Island of Sorrow RPG

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa climbed carefully, lost in the action rather than the thought. It felt good to strain her muscles some... she would ache in a few hours, but it would be the good sort of ache that comes when your body is repremanding you for lazily forgetting your own fitness. The sort of ache that reminds you not to do it again.

She had made an effort to avoid work such as this... it was too reminiscent of long passed battles... of climbing cliffs silently before dawn to stage an attack at first light. She knew now that she could not forever escape her past. Or if she could, then diving blindly into the future was certainly not the way. She climbed unconcernedly now. Her lithe muscles shifted imperceptibly as she reached from hold to hold, finding small outcroppings that her companions' larger hands and feet could not trust. She trained her entire thought on the joy of motion.

Not more than twenty feet of slow climbing had gone by before her concentration was broken. Malris, who climbed joyously above her, ever gaining a lead, had dislodged several small pebbles and bits of ancient dust. It rained onto Tasa's head, startling her. The bits of rock stung her eyes and unthinkingly, she paused in her climb and released the rock face with her looser hand to attend her pained orbs. The fragile bit of stone she perched on crumbled at the extra weight. Blinded temporarily, she grasped for a stronger hold. It was too late. The sharp edges of the rock cut into her long fingers as they tore loose from the wall.

[piosenniel]

Gravity seemed to be winning . . . or gravities, perhaps . . . the heaviness of Tasa’s body and the force by which the very ground seems to draw all objects to it . . .

A quick ‘oh!’ as if someone above were taken by surprise and then the sharp pattering sounds of loosed rock skittering down the slope. Endamir glanced up to where Tasa climbed a little to his right and several yards above him. She had lost her hold on the rocky wall and her fingers could find no purchase. Still she pressed her body to the slope, hugging the rock as she could; hoping, it seemed, the scraping of her clothes against the surface might slow her down.

His feet secure on a short, meager ledge, Endamir moved as quickly as he could to the right hand edge of the jutting stone. He had already scoped out the choice of hand holds as he’d climbed earlier to this spot. At this end of his foothold, there was only a narrow, oblique crevice. Hardly wide enough for a thin lizard to squeeze into.

Without a second’s thought, he jammed the fingers of his left hand into the crevice and, hugging the slope, reached as far to the right as he could with his free hand. His hand caught the sliding Elf by the waistband of her breeches and pushed her hard against the rock, stopping her descent.

‘Reach over with your left foot and find my boot toe. It has good support. It will give you something to secure yourself against.’ Endamir looked up to where Malris had paused and was looking down. ‘Throw down a looped rope for her!’ he shouted. ‘And hurry!’

Already he could his wedged fingers beginning to grow numb in their precarious hold . . .

[Firefoot]

As Lómwë climbed up the treacherous slope, he was all the more glad that they had not attempted such a climb in the night. The way was steep, and hand- and foot-holds had to be carefully picked out of the face of the rock. A single instance of misplaced weight or an ill-chosen handhold on the cliff could wreck dire consequences. Every so often bits of dust and pebbles would trickle down upon them from those climbers above, most notably from Malris in his eager climbing.

Yet Lómwë did not mind the strenuous climb in the least; indeed, he enjoyed the physical activity quite possibly more than any other deed they had yet attempted on this journey. For the climb required nearly his full concentration and he could almost forget the intent of the climb and their destination. Almost.

There was still that small corner of his mind that could not help but reflect on the fair road that had once led up to the high fortress. That road, like so many other links to the Elder Days, was gone, eroded by the passage time and the elements and lack of use. It existed only in their memories, but there the memories were sharp and clear, undimmed by the passage of time, or rather, re-illuminated by this island. But gone, Lómwë reflected sadly as he mechanically reached for the next hand-hold, his concentration momentarily lapsing.

It was at that moment that several things happened: Tasa cried out above him; a rain of dust and grit fell down upon him, momentarily blinding him; and his hand missed the crevice he had been reaching for. He swayed dangerously, scrabbling at the rock face. By lucky chance, his fingers found purchase on the rock face, and he clung tenuously, waiting for the dust to clear so that he could see enough to continue his climb.

After what seemed like ages just hanging to the rock, he looked up and saw that Tasa was now being raised with a rope to the top, and Endamir seemed to be mentally recovering. Had Tasa lost her grip? He glanced down; he was some 15 feet up, and over hard rock. That would have been a nasty fall. His mind stirred in unease; it was just one more near miss in a long string. How many more times would they get lucky? Would it be better to just turn back now? No. He had come this far, and he was going to see it through. There was too much riding on this venture, too much had been invested in it.

So he dug a little deeper and pulled himself a little higher, preparing to complete the final few feet of the ascent, the end of the beginning.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Despite the massive proportions of the Dragon-helm and the fact that the object had been strapped across his back, Lindir had encountered few problems in making his way to the top of the cliff. He was the first of the Elves to reach the summit. Once or twice during his hurried ascent, a cautionary voice had sounded inside his head, urging him to veer a bit to the left or try a different foodhold. It was almost as if someone or something had purposely guided Lindir forward over the safest and swiftest course, not because of any concern for his personal well-being but to ensure that the helm reach its ordained destination. Lindir pushed back this unsettling notion from his mind, but remained seated on the rocky cliff with the precious artifact clenched between his tightened fingers.

One moment he was ruminating on the odd set of circumstances that had brought them to this isle, and the next he was staring grimly at the tiny figures of Endamir and Tasa who now clung precariously to the side of the cliff. Lindir looked up alarmed. Clearly, the two Elves were in need of help. Common sense dictated that he should race over to where Malris was seated and offer to aid his friends, perhaps to be ready to sling out a second looped rope if the first did not reach its destination or at least to show outward concern. Despite his clear sense that something must be done, Lindir sat complacently rooted to the ground, unable to move or take the helm from his lap. He felt as if the thing had suddenly assumed gigantic proportions and was preventing him from standing up. He could not understand what was happening. One part of his mind refused to give up the precious treasure even for a second, while another part was troubled and embarassed that he had not come forward to assist his friends. Defeated and powerless, he slunk back within the tall grass and piles of rubble that framed the edge of the hilltop, hoping that no one else had noted his strange behavior.

[Anguirel]

Malris was livid with himself. Dwelling on insubstantial threats, and climbing carelessly, his clumsiness had been the origin, as far as he could feel, of this disaster. His face became pale as the foam of the sea as he swivelled abruptly, unbuckling his pack of supplies as quickly as he could. Seizing a loaf of waybread at the top, he nearly flung it aside before recalling that, with fortune against him, this would only cause another mishap, and placed in his lap. At last the grey reassurance of the rope was in his hands. There was no time to tie a loop; with good Lindon sea-rope, there was also no need to.

Malris let out the harsh cry, "Loke!", and its song echoed about the island as the rope curved into place. Its loop completed, Malris hurled it downwards, with the famous prayer of Fingon on his lips...

"O King to whom all birds are dear, speed now this line and recall some pity for the Noldor in their need!"

At this, the calls of the gulls-always present intermittently on Himling-began to magnify. One large black-headed bird soared into the rope's path, batting it with his long, cruel beak, ensuring that it flew truly to Endamir and Tasa below. The continued, monotous gull sounds prevented further words; but they were not required. Malris grimly held fast to his end of the silvery twine, mentally thanking the King of Arda whom he had impetuously defied with the others, long ago.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa balanced precariously on Endamir's booted toe, beginning to slip. Dust still stinging her eyes, she kept them closed as tears freely flowed beneath her lids, trying to wash them clear. Endamir held her close with one arm as he gripped the wall with all of his strength with the other. She tucked herself against her old friend's body, trying to shift her weight and distribute it evenly. Blinded, she worked by every other sense.

She smelled the salt tang of the sea, and the old dust of forgotten stones, disturbed by the storm of the day before. Tasa noted Endamir's scent as she helplessly held tight to him: sweet and musty as an ancient book, opened for the first time in ages. Bird cries disoriented her as they dipped on the breezes that plucked at her clothes and Malris' voice cried a prayer as well known as any from above. She nearly felt the air part for the good bit of Lindon rope to pass.

Endamir spoke quietly into her ear. "I am going to release you for just a moment, Tasa... hold tight." She tightened her already firm grip around his chest and for a moment, nearly panicked when she felt his strong arm pull away. All that held her now from a fall she had resigned herself to were her own bleeding fingers and a small foothold she could not open her eyes to see. Endamir wrapped his arm around her again, working one handed. "Tasa, the rope is in my hand. You must let go of me and take it. I will not let you fall." Eyes still closed, she loosened her grip, comforted by his steady hold. She snaked one arm from around him to fumble for his hand. He passed her the loop. "Tasa, can you fit it around yourself?" He helped her to slide the rope over her head and under her arms, working slowly. Any false moves would doubtlessly not be conducive to a painless journey. With the rope firmly wrapped around Tasa, she released Endamir. Her weight was entirely trusted to Malris.

Endamir called up to their leader and found his own holds again. Tasa felt herself being gently pulled upward.

[Anguirel]

The gulls were starting to disperse now, and Malris called down a curt affirmation that he had Tasa held safely. He braced his slight, wiry frame for the increased weight on the rope; Tasa's adjustment was slow, and his physical preparation proved quite enough for the change. The rope now in both of his hands, he murmured "loke" again into the wind; the line glided through his fists, caressing rather than burning, and coiled easily around his waist, securing itself absolutely.

"Tasa," he shouted downwards towards where he could see the bobbing of her golden head, "Tasa? I've bound myself to you. You'll be safe."

The phrase called back an unbidden-apparently unbidden-memory...a starrying evening...his friends and comrades gathered on the Great Southern Balcony of Himring...a voice, the mightiest voice of the Eldar, speaking...

"In this way Malris has bound himself to Giledhel...and while this fortress stands, an everpresent defiance and reproach to the Dark Enemy of the World, they shall be as content as any of our kind have ever been, and their union will flourish!"

A widespread cheer. Tasa in the crowd, shimmering happiness, nostalgia, sorrow caught in the globes of her eyes. Lomwe and his wife, some months pregnant, smiling widely. Maedhros, armoured as ever, laughing uproariously as he clapped his remaining hand on his breastplate, shaking his fiery head...Curufin teasing his musician brother...

Maglor, harp in hands, extatic, yes, but with solemnity in those eyes. How much did he see, Maglor the Harper? How much did he guess? He strikes up a rhythm now...and the memory fades.