Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

It is a curious thing to leave behind your house in any circumstances. A house is forged and tempered to appear, if not like its owner’s soul, then like a perception of that soul. It wrenches the spirit to abandon it.

How much odder, then, the Elf reflected, that he-who had been driven out of his last home by all the might of the Valarin Host-now countenanced leaving his small, utilitarian hall behind willingly; leaving it intact, pristine, down to the smithy, armoury, everything-but without anything but mice to dwell in it. And why was he doing this? Because of some water mixed with salt. O Sea, beloved thing, yet a stifler of hopes. The gulls were singing again as he looked out from the harbour of Mithlond.

But Malris had one last errand to attend to; half a tribute to lost friends, half, as he had to admit, self-indulgence and nostalgia. Before he set out to Tol Eressea, he would visit another domicile; the place he had lived when life still held excitement, possibilities; when the Long Defeat still looked like victory. He, and the five other survivors of Maedhros the Tall’s host, would go back to Himring.

Why else, after all, he thought, did the Valar preserve it? Surely if it alone survived the ruin of Beleriand, there is some greater purpose bound up with it. But what care I for things arranged by the uncaring Lords of the West? No; my reasons are private ones. I would look on the castle of Maedhros one more time before it is lost to me. And the others feel the same; have felt the same all this long age, or they would not have agreed to come.

“Gnome! Cease your maundering!” a harsh voice cried, scattering his thoughts. It was Cirdan’s harbour master, and like most of the Telerin Elves here, he hated Malris the moment he saw the Star of Feanor on his chest.

“Are you moving on or aren’t you?”

“I want a boat, fisherman.”

“Why don’t you kill for it? You’ve done it before.”

“And little good it did me. Silver,” Malris muttered, “is cheaper than steel. I learnt that eventually.”

“Yet you wear the murderer’s ensign.”

“I wear it for Maedhros,” Malris answered, so quietly it was almost inaudible. “For the beautiful, unmatched, fearless Prince who kept your lands safe from Orcs.”

“He proved little better than an Orc himself. I lost my wife at Sirion, blood-drinker.”

“Then,” Malris said, “we are more similar than you imagine. Find me a boat that will carry six, and then, truly, Teler, you will never have to set eyes on me again.”

There was a cough behind them. At first sight the new arrival might have been said to resemble an old bearded Man; but his eyes were too bright with starlight and wisdom.

“Malris of Forlindon. I received your missive. A vessel is provided for you and your five companions. In a week, return here, and we will take the Straight Road together.”

“I thank you, Shipwright,” Malris replied with a slight bow. “Now I will go to the boat. Tell the others where I have gone. Namarie, for better or worse.”


-- Anguirel --

[piosenniel]

Child of the 7th Age's post

Lindir stood silent on the banks of the Lhûn, vacantly fixed on the churning waters that emptied into the Gulf. Far beyond, he could glimpse the distant Sea. At his back, to the north and west, hung the peaks of the Ered Lhûn. It was strange, he reflected, that the river and the mountains were called by the ancient Grey-elven term that meant “Blue” in the Common Tongue. In the past week, he had seen no hint of blue, only brown and green, in the miles of tangled forest and matted bracken through which he had trudged. Nor did the waters in front of him show any bluish hue, despite the bright sunshine that beat down from the heavens. He saw only dusky grey waters that gave no promise of comfort or a glimpse of better things to come. A lone gull appeared overhead, circled once, and then disapeared.

Lindir felt he had come to the end of his journey. He could not stay on in Middle-earth. The shores of Lindon and the lands further east brought no relief to his aching discomfort. Yet that decision held no measure of joy or anticipation. His journey from the Havens was not a well deserved rest after a life of purposeful activitity, but almost an admission of guilt of too many mistakes and missed chances that had slipped through his grasp. The events of the First Age as well as those of the Second had left him uneasy, deeply aware of the evil that shadowed the world and the fact that he was seemingly unable to do little to alleviate it. It was not only the bloodshed of the First Age that preyed on his mind, as ghastly as that had been, but his bungled attempts to atone for things at Eregion that had ended in such disaster.

When Malris had come to him some time ago with the suggestion that they pay a final visit to Himring and then sail from the Havens, Lindir had promised to think on the idea, but had not given his consent. Now, after spending a week secluded in the mountains, he had finally decided that Malris was right. It was time to leave behind the past and sail West. Whatever awaited him there surely could not be worse than what had happened in Middle-earth.

He had thought of asking Malris to forego the trek to Himring and have the group head straight out to the West. Himring was fraught with bitter memories, and Lindir could see little good in awakening these images. But Malris seemed determined; Lindir felt he had no chance of changing his comrade's mind, and he did not wish to disappoint him. There were too few Elves whom he could still call by the name of "friend". With a sigh, he picked up his pack and hoisted it onto his shoulders continuing on his path towards the harbor as he wondered what the morrow might bring.

[piosenniel]

Feanor of the Peredhil's post

Tasarënì wiped away a quiet tear as she slowly passed through her deserted home for the last time. She had lived in Lothlorien as a maiden of the Lady of the Golden Wood for years beyond count. Though named for her love of the willows, the mallorns quickly became their equals in her heart, and she was loathe to leave them behind. She had watched silently as many of the first born passed from the land, tarrying long. For what had seemed an age, Tasarënì waited for an unknown sign, certain she would recognize it when it came. Every twilight she would walk the silent woods, marvelling. Song birds came to her, singing quiries of her sadness, and she smiled.

She looked to the sky, noting a single ray of starlight passing through the canopy. She smiled softly, eyes downcast. It was time. She turned, glancing for the last time at the water by her feet, the trees that had been her silent companions for many long years, bearing witness to her grief, never condemning her, and never asking of her what she cared not to answer.

A harsh cry pierced the air and she looked up, startled. A swift falcon was weaving carefully through the trees, making its way to Tasarënì. She lifted her arm, sending out a quick prayer that the handsome bird's sharp talons not hold too tightly. He landed gracefully and met her eye with the intelligence of his kind. She looked at him in amazement, noting not without a start the roll of paper bound to his leg.

She removed it quickly with one delicate hand as he perched patiently. With a flick of her wrist, Tasa unrolled the letter, tears coming to her eyes as she received the long awaited message... Malris requested her presence, accompanied by Lómwë, at the Grey Havens. It is time, she thought. Time to go home.

Silently, but with a small smile, Tasarënì walked through the woods, seeking for Lómwë. They would leave at the first light.

[piosenniel]

Firefoot's post

Dreary step by eager step, Lómwë drew ever nearer to the Grey Havens. He and Tasarënì would reach their destination by midday, he estimated. The journey had been long if uneventful, and traveled mostly in silence. It was not that there existed any particular aversion between the two; rather, they had nothing of importance that they cared to share. Lómwë could scarce remember the last time he had had a lengthy conversation of any real import – import to him, that is. The truth was, very little seemed important to him anymore. Now this trip; this was important. It was everything he had longed for and tried to escape for the last six and a half thousand years, and naturally, after so long he had some very strong feelings about it, feelings which he had expressed to no one. He had made it clear early on (subtly) that this topic was not open for conversation on his part, and fortunately Tasarënì did not seem overeager to discuss the subject either. Always though it lurked around the corner, ready to come up in discussion like a dark cloud preparing to storm. So, they hadn’t done a whole lot of discussing.

As was the norm, Lómwë was wrapped in his own thoughts, and currently his mind was turned towards the thought of home. He was going there, he supposed, though he was not exactly sure where “there” was. Certainly, home was not Lórien, where he had dwelt for so many years. In sunken Beleriand? Maybe. Valinor? Perhaps. He honestly wasn’t sure. He had long since lost a feeling of belonging anywhere. He wondered if finding this home, this sense of belonging, was his desire for the trip to Himring – now Himling, he corrected. He honestly did not know, for with the belonging he had also lost an ultimate purpose. It had all seemed so clear before we left Valinor, when Fëanor explained it, he mused. Yet it hadn’t been clear at all, nor was it now.

With a shake of his head, he cleared his thoughts. He had found that dwelling on these things changed the past not at all and his feelings about them hardly. If he did not fear to forget, he would not think of it at all, if he could help it.

Instead he concentrated on the path, for something to do rather than for need. He tried to think of something to say to Tasarënì to lighten the quiet, but found nothing. Thus the remainder of the trip was continued in silence.

They knew they were getting closer as the grey gulls wheeled overhead in increasing frequency. Soon the harbor came into view: the end, and the beginning. One of these grey ships would carry them on a voyage into the past, a past Lómwë felt ready to confront, or at least knew he needed to. It was a past full of sorrow and defeat mingled with valor and glory. Yet none of these were what Lómwë sought.

He sought peace.

[piosenniel]

Envinyatar’s post

The stars were just opening in night’s field, glittering more brightly as the sun sank beneath the rim of the sea. There was enough light for Orëmir to study his brother’s face as he sat opposite him on his bedroll.

Orëmir’s hands were busy with his carving knife and a small piece of beech, one of many he’d brought with him from Imladris. From this one he was teasing a small chickadee, one of the many he’d seen on his treks along the valley’s sides seeking plants for his medicines. They were bright little birds, in spirit, if not in color. And they never ceased to make him smile with their hopping about beneath the low growing shrubs, ever on the alert for food.

His brother’s hands were busy with quill and ink; teasing some piece of history from his mind. Setting it down in black upon soft white as he scratched the letters across the pages of his journal. Capturing it; making it stand still. Almost as if it were some charm against its fading.

It had not proved so.

And here they found themselves, making a rough camp on a small rise above some unnamed stream flowing south from Emyn Uial into the Lhune. The healer and the word-smith. One in their affection for each other, but divided by the decision that must soon be made.

In the gathering darkness and his tangling thoughts, the knife slipped, nicking his finger. Blood welled up from the cut, and he brought the injured digit to his mouth to stanch the flow. It was salty. The taste of it mingling with the scent from the sea when the wind from the west blew up the river. His senses sharpened to a pinpoint and he thought, too, he could hear the sound of the far bells at the entrance to the harbor as the waves rocked them on their buoys.

‘The gulls, at least, are silent,’ he thought to himself as he drew his leather pouch toward him, fishing in it for a wad of moss to place against the wound.

[piosenniel]

Piosenniel’s post

There had been a brief pause for the evening meal. Made briefer by the silence which had grown on them since they’d come down from Lake Nenuial, heading south to Mithlond. Endamir cleared away the remains of the food and drink, then settled in, cross-legged, his pack within easy reach. A battered leather journal lay open on his left knee; the pot of ink on the ground by the same thigh. His eyes seemed unfocused as he stared into the distance, gathering his thoughts to continue.

. . . So little is left of that fair land. Once we would have ridden for days, following the course of the Sirion, until we reached the great bay. And from there a ship would have borne us to the Isle of Balar. No longer. Beneath the might of the Valar, the land fell; the sea rushed in.

The sea rushed in with a will those days.

It covered the places where we fought and fell; it could not cover our deeds . . .

Endamir’s quill moved quickly over the page. His eyes narrowed at the last few sentences. His hand hesitated, the quill raised, as if he might cross off the offending thoughts. ‘Leave them,’ he thought to himself. ‘It matters not. They will be left behind with none but Men to read them. And what will they know of undying sorrow and cankerous wrongs. Their little lives are too short for such consideration.’

Tomorrow will find us at the Grey Havens. Will we see Cirdan there? I wonder what he thinks of this last of the Havens. Does he find it rude in comparison to his others? Most likely not. He seems from all accounts an accommodating and adaptable sort. I wonder, too, how he can stand to return and wait for us who have taken so long to come to the sea. Does he pity us? Is that what fuels his patience. Does he gather us in like some shepherd with his bleating flock? Or like a father, his strayed sons.

I feel like neither – sheep nor child. Nor have I want of pity.

There is only that one small flame of hope, far in the distance. By the grace of the Valar, Cirdan and his ship will bear me there . . .

And Malris, he is sure to be there. And what of the others? Will they . . .

A stream of colorful words, heated imprecations, distracted him from his thoughts. Orëmir had cut his finger and was having no luck in bandaging it. With a half smile at his brother’s predicament he helped him fix the small strip of linen that held the mossy pad to the wound.

‘Now who is the healer?’ he chided, holding the bandaged digit up for Orëmir’s inspection. ‘And nicely done, I might add. Though there are smudges of ink on the knot, I fear.’

His brother smiled and Endamir found himself returning it in kind. ‘Come, brother,’ he said, slipping the carving knife back into its sheath. ‘It grows too dark for playing with knives or quills. Let us put them away for the night and make us a small fire to drive away the growing chill.’ He laughed, drawing his cloak more tightly about him as he gathered up his journal, quill, and ink and tucked them in the front pocket of his pack. ‘It was always so cold here,’ he continued. ‘You remember, don’t you? I must say that is one thing I have not missed these long years . . .’

~*~

Day found them leaning together, backs against a tall rock, their shoulders pressed against one another. Huddled within their cloaks, talking still. They had put that final question aside for a little while, now that the sea was so near; their arrival so final. And were for each other the brothers they had been in their younger years.

With lighter hearts, the truce still unbroken, they rode through the morning and arrived before mid-day at the Havens. With a minimum of false starts they found their way to the ship someone had told them was Malris’ vessel. Dismounting from their horses, they approached the boarding plank and seeing no one on deck, Endamir called out in a loud voice.

‘Malris! Are you there?’

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It’s him . . . again,’ she said with a resigned sigh. There was no one who sat beside her on the wreck of the great oaken bed; its frame crushed save for the carven cluster of oak leaves and acorns that had once graced the top of one of the headboard’s posts. The straw stuffed mattress had long ago disappeared, rats and ravens claiming the scraps for nests of their own.

No one who listened to her complaints . . . yet still she spoke on. ‘Nerdanel’s son. Your friend, Malris . . . you remember. The one who was forever writing poems and songs and such.’ She combed her long pale fingers through the thick dark waves of her hair, pushing it back from her face. ‘He was singing again last night.’ She made a fretful movement with her hands, pushing down the dark material of her dress as it lay along her bodice, pressing out the wrinkles with her palms. ‘He kept me awake again,’ she complained. ‘I shall have dark shadows beneath my eyes from lack of sleep. And then how shall I look for our guests on the morrow?’

Giledhel turned her large, plaintive eyes toward the empty space beside her. ‘Malris? Malris?’ A frown furrowed her brow. ‘Now where has he got off to I wonder?’ With another sigh, she rose and stepped toward the shattered loom across the stone paved room. With a practiced eye she examined the piece she was crafting . . . her fingers traced the fine lettering . . . something for her beloved Malris . . . it bore his name . . . but what had she meant by her choice of words and how had she thought to finish it . . .

It was a puzzle too great for her fragile mind.

She returned to her bed. A bright shaft of sunlight poured over the wrecked walls of the keep. Giledhel turned her pale face toward it, hoping for a warmth that did not come.

~*~

On a pile of crumbling stone blocks that had once been the foundation for the bedroom’s fireplace a raven perched. His bright, acquisitive eyes looked down, hopeful that some bauble or bit of food would fortuitously appear. But there was nothing his dark, eager gaze could find. Weathered wood, twisted and shattered is all he saw. And cold grey, lifeless stone.

In the morning’s breeze a piece of some old, torn weaving fluttered. Weighted down by wood and stone debris, it could not free itself. Frayed edges riffled in the slight currents then lay still again.

By some trick of light, the old bird thought, there seemed the dark figure of a woman moved within it. It startled him as she turned her gaze to his; pale grey eyes looking straight through him. He ruffled his feathers, shaking off that lifeless stare. And with a disapproving croak, took wing . . .