[piosenniel]

DEDICATED CHARACTER

5.) Firefoot's character - Lorien Elf

NAME: Lómwë

AGE: Born 1256, Age of Trees

RACE: Noldorin Elf of Lothlórien

GENDER: Male

WEAPONS: His sword, Coruthel, is his weapon of choice. It is of Dwarvish make and was acquired soon after the Noldor returned to Beleriand. The scabbard is plain leather, bearing no devices. However, he has had little practical use for his sword of late, requiring more his bow, which is such as the Galadhrim use. He also carries a long knife, which is a useful tool if not always used as a weapon.

APPEARANCE: Tall, lithe but well-muscled. Black hair which he wears partially pulled back; it falls to just past his shoulders. Eyes are grey, with a blue tint; his gaze is keen. He has high cheekbones and a firm jaw line.

He wears a tunic of an unassuming-green shade with a belt of dark brown leather, and underneath this a shirt of chain mail. His breeches are earth-colored and his boots, also dark leather, extend to about mid-calf. He also wears one of the grey-green cloaks of Lórien.

PERSONALITY/STRENGTHS/WEAKNESSES: Lómwë suffers from a strange combination of longing for the glory of the Elder Days and regretting them, desiring both to remember and to forget. He has never been one to let go, and while he has adopted the customs of the Galadhrim, in many other ways he dwells largely on the past. He has never been overly friendly, though neither was he outright cold, and has put many people off by this; he has had few close relationships. He is more of a follower than a leader, but will readily make his own decisions. Though less impulsive than he had been in youth, he still maintains a quiet intenseness about him. He is proud, though not arrogant, and can be stubborn.

HISTORY: Born in the fair city of Tirion upon Túna, Lómwë spent much of his youth exploring the lands around the city. Though he loved the beautiful land of Valinor and the bliss of the light of the Trees, he eventually found that the trails and woods seemed too well-traveled and found himself to be more than a little curious about the lands beyond the sea: the realms of Beleriand, the great Mountains of Mist, Cuiviénen under the stars. He contented himself, however, desiring not to leave the fair land of his birth; that is, until the flight of the Noldor.

In the years following Melkor’s pardon, Lómwë was more of a passive spectator than a participant, though his father, a jewel-smith, received aid from Melkor numerous times. Lómwë was ever wary of these interactions, though he soon found he could little untangle the lies from the truths of Melkor. He respected Fëanor greatly, and when Fëanor called for the Noldor to follow him to Middle-earth, Lómwë followed gladly. He made some attempt to find his family first, but found them not. He later found out that they, too, were among the throng.

He was in the van of the host, and, still under the influence of Fëanor’s heated words, readily took part in the Kinslaying, an action he eventually came to regret. His sister, his only sibling, was killed in the Kinslaying, and partially because of this his parents afterwards followed Finarfin and forsook the march. Thus Lómwë was the only one of his kindred to land in Middle-earth.

During the battles of Beleriand he marched always in the vanguard. Once Fëanor fell, he immediately turned to Maedhros for leadership, of all Fëanor’s sons the one he found the best leader and most courageous. During the Long Peace he fell in love with and married a Green Elf of Ossiriand, Ellothiel. Also in this time they had a son, Aradol. Both wife and young son were killed during the Dagor Bragollach while Lómwë was away fighting.

After this Lómwë lost most of his taste for fighting, and after the Nirnaeth Arnoediad he fought no more until the War of Wrath and dwelt for a time among the Green Elves, his wife’s kin. After the War of Wrath Lómwë found himself bereft and without purpose. He desired not to return to Valinor, in part for pride but mostly in hopes for finding someplace new and not filled with memories. He wandered about Middle-earth for a time, soon settling in with the Noldor under Galadriel’s leadership, who alone of the Elvish leaders remaining in Middle-earth had been present since the Unchaining of Melkor.

He did not fight in any battles of the Second and Third Ages save to defend Lórien. He assimilated himself into the culture of Lórien, caring little for outside affairs. He eventually wound up as a marchwarden. Though melded into the new ways, he felt deep longing for times as they were, for though there had been sorrow, there had also been valor, and courage, and glory. So when Malris’ summons had come, he accepted almost full-heartedly, the exception being the small part of him that wanted to let the past be past; it haunted him enough without searching it out.

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Firefoot's post

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

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

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

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

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

He sought peace.