Island of Sorrow RPG

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


Giledhel struggled to understand who was speaking. Her gaze took in someone tall, with a certain radiance that encircled him. His voice, too, was fair. How did she know him, this one who spoke in her defense? And with such a knowledge of what had happened to her.

We murdered her . . .

Her brow furrowed. And she began to remember how her companions of that space of time had tried to speak with her about this. But even now, the act, itself, remained gone from her memories. Blotted out she supposed by the awfulness of it.

Without a word she moved round Nàmo, stepping closer to this other being. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ Her aspect lightened at the familiar feel of his presence. ‘You’re one I called for, didn’t I?’ ‘And you . . . and you . . .’ she said with the beginnings of recognition as she drew the others forward.

Were there tears to cry, they would have lit her eyes as she touched each one of those tall, fair beings who stood round her. The winds had indeed borne them West as her heart hoped they would do.

‘Your names, your names. How shall I call you now?’

Her voice faltered with the next question. She took a step backward to take them all in with her gaze. ‘Do you remember?’

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘Yes, my lady,’ came the voice of Calëlindo. ‘We do remember . . .’

‘Our names, our lives . . .’ followed Salmarion. His voice dropped low, filled with regret and sorrow as he went on. ‘And our dark, evil acts.’

‘And your kindness, my lady,’ came Alcamírië. ‘We clung to those words of hope, slender as that promise seemed. And here we are.’ He pointed to each of his companions. ‘Calëlindo, who in those long dark ages was called Gor--’

A thunderous look of disapproval from Námo recalled the admonition against speaking the Black Language in this place and he swallowed the rest of the name. With a hurried stutter he went on.

‘And I . . . I am Alcamírië. And here, too, is Salmarion.’

Calëlindo could not hold back. A great smile lit his face, and he stepped near her to pat her on the arm as he had done so many times before. ‘We are so glad to find you here, my lady.’

[Child of the 7th Age]

Mandos listened intently to the plea of the fallen ones and the obvious respect and gentleness that they had tendered to Giledhel. For a long time, he stood immobile and silent, his eyes grave and imponderable as he weighed what had just transpired in his presence. Náma was not one given to foolish shows of emotion. There was a price to be paid for every evil deed, and these four were no exceptions. The Noldor who had so foolishly deserted Aman had received no blessing from him, but only an unbreakable curse. Surely, these four deserved no more or less, she for her faithlessness to her husband and family, and they for their unspeakable deeds.

This was not the first time Mandos had confronted the fëar of corrupted Elves. Such creatures were rare, but they occasionally hung out in the gloomy anterooms of Mandos, refusing to come within the Great Hall and face their Doom. Instead, they stubbornly remained in the most distant courtyard, letting slip away whatever tiny chance they might have to regain who and what they had once been. Sometimes even those who were brave enough to approach him could not be helped. The ugliness of their lives still weighed too heavily on their hearts. The kindest thing he could do was to have Lórien lay heavy bonds of sleep upon them, sending them into the strange dream world where they could ponder their misdeeds for age after age until they could begin to face who and what they had become. Perhaps, he should do the same for these....

Still, Nàmo felt that somehow these poor creatures were different. He honestly could not recall any situation similar to this. He thrust deep within his mind, searching through his memories that had been given to him at the very dawn of creation. Both he and Manwë had been granted the gift of understanding certain strains and threads in the music that no other Vala had been privileged to hear. What few knew or understood was that he heard the strains of the music still and that sometimes it revealed a new secret. He never spoke of these things to others, but only to Manwë when he requested him to do so.

A tiny light flickered within Nàmo's mind, its sparking ray extending out even into the darknesss of Mandos. There was no difference between that ray of light and the melody that had come to him while in a dreamlike state. The music had been utterly clear in its meaning. The time was drawing near when those who had been most corrupted might be granted one last chance. Many would refuse but a few would find their way back to where they had begun, utterly changed and yet not changed. Perhaps this strange quartet was the first who would go down such a path. For somehow the fate of the woman was not too different than that of her male companions. They could not be split apart.

Turning towards Giledhel and the other three, Mandos addressed them in cool, even tones. "What would you have me do then to help you? What boon do you request? You may not leave these halls for Aman. The bloody path that you followed in life will not permit you to venture yet to Tol Eressea or the shores beyond it, for surely the silver light there would be more than your eyes could bear. Still, I think you have things yet to learn. What do you ask of me?"

[Envinyatar]

In the Halls of Waiting . . .


‘A boon?’ Alcamirië’s voice took on an uncertain tone. ‘What can he mean, Calëlindo?’ He stole a hesitant glance toward Nàmo. ‘Does he mean to strike a bargain with us? We have nothing to offer.’

Salmarion drew them into a little ring, an old habit from former days. ‘We do have something he might want.’ He cocked his head toward Giledhel. ‘Maybe he wants us to leave her alone. Her “dear Malris” did.’

‘Oh surely he won’t make us do that. We’ve just found her again.’ Alcamirië looked troubled, his hand clenching onto Calëlindo’s arm.

Calëlindo leaned in toward his companions. ‘He means to do us a favor . . . something given freely, I think. Lord Nàmo wants to know how he can help us.’ He pitched his voice even lower. ‘And besides, the Lady is not ours to bargain with. Remember . . .’

The three turned toward Nàmo.

‘It seems enough for us now,’ said Calëlindo, ‘just to be here where we are. The silver light you speak of . . . we don’t recall it. And the light here, it is bright and fair enough to us.’ He turned questioningly toward the other two. ‘Ask him,’ urged Salmarion, Alcamirië nodding ‘yes’ behind him.

‘Just one favor, Lord Nàmo. Let us stay with the Lady . . . here . . . until she wishes to move on . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

For a long time, the Lord of Mandos said nothing. He stared off into the distance as violent and sorrowful images paraded through his mind. The lives and deeds of these suppliants could not be readily altered or erased. None of the three had any understanding of the perils they would face by their decision to remain within the Halls of Remembrance to support their beloved Lady. While memory may bring solace and warmth, it can also be a sharp blade cutting through to the most painful of times, a frightening reminder of paths not taken or bloody deeds that refuse to go away.

Dare he grant them what they had asked? In all the years that he had born this sceptre, never had one of the corrupted Elves petitioned to be admitted to the inner halls. Generally, they sulked along the outer edges, afraid to step inside or to go any further. The mere fact that these three had voiced this request told him that something was beginning to come alive within their fëar that seemingly should have died long years before. He remembered within the music a tiny refrain, a few notes tentative and half hidden, that might, with patience and effort, become something greater and more melodious.

No, he could not turn them down. Yet their words so innocently spoken could not be left unchallenged. Turning towards Calëlindo, he spoke in a gruff voice, "Do you remember what your name means? The meaning of "Calëlindo" in the common tongue? I thought not...." Nàmo's voice became gentler as he began to explain, "It means song of light, or one whose song brings light into the world. If you stay here, it will not be easy. You will learn what this light is, as will your companions, and you will also come to see how far you have fallen short. That is hard, even for those who have lived a traditional Elven life, and for you it will be even more difficult. Think on this, each of you, and make sure this is what you want."

"And you Lady..." Here, Mandos turned to face Giledhel. "Are you certain you want these rascals to remain with you. You too have unfinished business, and the memories that come, some of them involving these poor corrupted creatures, will sometimes be hard. Can you look them in the eye and accept them for what they are, and the hard path they have travelled? Or would you prefer to do your thinking on your own, in solace and isolation? I will not say "yes" to these three unless it is your wish that they remain within your company."

[piosenniel]

Giledhel


‘It is I who wish to remain in their company, my Lord.’ Giledhel stepped forward from the other three Elves. ‘Do not banish me to my own solace and isolation. I have had enough of that in those long years after Malris had gone and I was left to the solace and isolation of cold stone.’ She looked toward Calëlindo and the others. ‘There are times I regret ever having left Valinor. The reasons of my younger years seem less well thought out in retrospect. There were decisions made in haste and in the heat of the moment that had been better laid aside and given more consideration.’

‘I know my mind was hazy, clouded . . .’ she looked toward the three Elves. ‘It was easier that way,’ she went on. ‘I could pass over things, forget them.’ She looked about at the pleasant halls flooded with their subtle light. ‘I don’t have to do that here. I’m safe here. I felt that from the first.’

She paced a little before the Vala and the Elves. ‘I remember everything that happened to me,’ she said in an even voice; her eyes on the random patterns of the smooth, marbled floors. ‘And I remember your part in it,’ she went on in a subdued tone, looking at the three Elves. ‘My death and yours, and those years locked together in that room.’

‘I could have been completely lost, you know. But there was something in you, in each of you that I recognized and which gave me some hope. I remember the first time I reached out to what I’d seen. And again, I might have been lost then. Between us some tenuous connection was made, though . . . some thin, little line we wove between us. Grudgingly done at first, I think . . . but it became habit and habit done day in and day out forged certain bonds.’

‘You’ve said many times that I was kind to you . . . I think, though, it was as much for myself as it was for you. That kindness which you allowed and fostered even in your own way . . . it recalled me to myself. And for that I’m grateful . . . and thankful, too, that by some grace you were also benefited.’

‘I’ve made a lot of wrong decisions. It will take a long time to sort them out. And I can’t say I won’t make a few more.’ She glanced briefly at Lord Námo; then, returned her attention to Calëlindo, Salmarion, and Alcamírië. ‘If you will, I would ask that you allow me to stay in your company. I think we can continue to benefit each other . . . yes, I do think we can . . .’

*************************************

Child of the 7th Age's post

"Let it be so then, gracious lady, as you have requested. A boon for you and your three companions. Each of you may walk the gentle fields here and think long on what went right and wrong, and how you might want things to change or continue as your journey goes forward. There may be a moment when you leave these halls, but I think not for some time, and that day may never come. But for now it is enough that you have chosen the path of contemplation and vowed to help one another through your ties of friendship. Go now and find your way into my realm."

Mandos said no more but turned and walked away. The Vala did not think that these four would stay locked up in a single room as they had done for long years, but rather walk outward and explore. For the halls of Mandos are amazingly wide and capacious for those who choose to wander. He promised to keep an eye on them and see how their journey continued. Perhaps the trek would not be so easy as they blithely assumed at this time, yet also not so hard as he had first feared.

The male Elves especially intrigued him. So very few of the corrupted were brave or gentle enough to step within the halls of Mandos and face the memories of the ill deeds they had done. Out of the thousands that had passed in front of him, only a handful had the courage to stay. He had hoped someday this would change. Perhaps these three were a harbinger of better things to come. Would that the tangled web of shadows on Middle-eath would only straighten out and let in some light for poor Elves such as these! But the latter was too much to ask, especially with so much under the mastery of Sauron. For now Mandos was content to welcome his guests, offering them the Halls of Remembrance as a place of refuge and hard contemplation.

[Anguirel]

The mysteries of Valinor are deep, and jealously guarded from men's thoughts. To linger too long in the Lord of Mandos' caverns becomes a transgression. With a howl of northern wind out of Forochel the tale returns for the present to the Isle of Himling, the Fortress of Himring, strange remnant of Elvendom that was.

Two figures, tall, beautiful and filled with a happiness no Noldo had known truly in that place, as they thought, for many Ages. The bliss of the forge.

For as Malris and Tasareni worked at the stair that led to their one path of escape, they felt as if they were combining in a work of craftsmanship too long denied. The original joy of the Noldor that Melkor twisted to cause so much pain. The innocent art of knowledge, creation and invention, as with Malris' broadsword and Tasa's blade they wordlessly struggled with the silent rock.

Nor did they work in utter darkness. White-red starlike sparks flew up as the stair proved a whetstone, not a destroyer, of their weapons, forged with talents long lost to Men. And the runes of Curufin's dedication on Cirlach's length seemed brighter than ever. The stair groaned its resistance with horrific grinding, but the Elves felt their mastery, as if they dealt with a scolding child.

And so the cacophonous clanging of the crag gave way to the hum of a hinge's harmony. The stair creaked upwards, revealing the downwards shaft to a corridor below.

Formed by Naugrim. Unseen by Orcs. Restored by Noldor. The way was open.

***

Yet in one respect Malris and Tasa had been mistaken. Himring still knew the crash of hammer on cast-iron anvil, even as it still knew the routine of the sentries who still, trained by their Seneschal, guarded the gatehouse.

Further on into the Dwarven Corridors, the sound of a smithy reverberated. A craftsman's tool pounded a horseshoe into shape; then a knife; then the boss of a shield; then, with different tools, a ring.

The Master Smith could devise swords that sliced Trollflesh like tender lamb, and broochs that carried the letters of entire epic poems in delicate engraving.

There was no one like him any more. But he was looking forward, oh yes, so much, to having pupils again.

[Envinyatar]

It was day, now, and the dark maw of the now revealed corridor beckoned. Orëmir was scarce convinced it looked any more inviting or safer for them in the morning’s light.

‘Well, then, let’s light the other torch, he said, putting his against that of Lómwë’s already lit one. Each of them had secured two or three other spare brands to their packs since they did not know how long the journey in the dark might take.

Lómwë ducked into the opening, holding his brand before him. Endamir followed, as Orëmir brought up the rear. They had traveled for a length of time down the twisting passageway when a very faint sound, one far away, seemed to reverberate against the stone hallways.

‘Do you hear that?’ Orëmir called out, hastening to be abreast now of his brother and Lómwë. ‘What can it be?’

[piosenniel]

Endamir could hear the chink – chink that rang off the stones. And at first he thought that it was the sound of stone tumbling against itself. But it was too regular in rhythm.

He put his hand out against the underground corridors wall. The stone was smooth, intact, unlike the unfortunate stones of the above-ground fortress that had been battered down by the battles and the elements. In a way, it relieved him that this part of Maedhros’ stand against the Darkness from the North still stood solid. It was as if the fëar of the Noldor still shown out brightly against the deep shadows of those awful days.

At least he hoped it was something of Elvenkind or of their allies that kept the way below the fortress whole.

‘I can’t say what it might be, Orëmir. I have no “feeling”, good or ill, at present to tell me what to do. ‘I say, though, let’s proceed with caution. Our weapons near to hand.’

[Anguirel]

From the vast array of tools laid out on the rack and the shelves of oak against the wall, the Master Smith had selected a single, tiny hammer, gleaming sharply in the darkness. Sometimes the light it threw was reflected, revealing for a moment part of a vast, antiquated cuirass, the hilt of a sword, the long, bitter head of a lance, for those with the eyes to see. But no one who needed eyes had come here for a long, long time: of that the Smith had made sure. He knew that he was the only artist left here; outside there were lost, lone spirits, as he would have been had he lacked the focus of the armoury, to keep and to cherish. There were Trolls that made lairs in collapsing masonry, and far worse around the borders of the lake that was still slowly destroying the ancient craft of the Dwarves, seeping patiently and destructively...

He had no time to think of them. He was almost as busy as he had ever been. For some days the premonition had lingered in his head, the persistent voice of an Elven woman, he knew not, cared not, who.

"Six pupils are coming to you, Master Smith. Six pupils just for you. Gather them all and teach them, whether or not they wish to attend. Teach them everything you know, and do not let them leave your apprenticeship till the Lord himself comes back!"

Till the Lord himself comes back. That was a certainty, the way the elven woman had spoken it. And it was clear which Lord, too. Not the younger one, he was already here, anyone could hear that, and the forge had never interested him unduly. No! The true Master of Himring was returning to inspect his servants!

Whether or not they wish to attend. The Master Smith was a practical operator. Clearly there must be a forceful but not unkind means of restraint should the pupils choose to disobey their teacher.

Clink, clink went the little hammer on the slender, smooth rings of silver, knotting them through each other. And the Smith whispered lost Curufin's charm of mastery and intelligence as the fetters began to form, wriggling in a peaceable, but cogent life of their own.

Clink, clink...