Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Envinyatar]

Not all memories are fair ones . . .

As the servants of Morgoth swept up the sheer sides of rock upon which the city rested, his kinsmen had been set along the walls, their great bows raining arrows upon the advancing horde. But it was not enough, strong though their bow arms be and deadly accurate their aim. There were too many of the foul creatures . . . the Orcs . . . the Balrogs which drove them with whips of flame . . . and the dragons upon whose piled up forms the forces of the Constrainer climbed like ants . . .

They had fallen back, defending smaller enclaves in the city . . . falling back further, still, until they stood before the King’s tower, but to no avail. Morgoth would have his day, his dark shadowed army pushing their way over all the fair city, until the bright tower of Turgon was crushed beneath their malice.

His father had ordered Ondomirë to retreat to the house of the King’s daughter. ‘She gathers some of our folk to leave the city. Your bow and blade must be there to protect them.’ He hurried, fighting those foe who would bar his way with a savageness that nearly matched their own.

There were only a few of the Gondrolindrim that had managed to make it to Idril’s house; and even less were the Folk of the Swallow who were counted in their number. It was a frantic Ondomirë who searched the faces looking for any of his own family. There were none . . . no sisters . . . no children of their children. And those he spoke to, his voice barely under control shook their heads, their already sorrowful eyes turning away from his new grief.

Another of the warriors grabbed him as he had turned, thinking to make his way to his family’s houses. ‘All of Gondolin is burning now. None remain save the dead who bear witness to Maeglin’s treachery and even now their spirits gather in the Halls of Mandos. This is the last of the seed from our city. Come! We will see it to a fertile and more fair ground.’

Ondomirë recalled his last sight of Gondolin. The Tower of the King was in flames, matching the smaller fires set about the city. Hideous cries of triumph echoed in the smoke-reeked streets, replacing the sweet sounds of the fountains now stoppered up with the dead and dying. His eyes, that had begun to tear up at the understanding of all that was lost, now dried up, too. He put away the memories of faces he had loved; walled away the grief that would have slain him with its sharp blade.

And all these many years he had spent a warrior in the service of Gil-galad . . .

Gally’s chubby little hands tugged hard at Ondomirë’s braid. The little one’s eyes glittered mischievously and laughter, bright and melodious, as ever poured from the fountains of his youth played round the older Elf. A name came unbidden to Ondomire’s lips. ‘Rusco!’ he said aloud, causing the small boy to look up at him for explanation. Ondomirë smiled, holding the wriggling boy at arms’ length. ‘I knew a little foxling, just like you,’ he laughed, tucking Gally against his hip, his arm protectively about him. ‘He pulled my braid, too. Though your grip I think the stronger of the two!’ He looked down at the little one, his face set in a half serious look. ‘And do you know what I would do to him?’ Gally’s eyes went wide and he shook his head ‘no’. ‘I would tickle him!’ Peals of laughter issued forth as Ondomirë put action to words.

‘Enough!’ Ondomirë said, after a short while. He sat down, sitting Gally on the grass near him. ‘And who’s this?’ he asked, noting Isilmë had let go of Losrian’s hand and come near them. On her face was a certain longing to be included, though her shyness held her back. He patted another area on the grass, inviting her to sit near. Gally had already clambered up to sit on his knee and was clapping his hands.

‘Shall we play a little game? To pass the time until supper is ready?’

Ondomirë picked up a small pebble and put it in the middle of his left palm. Closing his fist over it, he hid the hand and his other behind his back and spoke a little nonsense rhyme. When it was done he pulled out both his hands to the front and showed the closed fists to the two children. ‘Pick the hand that has the rock and get a sweet if you find it.’ Little known save to his horse and the cook who kept him supplied with boiled sweets, Ondomirë always had on him a little tin of the sugary confections; a small, hidden weakness, of sorts. When neither of the children made a choice, he nodded to Losrian.

‘Perhaps your auntie will show you how to play.’ He grinned at her, his brow raised, and offered his closed fists to her. ‘Come . . . make your choice. There are sweets to be had.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian returned the smile. She could not believe how relaxed Ondomirë was with the two children - far more relaxed than he often seemed with adults. She wondered at the source of his reserve but his grey eyes kept their secrets, hiding the wells of memory beyond.

" I think, " she said kneeling in front of him and scooping the Isilmë on to her lap, "it may be the sweet part they don't understand... Galmir, I doubt has ever tasted them - we were under siege all the days of his life and the fare was somewhat plain by the time he was old enough to eat it. As for this little scrap ... she is a bit older but even she may not remember" .

Losrian could hardly remember herself the last time she had tasted such a delicacy but her mind turned to early childhood when she would be rewarded with some sweetmeat. "My mother would say that it will spoil their appetite for supper but I do not think it will do them much harm... Now my poppets - a sweet is a nice thing to eat and you shall have one if we guess correctly. This one! " she finished touching Ondomirë's right hand and meeting his gaze as steadily as she could.

"No stone, no sweet hmm we shall have to try again." But the children had grasped the idea and were soon discovering the bliss of sugar. Losrian sat now next to Ondomirë and knowing that the children were unlikely to be distracted by anything so dull as the converstion of grown-ups she risked her question, she did not look him in the eye now but focused her gaze on the little girl's head, smmothing her soft hair.

"Who was Rusco?"

[Folwren]

After Skald had asked who would go give the Lord Elrond their message of wanting to depart, there had been a short pause. Then Rori and another Dwarf, Floin, offered.

‘Another should go,’ Rori said. ‘Three at least.’

‘Well, I’ll go, too, I guess,’ Bror said, half lifting his hand. ‘No one else seems too keen on telling him.’ He glanced briefly at Skald, but his brother either didn’t see him, or intentionally ignored it. ‘Weapons?’ he queried, glancing back towards Rori and Floin.

Rori gave him a look that showed his disagreement with the offer. ‘We’re not going to go execute him,’ he said. ‘I’m sure they have a bad enough impression of us already, knowing how stuck up they can be and how taken they are with looking as fair as they do. No, no - it wouldn’t do to carry battle axes in to Lord Elrond.’

‘What if he doesn’t let us go?’ Bror grumbled.

‘Don’t show off your ignorance,’ Skald replied quietly.

‘I’ll keep quiet, how’s that?’ Bror offered, picking up his cloak and putting it about his shoulders. ‘Then no one will know any more or less about said ignorance.’

The three Dwarves turned and threaded their way through the groups of elves, and the wagons with the refugees in them, and finally came to where the Lords Elrond and Celeborn and others had set up their tents.

‘Excuse me,’ Rori said, addressing an elf who appeared to be standing on guard. ‘Which is Lord Elrond’s tent?’ The elf looked doubtful and Rori gave his reason. ‘We have a message that we would like to tell him.’

‘Lord Elrond is in conversation with the Counsel Maegisil, from the ruined city. I don’t think that he’ll be able to receive you.’

‘Would you go and see?’ Rori asked, putting on a show of patience. Bror cleared his throat to hide the chuckle and dropped his eyes from the elf’s face. For a moment, the elf didn’t move and then he nodded slightly and turned and walked away. Bror lifted his head and the three of them watched him as he stopped by a tent and spoke with another elf standing there. A few words were exchanged and then he came back.

‘It is impossible to interrupt him.’

‘Tell the Lord Elrond, then, (when he is available), that Rori of the Dwarves would have a word with him. . .at his convenience,’ he added.

‘The message will be delivered.’

The Dwarves thanked him and turned to go back. When they reached the other Dwarves, they were received with inquiring looks, for they hadn’t been gone half as long as they expected. ‘Didn’t even see him,’ Bror said, walking across and sitting down beside his brother. ‘He was indisposed.’

[Envinyatar]

‘Rusco . . . yes, well . . .’

The heat of her shoulder near his arm was disquieting, in a way. He moved a little apart as if he meant to turn and look at her as he spoke. But he did not turn, his gaze held on the two children who had now taken to turning about like little whirlwinds only to fall down giggling on the grass as they got dizzy. He grinned at their antics, and they taking his smile as approval, got up drunkenly and tried again.

His smile faded to a thoughtful look and unthinking, he rubbed his fingers along his right jawline. ‘I wasn’t always Captain of the Archers,’ he said quietly, a hint of humor in his voice at this beginning. ‘Despite the fact that many think I must have sprung bow in hand and quiver at back from my poor mother. Though I understand why they must think so; I have been at it so very long.’ He paused for a moment. ‘I had . . . have,’ he corrected himself, ‘three sisters – two older, and one younger. And many opportunities from all of them to be an uncle and then uncle, also, to the children of my nieces and nephews.’

He waved to Isilmë as she waved to him. ‘They are forgiving and accepting little creatures, are they not? Nothing need be proved to them, save you remain their playmate. And all the awful things that must be done by you in your life apart from them are of no import. It’s ”Uncle, did you bring me sweets?” and “Will you play a game with me?” and “Please, Uncle ‘Mirë! A story!”. That’s all that they require.’

Ondomirë turned his face toward Losrian, his gaze softly considering her for a moment. ‘My younger sister’s daughter bore a son with red highlights in his hair – from his father’s kin. He was called Rusco, a nickname, really . . . little Fox, he was . . .’ Ondomirë fell silent for a space of time, his grey eyes clouded. ‘But he . . . they are gone now. All gone. And Ondolindë fallen silent. We could not save her . . . save them.’

‘Nor your city, either,’ he said as a quiet afterthought. ‘Sometimes, it seems these many years and their attendant battles have proved nothing more than a long defeat despite what gifts and talents we Eldar might bring to them.’

Gally had wandered up to where the two adults sat. His chubby hand patted Ondomirë’s arm. ‘Eat?’ he said, looking hopefully from Losrian to Ondomirë. ‘Gally hungry!’ Ondomirë’s mouth curved up in a smile. ‘Hungry? Me, too, Gally.’

With an economy of motion, he stood, gathering the boy up in the crook of his left arm. He stooped over a little, offering his right hand to the still seated Losrian. ‘Perhaps a full belly might push these grey thoughts away for a while,’ he said, gripping her hand firmly as she rose. ‘Or at least put them into some sort of shortsighted perspective that might make my presence more bearable during a meal.’ He kept his eyes on her face as she stood. ‘That is, of course, If I’m invited to share it with you . . . you, all.’

[Mithalwen]

Losrian's heart filled with emotion that sought release in tears. She quelled the impulse (though her eyes grew too bright for a while), telling herself that this was his grief not hers. But how to express the compassion that she felt so deeply, and the shame that she had ever thought of Galmir as a burden, a duty. Ondomirë had been left quite alone and had it seemed remained so. Before when she had heard he had escaped the fall of Gondolin she had only been in awe of the great events he had witnessed, not equating his personal tragedy with her own. She had not yet either the words to utter, or the nerve to embrace him. All she could do was squeeze the hand that still grasped hers as she rose to her feet.

"Of course... we would love your company; we can offer distraction if not consolation" Losrian stumbled over the words a little... her stomach seemed in such a knot she doubted she would manage to eat at all "in fact I fear you may never be able to rid yourself of Galmir's company. He seems quite at home there ". Her nephew flashed her a mischievous grin before giggling and shaking his dark curls he buried his face in Ondomirë's tunic.

They would have made a fairly unremarkable family group save that the whole camp knew that they were not; Losrian was aware of more than a few interested gazes as they collected bread, cheese and steaming bowls of broth.

Let the gossips stare thought Losrian, realising she no longer cared what the likes of Geldion might think. She held her head high as she walked alongside Ondomirë until they found a quiet spot to sit and eat. Ondomirë managed both to eat and to amuse the children. Losrian smiled as well but took the children's fascination with the soldier to compose her thoughts. Finally as Galmir and Isilmë grew sleepy having eaten their fill, and the stars of Elbereth emerged in the darkling sky, she spoke. Her voice soft and as calm as she could manage she gently laid her hand on his arm.

"You could not save either city but you have saved us - we refugees would have little hope without this guard. Women and children alone in the wilderness? You cannot fire a bow with a child in your arms. ..... it is surely not less honourable to live protecting people than to die protecting a city. " she paused, took a deep breath and continued.

"A long defeat maybe, but there is some virtue in the struggle perhaps? The Noldor have not given up, but regrouped, rebuilt, tried again. Though we have fallen into folly and this latest not the least I fear, there is something that prevents us all seeking the havens... you have not thought of it though you might hope now for reunion with your kin?...." Losrian's voice trailed into silence and she watched Ondomirë's face anxiously.

[Durelin]

Maegisil had been the looking for a way to escape since he entered the Lord's tent, but now he found himself a little more pleased with being there. Elrond had not seem to shown any change in emotion when Maegisil told him the truth of the death of Celebrimbor, but the former counselor noticed that his hands were clenched much more tightly on his chair. Maegisil smirked. It felt good, for some reason, to see some sign of fear, shock, pain...any uncomfortable feeling, in the appearance of the elf-lord. But there was such a small hint of it. Cool, blank expressions, empty tones, haughty disposition...Maegisil wondered what would happen to all of that if Elrond was in the place of Celebrimbor a month ago. For a moment he could see the lord looking as haggard as the deceased, and doing the same: nothing.

“Lord Celebrimbor was faced with many decisions. Because of those, I was faced with my own, and I chose accordingly. Tell me, Lord Elrond, what would you have done?”

His tone was mocking, and his words biting. He once again turned the elf's title into a joke, but again the lord did not laugh. Rather, Elrond's hands tightened a bit more, his knuckles pale. His teeth seemed to be gritted now, most likely in an attempt to keep himself from bursting out in anger at the elf across from him. It seemed that if he let himself go just slightly, he would rise from his seat with sword drawn, prepared to strike Maegisil down, who was only smiling more. Maegisil found it amusing the way these lords felt there was some kind of brotherhood among them, when all there may have been was some of the same blood. The old houses were gone now. The Elven kingdoms had already begun their slow downfall; Eregion was at an end, and Maegisil wondered who would be next. Even when all prospered, the King had no dominion over anything beyond Lindon. Gil-galad was simply a name in Eregion. Celebrimbor may have known him, but Maegisil doubted there was ever a strong bond between the two, particularly after centuries miles apart. No, Celebrimbor had been a craftsman, an artist, a lover of beautiful things. But he was also a lord. And to Maegisil, that meant he was a fool. Whether it was simply due to the person, or the position, he was not sure.

“First you must tell me, Counselor Maegisil,” began Elrond, his tone almost as cool as ever, with only a bit of edge to it, “how exactly you were given this ‘choice.’”

Maegisil practically bared his teeth at the lord at hearing the title before his name. He slouched more in his chair. “I was given a choice, by a creature of the Servant of Morgoth, the commander of the armies that slaughtered my people. I could save my life and that of my wife, or the life of my lord.”

“Why was it that you did not try to save your lord?”

“You make it sound so simple, Lord Elrond.”

“It is a simple question of whether or not you care for your lord and your land.” The Herald of Gil-galad was now clearly growing more and more furious with every moment that he had to see Maegisil's defiant stare, and hear his scornful words. It was so simple to him. It was a simple matter of life or death, for he was a lord. He could have been in Celebrimbor's place; he knew it.

“Lord and land, or love and family. Those who abandoned you, or those you had abandoned. Those are the things that I had to choose between.” He rose up in his chair, and though the lord did not shrink back physically, he saw many things in those grey eyes that he did not like. “Is it really such a simple choice, Elrond? What would you have done?”

The lord seemed about to speak, still in his rage. But then it seemed Maegisil's words reached him, and he sat back more in his seat, in silence, leaving the question unanswered, as it should have been. Maegisil rose to leave, and found himself unhindered. He hesitated for a moment, and it seemed Elrond had found one more thing to say, just in time.

“You really are so much like Celebrimbor used to be, if you have not yet realized it. Were our places exchanged, I would follow you as my lord without misgiving,” he paused, but the mírdan did not turn to him. “Perhaps what I see now is where the elf I knew escaped to.”

Maegisil hurried out of the Herald’s tent, daring not to look the lord in the eyes again, lest he see his own shining with tears.

[Envinyatar]

‘Hope. You know, Men use that word in an interesting way. It is something like a “wish” for them. That somehow the something they wish for will be fulfilled . . . at a later time.’

‘The Eldar, hold hope in a different way, or so it seems to me. We have estel. Not a wish, but how our minds are tempered; that they should be steady, fixed in purpose, not easily dissuaded. Not likely to despair or to abandon intention. We have the assurance of hope already given. We have only to trust in it. Yes, and there’s the hard part, isn’t it . . . the trust.’

‘I think perhaps it would not be so hard to have hope were we all in Tirion.’

He caught the expression on her face as hope fled it. The pressure on his arm lightened as her hand withdrew. He caught it in his own.

‘I’m only thinking aloud, Losrian. It is a fault of mine. Bear with me, if you will. You’ve said some heartfelt things to me; I’m only trying to work them about in my own mind. Along with other thoughts that have occupied much of my waking hours these past weeks.’

‘You gave me your thanks, and I’m grateful for that. And spoke of honor. And of virtue. But it is hope that I wish to speak of now.’ He was quiet for a moment, her hand still held in his.

‘No . . . I do not hope to see my kin soon. I must admit I had thought on it when Gil-galad sent me out with Lord Elrond – that at the end of this campaign I would return to the Havens and sail West. But not now.’

‘Lord Elrond will have need of me. He has already asked that I stay on, even after we reach a place of safety. He brings a rare hope to these lands, I think. I wish to help him accomplish what tasks he has set for himself.’

He fell quiet again. The sounds of the camp as it settled in to rest took up the space his silence left. ‘Ah! I am no good at this!’ he muttered to himself, thinking how much easier it was to command a company of men than it was to speak to Losrian at this moment.

‘I have another hope, m’lady.’

Come, man! he chided himself. Speak! Or act!

He drew her near him, and placing his hands aside her head he raised her face to his. His lips brushed the center of her brow in a brief kiss. ‘Would you think to have me as your life’s companion, Losrian? Would you bind yourself to me?’

Gally stirred in his sleep. Some bad dream making him restless. ‘Ammë!’ he cried out, frightened . . .

[Arry]

‘Indisposed, eh?’ said Skald. ‘Well, isn’t that a fine how’d-ye-do. We can’t go off tomorrow without letting him know, now, can we. It would be one more fault for some of the Elves to catalog against us: Dwarves – a rude people; and unreliable to boot!’ Though most of the Elves in the company had been tolerant and some even welcoming of the Dwarves, the sharp ears of the little band led by Rori Ironfoot could not help but hear a few of the asides others of the Elves had made.

And speaking of Elves . . . of the better sort, that is. Where’s old Cap’n Ondomirë got off to, I wonder. He’s usually made his rounds by now, telling us where we’re to station ourselves.’ Skald stood up, his eyes drifting about the camp. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll just have to get ourselves out to the picket line.’ He clapped his helmet on his head and picked up his axe and buckler.

He waited as Bror got ready; then followed his brother out to their usual places beyond the perimeter of the camp. ‘You know, I was just thinking. That broth we had at lunch was just shy of being “off”. I wonder if Lord Elrond has a delicate stomach – like Great-granny Stonecut had. May her bones rest in peace beneath the mountain! Remember? If she ate something a bit too old, it would turn on her so to speak. Back-door-trotties something fierce. Wonder if that’s what the Elves mean by “indisposed”.’ He nodded his head as he thought on it. ‘Now that’s something you can forgive him for – being “indisposed”.’

The more he thought on it, the funnier it seemed to him. And soon he was drawing odd looks as he walked along chuckling.