Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

Giledhel

‘The sea . . . and so close. I can smell it faintly.’ Giledhel turned a puzzled face toward the three Orcs. ‘How is this so?’

Up from their stony resting place, the four sat huddled together. The figures of the Orcs she noted, even as the last of her question hung in the air, had begun to waver and thin out, to fade. And she, herself, felt lighter somehow.

‘How is this so?’

The question caromed off the crumbling walls of the room; knocking away as it was considered, again and yet again, bits and pieces of her closely woven fantasies. They had told her in the early days, she now remembered, what had happened to this place that was her home. And had soon grown silent with this news of the changes that had been wrought when she could not, would not, hear of them.

Giledhel’s mind became clearer as the gauzy layers of fantasy fluttered away in the salty breezes. There against the wall slumped a familiar figure. ‘Malris?’ she said, her brow furrowing. ‘He has grown so careworn.’ She drew near him, one insubstantial hand touching against his face. ‘And never have I seen him look so defeated.’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came Gorgu’s now thin, reedy voice. ‘Your Malris has come at last.’

‘But not for me,’ she returned, drawing back to where the Orcs had all but faded. ‘He lives. And I . . . I have been dead these many years . . . ages, even. Dead and clinging to what now are only long gone dreams . . .’

‘Yes, M’Lady,’ came the faintly whispered answers.

The pull of the sea grew stronger against her. She felt it lave her bones to their core. Amidst the surging of the waves, the Orcs’ bones rose and fell and rose again, breaking apart in the strong, insistent waters.

‘Go on,’ she called to them as they turned to shimmering mists borne on the westered air.

Giledhel’s gaze turned back to Malris. ‘Fare well, once and always beloved.’ With an even look she surveyed the figure of the woman who huddled against him. ‘May you find some measure of comfort, Malris. I will not hold you any longer to that long dead promise. It serves no purpose any longer, save for ill.’

The grace of the Valar be on you . . .

And even as her voice, her presence faded from the cold, shadowed room there came a strong wind, and the remnants of that long rotted weaving were caught in the currents and borne away.

[Firefoot]

How could he watch his friends in trouble so passively? He ought to be worried, really worried; he ought to want to do something to help. But he felt no anxiety for Orëmir descending the cliff, no fear for Endamir lying so suddenly unconscious at the bottom, and no connection with Lindir struggling to his feet. The only people he could bring himself to care about were those long dead.

The shout from below broke into his consciousness. “Lómwë! Bring us up! Quickly!” His body moved instinctively toward the rope and he strained against the rope mechanically, slowly drawing the basket upwards. Once it reached the top, however, he withdrew once more, not even greeting Orëmir or helping him with Endamir. He stared out blankly at the sea, realizing that, with the setting sun at his back, this was the very direction his home had been. So different now – so different. No more rolling hills or forests or plains – just water as far as the eye could see. All of it lay sunken in the waters at an unknown depth: utterly unreachable. He could not reach the old places, could not lay his heart at rest in any tangible way. Not like Malris, not like the others. They could go and see the places dearest to them, if they so desired. But not Lómwë – he could only drift, searching for what wasn’t there.

That hurt the most. He had come here hoping to find not only peace but also in some strange way hoping to find the past itself, something that no longer existed. But the knowledge that he could not fulfill these desires – or needs - only increased the longing.

And if peace could be found, he would not find it here. This place tore his heart and mind apart, not mended them. It would be better, he thought, if this place had been buried beneath the Sea with the rest of the land. Maybe it would have been better if they had not come to this place at all. An irrelevant issue, now.

“It is time to go,” he murmured to himself, and a light breeze carried his words out to the Sea. “Yes, time to go.”

[Anguirel]

For some moments, Idrahil remained shaken by the Diviner's display of power...as well as by the fact that the vulnerable sage he had respected and protected for so long possessed a character, nature, and visage...so totally foreign to what the Seneschal had known...

As he hovered in the comforting familiarity of the air's bite, Idrahil realised that if he pursued the elven-crone bent on the destruction of those he had sworn to succour...he would not survive in his form as one of the Houseless Spirits.

But there was fighting spirit in the ancient warrior yet, and he nodded slightly. He would fall, but he would take his last enemy with him. And what did he have to lose?

Himring, was the answer. The garrison he had kept in good order despite everything. The remnants of the Feanorian army, still in their correct battalions and quarters. The First Company at the Gatehouse. The Sentries of the Torch-Brackets in this very bastion, who seemed to be absent without leave. The armourers and forgers. The gaolers. The Watch. All lovingly trained and disciplined, for if Maedhros was no longer here to be served, they yet stood for his brother...

Trained enough, Idrahil thought, that they could ultimately do without their battered old captain. He and his former associate the Diviner were going to Mandos.

***

The Diviner had, in the event, neglected to draw on her full potency to sweep Idrahil far away over the ocean. She had other affairs to attend to, with her very cavern threatened by the blunderings of Lindir and his friends. Besides, she felt strange disturbances-some buried bones had been lost already. She might yet need to use Idrahil. Better to keep him and manipulate him as she had done so many times before.

"Still following me, Seneschal dear? You seem to have got rather...left behind..."

A mild buffet of stinging wind and he was off balance again. The Lady Diviner smiled. But rather to her surprise, Idrahil returned it.

"I don't suppose you will do me the courtesy of letting me...catch up..."

In but a few moments he was before her. Now the Diviner quailed in shock. Such efforts were outstanding and draining even by her standards. It was as if the Seneschal was engaged in a battle he had no intension of returning from...gripped by misgiving, she propelled her blade into her hand once more.

"Parry!"

She did, but he was moving so fast still, recklessly fast. He knew he was her superior with the sword, and was not letting her have a chance to exploit her...other skills...

She opened a gap in her guard which the Seneschal-as she had known he would-exploited at once. Spirit-sword cut spirit-side; but now Idrahil was equally exposed, and she sunk her rapier into his shoulder. Luminescence leaked from their wounds and tiny stars of bright light fluttered from their illusory steel...

"Be sensible, Idrahil. We need to talk. If you force me to drive my sword home and do likewise, we will both be gone."

The only reply was the Seneschal's sword piercing slightly further into her aether. She reciprocated. It was like a kind of love, this position in which they were pinioned.

"Yes, we will, Lady. Whatever be your true name, make amends to the Valar now. They are said to be forgiving."

And at that both swords, in the same split second, were plunged to the hilt through their adversaries. The impartial, chill mist of Himling hid them from sight, and neither were seen again on the Hither Shore.

[piosenniel]

The battle had raged on below as Orëmir sat on the grassy sward above, his brother cradled in his arms. Endamir’s mind was in turmoil as the Diviner and the Seneschal fought. She had not withdrawn from him when Idrahil had attacked, but had closed one icy claw of her mind around his own and battered at his spirit. He could feel Orëmir’s attempts to reach him, but feared were he to make that connection with his brother, then the Diviner might draw him, too, into her grasp.

The pain, the release, of the Diviner’s fëa as the Seneschal drove his spectral blade into her was . . . in a way . . . exquisite. And he felt himself carried along in the wake of her passing; his spirit drawn toward the blesséd light of Aman. Orëmir’s presence grew small, faded . . . as his own fëa raced westward.

Just at the edges of his consciousness he could hear Orëmir’s voice . . .

[Envinyatar]

No! No! Do not leave me, my brother! Not now. Not in this way.

Orëmir pressed deeply into his brother’s mind, following the fading thoughts. He had reconciled himself to Endamir’s leaving at the end of this . . . trip, he was going to say . . . but now, the word debacle came to mind.

He had wanted to stretch out what little time was left to them. And now that time was narrowing down to nothing.

Orëmir’s arms went slack; his head fell forward, resting against his brother’s brow.

I am with you . . . wait . . . wait . . .

[piosenniel]

This is not how it was meant to be . . . my brother did not wish to go . . . it is only his great affection for me which draws him on . . . not his desire to return to Aman . . .

His chest rose as the salt sea air rushed in. With a sigh of near regret he breathed it out again. Orëmir’s forehead rested against his. And on his still closed eyes Endamir could feel his brother’s pooling tears.


Endamir pushed himself up to a sitting position, shaking off the last of the Diviner’s assault. Harder to put away was the remembrance of the white shores he had but barely glimpsed and the sweet music which had reached out to him. He reached out his arms to his brother and cradled him against his shoulder.

A fool, Orëmir . . . that’s what I was, to think that I could leave you.

He laughed, his eyes glinting in the sea-light. And more the fool, you . . . for thinking I would . . . that I could . . . do so.

They sat together in silence for a short while. Then the sounds of their two companions near them drew their attention. ‘Lómwë! Lindir!’ they called out in unison. The two brothers stood and helped Lindir up on his good leg. They made their way slowly away from the grassy cliff, toward the place in the fortress from which they had started that morning. Lómwë followed along with the trio, quiet and seeming despondent.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ Endamir called out, his voice echoing among the stones of the empty space . .

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa sat away from Malris; close, but not touching, and in silence. She refused to probe his thoughts and so she sat tending to her own.

Though the hostility had faded away until none remained, she felt uncomfortable still. She was trapped with Malris in his dead wife's bed chamber... Giledhel had assaulted her spirit. Tasa could have stayed in the Golden Wood, fading ever until the last, and she would not have been forced to bear these ghosts.

She had expected emotion to run high during this last trip together, but assaults and near-death experiences had barely crossed her mind. With the wars of old long cast into legend, she had lain aside battle-lust and sword. Breathing deeply the golden flowers of Lothlorien, she had made for herself a sweet sanctuary. Elven Rangers guarded and Tasa stayed in quiet retirement, weaving, walking, and singing with the birds of the trees.

But Malris' letter had come. She had responded, befriended its messenger. They had travelled and they had met, joyous and ready to move onward. As friends they had taken to the boat and as friends they had kept it from sinking during that first storm. As friends they had camped together, stealing moments to watch the stars at night. Perhaps as more than friends, they had borrowed long moments from the journey to stand amidst the early rays of dawn, hand in hand. And as friends again, they had explored the island.

Now, Malris felt cold and distant, as far from Tasa as light and hope had been so recently as she battled desperately against shades of horror. She sat against the wall with her knees pulled against her, her clothing torn from battle and the smallest of her injuries already healing to silver-white scars. Those adorning her jawline felt cold, though no longer burned or froze as before.

The door beckoned to her, but she was not strong enough now to move it.

‘Malris! Where are you?’ The call echoed dully through the stone, coming more as intent than sound.

Yes Malris... where are you? Tasa thought sadly. She barely knew the form slumped dejectly before her. She was helpless. Unless he could come back to himself, and actually desire to leave, they would remain, for she could not leave him here even if he bade her to go.