Island of Sorrow RPG

[Anguirel]

Malris was startled by the uproar taking place around Lindir and Orëmir's peculiar catch; for himself, he was far more interested at first in the massive, plump wild salmon. Fish and fishing had been other tastes he had acquired during the long years of the Third Age. He had been absorbed in watching the flesh roast darker in the heat of the fire.

"All very well," he murmured with a smile, "and your roasting, Lindir, seems proficient enough; but have you tried the delights of salmon, properly cut, in the form which Uien sends?"

It was then that he realised that Lindir was not listening, nor was he intrigued now in the slightest by the stake and its rich, succulent burden.

"Aye, that is right," Lindir was saying, gesturing at the helm by Orëmir's leg. "Look here. Underneath the encrusted grime is a layer of pure gold. And from the weight of the thing, I would guess that the entire helm may be crafted in gold. I can not imagine who would ever want a helm with such weight. It would give me a massive headache."

Malris nodded as he approached. "Well, it is a puzzle. They would need the physique of an Elf, but the craftsmanship is not in the fine Noldorin style...'tis cruder to my eyes...more utilitarian, a helm such as the Atani wear...'twould seem it's some kind of elf-man's...adanedhel..." He jerked back as, seconds after Lindir, he realised the helmet's provenance. Lindir spoke for him.

"The Dragon-Helm of Dor-Lomin, which graced the head of the Mannish warrior Turin..."

"Turin, who fell to Glaurung away to the south? How did his helm reach Himring?" Malris muttered sceptically. But there seemed indeed no other answer to the riddle. More than anything else, Lindir's excitement, as he clutched the thing like a child, could not be in vain; nor Endamir's foreboding as he reproached the elf-smith-for truly, Lindir was a smith again in this hour.

"This is a foredoomed thing, and doubly so for being found in this cursed place."

Lindir, though, did not-could not-relent. The arguing voices grew louder and harsher. Malris sprang between the two Elves.

"We cannot come to dissension over this thing. Why, it is mere Orc-plunder. Think clearly. Himring was abandoned after the Nirnaeth. Turin died decades later. It was not Elves who brought this helm here, but Orc-soldiers, robbing a dead man's corpse they would never have dared to near in life. They rested in the ruins of the lower parts of Himring...and there they lost it, perhaps by mishap, or trickery, or fate.

"Once this might have been a great Man's helmet. Now it is soiled by the hands of cowards and scavengers, the same sort who killed my wife and Lomwë's. Do not grip it to you any longer, Lindir. It is not worthy of you."

A new smell interrupted the proceedings. The roasting salmon was starting to burn.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir glanced up at Malris and then at Endamir, oblivious to the smell of burning fish. With some effort of will, he unwrapped his fingers and set the helm down on a rock near the fire where all could view it. Then he spoke, "You misunderstand me. I do not seek this helm for my own. I seek only to put to rest what lies hidden here, still waiting to be found."

Lindir stood up from his squatting position and looked directly at Malris, "For the past two weeks, you have been urging me to come here. You have said that we come to these shores with the purpose of bringing peace to our hearts, to set our fears behind us so we will be free to journey West and find some way beyond all the sadness that has gone before. I seek the same thing for this helm: an honorable place for it to rest. Surely, this should be brought back to Valinor and kept there in safekeeping. Who may sail to this isle after us? Perhaps another party of Men, those with less wisdom in their hearts, who would only argue over the spoils and start great havoc."

"And the fact that the helm was crafted for war, does this really make a difference? Since when is the fine handicraft of Telchar tainted with evil? I do not see Elrond advising that the shreds of Narsil be thrown in a fire and consumed. It is no different with this helm. The overthrow of Glaurung was done not out of evil but with great and good intent."

"No," mused Lindir, "I am certain of one thing. Such an object has no place in a world of Men. Indeed, I believe this helm is the reason I was doomed to come on this expedition: to remove from the world something of value that can only bring dissension, not because of evil inherent in its form but because Men would fight and argue over such a great quantity of gold. I only ask that I be allowed to carry this prize to the West and surrender it there to those who know better than I. Perhaps, this is a small way to make amends for other, less honorable deeds I have done. I would ask you not to take that choice from me."

"But still," added Lindir with a sigh, "you are my leader. Malris, it is for you to decide now that you have heard my words. If you say yes, I will keep the helm close and bring it to safety over the Sea. But if you say no, I will respect your word. You may take it up from the rock and throw it back in the mud, and I will say nary a word against your judgment."

Then Lindir knelt down, averting his head and turning his eyes from Malris and Endamir, as he busied himself with the burning fish.

[Envinyatar]

‘It seems to me this object belongs very much to the world of Men.’ Orëmir raised his brow speculatively at his brother. ‘Stop me if I’m in error, Endamir; my sense of history is a little vaguer than yours. But a number of the great pieces that Telchar wrought now rest in the hands of Men. They have been used well by the Younger Children of Ilúvatar. Beren freed the Silmaril from the Iron Crown with Angrist; the new king to the east, Elessar, bore the reforged shards of Narsil as he strove against the Dark Lord. And Turin wore this heirloom of his house as he kept the Orcs from his homeland.’

He crouched down beside Lindir, helping to turn the spitted salmon and move it further from the fire. ‘It seems wrong to me to remove this piece of craftsmanship, despite the beauty and the mastery of its making, across the seas and preserve it there. Perhaps men will find it; perhaps they will fight over it, their greed driving them to wrest from another’s keeping. We surely cannot say our hands are clean from those sorts of actions. Or perhaps they will not. Mayhap they will honor it long as a relic of Hador’s house, a remembrance of the land of Lomin and the once fair lands that lie now beneath the sea. It’s part of their history, let them deal with it should it come once again into their hands. It’s not our part to make that decision for them. Or so it seems to me.’

Orëmir stood, stretching his tired back against the kinks that had come with the day’s efforts. ‘Let us keep the helm with us for now. Lindir can bear it as we revisit our old haunts on Himling.’ He turned and faced Lindir. ‘When we are done here, and time comes for the ship that will bear you across the Sea. Then give the helm into my keeping, if you will. I’ll take it to Tol Morwen and let it lie at the foot of the Stone of the Hapless. Should men journey there, and I should think few will as the isle has passed nearly into legend these later years, then let them look to the disposition of this relic from their past.’

From the corner of his eye he could see his brother’s face grow pale at these words.

‘What say you? Lindir? Malris?’

[Anguirel]

Malris sat still as Orëmir spoke, with an occasional approving nod, then spoke after him.

"You speak wisely, friend. Men should indeed keep this thing, their heirloom. It has nothing to do with Valinor. I am with you. But must one of us carry it to Tol Morwen himself?

"We are now in the Valar's hands; and it would seem they tested us upon the sea, and found us worthy. Is this not some new trial from the Lords of the West? And should we not answer it with fealty and submission-throwing the helm into the sea to be carried whither Ulmo wills?"

"Certainly it should not be returned to the pool...for it does not belong here at all. Myself, I support entrusting it to the clean waters of the ocean. It will be in good company there; Palantiri, the sword Anglachel, Maglor's Silmaril...even if it does not find its way to Tol Morwen."

It was at this point, with night fully upon the party, and the stars glinting high in the sky, Earendil supreme among them, that the six survivors of Maedhros' armies heard the Voice that was to be to them a riddle, a delight, a problem, a saviour and a doom. It was a mighty voice, driving all other matters from the mind; harp music ran beside it, beautiful and stirring to the heart.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame
And rings with the voices of hope.
A fire of sparks from an army of blades
As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.

Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World
Will shudder on his threshold in the North,
For where he sundered us two from one,
He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.

The last line of each verse was repeated, as if it had once formed a refrain, but only the Voice sang "As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope"; though the six Noldor knew it well, they were shocked to silence. But Malris rose, his hand on his heart, and sung "He sees now the wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf," with tears in his eyes. Then the Voice and its music ceased.

"Wonder of wonders!" Malris cried, a light in his eyes like one driven mad. "Maglor still breaths...come, we must seek him! Do you remember when we chorussed that ballad, and many other verses besides, before the Nirnaeth? Up, my slothful friends! Cast away yon helm and seek our lord's voice!"

[piosenniel]

In the confusion of responses to the ghostly song, Endamir strove to gather his wits about him. Malris bore a mad look in his eye, and certain that it was indeed Maglor who sang to them, he urged his companions to rise and seek out the long gone Elf.

‘Cast away yon helm and seek our lord’s voice.’ Malris voice rang out with urgency, as one possessed.

‘This cannot be,’ thought Endamir. ‘It is some trick of the wind and sea. Maglor does not sing to us. He is gone; thrown himself into the sea.’ ‘And besides, he spoke aloud, in a querulous, weary old voice, though no one stood near him, ‘it was Maedhros who bore the title of lord for me.’

Still, for all his doubts, he strode quickly to where his sword lay and picking it up from his heap of belongings, he buckled the belt which bore it round his hips. His hand rested lightly on the pommel. The feel of the cold metal was real against his flesh and he wondered how he thought he would defend himself and his friends against some fleshless spirit. If that is what had called to them . . .

His steps bore him to Malris’ side. As in the long past days his feet had done before. Malris called and he answered. It had seemed quite a simple task then.

Now his gaze turned to where Orëmir bent to give Lindir a hand. With his other hand, his brother picked up the helm that had so recently been the center of attention and handed it to the now standing Lindir. He could see Orëmir lean in close to Lindir, whispering a few words to him. Lindir nodded gravely and stuffed the helm into his pack.

For all of Malris’ exhortation, the helm would not be cast into the sea. Endamir saw in his brother’s face that Malris’ words had not convinced him. Orëmir respected the Valar, but he held dear the race of Men, too, as Malris did not. And who was Malris to speak for the Valar?

He was sure, too, that in that moment of quiet exchange, Orëmir had made a promise to Lindir. One he would carry through on. Endamir wondered if the others understood what his brother had meant by his offer to take it to Tol Morwen. Orëmir’s conviction was a sore point between the two siblings, but one they had not discussed with others. It was in Endamir’s mind that when the time came, his brother would choose the same as he . . . to go into the West. Now here was Orëmir saying those words in the presence of their old companions. Making them real, in a way. The intent behind them crystallized, cutting Enadamir’s heart.

He turned his attention back to Malris. ‘Let’s get on it with it then,’ he said curtly, shouldering his own pack. Perhaps the pursuit of some ephemeral voice would be engrossing enough to take his mind from the other bleak line of consideration.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Through the bickering, Tasa had sat alone, engrossed deeply in memory. Her companions' voices interrupted her thoughts but she cast them away, feeling unworthy... the world seemed darker and colder than ever before. Heroes... they were all heroes... and she sat beside them as an equal. She brushed a tear from her eye, staring blankly into the fire. The flames leapt and danced before her as she strove to escape a personal nightmare so surreal that she wanted nothing more than to sleep in peace, alone and unafraid. The falcon flew to her, landing carefully upon her shoulder and preened her hair while chirruping in a concerned and entirely unfalconly way. She smiled sadly, running a finger across his silky brow.

Suddenly an ethereal voice crooned to a ghosted melody, dancing upon the wind like the swallows that were her friends.

On Himring's hill, the night is aflame

And rings with the voices of hope.

A fire of sparks from an army of blades

As we garner the armour, the horses, the rope.

Morgoth, Dark Enemy of the World

Will shudder on his threshold in the North,

For where he sundered us two from one,

He sees now the Wrath of Elf, Man, Dwarf.

Malris jumped to his feet, startling Tasa back to the present. She saw a splended helm beside Lindir, and wondered at it, but saved her questions for later. She had a sinking feeling that she had missed something important while she selfishly stole the time for herself.

"That voice..." she whispered... "I know that voice. Malris?" She looked at her friend with question in his eye. He read her glance and recognized it. If he would lead, she would follow.

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir had been speaking with Lindir when “the Voice” began its song. ‘What is that, that sings of old deeds here on Himring’s top?’ Oremir asked? Lindir shrugged, his eyes flicking to where Malris stood with a delirious look in his eyes. The years had fallen away from Malris and now he commanded his little troop as of old, though now, it seemed, with a sort of rash hysteria.

‘. . . seek our Lord’s voice!’

Endamir, Orëmir noted, had taken up his blade with a slow reserve and had gone to stand by Malris. ‘Ever faithful to his old friends,’ he thought ungrudgingly. ‘But, brother mine, you can’t stop my wish to turn you from your choice by involving yourself in some foolhardy undertaking.’

‘Malris!’ Orëmir called aloud, drawing the attention of the two that had rallied about their old commander. ‘Sure as you are that this may be Maglor and his harping, more surely you will want to look to your troops first before you take off after some airy phantom. For our part, we’re tired and hungry. For your part, what proof is there that this is Maglor’s voice? Perhaps it is some old trick conjured by one of the Enemy’s spawn. Something to lure us to our deaths as revenge. The night is dark and there are many places among the rocks and further ruins that such a one or ones could hide. Would it not be better to secure our little camp with watches? And wait ‘til the sun drives back the darkness?’

He raised his brow at Malris. ‘Surely, if it is indeed Maglor, he will sing again to us in the daylight and draw us to him. Or if it be some other ill-willed spirit, then we will more ready after a meal and a rest to ferret him out. I’ll take the first watch after the meal, if you wish. What say you?’