Island of Sorrow RPG

[Anguirel]

Malris was already on his feet, not far from where Tasa lay; watching her silently, draped as she was with his grey cloak. Her pale hair did not challenge in its light, harmonising gently with the gleam of his star brooch near the cloak's hem. Unavoidably reminded of ancient fealty sworn, Malris fingered his black surcoat, all the more visible without his cloak, on which the white Star of Feanor shone. And he did not repudiate it, still thinking of it with sorrowful pride. But at Tasa's question he broke off his thoughts and smiled. Sunlight was seeping through the windows; their third dawn on Himling.

"One of the stairs on the flight leading to this room is loose, Tasa. I can easily get it up with my sword; I crafted it long ago for just such a purpose. It leads into the Lord's Corridors; the maze below the fortress Maedhros had crafted, on the advice of Maglor, after the Bragollach...you recall, perhaps? It was to help should we need to effect a retreat. The Naugrim helped delve it.

"But fate hampered it from being as useful as it might have been. The Naugrim dug by mischance to a great lake beneath the mountains, which sapped at their work and slowed progress." Malris bit his lip. "Some spoke of the Doom at work; but as it may be...after the Nirnaeth few found the Corridors of help."

"The Labyrinth was dangerous then, and is surely perilous after many ages, the Sea leaking into it. But we are not trying to escape the whole fortress and domain, as the refugees did; just to get back to the isle's solid ground. It is a risk, but I think we may conquer it without too much trouble."

Malris shifted closer to Tasa, who had now opened one eye and smiled, as if she were a warm, sportive cat; though he knew her for a cold, exhausted Elf.

"Yes, I know," he admitted, replying to what she had not said. "I have not judged risks well hitherto..."

But he tossed his head back and laughed. It was morning, and they were strong and refreshed; and he trusted in Maglor's guidance. The most contorted paths were to him clear.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"Giledhel, daughter of the Elves..... Come forward from the shadow. Stand in my presence. You can hide no longer."

A deep voice echoed through the ancient halls. The words held no underlying bitterness or rancor. If anything, the speaker's tone was cool and removed. The hooded figure stood up, his great form encased in flowing robes of purple and black. He held a mace of gold in his right hand, extending it outward in the direction of the Elf. It was clearly apparent that the Lord of Mandos could not be easily moved to tears or a show of emotion.

When there was no response from the Elven woman, Nàmo spoke again. This time, there was an undercurrent of impatience clearly reflected in his choice of words. "Come forward now, I say. Your doom is written upon your face, if one lacking a body can be said to possess a face. You are long overdue. The summons went out in ages past. Why have you kept me waiting so long?"

Giledhel took a tentative step forward. It was almost as if she was mesmerized by the voice of the Doomsman. Again, the voice rang out, this time in command. "Approach that I may look upon your fëa."

There was a strained moment of silence as the shapeless figure shuffled forward into the silvery light. Searching deep in the recesses of the woman's mind, Nàmo reached out and for a brief moment touched the cowering apparition. His eyes widened and then narrowed as he considered the sorry plight of the creature in front of him.

"There were others," he intoned in a stern voice, "who resisted my command. Their doom became entwined with yours. You should have helped lead them to me, for your life had much that theirs was lacking. Instead, you turned away from the true path, and from the duty you owed to husband and family and conspired to bind the fëar of the strangers to your side."

"Tell me, woman, what would you have of me? And where are these poor creatures whom you have helped mislead?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


Where are you?

Her question hung in the air, in the light. And they moved forward, toward her, awkward in these new forms. Gone were the familiar shapes, or rather changed were the ways in which they now viewed themselves. Unhoused fëar still, yet there was less apprehension as they moved through the light filled spaces, and the subtle harmonies and strains no longer jarred.

They were naked in these rare surroundings. Or at lease they felt so. As if each passing other could see and judge them. Unworthy . . . defiled . . . profane . . . And yet, none who did pass drew back as if from something foul. And such was a wonder to them.

In some space of time, they drew near her; though, the question she had asked seemed still to hang in the air. They rejoiced at the sight of her, for she seemed much the same . . . familiar and comforting in her ordinariness.

They would have rushed to her, as they had so often done in other times. But now between them and her stood a being of splendor and light and power beyond any they might conceive. And he was chastising her!

Small as they felt, still they rose up in her defense.

‘Begging your pardon, my Lord.’ The hesitant voice of Calëlindo intruded into the space left by Nàmo’s question. ‘It wasn’t her abandoned husband and family.’ The other two crowded in close about him, murmuring their agreement. Calëlindo went on, his voice a little less timorous. ‘All those years as she was trapped in death on that grace-forsaken isle, and still didn’t she keep her thoughts on her dear husband and plan for his homecoming, though it took a good several ages for him to get round to returning.’ His voice trailed off. Nàmo’s expression showed neither acceptance nor rejection of what he said.

‘Go on!’ whispered the other two of his companions, crowding him even closer.

He didn’t want to sound petty or foolish to the Lord of Mandos, but still he felt he should know the facts. ‘And when he did get round to coming home, didn’t he bring some old girl of his he was always sweet on.’

There, he’d said it, and he was still intact. He held a hushed conference with his fellows and stepped forward a little further.

‘She didn’t bind us to her side . . . Sir.’ He glanced with a certain measure of fondness toward Giledhel as she stood before the Vala. His voice wavered, as if with sorrow and regret. With an effort he mastered the new, unfamiliar emotions and his voice, though quieter with his next words, grew stronger in intent.

‘We murdered her . . . in her bedchamber. And it was a deed most foully done.’

He stifled a sob at the telling of it, even as his companions wept. ‘No amount of apology, sincere as it might be, can excuse this dreadful, hideous thing we did. We despoiled her and as she died we laughed, her blood staining the stones at the foot of her marriage bed.’ He paused for a moment recalling the sequence of events. ‘And then, at the hands of the fortress guards, we too, met our deaths, in the same chamber in which she met hers.’

‘She didn’t bind us to her . . .’ he said again. ‘Save if you call her forgiveness of our deeds against her some sort of binding. And if that’s so, then "yes" we are bound tight to her.’

‘We don’t feel she misled us, either, my Lord. Her mind grew a little . . . hazy . . . as the years passed. Things seemed to slip away from her more easily. We tried, in our way to serve her. And for her part she was always kind to us and taught us what she thought we should know. Though I think her mind slipped more and more as the uncountable days went on, and now I wonder how she really saw us.’

He hesitated for length of time, and quiet filled in the spaces of that little tableau. ‘It’s not her fault,’ he began in her defense when he spoke again. Then thinking better of it, he continued in a different vein. ‘It was our fault, from the first, that all this came to pass with her. Let us take the blame.’ He looked again toward Giledhel. ‘We are not those poor, misled creatures you spoke of, my Lord. She was only kind to us, and we are richer for it.'

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


Giledhel struggled to understand who was speaking. Her gaze took in someone tall, with a certain radiance that encircled him. His voice, too, was fair. How did she know him, this one who spoke in her defense? And with such a knowledge of what had happened to her.

We murdered her . . .

Her brow furrowed. And she began to remember how her companions of that space of time had tried to speak with her about this. But even now, the act, itself, remained gone from her memories. Blotted out she supposed by the awfulness of it.

Without a word she moved round Nàmo, stepping closer to this other being. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Her aspect lightened at the familiar feel of his presence. ‘You’re one I called for, didn’t I?’ ‘And you . . . and you . . .’ she said with the beginnings of recognition as she drew the others forward.

Were there tears to cry, they would have lit her eyes as she touched each one of those tall, fair beings who stood round her. The winds had indeed borne them West as her heart hoped they would do.

‘Your names, your names. How shall I call you now?’

Her voice faltered with the next question. She took a step backward to take them all in with her gaze. ‘Do you remember?’

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘Yes, my lady,’ came the voice of Calëlindo. ‘We do remember . . .’

‘Our names, our lives . . .’ followed Salmarion. His voice dropped low, filled with regret and sorrow as he went on. ‘And our dark, evil acts.’

‘And your kindness, my lady,’ came Alcamírië. ‘We clung to those words of hope, slender as that promise seemed. And here we are.’ He pointed to each of his companions. ‘Calëlindo, who in those long dark ages was called Gor--’

A thunderous look of disapproval from Námo recalled the admonition against speaking the Black Language in this place and he swallowed the rest of the name. With a hurried stutter he went on.

‘And I . . . I am Alcamírië. And here, too, is Salmarion.’

Calëlindo could not hold back. A great smile lit his face, and he stepped near her to pat her on the arm as he had done so many times before. ‘We are so glad to find you here, my lady.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Mandos listened intently to the plea of the fallen ones and the obvious respect and gentleness that they had tendered to Giledhel. For a long time, he stood immobile and silent, his eyes grave and imponderable as he weighed what had just transpired in his presence. Náma was not one given to foolish shows of emotion. There was a price to be paid for every evil deed, and these four were no exceptions. The Noldor who had so foolishly deserted Aman had received no blessing from him, but only an unbreakable curse. Surely, these four deserved no more or less, she for her faithlessness to her husband and family, and they for their unspeakable deeds.

This was not the first time Mandos had confronted the fëar of corrupted Elves. Such creatures were rare, but they occasionally hung out in the gloomy anterooms of Mandos, refusing to come within the Great Hall and face their Doom. Instead, they stubbornly remained in the most distant courtyard, letting slip away whatever tiny chance they might have to regain who and what they had once been. Sometimes even those who were brave enough to approach him could not be helped. The ugliness of their lives still weighed too heavily on their hearts. The kindest thing he could do was to have Lórien lay heavy bonds of sleep upon them, sending them into the strange dream world where they could ponder their misdeeds for age after age until they could begin to face who and what they had become. Perhaps, he should do the same for these....

Still, Nàmo felt that somehow these poor creatures were different. He honestly could not recall any situation similar to this. He thrust deep within his mind, searching through his memories that had been given to him at the very dawn of creation. Both he and Manwë had been granted the gift of understanding certain strains and threads in the music that no other Vala had been privileged to hear. What few knew or understood was that he heard the strains of the music still and that sometimes it revealed a new secret. He never spoke of these things to others, but only to Manwë when he requested him to do so.

A tiny light flickered within Nàmo's mind, its sparking ray extending out even into the darknesss of Mandos. There was no difference between that ray of light and the melody that had come to him while in a dreamlike state. The music had been utterly clear in its meaning. The time was drawing near when those who had been most corrupted might be granted one last chance. Many would refuse but a few would find their way back to where they had begun, utterly changed and yet not changed. Perhaps this strange quartet was the first who would go down such a path. For somehow the fate of the woman was not too different than that of her male companions. They could not be split apart.

Turning towards Giledhel and the other three, Mandos addressed them in cool, even tones. "What would you have me do then to help you? What boon do you request? You may not leave these halls for Aman. The bloody path that you followed in life will not permit you to venture yet to Tol Eressea or the shores beyond it, for surely the silver light there would be more than your eyes could bear. Still, I think you have things yet to learn. What do you ask of me?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘A boon?’ Alcamirië’s voice took on an uncertain tone. ‘What can he mean, Calëlindo?’ He stole a hesitant glance toward Nàmo. ‘Does he mean to strike a bargain with us? We have nothing to offer.’

Salmarion drew them into a little ring, an old habit from former days. ‘We do have something he might want.’ He cocked his head toward Giledhel. ‘Maybe he wants us to leave her alone. Her “dear Malris” did.’

‘Oh surely he won’t make us do that. We’ve just found her again.’ Alcamirië looked troubled, his hand clenching onto Calëlindo’s arm.

Calëlindo leaned in toward his companions. ‘He means to do us a favor . . . something given freely, I think. Lord Nàmo wants to know how he can help us.’ He pitched his voice even lower. ‘And besides, the Lady is not ours to bargain with. Remember . . .’

The three turned toward Nàmo.

‘It seems enough for us now,’ said Calëlindo, ‘just to be here where we are. The silver light you speak of . . . we don’t recall it. And the light here, it is bright and fair enough to us.’ He turned questioningly toward the other two. ‘Ask him,’ urged Salmarion, Alcamirië nodding ‘yes’ behind him.

‘Just one favor, Lord Nàmo. Let us stay with the Lady . . . here . . . until she wishes to move on . . .