Island of Sorrow RPG

[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.”

[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]

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.