Fall of the North RPG

[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.

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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.

[piosenniel]

~*~ To Elvenhome ~*~