Bloodstained Elanor RPG

[Durelin]

“I think,” Thorvel began slowly, “that we should take Lómarandil with us to Lothlórien. It is closer than the palace, and he can get the care he needs there. He has been lucky so far, but I do not know if he would last the entire way to the palace. In addition, we will be able to alert the Galadhrim of the coming attack.”

As if he had heard the discussion turn to him, a cry was heard from the direction in which Lómarandil and Coromswyth were, clearly a yell of pain from the wounded elf. It seemed he had finally awoken to the pain of his wound. For a brief moment, Calenvása wondered what exactly that poison was doing to the elf. He came only to the conclusion that it was of a great evil, born from the minds of creatures of the greatest evil that was Sauron. It was enough to make any Child of Illuvatar shiver in a sickened fear.

It was at that moment that, to the shock of everyone present, the wounded elf himself walked toward them with an extraordinary amount of balance and strength. Coromswyth followed slowly behind him, her eyes upon the elf’s back, filled with amazement, then passing to look at Calenvása. A silent understanding passed between them that she knew nothing more than he did about what was going on. If Lómarandil’s recovery was not enough of a shock for them all, it was Targil who stepped forward to help the elf walk the last steps he needed to make to join the others.

Lómarandil glanced at the elf as he took his arm, careful of his wounds that had now grown to be several of varying severity, but the young elf said nothing. Most likely it took too much strength to speak, though it was obvious that nothing needed to be said. Calenvása watched in wonder, and found it hard to focus on the words Lómarandil was saying, his mind abuzz with thoughts that would not rest until they all had been run through his mind.

"I'll be fine...just show me where they are..."

The Captain assumed that he spoke of the army, though it was hard to tell. The elf had found the strength to rise from where he had lain and to walk the distance to the group, but it was clear that there was little other strength left in him. His wounds were seemingly – miraculously enough - not doing him any immediate harm. He spoke softly, his breath too short for much to be spared for speech. It was strange to see the young elf in this weakened state, without his usual vigor and energy that so often was manifested in recklessness. But the voice of Targil sounded even stranger to Calenvása’s ears.

“It was spoken in haste that it would be best for us to return to the palace,” Targil said, his voice almost as quiet as Lómarandil’s, and his tone surprisingly calm. “And now even to speak of Lómarandil as a burden at all.” The way this was said made it clear to the Captain that there was more meaning to it than what was found on the surface of these words. A burden was what Targil had always seemed to see the young elf as. And a burden that was not worth being carried by him. Of course it had also been clear that Targil had not particularly approved of Calenvása himself. Never had Targil been seen showing much respect to anyone. Not until recently…the recent times had changed them all. He could feel the world changing.

“Haste, indeed…” Ambarturion’s voice was no less spiteful than before, and only slightly less calm. “You speak of haste, and that is what is required of us.”

“I speak of a haste that had consequences. You speak of a reckless haste that will bring us to our deaths,” Calenvása said quickly, snapping at the Lorien elf. “The haste you speak of is unnecessary. There are many things on our side that you refuse to see, Ambarturion. You see the roughest road as the only road, and take it. The path you wish to take at this time is one that ends in the needless deaths of us all. And what is your reason for taking this path? Renown? To be remembered in a song as those who died for Lorien? Why not be remembered as those who lived for your land…my brother.”

They were of a kindred, the remainder of a kindred who lingered in a darkening Middle-Earth, refusing a call to other lands to live in these. To live in these lands, and for these lands. Ambarturion was his brother, as were all those present. It was wrong for them to find, even create divisions among themselves, the Children of Illuvatar, who knew best in this world what evil was, and who would neither allow it a place in their hearts, nor in their lands.

There clearly was a change in Ambarturion’s eyes, if not in his face, which was still set hard and cold. They cooled, just as the voice of the Captain had. Coromswyth was of course standing at the male ambassador’s side, and she now reached out to touch the elf slightly on the arm. He jumped ever so slightly at her touch, obviously caught lost in his thoughts. At this moment, Calenvása would give anything to know what those thoughts were. But as Ambarturion turned to look at his female companion, it seemed Coromswyth was doing the thought reading for him.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

It shocked him to know how little the other Elves understood about him. He had no more desire to die than they, he only wished to make that death worth while. But why do you think only of death? He did not turn to Coromswyth. Instead he returned Calenvása’s gaze. Because it is inevitable, he replied. Aloud he said, “I have been fighting the long defeat for the length of memory. I have come to accept that there is, in the end, no hope for Middle-Earth and for those whose fate it is to remain here. My only wish is to save what can be saved. For many long years I have sought to convince my Lord and Lady to take the straight Road into the West, but ever have they remained. I cannot save them from this folly, but I will not let them be destroyed. If my death is the only way to save them, then I will give away my life gladly.”

Calenvása’s eyes grew wide with shock. “I had not idea, Ambarturion, that you were so sick at heart with despair.” The younger Elf’s face and voice were utterly sincere, and the expression of his feeling was of such purity that it shocked Ambaturion into silence. “Have you really forsaken all hope for this land? Do you truly see no path to life and victory over the Enemy?”

“No.” The word slipped from him before he had noticed, and it hung there in the still morning air like a reproach.

Ambarturion swayed slightly, like an oak whose time had come to fall to the earth. But Coromswyth once more steadied him with a touch. He turned to her, and was stilled when he saw in her gentle smile that she did not condemn him despair. It stabbed him deeply that she acknowledged it at all.

Into the silence that had fallen upon the glade, it was Megilaes who spoke. “Master,” he began, and there was in his voice a timbre and age new to him. “The Captain is right. You must not fight this war in despair of failure, but in hope of victory. My brother was slain and I will seek his vengeance, but I shall not find it by throwing away my own life.”

Ambarturion turned to his student, and those gathered about were stunned when he asked softly, “What should we do?”

Megilaes put his hand upon his teacher’s shoulder. “Let us do as Calenvása has suggested. Let us return to our land and warn them of the danger. Then, with some more of our kin we can march out and meet our enemies upon the field of reckoning.”

Ambarturion put his own hand upon Megilaes’ forearm and nodded. The faintest hint of a smile crossed his face, like the feel of sunshine through clouds. He turned to Calenvása. “Come,” he said. “I have heard that the feet of our Mirkwood kin are fleet, but they shall have to be swift indeed to keep pace with me this day!” He spun and ran toward the West, and his passing was as of the wind in the grass. The others ran after him upon feet as light. And as they ran, they heard Ambarturion laughing.

[Firefoot]

Thorvel sighed in relief as Ambarturion took off running. They were finally on their way to Lothlorien once again. Thorvel and the other Elves were not far behind. They went at a swift pace, for they had a race to win, a race with the army. If they lost, the stakes would be high. So they ran, on and on. Mostly they ran wrapped in their own thoughts, but occasionally someone broke the quiet with conversation.

There were a good many things to think about. How far the Orc army had gotten that day, for one. They had been making decent speed before, about what would be expected of a mass that large. However, Thorvel figured that the Elves were now a few days behind. They had great need of haste indeed. That made him wonder whether they would stop for the night. Somehow he doubted it: the sun was already sinking low, casting long shadows in the fading light, and they had only been running for a few hours. They couldn’t go all the way to Lorien without stopping, but Thorvel did not think they would stop so soon, even though it had been such a long day. He would not presume to guess out loud; he did not particularly care to guess wrong in front of the Lorien Elves. Thorvel was amazed at how much had happened in such a short time, and the day hadn’t ended up half bad for all the troubles they had had getting there.

Thorvel glanced over at Lómarandil, one of the said troubles. The younger Elf seemed to be holding up all right, outwardly. Thorvel did not believe that he was as strong or healthy as he seemed to want them to think. Thorvel was tired of the needless burden he had caused thus far though, and if he wanted to pretend to be fit, Thorvel wasn’t going to argue. Yes; it had been a long day, and Thorvel would be glad to see the end of it.

[Durelin]

His mind raced along with his feet, which carried him across the earth with a haste that Calenvása had never known. He supposed this was true need that he was feeling, which he had not known before. It surprised him that he had not known such need before, and he would think of it further if the need at hand did not fill his mind as it did. But for now he was plagued by worries and decisions, all of which demanded to be considered immediately. His mind called for haste, as did his heart, which ached for a way through the darkness that surrounded it. Despair was waiting just outside the edges of it, waiting to fill his heart to the brim. Today, it was hard pressed to make its way in.

The Captain was feeling strong in an unexplainable way, though he had been strained both physically and mentally for too many days now. He was refreshed in heart, though his mind and body had received no rest. Calenvása had found a release himself from the heaviness that mere thoughts had been able to bring down upon him. He did not know how he had done so, but it seemed only to be a simple acceptance of everything that was. It was certainly something new for him to see beyond what his own life encompassed and see the world his life was a part of, but the words of Ambarturion, as well as the words that had emerged from his own mouth were more than just words formed by the mind to express something in the heart, they were formed by the heart to express what was in it.

Words said could form a being, and beyond just how others saw them. What anyone put on display as themselves, whatever mask or veil they wore, hid what was beneath. The soul reflects upon the face, and the face upon the soul. Whatever face was put in place to hide the soul beneath was giving face to that soul. A darkened veil or a black mask that would not let eyes or sunlight penetrate would shade a soul. Very rarely was a soul allowed to be seen. But it seemed that words could give a soul a face.

Targil ran at Calenvása’s side, a strange new mutual acceptance come between them, bringing them to an understanding. It was so strange because for each of them, the other had been seen as the least likely person for them to ever understand. Each had held on to doubts that kept them from seeing a brother, of the same kindred, of the same land, with the same goals in mind. They were fighting the same battle, on several fronts. Finally the two had learned to stand together on all of these fronts.

The two kept their eyes on Lómarandil behind them. Thorvel, who was a short ways in front of them, seemed to be doing the same, but with a different concern in mind. A glance passed quickly between Targil and his Captain, and then Calenvása called to Thorvel. The elf dropped back, and immediately began voicing his concerns about Lómarandil. They were hardly concerns for the wounded elf. Targil had always made his disapproval for anyone very clear, but Thorvel’s irritation caused by the young elf came as a surprise.

“It is clear that Lómarandil will prove of great trouble to us, Captain. As he always does.” He added the last phrase in a quiet murmur, seeming embarrassed to say it and yet certain that he would speak his mind. Calenvása sighed. This was a surprise he knew he should have seen before this. Targil was silent on the other side of him, and looked ahead of them, keeping his eyes away from Thorvel, who did not even attempt to keep his own gaze, full of irritation and a sort of disgust that came from his lack of understanding for what was in his companion’s mind and heart.

Calenvása was in no mood for argument or complaints, as it was time for decisions to be made. “Lómarandil is our comrade and our kinsman. We have fought beside him and will continue to do so.”

“He is a burden…”

This time Targil cut Thorvel off before Calenvása could answer. “A burden that we will carry.”

Thorvel’s eyes flashed to look at Targil with surprise, but quickly grew angry. Luckily he did not find words to express this anger before Calenvása could bring them to more important matters.

“Along with the burden of the safety of Lorien. And we all know that means reaching the forest as long before the enemy does as possible. There is reason for Ambarturion to despair as he did, at least at first glance…” he paused, wondering if Ambarturion had reasons that went deeper. “But there are advantages that we have seen: one being the sheer size of the army, which makes its movement more difficult. Another we saw the day in Mirkwood, when all our troubles began…or simply worsened. This was the trolls. There use has yet to be seen, but they are slow moving, and often can serve a purpose other than in battle. My thought is that they are not foolish enough to attempt to use trolls in such a battle. But whatever their purpose is, they are slow moving creatures.”

As he spoke, Calenvása began to realize with bitterness that he was bringing all of these thoughts together to relieve himself of his worries and doubts more so than to convince or comfort his comrades. He hesitated, but soon decided to continue to the end, as his pause brought only silence. Remembering who ran on either side of him, that was a surprise. “The final and perhaps the greatest disadvantage the enemy has is the crossing of the Anduin.” He smiled slightly as he glanced from one of his companions to the other. “They will learn of the Great River and its nature.”

For a brief moment, the three shared a smile. It was not a smile of amusement, or even truly of happiness. And though it lasted for such a short time, Thorvel coming to remember his current bitterness against all three of his fellow scouts, Targil remembering his disgust with Thorvel’s agitation, and Calenvása sighing at the both of them. Another sigh followed in the silence, this one in irritation with himself.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Calenvasa was right; the army was to learn of the nature of the Anduin - even as the elf captain said it.

At the edge of the river, the water lapping at their toes, three huge, thickset trolls stood unhappily, knee deep in the churned up mud. All around them the dwarfed figures of Southrons and orcs scurried like so many ninpins, shouting in vain at the massive creatures, but their commands and whips only made the stupid creatures angrier. Standing a safe distance away from the riverbank, Koran winced as one of the creatures let out a massive bellow and took a swing at several of the orcs around it. Shrugging into his dark leather coat, Koran turned in disgust from the chaotic scene to where Ehan was standing nearby, apparently mesmerised by the scene, his eyes bright and a slight smile hovering on his lips.

"It's not a sport, Ehan," Koran said dryly. The younger man blinked and looked at him sharply, then smiled sheepishly, before turning his eyes once more on the riverbank, where the orcs were attempting to whip the trolls into doing their will.

"What a sport it would make though..." he murmured in reply, his eyes starry." Just pit the orcs against the trolls in a battle, add a muddy river to give the orcs a fairer chance...why, given enough time, I think they would probably mange to wipe each other out."

Koran snorted, shaking his head as he looked down at the ground. "Bloody sport..." he grinned, glancing up at Ehan. Looking back up, he threw his head back onto his shoulders and sighed wearily, closing his eyes. They had been dragging the trolls with them for the past few days, and what with Herding's complete disassosiation with anything to do with the beasts, it had been chaos to move them at all, and they had claimed half a dozen orcs so far - not that Thrakmazh seemed to care. And it was a wonder - no, a miracle - that the elves of Mirkwood seemed not to have followed them. Yet. So much for the famed and terrible far-sighted scouts of Mirkwood...

"Whose bright idea was it to use trolls to make bridges- no, in fact, to use trolls to make anything of use?" he asked, his eyes shut.

"Probably not your friend Herding," Ehan replied sardonically. "Unless there are now bright ideas painted on the sides of wine bottles," he added just for good measure. Koran grinned and raised his eyebrows, opening his dark eyes to look up at the stars. Unwillingly, he turned slowly around to look back at the riverbank, his expression one of dismay and disdain, and took in the scene for a few moments with impassive eyes. They had been working for several hours now, and had managed to bully the trolls into constructing...one raft.

Koran's thoughts were not to be mistaken: he had admired the idea of getting larger, stronger creatures to do the work, and the fact that they could now stand daylight - well, it seemed perfect.

In theory.

He just wished they had some brains.

Another of the orcs swung his whip zealously at one of the trolls and the massive creature had finally had enough. As the whip wrapped around it's giant forearm it bellowed fiercely and pulled backwards sharply; as the hapless orc at the other end of the whip didn't quite let go quite fast enough, he was catapulted into the middle of the river with an abruptly cut off scream. As Herding was nowhere to be seen (probably lost in the depths of a wine bottle, Koran thought darkly), the younger captain waded in, waving an arm fiercely.

"Stop, stop! Oh for the sake of- look, you two, come here." He pinpointed a Southron and an unusually scrawny looking Uruk, calling them over. When they were within talking range, he carried on. "Look, chain them up to the trees for the night - we'll get no more work done here. It's a bloody marvel we haven't got every elf in the forest on our backs with that racket..."

"Stop?" The Uruk looked at Koran dimly and the Southron stared back, trying halfheartedly to restrain his disgust. "Only the Captain Thrakmazh gives orders to Uruks. We listen to no Man now-"

"Your bloody captain is nowhere to be seen, and if you try to defy me, I shall have you make the trolls build rafts - by yourself," Koran hissed dangerously, his face close to the Uruk. The monstrous being growled but didn't hold the man's gaze, his yellow eyes flitting away. Without another word he turned rudely and yelled fearsomely at the orcs in the black tongue, laying his whip into all those around him who were slow to react. The other Southron cast a baleful look at Koran then hurried to carry out his orders. The Southron clenched his fists fiercely then released them, turning away from the scene towards the Southron camp that lay to the North. The evening was coming on now, and, regardless of puffed up Uruks, theoretically excellent (but practically hopeless) trolls and drunken captains, he was going to get a drink and a game of dice before they tasted 'the blood of the beautiful'...

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Their long race ended at dusk upon the banks of the Anduin. The great river stretched away upon either hand disappearing into the gathering darkness, and the Elves took a moment to bathe their heated limbs in its cool waters. The silence was broken only by the slight ripple of water and the distant call of waterfowl as they gathered once more upon the high bank and took counsel.

Calenvása spoke first. “We have made such a chase as is worthy of the song you crave Ambarturion.”

Ambarturion smiled at the slight jibe. His mood since the race began had been unusually light, as though a great burden had been lifted from him. In the long leagues that they had run, he had used the time and exertion to think back over his long years of battle and strife, and for the first time in an Age he had seen them in a new light. For too long had he regarded the long defeat as a source of despair, but there had been hope as well. Lorien remained steadfast, and there were still those within it who bore with them the memory of the West. Imladris, too, remained strong and Elrond ruled there with wisdom and courage. The thought of Elrond had brought to mind the Lady Arwen. Her choice of the Man Aragorn had long been a source of bitterness for Ambarturion, but as the miles had uncoiled beneath his feet, he had felt that perhaps it was not for him to question it. For so long he had been used to taking the counsel only of himself and his Lord and Lady that he had forgotten that there was other wisdom, other counsel, in the world. He had been so sure that his course of action was the only right one… It was not the disagreement of the others that had shaken this certainty; it was not even his own recognition that he had been wrong. The admission of his own despair, however, had shaken him deeply, for it had shown him the dark and dangerous realm in which he had lived for so long, and from within which he had acted.

He had long known that the greatest danger to his continued existence in Middle Earth was that in his retreat from the pale reality of it, he would lose himself in the glories and the light of the past. The sunshine of noon in the glades of Doriath, the pale hovering sheen of the moon upon the waters of the western sea, the unsullied glint of Earendil upon his first voyage across the sky – these had been the lights that he thought guided him, and that beckoned to him from the past. But in reality, it had not been the light at all that threatened to overwhelm him, but the darkness that lay behind and beyond the lights, and against which they had sparkled the more brightly. It was not to the lights that he had turned, but away from the darkness, and in this he had given the night precedence over the day. His flight into the past had not been a pursuit, but a retreat. He had come close to embracing the night entirely, so ready had he been to throw his life away in despair. But he had been saved by, of all things, a chance encounter with a group of youths who were as children compared to him. But before the light of their courage and hope he felt as though he were the younger.

Renewed by this encounter, he had run all the way from Mirkwood without once turning to the past. His feet had felt the grass of the Vale, and his eyes had beheld the far horizons of the present. And he had been happy.

The talk soon turned to how they were to cross the mighty River. They had made for the Anduin in a more or less straight line, and as a consequence had met with him at a point where he was broad and deep. The Mirkwood Elves asked how they were to cross. Ambarturion’s brow creased as he considered an answer. They were still some miles to the north of Lorien, for they had sought to avoid the army of Dol Guldur by circling around it. But now a difficult choice lay before them. “There are two possible crossings for us,” he said slowly. “One lies fifteen leagues to the north, where we were captured by the orcs. It is the safer route for our enemies are somewhere to the south of us, but it takes us in the wrong direction. It will take us at least a day and a half to reach Lorien should we attempt that route.”

“Where is the second crossing?” Calenvása’s voice betrayed that he suspected the answer.

“It is not far,” Ambarturion replied. “But it is, I fear, too far for absolute safety. The southerly crossing is but five leagues hence. Should we take it, we will find ourselves upon the very eaves of the Golden Wood and within hailing distance of the outer sentries of my land.”

“You fear that it is already held by the enemy,” Targil said.

“Or that it soon will be,” Ambarturion replied. “If we have guessed the enemy’s plans aright, the main press of the army should even now be attempting a crossing of the Anduin somewhere further to the south. Perhaps at or below the meeting of Anduin and the Nimrodel. If we are correct, then the smaller group will undoubtedly make for this nearer ford.” He saw the questioning look in Targil’s eyes. “It is the crossing closest to Caras Galadhon,” he explained simply.

“So which way do we go?” Ambarturion asked. “To the north, where we will find both safety and a longer road, or to the south, where we will either find ourselves beneath the eaves of the Golden Wood by morning, or a host of enemies intent upon our destruction?”