Friends of Nimrodel: Tapestry of Dreams

[littlemanpoet]

If you value the life of your sister and friend, you will stop where you are, and come no closer.

Raefindan heard the words in his head, as clear as if they had been spoken aloud, and he knew who spoke them.

"I know this voice!" said Amroth, harshly. "Tharonwe!" Amroth's lips tightened; Echo's head dropped, and the group halted. His and Erbemlin's eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

So I am called by those who seek to besmirch my honor.

"You have none, skulker! 'Tis mere cowardice that prevents you from showing your face!"

Nay, 'tis wit. Do you think me a fool to stand before three Elves without defense? That would be no fair fight.

"The swamp elf," Raefindan said, looking all around him. He could not see the speaker at any distance. "Where is he?" Next moment, he saw in his mind, Mellonin, alive and awake - and bound and fearful. The swamp elf stood next to her, and there were foul looking, lank haired and diminutive humans in loin cloths, their teeth sharpened to points; they eyed Mellonin hungrily.

Amroth said nothing. Erebemlin spoke. "Release the captive." Amroth waited, his eyes cold and dark.

I do not think you are in any position to give me orders, Lorien Elf. Tharonwe raised a sharp knife to Mellonin's face. The little men licked their lips hungrily.

"You have never taken orders, faithless one. For that you shall answer, " said Erebemlin.

Beware your words, for the sake of this sister and friend. Thraonwe's knife inched closer to her face.

"To whom is this one sister?" asked Amroth.

"She is your sister," Ravion said with some vehemence. "Do you not know her?"

"She is no sister to me," Amroth replied dismissively.

"Your faces could be mirrors!" Ravion said, his voice rising.

In Raefindan's mind's eye, Tharonwe turned to Mellonin; tears ran down her face. Did you hear, my sweet, how he disowns you? Her eyes closed tight with the pain.

"The body you wear, lord," said Erbemlin.

Yes, Mellondu, young Gondorian blacksmith, you have been occupied in the same fashion that the former Dark Lord sought to occupy your homeland. Is your will your own, or are you at the mercy of your own dark lord?

[littlemanpoet]

Jorje Tirril and Ædegard's mount (whose given name was Brade) trotted down the path made by the human's footsteps. It curved hither and yon, but ever remained on solid ground. The man must have a good nose to keep his feet on such a sure trail. But if he did, he would have smelled the fouls and the woman, and he hadn't. So maybe something else kept him on the trail, something not aroo at all, but eerm instead. Jorje's hackles rose in fear. Something eermy lay ahead of them, and he had just begun to smell it. It was the foul retchy thing again, only a lot stronger.

He snuffled to Brade that they needed to hurry. It was a good thing that one toe's could really run when they had to. They ran. It was easy now to follow the scent, and Jorje retched as he ran, but run he did, retch or not.

It was colder and wetter here, and there was a building with dripping stone. It was dark here, even though one eye in the sky was still a sniff up. The man's feet went through that eermy, hackly door. Jorje went down on his belly and eermed, real quiet, he couldn't help it, the sound just came out of him because it was such an eermy place. But red man had sent him to find Ædegard, and he would find him, even in this eermy place. He crawled through the door. Brade stayed outside. Jorje couldn't blame him. Besides, Brade made too much noise, even in the mucky swamp.

There were foul eerms in the distance, and they snuffled to each other. Amid all the retchy smell, Jorje could smell the man. He sniffed, carefully, to smell what they were about. And his nose served him well: they smelled like they were ready to feed, and the only thing they had to feed on was the man! Jorje's hackles rose higher, in anger now. The man was pack! This eermy pack sought to eat his pack! He bared his fangs and growled low, and the sound that came out of him would have scared him if it had come from any other. They turned to him and made all kinds of strange noises, sort of like what red man's pack did, only their noises were all way back in the throat, as if they were trying to growl without a doggish throat. It was silly! They couldn't growl right! Jorje took courage and he dove, his mouth snapping every which way. He pounced and ran, snapping, snapping, until he came to Ædegard. Hands grasped at him and he snapped at them, and the hands drew back; he even got a finger of one of them, but the taste made him retch. He stopped snapping and yelling and growling long enough to lick Ædegard's face, and the man's eyes opened . . . at first just a little, then wide with alarm. He scrambled to his feet while Jorje yammered some more.

"Let's get out of here, Jorje!" said the man.

Jorje followed his packmate out of the stoney place, and Ædegard stopped dead before Brade, as if stunned. But only for a moment. He jumped on Brade's back, and called Jorje after him. Jorje ran after. He didn't need aroo from Ædegard, not for this. Off they ran amid the fog, the one eye in the sky just a sniff or so above the edge of the world. Jorje could hear the eermies running squishily after, but they were leaving them far behind. Jorje grinned as he ran, happy that he had done what Red man had asked.

[Imladris]

Hope was gone, hurled away as a vile thing in the wrath and sorrow of betrayal. Amroth would not come, and they were both separated. Nimrodel wept -- why could she not weep? Her tears were dry as she yearned for her beloved.

A golden cloud skipped, danced within her thoughts, glimmering as a silvan star in her blackness. An echo of laughter whispered tantalizing of innocent joy, fluttering out of reach. Yet, as the lamps of Varda are snuffed by darkness, as the mantled sky becomes burdened with grief, her sorrow tarnished the gilded cloud, dimming the glimmering of her light.

Mithrellas reached out and whispered, "My grief is not yours. Why do you weep?"

"For you..."

"I would know your name."

"'Tis no secret, Lady. I am called Gwyllion.

"You may call me Mithrellas."

[Orual]

Ravion's green eyes narrowed and he felt his face flush with rage. His left hand clenched and unclenched as his right hand fiddled with his sword hilt. Who was this boy to deny his sister? The grief on Mellonin's face, the tears running down her cheeks, the tightness that the abandonment of her brother brought to her shoulders...it tore at Ravion. He looked at the boy, whose seemed outwardly so much like Mellonin. Her handsome face, Ravion thought, sat ill on her brother. The grey eyes, so lively and earnest on Mellonin, seemed only cold without her spirit behind them.

"That he would deny her now!" Ravion whispered, terribly fixated on the image of Mellonin's grief-stricken face, unable to tear his thoughts from her. "That he is not moved! He must not be her brother indeed, but some imposter. Surely he could not stand to see his flesh and blood in such a state."

His right hand clenched the hilt of his sword. He felt like he ought to strike out at someone, to find some way, through steel, to ease Mellonin's pain. But strike at whom? The swamp elf? Even if he were to show himself, it would be madness, and more likely to get Mellonin injured than to help her. The boy? Irrational, and Mellonin may never forgive him if he hurt her brother. He released the hilt.

Would that it was I that she sought! Ravion tried to remove the thought from his mind and keep his focus on the present crisis. But it was a difficult battle.

[mark12_30]

Amroth did not move. He gazed straight ahead. Beside him, Erebemlin and Taitheneb sat like statues, listening to the king's mind.

I befriended her. I guarded her. I watched her. I wooed her. I received her troth-pledge. I have waited for her and sought for her, replied Amroth. What have you done? Have you treated her as you have treated this mortal girl? Poisoned her? Misled her, isolated her, lied to her, tormented her? I know that you have lied to me, and misled me; and now you have this woman at your mercy-- such as you have. Were I ever to consider releasing Nimrodel from our vow, should I yield her to one such as you? Should I allow her to consort with such poison?

Erebemlin could see the swamp-elf's face tighten, and the knuckles of his knife-hand turned white.

Amroth's thoughts turned to the girl. He could taste her fear, feel her tears. This is the respect that you show womankind? To bind them, threaten them, hold them at knifepoint? You threaten death to one who can be no threat to you. You have no mercy, no compassion, no conscience. I shall never yield to one such as you. And I will die a thousand more deaths before I yield my Nimrodel to you.

Taitheneb, listening, heard the girl weep; heard the Merlocks slavering. Surely Amroth would take some step to preserve the girl's life? He waited for some sign, some signal. He and Erebemlin tensed, ready for a joint assault on the mind of the swamp-elf.

Even if you silence the elf, those with him can hurt her. What are you thinking?

Erebemlin started; Taitheneb paled. Amroth's eyes had clouded, his gaze faltered. "My lord...?"

Amroth did not move. The elves' minds wavered.

He has never hurt Nimrodel; he will not hurt her now. Yield to him! Free my sister now.

Never hurt her? Mortal, does a thousand years of madness mean nothing to you? Can you not see death as a gift?

What, will you spend my sister's blood on this?

Would you have me spend the long ages of Nimrodel's life?

You are mad.

Had you seen the ages pass as I have, you would not think so.

As you cherish Nimrodel, I will risk no harm to my sister.

Silence.

Free my sister!

As he torments your sister, he has tormented Nimrodel for a thousand years. I say again, death is a gift.

Not one I want for my sister. Have him release her.

He asks too much.

Yield! Give him what he wants!

Never.

Yield to him!

No.

Beads of sweat formed on Amroth's brow, and Erebemlin watched wide-eyed. Taitheneb, with an effort, pushed back at the swamp-elf; but his will was fading. Amroth swayed, clutching at Echo's mane, and bowed over his horses' neck.

Ravion spurred forward. "Tell them to spare her!"

Erebemlin and Taitheneb turned, pulling at their king's mind, trying to gain a foothold for him and bring him back; but they met only Mellondu.

"Tell him to spare my sister, " said the blacksmith through clenched teeth.

[alaklondewen]

"Tell him to spare my sister.”

Erebemlin’s heart fell as he looked into the blacksmith’s grey eyes. “No,” he whispered involuntarily. No, he could not go against his king. No, the young mortal could not suppress the mighty Amroth, not now…they were so close.

“Tell him.” The blacksmith remained resolved. His face hardened with determination.

“No, do not fall for the lies he feeds you.” Erebemlin leaned forward and searched Mellondu, hoping for a sign of Amroth. Let her go for something greater.

I will not accept her death.

Taitheneb continued to press against Tharonwe, but the dark elf was stronger, older, and the younger faltered.

Do not listen to the Lorien elf. He cares not for your dear sister.

Erebemlin tried to reply, but the blacksmith had shut his mind. “We are so close to finding her…please.” He spoke quietly trying to reach the young mortal’s heart, but Mellondu stared directly ahead and replied not.

[mark12_30]

He blinked. Her head was against his shoulder. Her arms, slippery with blood, were wrapped... around... Around me!

His heart leaped and thundered, and he wrapped his arms around her in return. He held her tighter, tighter... she gasped and flinched. Red-faced, he released her; she reached one hand to the other arm. He saw through her slashed and torn sleeve that she was freshly bleeding.

A rising torrent of apology poured from him. She guessed at his meaning, and smiled at him through teeth that were clenched in pain, which deepened Nethwador's embarassment and half panicked him.

Erebemlin had told him to let her rest. What could he do? He knew so little about this; he touched the blood on her arm.

Water! It always started with water. He would wash the blood off. He leaped to his feet, and whistled for Celegoer, who came trotting over. He siezed his water bottle, drained it over her arms, looked about for more clean water, saw none, leaped onto Celegoer and galloped off. Bella sat with teeth clenched and arms dripping. He returned, water bottle full, and sloshed it over her arms again, drenching her sleeves; but there was blood on them still. He mounted again and galloped off.

She tried not to laugh, but could not help herself, and as he galloped back to her again, she choked between laughter and tears of pain. He sat by her again, and she took his hand. "Just stay with me, Mellon."

He washed her arms again, carefully, making the water last this time. By the time the bottle was empty, her arms were mostly clean. She took his other hand then, and holding both his hands, leaned her head against his shoulder again.

He wanted to wrap his arms around her again, but instead, he gazed down at her face, so near his. But her sleeves were drenched and the rest of her damp or wet; soon she began to shiver.

This is all wrong. I've only made things worse. And then he remembered that Taitheneb was waiting with Amroth. Taitheneb would know what to do.

He stood, pulling her to her feet. He drew her over to Celegoer, and motioned that she should mount. She struggled onto the horse, and he mounted behind her. Soon they were dismounting near Taitheneb, and Nethwador's broken Eastron-Elvish poured out of him. Taitheneb nodded.

We will care for Lady Bella. Find wood and build a fire. I will watch the lady.

Bella watched as Nethwador mounted and rode off again, and then she turned to Amroth. "What ails Lord Amroth?"

Taitheneb watched Amroth sleep for several moments, and then he said only, "Lady, if you would sing for him, it would ease my heart."

When Nethwador returned with firewood and kindling, Bella sat beside Amroth, wrapped in everything the elf had at hand, and singing. Nethwador hastily kindled the fire, and heaped on the wood; then he rode off to find more.

[Aylwen Dreamsong]

The scenery behind the pale-headed woman changed, and Dream-Bellyn looked about with wide eyes. Beneath her feet lay muddy grass and trampled flowers. Above her head, thundering grey clouds threatened to downpour while light mist glided gently down to the spongy ground. Bellyn looked back to the sad, weary lady. Off in the distance behind the strange woman Bellyn could see rolling fields of wheat beneath a shining sun.

I would much rather be there, thought Bellyn. When she looked into the lady's eyes and saw her horrified glance, however, Bellyn changed her mind.

She appeared clearly to Bellyn, but cold and distant as if lost within her own hopes and her own intangible ambitions. On the woman's face sadness mixed with some kind of suppressed anger and strain at the harshness of an inner battle.

Then, for just one single moment, the pale face softened. The lines of hard truth disappeared temporarily, revealing the youth and empathy that seemed to have hidden too often behind frowning wrinkles of despair. Her captivating eyes blinked once, twice, and in seconds the oddly familiar face was once again stony and cold.

'Agony,
Can you cleanse this misery?
For never again will I breathe
The air of home...'

Dream-Bellyn was the one to blink this time, as the Gondorian woman listened to the soothing voice coming from the pale-haired lady. The tune was simple, but it continued to vibrate within Bellyn's mind even when the singer had stopped singing. The melody and lyrics made Bellyn sick to her stomach. Her voice is lovely, but is this how I will end up? Is this how Argeleafa and I will meet our end? A bundle of sorrow, bound and broken to our dreams...Bellyn contemplated, hesitating for a moment as she wondered what she should do. The dreamer ultimately decided to sit down next to the crouched woman. If I spoke to her, would she answer? Bellyn wondered.

'My name is Bellyn...' the dreamer spoke to the frail, huddled mass next to her. Bellyn knew that she did not need words to understand the other woman's pain.

[Imladris]

Gwyllion shifted uneasily on her feet.

Why have you come here? Mithrellas asked as she eased herself to the ground.

Gwyllion smiled a little and settled herself near the elf lady, and stared at her. She was so beautiful, her dark hair glinted in the faltering sunlight, and her long fingers stroked the grass idly. Yet....she was like a...like a wilted flower...or a burdened tree...Gwyllion frowned. She was so sad... she shuddered as she remembered the elf's grief that had washed over her when they had first met.

Why have you come here, Gwyllion? Mithrellas asked again.

I don't know Gwyllion whispered, struggling to remember what had happened to the horse and Aeron. A pain...a pain brought me here in sleep's dark arms...I think.

Mithrellas's eyebrow arched a little. You are not awake.

Was she awake? Gwyllion didn't think she was, but she wasn't sure. She did a half nod, a half shake of her head. Am I?

Mithrellas smiled, but it vanished as quickly as a stray rainbow flits between the dew splashed leaves. You are asleep -- you tripped gaily through a dream and I saw you and staid your parting from my wandering thoughts.

Gwyllion tried to understand -- yet doubt clouded her. Dreams were not real, else Aeron would be dead. How could this elf -- this Mithrellas be real? Are you real? she murmured at last, afraid of what the answer would be.

I am as real as the song of birds, as rippling brooks, as butterflies dancing in the treetops Mithrellas whispered.

But it was just a dream....how could dreams be real?

[littlemanpoet]

Jorje Jorje smelled blood as he ran. He had not smelled it before. Where was it coming from? It made his stomach growl, and he had not had much to eat for some time. He slowed and sniffed more closely. Oh no. Not good. It was Ædegard.

Ædegard

Brade was running well for Ædegard, which was a good thing. Ædegard was having trouble with the reins. They kept slipping from his left hand, which seemed somewhat achy. They had almost come to the main path again. He picked up the reins again. And they dropped again. What was going on? His left hand felt slippery, and it was throbbing now. Why did it hurt so badly? He picked it up again. It fell away again. Now his wrist burned. Brade came to the main path and Ædegard urged him on in the direction of the others. He picked up the reins again. No. He hadn't picked them up. His wrist burned. He looked at his hand and wrist. He swooned and lost his grip on the reins with his right hand.

He blinked. He was on his back. Jorje was licking his face, and whimpering, sniffing at his left hand. His vision threatened to go black again. His hand. His left hand. It was not there. He remembered the ugly little men and their pointy teeth.

"No!" he moaned. Tears came to his eyes. "My hand!" He forced himself to a sitting position, using only his right hand, and then looked at his left again. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. Ragged and pulpy. He sniffed. He needed to get going again, before the ugly men came again. Brade was standing nearby. Ædegard got to his feet and staggered to Brade, Jorje whimpering at his side. He saw the bloodstain on Brade's side, where he thought he had grabbed hold of the bridle in his effort to climb up. How had he done it? How had he not felt the pain then? He understood that he had been too excited, too eager, too active to feel the pain, as if battle vigor was on him. Well, it was far gone now. He struggled up with his good hand, and managed to climb back into the saddle. The continued, Ædegard clenching his teeth against the pain.

Soon, Ædegard saw a horse standing in the path ahead of him. It was the thief boy, sleeping on the neck of his mount. Oh. There was a dart still stuck in his neck. Ædegard had Brade sidle up to the thief boy's mount, and he shook the boy with his good hand. The boy's head came up blearily.

"Gwyll?" he blinked, looking around.

"Nay, 'tis Ædegard," he said through clenched teeth.

The boy blinked again. "Where is Gwyllion? Sh - she should be on the back of my horse."

"There is no one there."

The boy frowned and blinked some more.

"There is a dart in your neck. Here, let me take it out." The boy nodded and winced as it came out in Ædegard's hand.

"Thank you. Did you find your betrothed?"

"No," Ædegard shook his head wanly.

"Friend, you look pale." Ædegard raised his left arm. The boy blanched. "I see."

"Come, let us go back to the others. I should not have left."

"But what about Gwyllion? And your betrothed?"

"We need the others if we are to get them back." Ædegard started back, the boy watching him from behind. Jorje kept pace with him, looking dolefully at Ædegard.

Raefindan

"He is near death," said Erebemlin. "This body is not strong enough for the king."

Ravion's eyes grew wide. "Body... King." He shook his head, and looked to Raefindan.

Raefindan had watched and listened in silence, feeling very much out of depth. The Elves seemed determined not to deal with this Tharonwe, no matter how many lives it cost. That seemed as foolish as it was heroic to Raefindan. Ravion and Ædegard had wanted to fight. That seemed just as foolish. Worse, in his mind's eye, Raefindan saw Tharonwe and Mellonin joined now by Bellyn, and Argeleafa, and their captors.

It seems that the Elves rule you against your will, humans. Will you let them cost you so many lives? See here that I do not jest. Tharonwe's knife went up, and suddenly there was a red line extending from Mellonin's brow to her lip, just inside her eye. She winced, and her tears blended with the red. The red line thickened and spread, and Tharonwe touched the pooling blood, and let one of the ugly little men smell it. They became more excited yet, fawning on Mellonin's arm. You must overcome these intransigent Elves if your women are to be saved.

Ravion looked to Raefindan. It would not do.

"Take me in exchange for the women," Raefindan said.

Ah, a new type of bargain. And why would I do that, young red man who does not belong to this world?

Raefindan's head jerked from the shock. He did not belong?

Red man, or should I call you Roy Edwards, you are from a time that has not yet come, and will not for thousands of years. You should not be here. How is it that you are here?

"I don't know! Take me! Take me and kill me if you must! Just let the women go!"

[Imladris]

Aeron shook his head, trying to clear the vaporous fog that clouded his mind. Where was Gwyllion? What had happened to the man's hand? Leaving the group was probably not one of his most brilliant ideas -- yet it was good to know that they had met up with Ædegard...too bad he hadn't been the one to rescue him from whatever it was that mangled his hand. Gwyllion would have been transported into one of those tales she loved so much...of course, she probably wouldn't have cared for the mangled hand part...but...

Aeron yawned widely. Where was she? That swamp elf -- had he taken her again? A clear ray of panic pierced through the fog. If -- and this was a very high if -- if she was kidnapped again, the elf surely would not harm her in any way. Elves just didn't do that...of course, he hadn't exactly been acting like an elf. No. Aeron shook his head. No. He wouldn't kill her...she had probably just slipped off the horse any way. They would find her sleeping upon a bed of grass, a crown of flowers on her hair.
~~~~~~~
Mithrellas

This Gwyllion doubted that she was real...why? Mithrellas began to pluck wildflowers, deftly weaving them into a woodland crown. Did you travel here alone?

Gwyllion shook her head. No. I travelled with many others -- a ranger and a woman -- and my brother.

You love your brother?

Yes.

May I see him?

Yes.

Mithrellas reached into Gwyllion's mind, and saw a tall, skinny boy, black hair plastered against his neck. He seemed weary --like a clouded glass -- what had happened to them that they were separated now?

Separating herself, she glanced at the flower wreath in her hand, and dropped it onto Gwyllion's head. Fancy yourself a woodland queen.

Do you travel alone? Gwyllion asked softly.

Mithrellas laughed aloud. I am as alone as a serving girl dusting her mistress' portrait, as alone as a girl peering into a rippling brook and catching the bent reflection of star, or as a girl running after a dancing linden leaf.