Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Arry]

‘What time do you want to be off?’ Bror asked, turning back from the door.

‘Before First Light, I think,’ answered Skald, his brow wrinkling with calculations. ‘It’ll take us two and a half days to reach the East Gate . . . and that’s without stopping to pick up a few extra strong arms with axes to take along. And they’ll need to gather their gear and make their goodbyes . . . so, I’d say it will add at least another day to our travels.’ He drank his ale down and turned the cup upside down on the table.

‘What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ He grinned at Riv and Orin, ducking as he finished his statement. Riv’s hand was on his empty cup and Skald knew his brother had a quick arm when it came to chucking stones . . . an all too accurate arm, as he recalled from games of ‘Capture the Ledge’ they’d played as children.

He grinned again at Riv and waved a white dishtowel left on the table in surrender. In a more serious vein he straightened up, saying, ‘Shall I tell the others you’ll bring food for them, too, Riv? It’ll cut considerable time off their getting ready to go along?’

[Folwren]

Bror nodded as Skald made his answer and took the last few steps towards the door. Skald's last statement stopped him again-

'What do you say, little brother? Think the younger Stonecut brothers can get done what needs to be done and meet the old folk at the East Gate chamber by then?’ The little brother lifted his head and looked around sharply, and then smiles broadly as Skald prepared himself to dodge the mug Riv seemed to threaten to throw. His older brother did not expect an answer and he left them to finish making plans. If anything new was brought up, Skald could tell him in the morning.

For now, he said to himself, I've got to make sure that I do get up in time. To bed, then, and to get myself up before Skald...we'll see what we can't devise for his morning's welcome.

Bror’s forehead furrowed in consideration. This wasn’t exactly the time to pull any pranks, but Skald was asking for it. After all, Bror had only missed rising time twice in the last month. He’d have to think it over, but even now he thought it would be a bad idea and wouldn’t be accepted well at all. Bror guessed that he would think even less of it in the morning.

'Until then, though,' he muttered aloud, and put away his harp.

[Envinyatar]

Mid-winter - the turn of the year/Lindon – SA 1695-1696

‘The seas are becoming too rough,’ said Alcarfalon, stamping his boots on the snowy quay. ‘Even for such a sea-worthy vessel as the Lintaramë. This will be the last voyage for my ship and crew until the Spring winds come.’

It was mid-winter; the northern lands cold with snow and ice. Alcarfalon’s ship had managed the passage from the northern reaches of Forlindon but barely. She had picked up the last of the Elven troops from a small port just across the northern sea from Himling. One hundred warriors – fifty spear wielders, twenty five bowmen, and twenty five with swords.

Many of them came from Elven families who had fought under the command of Maedhros before Beleriand was sunk beneath the waves. There was no love lost between them and Sauron. They had heard stories from their kin who had seen him and his foul creatures slay many of the Eldar to prepare the way for his Dark Master’s return. And now they knew he would do so again, but this time the Elven deaths would be for his benefit alone.

Elrond, himself, had come down to the dock to see these last troops disembark. He had thanked Alcarfalon for his help in getting them to Mithlond in a timely manner and had walked among them, greeting their captains as he went and once again expressing his appreciation for their coming. His aide had stayed behind once Elrond had gone and had taken the new captains and their troops to the snug wooden barracks that would be their winter quarters.

-------

It was Ondomirë who bought the first round for the table. The server had grown so used to seeing them there a number of days a week that he only nodded as the Elf raised his hand to call him over. He knew what it would be – a flagon of the deep red wine from Edhellond. Had the ship’s captain ordered, he would bring the golden ale; for the one named Hénsirë, the spear-captain, the ale dark as night. The server swallowed a laugh as he thought of the third Elf. Geldion, he recalled. He was the smart one of the bunch, in the server’s estimation. By the time the other three had ordered rounds for their fellows and all had partaken, their thirsts were slaked enough that Geldion need order no more.

‘First time I’ve seen Lord Elrond at the docks to meet the ship,’ said Hénsirë raising his glass to the others. He threw the comment casually out onto the table, his own feelings masked as he looked from man to Elves.

Alcarfalon shrugged it off for the most part. ‘Seemed a nice enough fellow,’ he offered. ‘I’m sure he must be quite busy and all . . . with the preparations for your . . . excursion.’ He took a sip of his wine and grinned at Ondomirë. ‘Good! For wine, that is.’

‘Yes, he’s busy, I suppose,’ said Hénsirë. ‘But I have to say we’re much busier than he right now,’ he went on, nodding toward Geldion and Ondomirë. ‘Wouldn’t you say so? What with organizing the troops under our command, their captains, the supplies they need, keeping their skills honed . . . it can be quite a large headache.’

‘Quite true,’ smiled Ondomirë in agreement. ‘It rivals, at time, the headache one gets from spending too much time at The Pin enjoying the fruits of the vine and the grain.’ He drained his glass and poured another. ‘I, for one, will be quite glad when the snows thaw and we set out for the eastern regions. How about you, my friend?’ he asked, topping off Geldion’s drink.

[piosenniel]

‘Tis alright, Uncle,’ Riv said, pointing at Skald and Bror as they traded remarks with one another before leaving for their quarters. ‘By virtue of your years, I think, you are afforded some measure of respect from the young one. Make no mistake, the two are fond of one another, but Bror must have someone to devil, and I am too staid in my old ways as husband and father. But Skald . . . he’s the one to take the heat or be the focus for our youngest brother’s little jokes and pranks.’

His eyes twinkled and he laughed softly, recalling a few. ‘And truth be told, I can’t think of a more deserving victim! Skald was a little terror when we were younger, and I was ever in trouble for defending myself from his antics.’ He winked at Orin. ‘Let him be paid back now in kind by his little brother!’

‘We should drink up our cups and head off, too, I think.’ He stood and hung up the much depleted ale skin and gave the cups a quick rinse, setting them on counter to dry. ‘I’ll see to my friends and their axes tonight before I sleep. Tomorrow, once you’re done talking to Fawrin and the others you know, let’s meet at the supply hold – the one a level down from here. Can you and your friends bring a few small hand-carts? We’ll load them up with food and mayhap some bandages and such. Mahal forbid we have need of the latter!’

[Folwren]

Bror turned over on his bed and opened one eye. It was dark in the room that he slept save for underneath the door where the light of one of the dim night lamps flowed under. The stillness of the place around him told him that it was still early and outside the mountain, morning was still dark, but it wouldn’t stay that way for more than an hour. He got up and half rolled out from under the blankets and walked silently to the door to open it a crack, allowing a little more light in. Making as little noise as possible, he dressed himself and then took up the few weapons and armor that he would need on the trip in his arms.

He bore everything to Riv’s kitchen, passing as silently as a shadow in the halls, for he had left his boots beside his own door. Skald had set his stuff on a chair the previous evening and Bror piled his armor and weapons with his cloak beside that. After casting a last glance over his things to make sure that was all he needed, he walked to the counter. The four mugs that had been used the previous evening for ale were still sitting on the counter top. He stopped and considered them carefully. After a moment, he gave a determined nod and stepped forward, took two of them and filled them both with water and then left the place as quietly as he had come.

Going as swiftly as he could with full mugs of water, Bror made his way to Skald’s room. He stopped outside the door and with bated breath, leaned his head towards it to listen for any movement from within. There was none, and he ventured to push the door open.

It swung in noiselessly and he entered. No light was lit and in the utter stillness, Bror could hear above the blood moving in his own ears, the sound of Skald’s breathing. He still slept. The young dwarf tiptoed to his bedside and putting both mugs into his right hand, he very gently moved the blanket down and cleared Skald’s chin of it.

Bror nodded with satisfaction. His left hand took back its own mug and then he extended both hands above Skald’s face, stepped back half a foot, and let both water contents fall in even, flowing streams straight onto the sleeping dwarf’s sleeping features.

Bror bounded backwards as light as a deer, still clutching the mug handles in his hands, as Skald sat up with a roar. The water streamed down his beard and neck, most of it being soaked up in his hair, but the rest wetting the bed clothes. Bror retreated to the lighted hall and then stuck his head back in to venture one comment.

‘I would have rigged something far more complicated and far more satisfying for the both of us, but there wasn’t any time, and there wouldn’t have been time to clean it up afterwards anyway.’

[CaptainofDespair]

“The gears of war slowly turn…”

The shrouded visitor to the Dark Lord now stood before an assembled army. It was impressive, both in the sheer volume of troops, and in the vast multitude of its contingents. Easterling spearmen and swordsmen from Rhûn, Variag axemen from Khand, and numerous assortments of Orcs from Mordor, were the backbone of this army. It seemed unstoppable to those who prepared to march beyond the land of the Shadow, but the mysterious cloaked warlord thought otherwise, and he voiced this to his new underlings.

“Captain…”

“Yes, milord?”

“Is my army prepared? I grow weary of this choking atmosphere,” answered the seemingly mystical being wrapped in the heavy cloth. “Indeed, it is, milord. We are ready to depart as soon as you give the command.” A heavy sigh emanated from the hood. “Excellent. But first, there is a small matter to attend to,” responded the lord. Beckoning with a metal clad hand, the warlord summoned his captain closer. “Captain, it is your duty to keep this army organized. I will not have it running about plundering at will. That is not the purpose of this expedition.” The captain, an Easterling, was well regarded amongst his own soldiers for organization. But, he knew he might not be able to handle the orc rabble. This, if anything, would get him “relieved” of his duty, and he feared it. “I will do as you command, milord. But, the orcs are not easily commanded. They might prove difficult.” A hideous and wicked laugh rose out of the depths of the warlord’s hood. “You need not command them to keep them in line. Use fear. Make them fear you, and they will do as you order. Show them no mercy.” The captain bowed, and turned to depart, hoping to be given dismissal of his lord’s presence. But, as he turned away, the brooding voice of the warlord stopped him. “One last thing, commander...” A shiver of cold fear ran up through the spine of the Easterling. “Yes, milord?” Sensing the distraught fears of the captain, Angoroth smirked, and laughed inwardly. “Give the order to march.” The captain sighed, relieved of his burden of fear for the time being, and departed.

The army lurched forward, and began the arduous journey to Eregion. The muffled thudding of thousands of iron-shod feet shook the earth in its monotonous drone. It marched at a steady pace, so as not to tire the force en masse, which in turn produced a great roar of unending movement. At the borders of Mordor however, Angoroth departed the army, leaving the captain with a single message; “You will meet me at the borders of Eregion. I have…things…to do.”

-----------------

Having departed his legions, Angoroth rode hard into the north, leaving only dust in his wake. For many days he pressed on, his horse nearly dead from exhaustion. Riding through stone and wood, river and field, he at last came to his objective apparent. A small hill, covered in dying brown grass, with a lone, gnarled tree upon the crest.

There, he abandoned his mount, and went to the base of the seemingly dead tree, and began ripping at the bark and limbs, tearing much away. He then laid out the bark in a circle around him, tossing a strange powder upon it, and placed the branches in the center. Using another branch, which he had put to the flame, he ignited the circle of bark, and then finally set ablaze the centerpiece of his fiery portal.

As the flames rose higher, he began to chant indecipherable words in a tongue that only he knew, one of his own devising, praying to his master. Dropping the hood, he revealed his face to the fire. The crackling and flickering flames imposed an eerie glow on his unmarred visage. His eyes told a silent tale as they reflected the light of the blaze; his past, his failure. Ever silent, he drew forth a knife, blackened but unused. He fell to his knees, and plunged the blade into the flames. Watching the flames violently engulf the knife, he smiled a wicked smile, and withdrew it. Slowly, he pressed its glowing, dull edge to the contours of his face, and drew it along the bone, letting the blood run forth freely. Pulling the blade from his cheek, he plunged it again into the flames, and cleansed it of his tainted essence. With its edge heated further in the flame, he ran it along the lines he had slashed into his face, searing them with hot metal. Breaking his painful silence, he uttered a message into the glowing flame. “From the fire, life is born. In the fire, all is cleansed. In the fire, life is ended. And in the fire, lies redemption.”

With a circle of flame still burning about him, he cast his now blood-soaked cloak into the engulfing fires, watching it turn to ash with sickening delight. He finished his prayers and chants to his former lord, Morgoth, and rose up from his kneeling position. Stepping through the still burning ring of choking flames, he left behind his failure, and thrust forward to his atonement.

[piosenniel]

The quick, lively music had wound down a bit as those who played and danced found their throats parched and their bellies growling for another plate of food. ‘Go on,’ said Riv, leaning forward to whisper in his wife’s ear. ‘Bror’s tuning up over there. Your going to sing that song of Durin with him, aren’t you?’

He reached forward and with his great hands he plucked little Ginna from her mother’s grasp. ‘I can hold the wee one while you sing.’ He cradled the little girl in the crook of his left arm, smiling as she fussed a little then settled back into her dreams. Leifr, for his part, had pulled a chair next to his father’s and was leaning against Riv’s right flank. His little tummy was quite full with cider and sweets, and more frequently now his eyes drooped and a tiny snore issued from his slack mouth. Unna smiled at the image and winked at Riv. ‘Don’t you dare drift off while I sing!’ she ordered in a whispering voice.

She crossed to the other side of the hall and bent down for a few words with Bror. He plucked a string on his harp and she hummed the note, on key. After a brief introduction of Bror’s playing, Unna nodded to where the present King Dain sat with his family and began the song. The conversations hushed as her clear voice rang out through the Hall . . .

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

As her voice faded with the last of the lyric, Bror’s nimble fingers picked up the melody and wove and intricate refrain. There was silence when he finished, and Unna looked at him, whispering nervously. ‘Mahal save us! We’ve ruined the party!’

Then the beat of pewter tankards on the oaken table tops began. And the king, himself, stood up from his chair, and shouted ‘Well done! Well done!’ in his great voice. Unna’s cheeks turned scarlet at the praise and Bror grinned from ear to ear, his dark eyes glittering with delight . . .

[Arry]

While Unna sang, Skald stood with a number of his friends near the newly tapped keg of ale. He was well into his cups as were his companions. Their legs were a bit wobbly and their speech a little slurred. But, they were still standing . . . and for a Dwarf, that was call enough for another round.

‘Nice voice . . . your brother’s wife,’ whispered Olin Glitterfist, noting the lopsided grin on Skald’s face. ‘Not you! I’ve heard you sing . . . like an old rusty hinge!’

Skald raised his brows and was about to retort when he saw Riv motioning him over. ‘Just your luck my brother needs me,’ he said, punching Olin lightly in the arm. ‘Otherwise it would be me and you . . . hand to hand . . . and me wipin’ the very floor with you!’ Olin laughed and was quickly silenced by the shushes of those listening to the song.

With a decided list, Skald made it to the long table where Riv sat. Working his way down toward his brother’s seat he stumbled against many a chair, leaving a string of ‘Sorry!’ and ‘Your pardon!’ in his wake.

When he arrived, Riv pulled the empty chair next to his left and bade him sit down. Riv’s face had a serious look on it as did that of his father. They had pulled apart from their hushed conversations as Skald approached. Drawing a deep breath, Skald made an effort to pull his senses together. He was quite sober by the time Viss had relayed the content of their hurried whisperings to him.

[Durelin]

Expecting such a question, Maegisil smiled slightly as he turned to Narisiel, drawing his eyes away from the jewels. Yet when his gaze rested on the elf woman’s face, his smile disappeared, remembering, and seeing the graveness in her stare. He wondered how long it had been since the two had spoken, and he briefly considered what might have gone on between them. But tossing his musings aside, he sighed, and he dropped his eyes to the floor.

“My lord is…well, has been…quite distraught, over many things. Most likely you assumed this…” he paused, looking again at Narisiel. Letting out another sigh in a long and troubled breath, he settled his mind on telling her what he felt in his heart. “I tell you with all sincerity that I have not seen him so overwhelmed by events in all the years I have known him.”

Narisiel seemed to expect this answer, just as Maegisil had predicted her question, and yet she remained silent. It could not have been a surprise to her that Celebrimbor was so disturbed by the Rings and what were seemingly the repercussions of their creation. She appeared equally troubled; her mind did not appear at all at rest, and Maegisil doubted that the craftswoman had made a ring in over a hundred years.

“And yes, a necklace would be perfect,” he said, breaking the silence, and changing the subject momentarily, “I doubt my wife would wear a ring, for fear of losing it.” He chuckled lightly, but his light-hearted voice and expression did not reflect his true thoughts or feelings at all. It was not his goal to change the topic of conversation completely, but he knew that a temporary change of subject would garner a response from Narisiel, as would the mentioning of a ring yet again; or so he hoped.

Maegisil’s words did appear to have some kind of effect on the other elf. Perhaps it was specifically ‘for fear of losing it’ in conjunction with the mentioning of ‘ring’ that caused her to seem so anxious, but the elf-lord’s servant realized he had opened up yet another thought in Narisiel’s mind, one which had been kept locked up for at least a century.

“Your talk of losing rings…”

“Has nothing to do with the Rings,” Maegisil said, cutting her short of asking any questions. “The Three, at least, are safe. You know about the others.”

She nodded slowly, staring at her cupboard of jewels but not really seeing any of them, thoughts crowding her head, and trying to pick out which one to voice next. Maegisil spoke first, though, as he suddenly realized he had not verified his reasoning behind part of his last statement.

“Did Lord Celebrimbor not speak to you concerning the Three Rings?”

[Encaitare]

The mountains had been growing before them for many miles, and at last the regiment had come near to the place where they would camp for the night. Boldog and orc captain Glûtkask halted the regiment with a barked order. Two hundred orcs, weary from the cold and the day's march, stopped in their places. The rest of the regiment was following in divisions of a similar size, for this attack would not require risking their full strength.

Glûtkask observed their surroundings. The terrain was already growing rougher and rockier; the Misty Mountains themselves stood but few miles away. He thought with derision that some of the fool Elves nearby probably considered it a beautiful sight. His withered lips parted to reveal crumbling teeth as he thought on how much improved the scene would be as soon as some elven carcasses were left to rot on the stone.

The two lietentants, one for each company of 100, came to him awaiting orders. They were an unsightly pair, orcs who had proved their mettle enough to be trusted with some authority. The captain surveyed them with yellow eyes, not wanting the encampment process to take any longer than necessary.

"We're three miles from the valley," he told them, his voice like wet, grating stones. "That's close enough that we can ambush the Elves coming from Lorien" -- he managed to twist the fair name into something less savory -- "when they come alone, but far enough that they won't see us until it's too late. The scouts'll be returning soon to tell us of their progress." He glanced eastward. "The sluggards had better be back by nightfall. For now, get your companies into some sort of order when they set up camp. I'm not going to command a regiment in shambles, hear me? It's just temporary, remember. We'll not be settling in; we're striking as soon as the Elves are in sight."

"What're the plans for them? The tactics?" asked one of the two, a squat creature called Lushurd with a cloak of rodent skins -- heads and all.

"Later," Glûtkask growled. "Report to me when your companies are set. Then we'll talk tactics."

[Firefoot]

At the captain’s order to halt, Grimkul threw down his pack right where he stood. He was tired of forced marching, tired of being forced to do anything. More than once in the past several days he’d had half a mind to simply desert and set off on his own, though Ulwakh’s good advice had prevented him from doing so, saying he would not get far in this barren terrain before being spotted. Grimkul didn’t particularly care; he figured he could fight any that came after him. Ulwakh knew better than this, too: large as Grimkul might be for their small breed of Orcs, he wasn’t a match in size or strength to most of the Orcs in the camp, the Captain included.

And he had more than half a mind to slip away now. They were close, oh so close, to the Mountains now, the same mountains where the pair had once lived. “What say we slip away, now, Ulwakh? They won’t see us now, eh, in the setting up camp? We can hide up in the mountains, be done with this filth. Be just like the old days.”

But Ulwakh was shaking his head. “We’s too far south – this ‘ere mountains are Dwarvish holds. We’d ’ave to go north first, ’fore heading into the mountains… and we’d not get far. See how far you can see? There’s not any cover for us. We’d be brought back and punished for sure… and that captain ain’t exactly a nice one.”

“So let’s be done with the captain,” said Grimkul, looking on his companion with irritation. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t want to go back to the mountain tunnels.”

“I do, I do!” Ulwakh rushed to assure him. He had seen that light in Grimkul’s eyes before – the one he got when he was getting ready to knock off a head or two. Ulwakh preferred to keep his head. “It’s just, we’ve got to be smart about it.” That was a bad thing to say; Grimkul didn’t like it when he mentioned smarts. And while Ulwakh would never say it out loud, Grimkul didn’t have a whole lot of smarts, but he still got angry if he thought anyone was offending his intelligence. Ulwakh hastily covered up, “We’ll get our chance, you’ll see.”

Grimkul chose not to respond. Instead, he took out his scimitar and began searching around for some small animal. He felt like fresh meat tonight. Ulwakh still didn’t know why Grimkul preferred the scimitar for hunting and such; weapons like his own knives were much more efficient. Once again, though, he would never say this out loud.

Grimkul’s blade was poised over a rodent hole, ready to kill the unsuspecting creature that showed its face. Too bad they didn’t have any bats around here – bats were tastier than rodents. In fact, Grimkul liked bats so much that he had made his jerkin out of batwings. He was distracted from his thoughts of bats as a nose and whiskers appeared at the bottom of the hole. Just a little bit farther…

“Get this camp in order; it’s in shambles!” called out their company leader as he walked by. “Captain’s orders!” Grimkul’s rodent disappeared back into its hole. He scowled at the leader – Lushurd, his name was.

“I’ll give you orders,” Grimkul muttered, but he was mindful of Ulwakh’s restraining hand on his arm and did nothing for the time being. Ulwakh feared for the day he did decide to “give the captains orders.”

[Durelin]

When Sairien finally saw the arrival of her husband late that evening, she greeted him as if no worries had been on her mind for many hours as she sat alone. With a warm embrace and a swift but tender kiss, she did her best to smile back at Maegisil as he looked down at her with more joy in his eyes than she had seen in several years. Recalling happier days, all her concerns from only moments ago returned, though they had never really gone away. It became more difficult for her to look her husband in the eye and almost impossible for her to share in his cheerfulness. She knew it was not fair to him, but she knew there was no clearing her mind.

“Oh my love, what troubles you?”

Sairien sighed. He was always quick to notice when something was wrong.

“Nothing but my usual worries,” she said, trying her best to sound reassuring, but knowing that she probably was not at all convincing. “I grew concerned for you, as I always do when you are gone.”

By the concern in Maegisil’s eyes, which only grew, she obviously needed to try harder to smile. “But I am here now…”

“Then let us not worry about anything… We are together… We have nothing to worry about. We need only each other.” Sairien was starting to sound more and more like she was trying to convince herself of something, and she knew it.

Maegisil knew it as well, and he sighed, his eyes downcast, as he seemed to read his wife’s mind. “Are you thinking about our children again, my darling?”

Sairien was silent. She could not look at her husband, though he could see her eyes begin to glisten as tears welled up in them. He wanted to just hold her, but he knew that she did not want such comfort right now. He gave her her space, knowing that she would come to him when she wished. She had always been stubborn. After several moments of silence, she spoke, her voice thick with emotion and about to break.

“We have no children, Maegisil. You have no son!” she said passionately, almost shouting, growing angry at a situation she had no control over.

“I have you.”

“But you have always wanted a son. I have always wanted a son. You should have an heir. The son of Maegisil should be as well known as Maegisil himself!” Her voice broke, and all her needless anger and despair and shame overflowed into tears as she pressed herself up against her husband and he wrapped his arms tight around her. He held her there as she cried for quite some time, wishing he could cry himself. But he was unable to express the pain he felt in such a way. In his false sense of duty to be strong and supportive, as a husband and a counselor, he had not cried in at least four centuries, if he had ever cried at all.

~*~*~

After a long, almost restless night, kept from entering into any kind of serenity by his persistent mind, it was time for Maegisil to leave his wife alone for most of the day once again. This time it was several hours after dawn, at least, and he had been able to spend a little bit of his morning with his wife. He worried constantly about Sairien, but he knew that his duties as a counselor to his lord could not wait. Unfortunately, he never stopped to wonder if perhaps his duties as a husband could not wait either.

Sairien wished he might consider that. As he turned to leave after a final kiss, she prayed to Ilúvatar that he would turn around again, deciding to stay. She wished that everyday, and it had been far too long since it had come true. And today was like every other day; thus only a quarter of an hour later, Maegisil was taking the stairs up to Lord Celebrimbor’s chambers two at a time. As soon as he entered the antechamber, his lord greeted him enthusiastically, and his worries concerning Sairien were temporarily forgotten.

“Maegisil, my friend, today is a gorgeous day!” the elf-lord exclaimed, his voice loud and booming, though he did not sound at all as if he were shouting. He smiled as he turned away from his companion to look out of his large eastern window.

Maegisil could not help but smile as well, though he asked, “What makes you say that, my lord?”

Celebrimbor turned to his friend with a pretend look of shock. “Why, Counselor Maegisil! I should have you flogged! How many times have I told you it is not ‘my lord’? No, no, not how many times, but for how many years?” he said, skirting the question for the moment, and chuckling kindly at his friends persistent formality.

The counselor let out a short laugh, and his smile grew as his face reddened slightly, silently laughing at his own embarrassment. “I know, I know…”

The elf-lord laughed harder as he watched Maegisil’s face. “A great lord I am, if I can make a great Counselor and warrior blush!”

“That you are, my lord,” he said, making Celebrimbor laugh even harder. Maegisil laughed as well, knowing that it had been a long time since the two had laughed this way together. While remembering those days when laughter was more frequent between them, he suddenly recalled the times when Sairien had joined them, and he had been able to enjoy the company of his two dearest friends. He stopped laughing, but he kept his smile, holding on to it, so his friend would not question his mood.

“You have not answered my question,” Maegisil said.

“Yes, yes…” Celebrimbor paused for a moment, his smile disappearing for a moment, “Well, I did not answer before, simply because I am not sure how to answer. I cannot explain to you why I feel it is a good day, particularly since it has barely started.”

“Are we having premonitions now, my lord?” Maegisil asked jokingly.

The lord smiled again, and laughter was in his voice as he spoke. “Could be, could be…” He momentarily grew silent, but then a twinkle of amusement returned to his eyes, and he smirked. “I do hope these ‘premonitions’ are accurate…”

[Envinyatar]

Early Spring - before the first thaw/Lindon - S.A. 1696

The last of the snows had been a fortnight ago. It had been a light one, but still the icy layers lingered and no warm wind from the west had come as yet to melt the frigid crust that locked in solid the dirt beneath. Hénsirë jabbed hard at the ice with the sharp point of his practice stave, taking his frustrations out on it. Winter had been too long a fearsome guest in this northern land and timid Spring had not yet dared a challenge.

‘Lighten up a bit!’ Ondomirë hissed at him beneath his breath. ‘By the One - set a good example for your troops these last few moments we must idle here!’ Hénsirë straightened, resting his stave against his shoulder and looked casually about at the assembled Elves. Their eyes he noted were not on him, but on the Elf who had just stepped up to the raised platform to stand next to Lord Elrond. Hénsirë’s heart gladdened at the sight of him. It was Gil-galad, and in his fist he bore his spear, Aiglos – ‘Snowthorn’. Its great length he held aloft as he greeted the assembled troops and it caught the sunlight, gleaming like a radiant, deadly-pointed icicle. Hénsirë’s men raised their own spears and shook them in greeting, giving forth a mighty roar of recognition as they did so.

Ondomirë nodded toward Geldion as they and their troops greeted the High King with a welcoming shout and a show of raised sword and bow. He could feel that old first thrill of setting out on a campaign. A few words from Lord Gil-galad, a last directive from Lord Elrond; then, they would be heading toward Eregion and the city of Celebrimbor.

Lord Elrond, Ondomirë noted, had begun to make a few welcoming remarks. The usual litany of praise and sword rattling phrases as others of his rank had done to stir up the spirits of those under their command. His voice drifted into a dull buzz in Ondomirë’s mind as the Commander of the Elven Bowmen took stock of his own men. One hundred and fifty of the best bowmen Lindon could muster stood at rest, their attention of Elrond. Ondomirë felt a swell of pride as he looked at them. Most were already seasoned warriors, and those new to the ranks had brought considerable skill with them.they would do well, he thought, against any foe who dared face them.

Geldion and Hénsirë also had a good body of warriors they each led. Two hundred swords formed Geldion’s command; one hundred spears followed Hénsirë. Each type of weapon division was broken into small fighting units of ten Elves each, captained by seasoned veterans. They had trained hard and long in the winter compound and all were now ready to see Lord Elrond’s plans come to fruition.

Plans . . . hmmm . . . Ondomirë shifted from foot to foot as he stood on the ice, his toes feeling the creep of the cold through his boots. Beyond the initial phase of getting the small army and their supplies moving, there really had been no discussion of plans. Perhaps it was a function of not knowing the lay of the land where they would be fighting; perhaps Lord Elrond was one to keep secret his larger plans, waiting until whatever stage he decided had been accomplished before letting the next small set of instructions be implemented. Ondomirë shook his head as a pernicious line of thought crept in . . . Perhaps there are no real plans at all and he thinks to make them up as he goes along . . . which would not prove all that ill, save for the fact that this is his first engagement as a leader and really he has no experience . . . oh, let him not be playing this off the cuff as it were . . . too many of my men and those of Geldion and Hénsirë have families that I would like to see them return safely to . . .

He cast a glance down the line at the other two commanders. What were Geldion and Hénsirë’s thoughts on this he wondered . . .

The voice buzzing at the edges of his conscious mind had changed, he noted. The High King was now speaking:

“I speak to you in this solemn hour for the life of our Kingdom here in Lindon, of our kinsmen in the east, of their allies, and, above all, of the cause of Light against the encroaching shadow. A battle is raging in Eregion, focused on the Elven city of Ost-in-Edhil. An old enemy of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth has arisen. Sauron, the foul whelp of Morgoth Bauglir, has raised himself up and is looking to bring all lands and people under his dominion. His wrath is turned upon the Elves of Celebrimbor, and he would slay them or worse yet, enslave them to his dark purposes if he may . . .”

Gil-galad’s sonorous voice gathered in the Elves, holding their attention as he laid out the grave situation in the eastern region of Eriador. Ondomirë could feel the martial spirit kindling in his breast as the High King spoke on. His speech, in sum, was not too long, it kept his listeners nodding ‘yes’ with vigor at his words and vowing silently in their hearts that he would not be let down.

The King paused, his voice falling into the silence of his attentive listeners. The cadence of his speech had been like a drum beat, and now it fell into a slower and more somber rhythm:

“Today is the day we Elves of Lindon stand against him. Ages ago words were spoken to be a call and a spur to the faithful servants of Truth and Light: ‘Arm yourselves, and be ye men of valour, and be in readiness for the conflict; for it is better for us to perish in battle than to look upon the outrage of our kindred and the loss of all that is fair and good in Arda. As the Will of Eru is in Aman, The Blessed Realm, even so let it be here in Endóre, Middle-earth."

There was deep silence as his last words were spoken, then the Elves raised their weapons to him as one and facing westwards, cried out in accord that it would indeed be so. Ondomirë, too, found himself lending his own voice to the resonant harmony of the others.

It was Elrond, then, that raised his sword and taking his place at the head of his army of five hundred warriors, led them out of eastern Mithlond. He turned south as they reached the eastern foot of the Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains, intending to continue to the end of that short section of the chain. From there he and his followers would head east across Minhiriath toward Eregion.