Island of Sorrow RPG

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

‘Her flowers! The woman is daft!’ Ashukh looked out into the rubbled remains of what once had been The Lady Garden. A few weeds and tufts of grass clung bravely to the sparse soil, pushing their way up between the stones that had fallen from the fortress.

‘Oh, aye, she’s a bit tetched . . . but she treats us good enough, don’t she?’ Zlog looked out over the barren landscape, too. Words such as 'gentle' and 'kind' and 'forgiving' were not a part of his vocabulary. But were they so, he would have used them about the Lady Giledhel.

In life, he and his two companions had stripped her of her dignity with their murderous blows, bringing her low to bleed out upon the paving stones; her bright red blood now fading to rusty stains at the foot of her bed, where they’d dragged her.

Then they had been slain by several Elves left to secure the fortress until all had gone. And she . . . in death was kind and gentle and forgiving of them. Her fëa giving them some hope that beyond this horrid world there lay some hope for them. She nurtured them, and they, in turn, became her stalwart guardians when what little hold she had on her new reality faded away and she was lost among her old memories.

And so it was that Gorgu called out to her, as she fussed about the place where her wardrobe used to stand, her fingers touching silks and satins that had long gone away. ‘Lady, the gardeners be working hard. Looks as if all your flowers will be showing to their best!’

She went on contentedly about her little tasks as the three of them leaned as far out the window as they might. ‘Those Elves are singing! You heard them! Things feel different, don’t they? Something’s come inside the gate . . .

[piosenniel]

. . . We drive 'em back with fire and sword . . .For noble Coppertop!

Endamir sang the last of the ditty along with the fey voices. There was naught that he could see, save the plain, grey stones that were still standing of the southern wall. Those were simpler days; goals were clear; no shading into greys what should be done and what not.

These were good men who died here.

‘Orëmir,’ he said quietly to his brother. Orëmir’s face had hardened at the accusations of Malris. It was not difficult to read what his brother thought. ‘I want to see the rest of the fortress . . . I need to see it . . . I’m sure of this . . . make some small gesture of penance.’ He took his brother’s arm. ‘It may not be enough. Too little, too late some might say. But I must make a start.’

He pulled his brother a little ways away from the group. ‘You must do this for me. Stay and be with me this last while.’ Endamir looked to where Malris stood. ‘Don’t let his words sting you . . .’

[Envinyatar]

Orëmir bit back the bitter remarks that threatened on the tip of his tongue. He clamped his teeth together firmly. The little knots of muscle that lay over the jaws' hinges pulsed in an irritated manner. He could feel the increased pressure on his arm as Endamir clasped it firmly.

‘Yes, I’ll do this for you, as you ask, brother. But by the One if that . . .’

His further remarks were cut off as Endamir lifted his chin toward where Lindir moved slowly. The Elf’s cloak had swung forward, opening a view to the tunic beneath. A dark red stain flowered on Lindir’s shirt, his face looked a little ashen and sweat was beading on his brow.

‘Come! He looks as if he needs some help,’ said Orëmir, leading his brother to where Lindir now stood, trying to catch his breath. He directed Endamir to lend the Elf a steadying arm as he gave his support on the other side. ‘You’re bleeding,’ he said quietly to Lindir. His eyes glanced down to where some splotches of blood had dropped on Lindir’s boot. ‘I have my medicine chest in my pack. Will you let me see to your wound?’

[Firefoot]

Not even the pleasant memories brought by the old ditty could wholly assuage Lómwë’s irritation at Malris’ terse tone. Malris, it seemed, still expected them all to follow him, like ducklings, maybe, or dogs that could be appropriately scolded and called to heel. Though he himself had not been the object of Malris’ annoyance, he found himself siding with Lindir and Orëmir. Leader though he once had been, in this situation Malris ought to have been acting more like the first among equals, and Lómwë was not even sure he even deserved that appellation anymore.

Malris had waved for them to follow him, just before the song had begun, but Lómwë stubbornly remained rooted in place. Endamir and Orëmir, he saw, had also removed themselves from the group a bit and were conversing quietly.

What reason have I to follow you, Malris? Then, directed to himself, You don’t do well following… haven’t you learned that about yourself by now? How many disasters of his life would have been averted by following his own counsel…?

“You have a family, Lómwë! Must you go?” Ellothiel’s voice was pleading, angry almost. He tried to stop the memories, leave them in the past, but his weakened mental barriers were of no use.

“You know I must go,” he chided gently, his face asking her to understand, though she did not see it; she had turned her back. Lómwë came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, but she pulled away and turned to face him, still saying nothing.

“We knew this time would come… eventually. I have to go. They’ve broken the siege, and if we do not stop them, all Beleriand will be laid waste…” His voice trailed off, his duty and love fighting for precedence.

“It’s that letter, isn’t it? Not the scant news we heard, but the letter.”

“Not wholly…” Lómwë answered. The previous day, he had received a letter from Malris, explaining the situation in detail – in other words, explaining the need for help. All along he had known somewhere in the back of his mind that this peace they had been experiencing was only a temporary respite, and Malris was an old friend. To fight was his duty.

“And if you don’t come back, Lómwë, then what?” Then, for the first time, he noticed the traces of fear in her eyes, and he understood.

“I’ll come back,” he whispered. “I promise. But I have to go.” This time she didn’t pull away from his embrace.

“I know,” she answered. “But that doesn’t mean I want you to.”

He had left the next day, and ever after wished he hadn’t. Because if he hadn’t… No.

Mind reeling, he returned to the present. He knew he couldn’t blame Malris for that innocent letter sent thousands of years ago, but at least a part of him did. If he had thought, he would have known he wasn’t thinking straight, but that didn’t occur to him. Purposefully, he strode over to where Malris was waiting to be joined.

“I don’t know why I’m still following you, Malris,” he whispered fiercely as he passed. “In fact, I don’t even know if I am.” With that, he passed the other Elf, heading into the same section of the fortress where Malris had been going.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir slouched against a boulder vainly trying to support his body. He simply could not go on. The blood that had once been a trickle was now a spreading pool of crimson that covered not only his shirt but his outer cloak as well. He could hear Orëmir speaking to him, offering to tend to his wounds. The voice sounded muffled and faint as if the words were spoken from a great distance through a tunnel. With considerable difficulty, he turned his head to try and focus on the other companions, but nothing seemed clear or distinct. The ground rose and fell as if he sat astride the back of a rearing steed.

Lindir had been grateful that someone had even noticed the situation he was in. He felt amazingly foolish. He chided himself for his foolish pride in keeping the problem to himself. Struggling to respond to Orëmir, he was unable to make a single sound. His knees suddenly gave way as his body slid awkwardly to the ground. All pretense of Elven grace had been stripped away. He looked little better than a lumbering Orc.

The last thing Lindir remembered was staring up at the sky and wondering if this was how it felt to die. Perhaps I'll go to Mandos and maybe I can talk my way back to Elvenhome. That was the last conscious thought he had.

[Anguirel]

Malris' teeth were set, his mind contorted with anger, seemingly undimmed by its expression earlier. Was this all that was left of the host of Feanor? Some of them hiding guilt with sanctimonious reproach towards him; others despairing after a brief battle...alright, it had been a trial of all their spirits. But they had emerged, just-no thanks to whoever brought the Helm...

There came the stumbling block. He knew who "whoever brought the Helm" was. Others of the company might have helped him, but the actual bearer of the Dragonhelm of Dor-Lomin had incontestably been Lindir. Lindir, who was scarcely breathing, sorely wounded, who needed assistance, and quickly. Malris could not blame an invalid. Now was not the moment to be severe about poetic justice. And so he had turned his fury on Oremir and Endamir, certainly nothing more than accomplices. And yet Endamir still bore it. Not out of love for him any longer; but out of all the rest, only Endamir was pressing on, practicality on his mind, towards the voices of those gallant soldiers, the backbone of that most courageous army...

Thank Illuvatar for Endamir, Malris thought quietly. I know what I must do now. We cannot go on like this; I shall turn around. I will conciliate my friends. And then together, we'll enter that gatehouse, and if we can't find a way to save Lindir, then we are not of the Eldar...

Just as Malris slowly, deliberately, swivelled to face Endamir, not far behind him, and the others, scattered about further back, just within the courtyard, a petrifying slump disturbed the dust. Malris mouthed an entreaty to Varda. "Don't let Lindir have died, Lady...don't let him have died with resentment against me etched in his mind..."

Oremir, who had been about to see to Lindir's few physical wounds, knelt to the ground and held the unconscious Elf cradled in his arms. Tasa quickly rushed to the scene as well. Lomwe, Endamir and Malris kept back. The others were unwilling, most likely, to crowd Lindir. But Malris simply knew he could not step further to the friend he thought he had now failed. "Varda, Varda..." he repeated, slightly louder now, despairingly.

"Oremir, is he cold? His eyes...does any fire of the heart linger in them?" he asked, feeling the uselessness, the idleness, helplessness, of such words. "If any life remains...we ought to take him to the gatehouse where the soldiers' ditty came from. Perhaps those poor houseless braves can tell us of some source of succour."

Or even, he thought, but did not dare to say, of the Lord Maglor. Maglor, whose staves had driven off the ghastly Orcs...Maglor, whom he had held up from fainting in a foot-race, Ages ago.

[Envinyatar]

‘Bring his pack along, someone!’ Orëmir’s quick inspection of Lindir’s wound showed a deep gash on his right side, extending upward from the ninth to the 7th rib. From what manipulation he had been able to make, the ribs did not appear to be broken. With the long practice gained of carrying downed men and Elves from the field of battle, Orëmir slung the injured Elf over his left shoulder and took him to the gatehouse. One of the other Elves had gone ahead and made clear a space to lay Lindir down. A blanket had been unrolled for him to rest on and another folded into a neat square made for a pillow.

With an economy of motion Orëmir pushed up Lindir’s bloodied tunic and wiped away what blood he could with a clean section of it as he went. Someone had placed his medicine chest near him and he fished about in it for his bottle of distilled spirits. Pouring a thin stream of it into the gash, he used a clean wad of cloth to clear away the crusted blood and dirt at the edges of the wound. The blood had already stopped flowing. With salve and soft fluffed cloths, he covered the wound and bound it securely with a roll of long linen strips.

During all this, Lindir made no sounds nor did he move as the gash was cleaned and bound. His face was pale, his brow beaded with sweat. And beneath his thin lids, his eyes darted furtively as if searching . . .

‘The wound will heal,’ Orëmir said, standing up from his friend’s still form. ‘It is a long gash, deep, but not such that the muscle below is breached. The ribs are intact; he breathes well.’ He paused for a moment a worried look on his face. Endamir straightened up from where he had bent to place a blanket over Lindir. He raised his brow at his brother.

‘It is usual when I take care of another Elf’s wounds for me to contact the other Elf, through osanwë. Even if they are not conscious, there is usually some point of contact where their energies can be focused on their wounds, helping them to heal more quickly.’ He gazed down at Lindir, lying still as stone. ‘But he has pulled himself away somewhere. To a place where my healer’s skills cannot reach him. I . . . I worry. It is sometimes like this when an Elf hovers between life and death. But it is not his wound which is causing this state. I’m puzzled . . . and I cannot think what to do for him. Save that we must somehow keep him safe until we can call him back to us.’

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had sat quietly in a corner pondering through the watches until hers arrived. Unable to sleep, she considered all that had happened on this trip, ignoring the past and concentrating on just this event. This was not yet history... she was still living it. She considered this, tilting her head slightly at the thought. Nobody noticed, all being asleep or busy with their own thoughts. If what I am still living is not yet done... then perhaps the past is not too late to be fixed. But is there a way? Is there a way...

She dozed until Endamir woke her again for her watch. It was entirely uneventful save the simple passage of time: she watched the clouds pass silently over the island, casting a cloak about the bright moon. She felt the cool ocean breeze as she stood watch in the doorway. She smiled at her sleeping companions. They would miss this... the best part of the day. She thought for a moment before making a quick decision.

Swiftly and silently, she made her way to the sleeping Malris. Touching him lightly on the shoulder, she spoke.

"Wake, dear friend, and watch a new day begin with me? The sun will rise again in only a few moments. Already the sky over the ocean turns light."

[Anguirel]

Malris was on his feet in an instant, and scrabbled about the stone floor for his leather tunic, with its white Star of Feanor embossed on its centre. He was fastening its straps, and the buckles that held Cirlach's belt, as he wordlessly followed Tasa; her presence was immensely refreshing to him, clean, healthy, sane. His dark dreams faded, leaving only the residue that always lay in his heart, of Giledhel's pale, tender face. Malris was unreasonably excited by the prospect of witnessing Arien rise again; it seemed to be a signal of new opportunity, in contrast with the bleak mystery of the previous mourning.

"See how the rays creep under the fastened door," he murmured to Tasa. "Perhaps the spirits could reach us, but so can the sun's gift. That rallies me..." His voice took on a dreamy quality again. "Though Arien is not the only lady who reassures me. I am glad you decided to come, Tasa...now, let's get this door open, as quietly as possible. The others need their rest, Lindir especially..."

He smiled at her, an expression of real mirth, of childish guilt, guilt born of innocence, of ingenuous confidence. It was a smile he had not been able to indulge in for many long ages. As they struggled with the plank that Oremir had helped them fasten across the portal, their grin continued, defying any need for further talk.

At last the bolt was loose enough, and Malris laid it down; slipping the door a fraction open, Malris and Tasa stole into the glorious light of the morning, Tasa quickly drawing the door to to avoid rousing the others; and they stood content in the ancient courtyard, for all the world like a husband and wife gazing at the site of their first tryst; though this was not, never could be the case.

Malris stretched out his hand and held Tasareni's. It was a brief moment of joy, but he was determined to eke enough pleasure out of it to last through the trials ahead. Together, like youths in Valinor again, they watched Laurelin's fruit ascend to its allotted place in the heavens. Somewhere the song of a corncrake sounded, though it was blotted out by a gull's cry.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs - Ashukh, Zlog, Gorgu

Zlog had made it first to the top of the crumbling chimney that had served the Lady’s fireplace in better days. He scooted himself to a comfortable position with his legs hanging over the sooted remains of brickwork. Gorgu followed quickly after. Ashukh came last, muttering all the way of heights and falling; though he was only a spirit now, his fear of being far off the ground still had him firmly in its clutches. His thirst to see for himself, though, what was going on, urged him on.

There were tall, live creatures in the courtyard. ‘Elves!’ Zlog hissed quietly to his companions his eye looking down to where Giledhel sat brushing her hair. ‘Live ‘uns and some of those what died down there, too.

Gorgu and Ashukh craned their necks round their companion, trying to puzzle out who these invaders might be. ‘There’s one at’s bleeding,’ said Gorgu. His eyes lit up at the prospect, and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘Oh, what I’d give for one more go at one o’ them leggy vipers!’ He elbowed Ashukh in his excitement. ‘Stinkin’ Elvish blades can’t hurt us now!’

It was Ashukh who’d often sat with the Lady as she worked at her loom or drew up long lists of guests for parties that never happened and were soon forgotten. Her favorite parts were those of who would sit where – from the favored positions to those whose placement indicated her great disfavor. She would describe the guests in detail, their hair, their faces, what they wore, how they moved. She would speak at length of herself and her beloved Lord . . . Malris. And so it was with a dawning recognition that Ashukh leaned as forward as his fear of heights allowed and took in the details of the island’s visitors.

‘Oy!’ he exclaimed, pointing excitedly to the live Elves. ‘By the Dark Lord’s hairy . . .’ he broke off his epithet and looked guiltily down toward Giledhel, recalling she had extracted a promise from him not to use coarse language. His two companions looked expectantly at him. ‘Them’s what the Lady has got on her list for the party!’ he went on. ‘And look . . . see that short-haired fellow . . . black hair. See if you can see what he’s got pinned on his shirt front.’

‘Shiny star,’ grunted Zlog leaning out at a precipitous angle.

‘That’s Malris, for sure then!’ nodded Ashukh.

Gorgu’s eyes burned bright with anticipation at the Elf he’d spotted. He cackled loudly, not caring if Giledhel heard him. She would, he thought, in fact be glad at this chance to see this one again. ‘And just look at the little tart at’s still trailing in his lordship’s wake. All pale and goldy haired, the little sneak.’

The three turned their gazes on Tasarënì.

‘Make a nice present for the Lady, eh?’ Ashukh offered, his thick lips pulled back from his sharp yellowed teeth in an anticipatory leer. ‘Very nice . . .’

[Anguirel]

On practically every level, the scene was now in confusion.

In the world of flesh, of pain and suffering, Lindir seemed to be recovering from the assaults of the Orcish spirits. But in the insubstantial twilight world, Lindir was beyond death or life, suspended, floating on the breeze, and struggling with all the smouldering force of a long dormant temper to reassert his control over his own body.

Ingir's-or Lindir's?-very well, the body that had belonged to the Elven-smith, that had worn a dark cloak pinned with a brooch of silver, that had collapsed a short distance from the threshold into the gatehouse-this body was almost whole now, was standing up with its former grace. But it quivered, the lights behind the grey eyes flickering, uncertain. Two souls confused it rapidly; particularly two so diverse. A reclusive, cautious, honourable artist strove with a brawling fighter, an Elf who cared for glory, and trusted only in his own strength.

Ingir recalled so many battles as he fought with the ailing artisan. He remembered the Kinslayings, all of them, service in the front line to Celegorm, his lord; in Himlad, at Himring, in Doriath...then the Fair one had fallen, and he had taken Maedhros for his master; a foolish choice. He should have stuck with young Umbarto, so easily impressed...Maedhros was a lord of a different stamp. He punished thiefs and plunderers whatever their skill. Then the Havens at Sirion had been Ingir's bane; he had sought Mandos and found only here...this echo of life, service under a grim Captain who manned the wall waiting for seven lords who would never come back. The smith's body was his one chance of escape...

He felt it, now, the spearing pain of the lash, the cat, and there was certainly room to swing her, now he was embodied. Again, and again, and again. The Captain of the Guard's condemnations in his ear.

You were always fit for nothing, soldier. Bumptious, and mutinous, lying, deceiving, robbing, scum...

The five companions of Lindir would see his newly restored body writhe as if being brutally whipped. The especially pejorative words could be heard-

Lying...robbing...scum!

"Leave him alone, whoever you are," Malris said, speaking in Lindir's direction, but to he knew not what. "He has told no lies and suffered enough..."

Cirlach leapt from its sheath. Malris grit his teeth. "There is fire still in us. Leave. Him. Alone."

And then the writhing ceased; and the puzzled look in the injured Elf's eyes. Lindir, himself again, gazed evenly back at Malris. The glance was not friendly, but it was without doubt the smith's own. Abruptly, Lindir felt for his silver brooch, and refastened it. Cirlach's light caught the brooch's gleam; it shone whiter, wider...

And in the refracted rays from the blade, glimpses of the scene lying beneath the mere appearance of reality could be seen. An Elf on the floor; but no stone crumbling beneath him. A tall helmeted sentry Captain standing above him, the lash in his pale hand. The other guards scattered about.

"I apologise for this...traitor," said the officer in a voice that belonged thousands of winters away. "Your friend...should see...the Diviner...if he wishes to be healed. The Lord's soothsayer. Perhaps you remember him."

"Where will we find him?" Oremir asked, his lips pressed together, taut in distrust, matching a sceptical look.

"Wherever the Seneschal stands, there the Diviner is found. But we are wanted on the rampart; and you are weary. The Gatehouse stands empty this watch. You may...sleep here."

And the sentries departed, in single file, Ingir caught in the grip of the two at the rear; leaving the gatehouse infinitesimally warmer.

[Feanor of the Peredhil]

Tasa had trailed the group alertly, but with little thought on what was happening. She had held her blade at the ready, guarding their backs, as they moved toward shelter. She shuddered still at phantom pains... though she was no longer beseiged by angry fëa, she could feel the cold of the piercings still. Like the cuts that came from a careless slip of paper, her physically healed flesh stung. Her jawline ached deeply with the memory of her ancient scar. She concentrated her thought on the new white line, painfully decorating her other cheek. The same orc... she thought, the very same.

They had reached the shelter and Lindir was laid out on the floor. She left her blade unsheathed, useless though it seemed, and kept watch at the door. Though she cared deeply for her comrade's injury, she was not nearly the match as a healer as her companions. It would be more prudent for her to concentrate on what she could do: guard from orcs.

She shivered slightly... a cold wind seemed to pass her, though coming from the gatehouse. It felt vaguely of the orcs that had attacked them, but with the absence of malice. She cast it from her mind at the sound of Lindir's voice. She turned for a moment, hearing his hoarse request for water. A few moments passed, with the Elf regaining his feet and stumbling a bit. He had a look in his eye very much unlike one she had ever seen. She placed the blame on his injuries. She could see thin white scars where his beautiful flesh had been pierced. Suddenly the moment turned. Her clothes seemed almost to rustle as the wind blew angrily from the direction of the fortress. Tasa shivered at the cold, confused at the turn of events. As she looked on in shock, ghostly Elves faded into sight. The captain spoke quiet words with Malris, and within moments, the soldiers filed past her, recognizing her with nods. One, abashed and angry, was held tight in the grasp of two others.

As she moved forward to her friends, Lindir slumped once more, though not falling. "Water..." he repeated, and she gave him hers.

[Firefoot]

The upper room fell still and silent. Now that their search had ended, Lómwë slid to the floor and finally allowed himself a moment of rest, more mental than physical. The immense energy required to stay focused on helping Lindir had been far more wearying than any physical search. He knew there was still more to do, but he allowed his mental barriers to relax anyway.

At first the memories that came were pleasant, if bittersweet now in retrospect: jovial times with friends, tender moments with Ellothiel, Aradol’s first lessons with bow and blade. But the timeline progressed rapidly, spiraling downward towards that one barricaded memory – and now Lómwë had no strength left to fight it off.

He had been fighting on the front now for weeks, defending the fortress at Himring. The news here was better than that of other parts of Beleriand – Morgoth’s troops were held back, and Lómwë had had no fear for the safety of his wife and son. That is, until now: word that a few negligibly sized raiding parties had broken through their line, not coming to Himring but terrorizing the countryside. Now did Lómwë fear. This news may not have reached Ellothiel; communications were chancy at best in wartime.

He had begged leave to go to his family, and it had been permitted under the circumstances. He hastened home with all possible speed. Fear and dread grew in him every step of the way and fueled him onwards. As he drew near his home, all the weariness caused by the long journey on foot was sucked from him at the sound of cries – unmistakably Orkish cries – in the distance.

He emerged from the woods into the clearing surrounding his home, and his heart almost stopped. White hot anger instantly swallowed any grief or shock bubbling up inside him at the sight of the Orcs regaling in his yard. Their subjects, two bloodied bodies, told him all he needed to know.

With a frenzied cry, Lómwë launched himself at the Orcs as his shining sword sprang to his hand. The first two fell before they could even get their blades up in defense. Three more tried to fight, but could not stand up to his fury. The last one had fled into the woods, but Lómwë found him, too, after a short chase. The offenders dead, Lómwë half-ran, half-stumbled back to his home and collapsed beside the body of his beloved Ellothiel. Her beautiful face was mangled; her body, despoiled. Aradol, similarly bloodied, lay not far away with his small sword still clenched in his hand. The brutal reality of the scene left no room for denial, only despair. For a long time, Lómwë knelt there and wept. His earlier anger gave way to weakness, to grief, and most of all to guilt. Her almost unrecognizable face seemed to accuse him: You said you’d come back – you promised, Lómwë. Where are you? Her words to him echoed in his mind: “And if you don’t come back, Lómwë, then what?”

He had promised.

And what had he done? Given empty words, instilled an empty hope, fostered empty trust, broken the last promise he had ever made to her. Now it was too late. He could do nothing.

But he had promised.

Something inside him had died that day, something that never had and never would return. And so he had learned to shut the pain into the farthest corner of his mind, locked away and never to be recovered. But now the pain and overwhelming guilt flooded back to him full force. Utterly devastated and undone, Lómwë could not look up, could not even care when some dim consciousness recognized that the two messengers and the Diviner entered the room. Let Endamir deal with it; Lómwë was far too sunk in his anguish to care about anything else. I’ll come back. I promise.

[Envinyatar]

The Lady's Orcs

The swirling winds threw the man's words back at him.

‘We have speech . . . Mal . . . risss . . .’ came a breathy trio of voices that swirled about the man.

‘Lecherous cowards he calls us, brothers! And defilers!’ came a voice from behind Malris.

‘Well he should know the depths of such names,’ spoke the voice of another. ‘And here in bastion where he dwelt with his love . . . which love is that, we wonder . . .’ Ashukh’s laughter echoed round the ruins of the room.

‘Leave the lady alone he commands us.’ Zlog gave a deep chuckle. ‘Who are you to command us . . . you who left your lady alone . . .?’

The three Orc spirits flew in among the birds attacking Tasa, driving them off. Giledhel had withdrawn to the safety of her loom with Malris’ loud outburst.

‘Who do you think cared for the Lady,’ Gorgu spoke, close to Malris’ ear, his voice taking on a tone of respect as he spoke of her. ‘Who helped her through these years upon years, wiped away her tears, tended to her as she desired of her sons, learned from her, protected her as she required.’

‘Not you, Malrisssss . . .’ A hissing wind stirred Tasa’s golden hair, pulling at it as it passed.

‘And now you’ve come back. And what have you done but frightened the Lady and given her a new sorrow?’

‘She only wished to dance with you . . . to feel your arms about her,’ Zlog rasped, stirring up a small whirlwind of dust and pebbles aimed at Tasa’s face.

The three Orcs settled protectively round the shattered pieces of wood where once Giledhel’s loom stood. Gorgu reached out a ghostly hand to pat her arm. In the shadows in which the broken loom lay, three dark, wavering forms could just be seen, their gazes fixed on Malris and Tasa.

The soiled, torn remnants of her unfinished tapestry stirred and fluttered beneath the Orc’s hand though no breeze now blew . . .

[Anguirel]

Malris paled as the voices mocked, starting to shudder, feeling uneasy on his feet. Cirlach slumped in his fist, formerly clenched so tight, now loosened by the lashings of guilt. So what his fea had felt had been, at its base, correct. The reproach he felt directed at him had not been incidental. It had been everything to do with this battle. But even so, some things seemed unfathomable. That his wife had not reached Mandos and the bliss of Aman, had been tied to this stagnant place of war, was bad enough. That his wife knew of his moment of weakness was a sore dishonour. That Orcish spirits should play as her messengers...should "care for her as sons..." was unimaginable.

Malris thought back to the scene at Mithlond, where so many of the party had begged that he abandon all thought of visiting Himring. He remembered his inescapable feeling of a story left unfinished, a blank page where a conclusion ought to have been, that made him press on. Valinor had seemed too neat, too easy and ending. And it seemed poor Giledhel had thought the same. Perhaps because she had not taken in her plight or the choice before her; perhaps because she feared the Valar; perhaps because she thought he would return for her. Perhaps for all these reasons.

What he longed for most now was to see Giledhel, to speak to her alone, to reassure and comfort her. But he found himself in the company of these ghastly interlopers...and of Tasareni. He stopped listening to the taunts around him, staring about the quarters that had once been the nest of his happiness. Malris gazed at the marriage bed further back, the drapery gone, the structure of the mahogany unchanged, a thin layer of dust coating it. He turned to the loom that faced him, the ruined loom and the creatures around it...his keen sight had already read what could still be seen of the words it bore, Malris, forgive...; what failing could he forgive in her? It was he who had wronged his wife now.

And then he saw the dark hair that had stirred him to passion in years long past; like black cream, he remembered thinking...the face looked drawn and haggard now, but the eyes were still beautiful...though not as soft as he remembered them, for they were fixed on Tasareni.

"Giledhel," Malris murmured. "You have waited for me for a long time. Longer than either of us could have guessed on the day of the retreat. Why must jealousy mar this?" He was speaking to an image in a loom, that flickered from his sight when he moved to a different angle, but he cared not. It was his wife. He wanted to drive his sword through the insubstantial hearts of the beasts who thought they were speaking for her. He wanted to embrace her even there was nothing to embrace.

"Tasareni is a faithful friend and a brave warrior. Think nothing else of her. Now, please, let your...companions...go, and allow Tasa to go back and join the rest of us. I brought five others, Giledhel."

"Five others? For the feast?" she replied innocently, her eyes growing wide with astonishment.

"Yes, my love. We will...feast here, and then we're going to go home," said Malris, desperate, kneeling.

"Home? But we are home..." came her poignant, quiet, bemused voice.

"No," Malris said, crawling up to the torn, befouled tapestry. "We're going to go to Aman. You'll see your parents again...your father..." Both of their cheeks were bright with tears now.

"What about her? She going too?" came the harsh, mocking chorus, and Tasa's voice rose in a scream as she was seized by the arms.

"Don't bring her," Giledhel muttered with quiet distaste. "I didn't want her at the party anyway..."

But Malris had turned and drawn his sword, futile though his martial skill was proving.

"Take your...hands...off her, yrch..."

"They were rude at first," Giledhel admitted. "But now they're good to me, as children should be good to their mother..."

The forms of the creatures came into sight again, and Malris recognised a darker line across the largest Coavalta's finger. The object itself must have been long lost; but Malris recognised the image of a ring he knew well; forged by his mother for her son's wedding day...

"They are not your children, nor your servants, nor your friends," he cried. "They are parasites. They slew you...and they will slay us too if they can..."

Ducking, Malris grabbed Tasareni's sword in his right hand and rushed towards her, forcing the hilt through the icy mockery of the Orc that held her fast, into her writhing palm. Giledhel's face faded from the loom, a low moan echoing about the chamber.