Island of Sorrow RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

With the destruction of the sword, Tasa had fallen into a state of deepest calm. Her words came slowly still but not now because of of the effort that they took. Rather was she lost in thoughts and very little could shake her from them.

Why had the voice of the sword felt so fatally cruel? The chains that called to her... they were silent now that she stood before them. At the lake and before, she had felt within her mind the touch of a will cold and uncaring, angry and destructive. Malris had identified the sword and chains as those of Curufin, yet why would they attack her while leaving him alone? Why had the sword given Malris the ability to save them even while seeming to drive its point deep within her heart with a frigid disinterest?

Was it a weakness of her mind, brought on by her battle with Giledhel, that left Tasa so open to the baser whims of any others? Could she no longer strain any one thought from another? Could she no longer protect herself from assault?

She stood now beside Malris, before the others, and she was suddenly conscious of those rips in her garb where scraped flesh shone through in the deceptive light, seeing spots of blood, noting one black feather that had escaped Malris's prior notice.

She felt a growing horror from Endamir, a stubborn defiance from Lindir... from Lómwë a sense of deception directed toward someone not her.

Could they read her as easily? Why now, and never before, was her fëa so open to such things... she pondered as she stood tall. She never saw nor heard the Smith and it was only later that she learned of him. Rather did she stand now alone amongst companions, unable to concentrate upon one thing only; lost, trying to sift through the vast amounts of information pelting her senses.

[Anguirel]

The Smith was at once no more to be seen, and Malris saw Lomwe standing awkwardly in frond of him, as if held by force. In a moment he had taken in the glint of the silver rings that seemed to bind the Elf's legs fast.

"What..." Malris began, unsteadily. The impressive glamour upon he and Tasareni as they entered the forge had not entirely left him, and his movements were still slow, solemn, and dreamlike, his mind struggling to keep up with the pace of events around it. It was another sight that dragged him into reality-the look of stark shock and incomprehension in Endamir's eyes, reliable Endamir, Endamir who had risked even his brother's ire to follow Malris.

And his brother himself. "Where...where is Oremir?" Malris uttered, regaining the more of the faculty of realisation. "Smith! I care not for any old bond; ye do not imprison and abduct my friends at will, not with any cause at heart..."

The impulsive former elven-captain felt for his blade, but found nothing, remembering past events with a disturbing sting. Keeping his head, he sidestepped to a rack and took a spear from the wall.

"Smith! In the name of your late lord, release Lomwe and show me where Oremir is to be found..."

Endamir had rushed out of the main armoury, like a lioness searching for a missing cub, and Malris found himself gripped in his friend's anxiety. Only there was something yet worse to be uncovered. Looking aside, he beheld Lindir, apparently at liberty, but with a countenance of leaden sorrow.

"Lindir, Lindir, my friend," Malris gasped out, "in the name of all pity, what has happened here?"

Before Lindir could reply, Malris's spear-haft snapped as if struck by a great forge-hammer, and he threw away the stave of matchwood, readying his arms to resist without weaponry, if need be. But the Smith-if the blow had indeed been his-did not seek further confrontation. The anvil was knocked to the ground, overturning an array of bright, star-embossed shields.

The falsely prepared armour in Lindir's hands itself shattered. The sound of the destruction seemed gradually to alternate with the frenzied grief-howls of an old, old being, a being that has seen and done too much. Lomwe was forced to step from his carefully positioned fetter to avoid a collapsing halberd's path. The armoury was being utterly ruined by its aged, loyal keeper. Tasareni watched in a manner terrifyingly akin both to the serene and the desperate, to the side of the spectral vandalism's way.

"It was I who slew him, I and whoever I saw in the dream vision," the Master-Smith's voice resonated, ricocheting off the piles of shattered iron and wood. "I slew your friend by his brother's hand! O, Mandos..."

A silence fell. Malris seemed dumb, even blind, in that moment, but not deaf, nor innured to pain; his slender frame shook, slightly, but thoroughly. The Smith seemed bent on considering his folly, and even the wanton hammer-strikes now ceased.

"It is true?" Malris asked Lindir quietly, almost entirely as a statement, not a question.

[Firefoot]

It all had happened so quickly. Lindir’s assurance that he had not, in fact, turned to the side of the smith, Malris and Tasa’s arrival, the smith’s rampage… Lómwë barely had time to collect his thoughts and react. He was not entirely sure he wanted to react. He felt numb, numb and shamed. Yes, there was hope, there was always hope, but he had despaired. He had assumed that he was the only one who still cared and remembered and that they would never find Malris and Tasa… or that they would find them, as it turned out. He had assumed there was no good left on the island and despaired.

He had given into many things in his life before: passion, grief, pain, apathy, even fear, but never despair. Always before, he had had hope, whether of something specific or vague, it mattered not. Always before, there had been hope shining at the end of the journey like a star however dim. Not then. At that moment, he had given into despair, and he reproached himself bitterly for it. To despair was the part of one weaker than he had ever thought himself. So noble you are, holding onto what was right and good, yet lacking faith in those very things!

Even in light of their current victory over the smith, such as it was, Lómwë only felt defeated.

[Child of the 7th Age]

"'Aye, Malris. Sadly true." Lindir's voice was laced with regret as he turned a cold face towards the Smith who sat huddled and quaking by the side of the room. "For the first time, in his frenzied madness, the Smith has spoken words of truth. The hand that slew Oremir was that of his brother, but the mind and will had surely been removed. He trapped us within this prison, demanding we work to accomplish his ghastly purpose in crafting mail for his master Maedhros, who was certain to return."

Lindir pointed an accusing finger at the flagon of wine that still sat upon the table. "Nor did he stop at this trickery. When his words did not persuade us, he turned to poison. Endamir drank the wine in friendship, too trusting to comprehend the treachery of one like this." Glaring at the Smith, the Elf continued, "Those who still would not agree were bound in chains or, like myself, had to pretend to comply while secretly plotting."

Lindir's voice waivered as he spoke, "My lord Malris, your return has rescued us, but for Oremir and even for Endamir it may be too late. Oremir angered the Smith, since he refused to bend his knee to his monstrous plan. Rather than raise an honest sword against his opponent, the Smith treacherously manipulated his brother's mind. Oremir slew his brother, not even understanding what he was doing."

"But for every minute we waste talking, Endamir slips further from us. Let us do something. I have had enough twisted words from the Smith to last a lifetime. Endamir rushed out of the armoury through this doorway. Perhaps we can still find him and prevent one tragedy from becoming two."

With that, Lindir shoved open the door and began racing down the hall, not even bothering to glance behind to see if anyone was following.

[Anguirel]

Malris bowed his head as Lindir quickly explained the day's terrible culmination, praying that the grace of Valar would speedily come upon Oremir-and Endamir still more.

"Let it be so. I am with you," he agreed, and ran after Lindir, pausing only, with his practical soldier's mind, to retrieve a long knife, its handle set with opals, from the debris of the armoury. Following the other's lead, he passed through the forgery and its warm hearth-which the Elves now knew to be such a false refuge-and hurried on into the room where Endamir had fled, bewildered despair in his eyes...

Such a cold wind. Well, it was the Isle of Chill. The Hill of Ice. But the forgery had been so benevolent in its temperature before...and as the wind passed the fire, apparently sucked of its power, retreated to its embers. Himring was cold. But the company now, to their great disadvantage, knew that that coldness could signal the passing of a spirit...

And the Smith's voice was heard again. "I am coming with you, to remedy what I can, though I know not how. You despise me as a traitor, yet your loathing cannot equal the hatred I feel for myself. I seek peace now, the great surrender. You may find my tomb...it is in the Keep...I ask that you lay my bones to rest then. For now, I shall serve you as far as lies in my...ability..."

[piosenniel]

Endamir brushed his lips against his brother’s cool brow. Orëmir’s head was cradled in the bend of his arm as he knelt beside him, the bulk of his torso balanced against Endamir’s thighs.

I remember this look. Endamir thought, looking at his brother’s peaceful face. As he slept…so deep in the arms of Lórien was he that none could wake him. He brushed the stray hairs back from Orëmir’s forehead.

‘Let me follow you this time, Orry. Into your dreams,’ he whispered, rocking back and forth slowly on the cold stone floor. ‘’Don’t leave me behind; I couldn’t bear it,’ he murmured, turning his reddened eyes upward, as if a way might be found to make it so.

There were sounds of footsteps nearing the room where he and his brother were. Endamir’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing as he fixed on the approaching intruders. He laid Orëmir down gently on the ground and stepped carefully over his brother’s body, drawing his sword as he did so.

A certain madness crept in about Endamir’s eyes as he stood guarding his brother from those he was certain would take him away. ‘Go away! Leave us be!’ he shouted in a voice husky with sadness.

He stepped forward, raising his blade to fend them off . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

In his wild rush down the corridor, Lindir was the first to burst inside the outer chamber. Oblivious to the danger that lay within, he rushed forward just at the moment when Endamir leapt to his feet with blade outstretched, jealously guarding his brother's body.

Lindir twisted to one side to avoid the slashing blade that threatened to descend upon his head, hastily pivotting while retreating to the far side of the room. Lindir's sword slipped from his hand and clattered useless to the ground. Whether this act was intentional or not, it is impossible to say. Whatever the cause, Lindir now uttered soft, even words in a soothing voice that a mother might use with her crying babe. "Nay, Endamir. No more blood. Lay down your blade, as I have done. Stay with your brother as long as you wish. Then, when you are ready, tell us how we may honor him together."

Lindir took one step towards the grieving elf and then halted, waiting to see what he would do.