Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[piosenniel]

The Three ~ A Prologue

Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,
Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

In the Second Age of Middle-earth, deep within the heat of the forge, the rhyme was fulfilled. Sauron, under the disguise of one named Annatar, had come to the Elven-smiths, the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of Eregion. Dark magic bred deception, and Sauron the Deceiver seduced the Elves, taking on a body fair and majestic. The might of a Maia and the skill of the elven craftsmen brought into the world a new power, a power which few knew the true greatness of. It is unlikely that even its creators knew its full power, besides perhaps the great trickster, the servant of Morgoth. Might and authority, fueled by deep magic from the dawn of time, was poured into the molds in the shapes of rings, and these creations, the greatest of crafts forged by the Noldorin smiths, became the Rings of Power.

The magic of all nineteen of these rings, and one other, would be a part of Sauron’s greatest treachery. Only three would survive and make the journey to Valinor with their bearers. These were the greatest of the Rings, named Narya, Nenya, and Vilya, which had been forged by Celebrimbor himself, Lord of Eregion.

~*~*~*~

c. SA 1590

“It has been quite some time since I saw Lord Celebrimbor…” The Elf trailed off, an unspoken question hanging on the silence that followed. “It has been some time for me as well, Master Annúnfin,” Maegisil replied, speaking as if he was only lightly commenting, but answering his companion quite seriously. He knew it was important business when Annúnfin wished to speak with the Lord Celebrimbor, and when the Elf-lord had been absent from his normal duties for so long. “I will be sure to inform him that you wish to speak with him, when I do see him,” he finished, his last words bringing many thoughts to his mind. When…I hope that shall not be much longer.

It was difficult for Maegisil to explain to all those who wished to receive an audience with the lord that he could not even speak to his master, and had not been able to for many days; this was unexpected, as Maegisil had served Celebrimbor as the lord’s attendant for many years now. Though Maegisil would never be so bold as to say it, he was also a close friend, and an old friend, of the lord.

Celebrimbor had been spending almost all of his time in the forge, sweating over his work, and conversing mostly with the visitor, Annatar. The strange elf – at least, Maegisil believed he was an elf; he was certainly of a fair race, though it was impossible to say which he belonged to for sure – seemed to be some sort of a magician. What business this elf had with the Lord of Eregion was a mystery to Maegisil, as well as to all those who had never even had a chance to speak to the lord before, and those who knew him well. It was bewildering to all except those who worked in the forge with Celebrimbor and this ‘Annatar’, some of the greatest of the Noldorin craftsmen, second only to Celebrimbor himself. For almost seven days now the forges at Ost-in-Edhil had been burning, it seemed, day and night, and had been kept off-limits to most of the city dwellers. Maegisil had ventured to speak to his lord the previous afternoon, and had briefly watched several of the smiths at work. There had been much noise emerging at a constant rate from the forge for those past 6 days, so that Maegisil had barely been able to hear his own voice over the clamor, but now all was quiet, and only the barred doors told anyone that they were still hard at work. Hopefully, though, the silence meant that their task, whatever it was, was nearing completion, and Maegisil would no longer have to wait in his Lord Celebrimbor’s antechamber, spending hours pacing and straightening gemmed statues and chests, and delicately woven tapestries on the walls, and rich cloths over table-tops…none of which needed any straightening whatsoever.

Annúnfin muttered some kind of thanks with a slight bow of his head in simple respect, and turned to go. But Maegisil watched as the elf turned back in one swift motion and looked him in the eye, and he prepared himself for more questions that he could not answer. He was surprised when Annúnfin simply said, “I was pleased to hear you have found yourself a wife, Maegisil.”

Maegisil stumbled on his thoughts for a moment, his mouth open to reply but words coming out. Finally his mind caught up with his mouth and he responded. “Thank you,” he began, a little uncertain, and obviously caught off-guard by Annúnfin’s comment. “It has been wonderful, very wonderful.”

A small smile formed on Annúnfin’s face, his eyes full of an understanding that Maegisil believed he would never have. Master Annúnfin was decidedly his elder, and never left any doubt of this in Maegisil’s impression. The elder elf turned to go again, and this time, Maegisil watched him walk away through the large gilded doors that exited into the great hallway that led up to his chambers. Maegisil’s mind traveled to thoughts of Sairien, his wife. But he did not have long to dwell on these, as they were interrupted by the flinging open of the doors of the antechamber. Immediately Maegisil looked up from the patch of beautifully tiled floor he had been staring at, knowing before his eyes even had a chance to see who was entering the chamber that only one person had ever flung those doors open before, and normally in excitement.

“Maegisil! My dear Maegisil!” Celebrimbor was practically shouting, seemingly frantic with excitement, full of energy, and obviously quite happy to see the elf that he had just found waiting in his antechamber. “I have much to tell you!”

“As have I to tell you, my lord,” Maegisil responded, maintaining an outwardly calm and dutiful appearance, though he was full of happiness to see that his lord was quite safe and healthy, and to finally be able to speak with him. He also felt a certain amount of excitement following Celebrimbor’s entrance, matching the elf-lord’s manner.

“Please, Maegisil, there is no necessity for any ‘my lord’s. These are my chambers, and so you may call me what you please.” Maegisil knew this, though he did like showing what he felt was the proper respect, and was prepared to respond, but he was ran over by Celebrimbor’s words, which rushed out in his enthusiasm.

“But you must know…I have finished them, and they are the greatest of all things I, or anyone, has ever crafted. Perhaps they are great enough even to relinquish my cursed House’s honor, though I doubt there is anything even an immortal can do in this Age or any Age to come that would out-do the power of the Oath of Fëanor.”

The lord paused long enough for Maegisil to speak quickly, “What have you finished, my lord?”

In his haste, he had forgotten to leave off the ‘my lord’, but it seemed that Celebrimbor no longer cared, as he was too deep in thought, seemingly enthralled with this new accomplishment that he spoke of vehemently. “Why, they are the Three. They are the greatest of the Rings of Power, of all 19. Yes, 19, after 90 years. And I fear there must be more to come. They truly are like nothing this world has known, even in Ages past, even with the War of the Silmarils long behind us. Of course, the creation of most of the rings was made possible by Annatar, and now…” He trailed off, his excitement slowly turning from confusion to what could only be fear. That was not something Maegisil was accustomed to seeing on the face and in the eyes of the elf-lord.

“Now what? I do not understand…” Maegisil trailed off, realizing that he really had nothing to say, though there were hundreds of questions running through his mind.

“Now, I am afraid I have made a grave mistake. A mistake that will affect the lives of many in both this Age and the Age to come, perhaps even Ages to come. I am very afraid, Maegisil, very afraid of what I, and my craftsmen, have done, and I am even more afraid of what the one I know only as Annatar has done, and what he will do. O by the Valar, Maegisil! For the first time in my life, I do not know what to do.”

Maegisil felt very uncertain in the silence that followed; he was confused, as well as uneasy and afraid, though he did not even understand why he was at all at unrest, except for what he saw in the look in Celebrimbor’s eyes and what he heard in the tone of his voice.

“What should I do, my lord?” he asked, cautiously, breaking the silence.

“I do not…” he stopped in the middle of this thought, took a breath, collecting himself, and started again, his thoughts renewed, “Soon, the Three must go from here. They must be hidden; they cannot be kept here. Though Annatar is gone, and he has been gone for some time, they mustn’t be within his reach. There is no way to undo what has been done, but, though they seem a curse to me now, the Three will not leave the house of our people.”

~*~*~*~

c. 1600

Maegisil bowed before the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn next to an elf he did not know the name of and their dwarf companions. He and this elf had traveled through Moria at the direction of the dwarves to exit through the eastern gate and make their way to Lorien, where they had recently been welcomed and led to Caras Galadon. Maegisil had been told very little by Celebrimbor, and was given only the instructions to guard his elf companion, and not bring any attention to themselves or their movements. Following orders, Maegisil did not ask the elf his name, and spoke to him only to make suggestions as to what paths they should take to avoid different obstacles of the land. Now that they had reached their destination, Maegisil did not speak at all.

The strange elf rose from his bow as the Lady Galadriel came forward. He turned to give Maegisil a look that clearly meant to stay out of his business. So Maegisil backed away to stand some distance from the elf, gesturing that the dwarves following him. Of course Viss Stonecut and his companions did not like this at all, and they grumbled a bit before joining Maegisil. Viss was the first to move, and the rest followed his lead. At least two of the dwarves present were certainly related to him, and younger, and obviously they held some kind of respect for him. There were only four dwarves, but even four of that race was enough to be quite the crowd, and they looked odd standing in a clump in the domain and presence of so many elves. Maegisil remained removed from them and watched in wonder as Galadriel accepted a small wooden chest from the unnamed elf. The Lady’s face was marvelously frightening as it scanned the faces of those who surrounded her, meeting Maegisil’s eyes for a moment. She did not smile as she had when she greeted them.

Suddenly she spoke, and spoke to all present. It seemed she was not as keen to hiding the proceedings. “Remember that there will always be light in Lorien, as I will bear this Ring, Nenya. You will always be safe here.” And as she raised her hand aloft just slightly, all present realized she had opened the chest and already donned what it contained. The beauty of Nenya startled them all, and left them full of wonder. Soon, far away upon the western shores of Middle-earth, the Elven-kings Gil-galad and Cirdan would wear the Rings Narya and Vilya, and the Three Rings for the Elven-kings, and Queen, would remain as powers of good in Middle-earth until they passed over into the West.

-------

-- by Durelin

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar's post

Early Autumn/Lindon -- SA 1695

It was late in the second day of the council. The sense of urgency had not diminished, nor had the anger. ‘The King counseled the fools,’ murmured Ondomirë to himself, his head shaking at the news that Morgoth’s captain, Sauron, had at last revealed himself. ‘Annatar, he called himself. Lord of Gifts! Pah! Even now the name brings a taste of soured bile to my tongue. Were they so eager for his knowledge that they forgot the hard lessons Fëanor brought upon us?’

Many, many years had passed since the tall, fair-faced Annatar had come to Lindon, offering to teach his skills to the Elves dwelling in the High King’s lands. He’d been sent away then by Gil-galad; his offers to show how Endor, Middle-earth, might be made as fair and lasting as Valinor rejected. Since then, it was told, he had insinuated himself into one of the Elven guilds in Eregion. Teaching them his glamoured skills. And now, dread Wolf that he was, he had pounced on his prey as it contrived to oppose him. His retribution would be swift and overwhelming. Death, and worse, would come to the Elves of Eregion, to their cities, their lands. Sauron’s armies would sweep west over the King’s lands until he and his dark army stood at the borders of Lindon itself.

‘And what does he seek, I wonder?’ asked Ondomirë to himself. ‘He and his Lord always hated the Elves. But reports from Ost-in-Edhil and from Lorien imply there is more than just the wish to subdue the Elven peoples. What have the Mirdain done . . . what has the House of Fëanor done now?’

Ondomirë sat back in his chair, his eyes on Gil-galad at the head of the table as he spoke with various of his trusted captains. He could see the beard of Cirdan as the Elf stroked it, teasing hard answers from it, it seemed, with the thoughtful movements of his fingers. The bright golden hair of Glorfindel gleamed in light thrown from the jeweled lamps. His head moving in ‘yays’ or ‘nays’ as they spoke. And Elrond, his dark grey eyes thoughtful, bent over the map of Eriador, as he traced a route from The Havens to The Hithaeglir, the Misty Mountains.

A frown creased Ondomirë’s brow as he watched Cirdan and Glorfindel deferring to what Elrond was saying. The King, too, nodded his head and clapped Elrond on his shoulder. Ondomirë looked up as the King stood, announcing to the room in general now that troops would be sent to aid Celebrimbor and his people in Ost-in-Edhil. And that Lord Elrond would lead them.

‘Now that is an interesting move,’ commented Ondomirë, loud enough for the Elf to his left to hear him. ‘The King has passed over Cirdan and Glorfindel, both more seasoned than Elrond, and chosen the younger Elf to lead his troops for this battle. Why is that I wonder?’ Brows raised, he glanced at the Elf who was now listening to his out-loud ponderings. In the meantime, the King had called for volunteers to lead the various divisions of Elves he would be sending.

His eyes narrowing as he wondered at Gil-galad’s choice, Ondomirë stood, saying he would gather and captain the archers if it were so wished. ‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

[piosenniel]

Orofaniel's post

‘Best we give the stripling all the support we can, don’t you think?’ he said quietly as he sat back down.

"Ondomirë, you know better, age and wisdom are not automatically connected," Geldion said under his breath, smiling at the elf, who had just gotten up from his seat to volunteer to lead the archers in the upcoming battle.

It was Geldion turn to get up. "My friend here Ondomire," Geldion started, looking back at the elf, "has just volunteered to lead one of the division," Geldion then said. "Aye, it will be the archers," Ondomirë confirmed. "It would be my honour, my King, if I could lead the division with the swordsmen," Geldion said.

The King looked at him. He didn't look surprised, but curious, or even - in wonder. Why would he volunteer for that, an elf who had not experience whatsoever with leading any force or sort of armies at all? "I know what The King must be thinking. I have not leaded any divisions before. I am merely a humble advisor. I am nevertheless, a warrior as well. I'm highly skilled with the sword, and therefore I would be honoured if the King would grant me the division of swordsmen,” Geldion finished. But just as the words and sentences had slipped from his tongue, he felt as though if he regretted it; this was no place for him. He was not able to lead soldiers into war. It didn’t suit him. He couldn’t do it; he was after all just an advisor. Tactics and strategies was his main field. He was however, a good warrior in combats. He admitted not to be as talented with the spears as with as swords though.

His thoughts circulated for a few seconds, before he opened his mouth again; “It is a task of great responsibility and it is perhaps too much for me to undertake at this point. Thus, I understand if the council wishes me to withdraw and come as a soldier only. Either way, I will do as you command, my King." He straightened his back, not looking the King in the eyes. He found himself trying to avoid the eyes of the elves present at the meeting.

The elves said naught for a couple of moments. All seemed to be in deep thought. Elrond had turned away from the map, and was now looking at Gil -Galad

"I think it only fair that you shall be the captain of the swordsmen," and elf said, but not clear or loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Indeed," another elf whispered. "You have served me well over the years," the King said. "You shall therefore lead the swordsman, but remember not only to use your skills when in battle, but also when preparing for it. You shall go not only as a Captain, but also as an advisor. Remember that," Gil-Galad said quietly. A feeling of great sensation of joy and relief reached Geldion's body and mind as the King spoke. Maybe he had been too critical towards his own abilities. Perhaps he was the right man for this task after all. The king, the man Geldion respected the most, showed confidence in him by giving him the swordsmen division, and thus Geldion promised himself not to fail or be defeated.

"Thank you, my King. I will not fail," he said and thanked the elves altogether, as he bowed. "Let us hope so," Ondomirë said, smiling at him as Geldion seated again.

[piosenniel]

Durelin's post

Late in the year SA 1695

Maegisil rushed up several flights of stairs only to stop and cautiously enter a pair of gilded doors, his mind filled with memories, all that he recalled from a day over a century ago. It did not seem that long ago, and yet the thought that the day he recalled was only several days after he had asked for his Sairien’s hand in marriage was nearly unbelievable.

Entering the chamber behind the gilded double doors, Maegisil found, of course, exactly whom he was looking for, reclining on a long couch and examining a game board with many small, flat, rounded stone pieces on it in designated positions. It was some kind of strategy game that the elf-lord had once tried to teach to Maegisil, praising how consuming it was and how much it put the mind in a struggle, forcing it to think as quickly as it could under pressure. Just what a general needed, he had said. As Maegisil had no interest in becoming a general, and simply wished to remain in his place at Celebrimbor’s side in battle, he had quickly given up on the game.

“My lord,” he began cautiously, interrupting Celebrimbor’s thoughts so that the lord’s head snapped up from the game board with a perturbed look on his face. His face softened quickly, though, and he asked Maegisil what had brought him here.

“Well, sir, we have received word from the King Gil-galad that the servant of Morgoth, Sauron, has grown in power enough that his armies have begun to terrorize the eastern part of these lands.”

“Sauron…much have I heard that name of late.” The elf-lord rose, a troubled look on his face, and began to pace. “He has even been in my dreams,” he paused in his pacing, and in his words, to look Maegisil in the eye, urgency written upon his face.

“It was only a matter of time before he would attack and strike back at our people.”

“But we still are in possession of the Three, and they are safe.” Maegisil cut in, reminding the elf-lord that there was at least one possible advantage.

“I can only hope that they will be more a blessing than the curse that they seem to be,” Celebrimbor quickly said in response to Maegisil’s statement, still unsure of whether or not the safe existence of the Three was in fact a good thing.

“They are not a curse as long as they are safe in the hands of Kings and a Queen of our people," the younger elf assured his lord. “And Lord Elrond has been sent to our aid with a considerable force,” Maegisil said, hoping to bring some kind of relief to his lord, uncertain of what the elf was so afraid of, and quickly growing afraid himself.

“It will be some time before he will reach us here, and Sauron will be moving quickly. Not too quickly – he is too wise for that. But his armies will arrive in Eregion, and they will march upon the gates of Ost-in-Edhil, and he will call upon me. But he does not know where the Three are, nor of the oath I have sworn…”

“We will be prepared for Sauron’s attack, my lord," Maegisil said, again trying to give his lord confidence in the situation. “Sauron is very strong, and our strength here does not match that of Forlindon and Harlindon, but there are many in Eregion that will fight for you.”

Celebrimbor laughed slightly, leaving Maegisil confused. It was almost a bitter laugh, and was the kind of laugh you hear from someone who is distressed and yet finds something to be darkly laughable. “I know you will fight for me, Maegisil,” the elf-lord said, “but I ask it of you and others to fight for our people, for their families.”

Maegisil only nodded, standing grave and silent before his lord, and recalling the day over century ago when Celebrimbor had first told him of the Rings. He was again afraid as he had been on that day, and when he looked at Celebrimbor, tall, fair, and brooding, he knew that the lord felt that same: afraid and uncertain. The biggest difference to Maegisil this time was the more prominent presence of Sauron. Since around the year 1200 of that age, word had it Sauron had been establishing his fortress in Mordor, and now the threat of the Dark Lord was even more of a reality, and all were learning to tremble slightly at that name, most likely to the pleasure of its bearer.

Celebrimbor asked Maegisil if he would bring the King’s emissary to him, feeling it of course proper that he receive them and speak to them himself. The younger elf quickly obeyed and left the elf-lord alone, deep in thought. The master of the Elvensmiths had much on his mind, and few of his thoughts were pleasant.

As he had sworn, the Three Rings, the greatest creations he had ever crafted, which he had hoped would be a blessing to himself and to his people, would never fall out of the hands of the Eldar, as they were hidden safely. They had been for close to a century, as he had long awaited the time when Sauron the Deceiver, or ‘Annatar’ as he had known him for a time, would strike with the power of his Ring. But the other rings were all in Sauron’s possession. Celebrimbor kept coming back to this thought, the knowledge of just how far the Deceiver’s power extended. But, as the elf-lord kept telling himself, he would never have the greatest, the Three. They would be a powerful defense for his people. Or so, at least, he hoped the future of these rings would unfold. I beg of Ilúvatar, let not the Oath of Fëanor mar this.

[piosenniel]

Amanaduial the archer's post

Seated gracefully on the banks of the river, Ost-in-Edhil spread it’s elegant almost lotus-shaped leaves out over the River Glanduin. Bordered on one side by mountains and surrounded by rivers on all others – the Glanduin and smaller Siranon, glancing off the larger river, the tributaries of Nin-in-Eilph, and the majestic Mitheithel – it sat harmlessly in the South of Eregion. In the capital of the ‘holly region’, all was hustle and bustle as always: the year was drawing on yet above the heads of the elven inhabitants the holly leaves still swung gently in the winds, and the sound of the elvensmiths in their forges, always, always sang out among their evergreen leaves. From a birdseye view, little could the eagles that circled regally overhead have guessed what busy little bees had been working on inside those forges – and what evil their creations would bring from over the mountains of Mordor…

As Maegisil was rushing hastily down the stairs of Celebrimbor’s regal dwelling from his master’s rooms on his master’s errand, one of the Lord of Eregion’s other advisors was also working hard, but far away from the finery of Celebrimbor’s rooms, where her lordship played games of strategy. Hers was another type of work indeed: the work that Ost-in-Edhil’s Mirdain were famous for.

The clang of Nerisiel’s hammer rang out again and again on the anvil, the flat-ended instrument chiming out almost musically. The elf took careful aim each time before she clashed iron against steel, but the force with which she smashed down her tool seemed to convey anger more than anything else. Eventually, her pale face glinting in the firelight of the forge, the elvensmith set her hammer down, with a pair of tongs, lifted the object of her attentions from the anvil; and after close inspection, she nodded slightly, her delicate features satisfied, and took the item over to her workbench. Setting the article – a new sword blade – carefully down on the bench, Nerisiel seated herself beside it, her feet curling up around the chair leg in an almost lady like manner that was somewhat contradicted by the loose, dark workman’s trousers that they were clad in, overlaid with the shin-length leather apron common to working smiths. Not that any who came to see the Master Smith would have commented on it – or not out loud anyway. After all, in Ost-in-Edhil, female smiths were not entirely uncommon – but for one to reach her standard of craftsmanship: that was.

Humming softly to herself, the elf studied the blade she had made closely, holding it almost delicately in the tongs although it had now cooled sufficiently to be touched. It was a commissioned blade from one of her husband’s colleagues, a Captain in Eregion’s army, as a gift for his son, and would therefore be rather more ornamental before she had finished with it. After all, her own blade, which hung proudly over her forge as an example of her work, was testimony to the fact that simply because a weapon is a tool of violence, it cannot also be a thing of beauty – and having known the boy to whom the sword would be bestowed since be was a small child no more than about ten summers, she intended to make this article just such. Nothing less would do for Nerisiel, for she was after all a jewel smith above all else. A profession which had come back recently to haunt her… The elf pursed her lips grimly and turned back to the task in hand. Yes, the blade would have to take another heating before the engravings that she planned were carved on it, but not too much: she could begin them today, it was not too late in the day…

“Who is that for?”

The voice came from the entrance to the forge and was one so familiar to the smith that it did not make her jump but instead prompted a smile on her pretty features. She turned, smiling, to face the young elf who leant with his arms nonchalantly crossed against the door post of her workshop, the leaves of the holly that was trained around her doorway lightly brushing hair as dark as his own. Her finest work of art: her son.

“It is for a friend of yours actually, Artamir – Leneslath, Captain Rimborien’s son. A gift from his parents, a reward for his recent promotion?” Artamir nodded, coming slowly forward into the dim of the forge, the light glinting mischievously in his eyes, lighter than those of his mother, as he examined the blade from behind his mother’s shoulder. She turned to watch her son proudly: he would be fifty summers this year and had truly grown into a beautiful young man, a son who both she and her husband were proud of.

Artamir smiled at his mother, stepping back slightly, and then nodded towards the beginnings of a hilt that lay further down the bench. “For the same?” When his mother nodded, Artamir raised his eyebrows. “Silver? Will you be using rubies with it?”

She smiled and shook her head. Although he was bound to be a soldier, as his father was, she was glad that her son nonetheless did not dismiss his mother’s art and had come to appreciate her craft – even to the point of knowing some of her designs. “Emerald. His previous sword was made of the same, Rimborien informs me, and besides, they will suit his nature more: he is a far less fierce young man than yourself, Artamir!” she chided teasingly.

“And where did I get such a trait, I wonder, mother? Not from my father I think…” the younger elf grinned and raised a sardonic eyebrow at his mother. “Am I then to have rubies?”

Nerisiel kept a straight face as she replied, “What makes you think you shall receive such gems in your sword, my son? Why, I had intended simply a plain design for you – nay, in fact, your current training sword shall do just fine, I shall model my design on that!” she teased, referring to the sword that Artamir used for sword training, a plain, blockish instrument that the smith’s trained elf regarded critically as the bare essentials – that is, it had a blade, a hilt, and not much else. Her son’s eyes widened – he still had the innocence of youth enough to be surprised – then he put on a mock sad face. “As you wish, mother…”

Nerisiel laughed and embraced her son fondly before sending him on his way out of her workshop – he had come by on his way home from training with a few of his friends, and he proudly informed her that Rimborien’s son – a boy no few years older than himself – had complimented him on his style. Nerisiel smiled at the doorway that her son had just left. Style, they said? And style his gift would most certainly have, once his coming of age was reached next summer – as Sirithlonnior, his father, would certainly have been able to tell him, had Nerisiel not sworn him to secrecy, for a light came into her eyes whenever she spoke of the sword’s details. The blade she made as her son’s first sword would be one of her finest weaponry creations yet…

Her finest creations yet…

Nerisiel sighed heavily and rubbed her tired eyes with the back of one hand. The thought of those rings, those finest of all pieces ever created, and her part in their making had returned more and more often to her mind of late. Pushing away the sword blade she had been working on, the smith walked across her workshop and stepped out into the street outside to behold the view from the city walls. Although she had the privilege to work for and with Celebrimbor in the innermost forges, she had not wishes to give up her own workshop at the East side of the city, for the memories it had of her earliest days with her mentor, and for the view it held over the Sirannon and the mountains to the East. Maybe this siting was no longer such an advantage: every day, Nerisiel was reminded of the darkness that was growing in the East, over those mountains in Mordor…

Sighing, the elvensmith returned to her desk and, after a slight hesitation, she put aside the soft cloth that she had her hand on with a mind to wrapping it up. No: she had people to see but what use would it be to brood on the dark thoughts on her mind? After all, Leneslath’s blade would not get done itself… Picking up the tongs again and resuming her humming as she tried to lighten her heart, Nerisiel returned to her forge to heat the blade – the engraving would be next. As her humming continued, the elvensmith’s heart lifted as she turned once again to the business in hand – weaponry, rather than those three, beautiful pieces of jewellery…

[piosenniel]

Alcarillo's post

Cainenyo’s hammer struck a glowing rod of iron, casting sparks across his forge. He was as happy as could be while working; there was little he loved more than to create something usable out of what previously wasn’t. Cainenyo turned the long rod of iron over with tongs, and struck it some more, creating a shower of sparks. He plunged the rod in a bucket of water, throwing steam up into the air. After heating the rod to a warm glow in the furnace, set into the wall and where he heated his iron to make it malleable, he resumed striking the iron on the anvil, gradually forming a distinguishable shape out of it.

Cainenyo’s forge was open to the streets of Ost-in-Edhil, separated by only a few arches and two steps downwards. People could come and go as they pleased, purchasing wares and asking for specific items to be made. The forge itself was focused around the anvil, like the centerpiece of a table set for a feast. Cainenyo’s wares were spread about his forge. They lay displayed on tables and hanging to the walls, examples of the blacksmith’s skill. Cainenyo made things to beautify or serve a purpose in the home: trellises, small slender tables, candelabras, braziers, and elegant grills to cap drainage pipes. But Cainenyo could also make knives, swords, armor, arrowheads, spearheads, and other less domestic goods. Cainenyo, as an expert in iron, was not limited to what he could make.

Cainenyo continued to beat his rod of iron, manipulating it with heavy black tongs and crafting it into a delicate shape, resembling a long blade of grass. He was creating a knife, one to be used in self-defense against an attacker. He plunged it into his bucket of water and held it firmly in his hand, swinging it about for a moment and testing it against an imaginary orc. Cainenyo found the knife to be suitable, and placed it in an old chest near the furnace. He would perform the finishing touches tomorrow. The sun was beginning to set and he decided to finish for the day and enter the house to see his wife, Alassante.

Cainenyo wiped his gloves on his leather apron. Removing the gloves, he noticed a tall figure standing in one of the archways. It was his son, Arenwino, who was apprenticed to a silver-smith across the city. Arenwino was not quite as tall as his father, but more slender, with the wavy dark hair of his mother. He wore the gloves and apron of a silversmilth, and hoped to work with the Mírdain when his apprenticeship was finished.

“You’re back. How did today go?” Cainenyo asked his son.

“It was fine. Today Celebdur taught me more about making molds and such. We made some rings for an engaged couple.” Arenwino said, descending the steps into the forge. He looked about the strewn instruments and noticed the flaming furnace and asked, “Were you making something?”

“Yes, a knife.” Cainenyo answered, “There have been a lot more requests for weaponry these days.” He continued after a short pause, “That reminds me. I have a gift for you.”

Arenwino waited in anticipation as Cainenyo moved to a table to the side of his anvil. There he delicately picked up a long sword. Arenwino stood closer, gazing at the long, curved blade. The flames of the furnace danced on its smooth surface. It was handed to Arenwino, who held it admiringly.

“Thank you, Father,” he spoke, “But what is the occasion? I don’t deserve a sword like this one.”

“Well, there is no occasion, as of now,” Cainenyo answered, “But there may be. I hear of orcs harassing the edges of Eregion, and I don’t want my son to be caught without defense if he happens to be traveling abroad and is ambushed. And besides, who knows how far the orcs might come. What if they attack the city?”

“But surely they won’t. We have soldiers aplenty, and why would they attack Ost-in-Edhil?”

Cainenyo picked up the bucket of water. “Well, I’ve heard that that Annatar, who helped Celebrimbor create those rings, has turned against him. He’s sending orcs against us, or so I’ve heard from the refugees entering the city each day.” He doused the flames of the furnace, sending steam everywhere.

“Will you be asked to fight?” Arenwino looked concerned. The sun was now setting.

“I doubt that. I’m more useful staying here and making weapons and armor than going off to battle. But don’t worry. If I am asked to fight I’ve already made armor for myself and I have a sword. It’s getting late; let’s go inside.”

Cainenyo hung his apron on a peg by the door that led into his home and put away what tools were left laying about. They entered the home’s courtyard through an arched doorway. The courtyard was a small space mostly taken up by a square pool for collecting rainwater and a few bushes of fragrant flowers. They were greeted by Alassante, Cainenyo’s wife and Arenwino’s mother. She was pregnant, and the new child was due in four more months. Alassante’s wavy brown hair fluttered in a slight breeze coming through the open doorway. She wore a light, simple dress, comfortable and loose. She kissed both her son and husband, and led them towards the entrance to the house.

Then Alassante noticed the sword in Arenwino’s hands. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

“Father gave it to me,” said Arenwino, “He told me that orcs were crawling all over the edges of Eregion, and that refugees are coming to the city. He said that the orcs might come here, too, and that I shouldn’t be unarmed. Isn’t that true, Father?”

“It’s certainly a possibility,” Cainenyo said, and his wife frowned at him as they entered the house. Arenwino smiled, despite the future’s uncertainty.

[Durelin]

Maegisil watched as a bird fluttered its way through the deep green leaves of the holly to perch on a branch. The tree grew just to the right of the small balcony on which the elf stood as he watched the eastern sky to his left grow pale as the sun inched its way up from behind the Misty Mountains. The bird remained all but perfectly still on its branch for some time, and Maegisil did the same, keeping his eyes on it. The sight of it as he perceived every slight movement brought to his mind thoughts of a time and a place where birds could speak to men and men could speak to birds. But soon he no longer really saw the creature, and his mind traveled to somewhere that he knew must be only a small distance away. There were Orcs to the east. The threat of Sauron weighed upon his mind and heart in the ghastly forms of fear and despair.

“Fly away, little bird,” Maegisil said softly, watching the bird’s beady little black eyes search the sky, “This you may do, and no one shall think any less of you for it. Not so is the case with me. I must show a face of bravery to the eyes of many, particularly those whom I love…”

“Whispering your worries to the birds again, my love?”

Maegisil was startled by the soft feminine voice from behind him, and abruptly spun around to see who it was that spoke, though he knew it to be his wife. His sudden movement startled the bird and caused it to fly quickly from its perch, seemingly taking the advice of the elf. Maegisil regretted its departure, and cursed himself for being so on edge. At any other time, had he not been so deep in thought and thus separated from most anything that went on around him he would have heard her approach. And such a familiar voice would never have surprised him had he meant for her to hear anything he said. By the look in her eyes, it seemed she had heard all.

“Why not whisper them to me? You do not have to be brave for me…”

“O my dove, but I do,” he cut her words short, his sharp and quick speech, full of frustration, contrasting and easily overcoming her soft, slow words, which she spoke in pure love and concern. “I cannot trouble you, nor anyone, with my cowardice. I must be strong for you, and not be so weak that you must hold me up.”

“Many a time have you held me up, my dear Maegisil,” she quickly responded, while still remaining unrushed with her words. “Will you so disgrace me as to not allow me to do the same for you in return?”

“There should be no need for you to do anything in return, Sairien.” He always felt as if he said her name to a song in his heart that resonated through his whole body when he thought the unspoken words ‘I love you’. Actually voicing these words was unnecessary, as they were clear in his eyes and his voice, and had been said so many times before.

“You know that my heart would want me to say the same to you, and yet you would not accept this if our roles were switched.” Sairien’s eyes searched his with a meaningful stare, piercing him and seeming to find exactly what they were looking for, and bringing this to his attention.

Maegisil sighed heavily. “Forgive me, my dove. I do need your help; I need it greatly. And I will ask you for it.”

Sairien stepped forward to place a hand to her husband’s cheek, softly saying, “Thank you,” and kissing him. They embraced for several moments, Maegisil sighing once more, but this time much more lightly and contently. Then, pulling his wife away from him to look into her eyes, he said, “We will speak more at length tonight, my dear. Now I’m afraid I must be away to attend to my lord.”

The elf woman sighed, looking away from her husband for a moment, sadness creeping into her eyes and her expression. “Yes…well, send the Lord Celembrimbor my greetings. And tell him that I miss happier times when I accompanied you to his house and we talked of lighter, more blessed things than war, death, and fear.”

“I shall,” Maegisil said. “Farewell, my love. I will return as soon as my lord does allow me.” After one final kiss he broke away from his wife’s tightening grip upon his arms, as she wanted to pull him back to her.

“I shall miss you,” Sairien said quietly, turning as he began to walk away. He stopped only to say, “And I shall miss you.”

Departing from his house, he entered the street with his mind even more full of worry than before when he was speaking only to the little bird. The weight of despair that the thought of Sauron brought upon his heart was made even heavier by the troubling concerns he had for his wife. Being a husband as well as a faithful servant to a lord was nearing impossible for him in these disquieted times.

But even in all the clutter in his mind, he resolved to do one thing. It had been some time since he had taken even a moment to truly show gratitude to his wife. He wished now to give to her a gift of materialistic beauty that might symbolize her own, which to him was beyond comparison. For several years now Maegisil had spent very little time at all in the forges, and though he dearly missed the beauties and the wonders of the art of crafting, he knew he did not have time to spend with tongs and a hammer in hand. But he recalled one craftsman – or really, craftswoman – in particular, and who he knew to have worked with his lord Celembrimbor. Knowing that she must be a true master jewelsmith to have done so, he thought her the perfect person to go to for such a commission as he had. Also, though he would never have admitted it to anyone, he assumed he could count on an elf woman knowing what he should give to the elf woman he loved.

The sun had now slipped two-thirds of the way from behind the Misty Mountains, but he still had time before his lord would begin to demand his presence. So Maegisil headed east across town to the jewelsmith’s forge, thanking the Valar that he had always in the past noted where most every notable craftsman or craftswoman had his or her own small forge and shop. The greatest elvensmiths did not have any real need for a simple ‘shop’, but could be commissioned, Maegisil knew. He only hoped that the mutual connection with Celembrimbor would help him in gaining the master craftswoman’s skill for the making of his wife’s gift.

Coming to his destination, Maegisil was thrilled to find that there was in fact some activity within. He read the small sign above the door. Narisiel Mirdain. Entering into the small forge, he found Narisiel with her back turned to him, working meticulously on a sword: a long, curved blade of astonishing magnificence. He silently watched her at work for a few moments, hating to disturb her when she was creating something so beautiful, and yet wishing to speak with her as soon as he could. At last he felt the strength and urgency enough to speak.

“Excuse me for my disturbance,” he began in a loud voice, though he nowhere neared shouting. When she looked up from her work and turned to him he made a small bow of respect before he continued. “I wish dearly to speak with you, if I may, to commission your skills, though I know you to be a master of your craft and thus perhaps above my concerns. But I have worked alongside the Lord Celembrimor as you have.”

Narisiel seemed to smirk at him, not unkindly, but appearing simply in some way amused. “And if you have worked beside the greatest of the Mírdain, why then do you need my skills?”

Maegisil was almost taken aback by the quickness of her response, as well as its sharpness. Hurriedly he collected his thoughts, responding with the truth. “Much to my sadness, I no longer spend my time with my lord in the forges. In these times, it is spent only in counsel and disparaging conversation with him.” He paused to briefly consider whether he should say more or not, deciding after a moment to add, his voice full of kind sincerity: “In all truth, I envy you.”

[piosenniel]

‘Sauron!’ Riv’s gruff whisper rasped out across the uneasy silence that followed in the wake of Skald’s words. ‘Mahal take him indeed!’ It was all he could do not to jump from his chair and run down the paths to the chambers where Unna and Leifr were quartered. His mind told him they were safe, hidden deeply in the lower caverns with many stout guards placed along the way to bar intruders. But his heart, beating fast now in anger mixed with dread against the Dark Lord, made him want to rush with his mattock and war hammer to defend the entrance to his wife and son’s chambers.

His wife’s face, her brows raised at him came to the fore of his mind. He could almost hear her, as she admonished him gently. ‘You’re right . . . you’re right!’ he said to her fading image. ‘You two are well protected. The King will close the doors tightly to Khazad-dum should any threaten us. And I should be getting on with my own task. Lend the use of my axe and hammer to bring the Elves from the Golden Wood to the City of the Smiths.’

‘Let him come!’ he growled deep in his chest. He brought his thick fist crashing down onto the table’s top. ‘Let him come, the overblown pup of the Dark Lord with his misbegotten Orcs and men. My hammer will make the river run red with their foul blood.’

Riv looked up from his cup, realizing he had been speaking aloud to himself, and gathered his wits about him. ‘Well this brings us a new vein to mine, doesn’t it?’ he said to his brothers and uncle. ‘We must be even more careful now we know the rotter behind things. There should be more Dwarves in our party, I think. Some to guard the eastern gates until we can bring the Elves into the caverns.’ He looked carefully at each of the others. ‘If there are Orcs that try to enter while we are fetching the Elves from the Dimrill Dale, the gates will have to be closed against them. We could be cut off for a while, before we can re-enter. What do you think? How many shall we bring? And full battle gear, I think, eh? Especially once we leave the safety of the mountains.’

[Folwren]

‘I think if we’re in danger of being cut off for a while, we should make sure we have plenty to eat,’ Bror said in answer. No one seemed to appreciate his small jest, so he continued after an awkward pause. ‘If you ask my opinion, which I wonder that you do at all, I think we should take quite a few other dwarves and several weapons. I didn’t think...’ He was about to say he didn’t think it was that serious, but no one had, until Skald had rambled off his lessons.

Sauron? He had heard very little of that name, but he had learned enough that it was one to tremble at. He took another drink of his ale as he studied his oldest brother through narrowed and considering eyes. He had always looked up to Riv and seeing him so affected by Skald’s tale caused him more alarm and fear than anything else yet said.

‘I don’t know,’ he finally said softly. He got up, leaving his mug on the table and went to his harp. He picked it up and carried it back to his place and sat silent running his fingers over the strings as though contemplating a song. ‘Well, Skald? Uncle Orin?’ he said, lifting his eyes to the two of them. ‘Something has to be decided on, and I don’t think it’s going to be me who decides it.’

[Envinyatar]

Late Autumn/Lindon – SA 1695

It was early afternoon, and the two friends were sitting in a small drinking establishment near the quay in Mithlond. The Belaying Pin or simply The Pin as it was more commonly called. There was a crackling blaze in the fireplace, and the welcome heat from it drove the increasing cold of the northern autumn from the room.

The man from Númenor stifled a smile as Ondomirë shifted again on the booth’s hard, oaken bench. Alcarfalon, as he was called, folded his thick woolen cape into the rude semblance of a thick cushion and passed it across the table to his friend. ‘Here,’ he said in a low voice, ‘try this.’

With a grateful nod, Ondomirë slid the padding between the unforgiving wood and his bruised hindquarters. A barely stifled gasp preceded his whispered, ‘Thanks!’ as he eased himself onto the makeshift buffer. He smoothed the grimace from his face and fixed a barely less than miserable smile on his face.

Alcarfalon could not hold back his laughter. It rang in the booth between the man and Elf, causing many to turn their way. ‘Why do you always think you need to manage everything yourself, my friend?’ he asked, pouring the pale honeyed wine into both their cups. The light from the small lamp above their table caught the golden liquid as it eddied against the metal sides, making it glint from within. ‘If I were you, I’d have me an assistant. You know . . . one who’d do the more dangerous work.’ He swallowed another grin. ‘Saving you the possibility of injury . . .’ He ducked, barely in time, as Ondomirë threw his leather riding gloves at him.

‘I acquiesce to your superior management skills, my friend,’ Ondomirë said, turning his cup in circles on the table. He took a drink, appreciating the light, sweet taste of the wine. It teased his tongue, relaxed him, and left the promise of ease for his aching joints if he drank a large enough dose. ‘But seriously, who knew the accursed beast would take such a dislike to me and throw me to the ground. He was certainly mild enough with you aback.’

Ondomirë took another drink and sighed, in a rather melodramatic fashion. ‘Of course, it has always been my lot to have those four-legged demons hate me. And the King, of course, is an excellent horseman as is the Elf he chose to lead this expedition. Elrond . . . do you know him?’ Alcarfalon shook his head ‘no’ to the question.’

‘Anyway, we are going east, overland, and in some haste once the troops are made ready and the snows have ended. By foot is out of the question . . . too slow, it was decided. So, I am cursed with having to ride those many miles on a creature who will surely detest my very presence.’ He leaned across the table and looked Alcarfalon in the eye. Tell me you didn’t pick the most ill-tempered of the herds just because I ordered them.’

‘It was Minastir who chose those horses for you,’ Alcarfalon protested. ‘The Queen’s nephew. He assured me they were the gentlest of beasts. He holds Gil-galad in high esteem, I assure you, and would do nothing to jeopardize whatever this expedition is he’s planned.’ Alcarfalon knew better than to inquire too deeply into Elvish plans. ‘I’ve brought you one hundred of our finest from the Mittalmar. With those you said you could muster here you should have plenty.’

‘Ah, you know I really am grateful!’ returned Ondomirë, grinning. He refilled the man’s cup and topped off his own. ‘I thank you for your haste in bringing them across the sea and Minastir for his generosity.’

The door to The Pin opened and a tall, slender figure stood outlined in the entryway, blinking as his eyes grew accustomed to the level of light in the room. Cries of ‘Close the door, Elf! You’re letting in the cold!’ greeted the newcomer.

‘Over here, Geldion!’ said Ondomirë, waving to the Elf. ‘Come and meet Alcarfalon. He captains the Lintaramë out of Numenor. An old friend of mine.’ With a grimace, Ondmirë scooted himself over in the booth. ‘He’s brought us the last of the . . . horses,’ he said in a lower voice.

All respect to the Vala Yavanna! he thought to himself as Geldion took off his cape and slipped into the booth. But what was she thinking when she fashioned those impious creatures?

‘Some wine?’ Ondomirë offered, pushing a cup toward Geldion

[Boromir88]

Orin was deep in thought, almost as if he was in a trance. He was so deep in thought he didn't even hear Riv's shouts. Sauron was a dark name and the news Skald gave was even darker. The thought of Sauron launching an assault against the elves was troubling. Orin was puzzled on what to do. It was not that he liked Sauron, in fact he hated him, and if he wanted to go through the mines it would be over his dead body. But, he figured this was Elven business, they did something to make him angry, and now they're pleading for help. What if we just close the doors, Sauron won't get in and therefor he won't bother us? He pondered. No, no, no, his might will grow and even the sturdy doors of the dwarves will not be able to keep him out. We must do something. I must do something.

"Well Skald? Uncle Orin?" Orin snapped out of his trance. He was oblivious to what had been discussed.

"What?" He asked kind of grumpily.

"What do you think we should do? Something has to be decided on and I don't think it's going to be me who decides it." Bror replied.

"Oh," Orin mumbled, he was ashamed for snapping at Bror, but didn't what to say.

Riv filled his uncle in, realizing that he was lost. It wasn't like Orin hadn't been paying attention, just when he thinks too hard he becomes completely unaware of what's being said around him. "Lots of Armor? What? You know how I hate armor. A good warrior does not need armor, it's only bulky and slows you down. Well, suit up in whatever way you like but I'm not taking heavy armor."

"It may slow you down uncle, but not us." Skald said and all three chuckled. Orin let out a bellowing laugh. He knew Skald had basically called him old, but he would feel a lot safer if he could wear the armor he was able to wear in the past.

[Arestevana]

“Is this the first rank?”
Gilduin barely registered the question; he was far too accustomed to avoiding conversation to fashion a reasonable reply. He tried to ignore the elf and withdraw into the safe, familiar realm of his own mind, but he could not escape the stranger’s gaze. He stared for a moment at the other elf, taking note of his appearance, which was becoming more difficult to discern in the growing darkness.

They were close in age, Gilduin noted. He guessed he was the elder of the two, but the stranger exuded such confidence and intelligence that Gilduin was unsure. In the glow of the herald’s lantern he saw the pride in the archer’s eyes, and a flicker of tolerance that suggested the stranger felt he had been slighted. As the object of the other’s stare, Gilduin realized that he was undoubtedly the source of the offense. He searched his mind, trying to remember what affront he had recently committed.

When he could not recollect doing anything conceivably offensive, Gilduin realized with chagrin that the elf must have spoken to him. He tried desperately to remember what had been said, mortified at the thought that he had been rudely staring at the elf for the past few minutes. The silence had grown distinctly uncomfortable when at last he recalled the stranger’s question. He could think of only one reason for an archer to seek out the first rank, and with a sinking feeling he realized that the elf must be a captain. He wished to disappear, but forced himself to speak.
“No—I mean, yes, sir.” Gilduin said, knowing how flustered he must sound. “Yes, this is the first rank.” He gave a short bow, more to hide his reddening face than as a courtesy. “My name is Gilduin Lindorion, sir. I am the standard bearer.”

[piosenniel]

Arry’s post


Skald was in two minds about this trap that Bror had set. It was elaborate, ingenious, even. A worthy response, indeed, from the baby brother. It had only taken him fifty years or so to bring the art of practical joking to this new pinnacle.

And best of all, to Skald’s way of thinking, it had rebounded on Bror in a way much better than any revenge Skald might come up with. The silly git had neglected the first rule of practical joking – make sure the target you aim for will be the one you hit. He chuckled quietly as he fussed about with the web of cords that entangled his older brother. Riv, for his part, was red in the face, his eyes narrowed dangerously, as he twirled like some great last leaf of autumn on its spindly stem.

‘Who do you think taught me the art of playing tricks on someone?’ came the muffled question from Skald as he fished about for the right rope to cut. He’d turned his head back for a moment to see who’d crept into the room behind him. ‘You are dead, little brother, so-oo-oo dead!’

He reached up with his knife and began to saw on a likely looking cord . . .

-------------------------------------------------

Pio’s post


‘By the King’s long beard! Stop your yammering and get me down from here! Or you’ll both be dead!’

Riv took a swat at Skald’s shoulder to emphasize his point. The motion, however, did nothing but make him sway on the cord and swivel about precariously. This only made him more angry, and he bellowed out a few more blazing incentives for his quick release.

‘And you!’ he growled dangerously at Bror. ‘This is all your doing, isn’t it? Get over here and show the plodder here what he needs to do.’ He put his hands to his already pounding head and shook it. ‘How is it that I am saddled with such fools for brothers?’

‘Perhaps you should not say such things about your rescuer,’ Skald mumbled, his knife sawing at one of the taut lines.

Riv glared at what he could see of his younger brother. ‘Rescuer? I wouldn’t be in this fix if you and Bror were not always trying to one-up each other!’ He swung round to where Bror was standing. His youngest brother’s eyes were wide as he stared at Skald, his finger pointing in a trembling manner. Gibbering sounds were coming from him. ‘And now what is the matter?’ Riv asked, frowning. ‘Tell me . . . wha . . .’

The command was cut off as Skald’s knife severed the rope. It slid through his hands like quick-fire as he tried to catch it, burning them raw with its passage.

Riv hit the floor with a hard thump. He’d twisted enough to land on his shoulder, the poor joint jammed against the unforgiving stone floor with all the heft of his body behind it. He cursed as he tried to get up, a sharp pain coursing through his left chest. Skald stood waving his rope burnt palms in the air, hurling loud invectives of his own.

‘What is going on you three? You’ve wakened us all with your yelling?’ Unna had come running from her and Riv’s quarters when she’d heard the raised voices. Her hair was all undone, her eyes still puffy from sleep. In her haste, she’d thrown on her husband’s robe and now stood pulling it closer about her as she gazed at the scene in the kitchen. ‘At tricks again! When will you ever grow up?’

Leifr peeked around the length of her robe, wide-eyed at the cursing and the tangled heap his father was in. ‘Papi? Are you alright?’ he whispered.

‘I’ll be alright in a moment,’ Riv said, trying to gather his wits about him, not wanting to frighten his son. ‘Maybe you and Mami can fetch me a little something to drink. I’m thirsty.’ Leifr nodded his head slowly and tugged on Unna’s hand. ‘Your uncles, here, can just give me a hand up.’ He waved off his wife and son, then motioned for Bror and Skald. ‘Gently does it,’ he grunted softly as they helped him up to a chair at the table. Sharp pain lanced through his left shoulder whenever it was moved. By the time he was seated, his face was pale and slick with sweat. With his right fist he grasped Bror and drew him near, whispering so that Unna and Leifr did not hear.

‘Get the healer. Tell him I think my collarbone is broken.’ He winced as he drew a deep breath and nodded for Bror to be off.

[Envinyatar]

Folwren's post


Bror turned away from Riv and walked quickly and half blindly towards the door. He stumbled against Skald and looked up. The blood that had left his face when he first saw Riv instead of Skald hanging from the ceiling, came flooding back. He grabbed his shirt sleeve and before Skald could resist, had pulled him in silent furry into the hall outside the kitchen.

‘You great blundering idiot,’ he fumed, ‘anyone would know how that trap works if you only stopped to think for a moment. Where’re your brains? You should have known that cutting that confounded rope would have brought him down faster than a boulder. Now I’m off to get the healer ‘cause Riv thinks he’s broken his collar bone.’

‘It’s not my fault!’ Skald replied shortly.

‘If you weren’t such a -’ Bror seemed to stumble on the next word - ‘fool then it wouldn’t be your fault and none of this would have happened. At least he wouldn’t have fallen. Do you think I’d rig such a thing and be stupid enough to not have a way to let you back down when you stumbled into it? Why was he there, anyway? Why weren’t you? Oh, never mind,’ he growled, and before giving Skald a chance to reply he turn and ran off as quickly as he could go. He tore up the hall to his own room, dressed himself properly as quickly as he could, tugged on his boots, and headed back out to get the healer.

The dwarf doctor was very surprised at being woken by Bror pounding on his door so early in the morning. He came out and as soon as he heard Bror’s report, hurriedly got what he thought would be needed and went out with him.

‘How on earth did Riv Stonecut break his collarbone before dawn this morning?’ he asked as he and Bror hurried along the dim corridors and halls. ‘Did he fall out of bed?’

‘No,’ Bror said sourly, ‘he got tripped up by some ropes.’

‘Ropes, was it?’ the old dwarf repeated, glancing shrewdly at Bror.

‘Well, I set a trap for Skald,’ Bror admitted, wanting to talk too much to keep silent, and being completely unable to tell a lie just now, ‘but Riv stumbled into it and Skald, the bloke, cut a rope and sent him tumbling. I didn’t even have a chance to tell him he could just untie the thing and let him down as safely as...well, the upshot of the matter is, Riv fell and says he thinks he broke his collar bone and I was sent to get you and I don’t think he wants his wife and son to know because he told them he was just fine.’

‘Ah. I see.’ He asked no more questions for the rest of the way and Bror remained silent.

When they arrived at Riv’s kitchen, Skald had gone. Unna was there, dressed and prepared for the day, making breakfast. Leifre sat at the table with his hands on the table in front of him and his eyes wide and moist. Unna looked up from the stove where she was frying eggs and her eyes were sharp and piercing as she looked at the healer.

‘He’s in the other room. I think he’s waiting for you.’ The dwarf nodded and went off. Bror began to follow him, but Unna’s words stopped him. ‘You can’t go in there, Bror. Riv wouldn’t like to see you just now I don’t think. Besides,’ she added in a gentler voice as a look of pain crossed Bror’s face, ‘Leifre needs company. He’ll be alright, though,’ she said even more quietly.

Bror nodded and turned to go to Leifre. ‘Want to help me take down the rest of these ropes while we wait for breakfast?’ he asked. The boy looked up at him and then got down from the chair. Bror was surprised when he came and took his hand and practically led him to the pantry.

‘Yes. Will you tell me what happened? Papi wouldn’t tell me.’ They stopped in the doorway and Bror looked with fallen and crushed pride on the ropes that hung loosely from the ceiling and lay limp on the ground.

‘I was trying to catch Skald, but your Papi stumbled into it instead. Then when Skald cut the wrong rope...well, then you know what happened. Come on.’ He dropped the lad’s hand and bent to work. Leifre stood still with his head to one side.

‘It was supposed to be a joke?’

‘My dear Leifre,’ Bror replied with his back to him, ‘this was the best prank I’ve completed ever. It was pure bad luck that it was Riv who happened to land in it. And it was even sorrier luck that Skald got to him before I did.’ He stopped and bit his lip, coiling a length of rope as he thought. The bad luck hadn’t stopped. He had known as soon as he saw Riv hanging there, before Skald had told him he was as good as dead, and long before Riv had just about confirmed the statement by telling Skald that he probably was dead, too, that his prank had gone wrong in more than just one direction. He knew that Skald may have been angry with it, but he wouldn’t have been into very much trouble, but Riv had done nothing to deserve this. Bror would never have dared to intentionally hang Riv upside down like a ham. Now he’d done it, accidently, to be sure, but he’d done it nonetheless, and Riv had gotten hurt, which made it ten times worse, and he had no idea what his older brother would say (or do) once he was in some sort of state to do so.

All he could do now, though, was wait. Leifre was there by his side now, untangling ropes and helping him coil them and when they were finished, they took them back to Bror’s room. When they returned, breakfast was ready and Unna invited him to eat with the two of them. He accepted her invitation.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Pio's post --- a truce is called for . . .


‘Hold still!’ Riv stopped his wriggling as the healer manipulated his shoulder area, sending lancets of pain coursing through his chest. ‘This isn’t the first time this collarbone’s been broken, is it?’ asked the healer, running his fingers along the thin bone’s length.

‘Well, no . . .’ Riv answered cautiously, the tips of his ears reddening as he recalled one of Skald’s pranks. There had been a set of seven smooth stone stairs leading down from Skald and Riv’s room in their younger years. Sometime, in the middle of the night, Skald had sneaked out of his bed and oiled the second and third one from the top. Riv, as was his routine, bounded out of bed and made for the stairs at the sound of breakfast being made in the kitchen. He’d lost his footing, of course, and managed to slip and tumble head over heels to the landing. The sound of his brother’s laughter still echoed in his ears.

He’d gotten back at him, though, the very next week. A half dozen old and fetid duck eggs tucked carefully inside Skald’s pillow. His younger brother had lain his head down intending to get a good night’s rest, only to have the stench of rotten eggs come fuming up from his pillow; along with the sticky goo that came through the ticking and clung to the side of his face and hair.

Riv’s thoughts were wrenched back to the present as the healer bade his assistant hold the thin, flat bar of unbending metal against Riv’s chest as he bound it on tightly, wrapping the wide strips of cloth over it and around Riv’s broad chest, then over each shoulder in a figure-of-eight pattern. It hurt like the blue blazes for a moment as the bone was pushed into placed. Riv bit back the string of curses hovering at the edge of his tongue. Leifr had already expanded his vocabulary this morning he was sure, and needn’t hear his father add a few more choice phrases. Once, though, the sling was in place, the pain subsided and Riv found himself able to use his left arm in a limited manner. With the aid of the healer’s assistant he was able to get his tunic back on. And by the time he’d reached the entryway to the kitchen, he’d managed to let his temper cool.

He stood in the shadows of the doorway looking at Bror and Leifr as they sat at the table and Unna as she moved about the kitchen making and serving them breakfast. Bror, he noted with some satisfaction, had a guilty, sort of shamefaced look about him. And Unna, he saw, seemed to be keeping up a steady stream of commentary as she poured the tea and milk or scooped the eggs and ham onto the plates. ‘Good!’ he thought. ‘She’s giving him a pointed lecture on the error of his ways!’ With a barely suppressed smirk on his face he made his way to his chair to sit down.

‘And just what are you smiling about?’ Unna asked him as he looked up at her. She pinned him with her dark eyes; hmmmphing as she served him up a plate. ‘You’re the oldest brother and the one who started all of this, I’m sure. Skald first and he, of course, carried it on with Bror. And didn’t I just hear my own son asking if it was a joke? And in a manner that made me think he’s quite interested in the whole process!’ She stabbed at Riv’s piece of ham with his fork and cut it into manageable pieces for him with forceful cuts of her kitchen knife.

And all the while asking the grievous question of how was it that she had given birth to only one son and yet had to deal with the actions of four childish males. Her voice rose sharply as her complaint continued and soon, the baby began to cry. ‘Now look what you all have gone and done!’ she declared. With a swish of her robe, she turned and left them staring at her retreating back.

‘Mami’s quite tired, son,’ Riv explained in a gentle voice to the wide-eyed boy. ‘Ginna fussed most of the night and wouldn’t be quieted by any but her mother.’ He smiled encouragingly at Leifr. ‘Let’s finish our breakfast; then you can help us clean up the kitchen. I’m thinking I’ll be needing a little help sorting through the new gems we got in yesterday. You can be my assistant.’ Leifr’s face brightened at the prospect of a day with his father and he began shoveling eggs into his mouth.

Riv sat back, picking at his own breakfast with his fork. Bror, still quiet, sat looking at his own plate of food. ‘Well, little brother,’ Riv said, looking closely at Bror. ‘What say we call a truce for now? My collar bone will take a good six weeks or so to mend. And my dear wife . . . well she will most likely be frazzled until the baby lets her sleep the whole night through. She’s more likely to snap than my collar bone if we do any more ‘tomfoolery’, as she terms it. If you’re agreeable, I’ll let Skald know where we stand.’

Leifr had finished his meal and gone to the slops pale on the other side of the kitchen to scrape off the few remaining crumbs of breakfast from his plate. Riv leaned toward Bror, his eyes twinkling with the thought of some future mischief, and said in an undertone, ‘After I’m healed, though, and Unna’s back to her sunny self . . . the white flag comes down and it’s every Dwarf for himself!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Folwren's post

‘That sounds good,’ Bror said, looking up for the first time since Riv arrived. ‘At least I won’t have to worry about it for a while.’ He looked with a deal of chagrin at Riv. His older brother was composed, but something in his face told Bror that he was still in some pain. The white bandage and cast around his shoulder made him wince and he looked back down at his half eaten breakfast. ‘I ought to be going. Jollin will be expecting me soon.’ He pushed back his chair and got up slowly, as though he were tired from his rather exciting night. He paused with his hand on the back of his chair and looked again at Riv. ‘I’m sorry, Riv,’ he finally said. ‘It wouldn’t have happened like it had it gone my way.’ A small smile came to Riv’s face.

‘No, I dare say it didn’t happen like you wanted it. I would have much rather have seen Skald up there than myself. But, ah well, it can’t be helped. Until later, little brother.’

Bror turned and went out. His spirit lifted and he actually smiled again.

‘You actually got out of there unscathed,’ he murmured to himself, turning his feet in the direction of work. ‘But it won’t last like that for too long, don’t expect it to,’ he added quickly. ‘Until Riv is better and Unna is her old sunny self.’ He smiled even broader. ‘By that time, I may have been able to invent something not quite so dangerous, but as equally fun! Every Dwarf for himself, he said. That joins him in the game.’

But then a voice from the other side of his head replied. ‘That meant you, Bror,’ it said. ‘He’s not going to show the least amount of kindness when it comes to luring you into some sort of trap. You can expect something rather uncomfortable.’

However that may be, Bror could feel no worry about it at the time being. There were many weeks between now and when Riv said the white flags would come down and until then, Bror put it out of his mind.

[Durelin]

Early Spring - 1697 S.A.


The arrival of allies brought new hope to the majority of the residents of Ost-in-Edhil, the small contingent from Lorien seeming much larger than in reality. This may have been the feeling of the citizens, but the Lord Celebrimbor and his counselors did not share in it. The imposing certainty of war was only a more ominous presence in their minds, seeing that it was not long their city that had heard the call to war. The entire Elven race in Middle-earth had heard it, and even the Dwarves had been brought out from their rich caverns. Celebrimbor had started sending out small companies to quell minor raids on outlying towns in Eregion, and already those who had suffered orc attacks were coming into the city, alive and dead. The reports from the troops were always the same: complete destruction. This was Sauron’s goal.

But it could not be reached yet. An army was being assembled; anyone who did not wish to remain as ignorant to the danger as possible would realize that, and would prepare for it. Celebrimbor realized it, though he avoided coming face to face with it. All knew that Ost-in-Edhil was not completely defenseless, and thus many had much hope for the city, and Celebrimbor did his best to encourage this feeling. Most were more than willing to fight to defend their homes, and the lord of the city called all of the Elven men to take up arms. The forges around the city now worked only with iron and steel, and many craftsmen took up the sword – something they had not done in hundreds of years.

For over a year, the Lord of Eregion oversaw the preparation of his city for war. All of the faces he saw he tried to fix in his mind, and would hold them there, hoping to only ever see them again alive and well. By the early spring of 1697, as an unusually mild winter was coming to a close, one that had falsely led the Elves to a renewed hope, Ost-in-Edhil was feeling ready for any attack from a rabble of orcs.

No one had seen anything that could be called an army yet. Scouts had very little to report, and the quiet made Celebrimbor even uneasier. A few suggested that maybe there would be no war, that the small raids that they had suffered the past year were all there was, and as those had seemingly been put to an end, it was time for the city to return to its normal and more productive state. Few saw swords and shields as a sign of production like they did fine crafted jewelry and similar more beautiful creations.

But no one could help but look to the east, and wonder what lay beyond the Mountains of Mist, especially when the sun rose red from behind them. Celebrimbor was all but tormented by such images, seeing his city covered in blood in his dreams. He would walk through the city late at night, jumping at almost every shadow, his hand always at his belt, groping for a sword hilt that had not hung there for many years, and expecting an orc to jump out at him from behind every building and outcrop. Maegisil often stood out on the small balcony on his home, and saw the dark, frightened figure of his lord on the street below, and every time, Celebrimbor noticed his gaze. Neither dared to call out, each not wanting the other to know that they could find no rest, as they both saw their fear as weakness.

But though his despair was deep, Celebrimbor was glad and very grateful to the Elves of Lorien who were willing to fight for a land that was not their own. He was gladdened to see that the Elves were still united against the Enemy, and felt that if such remained the case, there was no way they could be destroyed. An Elven lord would always rule somewhere in Middle-earth.

He had met with the Lord Celeborn and the commander of the Lorien contingent, Eldegon. The Dwarves who had escorted them and the Lord of Lorien had returned to his forest home, both wanting to be with their people if Sauron’s destruction began to spread beyond Eregion, but Celebrimbor was very glad to have Eldegon and his troops, all skilled, determined, and loyal.

He had met several of these troops personally, and he tried to recall as many names and faces as he could. The names Vaele and Gilduin both stuck out in his mind, particularly the latter, the standard bearer. There were so many of these soldiers that he knew the names of, had spoken with…he was so determined not to let them die, though he knew that there would be little he could do. But his own life was not on his mind, only his obligation to his people. Thus was he able to harden himself, and save his tears for when he was alone.

Then, the torturing calm before the storm came to and end, and all fears were suddenly more real, as scouts returned, barely able to speak, with a new report. The army had been seen on the borders of Eregion itself. They saw orcs, easterlings, and all manner of strange creatures by the thousands, the tens of thousands…they did not know. And though Elgedon, who Celebrimbor had appointed as the military commander of the defense, demanded a more detailed report from the scouts, the elf-lord had heard enough.

He dismissed them, glancing at Maegisil to see that fear was also in his eyes, though there was no surprise. The Lord of Eregion held onto his composure for a few more moments, instructing Maegisil to accompany Commander Elgedon and call a council, the first official council Celebrimbor could remember holding in almost a decade. Alone, he closed his eyes to see hundreds of familiar faces, empty and lifeless, and he shook with fear.

[Amanaduial the archer]

The bright sun through Artamir's closed eyelids gave a deep red-tint illumination to the darkness of his eyes, his head tilted slightly towards it like the petals of a delicate flower. Once more, the young soldier was reclining somewhat precariously on the city walls, head propped up by his rolled-up cloak, one knee casually raised and one loose hand hanging somewhat dangerously down on the outside of the wall - one hand venturing out of Ost-in-Edhil's boundaries, and most of his mind venturing away with it as he dozed in the sunlight on his precarious perch like a sleepy cat...

"You again? You young scruff, tell me: what do you actually spend your days doing, besides cluttering the place? Any chance of any work being done, or is it all play for-”

Artamir initially started, sitting bolt-upright like a sleeper waking from a nightmare, before he recognised the face that went with the mocking voice – Leneslath, his voice deepened so as to mock their commander, but on his shoulder, the early morning sun glinting off them smartly, his new officer’s stripes were anything but fake. Maybe war had not yet broken, but already the pot-shots taken by the orcs and wild men were paying, Eregion was counting her casualties, and their guilty subordinates were rising into the shoes of dead men. Such dark thoughts were far from Artamir’s mind though as he relaxed, sitting back against the parapet against which he had been resting earlier. “Ah, hush, Captain Windbag; I am not due on watch yet. Not ‘til second watch…” he sighed lazily and shrugged himself more comfortably against the cold stone as into a goose-feather mattress.

“Captain Windbag nothin’. And this is second watch, you great lazy lummox; unlike some, I am not in the habit of hanging around the sentry posts for fun.”

“Lummox yourself,” Artamir muttered petulantly, opening his eyes into narrow slits, the whites glittering brightly as he glared balefully at the older elf. Finally conceding, he swung his lithe legs wearily off the wall and stretched his arms and shoulders up and back as if unaware of the perilous drop not half a foot behind him. Lenesltath didn’t take the bait by flinching towards him as he usually did – the young officer was more naturally a foot soldier and wasn’t exactly overfond of the heights with which Artamir was so at ease with and so gleefully teased him – and instead leant the unfurled standard he had been carrying against the wall and took off the pack he had been carrying, kneeling down to fish efficiently inside it for something or other. From a foot above him, Artamir looked down, his head cocked to one side as he blinked, still clearing sleep from his eyes. “I thought I was on watch with that grouch Tereborn this morning? Forget not a morning person, that boy isn’t even a…a life person—”

“He’s ill, Artamir.” Something about the way Leneslath’s hands paused and the tone in which he said the words made Artamir stop, taken aback. His friend looked up, biting his lip, a gesture that made him look even younger. “The villagers who came in last night brought their dead with them, or as many as they could carry. Seems that…that the dead bodies were a little older.”

Artamir grimaced, nodding and wishing he had chosen a better wording for his previous supposedly-humorous sentence. Despite the occasional casualties among the citizens of Ost-in-Edhil, those who lived in the villagers that sprawled for miles around the great city were far worse off, and the exodus of villagers from the countryside into the Ost-in-Edhil more than made up for the losses – much more. Even the affluent, well-spaced city was becoming crowded, and where there is crowding, even a hint of sickness spreads fast…

Squinting up at Artamir against the sun, Leneslath changed the subject to a hopefully less depressing topic for such a bright morning. “But what about you; you have been sat here since…when? Do you just live here now?” he teased with a grin. Artamir returned the gesture, but his smile was a little sad as he raised a hand to try to smooth down his dark hair. “Maybe, maybe!” he replied with a somewhat rueful laugh. Leneslath frowned, giving him an odd smile, but didn’t speak, bidding him with his silence to continue. Artamir sighed and jumped down from the wall, turning to face the rising sun, now hanging some way in the sky, although the moon was still visible in the West. “My father is spending more time with his platoon, and my mother more time still either in her forge or with Lord Celebrimbor. And when they are both together…” Artamir paused, looking at his fingers as he curled them almost protectively into fists. He shook his head, looking up once more into the sun, then sun shining boldly onto his handsome face. His friend nodded, rising from his knees and standing just behind the other. “I understand,” he replied quietly. He shrugged, although the gesture was lost on Artamir. “Both your parents are needed, now that—”

“I know, I know. But when they spend so much time away, and then finally when they come together…” the younger elf interrupted abruptly, his fingers tightening. His face softened once more as he straightened out his long fingers slowly over the stone, the surface smoothed from years of the hands and boots of bored sentries. He half turned to face Leneslath. “I wish I knew what was happening. I wish I could help.”

The other elf nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder; he knew that Artamir was not only speaking with regard to the strain that had been put on his own family by the plight of the city. When Eregion they were sworn to protect seemed to be entering such dark times, yet everyone seemed afraid to openly declare the inevitable… Leneslath gave Artamir an awkward, comforting pat. “I know how you feel, Artamir,” he said softly. “Everyone does now.”

~*~

Not one hundred metres away but invisible to her son, hidden as she was once more in her forge, Narisiel was also caught up in thoughts of her family. Leaning against the door, looking out under the eaves of the holly bush that remained flourishing around the entrance, her arms folded, she stared up at the walls, imagining the whereabouts of her small family, where they could be, what they were doing. Nowadays she didn’t always know. During the days she was away in her forge, meeting with others of her own profession as they, with the rest of the city, made practical preparations for the unspoken war; going to the palace to speak with Celebrimbor; or just sitting here, on her own, wishing, wishing so hard that there was only something more that she could do. But it was not only the strain on the city that had recently caused Narisiel’s unhappiness…

A sharp, shouted command from the archery practise ground not far from the smith’s workshop caused her to turn slightly, so appropriately fitting in with the object of her thoughts as it did.

Sirithlonnior.

Ever since the forging of the rings, when the betrayal had become evident and Narisiel had shyed away from Celebrimbor and his household, separating herself from the Lord of Ost-in-Edhil in hopes of unravelling herself from the whole sorry business, her husband had supported her in her decisions, and had himself become more remote from Celebrimbor; the two men had once been good friends, but the distance of one hundred years and Narisiel’s broken trust had stretched between them. And in that time, although her mind sometimes did come back to dwell on the rings, the pair had been happy, had flourished, had had they precious son…

But now, ever since Narisiel had begun to work more closely with Celebrimbor once more, another distance had grown, this time between herself and Sirith: as she and her Lord became closer, she and her husband seemed to drift further apart. And bridging the distance seemed so hard now… She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the memory of last night’s argument, a row in the aftermath of which she had left silently in the morning without waking Sirith, a row in which he had said things, thrown about accusations, which he would no doubt wish to take back later, but which seemed to hurt all the more even for that.

“Remember what he did to you before, Narisiel, remember how he dropped you into such a dangerous business – do you want to get into that again?”

“A dangerous—?! For gods’ sakes, Sirith, doesn’t that seem a little rich coming from a soldier?”

“That’s what I do, Narisiel! That is my job! At least I'm honest about it, I’m not the one working under alterior motives—”

“And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I am wondering whether it isn’t so much the draw of Celebrimbor’s counsel that is taking my wife from me, but maybe the great Lord himself…”

Narisiel squeezed her eyes tight shut, forcing back the tears that she had cried silently onto her pillow last night after she had left the room without another word, hounded by her husband’s all-too-belated apologies. Words spoken in spite may exaggerate feelings, dramatise and dress up what is not there, but sometimes, maybe more often than not, they reveal the true feelings, opinions that have brooded and festered under the surface and now explode like a filthy wound, leaving so much hurt to both parties in their wake. Did her husband truly believe what he had said? How could he think that…

“Good morning, Narisiel.”

The smith’s eyes flew open wide abruptly as her head snapped around to face Maegisil. She relaxed: the voice had surprised her from her thoughts, but her fellow counsellor had become more of a friend in recent years. Both of them kept their silences on many things, but nevertheless they were able to talk, and to laugh. Now, looking at other elf, a man who would not judge her and who knew her just well enough to confide in, Narisiel felt her worries bubbling up, needing a release… But they would have to wait for a while, it seemed; Maegisil’s expression was grave.

“A council has been called, Narisiel; Lord Celebrimbor wishes you, and the others, to come to the palace as soon as possible.”

“A council?” Narisiel straightened up, surprise written on her pale face. “An official council? What has provoked this?” Maegisil did not immediately answer, and the sense of foreboding in Narisiel’s chest began to grow. “Maegisil?” she pressed. “What is it?”

The other did not reply for a moment, looking up at the walls where the sentries, oblivious, made small talk as they watched the horizon for the threat that would all too soon come; where Narisiel’s so-precious son was growing up, a soldier, threatened by a danger that Narisiel herself had helped to create. When he looked back, after a moment’s silence, his solemn eyes confirmed her fear. “The enemy’s army,” he replied simply. “They have been sighted.”

The elven smith stared at him for a moment then, without further ado, she fumbled to undo the sturdy leather apron and, with the female elf still wearing her workman’s clothes, the pair made for the palace as quickly as possible.

[Mithalwen]

Like Artamir, Losrian was sitting high on the city walls tucked in a niche. Her life had changed rather in the past months and it seemed to her that this was one of the few places one could breathe freely and she was protected from any stray arrows by over a foot of pale stone. Despite the sun she was glad of her cloak as she ate her habitual midday meal of bread and cheese and watched the people milling around the city.

So many people now... her own household had doubled in size. Laswen's parents had arrived from the outlands. They would have come anyway for the birth of their grandson but with the danger increasing they were also refugees. Losrian had yielded her chamber in the house to them and now slept in a tiny room - part of the loft above her brother's workshop.

She was not sorry for all activity in the house now revolved around her tiny nephew. While he was adorable the constant baby worship got a bit much for Losrian... especially when he was newborn she hadn't understood how the others could just look at him for hours - it wasn't as if he did anything apart from gurgle and wave his tiny fists in the air. Oh,and pull her hair - for some reason the infant had seemed to find her silver tresses so much more appealing than the dark ones of his parents. Part of her wondered if such focus on the child was normal or if it was enhanced by the desire to think of anything but the approaching menace. The child had been named Galmir by his father but his mother name was the bleak, if realistic, Dagorion - scion of battle.

Now just on a year old Galmir was more entertaining but also more demanding as he toddled about engaging the adults in his childish prattle. Losrian was content to return to the house only for mealtimes. Laswen's parents had brought as much of their stores and stock as they could and they were fitted in wherever possible - part of the workshop was a makeshift byre and the rest of Losrian's loft was filled with grain and so forth. many of the outland dwellers had done likewise and the city seemed bursting with people and beasts, all feeling the tension of the storm that approached, a powderkeg that was waiting to explode.

Losrian filled her days with activity. She had fewer domestic tasks but there was plenty of work for the smiths. She could not even guess now how many scores of arrows she had crafted - for the past few months it had not been a question of developing her skills but putting such that she possessed to best use. And she kept up her archery, now using a longbow to match her stature - a coming of age gift from her brother. It had been a slightly incongruous gift - especially as that day Losrian had looked "like a lady not a tomboy" in the dress that Laswen had crafted - but it was one they all feared she would need.

[Arry]

There was no time now for his own handiwork. Skald had laid aside his cold chisels and tapping hammers and readied himself instead for the making of weapons. The Stonecut forges were heated white hot as ingots of iron were melted to a red hot liquid and poured into a myriad of molds – some for long barbed arrowheads, some for the slender, deadly points of the oaken staves.

Other halls were beating the metal into long-knives and swords; fashioning metal covers for the small wooden shields. And still others hammered long, sharp nails through thick oak clubs, making them bristle with death giving rippers. And each in their own hall were busy making ready their coats of mail, their thick leather vests, their vambraces, their greaves, their helmets.

An insistent hum filled the caverns beneath the mountains as the loud protests of iron against stone and metal melded together. Grindstones, whetstones, files, and honers all added their thrums to drone of deadly business.

Axes sang as they kissed the abrasive edges of the sharpening wheel. Baruk Khazâd!

The Longbeards were preparing for war . . .

[Folwren]

‘Anyway, they should be coming through in a few days.’ Viss took another bite of bread. ‘We’ve been asked to take them to the Elrond fellow, by the way.’

‘To lord Elrond?’ Bror asked, looking up sharply. ‘That will lead us almost into direct battle, won’t it? You said that he had come to help the jewelsmiths.’

‘Yes...but they’re still some ways away. I don’t think that the king will be sending us into direct battle for the elves. That’s not what was agreed on.’ He studied Bror closely as the youngest son relaxed visibly, but he asked no questions.

‘Who’s escorting the Lorien elves?’ Bror asked, looking into his mug at the dark tea. He hadn’t drunk much of it. It should be drunk, though. It might help calm the strange feelings in his stomach. He glanced up at his father, who, having just finished chewing a bite, replied.

‘I believe that the king is going to ask several Dwarves to volunteer. I doubt that it’s going to be like last time, where Riv planned it. Things went poorly then, and I think it will be even harder this time. There’s more land to cross and more orcs wandering about. I’m not sure how many he’s going to want to go. I doubt that very many will have to meet the elves, but when we get to the other side, he may want to send more with them when they leave to go to Elrond.’

‘I’ll go,’ Bror said quietly.

‘Ha! Not unless you’ve got me to make sure you don’t cause havoc!’ Skald said. Bror looked up with surprise and Skald let him catch just one glimmer of merriment in his eyes before he addressed Viss. ‘I’ll go, too, and keep little brother out of trouble.’ Bror stood up and opened his mouth to defend himself, but Skald waved him to silence. ‘Look. Riv’s coming. I doubt he expected today to turn into a family reunion.’

They could hear Riv’s footsteps in the stone hall outside. Another moment, and he entered. He stopped in the doorway, surprised to see not one, but three people waiting for him. He glanced at all of them and then nodded and came forward.

‘Good morning, Father,’ he said. 'Hullo, Bror.'

[piosenniel]

There is an old Dwarvish saying – Tongues are wagging ‘bout you when the tips of your ears burn hot as forgefire.

Riv looked about the kitchen, noting the murmur of voices he’d heard rumbling in the room had come to an abrupt halt. Their eyes were fixed on him, their tongues still . . . but nonetheless the tips of his ears felt decidedly warm. ‘And what would you expect,’ he chided himself. ‘Your mood was black as anything when you spoke to Skald. And he’s not one to keep burdens to himself. I’m sure he spoke with Bror . . .’ He glanced at his father and gave a half grin with a nod. ‘I hope no one has put the bug in Father’s ear. He needs no more worries.’

In an effort to lighten the mood, Riv looked expectantly at his younger brothers. ‘What? No hot food fixed for the returned warrior?’ He grinned widely at the both of them. ‘Here I’ve gone and gotten all cleaned up so as to be more presentable . . . and all for nothing . . .’

Glad of something to do, one of the brothers got up and fixed a basket of thick sliced bread, a plate of good goat’s cheese, and ladled out a big steaming bowl of meat and vegetable soup that Unna had slow cooking in the iron kettle near the fire. They sat and watched as he tucked into his food with a hearty spirit. He urged them all to have a mug of ale with him and poured a round for each himself. Skald he noted only sipped a little before placing the mug on the table.

The four fell to talking about the news from Viss about Celeborn. At first Viss himself wanted to part of the escort, but he was quickly shouted down by his sons. They dared not say he was too old to go, but they played on his sense of familial responsibility. It wouldn’t be right were he not here to oversee Stonecut business while they were gone. For his part, Viss raised a brow and was about to nay-say their argument, but looking at them, he knew they were just as likely to lock him in a vault in the lower caverns and give Svala the key to let him out well after they’d gone.

Viss, it seemed, had already spoken to most of the other older men in the Stonecut Hall. And an agreement had already been reached of how many men they thought they could spare for this escort party. ‘It’s a farther distance than we’ve gone before with an Elven group,’ Viss said. ‘That and the fact that the start of the battle is very near, there are more Orc troops in the area.’

‘And other things, even more worse than foul Orcs,’ Riv put in.

‘Well, I’ve put all your names forward for the escort,’ Viss went on. ‘I’ll surely understand if you want to stay back. I know you’ve all put forth a good effort already in our efforts to aid the Jewelsmiths. You’d be just as useful here at the forge if that’s what you choose to do.’

In the end, the three brothers, after much discussion, made their decision – they would go with the Elves from Lorien and see them safely to Lord Elrond’s position.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian had attempted to follow Artamir. There had been a look on his fair face that she had not seen before. It habitually wore an amused expression and while this was clearly not a time for jokes, she felt by some instinct that the distress the young elf betrayed was not down to fear. Then she wondered what she would do if she had caught up with him. They were hardly confidantes and now she should seek out her own family perhaps.

The discussions at her brother's house mirrorred those in Cainenyo's. He wished his sister to flee the city with his Galmir, Laswen and her mother. He and his father in law would stay and join the defence of the city.

"But Lord Celebrimbor said that all that could fight should! I shoot as well as most of the cadets!!! "

"He did not mean the maids of the city should fight I am sure"

"Why not? The women of the Noldor have fought before when they had to"

"The refugees will need protection too maybe..."

"Then you go! ~I think it is too late to go anyway - would we be any safer in the wilderness with that army on our heels?"

"Why must you defy me when all I seek is the safest course for you?"

"You aren't my father - I am of age - you have no right to choose for me!"

"And what would our father say if I did not seek to keep you from danger?"

At last Laswen's calm voice interrupted them.... "Stop this- there is enough conflict awaiting us..... I fear Losrian is right and this dispute is needless. I fear we may all have to fight or all have to flee. We are prepared for siege but perhaps we should also prepare for flight and have packs ready. then wait for what the morrow brings. "

The argument had been stopped if not resolved and Losrian had soon departed to her own chamber above her brother's workshop. She heard muffled, tense voices from behind the shuttered windows and knew that her household was not alone in its discord. Both the stores and the stock was much depleted since Laswen's family had first arrived from the outlands a year ago. But a small pony, some goats and poultry were still in residence in the woodstore and they stirred slightly as Losrian ran up the steps to the loft.

Packing for a journey would not be too arduous... almost everything she owned was contained in a fine wooden chest at the foot of the bed - examples both of her brother's work that looked a little incongruous in their humble setting. She took out the pack she had brought with her 6 years ago and it ws scarecely more full than then when she had sorted out the things necessaries for a journey and the things she could not bear to leave.

Few things caused many pangs... Most of her clothes were practical rather than beautiful but there was one notable exception. The dress made for her coming of age had had an overdress of simple blue wool, suitable for a winter celebration and more general use later, but the underdress Laswen had wrought for was of gossamer fine tuile, embroidered with flowers and butterflies too fragile even for general wear it was hopeless for a journey but Losrian could not bear to leave it behind. It folded to almost nothing and slightly guiltily she slipped it into her pack.

A harder decision was her lute. Light but bulky it would take space better occupied by provisions in her bag so she left it in it's case, next to her pack, bow and quiver. It was another decision that could wait until morning. If morning ever came.

[Durelin]

Firefoot's Post

Evening was nearing by the time Kharn almost literally shoved Grimkul and Ulwakh out of his tent. “Get out of my tent, you foul mountain vermin!” he snarled. Grimkul spared him a slight victorious smile, fury and the need for vengeance still gleaming in his yellow eyes. Kharn quailed under that look for a moment before swinging his whip at the two now-retreating forms.

Ulwakh led the way, threading his way quickly through the camp to put as much distance as possible between them and the captains, mostly Kharn. He wasted no time in cutting with a dagger the rope binding him to Grimkul, then the rope around Grimkul’s hands. Though Grimkul seemed hardly to mind, Ulwakh could not help but notice the way Grimkul’s bloodied legs hardly supported his weight, nearly giving out numerous times. Clearly, his fury still fueled him, but what about when that grew less hot? Battle loomed – Grimkul could hardly fight in such a condition.

Before too long, Ulwakh started looking around for a promising bit of space in the crowded camp. He dared not go too close to the periphery lest Grimkul get any more idiot ideas into his head. When he finally did find one, he sat down carefully, looking around as if worried about taking another Orc’s area. No one immediately disputed the claim and he relaxed somewhat. Grimkul removed his pack and dropped it carelessly on the ground before collapsing beside it, all the while saying not a word. Ulwakh sat uneasily, fearing for the outburst that he feared would surely come.

But it never did. The fading afternoon light faded into dusk, but still Grimkul sat unmoving, staring broodingly into space. Ulwakh grew hungry and tentatively dug into Grimkul’s pack for some dried meat, yet Grimkul still seemed not to notice. Occasionally his hand strayed to his sword hilt, or he might mouth some words Ulwakh couldn’t make out. The muscles in his face were taut, strained. Ulwakh finally tired and laid down to sleep, but Grimkul stared on into the night. The fire of hatred showed clearly in his eyes, not the fickle hatred for a meddlesome or irritating Orc, or for a fool of a commander, or for the Elves and Dwarves against whom he so fiercely fought, but hatred born of long taunting and torment – undying, burning hatred.

Ulwakh wished Grimkul would yell and rage.

[Durelin]

Maegisil's eyes shot open, a shout still ringing in his hears. His troubled sleep was interrupted by the sudden clamor outside, which easily reached inside his bedroom. He sat up, and he turned to see his wife looking up at him from where she lay beside him. Her eyes were wide with fear, and he expected they mirrored his own. The shouts grew louder, and the sound of a horn filled the air to almost overcome all other noise. Both Maegisil and Sairien knew what that call meant, though they had not heard it before this night: the army had arrived, the attack had begun. Maegisil threw the covers off and jumped out of his bed, and kneeling on the ground beside his bed, he pulled out a large trunk from underneath it. It seemed to have not been touched for many years, and it had not been since Maegisil had last seen battle, since the days when he was a glorious swordsman and defender of his lord.

He fumbled trying to get it open, and he realized his hands were shaking violently. He was unsure why, though at the moment he was unsure of just about everything. He was almost afraid he had forgotten how to use a sword, but he doubted that that was something you could ever forget, how to kill. Sairien watched him, having risen from the bed as well. Her hands were folded at her waist, and she held herself in a way that made her look as elegant as any queen, even in her nightgown. After he opened the chest to stare down at the cold mithril, steel, and leather, Maegisil looked up at his wife. He froze, feeling choked. Her beauty was radiant to him, and he felt he could not dry his eyes from her. And when he met her eyes... He felt his chest tighten and his throat close, and he felt the tears begin to collect in the bottom of his eyelids. Suddenly he felt a stinging pain in his hand. He blinked and pulled his eyes away from Sairien to find his hand clenched around the curved mithril blade of his sword. The next moment, his wife laid her hand on his shoulder and pulled his own hand of his blade with the other. The blood had already begun to pool on his hand, and she tore a small strip from her nightgown and tied it tightly around his palm.

“You are blessed that it was your left hand,” she said. He could not look her in the eyes, so he stared at her handiwork.

“Thank you,” he whispered after a moment, and then rose, pulling his sword out of his trunk. He started to wipe the little bit of blood off the blade with the edge of his sleep shirt, but Sairien grabbed him by the wrist and took the sword from him. He turned to look at her, but her expression was blank.

“Put on your armour,” she said softly. Maegisil relished in hearing her voice.

He frowned at her for another moment, but then began to comply. The segmented plates of finely shaped mithril over tough but soft dark leather were fine protection from slashing blows and many thrusts, and had served him well for many a battle in years past. And they had never limited his movement, insuring that his agility and dexterity could be used to his advantage. Celebrimbor had often joked about the quickness of his feet when it came to swordplay, but he knew that it was no joke on the battlefield. After he started to don the armour, Sairien put his sword carefully down on the only table in their bedroom. Maegisil noticed that she was careful not to smear the blood on it, but, even when Sairien came over to help him, he did not say anything. He would wait for her to speak, and he knew she would soon. Her hands were shaking too.

After he looked the warrior he had been centuries ago, in what seemed to him a past life, Sairien stepped back to look at him, and he watched her as she began to break down. She fell to her knees, and the tears came. He knelt down with her, and carefully and tenderly wrapped his arms around her. And though she shook, she did not sob, and her voice was steady when she spoke. Once again, Maegisil admired her strength, and wished he had it. “There is already blood on your steel, Maegisil,” she said, “Your blood. Let that be the only blood you shed today. Let Ilúvatar see that you have already shed blood, and tears, and need shed no more!”

Maegisil took her hand in his, and whispered to her as he felt a tear begin its way down his cheek. “We must go quickly to the palace, my love. You must be safe...and you could have been. It is my fault that we are still here, we should have flown when we had the chance...”

He started to continue, but Sairien interrupted him. “We could not have flown, we are not akin to the birds. This is our city. We cannot simply fly from it and build ourselves another nest.” She paused to kiss him softly. “I will stay here. I will be safe. Just come back.”

There was something in her eyes that calmed him, even though they glistened with her tears. She would be safe here, somehow he knew. And there was something in him that told him that the palace would never be safe, that Celebrimbor would abandon his people once again. Anger flashed in his eyes.

“I will come back for you.”

He rose after one last kiss, and looked back only once, when he took his sword from off the table, before he closed the bedroom door behind him and rushed down the stairs and out of his house. He took off at a run, anger driving him on even while it told him that he did not belong where he was going. He certainly had no feeling of duty to his lord, nor even to his city. It was always Celebrimbor's dream, the grandeur of Ost-in-edhil, of his great 'kingdom' of Eregion. Maegisil wondered what had held the elf-lord back from proclaiming himself a king.

The palace was on a raised plateau of land, and it was grueling for even most elves to run up that slow but steady incline leading toward the center of the city. But Maegisil's body was remembering the old days, and his strength was fed by anger. Soon he reached the palace, and found a large numbered of guards garrisoned there, as well as soldier preparing to head to the walls. He stopped only to receive permission from the guards to proceed through, and then continued his run. He was lost in the bustle of things, just another soldier, and he liked it that way. He never liked the idea of being ‘Counselor Maegisil.’

His soft leather boots skidded to a halt on the cold stone floor in front of a large gilded door. Maegisil knew this door too well, and he knew the way to it better even than he knew his sword. This only angered him more, as he thought of all the years he had wasted, a ‘counselor’ to the Lord Celebrimbor, a mocking title for a mockery of a position. He was about to push the door open when a guard's arm snapped out to stop him. He had not noticed the guards positioned on each side of the door. Celebrimbor had never bothered to make anyone stand guard outside his door. Finally, when twenty thousand of Sauron's forces were banging on his city's gate, he put two guards outside his chambers. Maegisil wanted to laugh.

“I am sorry, Maegisil,” the guard said, and the elf he was addressing recognized him to be Gilduin, an elf of Lorien, who he had met several months ago when the Lorien forces first arrived in Ost-in-edhil. Maegisil always remembered faces, and almost always the names that went with them. “Gilduin...you...why are you here? Has no one escaped serving this...lord?” He gestured toward the door, disdain clear in his face and his voice. But he did not wait for a response. He ran again, to his right down to the end of the hallway and turned a sharp left. There were no walls of the thick but elegant stone of the rest of the palace here, but rather there were graceful, beautifully etched pillars that served the same purpose as an enclosed wall, but gave a gorgeous view of the eastern horizon. Maegisil had watched a sunrise with his wife here. A tiny, pale light began to creep up from behind the Mountains of Mist, the tips of its long, spindly arms trying to grab hold of the darkness to tear it away. But they did not have a hold of it yet. The sun would not rise for another few hours, and so the lights of torches were the brightest in the night. There were thousands of them upon the field before the walls of the city. He had hoped that he remembered this spot right, that it was high enough to see well above and beyond the city walls. He had also dreaded being right. His breath was caught in his throat as he scanned the mass of moving objects that he knew to all be enemies, to all be of the Enemy. So the Deceiver had become, his master defeated so long ago. The hope that Sauron would follow in his master's footsteps was not in Maegisil's heart.

Watching the moving figures along the walls and in the city below, his hand moved to the hilt of his sword that hung at his side. It will be as long a siege as we can make it...

[CaptainofDespair]

It was a cool evening; the pale lighting of the torch fires on the edge of the hovels flickered and danced across the tents of the encampment, casting a myriad assortment of shadowy figures upon the leather-hide flaps, the smell of burning oils wafting through the quiet pathways that led between the makeshift housing for the army. The silence, which pervaded every nook and stretched forth its grasping claws and screamed out with a desperate, hollow voice, snaring any sound unwary enough to challenge its domain, lazily slept as the heavy footfalls of boots thudded through the musty dirt.

The only light emanating from within the rows of tents came from one, situated on a measly hill, though it was more akin to a dung heap to the lord who dwelled within, albeit temporarily. Angoroth’s tent went unguarded by his soldiers, as he was always wary of assassins. His belief was that soldiers were too incompetent, or just downright dumb, to handle such a festering demon of the night properly. Thus, only two large mutts, hounds of hell to those who rubbed them the wrong way, were all that stood watch over their master.

A heavy sigh, followed by the sound of an ink quill feverishly scribbling in a dusty, moldy tome, echoed outwards. “Bah! This doesn’t sound right! How am I supposed to fashion something that is memorable, a legacy, if I can’t come up with the proper account of the battle?” He shook his head, and leaned into the palm of his hand, his elbow perched against a table he had brought with him from the East. The wood was of fine oak, a rare commodity in the region he had slipped away from. He had carved it himself, notching it with engravings that held many meanings to him. In the center, he had etched in a dragon, devouring the world; though it was unfinished. He hoped he would have time after this business with the Elves was done with. “Perhaps I should wait until the battle is concluded. There might yet be some twist to whet the appetite of my mind. Or perhaps the Elves will prove to be all too easy, and unimpressive.” Closing the tome, which was laid upon oak boards, and bound together with the leather hide of some beast from ages past, he grunted his disapproval.

As he was preparing to settle in for the night, having risen up from his crudely fashioned chair, another piece of furniture he wished to complete, he heard the whine of his dogs. They often made noises through the night, but this was different. Throwing open the flap of his abode, sword drawn and pointed into the darkness, fully expecting some defected orc or Elven assailant, he cast himself into the shadows, under the bleakness of a murky sky. In the faint torchlight, he caught a glimpse of a familiar visage; that of Ulrung, who had returned from the orc encampments. “Ah, it is only you, Captain. I was expecting someone else.” Without uttering a single pleasantry, which both thought to be quite useless, they stepped out of the shadows of the flickering torch lights, and into the musty dwelling place that was Angoroth’s tent.

The lord seated himself, again, behind his table, leaving Ulrung to stand. “Tell me, Captain, how went the excursions into the orc camps? I do hope you come with favorable news.” Ulrung nodded, replying, “I do, milord. Those that yet do not serve us, have all agreed to side with you in the coming battle. Though, some were more trouble than others.” Angoroth chuckled lightly, having full expected some of the brutish orc chieftains and captains to act with callous disregard for the Dark Lord’s orders. But, before Angoroth could respond to the news, Ulrung added, “There was one…he seemed much like you, who was difficult to persuade.” This whetted Angoroth’s interest in the conversation. “One similar to me, you say? But, he was a lowly Orc? Odd.” Ulrung nodded again, maintaining a disciplined stance. “I do not wish this Orc to arouse trouble for my mission. If he does try anything contradictory to my orders, and to the mission, see to it that he does not live, Captain. Perhaps it will not be necessary to kill him, but as a preventative measure, I want you to keep your eyes on him tomorrow.” Ulrung thrice nodded. “That is all, Captain. Now, return to the camp and muster the army.”

~*~

Bustling about in the darkness, the many contingents of Angoroth’s army marched about, assembling in their assigned locations. The shrouded blackness prevented the myriad groups from recognizing each other, and so the dim lights of torches were given to the banner bearers, who signaled for each of the companies and battalions to move. Sitting atop a horse in the early morning hours, the lord of the army waited patiently for Ulrung to return, with news that all the pieces of the puzzle were ready, His steed sniffed the air, blowing out a hard wind through its large, black nostrils. It had been relatively calm, until now. It started to pull back a bit, just as Ulrung’s horse rode up beside it, startling it some with the heavy, winded breathing of its cousin. Out of the darkness, Ulrung’s words echoed, “Milord, everything is prepared. We are ready.” Angoroth nodded, and gave his captain the signal to begin the march to the Elven city. At this, Ulrung continued his ride, up to the front of the great column of soldiers and mercenaries. There, he muttered the orders to a signaler, who immediately blasted a single, long winded horn-call, sending the army into motion.

After a long, steady march through the darkness, they at last came upon the sleeping city, a pearl in the misty gloom of the night. Across the fields they marched, the grasses and trees shuddering as they passed by. The earth trembled beneath their iron-shod feet, sorrowful for what was to happen. When at last they reached the place where the siege was to begin, the silently waited as the rams and mangonels were set in place. It took only a few brief hours for the siege machines to be readied, and the army mustered itself yet again, to surge against crumbling walls and broken towers, into a fire-wracked city.

The pull of a rope signaled the beginning of the end for Ost-in-Edhil, as it unleashed a projectile towards the walls, crying out as a bird shrieks as it burst through the air, and into the turret of a tower. What followed was a horrendous sight, as the Elves scrambled to alert the city. More shots in the darkness, burning with fiery delight, crashed into the city’s walls and beyond; into shops and homes, killing those that crossed paths with them. The city felt the shattering pain of the siege begin, as the stones cracked and broke away beneath the torrent of catapult fire.

Angoroth turned to Ulrung, as the cityscape began to burn, and uttered, “And now, it is the End. We shall cast down the towers and walls, and lay waste to the city.”

[Alcarillo]

Arenwino slunk back home later that day. He still hoped to fight, but he still wanted to obey his father. He talked to no one as he silently entered the back door of the house and hid himself quietly in his room, pondering how he would convince his father that he should fight alongside his friends in the army and protect the city from the orcs.

The skies darkened as dusk came. Arenwino avoided his father, Alassante packed the family's most important belongings for the journey out of the city tomorrow, and Cainenyo was at his forge, polishing his pieces of armor and sharpening his sword. He would fight as soon as the orcs came. He remembered the sword he gave to Arenwino long ago, and he quietly groaned. There would be no stopping his son from fighting once he had a suitable weapon. There was a feeling of dread throughout the house as Cainenyo sat alone in the candlelight. He prayed for a bit that his son would have enough sense to stay away from battle, but in his heart he knew that Arenwino was rebellious and would fight anyways. The silent night wore on.

The streets of the city were filled with a dread and anxiety at what would soon happen. The roads and alleys were empty and quiet as a grave. All but the soldiers on the walls stayed indoors. As his family retired to bed, Cainenyo stayed up. Long into the night he sat by his forge's fire. His eyelids felt heavy and drooped slowly down over his tired eyes. His hands, rubbing grime off of an old chestplate, moved more and more slowly. He was asleep and for a moment the dread was forgotten as he dreamed of the Havens of Sirion long ago.

A single crash rang across the city. Screams echoed through the streets. Cainenyo stirred, and soon he was fully awake, listening to the darkness. Somebody shouted something inaudible, and another crash was heard, and then another. It sounded like buildings were running into each other at amazing speeds. Cainenyo ran down his street towards an alleyway. People now stirred in their houses, and looked from upper story windows towards the east. They held their hands in front of their faces in horror, but Cainenyo could not see what they saw. He peered down the alleyway that was his destination, and far off he could see a roof burning, and he heard a horn blow from the walls. The orcs were here!

He ran back to his home, his heart pounding, where his family was already awake. The entire street was awake and gathering weapons and preparing for a fight. "What is it, Cainenyo? Has Sauron's army came?" Alassante asked her husband in the courtyard. Her voice was fearful and nervous.

Cainenyo looked into his wife's eyes for a moment. "Yes, I think so," he said. He held his wife close. "You, Nessime, and Arenwino must leave the city now. I must go to fight." Alassante nodded and hurried into the house to change out of her nightgown and gather what she and the children would need. Arenwino stood in the corner of the courtyard, hiding in the shadows.

"I want you to go with your mother and your sister. Take your sword, and kill any orcs that cross your path." Cainenyo told him. Arenwino moved towards the door, but Cainenyo grabbed his shoulder. "Remember, yonya, that I love you." Arenwino understood and followed his mother into the house. Cainenyo now went to his forge, and began to dress himself in the articles of armor laying at his feet. Tonight would be the night that Ost-in-Edhil's fate would be decided.

[Envinyatar]

The area on the north side of the river was pocketed with scattered areas of low growing shrubs. A few willows wandered here and there along the river’s bank, dipping their long roots into the water. Ondomirë wondered that the trees did not curl back their roots in horror that the once clear, sweet, waters of the Sirannon now ran red with the blood of Elves and Orcs and Men. Or that those very willows did not curl up their leaves at the reek of death that eddied on the breezes.

Lord Elrond’s troops had found only a handful of Elves from the city who were still living, nearer the river. The Orcs had ranged out this far before the lure of riches in the city overcame their desire to kill more Elves. It was only through great luck, or perhaps as some of the Elves would whisper, the grace of the Valar, that the lives of a few of the mirdain had been spared.

Further on, the shrubs gave way to more heavily wooded areas. One of those from the city who had been rescued urged the Lindon Elves to make for a part of the woods more to the east where he said he and his family had gone in the summers to harvest wood for their forge fires. There were some wooden shelters there, where the woodsmen would live while they worked. Perhaps, he told them, some of the families who had been able to flee the city would have taken refuge there.

‘There,’ he cried softly, as they neared the clearing. ‘Those are the huts!’

The troops drew near the clearing. It was quiet. The windows of the shelters were all dark, doors closed. It appeared undisturbed.

One of the Dwarves, who were now on foot, inched his way quietly to the perimeter of the trees about the clearing. He crouched down, his eyes looking closely at the ground where the dried grasses abutted the ring of birches. ‘A small horse,’ he said, calling back to his companions who had come forward. ‘Here . . . and recently.’

Ondomirë came softly to the Dwarf’s side. ‘Yes . . . and gone that way,’ he said his eyes following the faint track . . .

[Mithalwen]

They were at the door now. Losrian thought she might faint, her hands trembled on the bow as she drew it.

The door swung open. Silhouetted against the frame were two figures - one extremely tall the other comparatively stunted. There was a blur of other figures behind them. Even in the shadows it was immediately clear that they were not orcs but elf and dwarf in the familiar uniforms of Lindon and Moria respectively.

Losrian let the arrow drop and stumbled forward towards them. The sight of her rescuers acted as a release for all the tension, pain and fear of the past hours and Losrian fell sobbing uncontrollably in to the arms of the first elvish soldier who had caught her as a reflex as she collapsed.

Moments later her self control began to reassert itself. Part of her realised that she was not necessarily safe because she was no longer alone part of her realised that this was no ordinary soldier. The surcoat into which she was sobbing belonged to a very high ranking officer indeed. I have escaped death to die of shame, she thought as she struggled to compose herself, suddenly aware of her own dishevelled appearance as well as the fact that she had virtually forced herself into the embrace of an elf lord to whom she would not have presumed to speak, had they met in other circumstances. Under the grime her face flushed , passing to a darker hue when Galmir, wakened by his aunt's sobbing and seeeing her supported by a tall, dark-haired elf had inquired hopefully, "Ada?".

Losrian drew away from Ondomirë as if she had been burnt. " No, not Daddy. Daddy's gone. Mummy's gone. It is just you and me" she finished biting her lower lip.

"I am sorry my Lord" she added, belatedly making a reverence, before turning to the child to hide her extreme embarassment.

[Arry]

Skald’s attention was drawn by the young Elven child. Stop staring, you great ninny! he chided himself. Of course, there will be children. They don’t simply drop from the sky fully grown . . . Which is what Riv had told him when they were much younger. The ‘fact’ planted in his young brain had stayed there, making up part of the myth he’d conjured for himself about Elves. And now it was disputed by the little one’s hopeful face and his childish voice raised in a question.

‘Who are you calling for, little one?’ he asked crouching down to be on level with the child. He glanced up at the Elven woman who had returned her attention to the youngster. ‘For your mami?’

[Envinyatar]

‘No, not his mother,’ Ondomirë answered Skald in the common tongue. ‘He asks for his father.’ The young woman’s back was to him, and Ondomirë could feel her discomfort at his presence. ‘In the dim light he mistook me, I think.’

He stooped and picked up the arrow that had dropped to the hut’s floor. Instinctively his fingers ran down the shaft of it, testing its straightness and how well the head was attached. The fletching, too, suffered the scrutiny of his fingers, before he drew near the woman and handed the arrow back to her. ‘M’lady, your arrow. Best you keep it, lest we have need of it and your skill with the bow as we travel on.’ He caught himself, recalling that she was not one of his bowmen to be spoken to so abruptly.

‘Your pardon. I should have given my name and asked yours.’ He nodded toward the Dwarf who was still speaking softly to the child. ‘This is Skald, M’lady. Of Khazad-dum. He and a number of others of his kin offered their services to us in our attempt to reach your city. I am Ondomirë, here with Lord Elrond to see how we might offer aid to our kin. Lord Gil-galad sent us, from Lindon.’ He looked at her grimed, tired face. ‘To our sorrow we arrived too late and with too few to save your city.’

‘We have gathered some who managed to flee from the destruction and are looking for others who might be hiding in these woods from the Orcs and Men. If you will, we can take you to a place of safety along with the others. Something further away from Sauron’s present campaign against us. Will you come? You and your . . . son, is it?’

[Mithalwen]

Ondomirë's manner, brisk and efficient, reassured Losrian and she relaxed a little. The officer seemed unperturbed neither by her tears nor by being addressed as "Daddy" by a grubby little urchin. She had noticed that her craftsmanship had passed muster and that also gave her confidence. She straightened her shoulders as she took the arrow, and raised her head to meet the steady gaze of Ondomirë.

"My son? No!" she answered in the Westron partly out of courtesy to the dwarf who in a minute seemed to have made a greater bond with the child than she had in a year and also so she might more speak more openly. Galmir understood a lot more than his own speech indicated and he was not yet fully aware of the extent of his loss. She spoke a little haltingly - she had little cause of late to use the common tongue.

"He is my brother's son. Galmir is his name. Mine is Losrian. My brother is dead as is his wife and her kin. So although I am a better archer than a nursemaid by a long shot - and better again at crafting arrows than firing them.... there is noone else to take care of him apart from my parents in Lindon, and I fear that the fell one will turn his eye thither now.... So we must get on as best we can. She sighed.

"Gladly I accept your offer, my lord, for there will be greater safety in numbers - I cannot travel subtly so encumbered" . Losrian glanced at Galmir who was clearly fascinated by the dwarf's beard. A glimmer of amusement played over her grave face. "And I rejoice that there are others. Do not regret you latecoming for the numbers were so great that it would have profited us little and now your arrival may prevent all being lost" She smiled and it was if a beam of sunlight had broken through clouds for an instant. Then she started to blush again and lowered her head as she feared she had spoken too boldly. She took the opprtunity to shoulder the pack that lay at her feet.

" A moment to attend to the beast and we will be ready my lord" ready once more to meet Ondomirë's regard.

[Durelin]

It had been two weeks since Maegisil had arrived in the camp of Elves and Dwarves, and he had found it to be a strange mix. There were warriors from Lorien and Lindon, as well as a few from Eregion; the refugees were a combination of both elf-men and elf-women, with a number of young children; and then there were the Dwarves. It was strange to see them all traveling together. Though both the Elves of Eregion and those of Lorien had lived fairly closely with the Dwarves, trade, travel, and a common enemy often bringing them together. But there were few instances when all three of these people were found in one place, much less when those from Lindon spoke directly to a company from Khazad-dûm.

And so the next fourteen days included many a new experience for all, though Maegisil did not find that he could delight in it. Sairien spoke to him of how it cheered her to see such harmony among the groups, talking of how it was ‘good from the bad,’ and something that could give them hope. But the former Counselor had trouble really hearing her words. He spent most of his time with his wife, abhorring the presence of anyone else, as it most often meant informing them of Celebrimbor’s death, or any number of things concerning Ost-in-edhil and its fall. Why they consulted him on such matters, he was not sure.

It was after these long two weeks of moving that what Maegisil considered to be the defeated army passed beyond the Hollin Ridge. Toward where, he did not know. He had heard from few about an actual destination, and it was his only question for several days that he chose to ask whenever anyone attempted to question him. There seemed to be so much confusion, and Maegisil was not used to being out of the loop. As much as he despised the idea of lords and counsels anymore, it was strange to not be among those in Elrond’s tent every evening, discussing further plans.

But then an evening came when the Herald again summoned him, as he had been upon his arrival. Their first talk had been brief. Maegisil had barely spoken, and Elrond had realized quickly that the elf needed time before he would be able to speak at length about Eregion’s downfall. The few words he had said were out of anger, and though the elf-lord had passed them off as the bitter tongue of a tired and grief-ridden man, Maegisil knew he would never regret them. His feet were heavy as he arrived at Elrond’s tent, and when the guards let him in, he was in no mood to waste his energy on even simply the pretense of a bow. He sat almost before the lord motioned for him to.

“I understand that it must be hard for you, my friend,” Elrond began after a deep breath; he looked weary, and his dark flowing hair looked wind-blown, “to bear to see the doom of your own city. And you have been bitter; you have despised and rejected all those who have tried to console you.”

Maegisil looked him straight in the eyes with a blank stare. And I am about to again, he thought, prepared to leave if the elf-lord did not move on to something more important.

“I am not here to console you, though, Maegisil,” Elrond continued. “I finished my part in that on the first day of your discovery by my scouts. Now, I am here to demand answers from you, mírdan, as the Herald of the High King Gil-galad.”

Maegisil practically scowled at the elf-lord. “Yes, great Herald, you are from far away Lindon; you are supposed to be my kin; you abandoned my people to their death. I owe no respect to you, Elrond. I owe you no answers.”

The other elf leaned back in his chair and eyed the former Counselor. His face was of stone, no longer as cool as before, hardened and sharpened by anger. “You will tell me why you sit here now, speaking with me, and the Lord Celebrimbor does not.”

Maegisil gripped the arm of his chair hard, his knuckles turning white. He waited in silence for several moments as if he were waiting for a moment when Elrond wasn’t looking, and he could escape. He felt a twinge of fear for the first time in what felt like forever. Would he ever be able to tell the truth? He suddenly grew angry with himself for cowardice, and felt defiance rise in him. The elf-lord before him could do nothing to him, but yes, he would know the truth.

“Given the choice between the lives of my wife and myself, and the life of Celebrimbor, I chose. And I feel no regret for my decision.”

[Alcarillo]

Cainenyo had found Alassante in the camp. Their reunion was happy and tearful. Cainenyo was so relieved to find his family in one piece. They were all alive: Alassanter, Arenwino, even little Nessime. He heard their story of escape over and over again, amazed at their survival from the burning city. And they heard Cainenyo's story about the fighting at the gate and running through the alleys and searching for a way out. He kept close to his family in the next few weeks, always thankful they were still alive.

Once, while the refugees were camped near the Hollin Ridge, Cainenyo and Alassante left Nessime with her older brother and took a walk through the forest. They climbed as far up the hills as they dared, and even saw far away the last wisps of smoke from the ruins of Ost-in-Edhil. Standing on a rocky outcrop, they watched the smoke for some time.

"Where will we live now?" Alassante said after several minutes of silence, "We have no home."

"We will go with the rest of the survivors. We might even found a new city, just as beautiful as Ost-in-Edhil," Cainenyo said. He wrapped a comforting arm about his wife. She sighed, and hugged him back.

"We should return to the camp. The children are waiting," she suggested. They climbed their way back down the hill and to the camp, where the children waited with the rest of the families.

[Mithalwen]

Losrian was a little surprised by Ondomirë's request. Though she had ridden alongside him for a fortnight now she felt she knew him little better. She had been ostensibly and actually treated as one of his men. There had been a few smirks and raised eyebrows when she had first joined his company of archers but now she was accepted simply as one of them and she often now set her bedroll among their ranks rather than joining the refugees, unless it was her turn to mind the children. .

Perhaps though his indifference had been easier to bear than this sudden increased attention. For two weeks she had felt pangs of joy on seeing him each morning and regret if higher matters kept him away from the company long. The accidental brush of his hand against hers sent a frisson up, it seemed, to her heart causing a dull ache. She was no longer able to deceive herself even though she managed to hide her feelings to the outside world well enough. "You fool, Losrian," she had chided herself, "falling in love with the first man who shows you any kindness. Why would someone like him be interested in you - he who must have had the choice of ladies noble, fair and wise? He took pity on you that is all ...."

Her brother had used to tease her about Artamir, speculate whether the handsome son was the true reason she had been so keen to be his mother's apprentice, and that if so, she was aiming high. So much higher was Ondomirë that she might as well try to take a star in her grasp. Consequently she strived to master the secret rush of delight at his words reasoning that the "pleasant company" referred to her little nephew and his friends whose antics she now found absolutely enchanting.

"Of course my Lord, you are most welcome, Galmir can be most diverting though I fear you will not find his conversation elevating", Losrian rose to her feet and fell into step beside Ondomirë as they walked towards the area where the refugees were making their camp. Galmir greeted his aunt with delight and she swung him into her arms. "now Gally, say hello to Lor... to Ondomirë.."

"'lo Ondomirë" obliged Galmir stretching out his arms to him and so was transferred. This friend of his aunt's didn't have the fascinating beard of the dwarf, and in the daylight he could see quite well that he was not his ada but he had a braid of dark hair like ada's which just asked to be pulled..... Losrian's attention was drawn by the orphaned girl who stood near, looking hopefully to be included. "Hello Isilmë, do you want to come and eat with us?". the little girl nodded and Losrian took her hand.

Ondomirë looked at her enquiringly and Losrian explained swiftly in the Westron so that the children would not understand. "She is an orphan - and Galmir's constant companion. I fear us getting too attached to each other. Although since I must look after one child, I feel I might as well look after two, I know it would be selfish - better for her to be fostered where she might have two parents, if her own kin are not found. However it is hard to deprive her of affection when she has noone. "

Losrian's voice tailed off and she was glad for once that the two children were demanding games while they waited for the evening meal to be ready.

[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.’

[Folwren]

Bror leaned back away from the gleaming and shining edge of his axe. His eyes studied the curving blade with the utmost scrutiny. With a grunt of some satisfaction, he bent forward again and continued to sharpen it. It had been fortunate enough to send a few orcs to their death this last excursion, and for that, at least, Bror was pleased.

A young, piping voice hailed him from the door way. ‘Skald said you’d be back!’

Bror turned his head and smiled broadly as his nephew walked in. ‘Well, well, Leifr! What are you doing here?’ He lowered the axe to his knee and watched the boy approach him.

‘Mami said that I could come down and watch you fix your axes until supper,’ he replied, ‘then to tell you that you are to come promptly to the kitchen, wash up, and join us.’

‘Your mother said that, did she?’ Bror asked, another smile coming to his face. ‘Well, I guess I’d better obey orders. But this axe needs finishing up first. Sit down, my lad.’ Leifr did as he was bidden and Bror took back up his weapon and the sharpening stone. They were both silent for the first few careful strokes and a cold ringing resounded with each one.

‘Did you meet any orcs this time?’ the child asked after a pause.

‘Yes, indeed! In the valley below the gate. We beat them sorely. Not a single of them left to carry any of their measly news to their leaders.’ A strange light flickered in his eyes an instant and then went out. ‘It was only a small group. But enough,’ he added in a muttered tone to himself. ‘There,’ he said the next instant, ‘that’s finished. Let’s go promptly to the kitchen, then. Supper won’t be quite ready, but I’d like to see everyone as soon as possible.’ He stood up and hung the axe carefully in its place and then came back and took Leifr’s waiting hand.

They walked through the bright halls and corridors. Bror greeted people as he passed, everyone going home after a day’s work. At the door of the Stonecut halls, they met up with Skald. The brothers greeted each other warmly and clasps hands, and then they all went in together.

‘I figured you’d be back today,’ Skald said as they entered the kitchen.

‘Then you figured correctly,’ Bror replied, grinning. ‘Hello, Unna.’ She waved to them from the stove and continued her work. Bror stopped and watched Skald go to her to get his homecoming kiss and a few sweet, quiet words passed between the two of them. He barely stifled a sigh and then turned his glance towards the doorway as Ginna came running through it. She gave an excited exclamation and came straight to him. He caught her up in his arms, laughing.

‘I put a great chunk of ice in Leifr’s bed last night,’ the girl whispered in his ear first thing. ‘You should’ve heard him yell and holler.’ Bror concealed his smile and glanced briefly towards Leifr. The boy was busy setting the table and hadn’t heard.

‘Thought that one up all by yourself?’ he asked, in the same quiet tone of voice. She nodded, a wide grin on her face. ‘Good for you,’ he said. ‘Now go help your brother.’ He set her down and she scampered off to lend a hand. Whether she ended up being more of a burden than a help, Bror didn’t wait to see. Skald was approaching him again and they were soon in close conversation.

The meal was wonderfully good (as only Unna could make it, Skald insisted) and everyone present enjoyed it. Bror was asked how the scouting had been and how far they had gone and other such details. Since the battle in Eregion, there had been many orcs wandering over the mountains and there were often parties of Dwarves going out and skirmishing with them.

Bror went with those scouting parties rather often lately. Skald had asked him why some time ago, and he had simply answered, ‘Because of Riv,’ and that seemed to have been enough. At least, Skald hadn’t asked again or argued with him. Bror didn’t know what else to do. Skald had Unna and Leifr and Ginna, and another one on the way. But Bror was too young to have a wife yet. . .but still, coming home, and being with them all again was always better than the long marches, and the hot, bloody battles, regardless of how many orcs he killed himself. Yes, the return was always better than the going away.

When they had finished the meal (and it took a rather long time), Bror whispered something to Leifr, and the boy went off immediately, coming back in a moment with Bror’s harp cradled carefully in his arms. His Uncle took it from his hands gently and quietly tuned it. Then he played simple, quiet melodies until Unna was finished cleaning.

Most of the lamps and candles were blown out, and the fire was the main source of light left. Skald sat smoking his old pipe, and Unna mended socks without the need of extra light. The children sat on the ground before the fire, and Bror said in the shadows just on the edge of the flickering light.

‘This is for you, Unna and Skald,’ he said. ‘You’ll remember this one.’ His fingers felt the familiar strings in the darkness and he played softly in the stillness an old song. The introduction lifted Unna’s head and he caught the glimmer of her eyes in the firelight as he began to sing.

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head. . .

An image of his brother rose in Bror’s mind. Life may continue, and happy times come again, but he would never be forgotten. A soft melancholy smile came to Bror’s face as he continued.

. . .The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day . . .

[Durelin]

Mithalwen's post


Spring SA 1705

Losrian woke to the now familiar sounds of Imladris but it seemed as if the world had been cast anew. She looked across at the one who slept peacefully next to her and smiled. She had not thought such happiness was possible. It had been hard bought but still she felt it undeserved.

Fifteen years earlier, not yet of age she had left Lindon and her parents and gone to seek what she thought to be her destiny in Ost-in Edhil. The fate was not as expected but, given that she could not return the dead to life, she would not exchange it. She looked up at the carved beams of her ceiling and laughed inwardly to think what Ferin would have said had he known how much of her time had been spent at working wood since the day when the Army of Elrond and the refugees of Eregion had come across the hidden valley of Rivendell. So few of the craftsmen had survived that even an apprentice such as herself had increased status and while she still loved metalwork most, in Imladris it seemed natural to shape the buildings to be in harmony with their environment and even the metal work took organic form.

It would be long before the work would be completed but once the essentials of shelter had been met, the natural inclination of the Eldar and the Noldor in particular to marry beauty with function had surfaced. Naturally Losrian had not neglected her own dwelling. Less affected by the loss of Ost in Edhil itself than many of those who had lived there longer, she approached the task of building the refuge with great enthusiasm, fuelled by her own happiness. Before they had met, Losrian had imagined marriage as somthing that would stifle her but Ondomirë's love had increased her self confidence and her creativity had flowered.She remembered the moment she had first seen the valley, and the rush of joy that had seized her, knowing instantly that their wandering was over, that this would be her home with Ondomirë.

A little time had been spared from essentials in those early days for her to craft with the more expert help of Cainenyo two slender bands of silver and the formal betrothal of Losrian and Ondomirë. was the first celebration held at Imladris. Losrian had worn the dress crafted for her coming of age by Laswen which had somehow survived months in a bag in a cart along with the few non-essential possessions that she had brought out from the ruin of Eregion. It was she thought, probably the first time Ondomirë had seen her in a dress.

The next time was at their wedding a year later. She had joked that the only reason she did not resent the customary delay was the need to sew her wedding gown and had hoped that the other elf women would take pity on her as Laswen had, especially since she worked long hours at forge and lathe in the common good. However to her surprise, with their guidance she found that her needle flew and she realised that as with the osanwë-kenta motivation was all. She wanted the dress to be as fair as possible as an expression of her love for Ondomirë and her will seemed to mould her skill. Though by the time of their wedding, their happiness was tempered by the knowledge that the valley was an isolated island in a sea of evil they trusted in "estel" that it would not always be so. Lying safe in her husband's embrace, their hair mingled raven and silver on the pillow Losrian found it easy to have faith.

In the early days the deepest shadow on Losrian's heart was a bittersweet one. As she had predicted some of the farming folk of Eregion had taken refuge in the foothills of the mountains; scouts had found them and guided them to Imladris. Among them had been Isilmë's maternal grandparents. Although Losrian had always spoken the proviso that she would care for the little girl unless her kin could be found the likelihood that this would happen seemed so remote that she had ceased to think it, and had started to think of the girl as part of her family. Although the child would dwell in Rivendell and she would see her daily, yielding the lass to her own delighted family had caused her an exquisite pain that she managed to conceal from most. Not from Ondomirë in whose tender arms she had wept long in private and not from Elrond who saw many things. He had stood at her side and watched with her as Galmir and Isilmë played together. His voice reached her mind "I think in the long term it will be better that those twain are not raised as brother and sister" . Losrian caught his meaning and was comforted. He added "and you will have more children in your house in time". "But not in time of war" she answered. "Wars do not last forever Losrian" he said before leaving her to her thoughts.

Galmir grew, thrived and treated the valley as a giant playground. While Losrian and Ondomirë worked hard they devoted as much time as they could to him and little boy who had been delighted when he realised that the wedding meant that they would live together "like ada and ammë" and had called Ondomirë, Ada-mirë.

Elrond had been right. Sauron's hold over had been short lived. The king of Numenor had sent a great army to the aid of Middle Earth and in 1701 the Dark Lord had been driven back to Mordor and the Westlands would have peace for many years.

As Galmir grew he began to show more traits in face and personality to his parents and grandparents. While he provided such fair remembrance of her lost kin, Losrian felt an increased yearning for another child, one who would reflect the likeness of her beloved Ondomirë and his kin, mingled with her own. In Coirë a year ago, all three of them had gone for a walk in the woods that lined the valley. Ondomirë and she had sat on a fallen trunk and watched Galmir attempt to climb a beech. Noting his lengthening limbs and increasing confidence, Ondomirë had commented that he would soon teach the lad archery and commented that he wasn't a baby any more. He had been surprised by his wife's wistful sigh at his remark. "What is the matter, melda? " he asked silently " You have seemed restless lately..... do you wish to go to Lindon to see your parents .... now that it is safe? " "No! - I mean yes I would love to see them again but .... that is not it " and she opened her mind to reveal the one thing she had tried to conceal from him since their marriage.

Understanding her he had laughed but asked why she had not spoken before knowing how much he loved Galmir. "I thought you would think we should wait a while longer ... but I do not want to wait any more" she said gazing at her feet.
"If you are ready, I am ready " he said and drew her to him, resting his head against hers in the same gesture he had made when she had accepted him nearly eight years before.

In the spring, Losrian conceived and it seemed to her that the changes in her body mimicked nature as it softened and swelled while the flowers budded and blossomed. The plants however rushed to full ripeness and in the autumn while they yielded their harvest, Losrian felt the first stirring of the new life within herself . Unable to express her joy in craft she took up her lute again and made music as long as she could accomodate the roundness of the intrument's belly against her own. In her happiness she lost her shyness and cared not who heard her as she sang and played. Ondomirë was as loving and attentive as she could wish and Galmir, to her relief was looking forward to the arrival of the child that would link them all. "Would you like it to be a boy or a girl?" she had asked him as he rested his little hands on her feeling for the movement of the unborn child with a rapt expression on his face. "Both " he replied. "Well I am fairly certain there is just one in there - you will have to make do with one or the other and hope we don't get the same again next time" she had answered. "Already you think about next time?" asked Ondomirë, and she had seen no reason not to, her pregnancy had given her much joy and little trouble at least until her labour had started.

Now as she lay back on her pillows, little more than a day later, those memories were already fading, overwhelmed by the love she felt for her firstborn, her husband and Galmir the child of her heart. The baby woke and holding the child against her Losrian wondered at the perfection of its tiny limbs and gazed into grey eyes which were so like Ondomirë's.

As if in answer to the thought he arrived with Galmir and she passed the baby to its father while she embraced the little boy, reassuring him that he was loved no less than the new arrival.

The infant seemed even tinier cradled in Ondomirë's arms and watching them with Galmir at her side, she committed the image to her memory, whatever the future brought, this moment would sustain her trust in days when it was harder to believe in Estel. But this was not the time to think of such things. It was a time for joy, for celebration. She smiled at Ondomirë

"So, have you chosen a name?"


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Envinyatar's post


SA 1712



It had been a six month’s journey, from Imladris to Lórien and return. Lord Elrond, with a number of his counselors, had met with Celeborn and Galadriel. There were matters to discuss concerning Sauron. Though a certain level of peace reigned from Rhovanion to Forlindon, still he was not vanquished totally, only gone to ground for now. And once he had rewoven his foul deceits, they knew he would return again to pursue his schemes.

In order to accompany Lord Elrond on this mission, Ondomirë had taken off his leather apron, the one he used to work on the shelves for the library Elrond desired to be built; put away the hammer, the nails, and the attendant rolls of bandage that often cushioned his unfortunate forays into anything more complicated than nailing one board to another. And pick up his bow and armour once again.

That Ondomirë was a master of the bow was never questioned, but clearly his talents in the art of carpentry and woodworking left much to be learned. Still he persisted at it, to the amusement of the other Elves involved. He liked the feeling of building something, of making even as simple a thing as a shelf. It was worlds away from his long years of war, of killing.

The trip was uneventful, as far as any danger from Orcs or other of Sauron’s creatures left to fend for themselves since his departure. Instead there was a bit of good fortune for Ondomirë on a short patrol he’d gone on with three others of his bowmen.......

---

‘Atya! Atya!’

The chorus of nearing voices grew louder the closer he drew to his dwelling. It was Miril, first, his thin little legs pumping hard as he ran toward his daddy. And Gally, the older brother, holding him up by his tunic shoulder so that he didn’t stumble. Ondomirë smiled at this image of the two boys . . . of his two boys. He leaned down and grabbed them up as they came windmilling to him. They wriggled and squealed against his armour, giving him quick hugs about the neck, and then reaching down to grab at the clasp of the leather pouch strung over one shoulder. He put them down and handed over the pouch, directing Gally to give out the presents that he’d brought from Lórien. ‘The one with the dark blue ribbon is yours,’ he told the boy, ruffling his hair as eager fingers lifted out the prizes. ‘Red for Miril . . . and where’s my girl?’ he asked, looking to where Losrian stood, their two-year old daughter in her arms.

‘Come, Ancalimë, my bright little bird.’ The little girl clutched onto her mother, looking at him suspiciously. ‘Come . . . here, atya will take off his armour, his bow, his sword.’ Her face smoothed out as he spoke softly to her, and once he was down to his breeches and tunic, his weapons and such at his feet, she looked as if she might recognize him.

‘You’re missing out, Anca!’ cried Gally, holding up a pretty, little, soft sewn dolly. ‘Look! She has silver hair, just like you and ammë. And her dress is green, too, just like yours!’

‘Atya?’ she said as Losrian crouched down and nudged her toward her father. He, too, knelt down as she ran toward him. A generous, wet kiss was planted on his cheek and the dolly clutched to her own chest as Gally handed it off. She toddled happily back to her mother to show it off.

‘Don’t worry, atya,’ Gally offered, his hands on his hips as he watched his little sister. ‘She’s a big ammë’s-girl since you left.’ He snorted, already wondering at the ways of females. ‘Me and Miril have built a little fort down by the little stream,’ he went on, turning back. ‘You can come play with us . . . if you want,’ he added hopefully. Ondomirë chuckled at the invitation, saying ‘yes’, but tomorrow, it would have to be. “I want to spend some time with ammë . . .’

Anca had gone off to play with her brothers as Ondomirë stood back up. Losrian’s eyes were on her daughter, a smile of simple delight at the scene lighting up her face. He watched her for a moment, drinking in the familiar grace of her. The breeze picked up a few stray strands of her hair, fanning them out. They shimmered silvery against the evening’s sky.

‘I’ve missed you,’ he said softly, drawing her to his side as he came near.

‘And your supper, too,’ she teased him. ‘Many times over by my reckoning!’ Taking his hand she urged him back to their dwelling, saying the children would be occupied with their toys and the fireflies that would soon be out.

He watched her as she moved easily about the little kitchen area. Filling a bowl for him, offering him bread . . . and would he have wine, or water. She flitted about much as the bright fireflies the children were so fond of catching. ‘Alight for a moment,’ he said grasping her wrist as she placed a mug of wine in front of him. ‘I have news of Skald and his family.’

There had been a brief encounter as they crossed back over the mountains near Lórien, heading back towards Imladris. Ondomirë and several of his bowmen had circled back behind the group of Elves to scout for anyone or anything following them. Skald and several other Dwarves were spotted heading south, back towards Khazad-dum, the Elves supposed. ‘We would have let them pass without knowing we were there, save that I recognized the brooch the lead Dwarf wore on his cloak. It was your gift to him, Losrian. He still has it . . . the garland of flowers and leaves.’ She nodded for him to go on, her eyes bright with anticipation.

‘He looks as . . . well, good as ever. Dwarvishly good. His eyes twinkle with a new happiness.’ He paused for a moment. ‘One we did not see . . . back then. ‘There was sad news . . . his older brother, Riv, died in that last assault from beneath the mountain - when they drew the Orcs and others from us. But Skald and his younger brother, Bror, returned safely to their hall.’ He smiled, recalling the glad news they both had exchanged of wedding and of family. ‘He’s taken a wife, or as he put it – she’s taken him. His brother Riv’s widow. And they have a son themselves. Rauði, he’s called; three years older than our Miril. And Riv’s son and daughter are part of their little brood, of course.’

‘We spoke of some our time together, his and mine. And I joked at my, our, first sighting of you and how glad I was your arrow had not pierced me when first we found you and Gally. It was Skald who slapped me on the back at the recollection and laughed that from where he sat, your arrow had flown straight to my heart.’ Ondomirë reached up to tuck a stray silver hair behind her ear. His finger lingered for a moment, then trailed down the hollow of her neck from earlobe to collarbone. ‘Clever Dwarf!’ He sat back and looked at her face.

‘But I forget myself . . . he taught me a song, as we sat about a little campfire in the evening. Said it was a present for us. An old song, from before the lands sank beneath the sea. There was a small country in the far northwest where the Dwarves had halls once. And he said that when he sang it, he often thought of you and me and wondered what had become of us. You are the lovely Queen and I, apparently, the stricken suitor.’

‘He said he wished that his brother Bror were there with him. He plays the harp it seems and his voice is far better than Skald’s – or so Skald says. But I told him, mine was not much meant for singing, either. So he would be a fine enough teacher for the likes of me.

Losrian clapped her hands and grinned at him, commanding him to sing it. He stood up from the chair, grabbing a clean pan from the counter to use as a drum. With a look of mild apology, he cleared his throat and began . . .

~o~

Gentlemen it is me duty
To inform you of one beauty
Though I'd ask of you a favour
Not to seek her for a while
Though I own she is a creature
Of character and feature
No words can paint the picture
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

On the evening that I mentioned
I passed with light intention
Through a part of our dear country
Known for beauty and for style
In the place of noble thinkers
Of scholars and great drinkers
But above them all for splendour
Shone the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

So my lads I needs must leave you
My intentions no' to grieve you
Nor indeed would I deceive you
Oh I'll see you in a while
I must find some way to gain her
To court her and attain her
I fear my heart's in danger
From the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty
Of the Queen of all Argyll

And if you could have seen her there
Boys, if you had just been there
The swan was in her movements
And the morning in her smile
All the roses in the garden
They bow and ask her pardon
For not one could match the beauty

Of the Queen of all Argyll . . .

~o~

‘Atya is singing!’ Miril’s eyes were wide with the wonder of it. The trio of little ones stood in the entry way listening.

‘Yes,’ said Gally, his grubby hands holding tight to those of his brother and sister. ‘Come on, Anca . . . Miri . . .’ He looked, smiling, back to where his mother and father now had their arms wrapped about each other. ‘Bring your toys. I think we can get ourselves off to bed . . . don’t you?’

[Durelin]

Many said that the guiding hand of Ilúvatar had led his suffering children to the valley, which he protected, as he would always, from the growing shadow. It certainly was a beautiful sanctuary, and some boasted that they would build a city more wonderful even than Ost-in-edhil, a flower blooming amidst the ruins and so prettier than before. But all knew in their hearts that this could not be. There would never be another Ost-in-edhil – the Mírdain would never be the same. And in the minds of many, it was certain that the doom of the Mírdain had already come, and the few survivors that clung to the many memories that they could gather up, were but the death throws of a dying breed. They had seen the River Sirannon flowing red, the walls of Ost-in-edhil crumble, their lord and founder fail: their doom had long since come.

They were betrayed.

“I will not follow another lord who seeks to glorify his name further by founding a new city. And I will not let my people be led by an elf who never even dwelt in Eregion.”

Maegisil was furious, his eyes flashing and his hands tightened into fists as he once again sat in meeting with the Lord Elrond. The refugees, as well as Elrond and the remainder of his army, had been occupying the valley that they named Imladris for some time, building at a considerable rate. Every one of the Mírdain spoke of what the citizens of their fallen city could have accomplished in the same amount of time, but some were beginning to find new hope. But the Herald of Gil-galad had sent word to the High King in Lindon, telling him of the fate of Eregion and the establishment of Imladris, many months ago; and they had just received word back. Maegisil did not like the news. But, for some reason, Elrond had wished to share it with him.

“I did not ask for this, you know that.” The lord’s voice was as calm as ever, though his intensity was clear. He never took his gaze away from Maegisil, who began to feel uncomfortable. He had not felt real comfort in several years, and that his wife sometimes wept for him did not help. Nor had he done anything to help in the building of a new city within the valley; he avoided contact with anyone but Sairien. She of course busied herself with whatever work she could do, and sometimes he heard her laugh – but it was never with him. He watched people often, wondering what they might be feeling, wondering how many times a day they thought of someone who they had not seen in almost two years. One day he thought he saw Narisiel from a distance, but having caught only a glimpse, he discarded the thought as impossible. There was no way she escaped from the city if he had not seen her yet. If she had been picked up as a refugee, he would have known. Someone would have told him; Sairien would have.

“Why do these people require a lord?” Maegisil asked, skirting away from any issues concerning what this lord did or did not want. “It is obvious that they are quite capable of governing themselves.”

“The people always look to a leader, particularly in times of trouble.” Elrond knew that he had poured salt on the former counselor’s wounds with those words, but he continued to simply watch the elf seated across from him. But Maegisil’s reaction was not what he expected. The elf’s skin grew paler than usual, and his jaw was tight as he gritted his teeth seemingly in pain. His hands slid out of tight balls and he brought them up to his face, running them over his face as they trembled. He hunched over and rested his elbows on his knees, and held his head there for many moments. Elrond waited patiently. He was a lord; waiting was something he was an expert at.

When Maegisil finally spoke, raising his head only slightly from his hands, his voice obviously shook with emotion, though the lord could not apply a name to what he heard. It was not biting as if he were angry, nor was it edgy, or sounding as if he were on the verge of tears. Elrond would not forget his words, and, later, he would decide that perhaps the mirdan’s voice has simply been that empty: so vacant of any feeling or care that it reverberated in a void.

“There is a reason that we were called the ‘Dark Elves,’ Lord Elrond. It would have been better if we had left when it was our time, when we first heard the call of the sea. But now we cling to this world, this Middle-earth. And here we are, with lords and kings, wars and death, and the Shadow still a threat to us all; we are left with nothing but empty words and actions and a violent death. Thus is the life of the immortal, tied to this world. And thus have we made the world.”

“Maegisil--”

“Thus have I made the world.”

“Maegisil!” The lord’s voice rang out with pure authority, a natural sound of command that demanded to be heard. The former counselor grew silent. He had not yet forgotten what that voice meant. Celebrimbor had been a lord through and through. That elf Angoroth had killed was not Celebrimbor. Maegisil would never stop telling himself that.

“Maegisil…” Elrond began again, his voice calm again – almost pleading. He looked tired, and Maegisil was almost afraid to look him in the eyes, for fear of seeing something from the past. It was the same kind of fear he had for closing his eyes. He was trying to erase them, those faces from his mind. He would never see them again, and he was afraid to. “We are building a new world for ourselves here. Please, you can help us, and you can build a new life with us.”

“Do you really think it will be any different?”

“I will do everything in my power to make it so.”

“Celebrimbor would have said the same thing.”

Elrond sighed, and his façade of calm was broken as he ran his own hands over his face, looking more and more disheveled. It seemed that the past few years had taken as much toll on him as it had Maegisil, though the former counselor did not want to really believe that. He observed the elf’s hard features, though, as they tensed up, and watched his eyes as they shifted to stare down at the small table before him that served as a desk. It was strangely empty but for a few papers and a candle that looked as if tonight would be its last night to burn. Both the elves in that tent felt much like that lump of wax, sitting in the makeshift room because Elrond had insisted that there were many more important things to be built than lordly halls and chambers. Maegisil had conveniently forgotten that, and should have remembered that Celebrimbor’s palace was the first thing to be completed in Ost-in-edhil, with the rest of the city sprawling out around it. Of course it had been planned that way, but it had not simply been due to happenstance.

Suddenly Elrond held the other elf’s gaze again, and he seemed to read part of what went on in the former counselor’s mind, having watched the warring emotions twisting his face. Maegisil dropped his eyes again, and clutched his hands together, appearing as if he was in prayer. And if he indeed was, he was praying for forgiveness.

“There are words, and there are actions,” Elrond said simply, watching Maegisil intently. He was trying to express to the elf something without actually saying it, for putting such a thing into words would do it no justice. It would sound silly, and childish, for the lord to say simply that he would not make the same mistake, or that things really would be different. And he of course could not prove that he would be at all different from Celebrimbor. But there was trust. Maegisil had been betrayed just as Eregion and all its people had been betrayed, and he in return had betrayed the betrayer. Elrond knew that the elf had seen that there was no end to it. He had to see now why there was trust, and why it was not to be taken lightly. It was necessary, as it was dangerous.

“You know there are greater powers at work here,” the lord said slowly after several more moments of silence: slowly, as Maegisil began to break from his shell. The mirdan would have to reconcile with much from the past, and he would have to do that on his own, but Elrond wanted to give him some kind of hope for the future. There was a reason that this was known as the Second Age. An Age of recollection had already passed, and the land itself had changed shape since the beginning of Eä. Peoples had changed and traveled, building cities and kingdoms, only to seem them destroyed or simply slip away into dust and memory. And always there came something new, whether those who rebuilt remembered who they succeeded or not. Imladris could not forget.

Maegisil’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes slightly at the lord. “You speak of the Rings. What has happened to the Rings?”

“They are still safe in the hands of those they were given to. Círdan bears one, as does Galadriel. Lindon and Lorien are protected by their power.”

“But what of the third?”

Elrond held out his hand, and Maegisil was filled with wonder.

“It has been passed on.”

~*~*~*~

Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would be the doom of his people. The glory of the Mírdain could never have shown brighter during his reign there, and all the skill and wonder of their art was encompassed in those Rings. It was the last Ring forged, not amidst the holly plains of Eregion, but in the blasted lands of Mordor, that was the undoing of them all. Celebrimbor, the great lord of Eregion, was deceived by the Deceiver. All would remember that, and all would remember how he learned of this deception and insured the safety of the most powerful of the Rings. And they would remember how he died with his city. As most recalled it, he seemed a hero. So few could ever dare to question how the lord came to be deceived, and how the city really met its doom. Of course, all those questions were assumed to be answered by one name: Sauron, the Servant of Melkor. In two Ages, he spread the Shadow over the lands of Middle-earth. So few could withstand him – why would he not overtake even such a great lord, as well?

He was betrayed.

Celebrimbor’s death surely could not have been avoided, though it was revenge the Dark Lord sought. It was the folly of the lord that brought destruction to Eregion so soon. But would it have only been a matter of time? Few would blame Celebrimbor. And no one has any rememberance of the name Maegisil. Eregion is remembered, as is its greatest city, home of its lord. It is remembered that many died there. The legacy of the Rings lived on. Some could say that they truly brought many new terrors upon Middle-earth. But of course no one could blame Celebrimbor for all of that. He did not know; he could not. And he died because of it.

But he was betrayed.

Maegisil was not remembered, in fame or infamy. He would not have wished it to be any other way. He watched a lord fall, and a friend wither away, sitting by while the world changed rapidly around him. It was as if time stood still in Eregion, as it would be said it did in Lorien, perhaps due to the power of the Nenya. But there were no Rings in Eregion. They passed on to bearers whose names would come before Celebrimbor’s in memory. Perhaps it was not his pride that forced him to be silent all those years. But who would dare say that such a great lord would ever be afraid? It was only his fate and the fate of all his people that seemed to be determined: all by nineteen Rings, forged by the Mírdain’s own hands.

They were betrayed.

Sauron the Deceiver he was known as. But there is no one known as the Betrayer. Who then, were the Mírdain betrayed by? The destruction of Ost-in-edhil was the merciless revenge of the Servant of Melkor, for he was wroth that he had not attained the Three strongest of the Rings of Power. And why had they not been with the others? Because they were Celebrimbor’s creations, and his alone. He would not have given them up for his life – he had told himself that. They were his masterpieces, and his art was his life. But the lord sat in his hall in his city, until it fell into dust and ashes. The Rings lived on. Would he have wished to live to see what evil they caused?

But here was Imladris, Rivendell, the valley where Elrond would be lord. A new land, a new lord – it seemed fate, and all were happy to rebuild, though they feared the Shadow. The land flourished, and history would be made there during the War of the Ring. And a Ring would reside there, passed on to Elrond by the High King Gil-galad. The people there would be protected. After all, the Three Rings – Narya, Nenya, and Vilya – were the most powerful. The last strongholds of the Elves would be Rivendell and Lorien, where the power of the Rings reigned. And when the Third Age came to an end, and what some called the ‘Age of Men’ began, the Three Rings would be reunited upon the western shores. Never would Celebrimbor have thought that the Three Rings, his greatest achievements, the masterpieces of his immortal life, would protect his people and make the journey that he would never be able to make himself, into the West. Thus was the life of the immortal.

[piosenniel]

---------- Finis ---------

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~