Fall of the North RPG

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

Erenor rushed off to fight the trolls, leaving Bethiril lost in thought. “I am no longer Emissary, for the Kingdom as we know it is no more.” The older Noldo remembered saying such words to her younger colleague not long ago, to which she added the hope of not seeing her purpose fall to meaninglessness.

But the North Kingdom as it had been is no more. Even if the people that once had inhabited its land . . . No. Forget the distant future. This remnant of Arnor left to your care must survive. She left her contemplation to look around her, to remember the faces of the persons that had been entrusted to her . . .

Angóre, she immediately discerned, is troubled in mind. Bethiril queried him in his thoughts. He wants to go after the monsters that scarred his life, and after the person he had protected for so long.

“You may go,” she said.

“But you . . . and them . . .”

“We’ll be fine. Now go.”

“I may not leave you unarmed,” he said as he withdrew a sheathed dagger from his thigh. “Take this.”

Bethiril stared at the presented arms. She no longer shuddered at the sight of it, yet . . . Dare I take it? Go against everything I believe in? Perhaps wearing the weapon would not be so evil . . . Yet should the need arise, will I use it for its ghastly purpose? Will I take I life? Could I do such a thing and not break myself?

Angóre sensed the conflict within her. “Milady, although I entrust to you the life of these Edain, I would not trust you with my blade.” She saw the beginnings of a smile in his face, suppressed quickly as he pointed to a Man behind Bethiril, a former member of the Rearguard of Arnor now bandaged and in crutches. “Take this dagger, soldier. You are now in charge of protecting them.” He then saluted stiffly in the manner of the fighting men of Arnor, and the soldier, with as much formality as he could muster, returned it. The Elf turned back to Bethiril and bowed. “Thank you, milady. May the Valar protect you,” he said before running off to follow Erenor. Bethiril’s eyes trailed him for a while, then she remembered her charge. It may not bring with it the hope of ending Angmar's reign, but . . .

Perhaps it will.

“Let us go,” she said.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre dashed down the tunnel, reflecting ruefully that he had been doing a great deal of that recently. The strap that had held his dagger slapped against his side, and his mind ran back over his conversation with the senior envoy. Even were he to live another full age of the world, he would still not understand her pacifism. With the world crumbling around her, the servants of the great Enemy ringing her in, still she refused to take the weapon from him. He wondered if that pacifism would hold even with the enemy bearing down on her. Would she not struggle then? Even a rabbit did as much. It was a path strange to him, and, though he respected her strength of will and stately presence greately, it was a path he could never give his respect to. He wondered again, this time about the aged and crippled soldier the blade had gone to instead. Was it possible the man knew the worth of the gift given him? It seemed unlikely. In all, he reflected, it had been a strange day.

Which would only get stranger. He rounded the bend in the tunnel to see his charge flung limply against the stones, breath dashed from her lungs. And the word, 'Maltóre.' He felt the strength leave his knees. Fighting raged around him, screams of the wounded and dying, and he did nothing but stare at the comatose figure. How had she known that name? The last time it had been spoken had been by the emissary of Elrond, informing him of the death of his mother. He had been struck still then as well, looking out over the valley of Imladris. When he had finally turned, all color and life drained from his features, his words had only been this; I am Angóre now. And he had never been called anything but that since. How had she known? And why, why had she spoken that name now?

The battle raged, but Angóre was no part of it anymore.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn got up just in time to see his valiant savior crumple and collapse onto the ground. “Erenor!” he cried as he reached down and retrieved his sword. The troll that would have been his executor stood between him and the unconscious female elf. It was blinded by the sharp thrusts of elven blade but it breathed still; thrashing about and bellowing in terrible anger and pain. Fire overtook the Dunedain and he launched himself towards the handicapped beast with a shout of fury and reckless disregard. Reaching out, he planted an outstretched palm on the troll’s sternum and with his sword arm; he plunged the three feet long blade upwards through the beast’s neck and severed the base vertebrate. Like a marionette with its strings cut, the troll instantly turned limp and Belegorn shoved its bulk away from himself.

He ran towards Erenor, knelt and reached out to her lifeless body. With the most deliberate of care, he turned the unconscious elf around slowly and pulled her towards his chest. He was mildly surprised at how light the slender body was despite its height and sinewy musculature when he inspected his safekeeping for signs of bodily injury – there were none that could be seen. Cradling Erenor close to his own body, he could feel her warmth and the silent but steady breathing. She was still alive and he had to get her out of harm’s way.

The din of battle around them was deafening and with the nearest torch yards away from the combatants, it was too dark for Belegorn to make out the shape of men amidst the immense silhouette of the rampaging trolls. Over the sonorous cries of the torogs, the helpless Dunedain could make out the cries and yells of Carthor and his men, but the acoustics of the corridor merged actual emissions with echoes and thus there was no way he could pinpoint the exact position of his comrade.

A strong hand reached out and grabbed Belegorn by the shoulder. With Erenor in his arms, Belegorn was defenseless and he anticipated the worst. But a familiar face came into view and brought a sense of relief to Belegorn’s heart.

“What happened?” Inquired Carthor with great concern etched on his face.

“She fell trying to save me,” Replied Belegorn looking at the very attractive face of his charge

“Carthor, Listen! We must get away from here. This fight is beyond us!”

“But my wife and her friend are still back there!” gestured Carthor towards the direction of the trolls in exasperation, “I can’t leave her!”

Carthor’s revelation made Belegorn’s heart sunk. Had all the Dunedain been fighters, there might have been a chance for the party to fight their way back up the corridor but the inclusion of non-combatants made it impossible.

There was nothing left to do but despair…

A troll caught hold of a Dunedain by the neck and lifted the man high above the ground. It gave a roar of victory and poised to swing its hapless opponent towards the cave wall, intending to dash the latter. Primal fear filled the luckless soldier as the troll grabbed him and it was too much to bear. The Dunedain lost all control of his mental faculty and started to scream in uncontrollable fear the moment his feet left the ground. His cries were bloodcurdling and they pierced the hearts of those who heard them and sent chills down their spine. Even as the troll swung his victim towards the wall in a terrible display of uncanny strength, the man continued to scream uncontrollably until the very end when his neck was crushed and the back of his head smashed. Unmistakably feminine screams of terror followed.

“Derigorm… Lissi!” Exclaimed Carthor aloud as he recognized the voices.

The outburst alerted one of the trolls and it started is lumbering gait towards the trio.

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AIMÊNU!”

The dwarves had come.

[Mithalwen]

The first thing Erenor became aware of were of strong arms wrapped tenderly about her and the reassuring solidness of the chest against which her head lay. She had not been so held since childhood and so comforting did she find it that she stirred trying to nestle even closer. In repose her face had lost it's sternness and she looked more like a lass who had dressed in her brother's garb for some gest than a warrior herself. I will just stay here and sleep till the pain goes , she thought, but her movement had disturbed her injured shoulder and the sharp pain stirred her more fully.

Erenor opened her eyes and to her astonishment met the concerned gaze of Belegorn. She would never have expected the gruff and battle-hardened soldier to be so gentle. She looked around.. she saw two trolls lying dead but at least twice that number remained and a dunadan was dead also. She then saw her guard standing strangely transfixed despite the danger that faced them all.

"Captain let me down..the troll.... Angore....! Where is my sword?" The question was as much for herself as anyone else for she saw it and breaking from Belegorn's arms she lunged forward for it... She staggered on her slender limbs like a newborn foal and having grasped her sword she used it as support as she regained her feet. The effort caused fresh and agonising waves of pain to crash through her body and again she felt Belegorn's arms about her as she tried to stand. Anything more than the shallowest breath pained her, her head ached, her left arm, though not broken could not be moved without excruciating pain and she was still losing blood from her concealed wounds - the shadows were too deep for mortal sight to perceive the dark stain spreading slowly across the back of Erenor's tunic.. "Lady Erenor ... you must not... " but his voice was lost in the battlecries that rang down the tunnel and though her mind was clouded by pain she knew the meaning of those few words of the secret tongue that outsiders ever heard: KHAZÂD AIMÊNU, the dwarves are upon you. Hope comes unexpectedly, she thought as she desperately tried to focus mind and body.

[Saurreg]

Narguzbad, son of Azaghâl howled with unbridled glee as the last throwing axe landed onto the broad shoulder of the last unscathed troll and buried itself deep. His chosen axe throwers were still doughty and unbowed by age in the manner in which they let loose their deadly missiles. Every axe found its mark and the trolls were all wounded even before the dwarves got down to close-range melee – the type of fight that Narguzbad relished the most.

As the last axe thrower expended his compliment of hatchets, the entire Khazâd contingent roared again (one or two started to wheeze immediately after), waving and rattling their weapons in the air; eyes wide with maddening fire and almost foaming at the edge of their mouths from kindled bloodlust. Narguzbad, Lord of All That He Surveys regarded the largest of the trolls; a hideous female with uncharacteristic coolness that distinguished him from the rest of the ancient troop. He narrowed his already beady eyes into a squint before donning his wolf-faced iron mask.

The trolls helped one another up and turned to face the stunted warriors. They growled and snarled as the recognized the nature of their assailants and prepared to do battle.

Narguzbad raised his arms and his warriors ceased their boisterous taunts. An uneasy silence filled the air as twenty-one dwarves suddenly became as quiet as stone. It was the calm before the storm.

The king intoned slowly in a quiet but firm voice, “Baruk Khazâd, Khazâd ai-mênu,”

“Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd ai-mênu.” replied his congregation in equal solemnity.

The king then lowered his arms and pointed his stubby sword towards the enemy. He repeated himself but this his voice boomed and echoed throughout the dwarven halls,

“Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu!”

The rest of the dwarves followed suit in equally loud and imposing voices. So great was the chant that the walls trembled and dust on the ground bounced and scattered from the vibration,

“BARUK KHAZÂD! KHAZÂD AI-MÊNU!”

Without warning Narguzbad leapt forward like an uncaged lion towards the trolls - all by himself. Grasping the heavy blade with both hands, the heavily armored dwarf bounded, onwards as his pounding feet took closer and closer to his opponent. The female troll bellowed aloud at the challenge and it too broke into a run towards her much smaller opponent whilst swinging her club wildly in the air. Riva the Black swung at Narguzbad XVIII but missed badly and stumbled. Grasping opportunity by the hair (literally by the greasy locks of the stooped Riva), the dwarven king stepped onto the grounded club and propelled himself with astonishing agility to face his mortal foe with a single leap. Well-honed dwarven reflexes swung into action and an aged but still muscular arm plunged its sword into the old hag’s neck. It was the moment the dwarves were waiting for; Narguzbad threw his head back and called out,

“SAARG KHAZÂD!”

The rest of the dwarves broke into a cheer and ran towards the enemy with the song of fury in their hearts and thoughts of true life-everlasting in their mind. All ran forwards except for perceptive old Zinshathûr who noticed two huddled shapes, trembling by the edge of the main tunnel where his great lord had just passed them by. Realizing what they were, the ancient dwarf hobbled towards them, grabbed them by the arms and dragged them roughly along the ground a good distance away from the intensive fight. Satisfied that the two Afterborn females were still alive though very badly bruised and shocked, Zinshathûr took his leave and joined the battle.

[Amanaduial the archer]

As Erenor had charged, with her terrible battle yell, towards the trolls after Belegorn, Faerim had instinctively grabbed for her, but his hands had grasped only empty air. As the elf vanished into the melee, the young man had started after her - but an arm grabbed his, pulling him backwards. "Get back, boy! Your commander told you what to do, now you respect that," a gruff voice remonstrated. The speaker lowered his voice to a grim, respectful tone and added, "Respect the wishes of a dying man, boy."

Faerim spun around and shoved the older man, pushing him roughly against the tunnel wall. Caught off guard, the soldier stumbled backwards and fell against the wall, but anger had overtaken Faerim and he was too caught up in it to regret it yet. He took a step forward, barely holding himself back. "Don't you ever say that - Lieutenant Belegorn is not dead yet."

The soldier was taken aback but only for a moment and he sneered at Faerim, straightening up and spitting to the side. "What, like your little elven friend? She ain't dead either - yet..."

This time it took another soldier's grip on his arms to restrain Faerim. He struggled for a moment then simply glared at the older man and shook the other off him. Casting a last glance at the battlescene that surged around the corner, he swore quietly and turned to the others - a group of lost soldiers without commands, half of whom were merely boys, younger even that him. And one other figure: Brander. Subconciously, Faerim straightened up as he faced them. "Get back - towards the caves, quickly. Take the torch and follow...."

"Nevhith," the boy to the right of him interjected. Faerim raised an eyebrow. How could I ever forget that voice... He nodded. "Sure, follow Nevhith. And for gods' sakes, don't drop it."

The boy nodded, swelling up with his own importance and held the torch high, he turned to the end of the tunnel and took the lead. About half of the group followed but some hesitated: the older, more experienced soldiers, those more around the age of Faerim's father than of he himself. The youth looked at them and raised his eyebrows very slightly, but they didn't move, glancing nervously down the tunnel to where Belegorn and the elves had vanished. And Faerim realised glaringly who was missing, and was amazed that he hadn't done so before: Lissi. The air knocked out of his lungs, he turned wide-eyed to the man who had held Faerim back - Serrane, Faerim now remembered, the name surfacing from the depths of his memory. "Where is she? My mother, where is she?"

Another man sneered once more, but Serrane cut over him. "Faerim-"

"You were told to take care of her!" the boy almost shouted. "Where did she go?"

Serrane didn't reply, his eyes flashing with muted anger at being shouted at by a boy so much younger than himself, but he didn't reply - but the way his eyes wandered down the tunnel fleetingly towards the fighting told Faerim all he needed to know. The boy paled and, without another word, turned to run in that direction, his hand on his sword - but quick as a viper, Serrane grabbed his arms once more. "Get back here! Listen to me, Faerim, both your mother and father are down there - you really think they'd thank you for getting yourself killed in addition?"

"I can't just let-" Faerim squirmed furiously against the older man's grip, but he held firm: although Faerim was strong, this man had been in the military for a lifetime.

"You can, you will," he interrupted fiercely. Pushing Faerim ahead of him, he turned down the tunnel and started down it determinedly, following the fading, wobbling light of the torch ahead. But Faerim wasn't giving up that easily: if he was anything, he was stubborn. He walked a few steps quite meekly - then turned and tried to cut down under the other man's arm. Mistake. Serrane's arm shot out reflexively and all but floored the younger man. Faerim sprawled against the wall, writhing as his back hit the hard, jagged rock and his eyes flared furiously. Serrane squared himself up for the boy to make another try - but then a sound quenched them both, and all the others in the tunnel. Marching feet, regimented and solemn, the sound of a well trained force coming down these dark, terrible tunnels, their footsteps echoing off the walls and, it seemed to the already edgy Faerim, shaking the very stones. What was this, yet more trolls come, or something even more terrible? He remembered the attack on Fornost: the enemy hadn’t seemed organised in the attack then, it had been chaos once they entered the city, but the memory of the regimented orcs standing in battalions as straight sided as a knife edge remained in his enemy. Yes, even the vilest form of orc who had taken everything from this people could march in line, for all their animal screams and nightmarish appearances. Were they about to do it again, to take yet more from the Dunedain? Hardly daring to move or even to breathe, the dissheveled Faerim waited, silent and wide-eyed as the footsteps came to an abrupt halt. Something close to silence descended.

Silence.

Then a blood-curdling yell ripped down the tunnel, vicious, screaming words in an jagged, unfamiliar tongue. That was it: Faerim took advantage of Serrane’s momentary lapse in concentration and burst past him, sprinting up towards the sound of the voice, with only the thoughts of Lieutenant Belegorn and his family in his mind. And Erenor. Always Erenor.

[Saurreg]

The Battle under the Blue Mountains was so violent and intense that it last for no more than fifteen vicious minutes. At the end of the pivotal confrontation, six immense bulks lay prone or were slumped onto their sides and scattered amidst the carcasses of the hewed cave trolls were the crushed and broken bodies of aged dwarven warriors; no quarter was asked and none was given. The mood of the trolls was dark and their strength and stamina terrible to behold, but for all the worth of their incredible attributes, they were matched by the stalwartly courage and legendary skills of the Children of Aulë. And none was more heroic in that struggle than King Nazgurbad the Great whose great sword left many a marks on all the trolls. However exhaustion and wounds overcame the great lord and soon after he dispatched the last troll stripling with a thrust through the crown, darkness covered his eyes and he slumped, sending his heavy dragon helm tumbling from the regal head.

The confrontation was too intense for any of the men or elves to participate and for most part of the battle they were reduced to mere spectators hoping for the best and dreading the worst. But when the last of Nazgurbad’s warrior was crashed underfoot and the old king was confronted by two wounded by nevertheless fearsome trolls, dour-handed Angore launched himself at one of the great beasts and slew it with his sharp spears. And faithful Carthor rushed to the aid of the lone dwarf but the latter vanquished his mortal foe and himself passed to the house of the dead swiftly, all the Dunedain could do in time was to grab hold of the king’s collapsed body before it toppled off his kill. Searching along the tunnels in the vain hope of rendering aid to any dwarven fighter who might have been still alive, the survivors were joyfully reunited with two of their womenfolk whom were dragged off to the safety at the far end of the tunnel by Zinshathûr the Wise. More incredulous was the discovery of the maps of the underground passages by sharp-eyed Faerim which, allowed the refugees to remake contact with the rest of their people and travel along the maze of tunnels without any further delays or molestation.

By the end of the sixth day underground, the survivors of Fornost returned to the surface of Middle-Earth and were greeted by the stars.

[Mithalwen]

It had been Faerim of course who had realised the extent of her injuries; Faerim the sharp eyed and sharp witted; Faerim who perhaps cared most for Erenor's safety - though Angore probably regarded it as his duty even now she had discharged herself from his care. Once the battle with the troll had ended he had sought the most skilled of the dunedain women to treat her wounds. A stone wall sconce had driven links of mail deep into her shoulder and caused the great blood loss. Otherwise she had come off remarkably lightly from her encounter with the troll. The physical injuries would soon heal as is the nature of elvish bodies but the events had left other marks. With her wounds fresh she could not bear to wear her mail, and without it her frame appeared much slighter, fragile even. She had exhausted much of her power in trying to hold off the trolls and for a while her spirit was dimmed.

Partly she despaired that the blessed find of the dwarvish maps were being squandered in returning to the King who seemed to delight in finding ways to try to kill them, partly the gallantry of the Dunedain had made her ashamed of her previous attitude. They deserve a greater leader for their great loyalty she thought. She knew that the sense of honour and duty that had led Belegorn to rush to her aid even as battle raged would not allow him to desert his liege lord so for once she held her tongue. Nevertheless she was all the more grieved at the doom that seemed to face them. The idea particularly that that brave lad Faerim's life would end so soon was harder to bear by far than the prospect of her own demise. The devotion he showed to his family too was something admirable and she wondered if it was fair to ask him to choose. Since if she tried to escape to Mithlond she would be loathe to leave him - but he would surely not abandon family and duty. If he would not leave, would she stay to protect him as long as she might? The answer was not clear to her and she spoke little during their journey back and if any of the other elves read her thoughts, they did not comment on it.

[Saurreg]

Belegorn stood on the grass covered knoll with his eyes closed and allowed the welcoming night breeze to caress his face. Refreshed and thankful, he opened his eyes and marveled at the brightness of the stars and their multitude. The celestial jewels were out in full force that night and they were like countless eyes burning bright in alternating hues of blue and yellow.

They were there to welcome the refugee’s return to the surface. They were there to witness and give testimony to their trials of tribulation under the Blue Mountains and before that.

The gift of the Lady to the Firstborn, mused the man as he continued to gaze serenely at the twinkling lights above him, witless that his lips were curled slightly by the sides of his mouth. The light of stars gave no heat, but on that winter’s night, Belegorn felt warmth like no other in his heart.

And now her Grace shares this gift with us…

A polite clearing of the throat brought Belegorn out from his daze. He smiled when he recognized that his interrupter was the young standard bearer of the regiment for he was glad the latter made it out of the underside also.

“Sorry to disturb you sir,” begun the young man softly, “but Captain Carthor requests your presence at the camp.”

Belegorn nodded his silent approval and turned to follow the young soldier down the mount. He turned and gave the stars, the warmth and the peace he was leaving behind a long reluctant look.

Real life beckoned.

[Osse]

Carthor shivered under the stars' cold gaze, in spite of his thick fur-lined cloak. The night no longer held any beauty for the old man; instead, through a harsh re-education of screams and unseen death, it had become a time of fear and malice to be slept through, or if the visions of pain stayed when his eyes closed, to be endured within the safety of stout walls.

Too many cold nights. Too many cold graves. Too many cold memories...

The soft sound of the camp gently drowned out the nightly noises, the shuffles of those sorting through their sparse belongings, the ring of metal on metal of those preparing their meagre meals.

Carthor added to the din, tapping out the tune to a favourite Arnorian marching song on the hilt of his broadsword. He quickly stopped as he remembered those he had first sung it with.

Carthor sighed.

Where was Belegorn?

The party needed to decide what to do, now that their last option was exhausted. Food was running short, even though the party had been substantially thinned, and its members had tightened their belts - many were substantially thinned themselves. Carthor reckoned on them lasting no more than a fortnight. Hunting was poor, the game had spread due to the cold.

Bitterly, there was little hope, particularly for the very young and the very old, many of whom had already been hastily buried in some lonely knoll or under some icy hillock, far from the white stone of their home.

Carthor lived without hope, as he had for many years. Inside he was as numb as his fingers were on the outside.

Pulling his great hood over his head, helm and all, he trudged off in search of Belegorn, the newborn frost crunching under his heavy boots.

[Saurreg]

Snow started to fall as Belegorn made his way back to the camp with the standard bearer by his side. They fell endlessly and everywhere; on his hair, on clothes and on his face where they melted instantaneously on contact with his warm skin, creating tingling little shocks that were invigorating. Fire and ice, he recalled the words of an old campaigner, worldly imperfection at its absolute – life itself. If there was anything Belegorn had learned to appreciate more than the wondrous beauty of celestial bodies at night, it was the sensations only the living could feel.

They trampled through the loose snow for a while until they reached the camp fire and torch lit camp. It was far smaller than the one the refugees had pitched before entering the Blue Mountains – a testament to the numbers that have fallen. Even with the map of the old dwarf king, Belegorn could not save all of his people. Many bands were lost forever, swallowed by the tunnels and caves that give no inking of their fate. Some were found but decimated, their members wide-eyed and trembling, slurring incoherently about monstrosities that burst out from the walls and watery depths, taking away screaming victims in their lethal coils and cruel maws before returning whence they came from. Even the king’s party was not spared and Belegorn learned soon after the re-ascend that chief amongst the victims of that band were Targon, commander of the king’s own guards and foul Mellonar – constant agitator and tormentor of Hirvegil whom they left in the underground also. He was also surprised to hear from the gossips that it was King Arvedui himself who led the rearguard of his party in the wake of his military commander’s demise and when a huge segment-bodied beast attacked, he was the one who slew it and in that struggle, Crown Prince Aranarth was the only who stood by his father’s side.

Belegorn’s mind was still fixated with the fantastic deeds of the King when a huge silhouette stepped out from the dark and neared him. Years of well honed reflexes kicked in, Belegorn immediately drew his blade and turned to face the intruder. However the dark figure had stepped out of the old soldier’s peripheral and revealed it to be a king’s own guard clad in dark mail and thick furs with the king’s own crest embroidered boldly across his breastplate.

“Well met, Lieutenant Belegorn,” intoned the soldier cautiously with his eyes on Belegorn’s sword, “The King requests your immediate presence, sir. I have been sent to fetch you back to the camp.”

Belegorn’s eyes narrowed and for a moment tension filled the air. The standard bearer eyed the newcomer and then his commander nervously but neither man moved. Finally Belegorn broke the deadlock and sheathed his sword. “I recognize you soldier. Very well, I shall go and see his Majesty. Lead the way.” He then turned to the standard bearer,

“Where is Captain Carthor?”

“The captain is at the west of the camp, sir.”

“Good, tell him that I will see him later,” Replied Belegorn and he turned to face the king’s guard,

“Lead the way.”

[Amanaduial the archer]

Seated to the side of the camp, his back against one of the scraggy trees around the borders of the Dunedain’s camp, Faerim shook his head like a dog as the snow began to settle on his long, light hair. Looking up, the boy squinted against the snow to watch it falling, silent and strange, from the heavens. Something about the soundless passage that the snowflakes took from the velvet sky seemed to hush the camp, and the slow, dizzying dance that they performed as they fell from those ethereal heights made the boy shiver as he watched them, not only from the cold. Sighing peacefully, he finally drew his eyes and turned back to other matters, matters of the real world. He removed his long coat and then, despite the cold, removed his leather jerkin. The sleeves were rolled up, as usual, but the colour of the shirt was far from the snowy white it had once been: fighting in the woods alongside the elves, and again in the tunnels, had seen to that. But it was only when he had removed his long coat and jerkin that he saw the true measure of the latter fight: the material around his right forearm and shoulder was crimson with blood, a jagged rip slashed through the cloth. A souvenir given to him by the spider. Frowning – he had not realised the cut was so deep – he gently touched the wound with his fingertips, and grimaced a little, drawing back from the wound as it stung. Undoing a few of the top buttons of his shirt down to about his mid torso, he pulled it over so that his shoulder was revealed, again clenching his teeth as he peeled the cloth back from the wound: it had had some time to fester there and the dry blood had effectively stuck shirt and skin together.

Below the spider-wound was a smaller scar, a clean, straight line just below his elbow. It was partially healed, yet still burned with muted fire: a wound from a sword blade, sustained in the seemingly doomed rescue of the elves. His first battle…It seemed a million years ago now; he had become used to using a sword, no longer against a training opponent but against a real flesh and blood enemy. It had been an eye-opener and no mistake! He almost smiled at the memory. Faerim had changed that day, for better or for worse: he had learnt to fight a genuine adversary, but he had also learnt something about those in authority. Something about his heroes not being as pure as he had always suspected – a lesson springing from the moment when Hirvegil had blackmailed him with treason. That was not a lesson that Faerim could smile at as he looked back at it… Both lessons had hurt, but while the former had been physical pain, it was the latter that had been the harder to take. As the snowflakes fell on his newer wound, raw and now bleeding where the shirt had been pulled from its cloying grip, the touch of the ice on his skin and open flesh made the boy shiver again, but the soft, tingling paths that the wintry fingers stroked across his skin were not unpleasant: as the sound of the women from the camp, as the cracking of the campfires, as the light breeze that ruffled the strands of light hair across his cheeks, the sensation of the snowflakes on his skin only served to remind the boy that he was alive.

Unlike so many others…

The light crunch of snow in front of him made Faerim look up, but slowly: he had guessed who it was before he saw Erenor’s fair, pale face beneath the hood of her cloak. He smiled tiredly. “The snow stops you from moving quite so silently, Lady Erenor.”

Wordlessly, the elf took a few more steps towards him, her feet this time almost silent on the snow. Looking up again, she returned his smile. “I thought I should have given you some warning: all of us have had more than enough nasty surprises today.” It was one of the first times that Faerim had heard her refer to herself and the elves along with the Dunedain together: maybe battle had advantages, however few. It was in battle that he had discovered more about Erenor, after all. It was to battle he had intended to pledge his young life, determined to save the elves, the Dunedain, his family… Not that it had done much good in the end. As he shifted against the tree, a few dry scraps of bark and dirt fell from it, and he flinched slightly, caught off-guard, as something fell into the wound on his arm. Erenor indicated it with her head. “Looks like she gave you something to remember her by?”

Faerim looked up, puzzled. “’She’?

“The spider.”

Faerim nodded but his expression darkened even under the shadows that the tree cast across his young face. “Why give her – it – that creature a gender?” he replied, his voice soft but deeply angry. “I would not give any such thing a sex; would not give any enemy such as that anything to humanise it.” He hesitated for a moment, looking away, then added bitterly, “Today has been rather a lesson in mortality for me.”

The elf did not reply immediately and in the silence that followed Faerim’s comment, only silence moved amid the snowflakes. After a moment, Erenor responded. “I am sorry about your brother, Faerim.” Her voice had a softer tone to it this time, less of the aloofness usually present audible in her voice. Even when she had spoken to Faerim before, this voice was not one he had often heard: it was the tone she had used when she explained the nature of elven souls to him after the deaths of Rosgollo and Gaeredhel. It was a reminder that she understood, that elves too could feel the pain of death, even if they themselves were immortal. Faerim nodded his thanks silently, then opened the satchel that lay beside him, a flat bag made of sturdy cloth, and from it produced two items that the elf immediately recognised: the dagger and belt of the two elven guards. Erenor wordlessly stepped forward and sat beside Faerim, pushing her hood back and taking the dagger in her hands, fiddling with the hilt and the leather binding the handle before the tang.

“It is hard to lose someone you love.”

The words were a prompt and Faerim immediately replied. “Hard?” he almost spat the word, his head snapping around to face Erenor, before he caught himself before the elven lady and turned away again, his voice softening. “Yes…yes. I don’t know…oh, my Lady Erenor, I always imagined that I would die before Brander, that I would die in battle long before his time was up – it seemed to make sense! That I would be able to take care of him for as long as I lived, and that he would become part of Fornost as much as any other, that his sight would never be a disadvantage – but…but that I would be able to protect him.” He shook his head, blinking rapidly a few times. “Not this. Not a death at sixteen, alone in a labyrinth of caves far away from our home.”

He heard Faerim sigh softly, before she walked slowly around to right side and gently took hold of his arm, inspecting the wound but remaining quiet for him to speak. “I cannot forgive myself, Lady. I cannot forgive myself for not reaching him in time. I came to my brother’s side only when it was already too late, as he…as he died…” he choked and turned his head to look straight forward, clenching his teeth and raising his chin defiantly, determined not to cry. The elf regarded him in profile, her head slightly on one side, inquisitive, but Faerim did not look at her. Brander had died mere seconds after Faerim reached him as they came back to the caves, a sword wound through his slim chest finishing him off cleanly, as painlessly as could be expected in battle. But it was not painless: it was a death in battle in a strange place, a death which was never meant for the blind boy. Faerim swallowed, closing his eyes as he remembered his brother’s face as he held him, those brilliant green eyes sparkling light the brilliant gems that must have once been hewn from those blasted mines, a faint smile on his face as Faerim brushed his blonde hair, hair the same colour as his own, from his brother’s face, pushed it behind his ears and told him that it would be alright….

Faerim almost yelped as his arm suddenly froze, and pulled away from Erenor. But the elf held fast, a slightly wicked grin on her face as she held the makeshift ice pack to his wound. His arm spasmed slightly and he clenched the fist, but Erenor shook her head. “Don’t. You’ll only bleed more.”

“It’s bloody freezing,” he replied simply through gritted teeth. The Noldorian elf smiled sweetly, her pale face framed by dark hair on which the snowflakes nestled like a snow crown: a smile for which Faerim could have forgiven her anything. He glared at her, then his lips opened to flash her a chilly smile as he laughed. He raised an eyebrow and pointed at her with the forefinger of his left hand. “You are evil, Lady Erenor.”

The elf laughed too, shrugging lightly and turning her eyes to his arm once more. She removed the ice pack and he was almost surprised to see his blood sparkling on the ice, seeming to become part of it. Flinging it away, she picked up a new lot and Faerim tensed his arm as she packed it on. They sat in silence for a moment, the Dunedain youth and an elf generations older than himself, and rather than break the silence, he simply watched her, marvelling at how similar the elves were to Men, and yet how much stranger and different she was, knelt beside him, helping him although she did not need to. Otherworldly.

Sighing, the boy looked away, not wanting to be caught staring at Erenor so, and looked instead up to the stars above. He had been told once that when Men died, their souls would take to the skies, to keep their silent vigil from above, the tendrils of distant light they stroked the air with their attempt to reach the world they had left. But as he felt the ice, heard Erenor’s soft breathing, watched the softly winking stars, and recalled his brother’s joyous, merry face now turned to stone, he was not sure he could believe such a legend. His brother, like so many others in the tunnels, was gone, but to the stars? He tried to imagine it, Brander’s bright, unseeing eyes replacing the sparks of merry light in the distance…But in his heart, the boy was left, alone and silent, staring up to the silent snowflakes that fell from the stars.

[Saurreg]

The silent snowflakes fell endlessly like miniature crystal petals as Belegorn followed the king’s towering bodyguard back towards the camp. The sharp cry of a hawk filled the night air, followed by the rhythmic flapping of powerful wings that soon dissipated. At the perimeter, a lone sentry halted the two men at spear point but quickly recognized the lieutenant of the Rearguard and let them pass with a sharp salute. Without any further delays or harassment, the duo negotiated their way through masses of warm bodies and arrived at the center of the camp where a low palisade enclosure was erected and within it, sprung a cluster of tents that resembled a minute citadel; a sharp contrast to the bivouacking silhouettes around it.

The gateway was unguarded and Belegorn’s guide simply led him through and passed the smaller tents by the peripheral before stopping outside the entrance of the main tent – spaciously wide and tall at the center. The king’s guard turned and regarded Belegorn sternly,

“I cannot go further. His majesty requests your presence and your presence alone. He is in there waiting for you. I shall take my place here and ensure no one else enters.”

Belegorn eyed the guardsman with aroused interest before nodding his head curtly. He stepped pass the large man, pushed apart the heavy canvas curtains and entered to see his liege lord. King Arvedui was standing over a small portable field desk at the back of the royal tent, reading a small parchment when his visitor entered. He looked up and smiled warmly at Belegorn before rolling up the parchment and inserting it into a small cylindrical container. Belegorn in turn was surprised to see that far from preparing to retire for the night, the king was fully arrayed in his plated armor and his sword in scabbard hung by his side. The lieutenant cleared his throat mildly and spoke,

“The First Lieutenant of the Regiment of the Rear bids Your Majesty a good evening and presents the best wishes of his loyal guardsmen,” begun Belegorn as way of introduction.

Arvedui left the desk and strode towards his subordinate and royal subject. Standing two feet away from his intent, the king was a good couple of inches taller than Belegorn. A mysterious aura of elegance, power and regality of old seemed to emanate from the royal body and despite the latter’s attempt to keep an impassive face and stare ahead, he could not help but look towards the clear commanding grey eyes that shone in the light of the lamps.

“The King acknowledges the greeting of his commissioned officer and gratefully accepts the gift of his loyal soldiers,” replied Arvedui in a voice that was pleasant to the ear and warm, yet each word uttered resonated with potency, “what is our status Belegron? What are our numbers and state?”

“Your Majesty, the number of our people stand at a five score and the strength of the rearguard is less than half that number. I fear that is about five percent of original strength, Your Majesty.”

King Arvedui’s eyes narrowed and his handsome forehead scrunched at the dire tidings. He turned and started to walk back slowly to the desk, hands held together behind his back. The flames danced in the bronze lamp that hung at the ceiling of the tent, casting flickering shadows across the wall and ground.

“Tell me Belegorn, what is your personal opinion of our situation? Can we make it to Mithlond at this rate? Or are we thwarted?”

Belegorn signed softly and said, “Your Majesty, it is good that we have left the under city of the dwarves. But out in the open we are easily detected by the agents and spies of the Enemy. The only option is to force-march and thrash our way westwards but that would result in numerous stragglers and render our marching column long and slack. In any case, Your Majesty, it is my belief that an encounter with hostile forces is imminent. We can only hope that their forces are not too great and that the engagement does not turn general.”

Silence permeated through the air and Belegorn fidgeted nervously. Both men stood motionless; Belegorn looking at the king and the king with his back against the former. In the end it was the monarch, who broke the silence that was turning awkward,

“It is winter,” he said silently, with a sudden tenderness that amazed his subordinate for the umpteenth time that evening, “my people are with burden. Most are injured and all are malnourished. They will not make it across the snowfields by force-march.”

Belegorn nodded in silence while the king reached the desk. The ruler reached for the parchment and gave his doom,

“No. It is my command that the column travel at a pace that all can keep up with.”

“But Your Majesty, the longer we take to travel, the higher-”

Arvedui interrupted Belegorn with an impatient wave of his hand and interjected, “Yes, the higher the possibility of the Enemy catching up with us in the open. But there is a way!”

He looked at Belegorn and his sharp grey eyes sparkled dangerously, “Nothing more would gratify Angmar than to have my royal person in his possession. He hates me because he feared my forefather Isildur and his liege Elendil for what they did to the Dark One. This unholy campaign of his is not just a war of territorial conquest but an attempt to end the line of the Sea Kings!”

King Arvedui walked back towards Belegorn and handed him the parchmentr, “I have decided back in the tunnels on what our next course of action should be. And… and I have come to the decision that it is my royal responsibility to safeguard the future of my people at any cost.

I will ride onwards to the north and create a diversion. The Enemy would no doubt direct most of his forces towards me. It is then up to you Lieutenant, to lead my people to Mithlond as fast as you can until relief from the Grey Havens finds you.”

King Arvedui noted the look of amazement on Belegorn’s face and smiled knowingly, “Forgive me for keeping you in the dark. But neither you nor Hirvegil would have known that Lord Cirdan and I have been corresponding for quite some time now. Great is the lore of the Elven Mariner but even greater is his fidelity in friendship. He has been offering consul to all kings of Arnor since the reign of King Valandil and without his wise insights; bitter end would have come sooner for the North Kingdom. In fact, I have just sent him my last correspondence by messenger hawk moments ago. He will aid us as he had always done.”

It was too much for Belegorn to bear, “No, Your Majesty! You cannot do this! You are the King of Arthedain, the leader of your people!”

King Arvedui shook his head and replied sternly, “A king is the first servant of his people. What good is a king when all his people are dead?”

Belegorn opened his mouth to protest some more but King Arvedui stopped him by placing his large strong hands on the former’s shoulders and continuing, “Listen to me Belegorn of Fornost! I am Arthedain and no matter what happen to me, as long as my people remember who they are and carry themselves in a manner befitting their status then I live forever in their hearts and minds and those of their children.

And do you not remember that I have a son? Aranarth is coming of age and he will be a better leader of the Dunedain than I will ever be. Protect him Belegorn! I ask this of you not as your liege lord but as a father. If Aranarth survives, then the legacy of our people will persevere.”

There was nothing left for Belegorn to do or say but nod slowly in agreement. The king had made up his mind and nothing would dissuade him from his noble course of action. The First lieutenant looked up and found King Arvedui smiling warmly at him again.

“Thank you Belegorn. I am sorry to have laid such a heavy task on your shoulders but I am sure you will rise to the occasion and know you have friends you can count on. The parchment I gave you; keep it well and read it when you have arrived at Mithlond. My men and I, joined by Captain Carthor who has volunteered for this mission, will ride now while the night is still young. Farewell.”

With one last friendly grasp on the shoulder, King Arvedui left the tent whilst donning his gauntlets. Belegorn stood rooted on the spot for a while before falling heavily unto one of the sheep skinned chairs that lined the spacious tent. Head bowed and hunched, the Dunedain sat for what seemed to be hours until a gush of cold air blew across his face as someone parted the heavy curtains and entered the tent.

“He… he has left?” inquired a young man’s voice.

“Yes your highness.”

“I see,” replied young Aranarth, “Thank you Lieutenant.”

[Mithalwen]

Erenor smiled wryly "Well you made sure my injuries were tended back in the tunnel so it is only fair - though you should have put that mail-shirt on". She took a clean silk kerchief ("How could she have such a thing after weeks of travelling?" Faerim wondered) and satisfied that the bleeding had stopped bound the wound firmly. She did not release his hand and held it in her own.

"Only those who never love never mourn, Faerim" and there was a catch in her voice that he had never before heard, that few had ever heard. "Had things been slightly different you might have reached your brother in time, but maybe you would have both been slain and your parents mourning two sons, and if I may presume to say it, myself a true friend.

The Elves know not what fate awaits the souls of men after death but, we who are bound to Arda as long as it endures, believe they slip the bonds of Earth and pass beyond the circles of the world. So you may not be far wrong when you look to see him in the skies. Forgive me, mellon-nin, I should have left your thoughts alone but they are not hard to discern.

I know no gift, no word might heal the hurt you have suffered this day, but I name you Elf-Friend for the assistance you have shown me and my kindred through this journey, and you shall have whatever assistance and protection my people may give. I beg you to receive this as a token of our friendship. It may also serve as a remembrance of the stars of Elbereth that watch over us all - though the colours are reversed."

Faerim had hardly noticed the swift gesture required or felt the swift kiss on his brow, but hanging round his neck on a slender chain was the sapphire pendant in its white gold setting, the only adornment other than a cloak pin that Faerim had ever noticed Erenor wear. " It is an heirloom of my house, made in Gondolin in days of glory" she said quietly. The boy started to protest but she merely murmured as she rose to her feet, "Faerim, I have no heirs." With that the tall, slender figure wrapped her dark cloak about her and walked towards the camp, silently her feet leaving little imprint on the snow.

[Garen LiLorian]

Angóre sat alone in the snow, unheeding of any and all Men and Elves. He felt his body, bruised and battered from his battle with the Trolls, growing colder, yet he made no effort to move. Two of his short spears had been shivered as well, leaving him only one. It and his blade were lying by his side as he stared out over the snow-covered fields, straining his far-seeing eyes. He was hoping for a glimpse of something, of what he didn't know, but he wasn't finding it. The light of the moon and stars was cold and pitiless. He sighed, pulling his knees to his chest, noting that his left knee wasn't moving properly.

It had been a day since the battle in the tunnels, and, despite his fearlessness in said battle, Angóre hadn't even approached the lady Erenor yet. He didn't know if she even remembered what she had said, or if she knew how strongly it had affected him. All he knew was that, of a sudden, he wasn't who he thought he was anymore, and it frightened him. He'd stayed quiet, keeping to the rear of the train, ostensibly to guard against attack but in reality looking to stay as far from the reminder of his former life as possible. He'd taken solace in his duties, at least those that let him keep distance between himself and his charge. But now he'd run out of things to keep himself busy, and was feeling himself on the brink of a long, dark slide, to where he did not know.

[Osse]

The sickle moon’s pearl-light fell on Lissi’s cheek, casting soft shadows on the cold clear tears as they silently fled across her fair skin, before losing them to the dark as they dropped, caught in the wind.

Carthor raised his hand softly, slowly to caress his wife’s shapely face. Lissi turned away, staring, unseeing, at the snow below her, hiding her sorrow behind flowing tendrils of raven hair.

‘My darling…’ Carthor pulled Lissi’s sobbing figure into an embrace, trying to hold onto what he knew was fast slipping away.

Firmly but gently her white hands pushed him away, and turning she strode off into the grey of the night, her bowed head letting her tears fall onto the fur of her mantle, lost like a faun in the night. As lost as her husband’s heart.

The old man stood alone, his grey-blue eyes firmly closed, weeping silent, dry tears.

Why? Why had it come to this, this torment? Why had he lived when so many others had died around him, just to come to this end… just to see all that he had loved fall around him. The white walls of his home defiled and scorched, littered with the corpses of his kindred…His son, whose keen ears would hear no more, lying cold far from his home…A duty, crushing in its weight, crippling in its metallic grip… And Lissi…

Carthor reached for the dagger in his boot, unsheathing it. The metal seemed hideous in this grey world, its brightness staring mockingly into the old man’s eyes. In that metal, Carthor saw the faces of the dead, staring at him accusingly. He shuddered. The vision fled and he was left staring at his own face in its cold length…

Silently, Carthor’s gnarled old hand guided the blade towards his chest, the point, almost relieving as it stood poised against the scarred skin. Carthor took a breath… his own face would be added to those of the dead.

‘Lord Carthor!’ Belegorn’s strong, even voice came whistling through the eddying snow behind the old soldier.

Carthor turned.

His dagger fell silently groundwards, its stag-horn hilt barely discernable as it law enshrined in the soft, billowing snow. Even Belegorn’s eyes, so accustomed to discerning shapes shrouded by the night failed to see it as it fell, and not even elven eyes would have seen it as the snow blew and settled over it.

‘Lord Carthor,’ The Lieutenant spoke again. ‘I have searched for you high and low my old friend!’

Solemnly Carthor looked into the face of his comrade, and the gaze Belegorn was subject to froze the blood seething through his veins. Here was a man, who had finally been defeated, whose face, usually resolute and strong finally showed the scars of its past; not the physical scars, which had always been there as a stout reminder, but scars that had been hidden.

Carthor said nothing, merely stared, dazed, into the eyes of the man opposite. Recognition of any of his friend’s words failed to wander in the crisp halls of his old blue eyes, which had acquired thick mantles of emptiness. Belegorn shuddered. Looking into those once proud eyes was like looking at death itself, as if all the horror they had seen had finally broken its levies and surged outwards into the night. Belegorn had seen such eyes before, but only in those who had been broken by the forces of Angmar, though not in body.

The words stripped from his tongue, Belegorn reached out to place his hand on the shoulder of the older man. Beneath the fur of his great cloak, Carthor was shaking, as if every sinuous inch of his frame was overcome with a spring-like tension. Springs can only be tensed so far before they shoot back. Obviously, the spring that was Carthor son of the Dunedain had reached that limit.

‘Carthor old friend…’ Started Belegorn, suddenly finding his tongue again, ‘I have spoken to our Lord… please friend, tarry a moment to think first of what you do! Stay! You have no further allegiance to this man. The kingdom he rules is dead my friend, as is any bond it once held you in! I beseech you Carthor, think of your family, this is no time to throw your life away in grief, for death is all that awaits you in the North Ice!’

For the first time since Belegorn’s voice had landed on his scarred ears, Carthor spoke:
‘I must go.’

Belegorn’s hand fell to his side, as the old soldier’s bulk strode forward past him. Quickly, he turned, continuing his plea.

‘Carthor, our kingdom as it was is dead, and now lives on only in one place; those who have lived! These folk Carthor, who have faced fire, cold and death and endured are all that lives of our home… and as they still draw breath, so shall our land my friend. I plead with thee Carthor, do not leave those who need aid now, do not let our home die, forgotten, burnt out like a wick...’

Carthor walked on, his hunched shoulders soon becoming almost indiscernible in the foray of ice.

‘Carthor!!’ Belegorn pleaded to his receding shape, ‘Carthor! Dying alone, far from those you love shall not bring him back! This is no way to grieve for Brander!’

Belegorn’s words were swept away in the wind, ripped ragged by the falling blades, utterly destroyed in the maelstrom.

*****************

The sentry outside the King’s tent was amazed at the speed and silence with which the old soldier tightened the girth strap of his grey charger. He was even more intrigued by the grace with which the man swung into the saddle, and with a deft blow to his mount's flanks, rode off into the night with the king’s company. For long after they had left, the man peered into the swirling gloom watching his Lord, whom he had served many long years, ride off into a bitter, lonely night, far from the rubble of his once fair city. Silently, the man asked the Valar to protect him and those who rode with him.

On rode Carthor, son of Harathor, leaving behind him the cold grave of his blind son, leaving behind him the living remnants of his once proud race, leaving behind him his newfound self, who, overcome by the horrors of the past had spent its last breath in the cold wastes of the Blue Mountains. Carthor closed his eyes, but the images that haunted him were still there when he opened them. Taron's great hooves churned the snow as he ran, onwards, northwards…

[Nilpaurion Felagund]

From the shade of a shivering tree Bethiril watched Erenor and Faerim converse. The falling snow, stirred hither and thither by the wintry winds, muffled the sound, yet her ears still heard every word spoken; and, despite the thickening curtain of white that veiled her eyes, she caught a glint of blue as Erenor bestowed her necklace upon the young lad. Shortly after that, she left Faerim, and Bethiril left her place to follow her.

"You must have liked that mortal child much to have given him what you treasure," Bethiril said, laughing gently, as she was moved by the mirth she felt.

"You had been listening to us?"

"Forgive me if I had done wrong in that. I wished for you company this night, but I could not interrupt while you spoke to Faerim."

"All is well," Erenor said. "Where have you been? I haven't seen much of you since we left Ered Luin."

"I was some place else . . ." she answered, her voice trailing off. Her right hand wandered to her ring, and immediately, Erenor felt the unease in her colleague.

"Is aught amiss?"

"Erenor," she said in a voice of one who despaired of life, "This ring, the symbol of my service to Lord Elrond, has been my life. It has been my sole burden. Because of it, I have no heir myself.

"Yet, the more I know you, the more I realise that I am no longer of use in Middle-earth. I have been too deeply scarred by the evils of Morgoth, and I have refused to let the wounds heal. You understand the Hildor better. You do not fear to take a life, or to give your ife, if you are called upon to do so. You would do better in my place." At this, she took the ring off her finger, and presented it to Erenor.

"Take it," Bethiril urged her.

Neither spoke for a long time. The wind stilled. The only sound left was the soft crunching of the snow beneath their feet. Reluctantly, Erenor took the ring from her.

"When we reach the Havens, will you leave Middle-earth?" Erenor managed to ask.

Bethiril laughed softly as foresight came upon her. "I shall not wander out of sight of the shores of Endórë until another ring, one of greater worth than mine, has been saved from loss."

At this, she took another path, one that led deeper into the bare forest, leaving Erenor with a ring and a riddle.

[CaptainofDespair]

“So...cold...”

His chest was heaving, as it tried to resist the pain of breathing in the icy hot air. He had been delirious the past few days, stemming from a combination of snow blindness and the nothingness that surrounded him in every direction. He barely managed to keep warm now, with his heavy fur and clothe cloak in tatters. Only his singular goal kept him going on; self preservation.

He had been wandering for…forever. He had lost track of time, and counted only how many times he had eaten, which was meager, at best. A lonesome sword, stained with animal blood, hung at his side as he plodded slowly across the land, dreading every wet, freezing step. His leather knee-high boots had already begun to fall apart at the seams, leaving only the largest sections of his legs and feet protected. Yet, he had not succumbed to frostbite, or to any predators lurking about. He clung to his mission, his quest.

He felt damned, as he thrust past a layer of snow and ice that had blocked his dragging feet from progressing. He fell; face first, into the snow. After picking himself up, he decided it best to take a little rest, and sat down upon a nearby log. He brushed off the snow, and perched himself on it. How had he fallen so far, so quickly? Nothing made sense anymore. Whether that was because of the hallucinogenic qualities of his mind reacting to the vast expanse of bleak landscape, pot-marked only by mountains and a few trees, or this entire situation was, by its nature, like a confused child, he did not know. He had been there, as the party reached the Ered Luin in relative safety. He wondered where he had gone wrong. He began muttering to himself, speaking aloud, hoping someone would answer his questions. “Was it the refusal to enter those damnable caverns?” He paused, swaying with a cold breeze, seeking an answer from the northern winds. No response came from the cold, only more shivers and shudders. But, he continued as if the wind had indeed said something. “No, you are right, it couldn’t be. I am a counselor, not a war-maker.” He sighed, and went deeper into crazed, delirious thought, putting his face into his palms. His frozen eyebrows began to twitch, and he looked up from his icy grip. “Ah-ha! It must be…yes…it must be.” The wind picked up briefly once more, and his eyes lit up. “Thank you…what was your name again? Oh well, it doesn’t matter, does it? No, you’re right, it doesn’t.” He shook his head, and took in a whiff of the icy atmosphere, to give him new life. He stood up, realigned his cloak, and marched off. What direction he was going, he did not care. As he left the sight of the log, he uttered one last message to his invisible muse, “Yes, you were right, all along. Good bye, my friend.”

But, as he marched himself away, with a new aura of haughtiness and purpose, he tripped on the root of a tree stump, hidden by the snow. As he collapsed to the frozen earth, he slipped into a dreary unconsciousness, left to elements…

[Mithalwen]

Erenor had never felt so alone in her life. Long had she prided herself on her independence and self reliance but the self delusion had been shattered by recent events. Without Angore, the dwarves and the Dunedain she would have been dead, but had she died no one would have grieved for her as Faerim mourned his brother. He was attached to her, she knew, but at least in part it was an attachment to what she represented rather than to herself. Nevertheless the boy had found a way into a part of her that she had thought shut away beyond reach long ago. He had touched her heart, by his courage, his honesty, his humour and his lack of reverence. But while his youth had refreshed her view, jaded by many centuries; his devotion to his family had thrown her isolation into sharp relief.

Bethiril had chosen a strange time to decide that she, Erenor, was right, she thought.. but that encounter had placed a strange foreboding on her spirit. She turned the ring over in her hand and the more she considered Bethiril's words, the more discomfited she was.

She moved silently to where Angore sat, gaze focused on the far distance. If Faerim's mind had been easy to read, and Bethiril's voiced words oblique, Angore who concealed his thoughts and spoke little, gave the only clue to his state of mind through his body language. He sat hunched up, frozen emotionally perhaps as much as physically. She spoke his name, soft as the snow falling and was aghast when his blue eyes stared into hers with an expression she could only describe as fear... not of her but of what she might say ..... "Angore - what have I done?"

She was bewildered, having had no recollection of her words in the tunnel. The chant had come freely into her mind and in the strange and heightened state she experienced as she had called on a power she had little experience of controlling and her awareness of what had gone on was confused beyond what could be expected from the physical injuries she susequently sustained. In her heightened
state she had used Angore's true name. One that she might have heard long before in Rivendell, or came to her by instinct as she tried to use her mental strength against the enemy .

Still drained physically and metally by that struggle, her spirit was crushed now by
loneliness and a sense of doom impending as she became certain that Bethiril's words were expression of a deathwish, Erenor cried out and took but a few steps before curmpling to the ground. She had not yet resumed her normal travelling garb and her skirts and cloak spilled around her like a dark pool on the snow. Bethiril's ring fell into her lap and glistened there - a lone star on a sapphire ground. Tears coursed down her face as she sobbed, uttering no word. She could not muster the will to move but she covered her face with her hands for shame. No one had seen her cry in this age of the world and few would think the haughty Lady Erenor capable of showing such emotion - or weakness as she would have termed it until recently.

[Garen LiLorian]

He knew he'd shown his fear immediately by her reaction and his already stricken mind reeled at this further display of his weakness. When she turned and stumbled, falling to her knees and sobbing, his body moved without his will behind it, driving him to his feet and over to her. He tried to make his voice cold, emotionless as he had kept it for so many years. "Lady Erenor..." His voice cracked, his seething storm of fear, wonder and anger making it sound raw. He knelt beside her, placing a hand on her back as he wondered what on earth he could say to her, hesitating between providing rough, warrior's speech or trying to relate to her, comfort her somehow. He hadn't any idea how to do it, only that he wanted to. He tried again. "Lady Erenor... I.." He frowned and cleared his throat. "This is... allow me to escort you to your tent, milady." He took refuge in his courtesy, his mind whirling. "I.. milady, I am a soldier." His voice cracked again, filling his speech with his turmoil. "But.. should you wish to speak to me, please do so. I.. cannot promise wise council..." He cleared his throat. "But, it does me great ill to see you so unhappy, and.. I would do what I can to help you."

He stared at her, trying hard to mask his own emotions, questions and thoughts, trying to re-establish his emotional wall, reflecting his anguish back inside again. He removed his hand from her back suddenly, as if it were shocked, and turned his kneeling stance into a pose of submission, lowering his head and pressing the hand that had touched her back to his heart. "Please, lady Erenor. Allow me to help you." With his head lowered, his eyes averted from her, his voice regained some of its composure.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor too struggled with a rush of conflicting emotions. Angore's voice seemed harsh but his touch was a reminder of the strength she had relied on for so long but it did not comfort, rather it was the cause of another wave of emotion she could not explain, she could not understand why he knelt before her - it was she who should kneel and beg forgiveness for whatever harm she had done .. she tried to explain this but her words were incoherent . Even the sound of her own name seemed ludicrous - no title meant anything in the wilderness and there was no steel left in her soul.

She gathered enough wits to realise they might both perish if they remained outside and found her voice steady enough .. " Yes help me to the tents.. but I must talk with you" Her voices was carried on the wind only shiwing him Bethiril's ring as explanation they staggered to her tent. There they sat, not daring to meet each other's gaze.

"Angore, I wish I knew what ill I had done you so I might repair it "she swallowed hard "I cannot bear to have inflicted so much pain on one I ... respect so much, but first, I must tell you of Bethiril" and mastering her own emotions as much as she could she relayed as much of their conversation as she could.

[Garen LiLorian]

He digested her story slowly, unable to think much about it. "But... she will remain with the train, correct?" Thoughts swirled behind his eyes, but he was unable to do more then grab at them uselessly. All that seemed important was that his guard duties remained unaffected. "I.. suppose congratulations are in order, lady Erenor... I am confident that you will be wise and strong as the representative of lord Elrond." His eyes remained fixed on the floor of the tent and he wound his fingers together nervously until he realized what he was doing and stopped.

"And... as for me." He swallowed. "You need not apologize for anything, lady Erenor. The name you called me... it should not have affected me so. It is my duty to be stalwart for you, and my weakness if I cannot be so. It is I who must apologize, truly. It is just... an old wound, and one I had thought closed. Truly, not worthy of my lady's attention." He withdrew further back into himself, walling himself off with his courtesy. He raised his eyes to hers again, showing but a flicker of his emotion in the cool depths of his dispassion. "Is this all that was bothering you, milady? If so, I" His voice cracked once again, his eyes flashing. "I would like to know... where you heard that name you uttered in the tunnel. And why you chose to call me... that." He clenched his fists. "And.. I would ask that you do not do it ever again, milady. I hope I am not being presumptuous, but it is for you and not me that I ask... Clearly, I am not... I cannot." He bowed his head again. "Don't... call me that..." He whispered. "I'm not that person anymore..."

[Mithalwen]

Erenor let Angore finish speaking, forcing herself to use the skills long learnt in council to remember points raised in order to deal with as the moment came. And with one set of emotions repressed others required an outlet. Her voice became as cold and contained as his.

" I think Bethiril is gone, Angore - why else would she give me the ring?" . Erenor knew not whether to hope she was right or wrong. It had been the thought of Bethiril alone in the snow that had stopped her from ... well as things were turning out stopped her from offering herself up to rejection and humiliation. She winced inwardly. "There is no need to congratulate me - I will return the ring to Lord Elrond if I survive - and that is not something I can assume. That is not a judgement on your capabilities rather on the dire situation the Dunedain have forced us into. However, I would not replace Bethiril even if there were longer a need for such a role. I am neither wise nor strong and if my counsel was held in any esteem we would have been safe in the havens long ago, and many lives would have been spared.

I am tired of death, Angore: the needless carnage at Fornost, the deaths of Gaeredhel and Rosgollo saving myself and the other hostages, the death of innocents and the valiant naugrim in the tunnels - and now ice and starvation meet us all. All are the consequence, direct and indirect of misjudgement. This is no place for me. It has all been a lie. I cared nothing for the edain until I saw their courage in risking their lives to save mine. I am not worthy of them. I sought high office to gain renown and honour the memory of my father, I sought battle to avenge his death. But no matter how many orcs, or spiders, or even trolls I slay, it will not release him from Mandos sooner. In seeking glory for myself I have endangered others maybe..." she wondered how her dispute with Angore might have affected the course of events in the tunnels, where the separation of the parties had proved near disastrous for all and fatal for some. She choked slightly.." I cannot bring them back to life, but if my fate is to return to Imladris, I will return this ring and beg work in the gardens or with the healers and try to redress the balance in favour of life.....

As for the wound I have opened - well I regret I did so but I have no recollection of my words in the tunnel from when I ran to aid Belegorn until I awoke in his arms ......." she cast back further in her memory .... " the person you were? Ah, I called you Maltore then? Well I shall not use it again....but I dwellt at Imladris long and I did know that was your name ... there was no malice in it. A name is just a name - it may reflect the self but it cannot change it. But since you give it such importance, I would ask you to cease this milady-ing. I recall that you too are of a noble line and my title a reflection of the role I no longer hold. If you would do me courtesy you would look me in the eye" .

He did so and for that time the eyes that had shown such anguish in the twain now reflected an equal fire of spirit. Erenor realised moments too late that this was the point she should have stopped, but one point remained to be answered.

" You asked if that was all that bothered me; well you must know the answer to that in your heart - whether it be of gold or steel - but clearly there is no point in speaking of it!". The fire went out of her grey eyes and they suddenly became too bright as she realised she had voiced that thought. She gave a low cry of anguish realising that Angore was between her and the tent flap and she had no where to flee. She could bear his gaze no longer and turned away curling up in her close wrapped cloak, and grateful that her long dark hair had come loose from its braid, to curtain her from Angore's gaze as the tears traced silently down her face.

[Nuranar]

The world was grey and cold, swimming and vague in the pale light. Lissi fell to her knees and wept out her sorrow, her sobs low and anguished. Something had broken within her, and her heart was desolate.

When she finally raised her head, her features were once again still and calm. But there was something stoic in that calmness that had never been there before. She gazed motionlessly across the moonlit land.

Carthor was gone. This was truly the end. Their fragile new regard, stricken by Brander's death, had withered when Carthor informed her he was joining the king. Perhaps he saw it as his duty, Lissi thought apathetically. She had disagreed - Family before country! she had cried out - but anger had fled with her tears. Now it was time to mourn. A time to mourn for their love, for their son, for what might have been.

Lissi sighed, a tiny sigh, and gazed up at the moon. She saw the path set before her with little liking; it was narrow and hard, and she could not see where it lead. But it was there, and she would follow it with patience and endurance to the end.

Stiff and chilled, Lissi rose carefully to her feet and stretched her cramped muscles. The sight of a dark, motionless figure, standing but a few yards distant, shocked her senses into alertness. Dumb in her grief, she had heard no one approach. "Who is there?" she demanded in a low, steady voice. Beneath her cloak, her hand grasped Faerim's sword.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Faerim watched Erenor go, and as the snowfall thickened, her figure faded after a few metres. He watched the space where she had gone until his vision seemed confused and befuddled by staring into the swirling eddy of flakes. The cold, the twisting whirlpools of snow around him, the distant, detached feeling that the snow and his recent encounter with Erenor had brought about...the landscape could have easily have been underwater. The depths of the ocean, beyond any help or worry...

He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, the cold air sharp in his respiratory passages, the prickling sensation in his throat reminding him that he was alive. Alive. Maybe others had died, but he was alive... Shaking his head, dog-like, to remove the flakes that had settled on his hair, Faerim rose in a swift movement, brushing them off his shirt and shivering, suddenly feeling the cold through the thin material: apparently Erenor had not felt it as keenly, and her presence had distracted him. A touch of his old humour made Faerim grin to himself – if he died of pneumonia, he’d be having serious words with that elf. Swinging his coat loosely over his shoulders, the boy began to walk slowly to the tent that his parents had been staying in, but the path was a slow one, for, like a child, he tried to walk as quietly as possible, trying to imitate Erenor’s silent step over the snow. So absorbed was he in this childish game that he remained oblivious of the fanged danger that lurked not far off in the snow-quilted landscape – and it was only at the last moment that he saw a immediate and, in a way, worse danger, and the reason he had taken so long to get to the tent: a hunched form, highlighted dimly by the light of the tent behind her, kneeling as if in silent homage to the moon, but shaking, ever so slightly. His mother, weeping.

Faerim did not move for a moment, simply standing motionless some distance from the woman. This was why he had been in no hurry to reach his tent, why the young soldier had sat in the snow watching an ancient elf’s figure receding into the snow until his eyes hurt rather than come back – what was there to come back to? His brother was dead, his father a man who had been distant for most of his life, and his mother… The boy hesitated, not sure whether to approach, wanting to avert his eyes but somehow unable to, embarrassed by his mother’s sorrow: he had not seen her cry before, he realised. Lissi had been a strong figure throughout her sons’ lives, strengthening them with her stubborn refusal to allow the harshness of her life to weaken her in front of them. So to see her so broken down…

Before he could look away, Lissi seemed to gather herself, taking a deep shuddering breath and, after a moment, stiffly rising to her feet like a woman under a great weight – and turned to see her son standing nearby. Her tear-stained face was lit in profile by the soft lamplight from in the tent, and Faerim saw shock and fear quickly blanketed by defiance as she groped to her belt – the strong woman he knew emerging. But the fact that he now knew that it was little more than a mask, however well maintained… Faerim fought the lump in his throat as he stepped forward towards her. “It’s me, Mother,” he replied quietly.

Lissi frowned slightly, her mouth beginning to form a word that Faerim recognised and which bit into his heart more harshly than the cold: Brander. Then, as Faerim came closer, realisation struck and her face softened. She looked away, hastily trying to surreptitiously wipe her face. “F-Faerim…I didn’t see you there, you…you surprised…” she trailed away as Faerim didn’t move, standing silently in front of her, and finally raised her eyes to her son’s face. “Oh Faerim…Faerim, he’s gone.”

Faerim’s voice seemed oddly croaky when he replied. “I…I know, Mother. But Mother, I was there with him and it was a quick death, he would barely have felt it for long-” Lissi was shaking her head, her long dark hair straggling from the wetness of the snow. A sense of dread stole over her son. “What?”

“Your father, Faerim.” Her voice was almost a whisper. “Carthor is...gone.” She drew herself up once more, her face pinched as she tried to keep her composure strong. “He went with the king, Faerim. He…he isn’t coming back.”

Faerim stared at her in uncomprehending silence for a moment, then, not trusting himself to speak, he opened his arms; her mask breaking, Lissi’s face crumpled and she fell into her son’s arms. As the snow fell around them, the youth rested his chin on his mother’s head and gently rubbed her back comfortingly as he closed his eyes and allowed a single tear down his cheek and onto Lissi’s dark hair.

[Lalwendë]

Renedwen's cracked hands dug at the snow and the cold caused a wave of pain to surge down her fingers and up her arms, but she was not going to stop. She knew there must be some kind of edible root buried here. The boy Gilly seemed to have a knack for finding the hiding places of the few edible plants in this frozen place; he would poke a stick into the snow a few times and then tell her where to dig. Each time she had found something to eat, enough to share with the few others who had survived so far. Boiled, these roots provided reasonable food, but they were usually eaten raw as people had now begun to get desperate to eat.

When she had first started to dig in the earth with her bare hands she had despised herself for such uncouth, low behaviour. It was something an Orc might do, but not a Dunedain woman. But then she had seen some of the peculiar things others in the group had found to eat and what she was reduced to having to do did not seem quite so bad.

Anything now, she found, was better than dying. She had lost her wish to follow her husband; as the struggles she had endured passed by, each one made her a little more determined. It was as though it would have been a waste to struggle only to throw it all away just by giving up. And, she had reflected to herself, if her husaband and father and brothers could make their contribution by fighting the enemy, she too could fight, by not giving up.

The child Gilly now rarely spoke. He took comfort in finding the roots that they ate, as though being busy was pleasure to him. But he did smile when he saw the baby, who was as healthy and placid as ever, so Renedwen took care that Gilly was always able to sleep right beside them each night; he found comfort from the baby, and she found comfort from having him near. She found it slightly odd that ever since she had taken him on, they had been very lucky many times. Did the child bring luck with him, like a talisman? She had almost convinced herself that this was true, and in any case, she did not like him to stray too far from her side.

[Garen LiLorian]

His expression passed through a number of emotions quickly, the most prevalent being surprise but followed closely by confusion. Whatever seemed so clear to Erenor remained clouded to her armsman, but he was sure of one thing; It was he that had caused her this distress. He reached out a hand uncertainly, holding it over her curtain of hair, wanting and fearing to offer words of comfort, uncertain. He clenched his hand and withdrew it again, dropping instead to one knee.

"My lady..." He stopped, then continued. "And you are my lady, whatever post you might hold, my heart... it has been locked away even from me for many lives of Men. What you speak of..." He shook his head. "The answers may indeed rest there, but I know not of them. I do not even understand the questions." He considered how to continue. "But... that you are hurt hurts me, and that the source of that pain is myself wounds me again." He peered at her, trying to discern her eyes under the curtain of hair. "And I would know what I might do to relieve you of this pain, my lady." The honorific had a strange catch in it.

He clenched his hands by his sides again. "I.. will leave you if you wish it, Erenor. I will not be the source of your pain." But he made no motion to move. "But... I would rather stay." This time he did touch her, taking one of her hands into his own callused palms. His eyes were confused but resolute as he looked up at her.

[Mithalwen]

Erenor's first instinct was to pull away from the contact that broke through her attempts to rebuild the wall around herself that had broken down so comprehensively in the past few days, but then the import of Angore's words sank in. She left her hand quietly in his as she turned back so that she knelt before him. Then pushed her hair back from her face with her free hand before placing it gently over those that clasped its pair.

She looked up at him with a smile like the first sunlight after a storm, her voice tentative but tinged with hope " Truly, you will not leave me? I was so scared you would.... when I was being crushed by the troll, the last thing I remember seeing was you, and I was glad; it gave a glimmer of hope before the darkness came. I realised how much I have depended on you ... but since then you seemed to avoid me - and I did not know why - then Bethiril spoke and I feared you might have to go with her and when ... .just now out there..... I realised how much distress I caused you, I felt certain you would go too, and I could not bear it. " She bit her lower lip and lowered her gaze again.

"Do not be troubled on my account, for if you will stay with me you will be the balm not the source of sorrow. Yet I think I cause you pain again - you do not look comfortable, please, sit "

Although they released hands they did not move further apart. Erenor noticed Angore flinch as he moved his injured knee, though he made light of her concern. She did not press the point. She had been overwhelmed by the realisation of Angore's importance to her; clearly he had not had the same experience. But she had reason to hope he might eventually let his sequestered heart realise what feeling another's pain as your own might signify. She would not rush him to find answers now. If they survived there would be time, if they did not... and her mind replayed his words and the memory of his touch.

"Do we have a chance to reach Mithlond, Angore?" she asked, and for once the "we" did not mean the elves alone, whose lightfootedness and endurance gave them an advantage.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: journey toward Mithlond


Angore thought and gave a characteristically laconic response. "Yes but not a good one. We have less than two weeks rations remaining and short rations at that - and I would expect the journey to take mortals at least that time on foot in fair weather". And and everyone is already hungry thought Erenor, and tired and so cold.

Nevertheless the party trudged on day after day. They were grateful for the light of the sun each morning even though it gave no light. The pitiful remnant of the proud citizenry of Fornost cooperated with each other but spoke little, even though their situation equalized all, regardless of race or rank. They huddled in to as few a number of tents as would house them at night to save exertion both of carrying them and setting them up.

Erenor had often found snow beautiful when seen from her window at Rivendell - it was far less appealing now although there were moments when a shaft of light created such sparkling loveliness that she could forget their plight for a moment.

The ice had more sinister creations. They found the body of the missing councillor Mitharan caught like a bird in a thicket at the base of a steep slope. He was like a twisted star glittering with ice - a strange mockery of a jewel. Though they did their best to dispose his body in a more seemly fashion it bore little relation to a decent funeral.

Erenor saw little of her previous companions. The tension had eased with Angore, there was a tacit understanding to concentrate on getting to safety. He was still her guard but as the strongest and most experienced in the ways of the wild among them, his skills learnt through the long centuries of errantry were vital to all. He and the hardened soldier, Belegorn, were in close counsel with the prince Aranarth as to their path and actions, but at other times he served as the rearguard of the group and though his mind was yet closed to her she was aware of his gaze resting on her as her scanned the horizons and it comforted her.

Bethiril spoke seldom. She was absorbed in her own thoughts and whatever strange destiny she had fortold for herself. Erenor had never enjoyed the best relationship with her - she had not disliked her but she had failed to understand her. Now her viewpoint had shifted but it seemed too late. Bethiril had taken on her remoteness as Erenor had developed Bethiril's abhorrance of violence.

Faerim... Faerim her faithful hound, her kindred spirit and whose devotion had inspired so much amusement was also preoccupied. His youth gave him strength and he was of the few that had the energy to hunt for wood or food. Other time he spent mainly with his mother. Lissi had reserves of spirit few could equal but death had claimed one son and in the time of that bereavement she had been forsaken by her husband in the name of duty. At least in Faerim she had a son to be proud of. Although when the opportunity for adventure arose, he had been eager to take it, Erenor knew his first priority had ever been his family.

Then there was that other protege of Rosgollo - the child Gilly. Despite the conditions the child seemed cheerful and remarkably healthy. Perhaps his name had won him the protection of the lady Elbereth. Now they were largely horseless - the poor beasts perished gradually through starvation and accident in the ice and snow - Erenor took it upon herself to carry the child when his short but sturdy legs could not cope with the snow. Renedwen was already burdened with her own infant son, Derendur. She had seemed suspicious at first of the elf lady, who for so long had seemed to place herself above such mundane domestic concerns as the care of small children, thinking perhaps Erenor sought to reclaim the child rescued by her own kind. It had not helped that Erenor had soon asked if she would keep the child when they reached safety. Renedwen who was at least in terms of the Dunedain as noble as Erenor was in those of the Noldor could be just as haughty if she chose, had responded that her son had lost a father and she would not separate him from the brother he had found. Misunderstandings resolved, and understanding if not yet friendship developed between the two ladies who carried swords as well as children.

Nevertheless it was Gilly the blessed and beloved who was Erenor's bane. Little used to children of any kind she did not watch him as constantly as mother does by instinct, and the little boy toddled unheeded to the brink of a icy stream deep from meltwater that flowed down from the mountains this far south. Alerted the elf had leapt and while she was able to save the child from the fall she had taken it herself. Although uninjured she was soaked in the stream’s frigid water.

Over two weeks into their journey, they had come almost to the end of their supplies, eked out by cutting quantities and supplemented with what little they could scavenge (enough for a lone traveller but not a party of their size), but more deadly to the elf now than starvation was the cold.

Angore had rushed to his mistress's side cursing himself that again she had come to harm when he had been away ignoring the fact that there was little he could have done. He wrapped his cloak about them both and held her tight as if by so doing he could hold warmth and life in her frozen body. Only now as she was dying did he have the same realisation that she had undergone weeks before. "Don't leave me, my lady” he murmured, her hair damp against his face. She had not the strength to speak bud rested her head against his chest. His reserve was broken at last and for the first time he opened his mind to her hoping to keep her attention, and awake.

Erenor was aware of little the wind blowing outside the tent and the comforting sound of Angore's heartbeat. She was beyond cold now and lying safe in her beloved's arms it would be so easy to drift into sleep. She would just close her eyes a little while, just rest til the storm abate and they could go on... her mind filled with images Angore, trolls, a woman like enough to be his close kindred. Then the tent opened and she saw Gaeredhel - or was it Rosgollo enter? I must be dead she thought as she yielded to sleep....

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: taken in by the Lossoth


The old man reached a brown hand out from the rippled folds of fur. King Arvedui poured the contents of a ragged cloth pouch onto the man’s wrinkled palm. The old man’s round face peered at the glossy surface of the sapphire as he held it up to the light. Muttering something to the man standing by his side in his own tongue, he looked back at the men in front of him. He sniffed at the great stone, before thrusting it roughly back into the still outstretched hand of the king. He shook his tightly cloaked head.

“Ice men no want cold stone.” His deep, guttural voice was surprising in such a wizened frame.
“Ice men cannot eat cold stone.”

“And Dunedain cannot eat ice! Cannot you spare even a morsel, o’ Chief?” Replied Arvedui.

The journey had almost broken the king, and he could not keep the desperation from filling his eyes and his voice.

“If you cannot aid us Chief, if we cannot find sanctuary with the Men of the Snow, then we are lost. We shall go out into the ice to perish. I only pray the wind freezes our breath before starvation does.”

The king made to turn and depart, but with a single deft movement, the old ice-chief was standing, his broad brown hand spread gently over the ragged fabric of the king’s cloaked shoulder.

The old man’s glance darted from the king’s desperate grey eyes to his cold hand as it lay on his sword hilt.

He looked up.

“Tall men stay.” His voice, once as cold as the winds of his home, had warmed.
“We give you what little we can.”

The king stepped forward, with his hand outstretched in sign of the agreement. The Ice-chief hesitated, his black eyes examining the Dunedain’s poised hand for a brief moment, before reaching out and clasping it firmly. Carthor, standing behind the king, could see his whole body relax as a wave of relief rushed through it.

The chief’s warriors, all clad in their thick fur wrappings, of what animal Carthor could not guess in the ruddy fire light of the ice-house, stepped forward. Each bore a thick brown blanket, and draping them tightly over the white-cold frames of the Dunedain, they ushered them all into a warm alcove. Carthor sipped gratefully at the hot fish-broth one of them provided for him in a shallow wooden bowl. The steaming liquid coursed through his stomach, extinguishing the hollow pain that his weeks of hunger had brought him.

Carthor looked grimly around the alcove, his blue eyes landing heavily on the faces of his companions. Seven times he paused; seven times he looked into lost and wearied eyes. The seven men around him were all that remained of the king’s guard that had ridden out from the mountains.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


For ten days they had headed northward, following the crisp bite of the wind. The snow had deepened under the hooves of their mounts with every stride they had taken. Their food bags began to empty, despite their best efforts to ensure their stores lasted. At nightfall on the tenth day, the first of the horses had perished. Slipping on a patch of unseen ice, the stout bay mare had lost her footing and come crashing down in a whirl of limbs. Her rider had fallen under her, his cold brown eyes staring up into Carthor’s own as he kneeled beside him. There had been no time to properly bury the young man. Instead, they had laid him out proudly by a deep snow drift, the tattered banner on his ash spear still bearing the device of the king fluttering in the bitter wind.

Carthor had shuddered to feel the weight of the horsemeat in his cloth bag. It was a poor way to repay such a fine beast for years of faithful service, a beast whose only mistake had been to blindly trust in the guidance of her master’s hand. Better to live with the guilt than to die without it. Death, even then, would have been a sweet relief to Carthor, son of Harathor. Honour drove him; as long as his king drew breath, so would he.

Within a week of the first, all twelve horses had fallen, their frozen corpses lying as grim reminders of the group’s passage. The Dunedain had continued on foot, trudging through the snow, which often rose deeper than the knees of their tallest man, sharing the lead in shifts. Two men walked in front and behind of Arvedui, their eyes guarding their lord’s back, guarding it from the despair they all felt. On the third day, the last of the horsemeat was eaten.

For six more days, the Men of the North trudged on through the thick snows, the snows that seemed to be forever clinging, like dead, cold hands at every limb and every cloak. The men were all soaked as the snow tunnelled in through their clothing; no cloak could halt its wandering fingers. Slowly, but surely, the men would fall to the back of the column, unable to hold onto the slow, plodding pace. Their footfalls would become clumsy and their strides shorter, as if invisible hands held them by the shoulders, slowly pulling them back. One by one, they fell down into the snow, unseen and unheeded by their comrades. For those who turned to give aid were soon consumed by the same deadly foe, the only aid they would give would be company with which to enjoy Eru’s Gift.

Then, on the ninth day since the last of the horses had perished, the seven survivors of the group of fifteen reached the cold, grey expanse of the icy sea. Great towers of white rose out of the water, their great bastions and towers mirrored below them. The men stood dumbfounded at the edge of the great water, watching the ice towers collide on the glassy surface, listening to the call of cracking ice, feeling the whip of the icy wind in their lank hair.

As they stood, the Forochel’s white splendour lying eerily around them, the Lossoth espied them, and walking on the surface of the ice on basket-shoes, they had led them to their camp.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post - Erenor: Mithlond


White, everything was white. This was not how she had imagined Mandos. White but not cold. So she had not returned to the snow. She raised her head slightly, it was a ceiling. And she was lying in a bed. Then an elvish voice. "Ah Lady Erenor, you are back with us!" The voice belonged to a grey clad elf-woman.

"Where am I?”

"In the Houses of Healing at Mithlond of course, do you not remember?"

Gradually memory came back. If had not been one of the slain guards of course who had entered the tent but an elf ranger of Mithlond in the same uniform. Cirdan alerted by Arvedui's hawks had sent out search parties. The fire they had risked in an attempt to save Erenor had speeded rescue for all. The rangers had carried phials of precious miruvor which had the power to restore even those on the point of death, and this had bought her time . The rangers had horses and had rushed her to the Havens. Erenor blushed at the memory - she who had thought herself among the strongest had been the weakest at the end.

The healer wrapped a mantle about Erenor's shoulders pressed a cup of broth into her hands and made her drink it before she would answer more questions. "The others? Are they safe? Are they here?"

"They are safe, but not all are here yet - the last should arrive later today. You have been asleep for two nights and a day since you were brought in. Your man- at- arms arrived in the middle of last night and wanted to see you there and then, if you please! Dressed in his filthy rags . . . of course I would not hear of it. Told him to come back this morning and be clean!"

"Angore, was here and you sent him away?!" Erenor quelled her ire, the woman did not know and losing her temper would make more delay - "Please send for him..." She needed no messenger however since when she sought his mind with hers, she was answered. Nevertheless the minutes seemes like hours until the door burst open. Angore was dressed in new clothes, his habitual grey and black relieved by a shirt of blue that matched his eyes, but his face had the same anxious look it had worn when he had entrusted Erenor to the Mithlond elves. He knelt by her bed and took both hands in his. "My lady?" he asked. "Always, my lord."

A little later when reality had intruded on their bliss, Erenor said "Perhaps I shall have to continue being an emissary - I will not be allowed a guard as a healer or gardener..."
"That won't be necessary I hope - though would you mind choosing gardening over healing? Healers seem rather bossy" he said looking in the direction the elf woman had departed when she realised that her presence was surplus to requirements.

"And I am not?" asked Erenor incredulous.

Angore answered by raising his eyebrows “I must be a soldier a little longer by necessity, but when we are safe back in Imladris, I too would take another path - or rather resume it".

Erenor cast back in her memory for some clue and failed “What path?".

"I realise I can honour my mother by fulfilling her wish as well as avenging her death. Before she died, I was training as a minstrel".

"A minstrel? You?" Erenor was amazed that one who had wasted so little breath on speech during the time she had known him could be a master of song.

"I was considered very talented actually" ... Angore replied affecting an injured expression.

Erenor could not but laugh "You had better find a lute or harp prove it to me then!"

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor’s musings were broken suddenly. The men around him were standing, being led out into the snow by their hosts. Slowly, Carthor stood and wrapping his fur blanket more tightly around his broad shoulders, he followed the backs of the men in front of him up the short ramp out of the low-slung ice-house. The hide door-flap slapped loudly against the roof, moved by the fierce wind, as he walked away. He followed the men in front of him through the small camp, shivering despite the weight of his warm shroud. The group halted outside another, slightly smaller, ice-house.

It was low and square, with piles of snow heaped up against its square walls in mounds. From outside, the house gave as little purchase possible for the grasping claws of the north wind to latch onto. The structure seemed more sharply shaped than the others he had noticed, as if it had been built but recently. As he stood by the entrance, two Lossoth emerged from the enclosed entrance; both bore flat, broad shovels carved of bone. One ushered the seven Dunedain, including King Arvedui, through the entrance. The square structure was covered in many animal furs and blankets, and a cheerful fire glinted from its centre, the smoke from which wound its way lazily out of a hidden chimney in the roof above. Several immense fish were hanging on a smoking rack from the roof above.

Curling up in a nook by the fire, Carthor fell into the abyss of the deepest of sleeps, only waking briefly to eat some smoked fish and wrap himself more tightly in the fronds of his fur shroud.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The dream . . .


Lissi turned slowly, the light, black fabric of her mantle sweeping across the dark flagstones of the floor, sending gusts of fine grey ash into the eddying breeze. She paced slowly across the cold stone of the floor, toward a long, polished oak table. Other figures stood solemnly around the great table, their faces shrouded by heavy hoods. Each of the tall silent figures wore a red or green tabard, embroidered with the devices of Arnor. Cold blue light streamed softy in through the blackened remains of the rafters above the group’s bowed heads. The entire room was filled with the light’s coldness, all the room except the length of the great oaken table, which was cast in thick shadow.

Slowly, Lissi’s erect frame strode toward the table, her veiled features smitten heavily by shadow. Her pale hand reached from under the folds of black fabric and tugged gently at the grey covering draped over the form lying on the table. Slowly, her hand revealed a shining silver helm, covering the grey, wavy locks of the old soldier. Piercing blue eyes stared out from under the carved brow of the helm, their black centres reflecting the cold light from above.

The grey shroud was pulled away, sliding silently off the table, pooling like spent blood in folds and waves. The stout man’s hands were folded over the hilt of a shining broadsword, the blade of which was notched and scarred. Broad stains of dried blood littered his scarlet tabard, like grisly continents on a sea of blood. Stepping back, Lissi’s proud head bowed in a signalling nod.

As one man, the tall onlookers stepped forward, each bearing a long piece of wood in his hand. The wood piled in rows, like soldiers in rank, around the edge of the great table. With another nod, the men’s forms receded to their original positions, their faces still shrouded.

Lissi stepped to the side of the table, a great earthen flask carried in the crook of her right arm. Starting at the old soldier’s head, she poured the oily contents of the flask over his spread form. Then, reverently, she laid herself by his left side, upending the flask over her black gown. She folded her slender fingers across her lap and closed her eyes.

The tall men took a single uniform step forward, the orange flames of lit torches illuminating their cold hands with a dancing, flickering light. Each thrust his torch into the piled wood. Immediately the flame’s blades rang out from their scabbards and thrusting through the oils, bit into the wood. Boots snapped against the cold floor as the hooded men stepped backwards.

A single figure remained within reach of the flames. In a smooth motion, his nimble fingers reached up and slowly pulled down the black of his hood. The dancing gold light of the pyre lit Brander’s face as he stared, unmistakeably, down at his parents’ forms as they were devoured, his green eyes shining.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor


Carthor woke with a start. Sweat soaked his tunic, turning the course fabric cold and sodden. The fire, in its small stone grate in the middle of the ice-house, had burned down to coals, which shone gently in the warm air. Around him, Carthor could make out the forms of his companions, still enwrapped in the warmth of sleep, or if the warmth had turned to cold, as it had for Carthor, then in the shrine of open-eyed rest. Carthor stood, and dragging his coverings behind him, moved to the fire. Sitting on a small, round, cured hide chair, Carthor piled more of the carefully stacked wood onto the coals. The fire was soon loud and raucous in the small space. Breaking his fast on more of the smoked pink fish, which was as soft and subtle, like moonlight given flavour, Carthor sat watching the flickering, dancing flames until the light shining through the ice walls turned a lighter shade of grey. His comrades started to rise, adding their own stirrings to the growing noise of the shelter.

His clothes now dry from the fire’s welcome warmth, Carthor rose and slipped on his old calf-hide boots, ignoring the near jet blackness of three of his toes. They had stopped hurting, so Carthor didn’t mind if they decided to stay attached to the rest of his foot or not. The wool linings that he had asked Lissi to sew in at the beginning of the winter were ragged and worn, yet they still held some warmth. He’d have to ask get her to sew in some new ones next year.

Carthor swore under his breath, to vent the true emotions he felt when thinking of what he had left trudging through the icy forests and frozen stone of the Blue Mountains: Grief. There was no real escape though; Grief’s sinuous frame stalked him night and day, waiting for his wearied guard to drop.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor & the King


Carthor hunched into something nearing a crawl as he walked up the slanting entrance and peeled open the hide door of the snow-house. Outside, he was greeted by a clear blue sapphire sky, the eastern tinges of which still glowing with the soft pink haze of dawn. Around him, the Lossoth camp was ablaze with activity. Smoke rose from the chimney holes of every ice-house, men carried long wooden poles, and others carried racks of the large, broad silver fish, the same fish Carthor’s belly was full of. The sound of yelled orders and padding feet turned Carthor’s head. Over the rise of an ice drift, appeared the oddest cart. It was wheel-less, and glided across the surface of the white ground on long wooden skids. Its great length was piled entirely with baskets of fish and seaweed.

Draped triumphantly across the front was the great carcase of a male Elk, its great pronged head lolling with the rhythms of the cart. It was not the cart itself that amazed and startled the old Dunedain however, rather it was the way by which it was propelled. Attached in great leather harness, were what appeared to be five grey wolves. Carthor was amazed, for the only men he had known to ally themselves with wolves were under the Witch King’s banner. As the great sled skidded through the centre of the camp however and came to a halt some way from where Carthor stood, he saw that they were in fact not wolves, but mighty dogs, with thick grey and white coats and shining eyes. Their masters, who had ridden on the back of the cart, dismounted, and after congratulating their unlikely steeds on a job well done, began unloading the cart.

“An amazing, if rustic, folk.” Said a quiet voice beside Carthor’s ear.

Inside, Carthor jumped in surprise, as he thought himself alone outside the ice-house, his exterior however, stayed composed in its relaxed stance.

Carthor looked into the speaker’s face. “Aye my lord, amazing they are. One would scarcely believe tales of a folk who dwell in houses made of ice and ride on carts without wheels pulled by wolf-dogs.”

King Arvedui chuckled. “Your words are true Captain, these are strange times indeed that have caused us to seek shelter from such folk.”

Carthor merely nodded. They were indeed strange times. The two men stood silently for a while, each loath to break the gentle silence of the morning.

“Lord Carthor, your deeds and council have been ever hardy these past weeks, as has your loyalty. But my friend, I would have you complete one final task for me, as the Captain of my Guard.” King Arvedui paused, but as Carthor didn’t speak or interrupt, he pressed on.

“Our numbers have halved my friend, I know this. But our sanctuary here must only be short-lived, and though I don’t agree with the Ice-Chief in his superstitions, I see that the Witch King’s arm is indeed long. I do not doubt that he can reach us, even here.”

“Our entire journey north was to find the Lossoth and gain their aid, and this we have done. But these people cannot harbour us from the grasping fingers of the Witch King. We must look to the sea Carthor, for in the sea lies our only hope; if Cirdan has had news of our plight, as I trust he has, he will soon send grey ships northward in search of us.

We must look to the sea Carthor, but we must ensure that the sea can look to us! Make a beacon fire Carthor, and have your men tend it night and day, never letting it be extinguished. We must ensure our own rescue.”

Without waiting for a response, the King turned on his heel and disappeared back inside the ice-hut with the slap of hide hitting ice.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post – Cirdan sends a ship northward


A grey ship was sailing from the havens. Sent by Cirdan to the aid of the king at the behest of Aranarth. The prince had been discouraged from joining it - "Your people need you here." Cirdan had said but if he had some foresight he did not share it.

Bethiril had insisted on going despite Erenor's attempt to dissuade her. "You have found your fate and I wish you joy, but this is mine and I will follow it - Deliver the ring to Lord Elrond when you may".

There was nothing Erenor could say to change her mind and she was filled with regret and forboding. "I am sorry I never understood you."

Bethiril had merely smiled that serene smile. "Namarie, Erenor...I thought you a woman unsentimental, but much has changed - perhaps when you too have taken ship we will meet, and in that realm of light and peace there will be no misunderstanding. But until then I think this is farewell. You will remain in Middle Earth till the time of our people here ends forever - but I am weary of it and even if this ship bears me back, I will take another." They had embraced, and Elrond's Emissary boarded to seek for the king.

Once the ship had cast off, she had left the quay to join other survivors on the sea wall. Bethiril's ring clinked slightly against her own silver betrothal band as she turned it in her hand. She stood next to Angore and he clasped her hand in his. Although stern of face as they watched the ship enter the firth and head for the sea it was clear to all the sorrows of many centuries had been lifted from them. Renedwen was there with the boys, as was Faerim with Lissi. Erenor could hardly bear to look at them; the contrast between their hope and her fear was so strong. And yet it was not only those who sought passage north, with winter barely starting to fade, who were in danger. Mithlond was safe and perhaps Imladris was still safe but little in between was safe from the shadow of the witch-king.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: the rescue ship arrives; the Ring of Barahir is given to the Lossoth


For five nights, the six Guardsmen rotated, sitting in hide tents beside the wind-whipped fire, feeding its hungry jaws with all the dry wood they could find. Their icy fingers ached from their labours, and many of their noses bore black or red patches, as if the skin had been seared by a red-hot brand.

On the dawn of the seventh day, a broad white shape was seen coursing through the white towers of floating ice in the broad bay. The sleek grey timber of the elven ship shone in the light of the new morning, its swan-shaped prow gliding majestically through the crisp air. The Dunedain stood aligned, their faces alight in relief and awe for the grace of the grey vessel. The Lossoth fled in fear of the greatness of the ship, and only the Chief and his warriors remained by the King’s side.

An eagerness the light of which Carthor had never witnessed danced in the Arvedui’s grey eyes. The wolf-dogs were made ready, and the Dunedain nestled themselves atop two of the great wheel-less carts. The carts sped across the glassy surface of the ice at a startling pace. The swan prow grey larger and larger, framed against the clear blue of the western sky. Boats, in stark likeness to the larger ship, were seen to be floated, their grey oars speeding them lightly toward the edge of the ice.

Dismounting from the sled, Carthor peered out at the grey wooden shapes as they drew near the shore.

Arvedui gave the instruction, and the Dunedain stepped tentatively toward the edge of the ice. The Chief of the Lossoth laid his hand gently on the arm of the king, who turned to face him.

“Ice-men smell danger on the wind, Tall King.” He said, his deep voice full of fear and concern.

“Do not mount this sea-monster! If they have them, let the seamen bring us food and other things we need, and you may stay here till the Witch-king goes home. For in summer his power wanes; but now his breath is deadly, and his cold arm is long.”

As if in answer to the Chief’s words, a biting wind arose out of the north. To Carthor’s old eyes, the sky there was darker than the rest, as if a scribe had drawn a deft ink-line across the horizon. The wind seemed unnaturally cold and malicious. Carthor found himself agreeing with the old chief’s words. However, he remained silent.

Arvedui, taken with eagerness to depart from the dead and cold world of ice, heeded little the words of the old Lossoth, despite the latter’s desperate pleading.

“Chief, I thank you and your people for kindling life where there was none, and for the aid you have given us, saving us from joining our friends in the icy wastes of your home. We shall leave, and fear not, for the ships of Cirdan cannot falter!”

In token of thanks, Arvedui pulled the great ring from his right hand, and placed it in the hand of the chief. “This is a thing of worth beyond your reckoning. For its ancientry alone. It has no power, save the esteem in which those hold it who love my house. It will not help you, but if ever you are in need, my king will ransom it with great store of all that you desire.”

Arvedui kissed the old man on the forehead, before turning and climbing into the first of the awaiting boats, which was held fast against the ice with much effort by her elvish oarsmen. Carthor stepped carefully down into the boat beside the king. The six other men slid onto the finely carved benches behind and beside the king, and in the other boat. The last two bore a heavy, iron-clad oak casket.

The Lossoth stood watching the boats row slowly away from the ice, their grey wood’s sheen radiant in the strong light. Their Chief stood watching the sea long after the boats had been lost to view, the Ring of Barahir enclosed warmly in his palm.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: aboard the rescue ship


With typical elvish efficiency, the two small boats had reached the deeper, less constricted waters and had been drawn up onto the great grey ship’s deck. Carthor joined his fellows in embracing Cirdan’s sailors. Relief at their timely appearance flooded through his heart and he found himself crying out for sheer joy.

Carthor was ushered below deck, and found himself sitting alone in a sweet smelling, cushioned corner, with the soft sunlight coursing in through the innate windows above his head. Carthor’s head lolled against his armoured breast, and the weariness he had fought for weeks finally found its moment to attack. His breathing soon became deep and regular. Sleep’s soft, maternal arms embraced him.

[piosenniel]

Osse's post - Carthor: Finis


The screech of wood wrenched Carthor violently from sleep. The white light that had spilled through the windows was gone, replaced by a quelling grey darkness. Carthor stood, and peered out of the window above his grey-clad head. The sun outside was hidden behind angry masses of black cloud. Riding down on the howling north wind came swords of sleeting rain. The ship lurched sideways, as if Ossë himself had thrust it away. Carthor was thrown bodily across the deck, sliding against the grey wall of the cabin. Great waves beat against the glass windows, like savage hounds bashing at the door of cot, their braying voices rising in tumult.

The elven ship was dashed time and again by the great waves, bounding like a wayward pup from one iron embrace to another. The north wind screamed, whistling through the ship’s ragged rigging like a wraith. Suddenly, from the north, came a wave, greater and more towering than any other. The grey ship was sucked up its towering side, and lingered at its point for what seemed an eternity. The great wave surged forward, carrying the elven ship like an autumn leaf. White ice rose to greet the wave, and the water beat upon the grey ship. As Aulë’s hammer smites his great anvil, Cirdan’s ship smote against the hard surface of the ice tower.

Icy water rushed into Carthor’s screaming mouth, running in torrents into his bellowing lungs. Darkness engulfed him as he somersaulted through the watery void. He could feel wood falling around him, sweeping down in lazy arcs. His mouth opened, gasping for breath. Salt water rolled, like thundering horses, down his throat. His mind was burning with a soft light as images of faces and people mingled with the darkness. Carthor tumbled through the icy water, like the disjointed thoughts tumbling through his starved mind. Carthor could see it himself: a great candle, burning, giving off a soft yellow light. The wick hovered above the pools of hot wax below, dancing, loitering. Carthor stared at the candle, watching, waiting for the moment, waiting for the wick to finally reach its end: it had been burning low for a long time.

The flame flickered, before burning brighter, as if in defiance. Carthor stared. The wick licked the pool of wax, its flame teetering. Time seemed to slow, the flame stood still and erect. It hissed, sighing, released at last. And was gone.

[piosenniel]

-o-o-o- Epilogue -o-o-o-

Mithalwen's post

Months ago Angore had predicted that Faerim would "escape this foolish venture's doom". This small group, all of whom had been touched in some way by the lad's kindness and courage would share his good fortune. These who survived the Witch-King's triumph at Fornost would survive his defeat.

Some weeks later, a ship was seen emerging from the dawn mist in the gulf of Lhun. First hopes were that it was the rescue ship returned, but it was a ship of Gondor and the first of many. So many that they filled the Harlond and Forlond and were a joy and wonder to the Elves and the remaining people of Arnor, those scattered groups who had one way or another evaded the servants of evil and found sanctuary at the Havens.

Earnur, heir of Gondor had brought a mighty army - both footsoldiers and horsemen tall and fair with fine horses form the vales of Anduin. Cirdan joined his forces to Earnur's and the host of the west marched to meet their foe, the Witch King who dwellt now in the Palace of Arvedui at Fornost.

The Host of the West descended upon him and had the mastery and though the fell lord fled towards his own realm at Angmar he was caught between the cavalry of Earnur and the force of Glorfindel from Rivendell. His forces but not the Witch-King himself were utterly destroyed.

Belegorn, Angore and Faerim fought in that battle and if Lissi's anguish was doubled as she waited for news of both husband and son, Erenor could at least understand it. They occupied themselves with care of the injured and waited for the return of those they loved. When all was done they found their way back to Imladris and there Angore and Erenor were wedded.

Belegorn, who had won renown in the victory to add to the courage and duty he had shown in the retreat from Fornost, became senior among the Rangers of the North as Aranarth established the new community of his people. Lissi bore the loss of her husband when the fate of the ship long supected was confirmed, with charactersitic courage. Faerim, her remaining son became a warrior with all the skill of his father but none of his flaws and managed to combine duty to his king with duty to his kindred.

If Renedwen had had no personal connection with the defeat of the witch-king she would have one with his ultimate downfall. Her line did not fail and in later generations those of her birth son Derendur and her adopted son Gilly would unite. The fine sword set with onyx which had been made for her husband became an heirloom of her house. Of such craftsmanship was it that it was a weapon to be reckoned with over a thousand years later when it was borne by one of her descendents at the battle of the Pelennor Fields. And when its owner, a member of the Grey Company who had ridden out of the north to the aid of Aragorn returned to tell his tale in the Hall of Fire, he found two elves who could tell him how his foremother had carried it from the destruction of the North Kingdom.