Fall of the North RPG

[Nuranar]

Lissi hated the caves with a passion. She had lived all her life in the city, but the times she'd loved best had been out on the land around it. Even this wretched, fearful refugee life had a strange wonder to it: the fascination of wandering, of an ever-changing landscape, of being enclosed by nothing. Most of the people seemed to fear it, afraid of the very space and emptiness that soothed her. They liked the solid security of thick walls. Much good those did back in Fornost! she thought in disgust.

Space, freedom, the ability to see! Lissi didn't want to hide behind walls, she wanted to see what was coming and prepare - or go out and meet it on her own terms. But in these horrible holes in the ground, everything was changed. Everywhere the thick, soft darkness pressed in. A wandering torch might keep it at bay for a little space, but it was always there in the corners, ready to conquer again. The very size of the place worked against them: An army could hide in any of these massive halls, protected by the ominous dark. And they were to divide their forces (and get lost, most likely) and look for supplies? Brilliant, indeed! Lissi thought bitterly.

Casually, she glanced around. If anyone else felt her apprehensions, they were concealing it with great skill. Was she just paranoid? At least no one looked happy about what they were doing. No - take that back. That kid in uniform was far too excited. He would be a danger, to himself if not the whole group.

Despite the bitterness, her mind was trying to plan ahead. There was little she could do to organize their party; the soldiers should handle that, and even if they were incompetent they would not welcome her interference. Carthor could handle himself; he had already recovered his own arms and taken back the bladed stave she had brought from their house. He had not once mentioned rejoining the ranks, however. Instead, he spent most of his time with Lissi, riding beside her and trying to talk. Lissi did not want to repulse him, but she had been hurt so badly in the past she was afraid to open up to him. For now, theirs was an easy, warm, but superficial relationship.

Faerim - well, Faerim was still grieving for the Elves who had died. Her eldest son seemed so mature and so capable that she had come close to forgetting how young he really was. These were desperately hard times for anyone, but particularly for such a young man. Old enough to know his duty and able to carry it out, he lacked the knowledge and steadiness of greater maturity. And his affections, as much as he might have argued the point, still had the warmth and generosity of childhood. He was only just learning how much it could hurt to care for people. There was strength in him, though. Lissi knew he would be ready for whatever came.

And there was Brander. Lissi's gaze slid over to him, sitting silently against the wall near her. He had never been very communicative, but instinctively she knew how terribly it must hurt him, to be blind in this situation. Not only was he unable to help defend the group, he was a liability: Someone else had to take care of him especially. Lissi could not imagine how she would feel in Brander's place. She had done her best, though, teaching him to ride well, to understand what his horse was doing, even to follow her without being lead, using his ears and trusting his horse. But he had never responded or even thanked her. She knew Carthor's disappointment in him had deeply hurt Brander. He had certainly resisted all of Carthor's repentant overtures. Perhaps he was angry at her, too. Lissi shook her head. Perhaps he was forgetting - he wasn't the only one Carthor had hurt. But whatever happened, she had to take care of him. The club Faerim had brought back was still in their gear somewhere.

Their gear - Lissi hopped up quickly, then bent to Brander. "Come on, Brander," she said, smiling so he could hear the friendliness in her voice. "We need to get some things out of our gear." Her son rose carefully, holding an elbow away from his side. "Of course," he said. Lissi took the arm easily, thus able to guide him without trouble. They had worked out the system some little time ago, and it worked well.

Carthor was sharpening his sword not too far from their piled-up saddles and small heap of saddlebags and packs. Lissi knelt and rummaged through it, her hand pausing as it touched something smooth and cold, then moving on to find the club. "Here," she said, pressing it into Brander's hand. "Do you remember this?"

He smiled - very slightly, but it was there. "I do."

"You may need it, I think. Why don't you ask Faerim to show you how to use it? You might be able to work out some signals, too. He'll be better at that than me." She called Faerim over and left the two of them together.

Swiftly then she selected the most essential articles from the rest and filled the smallest pack. Last of all she slid out the short sword Faerim had given her. Finding a long strap among their gear, she cut it to size. With that and some narrower pieces of leather she rigged a makeshirt but effective swordbelt.

Swiftly Lissi stood to her feet and shook out her travel-stained skirts, then buckled the belted sword around her waist. She was glancing toward the boys when she surprised the look on Carthor's face. He was still sitting there, but grinning in surprise and admiration. And the gleam in his eye was reflected from no lantern. Lissi raised an eyebrow and winked coquettishly. Then she turned and walked away toward their sons, swishing her skirts.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim had been moving in a daze over the journey to Ered Luin, his eyes dull and his speech infrequent. The death of the two elves had hit him hard, as hard as if one of his own friends had died. But could he even have called Gaeredhel and Rosgollo his friends? They had remained distant and spoke little, and yet...and yet they had trusted him. They had gone behind the backs of every other Dunedan in the camp, but they had trusted Faerim.

Surely that stood for something?

Propped up against one of the stone walls, out of the way of the rest of the Dunedain, Faerim shifted uncomfortably in his half-lying position, staring at the ceiling high above with disinterested eyes. What did it matter now, what his relationship with the brothers had meant? They were gone now, passed into whatever peace elves believe in, whatever oblivion their souls transcended to...if they believed in souls, that is...

"We do," said a mellifluous voice from nearby, answering his thoughts aloud.

Faerim started and sat up, looking around at the owner of the voice, his hand on his sword although he had already recognised it: Erenor. The elf was sitting about a metre from Faerim, her hands clasped around one raised knee, watching him brightly as if she had been there all day, her cool grey eyes watching him as if studying some rare animal. He returned her gaze silently for a moment, then nodded courteously although suspicion flickered in his eyes: she had listened in to his thoughts, and it made him uncomfortable. However, he did not show his misgivings when he spoke. "Good day, Lady Erenor."

"The souls of elves go to the Halls of Manwe, Faerim; we do not simply pass into an oblivion." Erenor continued as if she had not heard the boy. "We go back to the the bossom of the Vala, the creators, and to our ancestors...." She trailed off wistfully, looking through Faerim, her gaze distant. Faerim watched her for a second, then looked away. "You listened in to my thoughts," he said shortly.

Erenor raised her eyebrows. "I did not 'listen in', Faerim," she replied sardonically. "I have just seen that look before in they eyes of those who grieve. Why is it that you grieve so for a pair who you barely knew, who did not share your generation, your interests, your race?"

Faerim did not answer. Erenor arched one eyebrow and Faerim looked sharply at her, angry at the uncaring action. "Do you not care that they are gone, Lady? They died fighting a battle brought about by your rescue-"

"-And similarly I fought in that battle, as did you, and a hundred other men." Erenor cut him off sharply.

"They saved your life, Erenor!" Faerim instantly regretted his angry outburst, his disrespect in calling her directly by her first name, in snapping at her: she was a lady, and an elf, and he suddenly felt his pitiful seventeen years shrink at those ageless, immortal eyes. He averted his gaze, looking at the ground. "Apologies, Lady, I did not mean to snap, I was-"

"I understand." Erenor replied shortly. Faerim flinched inwardly at the coldness in her voice, but when he looked back at her, she was watching him with her head on one side and a new, unexpected emotion in her eyes, a sort of interest, as if she had just found that this strange, rare animal really did have claws and was capable of caring for itself. She gave him a small smile as if reaching out to him. Her voice had a gentler note.

"When I said before elves believe is souls - believe was not the right word. We know that the fea of a slain elf is called to Mandos but after a while they are released to dwell in the realms of Bliss. Do not grieve overmuch for Rosgollo and Gaeredhel they are together an reunited with their kin who have gone before. They chose their path and knew the risk. Battle is a necessary evil, Faerim; No one would chose it - it is the fruit of the seeds of evil sown by Morgoth. Evil will not be eradicated until the world is remade. We have to fight it when we find it lest the world be entirely overgrown.

You should know this; you are of a line of warriors -as indeed am I . Loss of life of those near you has to be expected - although it may be harder for you than I. You are young and the fate of men is sundered from ours. Warfare is not something to delight in for its own sake but it may prevent a greater evil. Do not shy away from it - you have skill in battle, I have seen that."

The Dunedan youth looked surprised at the unexpected compliment, and couldn't help grinning back at her. Flicking his eyebrows up and down, he replied, "You weren't at all bad yourself, Lady."

Erenor laughed, and the sudden, joyful sound seemed to signify some sort of bond or alliance between she and Faerim, however distant. She gave him a sort of satisfied, appraising grin, nodding slowly. Rising in a fluid motion, she held out a hand and Faerim stood. Looking to where a group of men were gathered, the elf looked slightly disdainful. "My kin and I were called to join that motley group in some exploration of the tunnels. You are no doubt expected to join them: some of them appear several summers younger than yourself even."

Faerim sighed and nodded, looking sidelong at the group, led by Belegorn. "Times have become rather desperate for the Dunedain," he murmured softly, his voice older than his years, and Erenor gave him a curious glance.

She thought for a moment and rummaged among her belongings. Anyone who had bothered to notice such things would have noticed that they had increased somewhat from the small pack she had borne from the evacuation. She handed Farim a cloth wrapped bundle which contained a mail shirt and a dagger. The youth started when he recognised them as belonging to the dead elvish guards. "Don't be squeamish - they need them no longer - I think they would approve

Bending to retrieve his sword and sheath, Faerim buckled the belt around his slim waist and stifled a yawn: sleepless nights had left him tired, like many of the travellers. Reaching out, he took Erenor's gifts with utmost care, as if they were more precious and rare than the finest stones mined from these caves throughout the years. The mail felt strangely solid in his hands, and their heaviness surprised him, although of course it made sense: where mannish chainmail was concerned it was deceptively light, of course, but the elves...they had seemed magical, weightless. A foolish concept, Faerim thought wryly, turning the mail in his hands. Gaeredhel and Rosgollo were as solid as you. More so, probably. In that moment, the childish magic of the elves that Faerim had imagined died a little - and his understanding increased. Stowing the folded chainmail in one pocket of his coat, he attached the fine dagger onto his belt, on his right side. Feeling strangely reassured by the heaviness in his pocket, Faerim looked once more up at Erenor. "Thank you, my lady," he said softly. She smiled back and inclined her head, and with that, started briskly towards the group led by Belegorn.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

She finally found Erenor, who had just finished talking to a Dúnadan youth. It was the one had joined in the mission to rescue them from the Orcs. He looked at the boy, who was even now putting on a sheath around his waist. Even the youth we arm now? she thought. What is Middle-earth coming to? She approached the lad.

“I have not thanked you yet . . .” she stopped, having forgotten his name.

“Faerim, m’lady.” He grinned, then bowed. He still had the gangling awkwardness of a teenager. And yet he volunteered to join war-hardened Elves into an Orc camp. Perhaps, like any young man, he thought himself to be untouchable by death.

“How old are you, Faerim?” the emissary asked. The lad stared down, and he began to scratch the ground with his foot. He seemed uneasy at the question.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim looked down, uncomfortable with Bethiril's curiosity. Why had the elf asked how old he was? It was the sort of question that one would ask a small child who was playing at being older than he was, puffed up with childish importance and full of maturity that he did not possess. Was that how the elves saw him? As a foolish child? The boy's fingers faltered slightly on the buckle of his sword.

But then, what right had they to judge him? Faerim had had access to practise with weapons since he was fourteen years old, since he had started his apprenticeship in the blacksmith's workshop. He had the ability to wear this sword, more than some of the soldiers several summers older than him who had joined the army already. He looked up and fixed Bethiril with his clear, bright gaze, raising his chin. "I am seventeen years old, my lady."

"Seventeen?" Bethiril seemed surprised, but whether it was that he was older or younger than she had expected Faerim didn't know. He glanced at Erenor, but she was studying the other elf's face also. He nodded, maybe a little too quickly. "Aye, seventeen - I will be eighteen this spring." If we ever reach spring...

Resisting the urge to ask the elf how old she was, Faerim began to walk towards where Belegorn had gathered and was prepping a group of men. The elves followed, and Faerim continued. "You are right in thinking I was technically too young to join the army," he said, then looked up at Erenor's surprised face and grinned. "Aye, I can guess what you're thinking sometimes as well, Lady Erenor. But due to the...the seige on Fornost, every man able to wield a weapon with some ability was drafted into the army. I have been trained with a sword and bow since I was young - it has always been my intention to join the army, as my father and his father before him have done." He shrugged. "It did not matter that I was a year too young; you have both seen that I can use a bow, certainly."

Bethiril frowned slightly, her eyes flickering away from Faerim's, but Erenor laughed. "I suppose you aren't bad," she conceded sarcastically, a reference to their previous conversation. Faerim grinned cheekily, shaking his blonde hair from his face although he just managed to restrain the urge to wink at her - an alliance with the elf was one thing, but he was fairly sure that Erenor would not appreciate the gesture. But he was not able to restrain the next question he asked Bethiril. "Why do you ask?"

The elf's step faltered slightly and Faerim wished he could retract the question, or at least the tone it had emerged: as a challenge. Pale skin reddening, he shook his skin. "Apologies, my lady, forget I asked..." he muttered hastily, speeding up slightly towards where Belegorn stood, blushing furiously.

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

As the Elves watched Faerim walk away, Erenor spoke up. “Why, indeed, did you ask him that?”

Bethiril shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said in a weak voice. “Just curious, I guess.” A few moments passed before she spoke again, this time in her normal, melodious voice. “So, here we are, and the remnant of Arnor, despite all our efforts to stop it. What do we do now?”

“Let us speak to the king again,” Erenor suggested.

“Can we speak to the king again?” What followed was a suppressed chuckle. “That Mellonar protects him. He’s already sent us out of the way twice, after all.” Bethiril looked at Erenor, hoping that she did not yet know of her last attempt to talk to the king. But she was silent. At hearing Mellonar’s name, her eyes flickered with a barely suppressed flame.

“Too bad. The Orcs were much better to us then he is,” the older Noldo said in an attempt to bring Erenor out of her deadly mood. It worked, but not in the way she hoped. Erenor recalled the event that almost broke her pride in her abilities.

“I am sorry,” Bethiril said, and she meant it. She realized a moment later that she was no longer the cold emissary that she was. What has happened to her?

“Never mind that. We must catch up with our group.” With that Erenor began walking back into the caves.

[Osse]

The news that the Dunedain would be organised into small groups and sent into the darkness of the Dwarven halls to search for supplies had fallen rather lightly on Carthor’s shoulders. Little had broken the monotonous rhythm of the slow, crawling journey to the Ered Luin. Indeed, since the rather turbulent events of the orc-raid, Carthor had found his mind growing steadily impatient with the never-ending, plodding pace of the column. He was sick of skulking through the wind-swept landscape like some disgraced animal, turned loose from its den by its once-lesser counterparts. Their arrival in the Blue Mountains and the changes it brought had been welcome.

Carthor sat musing by his open leather pack, his hands hovering over it, holding a length of salted pork wrapped carefully in damp linen. His wife's slight, beautiful frame was just striding away. To break his state, Carthor looked wistfully down at the meat in his gnarled hands, like some spoilt child contemplating an old toy that had grown void of its appeal. For weeks on end Carthor had eaten this same, meagre fare. The once supple flesh now sat bitter and leathery on his tired tongue. Carthor longed for new meats – game had been sparse during the journey, and time to snare it equally so. Carthor relished the thought of the chance to gather new supplies, if only to relieve the monotony.
Still, as he looked down at the joint in his hand, he was smitten with its importance. The refugees had little left now, scarcely enough for a month and that with a tight belt. Much hope lay in the finding of new food in this dark, lonely world of stone.

Carthor’s musings were suddenly broken as two well worn, soft-soled leather boots appeared in front of his nose, their shiny tan surface shimmering slightly in the frail, flickering candle-light.

Quickly, gracefully, Carthor stood. Placing his right hand on his cloaked breast, he saluted the Lieutenant of the Rearguard.
Bowing his grizzled head, he addressed the tall man before him.
“Hail, Lord Belegorn.”
“Hail Carthor, son of Harathor!” Belegorn’s voice was soft yet commanding, subtle yet full of power.

Raising his chin, Carthor removed his hand from his breast and surveyed the man before him.

“I am not one for delay Carthor, so I will not tarry with unneeded formalities.” Belegorn wasted no time, like a stag pursued by a brace of hounds, he leapt straight into the purpose of his visit.

“As you know, Carthor, we are to search this pit for useable stores. We here, and our Elven kindred, shall all go together as one. For the purpose of their protection, the king has placed myself, along with some of the Guard, in this particular party.” Carthor sat patiently, despite his words, Belegorn was addressing unneeded formalities.

“I need someone with experience to help me lead the party, both the Guard and the others. I need you to help me lead the party Carthor.” With startling pace, Belegorn had thrust into the point of his speech.
“You are both seasoned and experienced, which is far more than most of the ‘men’ I have under my command at this point in time Carthor.”
Carthor chanced a brief look over to the waiting ranks of the Guard, and was appalled to see the youth thereof. Surely these boys had seen far too little life to be allowed to fight. As his eyes strayed over the ‘men’, Carthor’s gaze fell on a pale, freckled young man, his great cloak and breastplate ridiculously large on his slight frame, surely no more than twelve summers old, the boy had a grin from ear to ear.

“What say you? Will you aid me in this endeavour?” Belegorn’s voice was settled and steady, yet a look of almost-pleading could not be hidden from his grey eyes.

Thoughts of his inner vows to refrain from violence flicked through Carthor’s mind, images of the quiet, responsibility-free days he had hoped for danced like a candle-flame in his conscious, the blood filled days, the horror-filled nights - all gone.

And then the flame flickered and died. He heard a voice say: “Verily my lord Belegorn, I will aid you in your plight.”

Carthor realised the voice had been his own.

[Saurreg]

A smile shaped on Belegorn’s lips as the gladdening words of Captain Carthor reached his ears. He thrust his hand out and offered it to the older man in friendship and solidarity. Carthor was caught unprepared by the spontaneous act and hesitated at first, but he quickly accepted the sincere hand shake and Belegorn could discern a glitter in his new-found comrade’s eyes.

Belegorn took the opportunity to study Carthor’s face in the pale light of nearby torches. Age and weather had roughed the rounded face leaving countless lines and wrinkles, and the scarred nose with its dented ridge was a testimony to the countless battles and tribulations the man had faced. But this was not an odious face; in fact the piercing blue eyes, distinctive forehead and grey hair gave the man an aura of power and an air of regality. Carthor belonged to the elite division of charismatic men who were born to lead, just as Hírvegil was.

His features were also strikingly familiar. Belegorn could have sworn that he had seen the same well set pair of blue eyes somewhere before, not too long ago.

“Pray tell Lord Carthor,” asked Belegorn, “But do you have a son and is he with us?”

Carthor broke into a grin with unsuppressed pride, “Not just one Lieutenant, but two fine strapping lads! I should think that the one you have in mind is Faerim, my eldest born. Folks say he resembles me the most, especially at eyes and forehead. But his has delicate features, good looks from his mother’s side I reckon. And thank the stars for that!”

Both men laughed out loud and their laughter caught the attention of curious bystanders near them. Both men winched when Nevhith decided that he was privy to the conversation an emitted a shrill laughter of his own. Ignore him, mouthed Belegorn to Carthor with his back to the intruder. Eyeing the boy from head to feet, Carthor wisely agreed.

“Faerim, so that’s his name…” mused Belegorn to himself, “Fine lad! And he seems is to be on good terms with the fairer folks. Perhaps… Perhaps he would be interested in a position in the Rearguard.”

“Aye... perhaps,” remarked Carthor with less enthusiasm, eyes falling away from Belegorn’s.

Sensing that he might have inadvertently touched on a raw nerve, Belegorn acted to diffuse the rising tension.

“Let’s see; Nesse? Nehit? Nevhith? Yes! Nevhith! Come here boy and make yourself useful!”

Like an eager puppy anticipating a treat, the scrawny youth scampered towards the two men but before Belegorn could continue, Nevhith was already introducing himself to Carthor,

“Yes, I am Nevhith, son of Torgar! And I am no boy, I am a man! And this is my-”

“Yes! Yes!” Interrupted Belegorn, waving his arm impatiently, “Now listen carefully, this here is Lord Carthor – a captain of the king’s army. You will now go and find the senior sergeants and tell them that Lord Carthor has hereby agreed to help us and all men of the regiment are to obey his every command and pay him the same respects as they would to Captain Hírvegil himself. Understood? Now off you go!”

Nevhith snapped into what he thought was a formal Arthedain salute (it was not) and bolted off into the semi-darkness, delighted with his “important” errand.

Belegorn turned to Carthor and gave him an apologetic look.