Land of Darkness RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

Raeis was alert in a moment and simply rolled sidewards behind one of the large boulders nearby as the sounds of the orcs filled the air. She sword viciously as she squeezed her eyes tight shut and her fists clenched furiously. They were so close, so close! Feeling sadness well up, the elf opened her eyes and blinked furiously. They would have no satisfaction from her, none of the satisfaction they had taken from her in the long dark years... Raeis touched the handle of the long, jagged knife that hung at her side: her sword had been lost but the twin of this knife was with Zurumor. She twisted around to peek out from behind the rock, unseen from where the battle raged...and saw no sign of Zurumor. Something inside her heart seemed to pluck at one of the strings like a harp, and Raeis was surprised at it's unexpectedly strong resonations of anxiety for the Man.

But she knew what they meant. Her lithe fingers wound around the handle and she stood slowly, coming out from behind the rock as if in slow motion and drawing the knife from her ragged belt as if it was the finest of swords pulled from the sheath of a Noldorian warrior, raising it slowly straight up in front of her. The orcs nearby noticed, and some sneered at the elf, laughing their vile corruption at the silent elf; but others were not so cocky, for there was something about the elf's silent confidence that was terrifying, and that resonated deep within some ancestral memory: a memory of the screams of orcs and the bright light surrounding almost celestial hosts of bright elves....

In this dark place, there was no light surrounding Raeis.
But within, the Light of the Valar burned like wildfire.

Ignited, the elf swung suddenly into action, her knife coming around in a blur towards the first of the orcs nearby and slicing cleanly through his throat. Head hanging off from a string of gristle, the orc's eyes bulged in the sudden shock rather than pain, and died, the sneer still half affixed to his gaping lips. Raeis paused, as if confused at the swift, expert motion: but it was coming back to her now.

She had been an expert...

...the blades glittered dangerously in the afternoon sun as the two figures circled one another, utterly focused on the other, their hands held at 45 degree angles to their bodies and feet silent as they padded on the soft fallen leaves of the forest floor. With a sudden movement, one spun around, the blade flashing forward towards the other as her long hair spun behind her...

Like one in a trance, Raeis spun suddenly, the long knife slicing like a shadow through the air towards the orc who rushed towards her...

...and met her partner's blade with a metallic ring that resounded throughout the still of the forest. The latter laughed as he withdrew, winking at her cheekily. "You'll-

Her blade slashed at the orc's stomach and her bent double, falling to the dust in front of Raeis. There was no laughter, no winks, just the still calm of the elf as she thrust her blade downwards into her fallen victim's back.

"-have to do better than that for me, Raeis."

"Better? Against you?" The beautiful elf laughed, tossing her many shaded hair outwards as she repositioned once again, her eyes levelling with her oponents. "Don't make me laugh: I may love you, but to let you win? Well, my-"

Love. Zurumor. Where was he? Raeis looked around, unblinking, her eyes unheeding of the dust that filled them. There. There he was, falling, bloodstained. Nearby, another, Morgoroth, self sacrificing, finally self sacrificed, dust stained lamb broken on the floor of the path. Eyes jerking open, limbs jerking towards him, knife jerking lazily down from it's position...

Pain.
Pain in her side.

Who?

Raeis jerked awake from her reverie, and saw Zurumor fall, mirroring her own knees buckling as she clutched her side. The orc's blade had sliced through an old whip wound and the whole wound seemed alight now. Raeis gave a small cry and in the still of her mind, it was all she heard...almost. There was another noise now, like laughter, quiet and easy, a sound to make the rippling of the most refreshing and beautiful waterfall seem less than a single drop of water. Raeis smiled softly as she recognised the voice that laughed and murmured in her mind, her face almost childlike where she knelt on the floor, unaware of anything outside of her mind: the Gods had returned to her.

Strength surged back into Raeis's limbs and the her hands tightened on the knife. In a flash second, she whipped to the left onto one knee, sword scything around at thigh level - it was her blind side, but no accuracy was required for this vicious motion. The orc gave a hideous cry of agony as his legs were cut from beneath him and he fell beside her, only to be dispatched in a moment. The elf rose once more and spun around viciously, arcing around blindly to remove any limbs in the near vicinity. Her limbs were on fire with action as the old skills and motions returned to her, but her mind was aflame with thoughts of her companions. Aldor, Dorim, Morgoroth... her companions had fallen one by one, freed from their prisons but never to escape. Now they had gone, fallen to treachery or the dust of the plains, and how many remained?

Seven.

Raeis smiled absently despite herself, her lips forming the now almost familiar shape without her noticing.

Lyshka, Darash, Grash, Bror, Zurumor, Jeren, Dwali...
Yavanna, Nienna, Mandos, Aule, Ulmo, Manwe, Varda.

The mirror was perfect: a Lord or a Lady for each of her fine companions. But no...no, they were in danger. The perfection - it would be broken!

"No!" The elf's scream was the first sound she had made in several fierce minutes and it ripped from her throat like a jagged claw. Rolling underneath the attacking club of her nearest enemy, the bruised and battered elf came up agily in front of the orc who assaulted Grash, her blade crashing into his with power that belied her size. The orc stumbled back from his prey, and the fierce light of hate in the elf's eyes for a moment quelled him, before he came again forwards. Raeis gave a bellow of anger and the light burned bright in her eyes as she fought them off, standing over Grash's body.

"No! Seven of us there are, and seven of us there will be," she cried, every inch the Noldor of her ancestors, held strong and true by the Seven. "As long as I draw breath, not one of them shall fall, upon the Lords, I swear this!"

The elf was beset upon from all sides, but even as she fought hopelessly against all odds, the power of her vow and the faraway West all that were holding her up, a blade identical to hers joined her fight on the left hand side. Raeis did not need to turn her head to see who it was, but instead she felt a warmth of a different kind inside her. Bloodied and almost wounded beyond repair though he was, he had come once more to defend her blind side, as he had in the caves of the Spider: ever kind and understanding, thoughtful...and self sacrificing.

Raeis clashed her blade momentarily against his and raised her free hand to the handle of his blade as she flattened herself against Zurumor's warm back to fight the other side. Leaning her shorn head against his, she whispered softly, "If you go now, we go together."

When the rangers came, horns blowing fear into the twisted black souls deep in the bodies of the orcs, they found a strange sight when they saw the fair, scarred elf and green eyed Man, back to back over the body of another and fiercely defending this, all they had, with anything they had, and more. The elf would even have fought the men of Ithilien, the light in her eyes so fierce as if was, had Zurumor not stopped her, laying his hands against her and resting her head against his shoulder as she calmed down: lending her a gentle touch that would hold her to him forever until she fell in a bloodied heap onto her knees.

The broken of Mordor who have been betrayed by all who ever knew them know nothing of distinction. They care little, in the end, for the outside casings that make a being: elf, man, dwarf, scarred or beautiful, there is no definition between these things when the captured are cornered in battle. Their world is a mass of greys and blacks in this, this Land of Darkness.

So when true light shines, all see it's true beauty.

[Bêthberry]

The blade never reached the hand of Darash, for, ironically, the orcs had destroyed any chance she had to use it again. In fighting with her bare hands, her arms had once again been broken. Her hands hung uselessly at the ends of her forearms, which were covered with bloody gashes where the orcs had slashed her flesh. Through immense effort, with salt biting her brow, and hot pain roiling through her body, she could tighten her muscles and try to will her hands to grasp and hold off assailants, but the sharp edges of her broken bones tormented her flesh as much as did he external cuts to her arms. And the smoke of the sulverah smote her nostrils, burning them, and spread through her head, confusing her senses. She thought she saw the orcs retreating, but her rational mind told her that was impossible. Suddenly, she sensed more around her, not orcs, but men nonetheless reaching out to her body, catching her in her fall. She would have fought them off; she tried to, but she swooned under the combined effects of blood loss, fatigue, pain, the drugged smoke which she herself had used on the spider's spawn.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

How long she had slept she did not know. She knew only that when she awoke, it was with a headache and thirst she had never known before. And then a surging fear as she saw a tall Man standing over her, clad in green and brown, placing his hands on her shoulders to keep her down. She would have struggled had she not hear his calming voice.

"It is not an orcs' hovel we have brought you to. You are safe here. The Rangers of Gondor do not harm the weak or the disabled. And Ithilien is not Mordor."

Darash lay back, remembering the pain in her arms and feeling them now spread with cooling ointments and held in place by splints and swaddled with clean cloths. The excruciating pain was gone, replaced by a numbed soreness which felt strangely like sleep. The Man reached over her once again and gently lifted her by the shoulders, holding a cup of mildly sweet liquid to her lips. At first, her cracked lips could not manage the lip of the cup and the fluid spilt down her chin, but as it flowed over her parched mouth she found she could drink more ably. The Man let her lay back to recover some strength and then lifted her again to allow her to drink. Her eyes thanked him and courtesy and respect in his shone back at her.

"Others,?" she panted. "Safe too? Where?"

"We count seven of your companions, although a stranger group of comrades I have not set my eyes upon."

She nodded, and sleep, precious balm, overcame her again.

~ ~ ~ ~
Yet when next she woke, she was able to rise and even, tentatively with arms still wrapped in splints and bandages, take advantage of the basin of warm water near her bed, and the fragrant soap embedded with herbs. Clean new clothes lay on her bed. She struggled to pull on the leggings and lift the tunic over her head but the softness of the garments seemed to fall over her easily. At her door, she was met by the Man again, who beckoned to her to follow him. He brought her to Grash, who lay still but breathing regularly on a pallet of straw. When he awoke, she comforted him with the news of help and listened while the Ranger explained to both of them how his bird had spied them in their need. Darash chuckled to herself, thinking of the old Amizgh story of the trapped animal who changed into a bird to escape. Stories have a way of coming true, she thought to herself.

Then the ground trembled and a great shudder went through the world. She swayed, and held onto the pallet for support. She might even have touched Grash's shoulder. The wind wrapped around them and the oppressive weight she had felt when she had been brought to this Northern land suddenly and at last lifted. She breathed deeply and freely for the first time since she had been kidnapped.

Grash looked at her. "Darash,?" he began. "We are free."

She lifted awkwardly her bandaged arm to stop him.

"Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re," she said, her throat muscles relaxing in saying her true name aloud for the first time in his presence. As she pointed to herself, he nodded and repeated her name and lay back upon his bed, his face showing a mixture of light and apprehension and joy he had never known before. What is freedom? he wondered aloud. She smiled. "See now," she said, briefly, with a hint of discipline and sternness in her voice.

One of the Rangers spoke up. "He needs his rest, the wound in his side is deep, and I promised to teach you how to read our sky. Will you come now, Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re?" She nodded and followed the Ranger out, full of curiosity to know what this man who read the earth and sky as she did would show her. "Show me Lyshka too," she asked.

[alaklondewen]

A sweet fragrance fill Lyshka’s nostrils, and she breathed it in deeply as she ran her fingers through the grass, relishing the way the blades pricked the soft flesh of her palms. Many years she had dreamed of the greenness of the grass, unmarred by the evil that had always surrounded her. The Evil was gone now. She had felt the tremor, and had first been afraid, but as the fresh breeze came and the heaviness of her heart lifted, she knew. The darkness that had controlled her every waking moment would never hurt her again. She was free.

The Easterling had awoken early that morning to find herself in the most beautiful place she had ever seen. “Ith-il-ee-un,” she treasured the way the word tasted in her mouth. She had decided she would not utter the words of the Dark Lord again. This new language, the language of freedom, would only leave her lips now. A smile crept across her face. Such a simple thing, a smile, yet she had not experienced this pleasure since she had been taken from her people. Pushing the memory from her head, Lyshka broadened her smile, letting the corners of her mouth push up to their extremities. If she had seen herself, she would have thought she was ridiculous, but this feeling of joy was so nature here.

“Lyshka!” The sound of her name pulled her from her thoughts. Darash! The Amazon woman stood a few feet from her, dressed in the same garments as she. Lyshka pushed her weight up and met the woman who had been much of her strength through that last many days. The women looked at one another without saying a word. Their experience reflected in their dark eyes. Lyshka felt hot tears rise beneath her lashes, and she stepped forward and embraced the dark woman tightly. The tears fell gingerly down her cheeks. “Thay-nnk yoo, Darash,” Lyshka whispered.

Darash pulled back from her and shook her head negatively. “Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re.” Lyshka tipped her head to the side, not understanding the meaning of these words. The taller woman took the Easterling’s hand and placed it on her shoulder. “I am Kashtia Ma'at-Ka-Re.”

Lyshka’s eyes widened with surprise, yet she understood. This new name was her name of freedom. Lyshka tried to pronounce it with Darash, no, Kashtia’s aid. It was a poor attempt, and caused both women to laugh freely.

One of the ranger men stood behind the women, and he now made himself known by clearing his throat and speaking to Kashtia. Lyshka was surprised that she was not frightened by his presence. Until now, any man’s presence unnerved the Easterling, and put her completely on guard. Now, she smiled at the young man and walked confidently alongside him and Kashtia as they walked to the peak of a grassy knoll. The man pointed to the sky and spoke to the women. Lyshka did not understand his words, but she hung onto the sound of it.

The sky was clearing and the sun shown down upon them, warm and strong. Lyshka took in its strength and knew that she was free to walk wherever the sun touched the brown of the soil or the green of the grass. Once more, but not for the last time, Lyshka smiled.

[Himaran]

When the uruks had attacked, Dwali was right in the middle of them. Rage had taken hold, like nothing he had ever felt before. His axe cleaved through them, winding its way on path of destruction. No longer would he flee, and leave it to others to protect him! No longer would he fall off to the side, and listen as his friends battled for their lives! Those that charged him were instantly slain, for the young warrior was in his element. No longer will I let you live!

Addreneline, however, does not come in endless supply. Soon the dwarf was exhausted, and making mistakes which could prove deadly. His guard was often down, going for a kill when he should have defended. Then a club crashed into the side of his head, and Dwali stumbled forward. He turned and slew his assailant, but was immediately attacked by another. And at last he fell to his knees and collapsed... for to him, the sound of the Rangers' horns were trumpets announcing that his time in this world had ended.

But it was not to be.

***

The grass under his feet... the fresh, crisp air... the songs of nearby birds... all had been distant memories. As if living in a dream, Dwali lay on his back and took in everything. His world had literally changed overnight, from the land of darkness to the land of light. It was all so peaceful, without guards and whips, cruel blades and filthy cells. Cirith Ungol was a thing of the past, and the dwarf hoped that it would remain so, along with his escape from it. How the rangers defeated the remaining orcs and saved the surviving company meant little to him; many uruks were felled by his blade, and that was of sole importance.

Surrounded with such peaceful beauty, it was hard for the dwarf to feel pessimistic or at odds with a particular party. But there was still a deep sadness for the dear friend he had left behind. Dorim would never be able to hear the sounds of the woods again, or enjoy the cool taste of fresh water from a running brook. No, he would remain forever in Mordor... but not in the clutches of the orcs.

Dwali stood and walked around the clearing slowly, once again admiring Ithillien's beauty. Now he was free, to live and decide what his future would be. Excitement pulsed through him; there was so much left to see! The land of darkness was gone, and it would never return.

Goodbye, Dorim. You cannot traverse the rest of this great world, but I will do it for you. And we shall meet again, somewhere... in a happier and brighter place than this.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The eyelids of sound sleepers flying open, the shouting of distraught escapees, the fumbling for some sort of weaponry; the movements seemed so effortless and graceful, as if they were meant to happen and that the actions had already been planned out for play. The fading scent of suverah floated gently through the thick air as the company fought their enemy. Beings became blurred figures in Jeren's foggy vision; shouts of defiance and rage morphed into simple sounds of restlessness in his ears; events and occurrances became slight replays in his weary mind.

The scene moved too quickly almost, and Jeren basked in the glory of a battle that felt like the last. The Southron learned more than he wanted from the little group, more than he thought he would, and more than he cared to admit. Lessons had been indirectly taught to him by the actions and the strange ways of the former prisoners that he had escaped with. Trustworthiness, caring, responsibility...all traits that Jeren knew existed in the depths of his mind and soul, but never needed in battle until now. For now, he finally had a cause worth dying for, and a company worth caring for, and a reason that he understood all too well.

Jeren would have been content to die where he stood as he fought those that would impede on his freedom and the freedom of his companions. They had all gone so far, faced so many dangers, and grieved so many losses. The Southron man did not know where he would go if...when he got his freedom, but freedom most certainly was the only ideal and hope that Jeren would not mind dying for. Perhaps that is what kept him alive so long, fighting the battles of others and not wishing to die for that which he did not believe in. Perhaps that is why Jeren never fought harder than during that one battle.

--

It was not until he felt the grass beneath his feet and the air brush against his face that he began to truly remember what he had lost. Though his days in Cirith Ungol were fewer than the others', Jeren had long forgotten the smell and sight of freedom. The hope seemed akin to flame within a closed space: quick to flicker, die out, and be forgotten. Jeren had never felt so wonderful.

Colors shone brighter, scents seemed sharper, and sounds came clearer than they ever had before. Cirith Ungol, or more specifically, getting out of Cirith Ungol had at the very least taught Jeren to appreciate what he had always taken for granted before his imprisonment.

Still unsure of where he would go and what he would do with his newly reacquired freedom, Jeren pushed such thoughts to the back of his mind and chose instead to revel in the simple beauty of Ithilien. The lovely atmosphere kept his mind off of the future, but there was nothing that could erase his mind of the past.

Jeren refused to erase the events of the company's escape.

Erasing meant forgetting, and Jeren did not want to forget all that he had learned from his new companions.

From my new friends...Jeren corrected himself.

[Kransha]

Brór was one of the few who did not succumb to the enigmatic veil of slumber that had settled above the company when Rangers from the West descended upon the black shadows as they were at last driven back and routed. His eyes remained fully open, lids refusing to lower even as tears welled up beneath each watery sphere. He could not blink, or shut his gaping eyes as the horn-calls filled his closed ears. He heard the echoes of sunny sound, like light upon his shadow. The orcs, shrieking in terror, took no time to flee and scatter, limbs and armaments akimbo, and madly dashed away from the sudden uproar of righteous power. The fight, as fast at it had sprung up, evaporated and concluded, its resonating chords and clangs washed away by a single, joyous sound from the Rangers’ horns, men who had appeared out of thin air, apparently. The bright, sylvan colors of their garb as they flooded over the battlefield sharply contrasted the red and black of Mordor and the Vale on Anduin. They visages of every companion, Dwarf, Man, and Elf, were suddenly altered drastically as the Ranger swept onto the edge of the rocky road, firing swift bolts at retreating uruks, leaderless and impotent. The weight was lifted, the threat was ended, and the gates to freedom lay within their reach. The final stretch had come, and the last step would be tread upon, the last river forded…at last.

They all collapsed, even those not overcome. Many tears were shed, even those of Bror. He looked across the jagged, rocky plain of battle as men filled the air around him, hurrying to either aid or hinder him. Eyes peered at him in passing, curious and bewildered, but he did not feel nor care about their presence. They were mannish eyes, but not those of Zuromor, Grash, or the others. They were natural and full of color, tempered with both belligerence and justness, as a warrior’s should look. Brór’s head could barely turn in response to the Rangers as they began to realize what had occurred, and who were the ones who needed saving. As darkness was lifted, the Morgul Road served as a place of rest for many of the companions. Grash and Darash lay upon the scraggly stones, succumbed to the vile stench of suverah. Morgoroth, the dark-humored Elf, was dead upon the field, a fact which did not register in Bror until he saw the blood beneath him, which had spawned crimson rivers in the orifices of the black rock. Zuromor, though injured grievously still, yet stood, clasping Raeis to him, like a vision of sunrise that crested Brór’s icy horizon. Dwali fell not far off, unconscious and bloodied, but not slain. Aldor the traitor to was dead where he lay, in a sleep he would never wake from. Lyshka and Jeren stood as well, panting mightily to recover from the strange stupor now upon them. They felt freedom as the Rangers helped them to their feet and took them from their pain and suffering, into light…

…Now, as he thought of all this as if it were happening, he was bathed in true sunlight, not the falsified light of Mordor fire, or the flash of foul substance borne in the dark lands that had been used against Shelob. The great, terrible eight legs of the Spider clawed at Brór’s withered mind, the whispering breaths of Sauron boomed in his hollowed skull, the cries of orcs and comrades created a near-fatal cacophony that pounded like drumbeats upon him. But, moments before, the drumbeat had gone. Now, as he stood in greenery and woodland, he felt the presence that infected him wither and disintegrate, moaning in agony as its power was severed from it. With Sauron’s wroth Eye gone from its perch and his form gone from Arda, the pain that leeched from Brór’s countenance left wordlessly, leaving him to his own devices, to his own fate. He felt the jets of flame that had poured through him, from wounds inflicted by the Mistress of Cirith Ungol, disappear as if they were no more than pestering gnats. Feeling renewed, but still in the misty shadow, he turned around and around again, looking to the rangers as they attended his brethren, many of whom were healing from near-mortal hurts. The Dwarf, though, turned first and foremost to Zuromor, who was outside, in the midst of rangers, on a bed of straw near that which bore Grash like a bier. As Brore tore his way past two discoursing rangers, Zuromor’s deep eyes looked up at the Dwarf and he spoke.

“Brór…” he whispered, “My comrade…Did I not tell you we would be free?”

Brór looked to his compatriot sadly. Thankfully, for him, the boy’s wound was not mortal. He would live, which consoled Brór’s unhappy temperament to no end. He nodded, drawing his gauntleted hand along a bruised cheek to extinguish a solitary tear from existence, the first of several that had set a record number for the battle-hardened Dwarf. His nodding head moved vigorously, with youth flowing in his poisoned veins again. “Aye, lad,” he said, choking on the relieved words as they rose up in his throat, “you did…you did.” He could barely bring himself to continue and lay his hand upon Zuromor’s sagging shoulder where he lay on the pallet. “And now you are.” Zurumor looked up at him, still weakened and awestruck by all the happenings. His chipped eyebrow rose slowly, arching over a wide orb, and his wry grin became a perplexed frown. “We both are, friend, remember?”

Now, Brór shook his head from side to side, the madly dispersed hairs of his great beard still as unkempt and untamable as they had been on that day when the door to his two-decade prison swung open with the slightest of ease. “No, Zuromor,” he said, and let his hand slide dejectedly off Zuromor’s shoulder, “you are free. My freedom will not come for many years yet. The light may be just over the horizon, but the sun is still a mountain away. The mountain can be scaled, but I do not intend to ford the obstacle…not yet. Be happy, Zuromor, and revel in your freedom.” Zuromor still looked confused, and his back arched as he rose from the bed, swiftly assisted by one of his saviors who helped him to his feet at last. Again he looked down on Brór, but Brór did not look up at him. A call from Dwali, who had awaken from his state moments ago, stirred Brór to turn around.

“Come, Brór.” said Dwali, materializing behind his fellow dwarf, “We must engineer a way back to our lands. I am told by these men that there is a dwarf in the company of the Gondorians. Perhaps we can seek a route to our homeland with him. Now, Brór, that we are free of the accursed Black Lands, we must go home.” His voice gained energy and excitement, though all words were delivered with a serious notation, like a merry dirge, contradictory as it was. Brór, hesitating greatly, turned at last and walked back, away from the straw bed, the rangers, and Zuromor behind him. “Indeed…” his nod and pause was painfully solemn. “We must.”

Finally, wholly removing his gaze from Zuromor, Brór Stormhand dragged the two tired feet beneath him forward, as Dwali looked concernedly at him. But, though melancholic in his gait, he smiled at long last and clasped the other Dwarf’s hand, shaking it powerfully. Dwali’s face lit up at the change, and the two dwarves looked, with stern but satisfied seriousness, at each other and Brór continued to move past, at a brisker, jauntier pace. Suddenly, though, Zuromor moved rapidly towards the back of his Dwarf kinsman. He clapped him upon the back, halting him in his tracks. “Brór,” He said, with more genuine serenity than ever had been present in his voice before, “You will not say so, but I know the darkness is gone from you.” Brór turned again, his head tilting up and his eyes peering into Zurumor’s, each eye holding all the memories, all the emotions, all the feelings that had been secreted there during his stay in Mordor. “Yes, Zuromor,” he said quietly, “the darkness is gone, but only the darkness of Sauron. Some shadows still linger, shadows that do not fade with time, or heed the passage of years. I will keep my shadows, Zuromor, and you may keep yours, but you may shed those that lie in you, for you have a light to extinguish the darkness. Keep your light, my friend, and live in peace and happiness. Knowing you, and all your kindred, has been an unmatched honor. I will e’er remember the lad who befriended me in the land of darkness.”

And he turned for the last time and, with Dwali just behind, headed off to consider options yet again. Behind him, Raeis, the Elf, rushed to Zuromor, though the young man’s eyes lingered on Brór for just a moment longer. Their pact made many days ago had not been for naught, as Brór had said. He watched as Brór sat, just as he always did, but he had no prison wall at his back, or bars before him, casting shadows on his face. He heard one last sound come from the dwarf in the distance, words that carried over the small camp. “Baruk Khazâd. Khazâd aimênu.” The battle-cry of the Dwarves…and of Brór Stormhand.

[Fordim Hedgethistle]

Ergon shifted nervously from foot to foot, awaiting the arrival of the Heroes. He had heard so much about the Ring-bearers, the two little Halflings from the distant reaches of the North and the mists of myth, that he hardly expected to see them in the flesh. The men of his command were gathered about, all of them dressed in their usual green and brown by the particular order of the Lord Elessar, who wished to see the Rangers of Ithilien in the robes that they had worn for so long in defense – and defiance – of the shadow now departed. Upon either hand and gathered about in all corners of the Field of Cormallen were the Men of the West, resplendent in glory, and glowing in the joy of a victory unhoped and unlooked for.

Ergon and his men had spent the day before preparing the grounds, including the throne of turfs, fashioned after the old Ranger method. Beside the throne stood the Lord Elessar, taking counsel with his captains, for while the shadow was past, there yet remained many servants of the now departed dark lord, and there was much still to do. At the thought, Ergon’s eye moved to where the strange party stood near the fringes of the crowd. Since the day he had rescued them, almost two weeks before, they had not ceased to amaze him. Their story had been told hesitantly at first, for their Road had been a hard one – darker and more dangerous than most. But as the details of their struggles had emerged and word had spread of their deeds, more and more men of Gondor had come to meet with the companions and hear of their exploits. The attention had unnerved them, and by the command of Elessar they had been given privacy. The Lord Elessar, however, had not been able to restrain his curiosity, particularly with regard to the passing of Shelob, and yesterday he and Mithrandir had called the companions to them and spoken with them of all that they had seen and experienced in their terrible road. None among the host knew precisely what had passed in the interview, but when the companions had emerged from the pavilion at the end of the day, they had looked changed and oddly tired. Of what they had learned, Mithrandir and Elessar would say little, only that there had been deeds of such renown performed by this odd collection of beings, as to make them among the honoured of the age that was now passing.

A cry went up from the far side of the field, and Ergon strained with the rest to see the Halflings as they were led to Elessar by Mithrandir. The Heroes were abashed by the cries and seemed to shrink toward one another, casting about with nervous smiles. Something in their manner reminded Ergon of the companions. Elessar took them by the hands and bade them sit upon the throne. There then stepped forth a bard, and soon Ergon was lost in the music.

When the song was over and the crowd was dispersing, Ergon saw the companions once more. This time they were being led by Mithrandir to meet with the Halflings. Like the Heroes, they had passed through the darkness to the light, and it seemed only fitting to the Ranger that they should be presented to those who had destroyed the Dark Lord.

Later that night as the host settled themselves about the fires that had been lit for the celebration, Ergon was pacing back to his tent. He paused by the small fire that had been lit near his own, around which were gathered the companions. They did not see him upon the fringe of the small circle cast by their fire, and he did not call out to them. They did not speak, but stared instead singly into the flames, each of them lost in their own thoughts or dreams. There was a peace to the scene that spread out to Ergon and he felt, for the first time, what had been gained by their victory. Lightness settled upon his heart, and quiet grew in his soul.

The companions stirred and moved their hands toward one another. Ergon could not tell if the act was begun by one of them, or if some instinct had seized them as a group, but reaching out, they took hands forming a ring about the flame.

Turning away so as not to disturb them, Ergon left, and sought his bed.