injury and death, whether through physical blows or some other means.

Fear and anger exploded from within as Lindir sensed the real danger he was in. The helm dropped from his fingers onto the stoney ledge and, for the first time, he paid the thing no heed. His mind reminded him that he needed his sword. He desperately needed his sword, not to strike out at the things who were attacking him but to free his own being from the sticky strands of the web that now threatened to entangle his mind.

[Firefoot]

When Malris had called them to arms, Lómwë had jumped up to follow: not by conscious choice, but by old habit reawakened. His sword Coruthel had seemed to leap into his hand of its own accord. A drumming thudding in his ears seemed to dull his senses for a moment.

As they met the Orc spirits in battle, Lómwë came to himself again. His sword felt like a dead weight, unwieldy and uncomfortable in his hand. It slashed through the air, through the unhoused spirits without causing apparent harm. Two, now three, of the pale figures with their pale swords surrounded him. Once one of their blades made contact with his skin, beneath his eye. The cut stung, though it quickly healed, and Lómwë hardly noticed. Only in appearance was this a physical battle.

For their most effective weapons were mental rather than physical. Lómwë could feel his already weakened mental barriers crumbling under their barrage, and he remembered Endamir’s words: “We are in danger, I sense, we who carry those deep wounds that have not healed,” and knew them to be true. I think I know who you are, taunted one of the spirits. Didn’t do such a good job of protecting your own family, did you?

Get… out… Lómwë struggled to force the Orkish assaults out of his mind. He could feel their stinging attacks, more potent and more tolling than any physical injury. He swung his sword viciously, his physical attacks as a metaphor for his mental defense. No… more… Maintaining this tenuous compromise was sapping what small reserves of strength he had; he could feel himself slipping as a black chasm seemed to threaten to swallow him.

So it is you cajoled a second Orc. Had a young son, didn’t you? And a wife? She put up a fight, but she broke hard, like you’re breaking now –

Lómwë dug deep inside of himself and found a last push born of rage, effectively shutting the spirits out. Then, abruptly and just in time, came the needed reprieve…

[Envinyatar]

The Elves of the Courtyard

It was if the great stone maw of the gate opened wide and sucked inward on itself. Tall grey eyed, grim faced Elves pressed against the boundaries of the courtyard. And as one, they drew their blades, stirring a silent wind that seemed to pull the companions toward them.

A great shout went up . . . The Standard Bearer! . . . The Union stands . . . it is not broken! The low thrumming whisper of Maedhros! Maedhros! Has our Lord returned? Will we be avenged on those foul Orcs?

Loose dirt and debris rode the whirlwind that now stirred in the courtyard . . . they flew on the currents that coursed over the tumbled walls . . . driving hard against the attacking Orcs . . .

[Anguirel]

The Helm, Ghashthurk thought, as it toppled to the ground! The Dragonhelm was loosed, and the Elf scrabbling for his blade would soon be rent, spirit severed from body. He could tell by the grey veins in his weary face.

"Now, worm-filth!" the Captain shrieked. "The prize is ours..."

But his screeching imperatives went unheard in the sheer, irreparable chaos that was seizing the Orcs crowding for the Elf-maid's blood. Many had joined Bazhrat, eager to take her, remembering the twisted joy that torture of Elven females had brought them long ago. Only a few kept order;

Kragscurk and his detachment repelling the short one, the bearer of the shining broadsword, and his companions, the other blademaster and the pair similar of countenance, from their attempt to reach the gate. But that the twins had been able to reinforce the warriors was in itself a failure. Ghashthurk spat a gobbet of rheum that could no longer instil material disgust onto the ground. The one remaining Orc at his side, the stupendously dull but loyal Rubgrakh, looked to him for orders. Grashthurk spat.

"Possess the helm and roll it, cretin. I will handle the Elf and reorder the scum over there." Obediently, Rubgrakh's essence dissolved into the massive, darkly golden helmet, and it began to tumble down the hill...meanwhile Ghashthurk soared to the scene of the quarrel, slapping and snarling and biting. Cowed, the underlings would stream away from Tasareni, two blocking Lindir, the rest joining Malris's foes...

It was then that the shout from...from Them rang out calling the Elvish name of Red Fury, and even Ghashthurk felt that, had he been solid, his own water would be running down his leg. They wouldn't leave the gate, would they? Surely not? Kragscurk seemed to fear that they might; his lads were flailing their translucent arms with little enthusiasm now, backing away...

***

"The affairs of the deserters who left us to die in the retreat are not ours," said the Diviner coldly, ignoring the guards shouting their lost lord's name. "We should allow them to die and crawl back to us, repentant. Such are the ways of fate."

"Silence, soothsayer," answered the Seneschal with a growl. "They were obeying Lord Maedhros' orders. I knew Malris..."

"And I Lindir," the Mastersmith seconded. "They were no cowards."

"What of Tasareni? You should ask that poor little chit Giledhel about that faithless..." the Diviner began.

"It is time," the Chamberlain said simply, and the exhortations of the sentries and Elves-at-arms faded, along with the forms themselves. For a moment the Orcs would be filled with new heart; until, once more, the Island resounded with the strains of a harp and the sound of a peerlessly powerful, perpetually youthful Voice...

***

He burnt like a white fire within
He ne'er forgot the chains of yore
He would not shun dread battle's din
He hunted e'ermore.
The craven foes would shudder, flee,
Yet ne'er had swiftness as did he,
And when the Prince's trumpets sound,
The Orcs are filled with dole therefore...

***

Just as the Elves had mustered and then receded, so too did the Orcs, still more suddenly than they had come; the next strong wind took them with it, into the north and east. The six comrades gazed at each other; Malris, Lomwe, Endamir and Oremir, still in warlike postures as though trying to seize the gate; Tasa, elevated on the rock where she had crawled for her defiance; Lindir, pale, cold, and shivering, his sword unsteady in his hand, just drawn; and the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin, visible in its dull aureate nature by starlight, an unspeaking denunciation.

[Envinyatar]

‘Come, friends!’ Orëmir shouted, breaking from the frozen tableaux. His hand clasped Endamir’s arm and hauled him, blinking, from his place. The wind which had blown away the Orcish spirits had died down, leaving only a few swirls of dust and small debris to settle to the ground. Both brothers rubbed at their eyes, wiping away the dust which had filmed them.

‘Let’s get inside the gate,’ he went on. ‘Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits.’ He bade Endamir go ahead and saw his brother clap Lómwë on the shoulder and nod toward the gate. Malris looked to be alright, and Orëmir was sure he would see to Tasa.

Lindir seemed the worst beset of all the companions. His sword hung limply now in his grasp, and he looked in a disconcerted manner toward the gate and then back toward where the helm he’d held now lay. ‘Leave it, Lindir,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand near him. ‘Let us go into the fortress, now. There are naught but us here who can carry the helm. It will be safe . . . safer than we are at the moment, especially if those creatures return.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Her call to hope had done little good... though her comrades seemed for the moment encouraged, the bitter coldness of horror eminating from the restless spirits still pierced deep.

Tasa shrunk into the rock, trying unsuccessfully to remain unseen. To hide from shadow... what folly, most especially at night. she chided herself. She raised her dagger, shimmering in the moonlight, in hopes that memory of flashing swords and cries of the Eldar would torment these restless spirits. Their transparent faces seemed cowed for the moment... she began to back off of her precarious perch, feeling with her toes, eyes never leaving those of her persuers.

She screamed high as an ice cold blade seemed to pierce her from behind through the tough muscle by her shoulder. It seemed to melt as she turned and she felt her skin, endowed as it was by the grace of Eru, begin to knit itself together once more. The blade was not of this world, and yet it cut so deeply. She marvelled for a moment, admiring the desolate sheen. Her attention was locked on the ghosted blade perilously for a moment that lasted an age. Time stood still as she glanced at the markings... she trembled, unable to respond to the memories that tore through her mind.

She had lost grip on her left blade... it lay by her feet once more. Blocking with the right, she swept toward the ground, intent on retrieval. Malris' voice cut the air and she reacted, turning her head to the sound. She felt hot iron tear her skin as blood welled from her jawline. She glanced at the blade, now glistening crimson in the light of fires. She blocked its second pass easily, pulling her leg up and outward, breaking several of her enemy's ribs with one motion. She slit his throat mercilessly before wiping the streaming blood from her face with one gloved hand. She glanced at his fallen blade before returning to battle... harsh marking adorned it... the hilt was carved as a skull with glinting eyes laughing at her from the depths. She spat is distaste and turned her mind from it.

She looked still to the blade that had swept through the night and into her flesh once more. Ghosted rubies smiled terror in the shadows of the fight. She shuddered again, remembering that battle. She could still feel the warm blood coursing down her neck to pool slightly in her collar before dripping harmlessly to the ground as she cut down orc after orc, though that wound had healed so very long ago.

The orc advanced slowly and Tasa looked up, startled back to the present. She was completely surrounded by a gyrating throng of unresting death. Her stomach reeled at the wrongness of it all. She uttered a desparate prayer to the Valar and steeled herself against the cold that she felt so deeply. She crouched, ready to fight to the last. Suddenly their attention turned. The orcs screeched at each other in their harsh words and turned against themselves. As they began to tear into each other, the wind tore through the group, spreading them far and fast. Momentarily safe, Tasa ran at full speed across the rough ground and toward her companions. Upon reaching Malris, she nodded understanding at the quick question in his eyes. He had noticed the new scar adorning her face, mirroring that of old. She glanced her own quiery to him and he nodded.

She dropped to her knees, swinging her pack to the ground. He stood above her on guard as she quickly traded her short dagger for her twin blades. She hoisted her pack once more to her blood-stained shoulder and rose spinning, her silver swords flashing through the night. She stepped down, prepared for true battle should it again arise, as she stood by her dearest friends' sides outside the gates.

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a good while, Lindir was silent. He thought of leaping to his feet and clawing his way back down the hill so that he could again retrieve the helm and cradle it near his chest. He seemed to hear a ghostly melody, echoing a wistful call that he must turn back even if it meant leaving his companions. For an instant, he struggled towards the helm while still on his hands and knees, but he was unable to propel his body upward. He felt weighted down under a heavy burden of sorrow and shame, as if all the ugly spirits of the past had raised their heads in rebellion, reminding him of so much he had tried to forget.

More than that, his body refused to cooperate. His fingers reached down under his jerkin, only to feel a sticky trail of blood. Somewhere in the earlier melee, he had been injured. He could not say exactly how or when. Perhaps the ghostly swords could inflict damage even on the living. Or perhaps it was the time he had fallen to the ground and struck his side against a boulder. Now, every time he breathed, a stabbing pain assailed him. The others in the group did not yet know, and he would do his best to keep that knowledge from them, at least until they returned to camp.

Defeated by the lengthening shadows in his head as well as the jagged waves of pain that spread in uneven waves throughout his body, Lindir glanced up at Oremir and shook his head. "I fear you are right. I would go back if I could. I hear the thing calling to me. But what my heart wants and what I can do seem to be two different things."

Doggedly, and with an arm from Oremir, Lindir rose once more and turned his face unwillingly to the fortress that stood above them. For a second his cloak fell forward. If any had looked, they could have seen a red stain that was even now visible on his shirt. Pushing the pain back down in a manner unique to those of his kind, Lindir flashed a sign of gratitude to Oremir for his words of assurance and steadying hand. At least he felt no anger there. He could not say the same about Malris. What madness was this to go forward after what they had seen?

Struggling forward to stand beside Malris, Lindir addressed him in a hushed but angry tone, "This place is full of evil. We do not belong here. Let us retrieve the helm and return to the ship while we still have time."

There was no audible response, only a harsh glance in return. "Very well, then," Lindir responded. "I have given my word and I follow you still. But if the very dead rise up against us, I do not know how much longer we can go forward, without madness descending on our heads."

Still, there was no response. For the first time, Lindir began to wonder if Malris had known all along what had awaited them on the isle, but had kept the secret to himself, fearing that otherwise his companions would not come. He muttered this dire thought to himself under his breath, now knowing or caring if Malris could hear the words. Then pain took over, and Lindir could do little more than put one foot in front of the other, willing his body up the hill.

[Firefoot]

Into the courtyard. Yes, of course. Lómwë nodded wearily as Endamir laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Perhaps the fortress will give us some defense against those foul spirits,” Orëmir continued. Lómwë doubted it. What protection would stone be against spirits? Abruptly, he twisted around and looked down far below them at their ship, swaying in the tide. The best protection would be to leave this cursed fortress. His resolve to remain was rapidly decreasing as his doubt in his own judgment increased. What did he expect to find here?

Malris and Tasa were already at the gate. Endamir seemed to be waiting for him. “You are having doubts.”

“Yes. It is getting worse… storms, then voices, now an attack – yet, ‘On,’ we say, ‘push on.’ Maybe you were right. Maybe we ought to turn back.” Now they were drawing near to the gate, then they were through. Lómwë shivered slightly as they passed under the crumbling arch.

The first thing that struck him was the lack of color; the place felt dead. All that remained were dull metals and rock – no banners, no flowers, no nothing remained to enliven the ruins.

“Well, Malris,” said Lómwë, a twinge of accusation in his voice, “you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?”

[piosenniel]

Endamir found himself in a curious mood. The foggy thoughts, the rush of battle energy had now gone from him. He felt hollow, as if what were left had shrunk somehow and now rattled about in this shell of a body. The courtyard had an unreal feel to it, and despite his brother’s words to the contrary he felt no safer upon its paving stones than he had upon the rough ground outside the fortress.

As if from some far place, he could hear the sound of Lómwë’s voice. He focused his thoughts, trying to catch what he asked. ‘Well, Malris, you’ve brought us this far, and we’ve seen what manner of thing dwells here. Just what exactly do you intend to do next?’ He looked toward Malris, waiting his response. He laughed grimly as his eyes went to the crumbling gate arch. It hung together precariously, one hard push against it and it, too, would come crashing down among its brother stones.

Endamir pulled his cloak about him, shivering and feeling suddenly quite weary. His knees felt like jelly. With a tired sigh, he leaned heavily on the hilt of his sword.

[Anguirel]

Malris walked through the gate in total silence, but his eyes would tell quite enough. They flashed alternately with fury and wonder; anger reaching the surface when he looked back at the Helm, amazement when he gazed skywards towards the Voice's second manifestation. To Lindir's reproach he made no sign of replying.

Instead, he turned abruptly and faced Oremir. "You seemed less than surprised," he said coldly, bitterly, "that Lindir brought the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin into this place, against my decision that it should be entrusted to Ulmo."

A pause, long enough to triple tension, short enough to cheat Oremir of a chance to defend himself.

"If you told me that you knew nothing of it, you would be a liar. You are one of the truest Elves I have known. Therefore confess to me. You allowed Lindir to bring the Helm, maybe even aided him. Some strip of pride, of exultation in possession, propelled you both-perhaps you too, Endamir," he adds sharply.

"I scarcely know who I can still trust. Oremir, both you and Lindir spoke against this voyage. At least have the strength to admit your fault. The ever-present Noldorin flaw of pride dragged that Helm to this place. It may have destroyed Lindir's hroar. Think on that, before you are so quick to accuse me again."

Malris now glanced back to Lomwe. "What now? I hope you all realise that all of us would lie in worse states than Lindir's were it not for that song. The strains of Maglor's Noldolante drove back the enemy this eve. It is in following those strains that the only hope of restoring Lindir in body and spirit lies. We must go into the fortress, and find the Voice's source, or at least others, like the spirits that cheered for us in the fighting's heat. And this time," he finished with a dark look at the Helm, "we leave accursed curiosities behind."

His answer made, Malris strode on into the courtyard's centre, and then turned left, pulled by the western wall, the cloisters, the chambers and the stairs that led to his old chambers, to the place he had inhabited with lost Giledhel. But something made him pause. He turned back to the southern wall, beckoning the others after. A noise was building up, slowly but surely; a vulgar Elven ditty sung among the common soldiers, fluttering on the breeze;

Yes, we will stand for Maitimo
For well-formed Coppertop
And bear our spears and scorn the wind
The snow, the orcs, we bear alike
We drive 'em back with fire and sword
For noble Coppertop!

It was a bizarre, incongruous sound, full of many comic memories quite ill-fitted to the situation; and despite themselves, despite division and danger, adversity and peril, despite Lindir's plight, something that was, absolutely literally, the ghost of a smile would shine briefly on six faces. Here and now, it was, far more than the echoing, epic beauty of Maglor's song that had repelled the Orcs, the sound of hope.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

‘Her flowers! The woman is daft!’ Ashukh looked out into the rubbled remains of what once had been The Lady Garden. A few weeds and tufts of grass clung bravely to the sparse soil, pushing their way up between the stones that had fallen from the fortress.

‘Oh, aye, she’s a bit tetched . . . but she treats us good enough, don’t she?’ Zlog looked out over the barren landscape, too. Words such as 'gentle' and 'kind' and 'forgiving' were not a part of his vocabulary. But were they so, he would have used them about the Lady Giledhel.

In life, he and his two companions had stripped her of her dignity with their murderous blows, bringing her low to bleed out upon the paving stones; her bright red blood now fading to rusty stains at the foot of her bed, where they’d dragged her.

Then they had been slain by several Elves left to secure the fortress until all had gone. And she . . . in death was kind and gentle and forgiving of them. Her fëa giving them some hope that beyond this horrid world there lay some hope for them. She nurtured them, and they, in turn, became her stalwart guardians when what little hold she had on her new reality faded away and she was lost among her old memories.

And so it was that Gorgu called out to her, as she fussed about the place where her wardrobe used to stand, her fingers touching silks and satins that had long gone away. ‘Lady, the gardeners be working hard. Looks as if all your flowers will be showing to their best!’

She went on contentedly about her little tasks as the three of them leaned as far out the window as they might. ‘Those Elves are singing! You heard them! Things feel different, don’t they? Something’s come inside the gate . . .

[piosenniel]

. . . We drive 'em back with fire and sword . . .For noble Coppertop!

Endamir sang the last of the ditty along with the fey voices. There was naught that he could see, save the plain, grey stones that were still standing of the southern wall. Those were simpler days; goals were clear; no shading into greys what should be done and what not.

These were good men who died here.

‘Orëmir,’ he said quietly to his brother. Orëmir’s face had hardened at the accusations of Malris. It was not difficult to read what his brother thought. ‘I want to see the rest of the fortress . . . I need to see it . . . I’m sure of this . . . make some small gesture of penance.’ He took his brother’s arm. ‘It may not be enough. Too little, too late some might say. But I must make a start.’

He pulled his brother a little ways away from the group. ‘You must do this for me. Stay and be with me this last while.’ Endamir looked to where Malris stood. ‘Don’t let his words sting you . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir bit back the bitter remarks that threatened on the tip of his tongue. He clamped his teeth together firmly. The little knots of muscle that lay over the jaws' hinges pulsed in an irritated manner. He could feel the increased pressure on his arm as Endamir clasped it firmly.

‘Yes, I’ll do this for you, as you ask, brother. But by the One if that . . .’

His further remarks were cut off as Endamir lifted his chin toward where Lindir moved slowly. The Elf’s cloak had swung forward, opening a view to the tunic beneath. A dark red stain flowered on Lindir’s shirt, his face looked a little ashen and sweat was beading on his brow.

‘Come! He looks as if he needs some help,’ said Orëmir, leading his brother to where Lindir now stood, trying to catch his breath. He directed Endamir to lend the Elf a steadying arm as he gave his support on the other side. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said quietly to Lindir. His eyes glanced down to where some splotches of blood had dropped on Lindir’s boot. ‘I have my medicine chest in my pack. Will you let me see to your wound?’

[Firefoot]

Not even the pleasant memories brought by the old ditty could wholly assuage Lómwë’s irritation at Malris’ terse tone. Malris, it seemed, still expected them all to follow him, like ducklings, maybe, or dogs that could be appropriately scolded and called to heel. Though he himself had not been the object of Malris’ annoyance, he found himself siding with Lindir and Orëmir. Leader though he once had been, in this situation Malris ought to have been acting more like the first among equals, and Lómwë was not even sure he even deserved that appellation anymore.

Malris had waved for them to follow him, just before the song had begun, but Lómwë stubbornly remained rooted in place. Endamir and Orëmir, he saw, had also removed themselves from the group a bit and were conversing quietly.

What reason have I to follow you, Malris? Then, directed to himself, You don’t do well following… haven’t you learned that about yourself by now? How many disasters of his life would have been averted by following his own counsel…?

“You have a family, Lómwë! Must you go?” Ellothiel’s voice was pleading, angry almost. He tried to stop the memories, leave them in the past, but his weakened mental barriers were of no use.

“You know I must go,” he chided gently, his face asking her to understand, though she did not see it; she had turned her back. Lómwë came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, but she pulled away and turned to face him, still saying nothing.

“We knew this time would come… eventually. I have to go. They’ve broken the siege, and if we do not stop them, all Beleriand will be laid waste…” His voice trailed off, his duty and love fighting for precedence.

“It’s that letter, isn’t it? Not the scant news we heard, but the letter.”

“Not wholly…” Lómwë answered. The previous day, he had received a letter from Malris, explaining the situation in detail – in other words, explaining the need for help. All along he had known somewhere in the back of his mind that this peace they had been experiencing was only a temporary respite, and Malris was an old friend. To fight was his duty.

“And if you don’t come back, Lómwë, then what?” Then, for the first time, he noticed the traces of fear in her eyes, and he understood.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I promise. But I have to go.” This time she didn’t pull away from his embrace.

“I know,” she answered. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to.”

He had left the next day, and ever after wished he hadn’t. Because if he hadn’t… No.

Mind reeling, he returned to the present. He knew he couldn’t blame Malris for that innocent letter sent thousands of years ago, but at least a part of him did. If he had thought, he would have known he wasn’t thinking straight, but that didn’t occur to him. Purposefully, he strode over to where Malris was waiting to be joined.

“I don’t know why I’m still following you, Malris,” he whispered fiercely as he passed. “In fact, I don’t even know if I am.” With that, he passed the other Elf, heading into the same section of the fortress where Malris had been going.

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

“Lindir”

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

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

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

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

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

‘Lindir?’ he heard some voice call.

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

‘Lindir!’ some voice said again.

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As did we all.

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The three turned their gazes on Tasarënì.

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lying...robbing...scum!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

"Is there someone there?" she demanded.

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

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

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

And so the present reality was elided.

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

"So you are up," he concluded.

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir, help me!

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He listened closely for the sound of someone moving closer.

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Endamir addresses the Seneschal

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Off! Off, corpse-eaters!"

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

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

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

So it was that Tasa heard a desperate osanwe appeal.

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Malris, do not fear... I come.

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir

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

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

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

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

He gave a gasp as she came into view.

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady’s Orcs

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


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

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

It was Malris!

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

Guilt. Guilt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had promised.

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

But he had promised.

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

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

‘Is there something you might do . . .’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Anguirel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Envinyatar]

Öremir, are you not here?

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’ll not have my little part!

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

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

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

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

[Child of the 7th Age]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[piosenniel]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He is mine. Already he turns from you.

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

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

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

Foolish wench. You have lost him.

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

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

Now he turned and she did not see.

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

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

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

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

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

[Firefoot]

Lómwë’s headlong rush had slowed to a miserable, witless wander. He could hardly distinguish the present from the past, or truth from imaginings. His companions were forgotten, smothered in the recesses of his mind. Only Ellothiel, her sweet face but also her mangled body, remained prominent in his mind.

He knew that he had to find the grotto, but had no idea what or where such a place might be, and his frame of mind was too torn apart for him to figure it out. It finally occurred to him as he passed a broken down section of Himring’s wall that a grotto would probably be found outside the city walls, not within them. He climbed over the remains wearily. There were no paths here, only long-abandoned wilderness that stretched and sometimes plummeted down to the Sea. He might search for hours. Blindly he set off, too occupied with thoughts to pay much attention to his path. He hardly even cared whether he discovered the grotto anymore, so long as he found Ellothiel.

He stumbled over the uneven ground numerous times, once falling down a drop of three feet. Even this could hardly even faze him. He was lost, in more than one way, and even in his confused state he recognized this truth. Who am I – really? What parts of me are alive – really? Have I done anything in the past several thousand years worth living for – really living for? I have done nothing, I am like nothing, and nothing gives me joy. Not without Ellothiel. Because she is gone – and it is my fault. Can I ever be anything again? Yet some insatiable shred of his mind remained convinced that Ellothiel might be found here on this island.

By some chance his wanderings brought him to a stretch of green grass, giving him a clear view of the Sea. Only an ugly tangle of vines and brambles marred the scene – and it was with these brambles that Lómwë most identified.

“Lómwë? Lómwë!” The call jerked him out of this reverie. The voice… Endamir’s. He approached the edge of the precipice and found his companion standing at the bottom with the unconscious bodies of Lindir and Orëmir. Lómwë knew that he was not as relieved to have found them as Endamir sounded to have found him.

“Lómwë, I need your help – we need to get Lindir and Orëmir to the top.” He indicated the large basket and rope.

Lómwë shrugged. “I don’t see why it matters. I don’t know why any of this matters. I can’t escape it, Endamir. She’s gone, and I might as well be, too. Maybe you can still see some point to this all, but I don’t anymore. In fact, I don’t remember if I ever did. If it makes a difference, I can help you with the basket… but I don’t know why. I’ve lost it, Endamir. I lost it a long time ago.”

[Child of the 7th Age]

The piteous pleas of Lindir that had echoed unceasingly through the Diviner's mind came to an abrupt halt. The tall figure whirled around in surprise, her skirt and hair caught up in a great gust of wind, as she stared off in the direction of the grotto. It was too far away for the Diviner to see or hear what was going on merely by using her physical senses. But she clung stubbornly to the link that Lindir had thrown to her. The Diviner could feel the Elf trying to pull away, but she refused to withdraw, clinging to his fëa like a woman possessed.

Something was happening in the grotto, the Diviner was sure of that. But what that something was, she could not say. When the Seneschal lunged towards her with an outstretched blade, she parried clumsily and hurried up to the timbered rafters where the shadows lay heavy, anxious for a moment to choose her path. It was urgent that she understand what was going on in the grotto, the cavern she had chosen as the scene of her triumph. On an impulse, she gingerly reached out with her mind, crooning softly to her lover of aeons past: I have so missed you. Of course, I am coming. Tarry now, and we will stand side-by-side, just as we did long ago. But first you must tell me what is happening so I may help you properly.

Remembering only the promised joy of the past that had never found its fulfillment, oblivious to the real danger that the Diviner presented to them all, Lindir raced to embrace his sweet lady, crying out in anticipation. Endamir has come. He has beaten down the door, thrust back the Orc who threatened me, and now he unleashes some of the Bones into the Sea. Come and join us.

All pretence of gentleness was quickly swept aside as the sweet fingers clenched into tight, balled fists. Who dares to disturb the grotto? It is my kingdom, that which I have chosen to be the scene of my triumph. Let this Endamir beware for I will disconnect his head from his shoulders. Reaching outward into the stillness, the Dark Lady of the Grotto pushed Lindir back for she could sense the fëar of the two Elves, so similar in appearance and shape, that lay just beyond her grasp. With a mighty howl, she pressed towards the one called Endamir, seeking to force her way into his mind. At the same time she flitted out of the enclosure and raced towards the tall cliffs, determined to stop this pesky Elf who threatened to undermine her power and control. Behind her, the Seneschal followed....

[Anguirel]

"It is time, I believe, to go home," Tasa had said, appealing to Malris with her wide, shimmering eyes.

He did not answer for a moment. His left arm was stiff from the flailing and contorting he had had put it to during the fight, his right arm covered with scratches when he had thrown it in front of his battle, the blood of his hands mixing with Tasa's. He felt the left, sword-arm creak as he bent it back into line to sheath Cirlach. The ease with which the steel slid into its scabbard, fitting perfectly, seemed to rebuke both his physical state and the trouble in his mind.

Giledhel had not reached Mandos. It still scarcely bore thinking about. That she had clung to this dank failed dream of military triumph, with her slayers for company, rather than return to the love of her family, the mother and sisters back in Tirion. Malris had never met any of these, nor her father, killed in the Aglareb; they all belonged to a separate existence of Giledhel's, and when she had chosen life with Malris it had been forever. For that life with Malris she had remained here, clinging to a loom and a defunct marriage-bed.

"We must hope that Endamir and Lomwe had more success than we did," he said at last. "We can't leave this island, Tasa, while Lindir's hroa is still in danger. I brought him here against his fears. Though he concealed the cursed Dragon-helm from me, I cannot let him suffer torment...I know you understand..."

He was struggling to use osanwe-kenta to find Endamir. Tasa still seemed shaken, and he kept clasping at her hand, absently, to reassure them both, as he struggled to find his friend's errant mind.

Endamir, how goes it? Have you found the Diviner?

Nothing. He repeated the question. Equally barren. Perplexed and irritated, he tried a third time.

"Malris," Tasareni chided gently, "that last time you spoke aloud. It's this place...something about this room...I can't reach outside it; in the One's name, let's go..."

"Aye," said Malris curtly. Every step down the crumbling stairs seemed like a coward's retreat. Giledhel and the Orcs were gone; but he knew he was leaving her to return to this place, to the loom and the bed, eventually...

She has to come to Mandos. I will go back. I will.

"I think the crows hurt my arm slightly...I can't...open this door," Tasa gasped out.

"Let me do it," Malris answered, a touch impatiently. "I heard it slam hard before. Perhaps a piece of rock holds it too fast..."

But when he wrested with the ancient handle, layers, centuries of rust adhering to his weary palm, the effects were small and the door stood firm. Tasa joined in, and they strove against the stubborn door together, but it remained turned, obdurate, against their exit.

"It's as if the join...just doesn't exist anymore..." Malris muttered darkly. "The cruel trick of a malign spirit...to trap ones such as we in a marriage-chamber..."

Exhausted in body and thought, he slumped back upon the stairs.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

It proved a restless bed the three Orcs settled into. Something pulled at the core of each of them . . . tugged hard at them beneath the stones.

A fresh breeze slipped into the cracks in the bloodied stone. It bore a feel of cool mists and smelled of salt. The songs of seabirds echoed faintly in its passing. It troubled the three fëar . . . bringing both alarm and an uneasy longing . . .

‘M’Lady?’ Gorgu said, his voice low with an uncertain edginess. ‘What is happening?’ The other two crowded close behind him, waiting for the sound of her voice.

[piosenniel]

Endamir had secured Orëmir and Lindir into the big wooden bucket. Clinging onto the vines on the side of the cliff, he called up to where Lómwë stood waiting. He heard the last of the man’s words, but in his anxious state for his brother and his friend he did not hear them clearly.

. . . I can help you with the basket… but I . . . I’ve lost it, Endamir. I lost it . . . The rest was obscured in the breezes that blew up from the sea below.

Endamir cupped his hands about his mouth and called loudly up to Lómwë. ‘It’s right here,’ he said, shaking the rope so that the other could see it. ‘You haven’t lost it at all. I’ve loaded my brother and Lindir into the bucket, pull hard on the rope, Lómwë, and bring them up.’ He shook the thick coil and watched as the wood and rope contraption began to ascend. ‘Send it back for me once you’ve got them out.’ He stepped back, away from the lip of the ledge and leaned against the rocky wall. His body sagged against it in relief. Orëmir would be fine and Lindir would recover, he was sure.

Endamir moved away from the wall after a few moments of rest intending to see if the bucket had reached the top of the cliff. He was almost to the edge when the force of the Diviner’s mind hit him. He stumbled back, his feet slipping on the bones that had rolled out of the grotto. The rage and hatred of the Diviner was merciless in its battering.

He was not prepared to fight back. Endamir’s mind crumpled beneath the cruel invasion and only darkness remained.

[Envinyatar]

The pain his brother reeled under wrenched Orëmir from Lindir’s mind. He sat up with a gasp, looking wildly about him, half disoriented. He and Lindir were sprawled on the grassy sward above the cliff which held the grotto. Near them stood Lómwë. He seemed despondent and distraught, all at the same time.

Orëmir lurched to his feet, grabbing onto Lómwë’s arm as he did so. ‘Take care of Lindir. Keep him safe,’ he rasped. ‘I’m going down to fetch Endamir.’ He grasped the front of Lómwë’s tunic. ‘I’m going to need your help. I can get myself down there, but when I call out to you, you’ll need to haul us both up as quick as you can.’

~*~

The wooden bucket bumped down the side of the cliff much as it had when Orëmir and Lindir had first gone down. He peeked over the side of the container as it descended. On the lip of the grotto he could see Endamir, lying dangerously close to the edge. Strewn across the ledge were skulls and bones. In the dark whirlwind that played about his brother’s form, the bones shifted and moved, many of them rolling off the edge and into the sea below.

Orëmir closed his mind fast to the Diviner’s intrusion as he dragged his brother’s form to the wooden bucket. ‘Leave us be, foul wight!’ he growled as the stinging wind lashed at him. Behind him he could hear even more of the river of bones tumbling over one another and down into the waters. The whole of them seemed to rumble loudly as the bones echoed in the inner chambers.

‘Lómwë!’ Endamir called loudly, clinging to his brother’s limp form. ‘Bring us up! Quickly!’

The awful touch of the Diviner’s mind withdrew as it seemed another force now fought against him . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir's attempts to struggle to his knees and stand upright met with little success. Earlier, his leg had given way under the surging flood of bones and his ankle had twisted underneath him, an injury that prevented him from moving swiftly. Although the sprain was minor and would soon heal, the Elf lacked the ability to rush forward and climb into the bucket to offer assistance to his friends.

Still, he could feel the presence of the Diviner through the minds of the brothers. She knew him too well. Yet he could not say the same of her. He could feel her implaccable will bearing down upon Orëmir, threatening to bludgeon the Elf into submission. Lindir had spent years thinking and dreaming of her, berating himself for his inability to find and bury her body. She had always been proud and haughty, yet she had once possessed a gentler side, a caring side that had responded to laughter and to his personal touch and voice. Where was the Elf that he had known? He saw no resemblance to the woman he had loved in this half mad Diviner who bore down upon them all.


How many knew her real name? As far as Lindir knew, he was the only one. Elliel, sweet one.... He whispered the name under his breath but there was no sign of recognition from the shrouded figure whose devouring presence seemed little different than a cataclysmic force of nature, impersonal and empty. Lindir tried to remember back over the endless years. Once, long ago, he had almost managed to make peace with himself and accept the fact that she was gone with a certain grace and resignation. But then had come the time he would rather forget, when he had put his hand to the forge in helping to fashion the rings. There had been no peace for him from that day forward. The events of the First Age had returned yet again to haunt him. She had filled his mind and life, not the real Elliel but some hideous apparition. Yet this is what she had become.

Reeling under the pressure from her mind and the weight of his memories, Lindir pulled back in horror. Never would he let this creature touch him! The thought filled him with revulsion. Whatever feeling and warmth had bound them together in the First Age had long disappeared. He could not save her. Perhaps that was why he had come here, with some foolish thought of undoing what had been done. But there is no undoing the music of Arda, a fact he recognized with a feeling almost akin to relief. He was not responsible for what she had become. There were things he could do and mend, but this was not one of them. As he felt the Diviner's presence pull back to rush forward to face Idrahil, Lindir was filled with peace and resolve. It was time to go home. His job here was finished, but there was another that called out for his attention. For the moment, at least, his home lay to the east, in the heart of Middle-earth.

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘The sea . . . and so close. I can smell it faintly.’ Giledhel turned a puzzled face toward the three Orcs. ‘How is this so?’

Up from their stony resting place, the four sat huddled together. The figures of the Orcs she noted, even as the last of her question hung in the air, had begun to waver and thin out, to fade. And she, herself, felt lighter somehow.

‘How is this so?’

The question caromed off the crumbling walls of the room; knocking away as it was considered, again and yet again, bits and pieces of her closely woven fantasies. They had told her in the early days, she now remembered, what had happened to this place that was her home. And had soon grown silent with this news of the changes that had been wrought when she could not, would not, hear of them.

Giledhel’s mind became clearer as the gauzy layers of fantasy fluttered away in the salty breezes. There against the wall slumped a familiar figure. ‘Malris?’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘He has grown so careworn.’ She drew near him, one insubstantial hand touching against his face. ‘And never have I seen him look so defeated.’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came Gorgu’s now thin, reedy voice. ‘Your Malris has come at last.’

‘But not for me,’ she returned, drawing back to where the Orcs had all but faded. ‘He lives. And I . . . I have been dead these many years . . . ages, even. Dead and clinging to what now are only long gone dreams . . .’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came the faintly whispered answers.

The pull of the sea grew stronger against her. She felt it lave her bones to their core. Amidst the surging of the waves, the Orcs’ bones rose and fell and rose again, breaking apart in the strong, insistent waters.

‘Go on,’ she called to them as they turned to shimmering mists borne on the westered air.

Giledhel’s gaze turned back to Malris. ‘Fare well, once and always beloved.’ With an even look she surveyed the figure of the woman who huddled against him. ‘May you find some measure of comfort, Malris. I will not hold you any longer to that long dead promise. It serves no purpose any longer, save for ill.’

The grace of the Valar be on you . . .

And even as her voice, her presence faded from the cold, shadowed room there came a strong wind, and the remnants of that long rotted weaving were caught in the currents and borne away.

[Firefoot]

How could he watch his friends in trouble so passively? He ought to be worried, really worried; he ought to want to do something to help. But he felt no anxiety for Orëmir descending the cliff, no fear for Endamir lying so suddenly unconscious at the bottom, and no connection with Lindir struggling to his feet. The only people he could bring himself to care about were those long dead.

The shout from below broke into his consciousness. “Lómwë! Bring us up! Quickly!” His body moved instinctively toward the rope and he strained against the rope mechanically, slowly drawing the basket upwards. Once it reached the top, however, he withdrew once more, not even greeting Orëmir or helping him with Endamir. He stared out blankly at the sea, realizing that, with the setting sun at his back, this was the very direction his home had been. So different now – so different. No more rolling hills or forests or plains – just water as far as the eye could see. All of it lay sunken in the waters at an unknown depth: utterly unreachable. He could not reach the old places, could not lay his heart at rest in any tangible way. Not like Malris, not like the others. They could go and see the places dearest to them, if they so desired. But not Lómwë – he could only drift, searching for what wasn’t there.

That hurt the most. He had come here hoping to find not only peace but also in some strange way hoping to find the past itself, something that no longer existed. But the knowledge that he could not fulfill these desires – or needs - only increased the longing.

And if peace could be found, he would not find it here. This place tore his heart and mind apart, not mended them. It would be better, he thought, if this place had been buried beneath the Sea with the rest of the land. Maybe it would have been better if they had not come to this place at all. An irrelevant issue, now.

“It is time to go,” he murmured to himself, and a light breeze carried his words out to the Sea. “Yes, time to go.”

[Anguirel]

For some moments, Idrahil remained shaken by the Diviner's display of power...as well as by the fact that the vulnerable sage he had respected and protected for so long possessed a character, nature, and visage...so totally foreign to what the Seneschal had known...

As he hovered in the comforting familiarity of the air's bite, Idrahil realised that if he pursued the elven-crone bent on the destruction of those he had sworn to succour...he would not survive in his form as one of the Houseless Spirits.

But there was fighting spirit in the ancient warrior yet, and he nodded slightly. He would fall, but he would take his last enemy with him. And what did he have to lose?

Himring, was the answer. The garrison he had kept in good order despite everything. The remnants of the Feanorian army, still in their correct battalions and quarters. The First Company at the Gatehouse. The Sentries of the Torch-Brackets in this very bastion, who seemed to be absent without leave. The armourers and forgers. The gaolers. The Watch. All lovingly trained and disciplined, for if Maedhros was no longer here to be served, they yet stood for his brother...

Trained enough, Idrahil thought, that they could ultimately do without their battered old captain. He and his former associate the Diviner were going to Mandos.

***

The Diviner had, in the event, neglected to draw on her full potency to sweep Idrahil far away over the ocean. She had other affairs to attend to, with her very cavern threatened by the blunderings of Lindir and his friends. Besides, she felt strange disturbances-some buried bones had been lost already. She might yet need to use Idrahil. Better to keep him and manipulate him as she had done so many times before.

"Still following me, Seneschal dear? You seem to have got rather...left behind..."

A mild buffet of stinging wind and he was off balance again. The Lady Diviner smiled. But rather to her surprise, Idrahil returned it.

"I don't suppose you will do me the courtesy of letting me...catch up..."

In but a few moments he was before her. Now the Diviner quailed in shock. Such efforts were outstanding and draining even by her standards. It was as if the Seneschal was engaged in a battle he had no intension of returning from...gripped by misgiving, she propelled her blade into her hand once more.

"Parry!"

She did, but he was moving so fast still, recklessly fast. He knew he was her superior with the sword, and was not letting her have a chance to exploit her...other skills...

She opened a gap in her guard which the Seneschal-as she had known he would-exploited at once. Spirit-sword cut spirit-side; but now Idrahil was equally exposed, and she sunk her rapier into his shoulder. Luminescence leaked from their wounds and tiny stars of bright light fluttered from their illusory steel...

"Be sensible, Idrahil. We need to talk. If you force me to drive my sword home and do likewise, we will both be gone."

The only reply was the Seneschal's sword piercing slightly further into her aether. She reciprocated. It was like a kind of love, this position in which they were pinioned.

"Yes, we will, Lady. Whatever be your true name, make amends to the Valar now. They are said to be forgiving."

And at that both swords, in the same split second, were plunged to the hilt through their adversaries. The impartial, chill mist of Himling hid them from sight, and neither were seen again on the Hither Shore.

[piosenniel]

The battle had raged on below as Orëmir sat on the grassy sward above, his brother cradled in his arms. Endamir’s mind was in turmoil as the Diviner and the Seneschal fought. She had not withdrawn from him when Idrahil had attacked, but had closed one icy claw of her mind around his own and battered at his spirit. He could feel Orëmir’s attempts to reach him, but feared were he to make that connection with his brother, then the Diviner might draw him, too, into her grasp.

The pain, the release, of the Diviner’s fëa as the Seneschal drove his spectral blade into her was . . . in a way . . . exquisite. And he felt himself carried along in the wake of her passing; his spirit drawn toward the blesséd light of Aman. Orëmir’s presence grew small, faded . . . as his own fëa raced westward.

Just at the edges of his consciousness he could hear Orëmir’s voice . . .

[Envinyatar]

No! No! Do not leave me, my brother! Not now. Not in this way.

Orëmir pressed deeply into his brother’s mind, following the fading thoughts. He had reconciled himself to Endamir’s leaving at the end of this . . . trip, he was going to say . . . but now, the word debacle came to mind.

He had wanted to stretch out what little time was left to them. And now that time was narrowing down to nothing.

Orëmir’s arms went slack; his head fell forward, resting against his brother’s brow.

I am with you . . . wait . . . wait . . .

[piosenniel]

This is not how it was meant to be . . . my brother did not wish to go . . . it is only his great affection for me which draws him on . . . not his desire to return to Aman . . .

His chest rose as the salt sea air rushed in. With a sigh of near regret he breathed it out again. Orëmir’s forehead rested against his. And on his still closed eyes Endamir could feel his brother’s pooling tears.


Endamir pushed himself up to a sitting position, shaking off the last of the Diviner’s assault. Harder to put away was the remembrance of the white shores he had but barely glimpsed and the sweet music which had reached out to him. He reached out his arms to his brother and cradled him against his shoulder.

A fool, Orëmir . . . that’s what I was, to think that I could leave you.

He laughed, his eyes glinting in the sea-light. And more the fool, you . . . for thinking I would . . . that I could . . . do so.

They sat together in silence for a short while. Then the sounds of their two companions near them drew their attention. ‘Lómwë! Lindir!’ they called out in unison. The two brothers stood and helped Lindir up on his good leg. They made their way slowly away from the grassy cliff, toward the place in the fortress from which they had started that morning. Lómwë followed along with the trio, quiet and seeming despondent.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ Endamir called out, his voice echoing among the stones of the empty space . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa sat away from Malris; close, but not touching, and in silence. She refused to probe his thoughts and so she sat tending to her own.

Though the hostility had faded away until none remained, she felt uncomfortable still. She was trapped with Malris in his dead wife's bed chamber... Giledhel had assaulted her spirit. Tasa could have stayed in the Golden Wood, fading ever until the last, and she would not have been forced to bear these ghosts.

She had expected emotion to run high during this last trip together, but assaults and near-death experiences had barely crossed her mind. With the wars of old long cast into legend, she had lain aside battle-lust and sword. Breathing deeply the golden flowers of Lothlorien, she had made for herself a sweet sanctuary. Elven Rangers guarded and Tasa stayed in quiet retirement, weaving, walking, and singing with the birds of the trees.

But Malris' letter had come. She had responded, befriended its messenger. They had travelled and they had met, joyous and ready to move onward. As friends they had taken to the boat and as friends they had kept it from sinking during that first storm. As friends they had camped together, stealing moments to watch the stars at night. Perhaps as more than friends, they had borrowed long moments from the journey to stand amidst the early rays of dawn, hand in hand. And as friends again, they had explored the island.

Now, Malris felt cold and distant, as far from Tasa as light and hope had been so recently as she battled desperately against shades of horror. She sat against the wall with her knees pulled against her, her clothing torn from battle and the smallest of her injuries already healing to silver-white scars. Those adorning her jawline felt cold, though no longer burned or froze as before.

The door beckoned to her, but she was not strong enough now to move it.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ The call echoed dully through the stone, coming more as intent than sound.

Yes Malris... where are you? Tasa thought sadly. She barely knew the form slumped dejectly before her. She was helpless. Unless he could come back to himself, and actually desire to leave, they would remain, for she could not leave him here even if he bade her to go.

[Child of the 7th Age]

With his ankle tightly wrapped in rags, Lindir made his way down the hill, all the while leaning heavily on Endamir's arm. Though encountering some difficulties with fallen debris and littered rocks, he had finally arrived back at the meeting point where they'd begun their search that morning. He was feeling much better than he had earlier in the day. The throbbing in his ankle was far preferable to the sense of isolation and despair that had overwhelmed him when the houseless spirit had threatened to evict his fëa.

Lindir located a stout branch that could serve as a cane and found he could hobble forward on his own as long as the ground was relatively even. The enclosure within the fortress was too littered with stones and rubble for him to go back into the ruins to hunt for Malris and Tasa, both of whom were apparently missing. Using his talents as a scout, he found a gentler path than the one they had originally taken that led towards the beach. Lindir decided to go down and secure a few items from the boat, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye open for Malris in the unlikely event that he and Tasa had ventured down to the shore.

The path was blocked in places by clumps of tall grass, but the descent was gradual, so that Lindir had no serious problems finding his way back to the ship. Arriving at the boat, he dug through his spare satchel and located a change of clothes, quickly pulling on clean breeches and a shirt. As he stopped for a moment to get a ladle of water from the barrel that stood in the middle of the deck, he realized that something on the ship was different. A few items on deck were shifted ever so slightly out of place. Hobbling as quickly as he could and navigating the ladder with some difficulty, Lindir checked the supplies and equipment first down below and then out on the main deck. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he could not shake his initial feeling that someone had come onto their ship and searched through their supplies and belongings, putting things back as closely as they could so as not to be discovered.

Lindir shook his head in frustration. He had his small hunting knife at his side, but had left his sword and bow back in the fortress, since these had only seemed like an extra burden at the time. Lindir had just decided he’d better go back to the others and get some help, when a rough voice sounded in back of him. Whirling around, he saw that four figures had encircled him dressed in rough mariner’s garb and were cutting off his means of escape.

A tough voice boomed out: “You’d best explain what you’re doing here. Elf or no, you owe us an explanation! We trawl these waters to ply our fishing trade and make sure no travelers set foot here. This isle is a killer of men. It’s been years since we’ve seen anyone on these shores. So what mischief brings you and your crew here today?”

[piosenniel]

There was no response to their calls from Malris or Tasa. And Lindir had hobbled off saying he would look for the two on the little strand where they had moored the ship. At loose ends, and oppressed by the wreck and ruin of the fortress, Endamir suggested after a short while that they all go down to the ship to await the pair’s return.

Lindir, it seemed, had found a less strenuous route back to the beach. Following along in his track, the two brothers stepped onto the sandy shore in short time and turned toward the boat. In the distance they could see the deck and upon it not one, but five figures.

Orëmir drew his sword and was about to run to Lindir’s aid when his brother stayed his hand. ‘Put up your sword. I’ve had enough of fighting.’ He called out to Lindir in a loud voice.

Lindir! Are you alright? Who’s come aboard?’

~*~

The four sailors turned their attention to the two new Elves. Their hands were near their weapons, and grim, wary looks upon their faces. In the distance, anchored off shore, were four fishing vessels, and as he spied them, Endamir smiled.

‘You’ve found us the answer then to our needs!’ he said, coming to stand near Lindir. The four fishermen relaxed their guarded stance, though their brows furrowed and they looked from one to another at the Elf’s words.

[Envinyatar]

‘You must forgive my brother’s eagerness,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand by Lindir and Endamir. ‘He’s not usually so vague. But this island, this mountain top where once stood our captain’s fortress has got us rather spooked. We’re eager to be away. And we would do so, on our little vessel here, save we have the obligation upon us to lay our comrades who fought at our side to rest. We have gathered their bones and would let the sea take them westward to their final peace.’

The fact that there were Orcish remains among those bones, he chose to pass over . . .

The sailors narrowed their eyes, and one or two nodded their heads, weighing the Elf’s words. ‘So, you’ve come to honor your dead,’ the taller of them said. His eyes glinted in a shrewd manner, calculating how they might turn this need of the Elves to their advantage. ‘Be it a ship you’re wanting?’ He looked out to where their boats were anchored. ‘Those ships be our livelihood. And as such they’ll be dear.’ There were murmurs of assent from the other sailors as they caught wind of what might turn to their profit.

As Orëmir began to bargain with the fishermen, Endamir went below to their quarters and brought up to the deck two of the small leather pouches they had brought on this journey, each filled with gold coin of various sizes.

‘Will this be enough for one of the smaller vessels?’ he asked, pouring the contents out onto the head of a nearby barrel. The men’s eyes widened and some were eager to say ‘yes’. But the tall man intervened saying, how hard it would be to let even the smallest of their ships leave their hands.

It was then that Lindir stepped forward, and unpinning the jeweled brooch from his tunic, he placed it atop the pile. The facets of the jewels caught the sun’s light and threw it out in a glimmering display. Before the tall fisherman could protest again the worth of the vessels, the owner of the smallest reached out his hands and clasped the brooch and gold in his fists.

‘She’s yours!’ he said with a grin at the glittering wealth that threatened to spill through his fingers . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir was not unhappy to see his brooch sacrificed as part of their agreement. Crafted by the Diviner in an age long ago, the silver brooch had become a grim reminder of how the woman he had loved had been transformed by the passage of time and the bitterness of war. Handing the jewelled piece over to the sailor, the Elf had felt something akin to relief, as if he was shedding a burden of guilt and sadness that had weighed heavily on his heart for countless years. He could only hope that his sweet Elliel would find in Mandos the peace that had eluded her during her life in Middle-earth.

He now felt he had a duty to perform. Somehow it was appropriate that Elliel's brooch help secure a funeral ship that would lay to rest the bones of all those who had died in battle. Maybe that tiny goodness would ease the pain of memory that she must surely feel after arriving in the Halls of Mandos and understanding what she had become. It was not only the bones of the Elves that were in Lindir's thoughts. How many in this age still remembered that the first Orcs had once been Elves, poor creatures dragged or enticed into the fortress of Lord Melko where they had been changed beyond recognition? He remembered his close friend Valindel who, distraught over the seemingly endless wars and the death of his wife, had wandered off one night towards Angband and had never been seen again. How often he had wondered what had become of him. Perhaps he had been mercifully killed and his fëa had flown on to find peace in Mandos. But often, in hard and lonely reflection, Lindir asked himself if his friend had suffered a much worse fate, one that could not be discussed even in the company of Elves.

With a flash of insight that tore at Lindir's heart, he realized that the fate of these Orcs and that of his beloved Elliel was perhaps not so terribly different. Joined by death and a common funeral byre, perhaps they would arrive in Mandos together and spend endless years ruminating on what had gone wrong. For the remainder of the day, Lindir joined in with the others to bring the bones down from the cavern. He ignored the pain that shot up his leg and, with a grim determination that was quite different from his earlier behavior, helped to load the baskets with the remains of Elves and Orcs, sending them down to the ledge and then to the shore, where they could be taken and loaded onto the ship. As the sun dipped down into the Sea, the Elves cranked down the last basket of bones and placed it gently onto the vessel. Their work, their real purpose for coming here, at long last was complete.

[piosenniel]

. . . it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters . . .


The fishermen had agreed to sail the ship well out beyond the breakers. ‘We’ll set the sails and secure the wheel. West, you say, aye?’ The tall fisherman narrowed his eyes as he looked toward the horizon. The sun was just dipping below the rim of the sea, and across the darkening waters spread a carpet of burning white fire. ‘Winds will have to take it after that,’ he went on. ‘Can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate.’ He eyed the three Elves, trying to read the thoughts behind the seas of their eyes. But their minds were hidden from him, the planes of their faces set smooth and impenetrable.

Endamir thanked them, giving into each of their hands a number of gold coins for their trouble. ‘The grace of the Valar be with you!’ he said in the old tongue as they turned toward their ships. And some paused, looking back at him, the last of the bright white light of day playing about his face. The words they did not recognize, but the force behind them caused more than a few to bow their heads to accept the blessing.

~*~

Fair and marvelous was that vessel made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elvengems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world . . .


They watched from the shore as the fishing vessels left their erstwhile companion to sail on her own. The sun had set, and in the moonlight and the starlight the little brown boats peeled away from the ship which bore the bones like little ducks leaving the wake of a fair swan.

The bones, the skulls were lit with a soft, glimmering light as the ship kept to its westward course. And above the far edge of the waters Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope, appeared, shining bright against the black dome of night. It seemed to draw the ship of bones toward it, a beacon of promise set against the overweening darkness.

‘Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned,’ came the soft voice of Endamir.

‘The looked for that cometh at unawares,’ took up Orëmir.

‘That longed for that cometh beyond hope!’ whispered Lindir, his eyes as bright with tears as were the others.

And then in unison and in silence their thoughts went mightily across the waters . . .

Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning.

~*~

Still as carven stones upon the strand, the Elves stood and bent their keen gazes upon the ship until the waters fell away beneath it and it sailed beyond their knowing and their sight.

And as they turned away, climbing up the narrow slope to where the fortress stood, their thoughts returned to their other companions and their need to find them, to finish this task of last farewells they had begun.

Endamir paused as they reached the grassy sward, calling to his brother and to Lindir to look where he pointed. In the west, Gil-Estel still blazed, and the other stars seemed to have caught his light and glittered like bright diamonds, outshining the moon himself.

He smiled, and recalling the words of the old tale, he spoke it aloud.

‘Eärendil stood before the Valar,’ he said, his eyes glittering as brightly as the stars he’d pointed to. ‘Do you remember?’ Orëmir nodded, a smile playing about his face. He put his arm about his brother’s shoulders and drew him near.

‘And pardon he asked for the Noldor,’ Orëmir continued, ‘and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.’

[Firefoot]

Despite his realization that it was time to leave this place, Lómwë could still feel it drawing at him, incessantly pulling him back, as if he still had something he needed to do. He had followed Endamir, Orëmir, and Lindir for a while, but he eventually lost track of them, not by conscious decision but rather lack of attention. He still felt too lost in his own affairs to care about any of theirs – something about bones?

He had not returned to the city but had wandered around it, keeping the eastern sea on his left as he walked southward, drinking a cup of combined sorrow and comfort by seeing the drowned place where he had once lived. Soon, he began to realize just how physically tired, how very sore he was, and wished he was back at their camp with a fire and food. But rather than going there – he was unsure of how far away it was anyway – he found a nearby fallen tree and sat down heavily on that. He let his thoughts wander and tried to clear his head, becoming engrossed in the movement of the waves on the sea, in some places gently lapping the shore while crashing into it in others.

After just a few short minutes, however, he became aware of another voice, whether audible or just in his head, he could not tell. Well, look who we’ve found here… all alone, and the city no where in sight, now. Lómwë slammed what was left of his mental barriers up as hard as he could in his weakened state. He recognized them more thoroughly now – not only as the orc fëar who had attacked him the previous night outside the city, but also as the spirits of the orcs who had killed his Ellothiel. Killed Aradol. A weak flame kindled inside of him. He drew his sword. “I have already defeated you – twice now,” he growled.

Ah, so you’ve faced the past now – that is how you Elves would put it? So you remember, don’t you, how we killed her, before you got to her? The spirit’s smugness was clearly evident. But you killed us before we could have our way with their bodies, it snarled. You won’t be beating us a third time. They – Lómwë could not tell how many, or was too weary to count – flew at him, assaulting, taunting. Lómwë swung his sword at them wherever they seemed to be – not that it had any effect. Lómwë had no hope – he would have no protection against these monsters once they broke past his barriers, and that would not be hard. They would destroy his mind, perhaps his fëa as well. He had no idea what they were capable of. Slowly he began to work his way back to the camp, even as he fought them. Perhaps they would find his body.

They had many weapons, and used them well. No matter how well Lómwë thought he had come to grips with his guilty conscience and his grief, they hurled these at him, desperately trying to rip his mind to shreds. Lómwë’s attacks became feebler. Perhaps, Ellothiel, I’ll be seeing you soon… One of the monsters seemed to break through; Lómwë cried out in pain. Coming, Ellothiel. I’ll escape these demons and come to you. The battle was lost, it seemed. Lómwë had nearly given way completely; they were too strong, too determined. That portion of his mind and memory that he had kept locked up so long became his solace – at least that pain he was familiar with. Now he locked himself into it. But the battle was so close to lost, so close. He seemed to see a black tunnel stretching before him – escape. He could escape these monsters, cease fighting… they could do nothing to an empty hröa. A light seemed to shine at the end of the tunnel. There. He would find Ellothiel there – perhaps… Any second now, and he would be flying towards the light. It seemed that it was the only point of hope that he had seen in all the long years since the Dagor Bragollach. Yes, there.

But suddenly… their attack seemed to abate, as if they were slowly losing power. It seemed that they were fighting another foe, wholly separate from him. They were withdrawn from his ravaged mind, still vainly trying to unleash their attacks. But slowly, oh so slowly, they faded away. And the black tunnel, or his need of it, seemed to fade away as well, though he fought to keep it there, for if the tunnel faded, so also would that light, that hope… but oddly enough, the light did not fade. The blackness turned into something else, something brighter and more focused, but the light stayed there at the center of his vision. He tried to orient himself, finally realized that his point of light was a star – Eärendil’s star appeared in the west. He did not turn and look back again at the eastern sea, but stumbled on westward towards the star, towards his hope.

After an unknown length of time, he came upon the gate of the fortress, heard voices, and for the first time since the attack turned his focus away from the shining star. He came upon Orëmir, Endamir, and Lindir, also gazing up at the star. Orëmir was speaking: “And pardon he asked for the Noldor, and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.”

Lómwë’s eyes lifted again to the stars. And there was hope. Now, perhaps, there was hope.

[Anguirel]

And as the long toil of the day and eve finally approached its setting, the company of Elves found themselves scattered. Malris and Tasa were sunk, isolated even from each other by sharp despair, against the unyielding granite that had been the male Elf's home so long ago. The twins, and Lindir, cured of wounds to his spirit and his heart, watched the boats separating in such symbolic directions; one to the west and the Deeps, the other to the fish-markets of Forochel, harsh lands of the tough survivors, Men, wrongly called Sickly Ones! Lomwe, his own struggle with memory and guilt subsided, now joined them.

All of the six would hear the music which now called out for the third time. It passed even the defeated stupor of the two Elves in Giledhel's old bed-chamber. Hearing this song, you knew you would have heard it from across a cataract, or amidst the cacophony of the wildest storm. Yet it had no empty bombast about it; it was not a strain to inspire marching bands, nor even to tell of melancholy decline. It was like a lullaby sung by a strong, confident, and deeply loving father. Or perhaps a brother; a brother in a large family, perpetually having to look to the needs of his younger siblings.

The words, however, would seem different for the Elves grouped on the beach from how they reached Malris and Tasa. The singer and harper, wherever he was hidden, could see all, would tell all, would sing all. So it was that each of the parties heard, to some extent, of the doings of the other.

On the beach the mighty voice sang:

Oh, how much love is there in friendship?
Does friendship blaze on passion's pyre?
What can a night's quarrel pull down
Or joining hands in motion set?

A friend had I right long ago, a loyal Elf was he
He clove unto his own and to my fierce family.
From race on grass to race on sea we travelled-oh, then see!
He got a wife and lost a wife and lived apart from me.

This friend of mine had a friend too
But she e'er thought of more
Apart from him she knew not who
Could her heart move so sore.

Among ye here they both have come
They travelled to the first's lady.
But she had borne strange childer
In a heart too long left lone.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel
Though her brave lord yet lives;
He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve.

Thus to the four Elves. But to Malris and Tasareni, a shorter song, with longer intervals of music:

Why so forlorn on Himring's point?
The quest ye strove on is fulfilled.
The parts of witch and knight are done:
The smith can breathe again.

The door that laid ye both so low
Do not regard much longer. Nay:
Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

A choice to part full dec'rously
Or yet to overcome heart's ice
Is come: Mandos takes Giledhel
And never will take me.

Look from the window of the gard
For Earendil's Silmaril.
'Twas Maitimo first sighted it
But I who bore it no ill-will.

The same realisation would come upon all the listeners. On the previous nights, what seemed to be Maglor himself, lost heir to Himring, had sung to the isle in general; but this time, for whatever reason, he was addressing his enchantingly lovely riddles to the travellers in a startingly particular manner...

Now it was only left to decipher them...

[piosenniel]

A little fire burned brightly on the grassy sward where the four Elves had gathered. They were waiting for Malris and Tasa to appear, to give the two the news of their day’s successful adventure and a task well done.

The darkness of the night seemed natural now, and not a projection of the spirits, beneficent as well as malevolent who had inhabited the decaying fortress all these years. There were no whisperings in the darker corners to trouble thoughts. The companions were tired; resting on their bedrolls and only the hiss and crackle of the wood they had gathered broke the silent evening.

That . . . and the song which had just reverberated through the night’s air.

‘Sounds to me as if he old songster is singing of them,’ said Endamir, rousing up on one elbow as the words hung in the air and then began to fade. ‘And tonight it seems to be about our absent companions.’ He had told no one of the handclasp he had seen between the two, nor the grudging reluctance of Malris that he and Tasa should have been intruded upon.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel . . .

‘Fair winds and a following sea to you, dear Lady,’ he whispered, glad that she had been one of the sprits freed from the island. She had always been gracious to him, the times he had been in her company.

Though her brave lord yet lives . . . ‘So Malris must be alive still; the song at least concirms that, no?’ He sat up completely, listening closer as the last strains blew away in the night’s breeze.

He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve . . .

Endamir rose to his feet, a worried look on his face. ‘You don’t suppose they’ve gotten caught in some cave-in in this wreck of a place, do you?’ He looked toward the shadowy fallen blocks of stone that had once been the fortress’ walls. ‘Is the singer saying they will need to dig themselves out, do you think, or that we should be looking for them to free them?’

[Child of the 7th Age]

"I don't know. But I am beginning to worry. Earlier today, I was wondering why they hadn't returned. I assumed they would come back at the same time we did. Just now, I tried to reach out with my mind, to sense where they might be, yet I found nothing." Lindir finished wrapping a bandage tightly about his ankle and rose to his feet with the aid of a stout staff.

He took a few steps over to stand beside Endamir and confided, "Whoever this songster is, and I have my own ideas on that as we may all have, I think he wishes us no harm. The song rings fair and true. I smell no deceit, no wickedness. I think we ought to take him seriously. Anyways it is better to do something useful than just to sit here wondering. I am well enough to search. First, though, I think we may wish to light some torches. I have no desire to stumble over a hole in the ruins and end up digging my own way out."

Lindir went over to a nearby stone wall and, with some difficulty, managed to pull out the remains of two torches that they had set there earlier that morning, the brands still held in place by the ancient metal holders. He bent down to light the torches in the fire and handed one to Endamir, "I believe this will do. Oh, yes, and I would prefer to keep together. Too many strange things happen on this isle."

With that pronouncement, Lindir turned to face the others in the circle, "Now does anyone have any ideas where Malris might be trapped? What sort of places on this aisle would require one to dig? Perhaps they've fallen through the ruins into some unused pit or dungeon, or there's a second cavern similar to the one that the Diviner had."

"Anyone have any ideas on this? And perhaps" he muttered under his breath, "our songster will see fit to give us another hint or two once we begin to look." Lindir had an odd feeling that the songster knew exactly where the missing Elves were.

[Envinyatar]

‘I have no idea where they might be trapped.’ Orëmir crouched down near the little fire they’d built to drive away the coming chill of night. ‘But . . .’ He picked up a stick and began scratching a series of lines on the dirt. With a snort of disgust he scuffed the lines away with his fingers and began again.

‘There was a plan in place, in case the fortress was taken, for those not critical to the defense to leave.’ He looked up at his brother who had come to see what he was scrawling. ‘You remember, don’t you, Endamir?’ Orëmir stood up, the tip of the stick pointing down to the diagram. ‘It didn’t really involve us; we were away on patrol so often. But the troops garrisoned here spoke of it sometimes. How they were to take their positions along the walls, depending upon the direction of the attack, while some of them were to open the hidden entryways to the tunnels delved beneath the living quarters.’

Orëmir snapped the stick in two and threw it into the fire. ‘Did you ever wonder, if we had stayed to fight, if we had been here, there might have been more that got away?’ He rubbed out the drawing he had made, watching the dust swirl about and settle on the toe of his boot. ‘An over inflated sense of our importance no doubt.’ He looked westward, where Vingilot floated above the rim of the world. ‘Brave men, they were, who stayed and faced the foul corruption that o’erflowed from Dor Daedeloth.

A bit of verse came unbidden to his lips. And he murmured it softly, recalling a captain of the lancers who had spoke it so long ago. A fierce opponent in battle, his face set grim and hard in battle. Yet he best remembered him at rest in a rough camp. His eyes had flashed in the fire’s light, and a ready smile had put his men at ease. They had come from one of many skirmishes against the Orc foe. And they had been victorious, but at a cost of a number of their fellows’ lives. Sindar and Green Elves had been some of those counted among the dead. The Noldorin captain had honored them with drink and the remembrances of their comrades. And had offered his own words in a voice husky with mingled sorrow and pride.

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when Earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What Valar abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

Orëmir put away the old images and words and refocused on the task that was now before him and his three companions. ‘I think I recall where one of the entryways was hidden. Let’s bring some lit brands with us as well as some extra should our search be a long one.’ He picked two torches and started toward where the family quarters had been located. ‘Let me know if the pace is too quick for your ankle, Lindir. The passages will be there whether we go quickly to them or slower.’

[Anguirel]

That voice, again! That much-beloved voice that seemed to physically lance the funeral shroud of despair...

Malris jerked bolt upright, listening with more attention than he could summon in the normal course of events. Partly, of course, there was the fact that the song was fascinating, enlivening, for its own sake, the poetry of the arrangement, filled with verbal tricks that surprised and delighted the listener.

"No one ever beat Maglor, no one," he muttered in something like disbelief. Becoming more aware of the space around him, he turned to Tasa, smiling slightly; though with the enthralment in which the song held him, he scarcely had energy left to express happiness.

Then, of course, there was the reassuring nature of the tidings the voice brought.

"The smith must be Lindir," he whispered, not wanting to disturb the staves of the music, behaving almost as if Maglor was close at hand and could be distracted by his speech, out of turn as it was. "They've cured Lindir's wound! The other party must have encountered the Diviner..."

Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

"Of course!" Malris cried, now throwing his sensitivity aside. "What a fool I was...why did I not think of it the moment the door failed?"

But the singer was still not finished, and had still more reassurance to deliver. When he realised his wife was freed from her long agony...separated presumably at last from those...creatures...Malris did not forgo weeping, though he wept silently, his eyes growing unaccustomedly large as he thanked the Powers of the West again and again, filled with emotion he scarcely understood.

"Maglor says Mandos will not take him. There he is pessimistic," Malris muttered. "A truer friend...saving you, Tasa, and His Lordship, and perhaps Endamir...there never was. If the Valar possess hearts...but come, Tasa. I must show you the secret way out of this bastion."

Malris got to his feet with some difficulty, his mind still partly absorbed by the memory of the song's last notes. He offered his arm to Tasa, waiting for her to rise and join him.

"It lies beneath the penultimate stair...and leads to the corridors beneath the fortress. A labyrinth with a thousand purposes...and who knows what state of repair it will be in...but it's a hope, Tasa. A way, promised by the Lord Maglor himself...we're going to find the others, and then we'll soon be home."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

A way... a path to light and to dancing breezes and the smell of fires and starlight on damp grass instead of dusted stone and cold memory.

Tasa looked at Malris' outstretched hand, taking in every detail from the small scars that came to every fighter in his life to the faded light that shone dully upon his fingernails. She looked at her own, the long white fingers streaked with blood, the gouges in her palms still oozing slightly. She looked up at him mournfully, with dead eyes and pale cheeks. A single black feather lay tangled within her long blonde locks.

"No." Her voice echoed dully against the grey walls, lost into the shadow that kept them.

[Firefoot]

As the other three discussed the song and how to find Malris and Tasa, Lómwë could not help but feel rather isolated from the group. He knew that this was mostly of his own doing, but was not sure how to change it – was not sure if he wanted to. He felt emptied out, drained of all emotions relevant to the present. It was not that he did not care, as before, but more like he did not know how to care anymore. Even emotions pertaining to the past were blunted. Orëmir’s words Did you ever wonder, if we had stayed to fight, if we had been here, there might have been more that got away? had bounced around in his head for a bit, bringing pricks of guilt and sorrow, still mutedly poignant but not stabbingly painful. There was nowhere left for him to go, nothing left for him to do, it seemed, except to finally leave these eastern shores into the west.

For his companions’ sake, he tried to dredge up some piece of information pertinent to their search. The tunnels… yes, perhaps he did remember them. He had never used them as they were intended, but once he had showed them once to Aradol. But try as he might, he could remember nothing else of them, not where the entrances were hidden nor where they led. To the rest of his mind, the fact was apparently not important enough to be recalled.

As Orëmir began to lead the way, Lómwë picked up a torch of his own and fell into the rear, a position becoming oh so familiar. He had enough wits about him to be wary of any spirits in this place that might be intent on harm, although there seemed to be few of those left… most seemed to have departed, except for the mysterious minstrel.

The foursome treaded on in silence, which suited Lómwë perfectly. After a little while, Orëmir drew to a halt. “It was around here somewhere…” Lómwë could see little beyond his torchlight, but what was within it did not look promising as far as an entryway. He stepped a little closer to what appeared to be a short, dark alleyway. The walls, or perhaps the foundations themselves, had partially collapsed, urging Lómwë to caution. He could not tell, and he was unsure of what they were looking for, but this looked promising. “I’m not sure,” he called out to the group, “and it could be just an old alley, but does this look like a collapsed entryway to any of you…? If it is, it doesn't look entirely safe.”

[Anguirel]

Malris was not as shocked by Tasareni's refusal as might have been expected. He recalled the first night on the island, when he had been torn between his friends and Maglor's voice...when he had stumpled a few feet up the steep, sharp, mountain path to the ruins of Himring...when Tasa had reproached him so bitterly.

He had almost chosen the Voice in that hour, but Tasa's words had recalled him to the realities of the present. An awful moment.

But now things were different. Things were simpler. No longer two paths, two women and a Lord the Valar knew where. A chamber that had become a prison, an exit out, Tasa alone with him and his Lord, Kanafinwe Makalaure, the son of Curufinwe the Elder, called Feanaro; Maglor, his lord and friend, beckoned him to follow the only way that was left. And Tasa too, whether she trusted him or not.

"Yes," he replied simply; Malris had never wielded words as the Sons of Feanor did, lightly and elegantly, beautifully, and dangerously. He extended his left hand, calloused by the grip he had kept to Cirlach's hilt, and plucked the carrion bird's feather from Tasareni's stream of hair of pale gold.

Malris was short for the males among Elves; Tasareni tall among females. There was little between them, and he scarcely bent as he lightly kissed her cheek, breathing Yes into her toil-wearied mind.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

His lips burned her pale cheek. She pulled away, holding back exhausted tears. Her heart turned to ice and she felt sick. She swallowed and felt mild distress at her inability to find anything to say. Her voice cracked before words could escape her lips. She stepped away from Malris, colliding with the cold wall.

He reached for her, concerned, and took her by the hand. She pulled from his grip, afraid to let herself dream. It could never be... it would never be.

"No." Tears fell. "No."

"If you do not trust the words, trust me." He spoke simply as ever. "We must leave. I know the way. You must come."

Her voice strengthened, exhaustion lending a dangerously sharp edge to her thoughts. "I must do nothing. I am neither your child to be led by the hand nor your lover to be led by the heart. Perhaps you are tireless, but I can go no further without rest. Do you wish to carry me as one dead? I cannot continue upon my own legs.

"Perhaps you did not notice while you were busy concentrating on shadows of the past and whispers on the wind..." Her voice shook with bitterness. "It is not a traditional enemy that knows the depths of your heart and uses that knowledge to besiege you as she makes every attempt to take your hroa perforce. I will not go on tonight."

She stood defiantly before Malris, tears carefully tracing the silver scars upon her jawline. She trembled with emotion, her body weak. Her fingertips traced her sword hilt as she awaited his response.

[Anguirel]

Malris remained silent for several moments, his hands once more at his sides.

He had not expected to be...repulsed. For that was undoubtedly what had occurred. His mind throbbed, as if he had been struggling in some battle of the spirit once more, but confusion and guilt, not Orcs or Elves, were now his enemies.

His wife had found peace, at least. But Tasa, it seemed to him, had lost every vestige of it.

"Very well," he said at last. "We shall stop here...though it is...hardly conducive to sleep..."

Neither was it. The floor was as hard as the bedrock of the very isle, and as cold. The whole set of chambers were bare, except for the vast, oak-crafted bedstead, bereft of mattress or drapery. And Malris still felt the summons of that gentle son of Feanor so very keenly...

"There is unhealthy irony here," he added. "We are incarcerated in a room containing a bed neither of us can possibly want to sleep on."

It wasn't just Maglor's persuasion. The others...they would worry, they would search...would they stumble on more trouble, in the darkling places of the fortress that had too long defied Morgoth?

But Tasa was drained, utterly, and furthermore would despise him, would disarm him with the aggrievement of every Elven maid to every Elf, if he tried to talk her round...not necessarily even for her own good, which would naturally damn him utterly...but for the good of the others.

But what sort of authority do you hold over me, he could hear, an acerbic hypothetical utterance.

Who are you? Not father, not brother, not leader, not husband, your vows elsewhere...across the sea perhaps...

"You will at least take my cloak?" Malris asked, braving the actual Tasareni, despite his fears of the projected one. "I know I will have little need of it tonight."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

She looked at him, tired eyes dully lit by the moon. The half-smile that had so often decorated her dark lips was lost to the night. She shivered against the events of the past days as much as against the cold.

"I will take it." she said finally. He carefully unclasped it, aching to comfort his friend. Without word, she took it, hand trembling as it brushed against his. She sank against the wall, cloak pulled tight around her, allowing her legs to fold beneath her. She closed her eyes, not waiting to see if Malris joined her. Soon she felt his warmth beside her, near but not touching. This silent acceptance of her decision comforted her more than words ever could. She allowed her consciousness to drip away like ice in the mid-day sun.

Some time later she spoke, voice echoing lightly.

"Where are we going?" Her eyes remained closed; her head rested gently against the wall. Her breath was slow, peaceful. "Malris, what happens next."

[Envinyatar]

‘I’ll grant you that, Lómwë!’ Orëmir had thrust his torch into the murky entryway and looked about it. ‘It doesn’t look entirely safe.’ He glanced at Lindir, recalling their very recent . . . entombment, for want of a better word . . . in the grotto, and shuddered at the thought of putting himself in such a place again and so soon.

He ducked his head back out from the dark and crumbling place, picking cobwebs from his hair as he did so. ‘What do you say we go back to the guardroom? The one from which we started. A little rest would do us all good. And perhaps this way will look more promising when the day’s light has come. For now it is too dark. And I have had enough of darkness for a while . . .

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


The light here was so pure here. She had forgotten just how. And sweet it was . . . it teased the tongue and eyes and nose . . . and even the ears with its movements. Light, unmarred, and beneath it . . . no, suffusing it . . . was the music . . .

Time moved differently. Like a silvered stream that wove in and out of itself . . . now fast . . . now slow . . . now not at all . . . an intricate knot with light . . . and music . . .

Giledhel lingered in the soft cast shadows of the colonnade. She could not tell how long her spirit had hesitated there, nor did she care. And it was not that the light no longer gladdened her that she sighed. Her thoughts were heavy with the assurance she had given. Her spirit was downcast even amidst the splendors and the promise of this place.

Halls of Waiting . . . waiting . . . for my doom. And what is that to be? Shall I be deemed “liar”, a giver of false promises? Surely I cannot be delivered for ill or good until my assurances are deemed fair or found foul . . .

She sighed . . . the little waves of it pushing out from the shadows against the motes of dust sparkling in the air.

Where are you?

[Anguirel]

Malris was already on his feet, not far from where Tasa lay; watching her silently, draped as she was with his grey cloak. Her pale hair did not challenge in its light, harmonising gently with the gleam of his star brooch near the cloak's hem. Unavoidably reminded of ancient fealty sworn, Malris fingered his black surcoat, all the more visible without his cloak, on which the white Star of Feanor shone. And he did not repudiate it, still thinking of it with sorrowful pride. But at Tasa's question he broke off his thoughts and smiled. Sunlight was seeping through the windows; their third dawn on Himling.

"One of the stairs on the flight leading to this room is loose, Tasa. I can easily get it up with my sword; I crafted it long ago for just such a purpose. It leads into the Lord's Corridors; the maze below the fortress Maedhros had crafted, on the advice of Maglor, after the Bragollach...you recall, perhaps? It was to help should we need to effect a retreat. The Naugrim helped delve it.

"But fate hampered it from being as useful as it might have been. The Naugrim dug by mischance to a great lake beneath the mountains, which sapped at their work and slowed progress." Malris bit his lip. "Some spoke of the Doom at work; but as it may be...after the Nirnaeth few found the Corridors of help."

"The Labyrinth was dangerous then, and is surely perilous after many ages, the Sea leaking into it. But we are not trying to escape the whole fortress and domain, as the refugees did; just to get back to the isle's solid ground. It is a risk, but I think we may conquer it without too much trouble."

Malris shifted closer to Tasa, who had now opened one eye and smiled, as if she were a warm, sportive cat; though he knew her for a cold, exhausted Elf.

"Yes, I know," he admitted, replying to what she had not said. "I have not judged risks well hitherto..."

But he tossed his head back and laughed. It was morning, and they were strong and refreshed; and he trusted in Maglor's guidance. The most contorted paths were to him clear.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Giledhel, daughter of the Elves..... Come forward from the shadow. Stand in my presence. You can hide no longer."

A deep voice echoed through the ancient halls. The words held no underlying bitterness or rancor. If anything, the speaker's tone was cool and removed. The hooded figure stood up, his great form encased in flowing robes of purple and black. He held a mace of gold in his right hand, extending it outward in the direction of the Elf. It was clearly apparent that the Lord of Mandos could not be easily moved to tears or a show of emotion.

When there was no response from the Elven woman, Nàmo spoke again. This time, there was an undercurrent of impatience clearly reflected in his choice of words. "Come forward now, I say. Your doom is written upon your face, if one lacking a body can be said to possess a face. You are long overdue. The summons went out in ages past. Why have you kept me waiting so long?"

Giledhel took a tentative step forward. It was almost as if she was mesmerized by the voice of the Doomsman. Again, the voice rang out, this time in command. "Approach that I may look upon your fëa."

There was a strained moment of silence as the shapeless figure shuffled forward into the silvery light. Searching deep in the recesses of the woman's mind, Nàmo reached out and for a brief moment touched the cowering apparition. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he considered the sorry plight of the creature in front of him.

"There were others," he intoned in a stern voice, "who resisted my command. Their doom became entwined with yours. You should have helped lead them to me, for your life had much that theirs was lacking. Instead, you turned away from the true path, and from the duty you owed to husband and family and conspired to bind the fëar of the strangers to your side."

"Tell me, woman, what would you have of me? And where are these poor creatures whom you have helped mislead?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


Where are you?

Her question hung in the air, in the light. And they moved forward, toward her, awkward in these new forms. Gone were the familiar shapes, or rather changed were the ways in which they now viewed themselves. Unhoused fëar still, yet there was less apprehension as they moved through the light filled spaces, and the subtle harmonies and strains no longer jarred.

They were naked in these rare surroundings. Or at lease they felt so. As if each passing other could see and judge them. Unworthy . . . defiled . . . profane . . . And yet, none who did pass drew back as if from something foul. And such was a wonder to them.

In some space of time, they drew near her; though, the question she had asked seemed still to hang in the air. They rejoiced at the sight of her, for she seemed much the same . . . familiar and comforting in her ordinariness.

They would have rushed to her, as they had so often done in other times. But now between them and her stood a being of splendor and light and power beyond any they might conceive. And he was chastising her!

Small as they felt, still they rose up in her defense.

‘Begging your pardon, my Lord.’ The hesitant voice of Calëlindo intruded into the space left by Nàmo’s question. ‘It wasn’t her abandoned husband and family.’ The other two crowded in close about him, murmuring their agreement. Calëlindo went on, his voice a little less timorous. ‘All those years as she was trapped in death on that grace-forsaken isle, and still didn’t she keep her thoughts on her dear husband and plan for his homecoming, though it took a good several ages for him to get round to returning.’ His voice trailed off. Nàmo’s expression showed neither acceptance nor rejection of what he said.

‘Go on!’ whispered the other two of his companions, crowding him even closer.

He didn’t want to sound petty or foolish to the Lord of Mandos, but still he felt he should know the facts. ‘And when he did get round to coming home, didn’t he bring some old girl of his he was always sweet on.’

There, he’d said it, and he was still intact. He held a hushed conference with his fellows and stepped forward a little further.

‘She didn’t bind us to her side . . . Sir.’ He glanced with a certain measure of fondness toward Giledhel as she stood before the Vala. His voice wavered, as if with sorrow and regret. With an effort he mastered the new, unfamiliar emotions and his voice, though quieter with his next words, grew stronger in intent.

‘We murdered her . . . in her bedchamber. And it was a deed most foully done.’

He stifled a sob at the telling of it, even as his companions wept. ‘No amount of apology, sincere as it might be, can excuse this dreadful, hideous thing we did. We despoiled her and as she died we laughed, her blood staining the stones at the foot of her marriage bed.’ He paused for a moment recalling the sequence of events. ‘And then, at the hands of the fortress guards, we too, met our deaths, in the same chamber in which she met hers.’

‘She didn’t bind us to her . . .’ he said again. ‘Save if you call her forgiveness of our deeds against her some sort of binding. And if that’s so, then "yes" we are bound tight to her.’

‘We don’t feel she misled us, either, my Lord. Her mind grew a little . . . hazy . . . as the years passed. Things seemed to slip away from her more easily. We tried, in our way to serve her. And for her part she was always kind to us and taught us what she thought we should know. Though I think her mind slipped more and more as the uncountable days went on, and now I wonder how she really saw us.’

He hesitated for length of time, and quiet filled in the spaces of that little tableau. ‘It’s not her fault,’ he began in her defense when he spoke again. Then thinking better of it, he continued in a different vein. ‘It was our fault, from the first, that all this came to pass with her. Let us take the blame.’ He looked again toward Giledhel. ‘We are not those poor, misled creatures you spoke of, my Lord. She was only kind to us, and we are richer for it.'

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


Giledhel struggled to understand who was speaking. Her gaze took in someone tall, with a certain radiance that encircled him. His voice, too, was fair. How did she know him, this one who spoke in her defense? And with such a knowledge of what had happened to her.

We murdered her . . .

Her brow furrowed. And she began to remember how her companions of that space of time had tried to speak with her about this. But even now, the act, itself, remained gone from her memories. Blotted out she supposed by the awfulness of it.

Without a word she moved round Nàmo, stepping closer to this other being. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Her aspect lightened at the familiar feel of his presence. ‘You’re one I called for, didn’t I?’ ‘And you . . . and you . . .’ she said with the beginnings of recognition as she drew the others forward.

Were there tears to cry, they would have lit her eyes as she touched each one of those tall, fair beings who stood round her. The winds had indeed borne them West as her heart hoped they would do.

‘Your names, your names. How shall I call you now?’

Her voice faltered with the next question. She took a step backward to take them all in with her gaze. ‘Do you remember?’

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘Yes, my lady,’ came the voice of Calëlindo. ‘We do remember . . .’

‘Our names, our lives . . .’ followed Salmarion. His voice dropped low, filled with regret and sorrow as he went on. ‘And our dark, evil acts.’

‘And your kindness, my lady,’ came Alcamírië. ‘We clung to those words of hope, slender as that promise seemed. And here we are.’ He pointed to each of his companions. ‘Calëlindo, who in those long dark ages was called Gor--’

A thunderous look of disapproval from Námo recalled the admonition against speaking the Black Language in this place and he swallowed the rest of the name. With a hurried stutter he went on.

‘And I . . . I am Alcamírië. And here, too, is Salmarion.’

Calëlindo could not hold back. A great smile lit his face, and he stepped near her to pat her on the arm as he had done so many times before. ‘We are so glad to find you here, my lady.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Mandos listened intently to the plea of the fallen ones and the obvious respect and gentleness that they had tendered to Giledhel. For a long time, he stood immobile and silent, his eyes grave and imponderable as he weighed what had just transpired in his presence. Náma was not one given to foolish shows of emotion. There was a price to be paid for every evil deed, and these four were no exceptions. The Noldor who had so foolishly deserted Aman had received no blessing from him, but only an unbreakable curse. Surely, these four deserved no more or less, she for her faithlessness to her husband and family, and they for their unspeakable deeds.

This was not the first time Mandos had confronted the fëar of corrupted Elves. Such creatures were rare, but they occasionally hung out in the gloomy anterooms of Mandos, refusing to come within the Great Hall and face their Doom. Instead, they stubbornly remained in the most distant courtyard, letting slip away whatever tiny chance they might have to regain who and what they had once been. Sometimes even those who were brave enough to approach him could not be helped. The ugliness of their lives still weighed too heavily on their hearts. The kindest thing he could do was to have Lórien lay heavy bonds of sleep upon them, sending them into the strange dream world where they could ponder their misdeeds for age after age until they could begin to face who and what they had become. Perhaps, he should do the same for these....

Still, Nàmo felt that somehow these poor creatures were different. He honestly could not recall any situation similar to this. He thrust deep within his mind, searching through his memories that had been given to him at the very dawn of creation. Both he and Manwë had been granted the gift of understanding certain strains and threads in the music that no other Vala had been privileged to hear. What few knew or understood was that he heard the strains of the music still and that sometimes it revealed a new secret. He never spoke of these things to others, but only to Manwë when he requested him to do so.

A tiny light flickered within Nàmo's mind, its sparking ray extending out even into the darknesss of Mandos. There was no difference between that ray of light and the melody that had come to him while in a dreamlike state. The music had been utterly clear in its meaning. The time was drawing near when those who had been most corrupted might be granted one last chance. Many would refuse but a few would find their way back to where they had begun, utterly changed and yet not changed. Perhaps this strange quartet was the first who would go down such a path. For somehow the fate of the woman was not too different than that of her male companions. They could not be split apart.

Turning towards Giledhel and the other three, Mandos addressed them in cool, even tones. "What would you have me do then to help you? What boon do you request? You may not leave these halls for Aman. The bloody path that you followed in life will not permit you to venture yet to Tol Eressea or the shores beyond it, for surely the silver light there would be more than your eyes could bear. Still, I think you have things yet to learn. What do you ask of me?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘A boon?’ Alcamirië’s voice took on an uncertain tone. ‘What can he mean, Calëlindo?’ He stole a hesitant glance toward Nàmo. ‘Does he mean to strike a bargain with us? We have nothing to offer.’

Salmarion drew them into a little ring, an old habit from former days. ‘We do have something he might want.’ He cocked his head toward Giledhel. ‘Maybe he wants us to leave her alone. Her “dear Malris” did.’

‘Oh surely he won’t make us do that. We’ve just found her again.’ Alcamirië looked troubled, his hand clenching onto Calëlindo’s arm.

Calëlindo leaned in toward his companions. ‘He means to do us a favor . . . something given freely, I think. Lord Nàmo wants to know how he can help us.’ He pitched his voice even lower. ‘And besides, the Lady is not ours to bargain with. Remember . . .’

The three turned toward Nàmo.

‘It seems enough for us now,’ said Calëlindo, ‘just to be here where we are. The silver light you speak of . . . we don’t recall it. And the light here, it is bright and fair enough to us.’ He turned questioningly toward the other two. ‘Ask him,’ urged Salmarion, Alcamirië nodding ‘yes’ behind him.

‘Just one favor, Lord Nàmo. Let us stay with the Lady . . . here . . . until she wishes to move on . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a long time, the Lord of Mandos said nothing. He stared off into the distance as violent and sorrowful images paraded through his mind. The lives and deeds of these suppliants could not be readily altered or erased. None of the three had any understanding of the perils they would face by their decision to remain within the Halls of Remembrance to support their beloved Lady. While memory may bring solace and warmth, it can also be a sharp blade cutting through to the most painful of times, a frightening reminder of paths not taken or bloody deeds that refuse to go away.

Dare he grant them what they had asked? In all the years that he had born this sceptre, never had one of the corrupted Elves petitioned to be admitted to the inner halls. Generally, they sulked along the outer edges, afraid to step inside or to go any further. The mere fact that these three had voiced this request told him that something was beginning to come alive within their fëar that seemingly should have died long years before. He remembered within the music a tiny refrain, a few notes tentative and half hidden, that might, with patience and effort, become something greater and more melodious.

No, he could not turn them down. Yet their words so innocently spoken could not be left unchallenged. Turning towards Calëlindo, he spoke in a gruff voice, "Do you remember what your name means? The meaning of "Calëlindo" in the common tongue? I thought not...." Nàmo's voice became gentler as he began to explain, "It means song of light, or one whose song brings light into the world. If you stay here, it will not be easy. You will learn what this light is, as will your companions, and you will also come to see how far you have fallen short. That is hard, even for those who have lived a traditional Elven life, and for you it will be even more difficult. Think on this, each of you, and make sure this is what you want."

"And you Lady..." Here, Mandos turned to face Giledhel. "Are you certain you want these rascals to remain with you. You too have unfinished business, and the memories that come, some of them involving these poor corrupted creatures, will sometimes be hard. Can you look them in the eye and accept them for what they are, and the hard path they have travelled? Or would you prefer to do your thinking on your own, in solace and isolation? I will not say "yes" to these three unless it is your wish that they remain within your company."

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It is I who wish to remain in their company, my Lord.’ Giledhel stepped forward from the other three Elves. ‘Do not banish me to my own solace and isolation. I have had enough of that in those long years after Malris had gone and I was left to the solace and isolation of cold stone.’ She looked toward Calëlindo and the others. ‘There are times I regret ever having left Valinor. The reasons of my younger years seem less well thought out in retrospect. There were decisions made in haste and in the heat of the moment that had been better laid aside and given more consideration.’

‘I know my mind was hazy, clouded . . .’ she looked toward the three Elves. ‘It was easier that way,’ she went on. ‘I could pass over things, forget them.’ She looked about at the pleasant halls flooded with their subtle light. ‘I don’t have to do that here. I’m safe here. I felt that from the first.’

She paced a little before the Vala and the Elves. ‘I remember everything that happened to me,’ she said in an even voice; her eyes on the random patterns of the smooth, marbled floors. ‘And I remember your part in it,’ she went on in a subdued tone, looking at the three Elves. ‘My death and yours, and those years locked together in that room.’

‘I could have been completely lost, you know. But there was something in you, in each of you that I recognized and which gave me some hope. I remember the first time I reached out to what I’d seen. And again, I might have been lost then. Between us some tenuous connection was made, though . . . some thin, little line we wove between us. Grudgingly done at first, I think . . . but it became habit and habit done day in and day out forged certain bonds.’

‘You’ve said many times that I was kind to you . . . I think, though, it was as much for myself as it was for you. That kindness which you allowed and fostered even in your own way . . . it recalled me to myself. And for that I’m grateful . . . and thankful, too, that by some grace you were also benefited.’

‘I’ve made a lot of wrong decisions. It will take a long time to sort them out. And I can’t say I won’t make a few more.’ She glanced briefly at Lord Námo; then, returned her attention to Calëlindo, Salmarion, and Alcamírië. ‘If you will, I would ask that you allow me to stay in your company. I think we can continue to benefit each other . . . yes, I do think we can . . .’

*************************************

Child of the 7th Age's post

"Let it be so then, gracious lady, as you have requested. A boon for you and your three companions. Each of you may walk the gentle fields here and think long on what went right and wrong, and how you might want things to change or continue as your journey goes forward. There may be a moment when you leave these halls, but I think not for some time, and that day may never come. But for now it is enough that you have chosen the path of contemplation and vowed to help one another through your ties of friendship. Go now and find your way into my realm."

Mandos said no more but turned and walked away. The Vala did not think that these four would stay locked up in a single room as they had done for long years, but rather walk outward and explore. For the halls of Mandos are amazingly wide and capacious for those who choose to wander. He promised to keep an eye on them and see how their journey continued. Perhaps the trek would not be so easy as they blithely assumed at this time, yet also not so hard as he had first feared.

The male Elves especially intrigued him. So very few of the corrupted were brave or gentle enough to step within the halls of Mandos and face the memories of the ill deeds they had done. Out of the thousands that had passed in front of him, only a handful had the courage to stay. He had hoped someday this would change. Perhaps these three were a harbinger of better things to come. Would that the tangled web of shadows on Middle-eath would only straighten out and let in some light for poor Elves such as these! But the latter was too much to ask, especially with so much under the mastery of Sauron. For now Mandos was content to welcome his guests, offering them the Halls of Remembrance as a place of refuge and hard contemplation.

[Anguirel]

The mysteries of Valinor are deep, and jealously guarded from men's thoughts. To linger too long in the Lord of Mandos' caverns becomes a transgression. With a howl of northern wind out of Forochel the tale returns for the present to the Isle of Himling, the Fortress of Himring, strange remnant of Elvendom that was.

Two figures, tall, beautiful and filled with a happiness no Noldo had known truly in that place, as they thought, for many Ages. The bliss of the forge.

For as Malris and Tasareni worked at the stair that led to their one path of escape, they felt as if they were combining in a work of craftsmanship too long denied. The original joy of the Noldor that Melkor twisted to cause so much pain. The innocent art of knowledge, creation and invention, as with Malris' broadsword and Tasa's blade they wordlessly struggled with the silent rock.

Nor did they work in utter darkness. White-red starlike sparks flew up as the stair proved a whetstone, not a destroyer, of their weapons, forged with talents long lost to Men. And the runes of Curufin's dedication on Cirlach's length seemed brighter than ever. The stair groaned its resistance with horrific grinding, but the Elves felt their mastery, as if they dealt with a scolding child.

And so the cacophonous clanging of the crag gave way to the hum of a hinge's harmony. The stair creaked upwards, revealing the downwards shaft to a corridor below.

Formed by Naugrim. Unseen by Orcs. Restored by Noldor. The way was open.

***

Yet in one respect Malris and Tasa had been mistaken. Himring still knew the crash of hammer on cast-iron anvil, even as it still knew the routine of the sentries who still, trained by their Seneschal, guarded the gatehouse.

Further on into the Dwarven Corridors, the sound of a smithy reverberated. A craftsman's tool pounded a horseshoe into shape; then a knife; then the boss of a shield; then, with different tools, a ring.

The Master Smith could devise swords that sliced Trollflesh like tender lamb, and broochs that carried the letters of entire epic poems in delicate engraving.

There was no one like him any more. But he was looking forward, oh yes, so much, to having pupils again.

[Envinyatar]

It was day, now, and the dark maw of the now revealed corridor beckoned. Orëmir was scarce convinced it looked any more inviting or safer for them in the morning’s light.

‘Well, then, let’s light the other torch, he said, putting his against that of Lómwë’s already lit one. Each of them had secured two or three other spare brands to their packs since they did not know how long the journey in the dark might take.

Lómwë ducked into the opening, holding his brand before him. Endamir followed, as Orëmir brought up the rear. They had traveled for a length of time down the twisting passageway when a very faint sound, one far away, seemed to reverberate against the stone hallways.

‘Do you hear that?’ Orëmir called out, hastening to be abreast now of his brother and Lómwë. ‘What can it be?’

[piosenniel]

Endamir could hear the chink – chink that rang off the stones. And at first he thought that it was the sound of stone tumbling against itself. But it was too regular in rhythm.

He put his hand out against the underground corridors wall. The stone was smooth, intact, unlike the unfortunate stones of the above-ground fortress that had been battered down by the battles and the elements. In a way, it relieved him that this part of Maedhros’ stand against the Darkness from the North still stood solid. It was as if the fëar of the Noldor still shown out brightly against the deep shadows of those awful days.

At least he hoped it was something of Elvenkind or of their allies that kept the way below the fortress whole.

‘I can’t say what it might be, Orëmir. I have no “feeling”, good or ill, at present to tell me what to do. ‘I say, though, let’s proceed with caution. Our weapons near to hand.’

[Anguirel]

From the vast array of tools laid out on the rack and the shelves of oak against the wall, the Master Smith had selected a single, tiny hammer, gleaming sharply in the darkness. Sometimes the light it threw was reflected, revealing for a moment part of a vast, antiquated cuirass, the hilt of a sword, the long, bitter head of a lance, for those with the eyes to see. But no one who needed eyes had come here for a long, long time: of that the Smith had made sure. He knew that he was the only artist left here; outside there were lost, lone spirits, as he would have been had he lacked the focus of the armoury, to keep and to cherish. There were Trolls that made lairs in collapsing masonry, and far worse around the borders of the lake that was still slowly destroying the ancient craft of the Dwarves, seeping patiently and destructively...

He had no time to think of them. He was almost as busy as he had ever been. For some days the premonition had lingered in his head, the persistent voice of an Elven woman, he knew not, cared not, who.

"Six pupils are coming to you, Master Smith. Six pupils just for you. Gather them all and teach them, whether or not they wish to attend. Teach them everything you know, and do not let them leave your apprenticeship till the Lord himself comes back!"

Till the Lord himself comes back. That was a certainty, the way the elven woman had spoken it. And it was clear which Lord, too. Not the younger one, he was already here, anyone could hear that, and the forge had never interested him unduly. No! The true Master of Himring was returning to inspect his servants!

Whether or not they wish to attend. The Master Smith was a practical operator. Clearly there must be a forceful but not unkind means of restraint should the pupils choose to disobey their teacher.

Clink, clink went the little hammer on the slender, smooth rings of silver, knotting them through each other. And the Smith whispered lost Curufin's charm of mastery and intelligence as the fetters began to form, wriggling in a peaceable, but cogent life of their own.

Clink, clink...

[Anguirel]

Now fully committed to their journey through the long derelict Corridors, Malris and Tasa advanced cautiously. Their eyes had grown wide and filled with light; Malris' like that of the stars, while Tasa retained something of Tilion's vessel's sheen. Both stretched out their free arms, for touch as well as eyesight would be vital here. Exhausted temporarily, perhaps, with the moving of the slab that had granted them passage, Malris' sword Cirlach now seemed dull as lead, its runes entirely undiscernible.

"I have some flint and tinder in my pack," Tasa ventured. "Should we light it, or spare it for an occasion of greater need?"

"Nay, I see naught amiss with lighting it," Malris responded. "We are now without two advantages we shall gradually acrue-our adjusting eyes, and the return of the rune-light. For now, the flint will be our greatest help."

They edged back against a wall and Tasa unbuckled her supplies, searching for the stones and the dry twigs that they needed. When these were found, it seemed there was fewer fuel than might be expected-very likely some sticks had been dropped in Tasa's mountainside slip-but they both reckoned it would be just about enough, and they set out soon with new hope and light.

Their hearing had grown acute as their eyes struggled, and both felt the presence of still, but slightly rippling, water, in a large body, not so far away; which Malris guessed might be the lake which had brought the Dwarve's old toils to a stop. Hoping that it might lead them eventually to seawater, they decided to proceed in its direction.

Ripples do not form in lakes by mere idle whim.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The air was old, stale, and it made Tasa shiver. The smell of ancient rock long enclosed hung on the still air and the darkness was stifling, barely changed by the flickering torchlight.

Tasa could see the faint gleam of dark water in the distance. Where before they had walked with fingers touching the damp stone walls, now the passageway opened wider and Tasa and Malris walked side by side in expectant silence, both listening for any sound save that of their soft footsteps.

A subtle whisper born by the windless darkness seemed to meet Tasa's ears.

"Malris," she whispered, her voice like small bells heard from afar in the fog of a cold morning. "Did you say something just now?"

[Anguirel]

Malris looked at her curiously. "Not aloud," he said, a little uncertainly, for indeed he had begun to think deeply on his brief exchange with the houseless shade of his wife, his mind straying from his and Tasa's current, obscure path.

She had gone West, well and good, part of his mind reassured him.

But had she done so with a hidden store of bitterness against his long, unavoidable absence? And other bones been liberated too?

Could she still be in the company of the accursed yrch creatures, her defilers and murderers, who had turned her against him? And at this the hand which held Cirlach shivered, very slightly. Yet he was certain he had let out no sound.

He turned to Tasa, solicitude in his gaze. "Are you certain it was a voice you heard? Not some bestial cry or a movement of the water?" he whispered back. It seemed dangerous to besmirch this place of long silence with chatter.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"No... I am not certain." Her words were little more than a breath, a warm breeze against the cold. It had seemed little more than this hiss of a disturbed snake basking in sunlight, yet there had been more to it... the soft lilt of an intended utterance.

She closed her eyes, relaxing her shoulders and standing tall, listening. Whatever it had been, it was no longer, or was well hidden.

"No." she added finally. "It must have been the whisper of pebbles sliding into the lake, or some such natural thing."

She did not mention to him the harsh voice, like plate armor falling, grinding across hard rock, that now murmered grating nothings in the back of her mind and promised her to lay in wait on the far side of the lake.

"You truly heard nothing?" Her voice shook as she shivered against the sound that seemed not to be there.