Island of Sorrow RPG

[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?’