[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

2.) Piosenniel’s character – Rivendell Elf

NAME: Endamir (known now among the Elves of Rivendell as Quettano)

AGE: Born in the Age of Trees – 1400; twin to Orëmir.

RACE: Noldor

GENDER: male

WEAPONS:

Plain bladed, short sword in leather scabbard. The scabbard bears now faint traceries put there by his father – two vines, intertwined, one bearing silvered leaves, the other bearing golden. ‘For remembrance, and for strength united,’ his mother had said when she designed them. The words * Ever may you defend one another * are all but faded from the crosspiece of the blade. A long, oaken spear, with a sharp iron tip. He is quite skilled in the use of these two weapons. A hunting knife hangs from his belt, though these many years it has served more to sharpen quills than to kill. The years in Imladris have acquainted him with the use of the long bow. His is made of yew wood and plain in the crafting. He prefers the back slung quiver. Though if truth be told the bow and quiver gather dust on the wall of his room. But then they have the good company of the sword and spear to make complaint to.

Armor: A simple, short sleeved light chain mail shirt beneath which he wears a thick soft padded shirt. Boiled leather vambraces without device, and a thick, waistlength, boiled leather vest. There is a plain and slightly dented helmet, too. But it and the other protective pieces spent their time in Imladris bearing witness to the years of long disuse, though at times they were given the honor of being paperweights.

His present weapon is the quill and ink as he battles the fading memories of the Eldar with capture on vellum.

APPEARANCE:

Grey eyed. Hair as dark as a raven’s wing, braided neatly in a single plait down his back. The old habits of keeping one’s eyes and arms free for the use of weapons have not left him. Tall, as are the Noldor; about 6’5” (1.96 m). Broad shouldered, and still well muscled. Graceful and trim, not bulky. Left-handed.

Wears soft brown breeches held up by a braided leather belt with brass buckle. Tunics in muted greys or blacks. Worn, dark brown leather boots. When needed he has a hooded, grey-green cloak woven in Imladris.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES:

He is a reserved person; quiet. Given more to observation and review of those about him than to interaction. He wasn’t always so. His early years found him an eager participant among the followers of Fëanor, a loyal and steadfast supporter despite the first of the Kinslayings. But long years spent reflecting on the actions that allied him with Fëanor’s Oath and its far reaching doom have tempered greatly the ardor and earnestness of his youth. He is not retiring to the point of cynicism. Nonetheless, there is a certain taste of ashes about life now for him, mingled with considered but yet unwept tears.

One facet of his life which has not changed is his fierce devotion to his brother and his brother’s well-being. Such devotion has prompted him at times to act in an ill considered manner, putting himself at risk in an effort to uphold his mother’s long ago request.

HISTORY:

Born in the Blessed Realm, in Tirion, but in an unfortunate year – The Unchaining of Melkor. His father, Maltanië was a capable metal craftsman who held Finwë, the High King, in great esteem as a leader and admired the creative skills of his son, Fëanor.

As a young Elf, Endamir in turn looked up to Fëanor’s sons, especially Maedhros; delighting in those times when the older Elf would cast a glance his way, or best yet, speak to him in passing. This admiration matured as the years passed into a deep respect for the sort of person he found Maedhros to be – brave, true to his family and friends, true to his word.

When the Silmarils were taken by Melkor and the sons of Fëanor stood by their father’s side and took his oath, Endamir was resolved to go with them. He pleaded with his father, who was loath to let him go. But in the end, his father’s respect for Fëanor, and his grief at the slaying of Finwë, won out. And Endamir was allowed to leave with the host of Fëanor. His brother, Orëmir, also begged leave to go, not wanting to be sundered from his twin.

Together, they followed in Maedhros’ van; caught up at first in the excitement of their first adult venture. They were both skilled in the use of their blades, but only in competition. And they had never ventured far from the boundaries of Tirion. Older, more seasoned Elves took the youngsters under their tutelage and brought them safely into Endore, Middle-earth.

There is no need to speak of the terrible battles fought against Melkor and his creatures. Or of the great War of Wrath which ended the bloody saga. Or of the other Kinslayings, the last of which was done only by the hands of Maedhros and Maglor against the Elves who guarded the camp of Eonwë. Endamir and his brother were not present at this last grievous act. They had been separated from Maedhros after the sinking of Beleriand. But on their hands were the blood of other Elves in Doriath and the Havens of Sirion.

Many of their companions were returning to the Blessed Realm after the defeat of Melkor, bound West from the Havens in Lindon. Endamir and Orëmir took counsel with each other, and found to their mutual agreement that they were not done yet with their taste for adventure. Albeit they hoped for one more pleasing to the eye and heart than battle and its carnage. There were new lands, to the East. And remnants of Elves, they had heard, that lingered from the First Days. And there were other folk, too, whose ways might be of interest. They became wanderers.

Neither of the brothers ever married. Melkor was gone. They were wary of bringing new life into an uneasy place. There was still a certain unease, a shadow that had crept through much of Middle-earth. Numenor, the shining star of Men, was destroyed, A new Dark Lord rose, intent on bringing Men under his submission. Long were the new battles fought against him and his minions.

Weary of battle, the two brothers did not lend their blades to the aid of the Second Born. They had come to Imladris and been welcomed without question; without reprehension. They took on new names, reflecting their choices of the roles they would assume there.

During their travels, Endamir had begun to keep a journal and to collect stories gathered from folk along the way. More precious was the rare bit of written word gleaned from dusty storage places here and there. Orëmir was more interested in the flora of the regions they passed through, and often sought out those knowledgeable of their uses. Of especial interest to him were the medicinal plants and the various combinations Men used them for the healing of their hurts. And when no healing was possible, to ease the frights and pains of death.

Long years had they spent in contentment among Lord Elrond’s folk, until the short and simple message came from a companion of their younger days.

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Piosenniel’s post ------ SHOULD FOLLOW ENVINYATAR'S

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

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

The sea rushed in with a will those days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~*~

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

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

‘Malris! Are you there?’