Treachery of Men RPG

[Gwathagor]

No sooner had he passed the great gates of the city which clung to the side of Lake Helevorn, but Tathren was apprehended by two soldiers, clad in the red and black livery of Caranthir's personal guard. Up the straight, broad avenues they ushered him, courteously but swiftly, and soon passed beneath the resplendent, iron-hard towers of the great fortress. It stood upon the very brink of a cliff which dropped straight down a hundred feet to the lake below. And in the midst of the palace, he met Lord Caranthir Feanorion himself.

Upon his high throne Caranthir sat, haughty and still. Clad all in black he was, save for a red cloak which was flung about his shoulders. His high crown of diamond sat upon his dark hair and across his knees was laid his sheathed sword. Behind the throne, daylight shone in through tall arched windows which overlooked the lake and created a golden aura about Caranthir's throne.

Tathren sank to his knees instinctively some distance before the throne, even as the guards swung the great doors shut behind him.

"Approach, envoy of our throne."

Tathren obeyed, for it was Caranthir who had spoken, but he kept his head bowed as he drew near to the steps which led up to the throne. Caranthir was silent for a moment, perhaps choosing his words.

"Why are you alone? Lachrandir did not return with you, his charge. Why?"

"My lord, I bring you word from the House of Ulfang. They say - "

"Answer me, Tathren. Where is Lachrandir? Where is my herald?"

"My lord - " Tathren found he could barely force the words from his mouth. His face burned and his stomach felt hollow. How can I? he thought. How can I possibly explain? The wrath of Caranthir was infamous through all the kindred of the Noldor and Tathren feared for his life if he should deliver this news. Then, as if from a very great distance, though it had only been some days, Tathren heard Lachrandir's voice echoing and remembered the words the older elf had spoken to him on the day of their arrival at the Easterling hall: Come, boy - Remember, speak precisely, if you're called on to talk, and not for long. That should serve well enough. And Tathren hardened his will. Yes, Uncle, he thought. He would do his master this last service, this final obedience. This was still a hall of state and he was still a royal envoy. He raised his head and met Caranthir's eyes. A chill went down his spine - but it was not fear.

"He was murdered by we know not whom. His body I burned with his banner and his ashes I cast upon the river, that they might come in time to the sea and thence to Valinor."

So saying, he drew forth the elvish knife he had taken from Lachrandir's body and presented the hilts to Caranthir. There was a silence. Caranthir's jaw hardened and his eyes glittered, but his brow remained unfurrowed. Tathren's gaze wavered before those terrible, penetrating eyes - and then suddenly, sharply Caranthir stood. Tathren swallowed and steeled his nerve as Caranthir descended the steps before the throne, stepping quickly and lightly as the crimson cloak rippled behind him. In a moment his hand was upon the dagger, which he took by the sheath. He held it up and turned it in the light for a moment and then he spoke - and the voice, while stern, was not wrathful.

"I believe you tell the truth, page. This is Lachrandir's knife, there is no doubt. I have seen it at his side a hundred times. If what you say is true, then I say you did what you could - and you did well. So Lachrandir is dead. What of your message? Do the Ulfings heed the summons of their liege-lord?"

"Lord Caranthir, they do. They have agreed to fight beside us, should war come."

Caranthir laughed. "Should war come! It is already coming. All of us - even you, page - will have our fill of war soon enough. Very well. That is all."

Tathren was stunned. That was all?! "What of Lachrandir?" he said in surprise. "Is - is that all?"

Caranthir had begun to ascend the throne once more, but he turned back on Tathren. "Have the Easterlings not agreed to honor their pledge? Lachrandir's mission is discharged, his purpose to me fulfilled. What more is there?"

Tathren remained kneeling and speechless.

"I would have hid my disdain from you, boy. If Lachrandir was fool enough to let himself be murdered - by a pack of Easterlings, no less - then he has received all he deserved!"

"He died serving you, lord!"

"And so he should."

"But do you not wish to see justice for your servant, your faithful servant? Can you not, as liege, see justice visited upon the Easterlings who killed? Do you not at least wish to know why he was killed?"

"No! I do not!" Caranthir paused, and then, on second thought, said: "Here. Take his knife. I dismiss you, Tathren." He thrust the knife at Tathren, who took it in trembling hands.

Without another glance or word, Caranthir resumed his high throne and motioned for the boy to be let out. The doors swung wide and Tathren left the throne room of Caranthir, head bowed, Lachrandir's knife held in both hands, wishing all the curses and imprecations his young imagination could muster upon the harsh king and wishing, last of all, a kind of vengeance upon Caranthir: that the alliance for which Lachrandir had died would come to naught.

[Folwren]

The time had come to gather his people together and to prepare them for war. He sent messengers out to the people living away from the city, ordering them to come and join the army. All the men and boys above thirteen years of age obeyed the summons. The streets and houses of the city were packed.

When they day came to march out to war, Uldor summoned the people near the great hall. They gathered about, pressing close to the building’s woodwork. Their noise filled the courtyard and the hall, a low rumbling like that of the sea. Uldor waited just long enough to build curiosity and suspense, and then he stepped out upon a balcony above them. The crowd hushed and a murmur went through the main body of men, “It is Lord Uldor!”

He was dressed simply, in black. Over his shoulders her wore a dark red cape. His head was uncovered. Behind him, in the shadow of the doorway, stood Jord.

Uldor raised his hand and a silence fell. “Friends,” he said looking down at the sea of upturned faces. “Comrades! Today we go forth to face battle! But I have called you here to tell you that we will fight for our own freedom and not merely for the good of someone else!” He paused, and a silence met him. They waited. “Until now,” he said, his voice rising to a great orator’s pitch, “Until now, we have been pawns in the lord Caranthir’s hands, waiting to fight when he summoned us, so that we could help him advance his own kingdom. We have gained nothing from our friendship with the elves. They have only used us for their own good and we have been left here in the cold, rocky region, whereas they enjoy the pleasures of the forests and green fields. No longer shall we stand for this! It will be changed!” This time when he paused, a roar of approval met him. He allowed them to carry on a moment and then he lifted his hand.

“We will go and we will throw their oppressive hand off of us!” Shouting again. He lifted his hand. “We will catch the elves unaware! I have sent word to lord Caranthir that I will fight on his behalf. It will appear that we will keep this word, for we will go and fight in his ranks. There we will be, side by side with the elves. But!” His eye swept the people. They waited in breathless silence. He deemed the time right to reveal his hand. “But when the word comes, you must turn and fight the elves. Thus we will over come Caranthir and break the bond he holds over us. Only in this fashion will we be able to free ourselves from their tyranny! To war, then, Ulfings!”

The crowd went mad. They shouted until they were hoarse. Those with spears lifted and shook them. Swords were drawn. Somewhere in the middle of the crowd, men began to chant, and soon the words flowed out through the entire body of men. “To war! To war! To war!”

Uldor’s eyes gleamed as he looked down at them. They were behind him entirely. He turned and went back in. For a moment, his eyes met Jord’s, but he did not stop to speak with her. Down to the courtyard he went and there he mounted his horse. He rode out to meet his men. A roaring cheer greeted him. Slowly he rode through them and up toward the city gate.

He reined in as he stood under the gate post. He looked forward. The wind was blowing the dry grasses back and forth with a mournful moaning sound. It caught and tugged at his cloak and stirred the hair about his face. Then he looked back at the people behind him. Their captains had formed them into long lines and he saw rank upon rank winding back into the city. His eyes swept across them, and then lifted to look towards the hall where he had come from. On the balcony where he had given his speech, he saw one single figure. It was Jord.

Uldor turned his face outward and dug his heels into his horse’s side. The tramp of feet followed him. They were off to war, and treason.

[piosenniel]

Mithalwen's post

Loyalty is a strange thing. Some inspire it, and hold it through the bonds of admiration and affection. Others command it through ties of blood or duty. To treat it as a commodity to be purchased is a dangerous policy. Such allegiance may be transferred to the highest bidder and commerce is an activity of the rational mind which is liable to rate self interest above that of the paymaster. The ties of the heart are less easily severed.

Tathren knew that Lachrandir had been utterly loyal to Caranthir but his death had earned only his lord’s disdain. He remembered his father whose loyalty to his brother had led him to exile and slaughter. He would have followed Lachrandir even to the doors of Angband but his loyalty to the House of Feanor had died with his master So he did not protest or even murmur when Midsummer neared and Caranthir had forbidden those not yet of full years and stature from the ranks of his army. What in another leader might have seemed an act of compassion seemed a sneer on the lips of the Feanorian. If, as seemed to Tathren, Caranthir scanned his face for a sign of dissent, he found it not. The boy deemed merely by living he could in a small way spite the great lord

He remembered with foreboding the words of Mandos that had coursed through his mind as he had knelt beside his master, sensing they neared fulfilment. His kindred would reap a harvest of grief but the seeds had been sown long ago on a distant shore. He knew he might find death without going to war, that the doom of the Noldor could not be eluded forever - but this was not his time. Not yet.

[piosenniel]

~ Finis ~

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