Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

In his wild rush down the corridor, Lindir was the first to burst inside the outer chamber. Oblivious to the danger that lay within, he rushed forward just at the moment when Endamir leapt to his feet with blade outstretched, jealously guarding his brother's body.

Lindir twisted to one side to avoid the slashing blade that threatened to descend upon his head, hastily pivotting while retreating to the far side of the room. Lindir's sword slipped from his hand and clattered useless to the ground. Whether this act was intentional or not, it is impossible to say. Whatever the cause, Lindir now uttered soft, even words in a soothing voice that a mother might use with her crying babe. "Nay, Endamir. No more blood. Lay down your blade, as I have done. Stay with your brother as long as you wish. Then, when you are ready, tell us how we may honor him together."

Lindir took one step towards the grieving elf and then halted, waiting to see what he would do.

[Anguirel]

Though Lindir in his eagerness to rescue Endamir from his own sorrow had scarcely heard the Smith's words, Malris paused, poised on the threshold between the main forgery and the storeroom, now a morgue. He put his head slightly to one side, staring at where he supposed the Smith might be.

"We are not passing through the Keep," he answered curtly. "Once my friend is restored to a stable state of mind, we will retrace our steps and leave this place. Your fate is pitiable, Smith, and I hope it may be redressed in time. But my companions have been forced before now to be your agents, and are hardly likely to be so again willingly. Let others lay your bones to rest, old Elf."

He turned, gripping the hilt of the knife he had salvaged tightly, and followed Lindir at his own pace. He could not deny a certain sympathy for the plight of the Master-Smith, but he thought of the sundered twins, and shut his mind fast against it. No, he thought, they would not risk more danger by venturing into the Keep.

Yet later events would cause Malris to be mistaken on this point.

Thinking no longer of the matter, Malris called out to his old friend, who had been so mild and reasonable at the start of this journey, and was now a thing almost, in the grip of bedlam. Judging Lindir wise, he let his weapon fall on the stone.

"Endamir," he called out, "it is only I, Malris. You are among friends now, who bear you no ill-will. Let us help each other to treat Orëmir with the dignity his valour and keen judgement have ever deserved."

[Firefoot]

Lómwë had started to take off after the others, his steps heavy. Why did he still try? Would it do any good? Not for him… he was beyond all help that could be found in this place, but perhaps it would help Endamir Then he realized that Tasarënì was still standing by, looking somewhat lost and disinclined to go anywhere. He hesitated; the rest were disappearing down the hallway; he ought to follow them. Maybe there was some way that he could help make things right, to at least partly compensate for his lack of faith. But perhaps Tasa needed help as much as Endamir, if only in a different way. At any rate, he could not leave her here; none of them could be certain of the place’s safety.

He walked quickly back to her and urged her gently, “Come, Tasa; we should follow them. Endamir needs help, and it may not be safe to remain out here.” Somehow telling it to Tasa made him believe it more.

She nodded slowly. “Very well.” Without further discussion, Lómwë led the way down the hallway where he had seen them go. As they drew near, Lindir’s and Malris' words drifted out to them.

“It is true, Endamir,” Lómwë added as he crowded the doorway. “We are on your side.” Sides should never have been needed to be drawn in the first place… why the blood? Why the division? Yet so it had been, even before they had crossed the sea to Beleriand. For that was where the despair and the defeat came from – from choosing sides and fighting amongst themselves.

[piosenniel]

In the end, Endamir sheathed his blade. It was not the words, meant to be consoling or reassuring, which swayed him. It was the cavern itself in which he found his brother and he imprisoned. It pressed in on him, on what little hope was left to his spirit. He could abide its cloying evil no longer.

Hoisting Orëmir over his shoulder, Endamir turned toward the door, intent on leaving this foul place far behind. Then came the song, the hateful music of this shadow-spawned wreckage, and he was prisoned once again…

[Anguirel]

But a short time after Endamir had taken up his brother's mortal relict and determined to step into the harsh wilderness of reality once more, a new sound made all five Elves-even, perhaps, the new, baleful sixth of their band, the Master-Smith-stop. For it demanded all attention; promised all bounties; pacified all thoughts.

It was the sound of a playful but supremely skilful hand dancing down the length of a harp. The chords were like ripples in the very hearts and emotions of their listeners, yet each of the company felt slightly differently towards them, a vague, intangible attitude mixed with their admiration. Malris, for example, felt as if some primal devotion and loyalty within him, to serve unswervingly and gladly, was evoked.

And then the Song itself began.

O friends and fellowmen of the Old Country,
Strange Country, Old Country, full well hath you strived.
But toil leads to iron and tears and regret
And the troubles that gnaw at the night.

A harbour we're seeking, wherever we wander
And all but the harpers, they'll find it one day.
You all have your haven which speeds you to home
For there's little relief found in the depths of the fray.

Relief you are seeking, for harbour you're yearning
For happiness, or at least stilling of grief
Relief shall I grant you, while this fell night lasts
And you'll come to me in the morn...

Long before any of the five Elves had time to wonder what the words signified now, they slept where they stood, their eyes open and staring deep into vague images, dim provinces of memory, and deeper truths, incomprehensible but comforting for that very reason.

No one can tell whether the Smith slept similarly. But the Minstrel's voice and somnolent gift had contained a power few beings could have resisted, and so possibly, probably, that ancient, stubborn spirit succumbed and was granted a short respite.

[Anguirel]

Malris awoke first, and his first thoughts were filled with a kind of tranquil awe. Here, in this silent, timeless underland, he and his friends seemed to be standing as if statues portraying long-forgotten legends, or wars. He swung his arm and stepped a pace back in surprise when it moved, waving both arms now, reaccustoming himself to consciousness, and to duty.

The Song hung not so far back in the dusty finery of his mind. Maglor had given them Sleep; had it been a benevolent gift? And what...what had he meant by them coming...to him...in the morn? This morning?

Lindir and Endamir, Orëmir slung over Endamir's shoulder, stood slightly ahead of him. Orëmir, Malris realised with trepidation, seemed about as alive as the others appeared dead. Dead and living visages had congealed and met, reunited in the equality of sleep. He turned about-Lómwë was a pace behind him, looking to Tasa as a shepherd regards a lamb he guides. Malris felt worry for Tasa's sake-the tumultuous and terrible happenings had driven her from his thoughts.

So it was she he chose to awake first, tapping her shoulder firmly, but gently. Her eyes-like those of all the others-were open as they dreamed; he watched as the shimmering irises returned to contemplation of a more earthly existence, looking on fondly.

"Malris," she said hazily. "We...there was music, and we..."

"We have all slept, though I know not for how long. Now we must arise, all of us, and depart from the isle at last. The Smith desired us to go by the Keep, but I have no wish to prolong this fool's journey."

"The Smith?" Tasa questioned. Malris raised an eyebrow; perhaps she was still confused by sleep; but as they talked it became clear she had not taken in the spirit's presence in the night before, nor indeed much else; it had all been an unravelling knot of bewildering, unsortable emotions. Now Malris tried his best to illumine it by the lamp of reason, and made the awful sundering of the twins as clear as he could.

They turned back to the other three Elves. Lómwë was now being affected by the tides of wakefulness, and Lindir too stirred. The light and warmth of the forgery had long since been snuffed out, but the keen Elven eyes adjusted to the gloom. At last all four were fully awake, and Endamir too was half-conscious; Lindir stepped towards him, taking his hand with an almost brotherly touch...though not enough, certainly, to replace what had been lost.

It was the quietest of their wakings on this Island of Sorrow; yet perhaps the one most filled with meaning.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa breathed deeply and looked at her companions. What had passed and how had she missed its happening? She felt Endamir's plight deeply now; he had killed his brother. She had killed her troops. He had done it without knowledge, she had lost innocent lives without forethought. They were different, but they were the same; Tasa and Endamir shared guilt. She let her tears flow, and they fell silently down her white cheeks, cold against the heat of her silver scars.

"It is time, my friends, to leave here." Her voice was soft, silver bells on the wind, chimes in the early morning. "We have travelled together to this place that holds so many memories, and we have faced many of them. I know that I have." Tasa looked at the floor between companions, sometimes looking up to almost meet their eyes. "The shadows of our deeds will haunt us forever, but never so much as they will in this place."

She left them for a moment, finding herself strong and able, feeling a heat in her veins that had long since lain dormant. She stood tall and proud, and walked with a confidence she had not felt since the Nirnaeth. She could not help but wonder at the sleep of last night.

Tasa walked a path that she did not remember, but that her body knew for her. The entrance, she knew, was this way, and so would be their exit. It was not. She tried every door she found, uncertain now. The final door, she knew in her heart, was the correct one. It would not move. She shivered, feeling crows in her hair, probing coldness in her mind. Silently she returned to the group and met each pair of eyes with sadness.

"Malris... our way is shut. Again."

[piosenniel]

Relief you are seeking, for harbour you're yearning
For happiness, or at least stilling of grief
Relief shall I grant you, while this fell night lasts
And you'll come to me in the morn...

The last of the songs words echoed in Endamir’s mind as he woke in the now cold forge chamber. He struggled to push the false promises from him. The words and music were woven thick, like honey. And like honey one could be trapped within them.

He flexed his shoulders, wondering at the fact he still held his brother’s body balanced over his shoulder. Lindir’s grey eyes met his, and Endamir felt a light pressure as the man gave his hand a reassuring touch.

‘He’s a sorcerer, you know,’ Endamir spoke aloud as Lindir drew back his hand. ‘The singer . . . cruel, really. He’s set the game and pulled us further in and further in. And now he offers some surcease of grief, is it, of loss; a recoup of hope, perhaps…of happiness.’ Endamir laughed, a hollow sound, one sharply at odds with the melody that had so recently filled the room. ‘Look at us! Enthralled by the song…enthralled . . . made thralls; slaves. He stops us as he wishes and now he moves us on, pieces on his game board. And we must move . . . though one not by his own power.’ He laughed again. ‘He’s dead, you know. Quite dead…my brother. Yet still the music and this light-forsaken place pull him onward.’

Tasa, by this time, had finished her round of the forge-room’s main entrances, and found them all locked against the companions’ exit. ‘See, even now we are herded on down ways not of our own choosing.’

Endamir rebalanced his burden and turned toward the rear of the forge chamber. ‘Smith!’ he called out, restraining the urge to add a searing epithet that would mark the man for the foul being he was in Endamir’s mind. ‘Smith! In all your long years here, you must have found a number of ways out of this dreary tomb and into the Keep. Step up and show us the way.’