Friends Of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams, Part 2 RPG

[littlemanpoet]

Iorgil had been most helpful. He was sitting just outside Maegeleb's cell, as silently directed. He read the guard's mind while making small talk.

"What weather this day?"

"Calm but chill." The guard muffled a belch from supper.

He has been down to the Seven Stars Inn, as I suggested to his mind.

"You have eaten well, then?"

"Your pardon. Aye, well."

He has sat near enough to overhear the conversations of the women I held captive in the swamp.

"At the king's mess?"

"Nay. There's an inn on the fourth level. The Seventh Star they call it."

Maegeleb probed his mind. Humans were pathetic. There were the memories, each word and image clearly held in store, but Maegeleb knew that this man, if asked, would only be able to bring to speech a smattering of it. This way was much more efficient.

“Leafa!” An embrace. “Bella!” An invitation to sit.

"The ale must be passing fair judging by the breath with which you sour my cell."

"Aye, 'twas very good."

Less than a day. Already misses them. So the men have left Minas Anor. Sick of being here and doing nothing. Take care, a sure sign of intending to do something, like leaving Minas Anor as well.

"The least you could do was smuggle some in for me if you're going to fill my cell with vapors."

Iorgil shook his head. "Water for prisoners, that is all."

Where is Mellonin?” "Bella! Good morning! How fared you the night?" Slept well. Harder than she thought. Misses them. Pathetic humans.

"When do I get my day end meal?"

"You had it already."

Small talk of food and drink. Making such a big to-do about food and drink.

"I would like some more."

"You'll get no more."

"Are you feeling well, Bella?" The one named Bellyn seems on the verge of fever. What does that portend?

"Mind your manners. You speak to an elf lord."

"Lord or slave, a prisoner you are and one serving is enough. Orders."

Iorgil, you will go back to the Inn for breakfast and pay attention to these young women to hear and see what you can."

Iorgil stretched. "I think I'll go back there for breakfast. Looked like good food."

"You gall me with your talk of food, oh prison guard. You are most unkind."

Iorgil stretched again and yawned. "Be that as it may, lights out. I bid you a good night."

Maegeleb did not reply, but lay on his cot thinking things through long after the torch was extinguished.

[mark12_30]

An early morning, a long day, and a late night. And now to bed.

She was somewhat cheered to have Leafa nearby, and to have had a visit from Bella. Although truth be told, she barely knew them.

How she missed her brother, and how she missed Raefindan. And...

She pulled the covers up tightly around her chin, and squeezed her eyes shut.

How gentle he had been, lifting her chin with one careful finger, so that she had to look into his eyes. Those green eyes; like the leaves in August, rich and strong, shimmering, moving in the wind.

She opened her eyes, and shifted, and closed them again, brushing a lock of hair away from her face. Her hand, passing across her cheek, touched a place that was too smooth. Her scar. Only it wasn't a scar; it was baby-new skin. Marigold had treated her.

But before they had arrived at Marigold's house, Ravion had treated it first; cleaned it, salved it, and dressed it, all with that gentle touch, and with trouble and concern in those forest-green eyes.

She dreamt of woodlands, and trees, and loving eyes; healing hands, the caress of water; a golden voice, the laughter of the sun-filled stream. At first. But then the woods turned cold, and the leaves fell, and the more she looked for friendly eyes, the more she saw the sun glaring off the ice. She stumbled along in her dreams, her hand warding off the glare, her feet colder and colder, her hands stiffening. She struggled on, searching for the caring eyes, the cheering voice, the healing touch; the cold stones cut her feet, the ice tore at her hands, and the silence burdened her struggling heart.

[littlemanpoet]

As they rode south at a pace that was not in the least comfortable, Raefindan's eyes wandered from the mix of hurt and determination in Aeron's face, to the back of Erebemlin's head. He felt for Aeron. His instinct was to be angry with Erebemlin for his dunderheaded blindness.

It's one thing to be single mindedly committed to the purpose of your lord, Erebemlin; that's something I can personally relate to- Raefindan rehearsed the words in his mind that he doubted he'd ever actually say -but to dismiss another's dream out of hand because it doesn't fit with your agenda, is just plain foolish.

No, it wouldn't do to say that to Erebemlin. If he wouldn't listen to Aeron, he wasn't about to listen to Raefindan either; he would likely dismiss his words as the product of misplaced human sympathy. Would Erebemlin be accurate in that? Raefindan asked himself. No. Marigold had directed Aeron to cut a lock of Gwyllion's hair and keep it on his person so that the two would be bound to each other. That meant that Gwyllion was in fact likely to appear to Aeron in dreams, if not visions. Because of Marigold, Raefindan was convinced that Gwyllion's ghost was not far, had not yet traveled beyond the walls of the world. Marigold seemed to understand that the girl's purpose was not yet complete in Middle Earth. A sense of peace and contentment settled over Raefindan as he thought about this, for he was sure that Marigold's deed was part of a larger pattern, a weave, perhaps, that threaded all their actions, thoughts, and dreams together toward a purpose that none of them knew, and that the reuniting of Amroth and Nimrodel was only one small part of. Yes, this was the way things really worked; Raefindan had seen such things happen too many times to count to doubt his thought now.

"Never fear, Aeron, your dream is true, and we'll see how it weaves itself into the tapestry of our quest."

Aeron looked at him in some bewilderment. "How can you always be so cheerful and sure?"

Raefindan chuckled. It would be too hard to explain. "I think it best not to give you words to answer. Let us watch and wait, and see how the weave of events reveals the answer to your query."

Aeron looked even more confused now. "Weave of eve Ents? Reeve eels? Quarry? Raefindan, you're back to making no sense. Are there Ents that weave at dusk somewhere in southern Gondor? Eels that act like aldermen? And do I have a quarry?"

Raefindan laughed. "I'll try again. Let us see what happens, and your dream will find its meaning."

"That's better! But how that has to do with ents and eels and quarries I do not know!"

Raefindan laughed again. "Nor I! But let that be a lesson to me to take care of my words!"

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

As soon as Bellyn had gotten home, Rosa had tended to her with gentleness and a motherly concern. Bellyn had walked in from her visit to the Seventh Star, her forehead dotted with the occasional bead of sweat, but her arms shaking with chill.

Bellyn had not the wits about her to protest when Rosa offered her own bed. The blankets wrapped around her, she tossed and turned until afternoon became night. She did not sleep well. Bellyn woke every few hours, uncomfortably hot. After throwing off the blankets, she would return to slumber before starting to shiver. This cycle of feeling overheated or freezing continued through the night, as did Bellyn's strange dreams.

She thought she could feel her skin tingle, and she rolled over as images came flooding into her head. Her closed eyes flickered as she threw the blanket off again.

A woman, tall and elegant, stood before Bellyn. Around her, a beautiful forest stretched far into the distance. The leaves of the trees tumbled slowly, gracefully to the ground. For a moment, Bellyn lay still in her bed as the flawless scenery enveloped her dreams.

It did not last for long.

Suddenly, the dream flashed from the radiance of the forest to the melancholy of a rocky, desolate mountain pass. Far in the distance, as high as the gloomy grey skyline, Bellyn could see snow-capped peaks. The color washed away from the scenery, and the hue of the lady’s skin drained from her face. Her eyes no longer shone.

The lady whipped her head around, as if she had heard something.

“We will find Nimrodel, I know it,” said one voice.

“We cannot search forever,” complained another. The voices seemed to sound more and more distant with each word.

“We are here! We are here!” Dream-Bellyn tried to shout; not a sound came from her parted lips. Her screaming seemed to evaporate into the air. “We are here!”

The woman before Bellyn said nothing.

Bellyn awoke from her nightmare, sweating. Her eyes, sore from restless slumber, blinked rapidly to allow aching tears to fall. She looked to her left and saw her pack, the pack that she had brought all the way from Rohan to Gondor. Bellyn tried to calm herself but the beating in her heart continued at a rapid pace. She rolled out of Rosa’s bed, grabbed her pack, and left the house as quickly as possible, caring not if she woke her sister-in-law or her nephew.

Out into the chill air, Bellyn sped up into a run, moving down the streets frantically. Her destination was far enough away for the girl to regain her composure, to remember her senses and go home. Her heart and tired eyes hurt, but she had one thought in her mind: she had to find her horse, and she needed to find the woman.

She found the Seventh Star, and saw the nearby stables. Her horse would be there. She hoped it was not so late that the stables would be locked – Bellyn was quite uncertain of the time. But the doors were opened, and next to Leafa’s horse she found her own.

Within minutes Bellyn was out of the stables. Bellyn’s mind raced. She knew she had to leave Minas Tirith. The white peaks…the woman…it came together in an intricate mental map.

Bellyn had never tried to navigate on her own before. She had drawn map after map; the cities, the forests, and the rivers matched perfectly in her mind. Bellyn did worry how she would find the White Mountains, the snow-capped peaks she thought she had seen in her dreams. She hoped she did not get lost.

[littlemanpoet]

The river woman whistled from her two-leggeds' den. "Tirril!" she called in her sing-song way. "Jorje!"

Jorje lifted his nose from the ground and cocked an ear. He grinned. He liked the way the river woman used both his names. He kissed the air with his tongue and ran toward the den, panting and grinning happily all the way. She had human-hand-licked him and hand-nipped his ears right at the roots the way the best humans knew how to do.

"I have a running and hunting for you to do, Jorje Tirril."

Jorje sniffed at her reedy breath and glowy face. Running? Hunting?

"Remember Leaf woman and Dark woman and Man woman? I want you to find them."

What for? Bring them back?

"I want you to sniff out the dangers near and far in the high places and warn them."

She took his broad head in her two hands so that he was looking into her eyes. He did not like looking into the eyes of humans, for they were great and their eyes had things behind them he didn't know how to smell. Jorje knew that they couldn't smell the dog-sense he had behind his nose, but there was something great in humans behind those eyes of theirs, and it usually scared him; not with river woman though. He sniffed a difference in her, some way she had of smelling but not with her nose, so her eyes didn't scare him so much. He met her eyes now.

"Sniff out the strangers and tell the women if they be friend or fiend. Sniff for the bad elf, the one who ran the eermy ones back in the swamp."

Jorje remembered and almost retched right then and there. The river woman grinned.

"May the aroo go with you wherever you go. Be witty and sniff well, and may your paws be whole and may your legs run fast at need. Now go!"

She let go. Jorje was off at a gallop next instant. The ground flew by beneath his feet. After a little while he slowed his pace but his excitement stayed with him. The river woman had sent him on the hunt. He was glad to be running!

[mark12_30]

"The faithless one? Why do you name her? Her memory brings me no joy."

"My lady, we do not know why she left. You know she loved you."

"Nay, I know it not. Had she loved me she would not have left. No, " said Nimrodel in a rare moment of clarity, "your friendship, Mithrellas, stands alone in my life; your faithfulness is unmatched. No other remains. Least of all, the Faithless one-- The Unwilling one."

Mithrellas watched as the moment of gratefulness passed. She grieved its passing as she had rejoiced to see it; silently. Now bitterness glittered in her lady's eyes. Mithrellas said only, "My lady, name her not so."

"Nay; name her not otherwise. Unwlling she was, and so she shall be known. Let the West have her faithlessness; Let them suffer her fickle heart-- The Unwilling One."

Avarien. The sound of the word settled over her soul like a grey woolen cloak, muffling her, hiding her from her self, taking away what she knew of herself and replacing it with the name Nimrodel had given her. Avarien.

She shuddered, and woke with a resolve as thankless and grim as her new name.

She dressed quickly in the dark: boots and breeches, tunic, dress, shawl, cloak. Passing through the kitchen, she gathered a small bag of supplies, and tying it up with the blanket, slung it onto her back. Leaving the Inn, she passed silently through the empty streets; indeed, the mist made her hearly invisible.

She noiselessly opened the large stable door, silently entered, and stood in the darkened aisle. "Hear me, " she said softly. "My mistress Nimrodel languishes in the hills, sorely in need of aid. Who will help me?"

A dark head, shaggy and plain but for the wise eyes, reached up over a stall door, giving a soft whicker.

The girl bowed her head, stepped towards the door, lifted the latch, and opened it. The dark horse stepped carefully out, and then turned sideways and dropped his head. The girl took a deep breath, gathered her skirts in her right hand, grasped the horse's mane with her left, and swung lightly onto his back. Roheryn gave her a moment to settle onto his back, and then trotted out the stable door and into the road.

At the hoofbeats, two groggy voices called, and two stableboys tumbled blearily from their beds and stumbled into the aisle, to see only the open door and the now empty stall. They ran to the door, commanding the horse to halt, but neither the horse nor the girl gave them heed. Roheryn cantered down the winding road, the two stable boys giving chase and falling far behind. Sleepy passers-by blinked at the odd sight in the predawn light.

The gate was opening to greet the mist-veiled dawn when Roheryn aproached it. Hearing the shouts from the stable, half the guards surged forward while the other half stretched into a line across the open gate. The horse checked himself, shying and swerving past guards as they snatched for his reins and found none. Roheryn turned away from the ragged line of men blocking the open gate, while the guards ran at him again. He churned away from each in turn, shying this way and that, his shoes sparking against the cobblestones. The girl cried out angrily, "Let me pass! In the name of Amroth, let me pass!" The horse reared again, still dodging soldiers, and then circled back into the courtyard, turned towards the still-open gate and hurled himself towards the line of men that stretched across it. The gate captain's voice rang out.

"Let him pass! Let him pass!"

The men divided and fled the oncoming horse. Roheryn ran through the gate and raced northward. For a moment his hooves beat a sharp tattoo on the road, and then he swerved onto the turf, and melted into the grey countryside.

[Formendacil]

"Faramir, I need to speak to you," the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien slowed down in the halls of the citadel as his King caught up to him.

"Yes, milord Elessar, what can I do for you?"

"Captain Ingold has just brought a rather distraught father and mother to me. It seems that their daughter and several of her lady acquaintances have disappeared from the city."

Elessar seemed to be in a somewhat stormy mood, noted Faramir, who did his best to keep his tone serious and not as tired as he felt. Disappearing young ladies, while troublesome, did not quite merit the attention of the King and Steward. Unless...

"Milord, is there any reason Captain Ingold brought these parents to you, rather than just searching on his own?"

Elessar nodded, a hand running distractedly through his hair.

"The son of the couple was sent from Minas Tirith but a few days ago, with provisions from our storehouses and with my blessing. You will recall the Elves that I was talking about."

"The ones seeking Amroth's fëa?"

"Not exactly..." Elessar decided not to descend into a discussion then and there on how they already had Amroth's fëa and how it was Nimrodel they were looking for, and any of that. More important things were afoot.

"But the same Elves. The missing daughter, Mellonin, was the sister of Mellondu, the young blacksmith. All of the missing ladies were companions of the questors before they came to Minas Tirith."

"And you think there is a connection, that these ladies may have followed them?"

"It seems likely." The situation explained, Elessar moved on to the reason he was talking to Faramir.

"I'm having Ingold's men search the city, and learn what they can here, but I'd like a number of your rangers to find these young ladies, and escort them to safety. I trust rangers in such a task over ordinary guardsmen."

"Once a ranger, always a ranger," laughed Faramir with a slight bow. "As you wish, Milord King; I think I can find enough rangers here in the city."

At this moment a swift tapping of footsteps on stone echoed up the corridor from behind them. Captain Ingold dashed up to them.

"Sire," he bowed to the King, "we've got a lead on them. They stole a horse from the Royal Stables."

"From the Royal Stables?" Faramir arched an eyebrow in amusement.

"Yes, Lord Steward," Ingold nodded, still puffing slightly. "It was your horse, Sire," he turned to Elessar, "Roheryn."

Elessar's face betrayed no sense of either crisis or bemusement. "All the more reason to find these young ladies. Lord Faramir, I shall leave it in your capable hands."

Nodding to Faramir and Ingold, Elessar strode down the hall, just a bit faster than usual, Faramir thought.

~*~

"You requested my presence, Lord Faramir?"

Bergil son of Beregond, Ranger of Ithilien, looked down at the Steward's desk. He was a tall, dark-haired young man in his early-to-mid twenties, tall and lithe in the Númenorean norm. He looked slightly anxious at having been called into the Steward's study while on what was supposed to have been leave. But it could have been curiosity as easily as fear. Bergil had been acquainted with Faramir since the War, when his father had saved the Steward's life and become Captain of the White Guard.

"Yes, Bergil," Faramir looked up, pushing away the papers, and gesturing with his right hand for Bergil to sit. "I'm sorry to have to call you away from your leave, but the number of rangers in Minas Tirith is fewer than I thought, and we have a not-so-straightforward case to deal with."

"Sir?" Bergil gave Faramir as a puzzled look as he took his chair. Faramir quickly outlined the situation of Mellondu and his companions setting out southwards, and Mellonin's disappearance, giving a slight account of the events previously, as he knew them.

"Ingold's investigations have made things a little more complicated, I fear," continued Faramir. "Instead of going south, and following the Elves, as we expected, all witness reports say that the ladies went north, towards Anórien. Possibly to Cair Andros, possibly to Rohan, possibly to Lórien, possibly to swing south again. We do not know.

"And that is why we need more rangers than I expected. I'm sending men north and south, and I'll check at Osgiliath or Cair Andros to see if they have crossed Anduin. You get the easy task, though, as recompense for disturbing your leave. I'm sending you straight down the great road southwards. Riding alone, and changing horses at the waystations, you should be able to overtake the women without difficulty. Or, if they have not gone that way, you should catch the Elves and their companions. If the women are not with them, you can return to Minas Tirith, and we shall know they did not go that way. If you do find them, bring them back to Minas Tirith, or at least send word, if they and their menfolk prefer to keep them with them."

Bergil nodded, getting excited. This sounded exciting. Several missing damsels in distress; Elves on a high quest; the spirit of a long-dead Elvenking; no apparent villains. Certainly, he thought, worthy of sacrificing a few weeks of leave, even if it meant not visiting Great-Aunt Morwen. Especially if it meant not visiting Great-Aunt Morwen.

"I can be ready to leave by sundown," he said, rising. "Sooner, probably."

"Sooner is better," said Faramir. "The blessings of the Valar go with you, Bergil."

Bergil nodded, and with a bounce in his step turned to leave.

"And Bergil," called Faramir. Bergil paused, and turned.

"Thank you."