Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel’s post

There had been a brief pause for the evening meal. Made briefer by the silence which had grown on them since they’d come down from Lake Nenuial, heading south to Mithlond. Endamir cleared away the remains of the food and drink, then settled in, cross-legged, his pack within easy reach. A battered leather journal lay open on his left knee; the pot of ink on the ground by the same thigh. His eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into the distance, gathering his thoughts to continue.

. . . So little is left of that fair land. Once we would have ridden for days, following the course of the Sirion, until we reached the great bay. And from there a ship would have borne us to the Isle of Balar. No longer. Beneath the might of the Valar, the land fell; the sea rushed in.

The sea rushed in with a will those days.

It covered the places where we fought and fell; it could not cover our deeds . . .

Endamir’s quill moved quickly over the page. His eyes narrowed at the last few sentences. His hand hesitated, the quill raised, as if he might cross off the offending thoughts. ‘Leave them,’ he thought to himself. ‘It matters not. They will be left behind with none but Men to read them. And what will they know of undying sorrow and cankerous wrongs. Their little lives are too short for such consideration.’

Tomorrow will find us at the Grey Havens. Will we see Cirdan there? I wonder what he thinks of this last of the Havens. Does he find it rude in comparison to his others? Most likely not. He seems from all accounts an accommodating and adaptable sort. I wonder, too, how he can stand to return and wait for us who have taken so long to come to the sea. Does he pity us? Is that what fuels his patience. Does he gather us in like some shepherd with his bleating flock? Or like a father, his strayed sons.

I feel like neither – sheep nor child. Nor have I want of pity.

There is only that one small flame of hope, far in the distance. By the grace of the Valar, Cirdan and his ship will bear me there . . .

And Malris, he is sure to be there. And what of the others? Will they . . .

A stream of colorful words, heated imprecations, distracted him from his thoughts. Orëmir had cut his finger and was having no luck in bandaging it. With a half smile at his brother’s predicament he helped him fix the small strip of linen that held the mossy pad to the wound.

‘Now who is the healer?’ he chided, holding the bandaged digit up for Orëmir’s inspection. ‘And nicely done, I might add. Though there are smudges of ink on the knot, I fear.’

His brother smiled and Endamir found himself returning it in kind. ‘Come, brother,’ he said, slipping the carving knife back into its sheath. ‘It grows too dark for playing with knives or quills. Let us put them away for the night and make us a small fire to drive away the growing chill.’ He laughed, drawing his cloak more tightly about him as he gathered up his journal, quill, and ink and tucked them in the front pocket of his pack. ‘It was always so cold here,’ he continued. ‘You remember, don’t you? I must say that is one thing I have not missed these long years . . .’

~*~

Day found them leaning together, backs against a tall rock, their shoulders pressed against one another. Huddled within their cloaks, talking still. They had put that final question aside for a little while, now that the sea was so near; their arrival so final. And were for each other the brothers they had been in their younger years.

With lighter hearts, the truce still unbroken, they rode through the morning and arrived before mid-day at the Havens. With a minimum of false starts they found their way to the ship someone had told them was Malris’ vessel. Dismounting from their horses, they approached the boarding plank and seeing no one on deck, Endamir called out in a loud voice.

‘Malris! Are you there?’

[Anguirel]

The ship-and it might be going too far to give it such a grand title-was a simple, slender craft, with a single mast. It was, in most respects, like the other vessels at Mithlond, built of silver-grey wood; elegant, well-prowed, swift, in all probability. The only thing that set it aside was the sail furled up against its spar; what could be seen of it was not white, but black.

Glancing over the ramp, Endamir and Orëmir would discern several bales of pale grey rope; sacks, presumably containing provisions, that looked as though they could last for about a week; and one long, woollen blanket, with a peculiar lump under it.

“Utulie’n aurë!” Malris sprung from beneath the covering he had used to conceal himself as his friends approached. He looked better, happier, than he had done for some time; though the brothers had not seen much of him in the depths of his despondency. Now he almost smiled as he looked up to them; for both of the twins towered above the comparatively short, sinewy Noldo.

“The kind of thing Curufin used to do. I am sorry...no doubt you saw it coming...”

He referred to his jest, but his brow darkened as he and his listeners realised that the same phrase could very well apply to this journey. His left hand strayed, as of its own will, to his belt, where Cirlach, the splendid sword of Curufin’s making, hung, as it had not done for years, in its bejewelled sheath. His other hand caressed the embroidered star at his chest.

“I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you, Endamir...and Orëmir,” he exclaimed. “I hope the Sea-elves further back gave you no trouble. They seem to object to my mode of dress. How do you like the sloop the Shipwright allotted me? I hear she is the most meagre craft he possesses. I called her the Ghostbearer. I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also? Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest. And then,” he finished with a wry chuckle, “then, I’ll...we’ll...confess that the Valar have defeated me. I do not know if it is healing or surrender. Or both.”

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

The falcon had travelled in a highly unconventional way, perched upon Tasarënì's shoulder and chattering socially into her ear as the miles slowly passed. Lómwë had glanced hesitantly at Tasa many times through the long journey as though contemplating breaking the silence until finally, nearing the end, she spoke.

"Do you feel it, Lómwë? The bittersweet touch of ocean air..." she finished softly, staring into nothing. He looked at her and saw that she walked already in her mind upon the hither shore. He envied her that she could seem so at peace with the world at a single breeze touched by the salty tang of the waters.

They were startled by a rush of wind as the falcon rose from his perch and raced with what could only be described as winged speed from their sight. Tasa sighed, missing the friendly weight upon her shoulder already. They rode onward for a short time until, rounding the final bend, the Havens came into view.

A short and not altogether friendly conversation with a local directed them to the small vessel a short distance away. With a quick look to Lómwë, Tasa dismounted and made her way to the ship alone. Upon hearing Malris' voice, she smiled and walked into view.

[Envinyatar]

By the One! He still bears the star upon his breast. And see how his hand strays to it and the other to his blade.

Orëmir nodded his head at Malris’ acknowledgement. His eyes, though, were on his brother. Endamir’s hood was up and he could not see his brother’s face. He sent a light touch to the edge of his brother’s thoughts; one of support.

‘I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also?’ Malris asked. ‘Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest.’

‘It is a wearisome burden, these ghosts and memories, are they not Malris? And how does one lay to rest that which bears no substance save what we lend it with our own . . . self-regret? A difficult task, at best.’

And at Himring! he thought to himself, thinking it better to be silent on this.

The sound of a light step below caused him to turn before he spoke again. There on the quay stood a familiar face . . . Tasarëni . . . Tasa, he recalled; her glimmering eyes fixed on a point beyond him and his brother. Orëmir returned his gaze to their host, wondering how he would greet this new arrival.

[piosenniel]

‘We have been here barely the space of a breath, and already you have loosed your sharp tongue. The years in Imladris have indeed changed you much.’ Endamir stepped back next to his brother and pushing back his hood, leaned close to him. ‘I know already how you feel on this matter. A small request – do not make me the intermediary between you two.’ He looked closely into his twin’s face. ‘Play an old familiar role, if you must. The cheerful tagalong on an adventure with your brother; or perhaps the quiet healer who takes in all that is said and keeps it to himself. Whatever it takes to keep some semblance of peace.’

Endamir’s eyes were filled with a great weariness. ‘I have not the strength or will to fight you on this again, my brother.’ His eyes flicked down to where their mounts waited patiently near the edge of the boarding plank. ‘Perhaps we should bring our gear on board. Let Malris greet his other guests.’

Ghosts and memories will still remain . . .

[Firefoot]

After a short moment, Lómwë also dismounted and followed after Tasarënì. As he stepped onto the harbor Malris’ words drifted out to meet him: “…I called her the Ghostbearer. I believe I bear ghosts of the mind and the memory within me now...do you feel it also? Well...at Himring we will lay them to rest. And then,” he finished with a wry chuckle, “then, I’ll...we’ll...confess that the Valar have defeated me. I do not know if it is healing or surrender. Or both.” Defeat? wondered Lómwë, not paying attention to the response. No… not defeat. Surrender? In a way. And ghosts? Certainly, though I speak of them not.

He strode into sight as Tasa was being greeted. Malris was there, of course, and also the brothers, Orëmir and Endamir, as he recalled, none of whom he had seen for a long length of time. He did not know that any could be called friends, per se, though they shared a history together, and that meant something.

“Mae govannen,” he greeted them. “It has been a long time.”

[Anguirel]

Malris looked hard into Orëmir's eyes, and found there nothing he could understand, try as might. He smiled to cover his incomprehension, hoping that the past Age would not have taken Endamir beyond him too; the brother he had always been closer to.

"All the splendour of Himring may be gone now, but she is clean of the Enemy, at least. I have...we all have...so much to settle there. In the courtyard rot the catapultas and ballistae I helped fire at our own walls. The blades and armour warriors who bought a little time with their hroar rust in the dirt. But there are happier memories there too, of the days of success. How can we recreate a new life of contentment in the West or Endor if contentment has forgotten us? I want to relearn our glories...to go to Tol Eressea proud that I toiled in the North. Why, my marriage bed is in that ruin somewhere."

At some point, he realised he was speaking to both the brothers; not just the one who had argued with him. But a familiar presence cut him short, and as he looked up in anticipation he smiled. A golden head he had not seen for so very long; a gap wider even than the divide that lay between Malris and the twins. But a friend of the heart nonetheless; and on her side, he had always known, rather more. A pity; one of the many Elven loves that could bear no fruit. But still, he had always felt a kinship with her; and her defection after the Nirnaeth had piled a new wound on the gash of his wife's loss.

"Tasa. Welcome. I thought you would answer...I was sure of it. One such as you cannot stay a handmaid forever...particularly if the rumours are true, and Artanis grows weary of Middle-earth herself."

As Lómwë joined her, Malris nodded to him. What quaint Nandorin garb he seemed to prefer nowadays. "You also lift my heart, friend. Now we only awaint Lindir, of Lindon, as am I...and he has not far to travel. Soon you will see the most beautiful facet of the Ghostbearer."

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

"You have always known me well, Malris. At times better than I have known myself." Tasa looked down, eying her delicately embroidered over-robe. The soft breeze tugged at the hem, revealing bare feet. It had been so long since she had looked upon the face of the one she would always love. Though he could never return it, Tasa bore him no ill will and took their relationship as the blessing that it was. She smiled widely and with true pleasure for the first time in many a long year, meeting his eyes. Of the aquaintances she had made serving Galadriel, none would ever even nearly rival her friendship with Malris. Friends of the heart, they were, and as close as kin.

She spoke as they embraced, looking to the brothers and to Lómwë who had followed. "My friends... long have we tarried, and at last we meet again upon the shores of Middle Earth... but one face I do not see that I had expected... where is Lindir?"

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir halted near the harbor's edge slightly north of the spot where his companions had gathered; he stared out at the ship that was chosen to take the band to Himring. Although the Elf was hidden by a rocky outcrop that rose up from the shore, he was still close enough to hear snatches of conversation that were going on between those awaiting his arrival.

What he heard and saw did nothing to reassure him. Although the ship's sail was tightly furled about the spar, its gloomy black hue was all too evident. Lindir scowled in disapproval. Was this someone's idea of a fine joke? And the name Malris had chosen for his vessel was little better: Ghostbearer! Were they to be the ghosts who sailed back in time, or had other ghostly creatures, unseen even to Elvish eyes, elected to come along on their journey. At this grim thought, Lindir involuntarily shuddered. A poor choice indeed, and perhaps a harbinger of worse to come!

Ever since his stay in Eregion, Lindir had developed an uncanny ability to glimpse the reality of evil that lay half buried on the fringes of life. Sometimes, staring out at the world, he felt nearly suffocated by the overwhelming sense of the presence of the Shadow. And Lindir did not like how he was feeling now. An overwhelming sense of foreboding crowded over his brow. All this was an unfortunate legacy of the time he had spent in Eregion helping the master-smiths forge the rings of power. He had fled the city before the crafting of the master ring and the subsequent conflict with Sauron, but the entire series of events had left him with many an unresolved question. One of his main reasons for leaving Middle-earth and searching out the Havens to sail West was to find some respite from this uncomfortable sensation.

With a determined sigh, Lindir shook off his gloomy mood, coming to the end of the rocky outcrop and clambering awkwardly over a series of boulders. As he rounded the bend in the coastline, he could hear the distinct words of Tasa's query: but one face I do not see that I had expected... where is Lindir?

Pushing through the bushes and bracken that fringed the meeting place, he quickly emerged in the sight of all those who had gathered in a tight circle, "You shall, my lady. You shall. Tis me. I am here. And glad to see all of you. And yet....." Here Lindir ruefully shook his head and growled, "If anyone other than Malris had asked me to return to that cursed spot, I would have turned him down outright. " Lowering his voice, he added, "I tell you this way lies madness. Let us leave now for the West, and put aside this foolish plan. No good can come of walking again on that bloodsoaked ground!"