Fall of the North RPG

[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…