Island of Sorrow RPG

[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!"

[piosenniel]

Endamir stood on the edge of the small group, watching their host as he greeted the others. Malris had such an easy way about him still and Endamir could see the affection with which he greeted Tasa. His grey eyes had brightened with delight at the sight of her it seemed. A pleasant change from older memories of a grim and hard eyed leader. Endamir wondered what else had changed about the companion he had fought next to many times. And the others,too, how had they changed?

He had heard often enough from those men who came to Rivendell how beautiful and graceful they thought the Elves. How the years seemed not to touch them, but only to add a deeper air of fair charm . . . and of distance, too, they had said. ‘It seems a true enough observation,’ he thought, glancing at his companions. ‘But what lies beneath the mask, I wonder.’

In silvered mirrors that graced the halls in Imladris, reflecting the ageless beauty of the place, he had often chanced to catch a fleeting image of himself. More often than not he had purposely kept his eyes from the reflections, especially on those days when old memories haunted his footsteps. The fair mask he wore would slip, then. A certain sadness – no, shame, he named it - and weariness would cloud his features as faces as fair as his own rose up clamoring for answers.

He had made his way round to where Lómwë stood, near Tasa. ‘Greetings to you, Lómwë,’ he said. ‘How was your journey from the Golden Wood? Uneventful, I hope.’ He smiled looking about the ship. ‘One last adventure, eh? Sightseeing amidst the ruins of past glories; a last stand on the battlements of Beleriand.’ He pointed to where Orëmir was stowing their gear on deck. ‘My blade is sharpened and a new string graces my bow. I wonder what Malris has planned. If there are any foe left to vanquish on that cold, chill isle. Shall we be young again and full of ourselves a last time before we sail West?’ He shivered as a cool breeze blew over the bow of The Ghostbearer. Endamir laughed, breaking the gloomy tenor of his words. ‘Just a weary, old Elf. Woolgathering. Think naught of it. Come, tell me a little of yourself, if you will.’

Before Lómwë could answer, Lindir had appeared; springing up from the bushes near the ship like some quick ghost himself. ‘Madness?’ echoed Endamir, letting the Elf’s dire words fall into silence before speaking. ‘Perhaps it is madness, I cannot say yes or no to that.’ He leaned over the siderail of the ship. ‘I can say I agree with you on the last of your words, though. Let us go straight away into the West and leave the dead and ruined to the waves.’

[Envinyatar]

Better yet to call it all madness, thought Orëmir, and go neither to the island or the West. He looked to his brother and then to Lindir. But if some choice must be made from these two offerings, I would rather we delay the leave-taking for Aman. I would turn my brother from that final choice if I can.

‘Lindir!’ he called out, coming to stand beside Endamir. Lindir’s eyes looked up at him, filled if it were possible, with more sadness than Orëmir remembered. The Elf turned slightly to look at him, a sudden light glinting from the silvered jewel hung near his throat.

Orëmir smiled down at Lindir. ‘Come up; come up! And let us greet you properly. The ship does indeed bear a foreboding name. But we here are no ghosts. Come up, friend.’

[Anguirel]

Malris looked on in shock and disbelief. Though all the followers of Maedhros remaining in Middle-earth were assembled, the Spirit of Fire had apparently left them all. Oremir was querulous, grudging, his words biting as his steps were reluctant. Lindir was pale with fear, to an uncanny and unnatural degree. And their words seemed to sway Endamir, who now, despite his earlier fervour, thought of passing Himring by.

Maglor, I need your eloquence. Curufin, your cunning. Maedhros, your flame. Even hated Celegorm; if only I had your tongue at my side, rather than this blunt object betwixt my lips.

"I am going," he said, shortly. "I have little knowledge of sailing, but if needs be I will take the current to Himling's shores alone. But I think perhaps some of you may care to follow me." Malris glanced at Tasa in confidence; at Lomwe in hope; and at Endamir in pleading.

"Himring is either cursed, or empty. If empty...it will ease my heart to look at the old stones. If, as Lindir has said, blood seeps the walls and crys for more to flow through my prince's corridors, rank crimson liquid death...then it is a curse we have a duty to cleanse, my friends. We intend to leave Middle-earth. On that...most of us are agreed, at least in a part of our soul. Himring is our matter, our duty, our responsibility, our past. We cannot leave it for Men to conclude its long and dark tale. They do not know its ways, its history, its danger. If it is more than a shell, a ruin...then we must make it so. One last noble deed, friends. Why else would the Valar have left it standing?"

He paused, briefly, before starting again. "What have we done to deserve our rest across the sea? Blood is on all our hands. If Himring is still darkened, then its continued presence is a gift from fate. A chance for redemption. A chance for repentance. A chance to render us all the innocents we once were. And I intend to take that chance."