Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Folwren]

‘You’re glad I’ve had my fill of it?’ Bror replied, blinking in surprise. ‘Why, brother, if you’d asked me two weeks ago, I’d have told you I’d have my fill of it.’ They were both silent for a moment. Bror looked out. He faced away from the camp and his eyes scanned the dark landscape.

‘Skald,’ he said, turning his head halfway towards his brother. ‘I’ve been thinking. They came from the gates and drew the entire assault away from us mostly, way back at the battle, you know. You don’t suppose. . .do you think that they managed to get back all safe and not getting hurt? I mean, I suppose Papi - that is - Father, and Riv were both fighting there.’ A light sprang up into his eyes and he couldn’t keep back the smile. ‘Can’t you just see it? Both of them up in the front lines fighting right beside the King?’

He turned his eyes back outwards, towards the darkness, and towards home. ‘Being in the front lines, I guess, would bring more danger. But they couldn’t have been killed, could they? Not Riv. We both made it out alive. . .surely he would. Yes, we did both make it out alive. . .’he trailed off into silence.

That thought in itself seemed to comfort him. Surely if Skald and much less he himself had managed to fight in a battle and come out pretty much unscathed, Riv and Father could. After all these days and weeks of being out, why turn thoughts bad and begin to worry? But that was only his own consideration.

‘What do you think, Skald? Do you suppose they all made it back home safely?’

[Envinyatar]

Ondomirë found his mind in two places at once. There was scarce any of the battle he need attend to with his bow; so well had the Elves and Dwarves had taken care of the attacking Trolls, he’d found. There were four of them dead by report of the squad leaders.

A fifth Troll, Hensirë’s lancers reported, had been killed near the refugees and the supply wagons. He sought the names of any who had been injured or killed in the defense. But, the captain of the lancers was called to attend to others of his troops who had fallen in other parts of the camp.

A certain chill settled on him as he sought Losrian. For a moment, her bright mind seemed to slip away from him. He steeled himself for another loss. And then came his name, faint at first, then stronger. His long held breath now was released as relief came flooding in.

Ondomirë!

Melda! Where did you go! I could not find you. He closed his eyes, and shut off his other senses for a moment. Near her he could sense the small, sparkling presences of Gally and Isilmë. You . . . all of you, are alright, then . . . I have some tasks to see to, then I will be with you.

The watch was set, and this time under the eye of Ondomirë. He took no time to chasten himself for the previous lapse in his attentions, only sought now to make sure the camp was secure from another attack.

And now the work of gathering together the Dwarves and Elves who had fallen in the attack had begun. A shallow grave it would be for them, with a cairn raised high and heavy upon them, so that none might disturb them as the earth claimed their flesh and bones. The two horses the Trolls had managed to drag from camp were also set beneath the rocks. No fire for the fallen, as was their usual way . . . none wished to draw the eyes of any more of the enemy to them.

Once satisfied that all was taken care of, and having spoken briefly to Lord Elrond, himself on the way to pay his respects to the fallen defenders, Ondomirë hastened back to the center of the camp. He stopped, surveying the area. He could see where the Troll had been brought down, and the wide track where it was hauled off. Losrian was sitting propped against beech tree trunk. Her head was bound with a strip of cloth through which a stain of blood had seeped through. Leaning against her were Gally and Isilmë, playing some quiet game of their own. Save for the wound on her brow, it was a welcome sight. He smiled, not caring if he seemed foolish for it, as his eyes drank in the three of them.

It was Isilmë who was the first to see him. Her face curved into a grin, mirroring his own. ‘Mirë!’ she cried in a piping voice. ‘Mirë is here!’ Her little legs propelled her swiftly to him; Gally taking up the cry and following close on her heels. Ondomirë crouched down as they neared and took the two in his arms. They chattered at him. Talking of the Troll and the spears and Losrian’s wound and all the while patting at the pockets on his tunic in search of the tin of sweets.

Losrian attempted to struggle to her feet to greet him, also. But he reached her quickly, and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Sit, please. We’ll come to you,’ he said drawing her back down as he sat on the ground beside her. For a moment he inspected her bandage, his touch gentle as he looked closely at the wound beneath it. The blood had dried, and he was satisfied she would lose no more.

Gally’s little fingers had prised the tin from his pocket and now he held it up hopefully of Ondomirë. ‘Here you go! You, too!’ he said, turning to Isilmë and offering her a sweet. The two were content to lean against his crossed legs and suck on their prizes. Ondomirë turned his attention back to Losrian, regarding her gravely. ‘For a moment all hope fled me, when I could not find you,’ he said quietly. He pushed back a strand of her silvered hair from her cheek. His hand sought hers and he held it against his own cheek. ‘But here you are.’

[Arry]

‘And why do you blink in surprise at my question, little brother?’ Skald frowned at Bror as he spoke. ‘Wasn’t it you who wanted to stay when Riv and the others were leaving? Wasn’t it you who told Riv how our home was safe, and how you wanted to help save the Elven city?’

Weeks of frustration and pent up fear spilled out unchecked from Skald.

‘Really, what good has this done anyone? We’ve lost more of our companions. And what little we’ve accomplished I think the Elves could have done on their own.’ Skald took a deep breath and let it out slowly. ‘We should have gone home with Riv. There! I’ve said it. It was a mistake for us to stay.’

Skald stared off into the distance, as if his eyes could penetrate the leagues that lay between them and the mountain. ‘Don’t play the wide-eyed child with me any longer, Bror. You’ve been here in this inglorious series of skirmishes and flight. There’s no glory in “being in the frontlines, right beside the king”, especially against the great number of foe who rode against us. The frontlines . . . pah!. That’s where death rides on his great horse; his sword, or club, or spear held high; his face hung with a skull’s grin as we’re mowed down.’

He turned a face, bled of all hope, to Bror. ‘Do you want me to reassure you that in the end everything will be alright? I can’t do that. They could be dead . . . the one of them, the both of them. I just don’t know.’ Skald shook his head slowly.

‘I do know this. We should have been there with them . . . we should have, the both of us . . . we should have . . .’

-----

Most of the Dwarves did not sleep at all that night. Too on edge, they sat in small groups, near each other, talking low. They built no fires; the only lights in the darkness that distinguished them were the glowing embers of their pipes.

A small delegation were sent to Lord Elrond’s tent. He had listened closely to them as they told him of their planned departure, then thanked them graciously for their generous aid. They in turn thanked him for his offer of horses for the long journey that lay ahead, saying that perhaps the Elves could put the beasts to better use. ‘Begging your pardon, Lord Elrond,’ said Rori Ironfoot. ‘Your offer was very kind and much appreciated, but we Dwarves feel much better with our own two feet on the ground.’

-----

When the sun had barely cleared the mountains to the west, the Dwarves shouldered their packs and made their way out of camp. There were many of the Elves who had fought beside them who called out farewells to them as they passed.

Then, when the Dwarves had passed a fair ways east and south of the camp, the captains of the Elven troops were given orders to make their men ready. At Lord Elrond’s command, the Elven company would set off, too, their journey taking them a little further north and then east in search of a place of refuge, where they might recoup their strength for the days yet to come . . .

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

No one had slept much for what remained of the night. "All in all it has been quite a day" Losrian thought wryly. Ondomirë had not let her sleep because of her head wound, and instead, as they watched over the the children (who they had eventually managed to settle after all the excitement), Losrian had discovered that the Osanwë-Kenta was actually quite easy if you had the right motivation. Aside from the precious details she was learning about her meldisse, she learnt that the dwarves would depart at first light and knew that she wanted to make her farewell to Skald at least.

As the glow of dawn first coloured the mountain tops, Ondomirë went to resume his duties and Losrian, sporting an extremely colourful black eye but as clear headed as a maid so newly and deeply in love could be, roused the children and led them over to where Skald was making up his pack.

"I did not want you to leave without us saying goodbye, Skald, and without thanking you" she said softly. The dwarf turned and looked up at her. Her silver hair was gilded by the new sun and, despite her injury, a light was in her face that gave her somewhat solemn features a serene beauty. She had come along way from the grimy and careworn girl who they had found in the hut a fortnight ago he thought and he knew the transformation wasn't down to a few hot meals, a wash and a change of clothes. The relationship between the refugee girl and the Captain of Archers was second only to troll attack as subject of discussion in camp and there was no point in denying it even if she could conceal her joy.

" Thank me? I should be congratulating you - you have got a good man there, even if he is a st...."

"Stuffy elf? " Losrian completed the phrase for him for she had heard the dwarves jest while sharing their watch but she grinned for she could understand it. Ondomirë felt so much and showed so little.

"Still waters run deep" she said thinking of the moment of their reunion last night He had made no dramatic gesture of sweeping her into his arms but had conveyed intense emotion with a simple clasp of her hand in his.

Then she added mischievously "And I am so very glad I didn't shoot him - but really I must thank you, your advice was good as was your example ." She smiled down at Galmir who was taking a final chance to indulge his fascination with dwarvish beards. "Maybe things would have been otherwise, if I hadn't learned to look outward." In other words " if you hadn't made me realise how selfish I was" she thought and winced.

"I do not know if the fates of the world will allow us to meet again, for our path takes us ever further from Khazad-dum and the halls of Durin, but I would give you this as a token of our friendship and my gratitude". She placed in his hand her own cloak pin, a garland of flowers and leaves.

"It is unworthy as a remembrance of the Mirdain for it is but an apprentice piece - yet it was the best my craft could manage at the time and my later skill was devoted alas to the implements of war." Losrian sighed, then smiled "I wanted so much to be a mirdan and now the only jewels I care for are Ondomirë and Galmir. "

"If our paths cross again I hope I may give you a finer example of our craft - as it is this serves only to prove how the dwarves surpass the Noldor in metalwork." She grinned again. "But I do not expect to have much time for smithying for a while - other than what is necessary to help in the building of our new dwellings. These living treasures are far more appealing than metal and stone." She smiled at Galmir and Isilmë who were now in the arms of Skald and Bror respectively. Bror she knew had found the little girl by her mother's body.

"And maybe you will add a few more treasures to your collection once you're wedded" Skald added mischievous in his turn.

Losrian blushed and mumured "These two will keep me busy enough to start with," but the accompanying smile confirmed that the thought had already occured to her .

And then it was time for them to depart and Losrian gathered up the children and took her leave of Skald and his brother. "I hope you return safely and find all your kin safe and sound.... my nephew will miss you but yours will be glad to have you back...."

The trio stood and waved until the dwarves were out of sight. And so ended the closest association of the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë that ever existed in Middle Earth.

[Amanaduial the archer]

Minutes after Maegisil, Narisiel arrived at the palace, almost skidding to a halt in front of the courtyard gates, her feet slipping on tiles now slick with oil spilt from the lamps shattered from their brackets. She had run with as much speed as her stately garb would allow her, only making one stop on the way at her forge – empty, thank the gods, for she was as yet unarmed. For once, she was glad that Losrian hadn’t arrived on time: the room was almost unrecognisable, the mighty anvil turned over and the coals from the furnace scattered over the floor, which was littered with debris from the cupboards which had evidently been rifled through in a search for anyone hiding, or for anything worth taking. Her life’s work destroyed. But the black hoards who now ravaged the city like a plague of locusts had not taken everything…Steadying herself on the gatepost, the councillor caught her breath, resting her other hand on the hilt of her sword, taken from the workshop, as if taking comfort from it. She looked up to the palace – and froze. Above her, halfway up the steps, was a sight maybe none had witnessed on the shores of Middle Earth ever before: Maegisil, an elf, one of the first born, kneeling to an invader of their city.

Traitor.

The word flashed through Narisiel’s mind, and in that instant she felt like her heart was ripping in two, to see one of her greatest friends so humbled, so humiliated. Her hand tightened on her sword handle at her waist as she bit her lip to fight down the scream that welled up inside her, but the worst was yet to come.

“…I am no lord. As for the lord of this city, he is yours. And indeed I beg you to kill him, so he and the Oath of Fëanor may no longer plague my people.” Maegisil’s words as he condemned the Lord he had sworn to serve ad protect with his life could not have been more of a betrayal to his fellow councillor, and as Narisiel’s every impression of her friend fell apart, she pulled herself upright once more and, tears in her eyes, she ran from the hideous scene in front of her. Maegisil was on his own now: the fiery woman who now fled from the courtyard where he had lowered himself would now quite happily have taken her own sword to him right that minute, but she knew where this black messenger of Sauron would go next – and even if Maegisil had betrayed Celebrimbor, Narisiel was not ready to give up on him yet. She couldn’t leave it as she had at their last meeting…

Running around to the side, Narisiel pushed at the door in smaller entrance and leapt backwards as the hinges gave way sending the door crashing into the corridor beyond: she wasn’t the first to enter the palace through this entrance, although she could only pray that she would be first to Celebrimbor. Lifting her skirts, the sword swinging awkwardly against her leg, Narisiel sprinted up the narrow staircase inside the corridor, at the end of which were Celebrimbor’s chambers and, she could now hear, the sounds of battle. Heart pounding in her throat, she took the last few steps three at a time to the top of the staircase and threw herself with all her weight against the door that stood between her…and destruction. There in Celebrimbor’s chambers, a battle was already raging, a few remaining guards putting up what fight they could against the forces of Sauron who had entered, huge, burly men who were more animal than human. All the training they had had could not help them against the sheer strength of their foes, and indeed, bodies were already scattered, broken, clad in the armour of Eregion, a bloody trail of defeat that led up to the throne…where Celebrimbor still sat. And as she watched him, still an unnoticed observer almost beyond the scene that lay before her horrified eyes, Narisiel suddenly saw the mighty Lord of Eregion for what he was now, maybe for what he had been for a long time: an old man, alone now on a throne guarded by none, with all who had stood by him either having fled or fallen, his only guards now the silent suits of armour that lined the walls, watching as if the judgemental eyes of his cursed ancestors themselves dwelt there. Just a sad, lonely old man who had made too many mistakes – and had been too stubborn to ask for help as he watched his past destroy the future of his domain.

These thoughts in their fullness only hit Narisiel afterwards, for her greatest challenge was yet to come – and it stood, hideous and vile, between herself and Celebrimbor, sword raised and ready to strike: the creature to whom Maegisil had knelt. Narisiel felt loathing swell up in her throat as the creature spoke. “And so it comes to this, Celebrimbor. The Oath is fulfilled, and my duty to my master, Melkor, is complete.” And, having intoned these prophetic words, Angoroth drew back his sword and slashed Celebrimbor viciously across the stomach.

Narisiel felt Celebrimbor’s scream more than she heard it, and, without meaning to, gave out a cry of her own, melding in with her lord’s as he writhed in pain at the cruel, fatal wounds across his abdomen. But Angoroth was not finished yet: laughing cruelly, he stepped forward, taking the elf’s chin in one giant hand and raising it so that Celebrimbor was forced to look at his face. As the monster murmured something to the elf, relishing in his victim’s pain as he prepared to watch his slow, painful death, Narisiel barely thought. Drawing her sword, a yell ripped through her throat, more a scream of anguish than a battlecry, and she took the distance between herself and Angoroth at a run. Narisiel herself had no military training: where the trained soldiers of Eregion had failed in killing Angoroth, she knew she wouldn’t succeed. But that wasn’t her aim, and she had help: the owner of these suits of armour might have long since passed from military service, but they could help her yet. Pulling back her sword as she came close to Angoroth, half turning towards her now, Narisiel swung it at one of the suits of armour nearest to the monster. Muscles trained by years of service in her forge came into play, tensed and rippling under the fine material of her elegant dress as the sleeves swung around. Narisiel’s entire weight and strength went into that strike and as her arms jarred painfully against the solid metal of the armour, her strike paid off: with a mighty crash, the figure crashed down – straight onto Angoroth’s back.

The monster gave an enraged yell, trying to disentangle himself, and as he staggered away from Celebrimbor, he collided with a second suit of armour and further entangled himself, losing his balance and falling beneath the heavy unwieldy chunks of metal, an image that would have been almost comical if Narisiel had had time to take it in. But she had achieved her aim: Angoroth was distracted and she was at Celebrimbor’s side in an instant. Narisiel was no trained doctor, and even if she had been, even the greatest medic or magician in Arda could have done nothing for the elven lord at this stage: his eyes rolled up deliriously, only the whites now visible, and his robe, slashed twice horizontally across his torso, was soaked in his lifeblood and his innards were actually visible beneath them. Narisiel took a deep breath and steeled herself: she had no time to even be shocked at his horrific wounds – she had one last duty to perform to Celebrimbor. Positioning herself behind the throne, she pulled the other elf’s head up almost roughly in her haste, and placed her sword across his throat, his shin less than an inch above the bright, polished blade. Caught for an instance in the irony of her position, about to use her own weapon on the one she had sworn she would serve for her whole immortal life, Narisiel gritted her teeth against tears that threatened her eyes. She leant down, her loose hair skimming Celebrimbor’s cheek softly. “I’m sorry, my Lord,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly despite herself. “I’m so sorry…”

Celebrimbor’s hand came up to her face, trembling and twitching spasmodically as he pressed against her cheek, and as Narisiel closed her eyes, the blood on his fingers melded with the water of the tear that fell onto them. Taking a deep breath, Narisiel straightened up and gritted her teeth, one hand holding his head, the one her sword, both of them still and untrembling on her sword’s hilt: years of careful work with jewels and minute carving paid off and would allow Celebrimbor the swift release that she intended to give him, a last, merciful gift. “May the Valar speed your soul back to them, Celebrimbor, Lord of Eregion. Rest in peace there…” And having given him a last obituary, Narisiel did her duty: her sword slid across his throat and released Lord Celebrimbor of Eregion into death.

An almighty crash of armour and a furious yell announced that Angoroth had finally removed himself from the clutches of Narisiel’s ‘distraction’. For a moment they stood unmoving, a frozen tableau: Narisiel, her eyes glistening with tears and her sword hilt and blade, carved so fittingly with asphodel, glistening with blood, as she glared defiantly at the furious fallen Maia as he realised that his torture victim had been stolen from him. Then Narisiel gave a small, defiant smile. “Not today, Angoroth: my death will not be at your hands!” And as Angoroth lunged towards her, Narisiel leapt, her arms covering her face against the glass that smashed over her – as she threw herself out of the second storey window to the ruin beneath.

[Amanaduial the archer]

“My lady…my lady, are you…? Sairien, I think this one stirs, at last, she’s waking, I think…my dear, come to us, come on…”

“Good gracious…” The kindly, elderly voice which called Narisiel to wake was followed by a gasp, then a hand touched her face, gently turning it to the side. “Good gracious, Tisinwe, I…my husband knows this elf, I believe, her name…her name is Narisiel. Narisiel Mirdain.”

At her name, Narisiel stirred, the fog in her mind clearing as, almost reluctantly, she opened her eyes, narrowing them against the sudden light of the sun that shone through the walls of the medical tent. Above her, a kindly, beautiful face, framed by dark hair, drew back in shock, and the cool, soft hand on the side of her face drew away suddenly. That face was familiar to Narisiel, her beauty standing out in a crowd as she watched her husband standing beside Celebrimbor…Narisiel tried weakly to clear her throat which felt as if it had sat one hundred years unused, then gave up and croaked, “Sairien?”

Sairien gasped once again and reached for Narisiel’s hand. “Yes! Yes indeed – Narisiel, my husband…Maegisil…we presumed you dead! Why, he has no idea you are here, wait, wait until I go to find him—”
“No!” Narisiel’s reply was sharp as she interrupted, her fingers curling around Sairien’s to stop her as she went to stand, presumably to fetch Maegisil, and she started up herself – a mistake. Wincing, she clutched at her side, almost doubling up in pain as the kind hands of the nurse who sat beside her caught her, gently lowering her back onto her pillow. Narisiel felt blood on her hands and drew them away from her stomach – to see them covered in blood. Her eyes widened in horror and her breathing sped up. “No…no, I…I did not…it had to be done, he was in such pain, it was a kinder way to finish it, I would never have-” Narisiel was becoming frantic now, struggling to rise out of the bed despite the pain that ripped through her abdomen, more blood spilling out onto her hands. Blood, blood on her hands – Celebrimbor’s blood, surely. Death, death, death… The crippling pain from her stomach finally got the better of her, and Narisiel yielded to it and the gentle hands that forced her back onto the bed, tears welling up in her eyes as she wept bitter tears. “It…it had to be done…” she whispered desperately through her tears.

“Narisiel, please, calm yourself – w-what had to be done? What are you talking about?”

Narisiel looked up sharply at Sairien, searching the woman’s face for any sign of deceit, for surely, she felt, they had to know, had to have found out what she had done…but she found only sincerity and concern in the woman’s fine features. And pain. Plenty of pain. But Maegisil…Urgency took hold of her once again and she gripped Sairien’s hand fiercely. “Sairien, your husband, the counsellor Maegisil-?”

“He is alive, Narisiel, alive and well, although I shall not say that he has not also been harmed by the battle, if not physically.” She frowned and looked away, her forehead creasing slightly into newly formed lines of anxiety. “The fall of Eregion and the death of Celebrimbor...” she turned back to Narisiel, shaking her head. “He could have done no more to protect the Lord Celebrimbor, though my telling him so seems to make no difference. Not that it is known for sure whether he is dead, although Maegisil seems convinced of the fact…”

Ah. So this woman was not entirely knowledgeable about the events of the fall of the city. An image flashed through Narisiel’s mind: Maegisil kneeling before Angoroth, swearing an oath that betrayed Celebrimbor. She looked away and something in her expression must have alerted Sairien, for the elf leant forward. “What, what is it? You know something of Celebrimbor?”

Narisiel turned slowly back to Sairien, and she gave a sad smile. Oh, all I know of Celebrimbor… She turned to the nurse and, giving her her thanks, asked her to leave. Studying Sairien’s earnest features, she prepared to reveal her secret…

…then hesitated.

Why should she reveal this secret to Sairien? Maegisil had kept his secrets close, evidently, somehow omitting to tell his wife of the vow he had sworn to Angoroth. But that, too, was not Narisiel’s secret to tell. Let Maegisil reveal what he saw fit to his wife, of the ring, of Angoroth, of Celebrimbor… Her eyes flitted critically over Sairien’s features, again searching for some sign that the woman knew any more than she was letting on, but she came up only with simple consternation and anxiety, not only for Narisiel but for Maegisil as well. For all the years the two counsellors had known each other, Narisiel had only ever met Sairien a few times, and always fleetingly. But whenever she had seen husband and wife together, she had seen the same adoring, simple love as resided between herself and Sirithlonnior. . She smiled. “You are every bit as beautiful as Maegisil said,” she replied quietly. Sairien smiled, blushing slightly, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. But Narisiel’s smile was a sad one: she envied this woman that she still had her husband, loving, alive.

“Today is not our dying day…” Her husband’s words echoed back to her painfully and Narisiel almost flinched, her eyes glistening. She knew, as surely as she knew of her own existence, more surely even, that Sirith was dead. His words had been proved false, but she could never tease him about it in the way that she would have done, could never again mock him, tease, embrace him… The elf took a deep, ragged breath in, then out, blinking away the tears in her eyes. She looked up at Sairien and gave her a brief, tight smile. “You are lucky, Sairien. You…” she paused, taking a deep breath against the grief that welled up in her throat. “My husband,” she continued quietly. “I don’t suppose…” Sairien’s eyes told her what she needed to know before she had even finished the sentence. She gave a quick, curt nod, a quick, almost business-like sniff, opening her mouth to speak again, then deciding that she did not trust herself with the words. The other elf, as if understanding, squeezed her hand gently and, without another word, drifted away, leaving Narisiel alone.

“Today is not our dying day…” No. Death had been stolen from Narisiel as surely as she had stolen life from Celebrimbor, although how she had been taken from the city she was not sure – later, the nurse would tell her that she had been carried from the city by a soldier, mistaking her for another, although she did not know that for now, and had slept for several days, unconscious, after having been left at survivors’ camp. She remained alive where her son and husband were surely dead, but how?! Surely, a leap through a pane of glass from a second storey window onto hard ground below could only have one result! She had expected death, maybe even yearned for it after she had jumped, the blood staining her fingers not her own but that of the friend and lord she had sworn to protect. Two fractured ribs and a wrist broken from the impact, along with scratches and cuts galore, she had – but, miraculously, life also remained hers. And as she lay in that medical tent for the week or so after the battle, recovering slowly from her body, she both cursed and blessed that fact.

Maegisil did not come to see her: Sairien, although she did not know why Narisiel craved secrecy, respected her wishes and did not tell her husband of her prescence, and she mused on whether she was perhaps disgraced, fallen in his eyes – she heard little of the counsellor, lapsing as she did in and out of consciousness, maybe through concussion, maybe also through simply a lack of motivation to live. But after a week and a half in this state, when she was finally able to leave the medical tent and walk in the sunlight in the makeshift camp, the elven woman had concocted a plan, simple though it was. She would simply leave the camp. Leave the camp, leave the elves, leave Maegisil and all the secrets they held, shared and individually – too many secrets, over all the years. To keep them bottled up, both knowing of them but neither voicing their fears and concerns, twists the soul, and Narisiel wanted no more part in it. Such deceit over the past century had caused her enough pain for a lifetime, even that of an immortal. Deceit to her people, to her family, to herself even – and now that she had lost both her people and her family, Narisiel even found that she barely knew herself anymore.

No. No more secrets, no more lies.

And so it was, under the bright, winter’s morning sun, that Narisiel Mirdain stood at the outskirts of the camp looking up, surveying it one last time. Here, in this small area of land, was all that was left of the first great, white city. Yet although Ost-in-Edhil had fallen, life went on: children remained, their mothers’ faces newly lined with pain and sorrow, brightening to watch them play together, for children, a sign of life, speak of a future to come, even if it was a future that some would have to face alone. The soldiers of Elrond talked among themselves and to the elves of Eregion, sharing stories with pipeweed as they laughed together, the sound of cheer that echoed through the camp no longer so strange as it turned from a place of mourning to…well, somewhere people could go to. Each would start a new life – and Narisiel’s started here, on this hill, paused under this holly bush, with just a few belongings, provisions and the sword at her side, hidden discreetly under a borrowed travelling cloak. A smile creased her features as she surveyed the camp, then, finally, turned to leave – and paused.

“Sairien, are you ready? No, don’t worry, it’s nothing, I don’t want to talk about it…of course, of course…”

Narisiel stood, frozen, watching from her distant position the familiar figure who spoke to his wife, hurrying out of Elrond’s tent. He was a little gaunter, a little aged in the two weeks since Narisiel had last seen him, but nonetheless, there was the face from a lifetime ago, for a face of a century’s worth of friendship does not easily fade from the memory. Maegisil.

In the time since she had arrived at the camp, Narisiel had heard her own name referenced once or twice, always by strangers, for she knew barely a soul from her previous life. Her name was not unknown amongst them, for she had, of course, been of some standing in Ost-in-Edhil, and it seemed people always knew more than was expected – rumours, half-truths, whole truths which she would never verify all drifted in the minds of those who speculated about Celebrimbor and the rings. Maybe there would one day be a ballad, a poem, an epic work made of the great, fallen city of Ost-in-Edhil, and of the Mirdain, those greatest smiths who worked there. Maybe…maybe Narisiel herself would come into it. Maybe even the forging of the rings… Narisiel turned away. Better to be remembered in whatever way the remainder of that mighty people saw fit than to bring her broken secrets amongst them to scandalise and then, finally, fade away. No. With a dead son, a dead husband and the remainders of such a beautiful life gone sour, honey that turned bittersweet in the mouth when finally tasted, Narisiel turned from the camp and struck out for a new life. Whether Maegisil, as he hurried from the tent, might have chanced to turn to look up the hill, to catch the winter’s sun as she rose to her glorious pinnacle in the sky, and might have seen illuminated there a solitary figure he may have remembered her from a thousand years and a different lifetime before; maybe not. If he did, he never let on, and Narisiel Mirdain passed from the camp, quietly, and alone.

If Sairien never told her husband of her brief encounter with Narisiel in the medicine tent, why then, Maegisil would never know the elf-smith had even escaped: Narisiel Mirdain could well have died with her family in the city she loved. Let Sairien keep her secret, let Maegisil keep his. And Narisiel? Well, she too would keep her secrets now. Let them believe what they would! Of the rings, of the elves who made them, of Celebrimbor – and of his eventual fate. Let them all be remembered in whatever fashion the storytellers saw fit to conjure up! Let them hope, let them dream. Maybe that was all existence had ever been based on: a hope, a dream. And now, for Narisiel, a new dream had begun.

[piosenniel]

A month or more had passed since King Durin led his troops from the West-gate and set them against the dark foe. The battle had been fierce; the Dwarves fanning out from the entrance to the mountain to meet the Orcs and Easterlings on a number of fronts. Their numbers, large as they were, drawn from the families throughout the caverns, were no match, however, for the overwhelming number of the enemy.

But King Durin was a wise commander and he had a plan in mind. Not to vanquish Sauron’s troops, nor even to win against them in a short term foray. Those he knew would be only vainly tried, and many Dwarves would be lost in the trying. Instead, he had devised a hit and run tactic. Sting the enemy from the rear in a number of places, retreat, regroup elsewhere, and then harry them again. This maddened the Orcs and Men and set them chasing the Dwarves willy-nilly, in a futile attempt to stomp out their aggravating attacks. The King’s objective was to draw off Sauron’s army in an attempt to take the pressure off the combined troops of Elrond, Celeborn, and those Dwarves led by Rori Ironfoot.

It had proved an effective maneuver. But not without its own terrible consequences. The whole of the dark army turned upon the Dwarves of Khazad-dum and pushed against them mercilessly, driving them back to the stone gates. Many fell, defending the gates as their friends and kin retreated to the safety of the caverns and the halls. And when the gates were at last shut hard against Sauron’s wicked mignons, the names of those dead defenders were tallied . . . and read out in the King’s own hall . . .

~*~

Unna left the small oil lamp burning in her chambers. Leifr was snuggled in against her back, his eyes closed, lost in dreams. Tonight, she thanked Mahal, they were seeming pleasant ones. Ginna fretted in the oaken cradle next to the bed. Unhappy at her circumstances, she stiffened her tiny arms and pushed her fists hard against the blankets that were settled over them.

‘Sshhh!’ crooned Unna, taking the little one up in her arms and nestling her in the crook of her arm. ‘You’ll wake your brother.’ She brushed back the damp curls from her daughter’s fretful brow, and let her nurse to quiet her. ‘Let him sleep, little one,’ she murmured in a singsong manner. ‘Let him sleep . . . sleep . . . and you , too . . .’

Half drowsing, she pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Both her babes were quiet now, lost in the sweet release of sleep. She caught herself listening for the fall of her husband’s boots on the stone tiled floor, and half rose up on an elbow, waiting for him to push open the door and join them in the family bed. His great arms would settle the little ones between them, and he would reach above their heads to kiss her cheek. Then smiling, his fingers would graze her cheek for a moment and a few tender words would pass between them, scattered among the ordinary tellings of the day gone by. He would drift into sleep, then, she recalled, smiling at the image – his eyes growing heavy, his breathing softer and more shallow.

In the soft light of lamp, her eyes grew bright with tears . . .

There were only these memories now of him to comfort her. No sounds of footsteps drew near; the door stayed firmly shut; no familiar weight of him on the other side of the mattress, no lingering warmth where his lips had touched her cheek.

Riv was gone from her. One of the fallen, defending heroes.

Cold comfort, those words. Her pride at his actions could not fill the aching loss. Nor had the hurt and sorrow abated since first the news had come to her.

Leifr stirred in his sleep. Turning, she pulled him closer, kissing his brow. She reached back for Ginna and brought her to lie between them. ‘It will be alright,’ she murmured to them. And again, more softly, ‘It will be alright . . .’

As if the saying of the words might make it so . . .