The Fellowship of the Fourth Age (Part 1): A New Beginning RPG

[Hilde Bracegirdle]

Carl

What happened?” Carl echoed to himself as he took the dry blanket the dwarf offered. With a painful twist, he reached around to replace the soaked blanket Ina still held wrapped about her narrow shoulders while the dwarf settled himself beside the two of them. The hobbit's mind still reeled. Turning back to face Vrór again it was with bleary eyes that Carl searched the familiar red-whiskered face, weighing just how detailed an answer to the question his friend was willing to hear. Deciding that the dwarf might understand his concerns better than most, he confided in a horse whisper, “I have come up with quite a few fine technical sounding reasons for this mess, and have spouted them off to Dorran too. Could have been a cloud burst over Ephel Duath you know, or some foul blockage downstream that didn’t let the other underground chamber drain properly, that sort of thing. But the more I think on it, and I've had plenty of time for that, the bare fact of the matter is I was a good site more worried about keeping the orcs in that pit, than keeping the water out of it. It was nothin’ but pure idiocy on my part. Not proud of it either! Not now. Never thought these young ones would be at risk, never in a million years!” He scooped up Ina’s small hand in his, as if he might lose the waif yet. Then catching sight of Dorran leading his wife away from the edge of the pit, he lapsed into silence, his shoulders sagging.

Vrór was silent for a moment too, and whatever the dwarf’s thoughts were regarding his confession, the hobbit could only wonder. And so Carl sat there quite miserable in his self-reproach, dreading and yet resigned to weather the scorn of his friend. Finally he heard the dwarf's voice rumble beside him, “If it had occurred just last night, I’m certain many would have declared the flood providential; a quick solution to a difficult dilemma.” The hobbit looked up and what he saw surprised him. It was not Vrór but Ina who frowned at him. She had been listening to the conversation much in the same way as she had the opinions that had aired around camp all morning. And though she might not understand all of it, the general feeling was unmistakably clear.

Letting go of Carl’s hand the little girl stood up and left them to search for Gwella in the crowd. Once she had been found, Ina took the blanket from her own shoulders and placed it gently around the young orc's, like a mantle. The little girl smiled self-consciously before she grabbed the orc's rough arm, patting it awkwardly. Well she remembered Gwella's crucial help moving the rock that would have caused her to drown, and she would never forget it. Carl bristled slightly when he saw Ina's display of trust, thinking it unwise to say the least, though he dimly remembered Gwella as somewhat helpful-natured, for an orc, though highly patronizing. Even then, would she be as mild now that she was free and among her own kind? The hobbit tried to spring to his feet to bring Ina back, but he never made it. The dull pain that had radiated through his skull became sharp with the sudden movement, and quickly saw to it that Carl was seated again, his head in his cradled in his hands.

“That is a sound blow you've had” Vrór announced after a quick search through the hobbit's mousey curls. “You've grown a knob on your head.”

“Aye, I have no doubt I'll live in spite of it! But for the life of me I can't reckon how it came to be there," Carl said, gingerly confirming the dwarf's observation with calloused fingers. "Now you don't suppose that orc had anything to do with it?” he whispered nodding toward Gwella, as Ina rapidly returned with the orc in tow. Vrór cleared his throat, but had little time to answer him for Ina had stopped in front of the two. She introduced Vrór to the orc announcing with the fierce sincerity of a young child, that Gwella was her best friend in all the world, and had kept her from drowning.”

Carl's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Had the lass been shown so little kindness that she would mistake Gwella’s actions for caring? Who knew what that creature’s motives were. The orc stood warily before him, and uttered a noise that to Carl’s ear sounded mid-way between a bird call and a low growl. Ina piped up whirring herself. “Oh yes, Gwerr too!” she said pointing to yet another orc, this one at the edge of the pit. "He kept me from drowning, and Mister Carl too."

As the hobbit tried to digest what Ina meant by this last bit of information, Vrór rose unsteadily to his feet and bowing politely to the young orc, thanked her for her help. But still unconvinced, Carl looked dubiously at the little girl’s new friend, while asking Ina if she noticed just how he had been hurt while underground.

As the hobbit tried to digest what Ina meant by this last bit of mystifying information, Vrór rose unsteadily to his feet and bowing politely to the young orc, thanked her for her help. But still unconvinced, Carl looked dubiously at the little girl’s new friend, while asking Ina if she noticed just how he had been hurt while underground.

"Don't you remember?” Ina returned, amazed.

This wasn't the response he had hoped for. With an offended air, for he felt rather ridiculous, the hobbit admitted stiffly that he in fact, did not recall.

Gwella's eyes narrowed at this. Not put off by the hobbit’s insinuations, she abruptly cut in to fill the gaps for him, “When the water burst out, you made grab for scrawny boy, and water smacked you hard against the wall.” The young orc clapped her hands together to demonstrate.

“Ah…the rock wall…” the hobbit muttered, reaching back to rest a hand on his head. “Well, that would make sense, I suppose.”

“Then Gwerr came down and pulled us all out,” Ina quickly added.

There it was again! “An orc saved us?” Carl echoed incredulously, looking at the dwarf who affirmed it.

“It was an orc who handed you up to where we could reach you, Carl. It seems he goes by the name of Gwerr. “

“So we all were saved by an orc?” Carl repeated again, not easily coming to terms with the outlandish notion that he owed his life to the devilish looking brute.

Ina stayed just long enough to nod. Then she took up the orc’s hand once more, and was off to find something to eat, showing Gwella her other friends along the way. Vrór and Carl silently watched them weaving among the staring people.

“But why?” the hobbit finally murmured.

“Hate and mistrust have been bywords for many here who know orcs better then I, but in Ina it appears that tide is turning,” the dwarf observed. “I’m as confused about it as you are Carl, though I saw it with my own eyes. Perhaps the flooding was providential after all.”

“Aye, and if Gwella saved the girl’s life, I'd say by the look of it, Ina's bound and determined to return the favor!” Carl replied. “I only hope no harm comes from it ...or this strange friendship!”

[Undómë]

Mazhg wanted simply to ignore the intrusive voice. She hunkered down even further and focused her attention on the rescue scene, willing it all to be over and they on their way. It was hard to ignore the fellow, however, especially with the nudge in her side from her sister’s elbow drawing it all the more to her attention. A sharp jab . . . and what was that sound? She turned her head, glaring at Zagra. ‘Sha!! What is wrong with you?!’

Zagra’s mouth was pulled up in a wide bow, and she’d raised her hands in an effort to cover it. The little fool was giggling!

‘He said ladies! Us . . . lady you, lady me!’ Zagra glanced quickly toward Rôg and back as quick again at her sister. ‘You know, Mazhg, like that tall lady . . . worked in the fields when we were little-little.’

Mazhg frowned, furrowing her brow at the elusive memory.

‘Her eyes were that ashy color . . . and hair like our color but long. Now you know, Mazhg?’ Zagra sang, in a high raspy voice, some nearly unrecognizable song. She leaned up against her sister, wrapping her arms about herself. ‘She used to smile at me ‘n’ you . . . and sometimes she would sing that little song to us . . . til she went away . . .’

'til she went away . . .

Mazhg had not the heart to tell her sister the lady had most likely been killed. ‘Yeah, I know who you talking about now,’ she said nodding her head. Mazhg put her arm about her sister’s shoulders and drew her close. Zagra hummed bits and pieces of the song, a happy look on her face.

Shifting her position a little, Mazhg looked toward Rôg, her brow raised in question. ‘You, man! What you want with us . . . ladies?’

[piosenniel]

‘Nothing, really,’ Rôg said, sitting fully down, cross-legged, on the sparsely grassed dirt. He leaned forward, elbows on knees; his chin resting on the palm of his left hand. ‘Just to talk, I suppose.’

The fingers of his right hand tapped out a rhythm on a small patch of grass and weeds. ‘You know,’ he went on, humming a little to his fingers’ rhythm. ‘I know that song you’re singing.....Zagra, isn’t it?’ He could almost recall the words, he thought. They were just on the tip of his tongue.

‘Where did you learn it? Do you remember what it’s about?’

[Undómë]

What are you doing?’ Mazhg hissed as reached up to grab at her sister’s wrist. She was not quick enough. Zagra had unfolded herself from where she sat on the ground and started across the small space between her and the odd man. The odd man who somehow knew the song the Lady had sung for her and Mazhg when they were little.

‘Yes, yes, that how it goes,’ she coaxed him. ‘Know words?’ she asked sitting down cross-legged close enough to reach out and touch his leg lightly.

Mazhg crept closer to the pair, amazed at the boldness of her sister. What did Zagra see in this strange fellow that she would trust him even a little?

Ah Bare eth thar en nuu ee I arr...

Zagra’s voice rasped out the mis-shapen sounds, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sang them. ‘The Lady say them about a pretty-pretty Lady, live far away, cross great water.’

She watched Rôg’s face for some glimmer of recognition. ‘You ‘member now?’

From the waistband of her raggedy breeches she fetched out a small object and leaning forward she held it out to him on the palm of her hand. It was of some sort of metal, quite tarnished and encrusted with much dirt. Through the layers of grime, though, some small stone set in it glittered hazily in the light.

‘This was for her hair...the Lady’s. Gave to us,’ Zagra offered shyly, nodding toward her sister. Mazhg’s face softened a little, the old memory rising of one small tender moment in the midst of their harsh lot.

[piosenniel]

‘Why, it’s lovely!’ Rôg brushed some of the grime from what remained of the hair clasp, smiling at the intricate working of the silver filigree. A few more swipes of his sleeve revealed the pale blue color of the stone set in it. He smiled at its loveliness imagining it set against a women’s raven hair....or then again, against some golden tresses. He wondered idly how the Elf had managed to keep this from her captors.

His countenance clouded, a growing sense of horror shifting the lovely scene to one of complete repulsion. Her captors! What had happened to her beneath their cruel handling? What foul hands of Orc and Men had sought to sully her beauty, her spirit? And what had happened to her in the end, he wondered, recalling the sisters’ talk of her in the long-past tense.

He narrowed his eyes, raising them up from this little piece of beauty to the figures of the two Orcs who sat by him. And how is it that the lady had managed in the midst of what must have been nearly beyond bearing to her to reach out to these two?

Rôg rubbed the little pretty thing against the front of his tunic, removing as he did so a few more willing layers of dirt. ‘She must have been lovely....’ He spoke low, his voice a bit husky as he passed the precious trinket back to Zagra.

‘You know, I do remember that song! I first heard it far in the north. Near the mountains and the river where the Wood Elves live.’

He closed his eyes and began to sing, interspersing the Elvish and the Common Speech. His voice, a pleasant, if plain, tenor, was hesitant at first and then grew more confident.

A Bereth thar Ennui Aeair!
O Queen beyond the Western Seas!

Calad ammen i reniar
O light to us that wander

Mi 'aladhremmin ennorath.
Amid the tree-woven lands of Middle-earth.

A Elbereth Gilthoniel
O Elbereth Star-kindler

I chin a thûl lín míriel...
Your eyes and breath are like shining jewels...

[Durelin]

Vrór

Vrór nodded silently at Carl’s words, not sure what was left to say, especially as tired as he was and with so many thoughts filling his head. He watched Ina and Gwella, combinations of fear and anger disturbing him, along with wonder and guilt. He also looked back to the pit and watched as the adult orc who had helped in the rescue was pulled up from the pit by the men. He watched as one young man took the orc by the arm – and slippery as it was he held his grip – to help him out the rest of the way, while the other men simply observed, clearly uncertain.

Uncertain, uneasy was exactly how Vrór felt. He was afraid of what might come of all this, whether or not it was a peaceable outcome. He could only imagine how these men felt, slaves and inhabitants of Mordor, if not by their own choice, who had lived with orcs such as these even as their taskmasters. He was surprised by those who took it so well, such as the young man who helped the orc fully free himself from the pit by his own hand – Hadith, he believed his name was. It did seem the youths were having the easiest time interacting with the creatures. Perhaps he should not think of them as ‘creatures’, but it would be a hard habit to break.

“Clearly there is no longer the question of execution, but few if any will be as quick to…friendship…as Ina.” Vrór frowned. “I hope she does not become too attached to this ‘Gwella’…or Gwerr, was it?”

~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~

Khamir

Khamir was prepared along with the others to pull the orc up. He still held onto the rope as the creature took hold of it, and for a moment or two he put his strength into his one arm and pulled with the other men behind him. But as he watched the orc’s face quickly grow closer, and found himself simultaneously drawn to its eyes and repulsed by the idea of looking into them, he let go of the rope. Khamir rose, glancing at Adnan as he did so that their eyes met, and took several paces toward where Athwen and others cared for the children, as if he wished to check on them.

The Southron saw then one of the children, a girl, her clothes still clinging to her from being saturated, holding hands with the orc child. Or an orc child. Was it even the same one, that had burst from hiding to interrupt the execution? How many were there of these things, hiding around their camp and now walking among them? Khamir turned sharply back to see the one male orc out of the pit. He was not even sure where the others were, or the women.

The children were huddled in blankets, men and women tending to them, helping to dry them off and sharing with them their body heat as the sun was becoming low on the horizon. The Dwarf and Hobbit sat together nearby, talking. Everyone was so calm. It was so quiet. Khamir wanted to scream.

Then he heard Beloan speak, raising his voice even though he specifically addressed only Gwerr. “Tell your companions that you are free to go, and that we will give you what supplies we can to help you on your own journey. And that I give you my word that we will not trouble you should we meet again.”

Khamir strode over to his old friend and grabbed him tightly by the shoulder, forcing him to face him. “Free to go? Just because they have not yet done us harm – and for a time that was only because we did not allow it! – that does not mean they will be so kind to others, especially any who travel in fewer numbers. They are orcs, Beloan, and you are parleying with them? You would help them?”

“They have helped us,” Beloan replied simply, his voice quieter. He seemed to look at his friend with sadness. It made Khamir feel ill. He turned from Beloan with anger and walked away.

Khamir walked a good distance beyond the southern edge of the camp, until finally he collapsed, as if from exhaustion. And he was exhausted – physically, he was tired, but the weariness went far beyond aching muscles. His very will had been extinguished. His will, his reason, his purpose had all been slowly disintegrated in a matter of days. His words no longer held any meaning to anyone, no one followed his judgment anymore. He had lost men, good men…

What had they set out for? A new life, a new beginning, away from the plantations, where they could labor only for their own sakes, their own nourishment and comfort. For the first time Khamir tried to imagine what his role would be in that new life, what he would do. He knew no craft, he could write but only very simply, he had physical strength but was without his right arm… He remembered how greatly his value as a slave had decreased after that orc’s act of blind anger. It had been punished, too. Khamir had been treated worse and worse from then on, as he was no longer really worth keeping alive.

Those orcs had given him nothing but scars, they had only taken away. And yet he lived to see his friend, his friend through it all, let creatures of Mordor walk away untouched, laden with gifts…

But he lived. For what, he no longer knew, but he lived.

[Firefoot]

Grask had been completely forgotten in all the chaos. He’d curled up in a ball by himself at the edge of the brush, cradling his broken arm against his thin body. His sobbing had mostly quieted, though an unbidden tear still sometimes leaked from his eyes. The cruel, cruel men, how they had hurt him! His arm was useless now, completely useless, and any movement would send another shock of pain straight through it.

But none of the rest of them cared. See how he had tried to stick up for Ishkur, yet Ishkur had no thought for him now. And the females, what did they care for just another young Orcling, nearly old enough to be counted among the men? And the Men - ! Grask’s eyes darkened at the thought. He was lucky they had not killed him straight out, and would be lucky again if they didn’t hunt him down now that the activity seemed to be dying out. It occurred to him to move deeper into the brush to hide, but he had neither the strength nor the will. He had not even fetched his short blade from where it had landed earlier when the big brute broke his arm. He had another, though. With just one blade, he was no worse off than he had been before they had stumbled across the Man-camp in the first place.

Contemplating these things, Grask at some point began to shiver, whether from shock, fear, or a sudden chill, or all three. But then, for some inexplicable reason, a soothing sensation came over him. Was that a song? Yes, a song, and far different than any he had ever heard. No Orc could sing like that. It must be one of the Men then… but that thought, rather than invoking more fear, brought only gentle peace to his young heart. Suddenly exhausted, Grask fell swiftly asleep, the song of the Elves in his ears.