Friends Of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams, Part 2 RPG

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

As soon as Bellyn had gotten home, Rosa had tended to her with gentleness and a motherly concern. Bellyn had walked in from her visit to the Seventh Star, her forehead dotted with the occasional bead of sweat, but her arms shaking with chill.

Bellyn had not the wits about her to protest when Rosa offered her own bed. The blankets wrapped around her, she tossed and turned until afternoon became night. She did not sleep well. Bellyn woke every few hours, uncomfortably hot. After throwing off the blankets, she would return to slumber before starting to shiver. This cycle of feeling overheated or freezing continued through the night, as did Bellyn's strange dreams.

She thought she could feel her skin tingle, and she rolled over as images came flooding into her head. Her closed eyes flickered as she threw the blanket off again.

A woman, tall and elegant, stood before Bellyn. Around her, a beautiful forest stretched far into the distance. The leaves of the trees tumbled slowly, gracefully to the ground. For a moment, Bellyn lay still in her bed as the flawless scenery enveloped her dreams.

It did not last for long.

Suddenly, the dream flashed from the radiance of the forest to the melancholy of a rocky, desolate mountain pass. Far in the distance, as high as the gloomy grey skyline, Bellyn could see snow-capped peaks. The color washed away from the scenery, and the hue of the lady’s skin drained from her face. Her eyes no longer shone.

The lady whipped her head around, as if she had heard something.

“We will find Nimrodel, I know it,” said one voice.

“We cannot search forever,” complained another. The voices seemed to sound more and more distant with each word.

“We are here! We are here!” Dream-Bellyn tried to shout; not a sound came from her parted lips. Her screaming seemed to evaporate into the air. “We are here!”

The woman before Bellyn said nothing.

Bellyn awoke from her nightmare, sweating. Her eyes, sore from restless slumber, blinked rapidly to allow aching tears to fall. She looked to her left and saw her pack, the pack that she had brought all the way from Rohan to Gondor. Bellyn tried to calm herself but the beating in her heart continued at a rapid pace. She rolled out of Rosa’s bed, grabbed her pack, and left the house as quickly as possible, caring not if she woke her sister-in-law or her nephew.

Out into the chill air, Bellyn sped up into a run, moving down the streets frantically. Her destination was far enough away for the girl to regain her composure, to remember her senses and go home. Her heart and tired eyes hurt, but she had one thought in her mind: she had to find her horse, and she needed to find the woman.

She found the Seventh Star, and saw the nearby stables. Her horse would be there. She hoped it was not so late that the stables would be locked – Bellyn was quite uncertain of the time. But the doors were opened, and next to Leafa’s horse she found her own.

Within minutes Bellyn was out of the stables. Bellyn’s mind raced. She knew she had to leave Minas Tirith. The white peaks…the woman…it came together in an intricate mental map.

Bellyn had never tried to navigate on her own before. She had drawn map after map; the cities, the forests, and the rivers matched perfectly in her mind. Bellyn did worry how she would find the White Mountains, the snow-capped peaks she thought she had seen in her dreams. She hoped she did not get lost.

[littlemanpoet]

The river woman whistled from her two-leggeds' den. "Tirril!" she called in her sing-song way. "Jorje!"

Jorje lifted his nose from the ground and cocked an ear. He grinned. He liked the way the river woman used both his names. He kissed the air with his tongue and ran toward the den, panting and grinning happily all the way. She had human-hand-licked him and hand-nipped his ears right at the roots the way the best humans knew how to do.

"I have a running and hunting for you to do, Jorje Tirril."

Jorje sniffed at her reedy breath and glowy face. Running? Hunting?

"Remember Leaf woman and Dark woman and Man woman? I want you to find them."

What for? Bring them back?

"I want you to sniff out the dangers near and far in the high places and warn them."

She took his broad head in her two hands so that he was looking into her eyes. He did not like looking into the eyes of humans, for they were great and their eyes had things behind them he didn't know how to smell. Jorje knew that they couldn't smell the dog-sense he had behind his nose, but there was something great in humans behind those eyes of theirs, and it usually scared him; not with river woman though. He sniffed a difference in her, some way she had of smelling but not with her nose, so her eyes didn't scare him so much. He met her eyes now.

"Sniff out the strangers and tell the women if they be friend or fiend. Sniff for the bad elf, the one who ran the eermy ones back in the swamp."

Jorje remembered and almost retched right then and there. The river woman grinned.

"May the aroo go with you wherever you go. Be witty and sniff well, and may your paws be whole and may your legs run fast at need. Now go!"

She let go. Jorje was off at a gallop next instant. The ground flew by beneath his feet. After a little while he slowed his pace but his excitement stayed with him. The river woman had sent him on the hunt. He was glad to be running!

[mark12_30]

"The faithless one? Why do you name her? Her memory brings me no joy."

"My lady, we do not know why she left. You know she loved you."

"Nay, I know it not. Had she loved me she would not have left. No, " said Nimrodel in a rare moment of clarity, "your friendship, Mithrellas, stands alone in my life; your faithfulness is unmatched. No other remains. Least of all, the Faithless one-- The Unwilling one."

Mithrellas watched as the moment of gratefulness passed. She grieved its passing as she had rejoiced to see it; silently. Now bitterness glittered in her lady's eyes. Mithrellas said only, "My lady, name her not so."

"Nay; name her not otherwise. Unwlling she was, and so she shall be known. Let the West have her faithlessness; Let them suffer her fickle heart-- The Unwilling One."

Avarien. The sound of the word settled over her soul like a grey woolen cloak, muffling her, hiding her from her self, taking away what she knew of herself and replacing it with the name Nimrodel had given her. Avarien.

She shuddered, and woke with a resolve as thankless and grim as her new name.

She dressed quickly in the dark: boots and breeches, tunic, dress, shawl, cloak. Passing through the kitchen, she gathered a small bag of supplies, and tying it up with the blanket, slung it onto her back. Leaving the Inn, she passed silently through the empty streets; indeed, the mist made her hearly invisible.

She noiselessly opened the large stable door, silently entered, and stood in the darkened aisle. "Hear me, " she said softly. "My mistress Nimrodel languishes in the hills, sorely in need of aid. Who will help me?"

A dark head, shaggy and plain but for the wise eyes, reached up over a stall door, giving a soft whicker.

The girl bowed her head, stepped towards the door, lifted the latch, and opened it. The dark horse stepped carefully out, and then turned sideways and dropped his head. The girl took a deep breath, gathered her skirts in her right hand, grasped the horse's mane with her left, and swung lightly onto his back. Roheryn gave her a moment to settle onto his back, and then trotted out the stable door and into the road.

At the hoofbeats, two groggy voices called, and two stableboys tumbled blearily from their beds and stumbled into the aisle, to see only the open door and the now empty stall. They ran to the door, commanding the horse to halt, but neither the horse nor the girl gave them heed. Roheryn cantered down the winding road, the two stable boys giving chase and falling far behind. Sleepy passers-by blinked at the odd sight in the predawn light.

The gate was opening to greet the mist-veiled dawn when Roheryn aproached it. Hearing the shouts from the stable, half the guards surged forward while the other half stretched into a line across the open gate. The horse checked himself, shying and swerving past guards as they snatched for his reins and found none. Roheryn turned away from the ragged line of men blocking the open gate, while the guards ran at him again. He churned away from each in turn, shying this way and that, his shoes sparking against the cobblestones. The girl cried out angrily, "Let me pass! In the name of Amroth, let me pass!" The horse reared again, still dodging soldiers, and then circled back into the courtyard, turned towards the still-open gate and hurled himself towards the line of men that stretched across it. The gate captain's voice rang out.

"Let him pass! Let him pass!"

The men divided and fled the oncoming horse. Roheryn ran through the gate and raced northward. For a moment his hooves beat a sharp tattoo on the road, and then he swerved onto the turf, and melted into the grey countryside.

[Formendacil]

"Faramir, I need to speak to you," the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien slowed down in the halls of the citadel as his King caught up to him.

"Yes, milord Elessar, what can I do for you?"

"Captain Ingold has just brought a rather distraught father and mother to me. It seems that their daughter and several of her lady acquaintances have disappeared from the city."

Elessar seemed to be in a somewhat stormy mood, noted Faramir, who did his best to keep his tone serious and not as tired as he felt. Disappearing young ladies, while troublesome, did not quite merit the attention of the King and Steward. Unless...

"Milord, is there any reason Captain Ingold brought these parents to you, rather than just searching on his own?"

Elessar nodded, a hand running distractedly through his hair.

"The son of the couple was sent from Minas Tirith but a few days ago, with provisions from our storehouses and with my blessing. You will recall the Elves that I was talking about."

"The ones seeking Amroth's fëa?"

"Not exactly..." Elessar decided not to descend into a discussion then and there on how they already had Amroth's fëa and how it was Nimrodel they were looking for, and any of that. More important things were afoot.

"But the same Elves. The missing daughter, Mellonin, was the sister of Mellondu, the young blacksmith. All of the missing ladies were companions of the questors before they came to Minas Tirith."

"And you think there is a connection, that these ladies may have followed them?"

"It seems likely." The situation explained, Elessar moved on to the reason he was talking to Faramir.

"I'm having Ingold's men search the city, and learn what they can here, but I'd like a number of your rangers to find these young ladies, and escort them to safety. I trust rangers in such a task over ordinary guardsmen."

"Once a ranger, always a ranger," laughed Faramir with a slight bow. "As you wish, Milord King; I think I can find enough rangers here in the city."

At this moment a swift tapping of footsteps on stone echoed up the corridor from behind them. Captain Ingold dashed up to them.

"Sire," he bowed to the King, "we've got a lead on them. They stole a horse from the Royal Stables."

"From the Royal Stables?" Faramir arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes, Lord Steward," Ingold nodded, still puffing slightly. "It was your horse, Sire," he turned to Elessar, "Roheryn."

Elessar's face betrayed no sense of either crisis or bemusement. "All the more reason to find these young ladies. Lord Faramir, I shall leave it in your capable hands."

Nodding to Faramir and Ingold, Elessar strode down the hall, just a bit faster than usual, Faramir thought.

~*~

"You requested my presence, Lord Faramir?"

Bergil son of Beregond, Ranger of Ithilien, looked down at the Steward's desk. He was a tall, dark-haired young man in his early-to-mid twenties, tall and lithe in the Númenorean norm. He looked slightly anxious at having been called into the Steward's study while on what was supposed to have been leave. But it could have been curiosity as easily as fear. Bergil had been acquainted with Faramir since the War, when his father had saved the Steward's life and become Captain of the White Guard.

"Yes, Bergil," Faramir looked up, pushing away the papers, and gesturing with his right hand for Bergil to sit. "I'm sorry to have to call you away from your leave, but the number of rangers in Minas Tirith is fewer than I thought, and we have a not-so-straightforward case to deal with."

"Sir?" Bergil gave Faramir as a puzzled look as he took his chair. Faramir quickly outlined the situation of Mellondu and his companions setting out southwards, and Mellonin's disappearance, giving a slight account of the events previously, as he knew them.

"Ingold's investigations have made things a little more complicated, I fear," continued Faramir. "Instead of going south, and following the Elves, as we expected, all witness reports say that the ladies went north, towards Anórien. Possibly to Cair Andros, possibly to Rohan, possibly to Lórien, possibly to swing south again. We do not know.

"And that is why we need more rangers than I expected. I'm sending men north and south, and I'll check at Osgiliath or Cair Andros to see if they have crossed Anduin. You get the easy task, though, as recompense for disturbing your leave. I'm sending you straight down the great road southwards. Riding alone, and changing horses at the waystations, you should be able to overtake the women without difficulty. Or, if they have not gone that way, you should catch the Elves and their companions. If the women are not with them, you can return to Minas Tirith, and we shall know they did not go that way. If you do find them, bring them back to Minas Tirith, or at least send word, if they and their menfolk prefer to keep them with them."

Bergil nodded, getting excited. This sounded exciting. Several missing damsels in distress; Elves on a high quest; the spirit of a long-dead Elvenking; no apparent villains. Certainly, he thought, worthy of sacrificing a few weeks of leave, even if it meant not visiting Great-Aunt Morwen. Especially if it meant not visiting Great-Aunt Morwen.

"I can be ready to leave by sundown," he said, rising. "Sooner, probably."

"Sooner is better," said Faramir. "The blessings of the Valar go with you, Bergil."

Bergil nodded, and with a bounce in his step turned to leave.

"And Bergil," called Faramir. Bergil paused, and turned.

"Thank you."

[littlemanpoet]

Tharonwe watched his jailer, Iorgil. The man appeared to be quite satisfied with his supper, if his rather rancid and ale-ridden belch was any indication.

"What news, jailer?"

You will tell me that which is most important in your mind.

"Stolen horse, the king's own."

"Indeed? Who is the thief?"

You will tell me who you truly believe instead of telling me nothing.

"There is word that some women who were expected to remain behind an adventuring party have left the city."

"I see. How odd. Do you not think so?"

"Aye. Women ought to stay with their men, or if their men must leave, stay behind with the little ones."

"Indeed. Might there be the smallest chance that I could have an extra bit of porridge? I am cold this night."

You will give me what I ask for and you will drop your keys and fail to notice it, then leave.

"Oh aye, I suppose I could."

Events occurred precisely as Tharonwe wished. He waited for hours. At least, when he deemed it, by his sanwë, to be long past midnight, he opened his cell and crept out of the prison on quiet feet. Only another Elf could have seen him pass, and none stood guard. He sought the sleeping mind of Iorgil and found him, asleep in his own home on the fifth level. He went to his home, entered through the window, placed the keys back in the man's jerkin, and left the city in search of some women. He had an idea what they looked like and who they were. He walked north.

[Imladris]

Aeron...

The boy opened his eyes and found himself sprawled on bright green grass. Yellow and white flowers dotted the field and a bird twittered happily somewhere.

"Gwyllion?" And then he saw her. She was sitting on the grass, her arms clasped around her knees. A crown of flowers hung lopsided on her head.

The petals were wilted.

Traces of tears were on her cheeks.

"Gwyllion, what's wrong?" he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders.

"I don't know," she whispered. "Aeron, I am glad you never left me. I do not know what I would have done if you had left me..."

"What are you doing thinking such thoughts?" Aeron asked. "I would have to have a heart of stone rimmed in the coldest ice to even have such a thought enter my head."

She was silent. Her head rested against his shoulders, her eyes closed. A wind rustled by and the crown of flowers slipped off into her lap. Some of the wilted petals shuddered a little and scattered in the gentle breeze.

"I have heard a ghost of a whisper, a shade of bitterness," Gwyllion whispered. "I have heard of The Unwilling One, and I am afraid."

Aeron frowned. "Who is The Unwilling One?"

"I do not know, brother. I do not know. Just like I do not know why the Map maker dreamed of the white peaks and has determined to find them, or why Mellonin so rashly seeks for poor Nimrodel --"

"What? They're not off in any hills, Gwyll. They're safe and sound in Gondor, in Minas Tirith. I wouldn't be surprised if they were all drinking tea and happily chattering about whatever things women talk about."

She looked at Aeron, her eyes soft and wide and sad. "No. It cannot be. I have seen them like figures in the mist. And they are not there...they are not there. They have gone to the mountains to seek for poor Nimrodel. They think they know where she wanders, though

none can tell,
In sunlight or in shade;
For lost of yore was Nimrodel
And in the mountains strayed.

The crown of flowers faded until Aeron thought they were like the corpse of spring.

The flowers melted away, the green grass faded, and Gwyllion vanished. Aeron found himself opening his eyes again, found that he was again in the company of his friends. He stood straight, and said, "There is trouble. Grave, horrible trouble. Mellonin and Bellyn have gone. They've gone to the mountains that were sunk in grey to find the Lady Nimrodel."

[Celuien]

Dawn came grey and cold in the hills of the Ered Nimrais. The pale, chilled sun shone at its weakest over a ramshackle wooden hut, overhung by a grove of dying trees. Gloom hung in the air. Yet despite the dismal scene, a few pallid rays, mingled with light flurries of snow, made their way to shine through the unpatched chinks in the hut’s poorly repaired roof and the few spaces left around its shade-darkened windows.

The hut’s interior would now have been almost visible to a visitor, had any been bold or foolish enough to venture near it. Evil rumors surrounded the valley it occupied: rumors of a cruel witch - or wraith - who haunted the valley, turning it to a place of dread. Few of the hill-folk dared to come near. And if they did venture near the cursed valley, for so it was named since Sæthryd had come there, they returned with a haunted look in their eyes and faintly whispered tales of ill fortune barely escaped. If they returned at all. It was little wonder that the hut saw few guests.

The sun crept higher, and the light grew brighter. Now it illumined a dusty table and chairs, a few wooden dishes, metal knives, a few traps for game. And, in a corner, a few strands of blonde hair on a pillow. Below the hair, a pale face slumbered until, as the light rose again, the eyes snapped open. Sæthryd awoke.

She rose, stretching her arms above her, and stalked to her fire. Its last embers were beginning to go out. She added a fresh log and stirred the dwindling flame back to life. A red light flashed over Sæthryd, casting her shadow over the walls around her.

How many years had she been here, living this solitary existence? Sæthryd had lost count. One day flowed into the next, adding at last into weeks, months, and years. Little interrupted her routine. Up in the morning, a quick meal, and out to scavenge a few roots and herbs. To check her snares for meat. And, most importantly, to see that no intruders trespassed upon the secret ways of the mountains.

For those secret paths belonged to the Dead. Most had gone, years ago, before Sæthryd came to her hidden valley, before she walked along the ways they once haunted. Yet their presence remained. She knew. She saw. She heard, as now and again, the dead spoke to her. Of course they did. It was only natural that they did so. For she was dead too. Sæthryd never lived. She was born dead beneath the shadow of the dead mountain. Born dead to walk with the dead until at last her body completed its slow death and left her lifeless mind to wander free. That was how things were meant to be. That was why the dead had chosen her as their guardian. She knew it was so.

A thrashing in the brush caught Sæthryd’s ear. The valley is ours. The paths are ours. They belong to us. They belong to the dead alone. Abandoning the fire, she threw her door ajar and ran barefoot into the snow. The valley was hers. No one must be allowed to enter. She hurried to the sound, half bent at the waist, her hair flying in the waxing wind, and lunged into the winter-bare branches. They scratched her cheek, drawing blood. But she pushed on undaunted, until, the source of the disturbance discovered, she stopped.

A crow flapped in the brush, its foot caught in one of Sæthryd’s snares. She reached out grinning and snatched the bird, crushing its throat in her hands. It struggled to free itself and its wings flapped frantically. But Sæthryd did not cease the pressure of her fingers. The crow grew still. It is well. You too are now dead, little bird. As are all here. It is well. You may pass. Still smiling, she took the bird’s body and hurried back to her hut. It was cold, and her limbs ached for the warmth of the fire.

Inside, the fire was roaring. Ducking outside again briefly, Sæthryd scooped snow into a kettle and set it over the fire to melt. She sat by the fire, plucking and dressing her victim and, as she cut the bird into pieces and dropped them into the kettle, Sæthryd sang wordlessly in her mirth.

The snow began to fall heavily. A wind blew down the valley. Sæthryd’s song, like a wail both cold and wild, rose with the smoke of her fire. The noise, borne aloft by the weather, journeyed afar to be heard by the hill folk. They heard her call and whispered in frightened voices. The wild woman was awake.