Red Flows the Sirannon RPG

[Amanaduial the archer]

“My lady…my lady, are you…? Sairien, I think this one stirs, at last, she’s waking, I think…my dear, come to us, come on…”

“Good gracious…” The kindly, elderly voice which called Narisiel to wake was followed by a gasp, then a hand touched her face, gently turning it to the side. “Good gracious, Tisinwe, I…my husband knows this elf, I believe, her name…her name is Narisiel. Narisiel Mirdain.”

At her name, Narisiel stirred, the fog in her mind clearing as, almost reluctantly, she opened her eyes, narrowing them against the sudden light of the sun that shone through the walls of the medical tent. Above her, a kindly, beautiful face, framed by dark hair, drew back in shock, and the cool, soft hand on the side of her face drew away suddenly. That face was familiar to Narisiel, her beauty standing out in a crowd as she watched her husband standing beside Celebrimbor…Narisiel tried weakly to clear her throat which felt as if it had sat one hundred years unused, then gave up and croaked, “Sairien?”

Sairien gasped once again and reached for Narisiel’s hand. “Yes! Yes indeed – Narisiel, my husband…Maegisil…we presumed you dead! Why, he has no idea you are here, wait, wait until I go to find him—”
“No!” Narisiel’s reply was sharp as she interrupted, her fingers curling around Sairien’s to stop her as she went to stand, presumably to fetch Maegisil, and she started up herself – a mistake. Wincing, she clutched at her side, almost doubling up in pain as the kind hands of the nurse who sat beside her caught her, gently lowering her back onto her pillow. Narisiel felt blood on her hands and drew them away from her stomach – to see them covered in blood. Her eyes widened in horror and her breathing sped up. “No…no, I…I did not…it had to be done, he was in such pain, it was a kinder way to finish it, I would never have-” Narisiel was becoming frantic now, struggling to rise out of the bed despite the pain that ripped through her abdomen, more blood spilling out onto her hands. Blood, blood on her hands – Celebrimbor’s blood, surely. Death, death, death… The crippling pain from her stomach finally got the better of her, and Narisiel yielded to it and the gentle hands that forced her back onto the bed, tears welling up in her eyes as she wept bitter tears. “It…it had to be done…” she whispered desperately through her tears.

“Narisiel, please, calm yourself – w-what had to be done? What are you talking about?”

Narisiel looked up sharply at Sairien, searching the woman’s face for any sign of deceit, for surely, she felt, they had to know, had to have found out what she had done…but she found only sincerity and concern in the woman’s fine features. And pain. Plenty of pain. But Maegisil…Urgency took hold of her once again and she gripped Sairien’s hand fiercely. “Sairien, your husband, the counsellor Maegisil-?”

“He is alive, Narisiel, alive and well, although I shall not say that he has not also been harmed by the battle, if not physically.” She frowned and looked away, her forehead creasing slightly into newly formed lines of anxiety. “The fall of Eregion and the death of Celebrimbor...” she turned back to Narisiel, shaking her head. “He could have done no more to protect the Lord Celebrimbor, though my telling him so seems to make no difference. Not that it is known for sure whether he is dead, although Maegisil seems convinced of the fact…”

Ah. So this woman was not entirely knowledgeable about the events of the fall of the city. An image flashed through Narisiel’s mind: Maegisil kneeling before Angoroth, swearing an oath that betrayed Celebrimbor. She looked away and something in her expression must have alerted Sairien, for the elf leant forward. “What, what is it? You know something of Celebrimbor?”

Narisiel turned slowly back to Sairien, and she gave a sad smile. Oh, all I know of Celebrimbor… She turned to the nurse and, giving her her thanks, asked her to leave. Studying Sairien’s earnest features, she prepared to reveal her secret…

…then hesitated.

Why should she reveal this secret to Sairien? Maegisil had kept his secrets close, evidently, somehow omitting to tell his wife of the vow he had sworn to Angoroth. But that, too, was not Narisiel’s secret to tell. Let Maegisil reveal what he saw fit to his wife, of the ring, of Angoroth, of Celebrimbor… Her eyes flitted critically over Sairien’s features, again searching for some sign that the woman knew any more than she was letting on, but she came up only with simple consternation and anxiety, not only for Narisiel but for Maegisil as well. For all the years the two counsellors had known each other, Narisiel had only ever met Sairien a few times, and always fleetingly. But whenever she had seen husband and wife together, she had seen the same adoring, simple love as resided between herself and Sirithlonnior. . She smiled. “You are every bit as beautiful as Maegisil said,” she replied quietly. Sairien smiled, blushing slightly, and pushed a strand of hair behind her ear self-consciously. But Narisiel’s smile was a sad one: she envied this woman that she still had her husband, loving, alive.

“Today is not our dying day…” Her husband’s words echoed back to her painfully and Narisiel almost flinched, her eyes glistening. She knew, as surely as she knew of her own existence, more surely even, that Sirith was dead. His words had been proved false, but she could never tease him about it in the way that she would have done, could never again mock him, tease, embrace him… The elf took a deep, ragged breath in, then out, blinking away the tears in her eyes. She looked up at Sairien and gave her a brief, tight smile. “You are lucky, Sairien. You…” she paused, taking a deep breath against the grief that welled up in her throat. “My husband,” she continued quietly. “I don’t suppose…” Sairien’s eyes told her what she needed to know before she had even finished the sentence. She gave a quick, curt nod, a quick, almost business-like sniff, opening her mouth to speak again, then deciding that she did not trust herself with the words. The other elf, as if understanding, squeezed her hand gently and, without another word, drifted away, leaving Narisiel alone.

“Today is not our dying day…” No. Death had been stolen from Narisiel as surely as she had stolen life from Celebrimbor, although how she had been taken from the city she was not sure – later, the nurse would tell her that she had been carried from the city by a soldier, mistaking her for another, although she did not know that for now, and had slept for several days, unconscious, after having been left at survivors’ camp. She remained alive where her son and husband were surely dead, but how?! Surely, a leap through a pane of glass from a second storey window onto hard ground below could only have one result! She had expected death, maybe even yearned for it after she had jumped, the blood staining her fingers not her own but that of the friend and lord she had sworn to protect. Two fractured ribs and a wrist broken from the impact, along with scratches and cuts galore, she had – but, miraculously, life also remained hers. And as she lay in that medical tent for the week or so after the battle, recovering slowly from her body, she both cursed and blessed that fact.

Maegisil did not come to see her: Sairien, although she did not know why Narisiel craved secrecy, respected her wishes and did not tell her husband of her prescence, and she mused on whether she was perhaps disgraced, fallen in his eyes – she heard little of the counsellor, lapsing as she did in and out of consciousness, maybe through concussion, maybe also through simply a lack of motivation to live. But after a week and a half in this state, when she was finally able to leave the medical tent and walk in the sunlight in the makeshift camp, the elven woman had concocted a plan, simple though it was. She would simply leave the camp. Leave the camp, leave the elves, leave Maegisil and all the secrets they held, shared and individually – too many secrets, over all the years. To keep them bottled up, both knowing of them but neither voicing their fears and concerns, twists the soul, and Narisiel wanted no more part in it. Such deceit over the past century had caused her enough pain for a lifetime, even that of an immortal. Deceit to her people, to her family, to herself even – and now that she had lost both her people and her family, Narisiel even found that she barely knew herself anymore.

No. No more secrets, no more lies.

And so it was, under the bright, winter’s morning sun, that Narisiel Mirdain stood at the outskirts of the camp looking up, surveying it one last time. Here, in this small area of land, was all that was left of the first great, white city. Yet although Ost-in-Edhil had fallen, life went on: children remained, their mothers’ faces newly lined with pain and sorrow, brightening to watch them play together, for children, a sign of life, speak of a future to come, even if it was a future that some would have to face alone. The soldiers of Elrond talked among themselves and to the elves of Eregion, sharing stories with pipeweed as they laughed together, the sound of cheer that echoed through the camp no longer so strange as it turned from a place of mourning to…well, somewhere people could go to. Each would start a new life – and Narisiel’s started here, on this hill, paused under this holly bush, with just a few belongings, provisions and the sword at her side, hidden discreetly under a borrowed travelling cloak. A smile creased her features as she surveyed the camp, then, finally, turned to leave – and paused.

“Sairien, are you ready? No, don’t worry, it’s nothing, I don’t want to talk about it…of course, of course…”

Narisiel stood, frozen, watching from her distant position the familiar figure who spoke to his wife, hurrying out of Elrond’s tent. He was a little gaunter, a little aged in the two weeks since Narisiel had last seen him, but nonetheless, there was the face from a lifetime ago, for a face of a century’s worth of friendship does not easily fade from the memory. Maegisil.

In the time since she had arrived at the camp, Narisiel had heard her own name referenced once or twice, always by strangers, for she knew barely a soul from her previous life. Her name was not unknown amongst them, for she had, of course, been of some standing in Ost-in-Edhil, and it seemed people always knew more than was expected – rumours, half-truths, whole truths which she would never verify all drifted in the minds of those who speculated about Celebrimbor and the rings. Maybe there would one day be a ballad, a poem, an epic work made of the great, fallen city of Ost-in-Edhil, and of the Mirdain, those greatest smiths who worked there. Maybe…maybe Narisiel herself would come into it. Maybe even the forging of the rings… Narisiel turned away. Better to be remembered in whatever way the remainder of that mighty people saw fit than to bring her broken secrets amongst them to scandalise and then, finally, fade away. No. With a dead son, a dead husband and the remainders of such a beautiful life gone sour, honey that turned bittersweet in the mouth when finally tasted, Narisiel turned from the camp and struck out for a new life. Whether Maegisil, as he hurried from the tent, might have chanced to turn to look up the hill, to catch the winter’s sun as she rose to her glorious pinnacle in the sky, and might have seen illuminated there a solitary figure he may have remembered her from a thousand years and a different lifetime before; maybe not. If he did, he never let on, and Narisiel Mirdain passed from the camp, quietly, and alone.

If Sairien never told her husband of her brief encounter with Narisiel in the medicine tent, why then, Maegisil would never know the elf-smith had even escaped: Narisiel Mirdain could well have died with her family in the city she loved. Let Sairien keep her secret, let Maegisil keep his. And Narisiel? Well, she too would keep her secrets now. Let them believe what they would! Of the rings, of the elves who made them, of Celebrimbor – and of his eventual fate. Let them all be remembered in whatever fashion the storytellers saw fit to conjure up! Let them hope, let them dream. Maybe that was all existence had ever been based on: a hope, a dream. And now, for Narisiel, a new dream had begun.

[piosenniel]

A month or more had passed since King Durin led his troops from the West-gate and set them against the dark foe. The battle had been fierce; the Dwarves fanning out from the entrance to the mountain to meet the Orcs and Easterlings on a number of fronts. Their numbers, large as they were, drawn from the families throughout the caverns, were no match, however, for the overwhelming number of the enemy.

But King Durin was a wise commander and he had a plan in mind. Not to vanquish Sauron’s troops, nor even to win against them in a short term foray. Those he knew would be only vainly tried, and many Dwarves would be lost in the trying. Instead, he had devised a hit and run tactic. Sting the enemy from the rear in a number of places, retreat, regroup elsewhere, and then harry them again. This maddened the Orcs and Men and set them chasing the Dwarves willy-nilly, in a futile attempt to stomp out their aggravating attacks. The King’s objective was to draw off Sauron’s army in an attempt to take the pressure off the combined troops of Elrond, Celeborn, and those Dwarves led by Rori Ironfoot.

It had proved an effective maneuver. But not without its own terrible consequences. The whole of the dark army turned upon the Dwarves of Khazad-dum and pushed against them mercilessly, driving them back to the stone gates. Many fell, defending the gates as their friends and kin retreated to the safety of the caverns and the halls. And when the gates were at last shut hard against Sauron’s wicked mignons, the names of those dead defenders were tallied . . . and read out in the King’s own hall . . .

~*~

Unna left the small oil lamp burning in her chambers. Leifr was snuggled in against her back, his eyes closed, lost in dreams. Tonight, she thanked Mahal, they were seeming pleasant ones. Ginna fretted in the oaken cradle next to the bed. Unhappy at her circumstances, she stiffened her tiny arms and pushed her fists hard against the blankets that were settled over them.

‘Sshhh!’ crooned Unna, taking the little one up in her arms and nestling her in the crook of her arm. ‘You’ll wake your brother.’ She brushed back the damp curls from her daughter’s fretful brow, and let her nurse to quiet her. ‘Let him sleep, little one,’ she murmured in a singsong manner. ‘Let him sleep . . . sleep . . . and you , too . . .’

Half drowsing, she pulled the covers up to her shoulders. Both her babes were quiet now, lost in the sweet release of sleep. She caught herself listening for the fall of her husband’s boots on the stone tiled floor, and half rose up on an elbow, waiting for him to push open the door and join them in the family bed. His great arms would settle the little ones between them, and he would reach above their heads to kiss her cheek. Then smiling, his fingers would graze her cheek for a moment and a few tender words would pass between them, scattered among the ordinary tellings of the day gone by. He would drift into sleep, then, she recalled, smiling at the image – his eyes growing heavy, his breathing softer and more shallow.

In the soft light of lamp, her eyes grew bright with tears . . .

There were only these memories now of him to comfort her. No sounds of footsteps drew near; the door stayed firmly shut; no familiar weight of him on the other side of the mattress, no lingering warmth where his lips had touched her cheek.

Riv was gone from her. One of the fallen, defending heroes.

Cold comfort, those words. Her pride at his actions could not fill the aching loss. Nor had the hurt and sorrow abated since first the news had come to her.

Leifr stirred in his sleep. Turning, she pulled him closer, kissing his brow. She reached back for Ginna and brought her to lie between them. ‘It will be alright,’ she murmured to them. And again, more softly, ‘It will be alright . . .’

As if the saying of the words might make it so . . .

[Arry]

A quarter year’s journey . . . . . . SA 1697

They had had to take the long way round. The West Gate was shut fast and boulders and trees and whatever the foul servants of Sauron could find had been thrown against it, in an effort it seemed, to break into the Dwarves’ stronghold. But the Doors of Durin, secured by Elven spell and the craftsmanship of the Dwarves, had held fast.

Over the spine of the mountains they made their cautious way, their path often deviating from the shortest route as they avoided the unsafe places where remnants of Orc and other might still lurk. There were too few of them to stand against an attack. Of the twenty who had stayed to fight alongside the Elves, only eleven now remained, still led by Rori Ironfoot. And when at last they reached the Dimrill Stair, their hearts grew lighter. There lay Kheled-zaram, below; still and smooth were its waters, and the encircling mountains stood guard about it, within and without.

There was wonder in the faces of the guards who stood watch at the approach to the eastern gate. They hailed their road-worn kin and sent a runner back to the gate that those long thought perished with the Elves had come home.

Many were gathered in the great hall that formed the eastern entryway. Looks of hope turned for some to cries of joy as they saw their family member and rejoiced. For others, the hope was short-lived, and tears streaked the now grim faces. Many of the returned companions stepped forward to console those who had lost men, giving comfort with words as they might.

Skald was eager to be away to the Stonecut Hall at the western end of the caverns. Eager to see his family once again, to put down his weapon and his armor and to put on his thick leather apron and take up the tools of his trade. But most of all, he wished to see his father and Riv. He had asked for news of them, but the answers were vague – most of those gathered more concerned with finding their own kin or what had happened to them.

Less than two days longer, and he and Bror had traversed the long route from the east to west gate. It was very early in the morning when they arrived; none were stirring yet in the great hall. Flinging their packs and weapons on the floor of the entryway, they hurried quickly to the kitchen, hoping to find some.

‘Riv will be there,’ chuckled Skald. ‘Making his third cup of tea, I’ll bet. And staring into the fire. He never was a hurrier . . . our brother. He’ll be waiting for Unna to come up and cook his breakfast.’ Skald paused and turned Bror at his side. ‘Eggs, if you have them,’ they began in sing-song imitation of their brother’s usual morning request. ‘And don’t break the yolks, please. And if we don’t have eggs, then mush with honey and milk. And four slices of thick, toasted bread.’ They were laughing as they entered the kitchen.

It was Viss who looked up from his cup of tea at them – a look of utter disbelief on his face. He set his mug down shakily on the table and got up quickly, his chair clattering to the stone floor as he rose. His face, they noted was more lined and care worn, and there were tears in his eyes as he stumbled toward them. ‘My sons, my sons,’ he rasped out in a voice heavy with relief at the sight of them. Taking them both in his outspread arms he clasped them tightly to his chest.

Others of the family had come into the kitchen to see the source of the commotion; they, too, surrounded Bror and Skald, touching them often, making sure they were really there. Little Leifr ran to clutch at his uncles’ legs, his mouth bowed up in a great smile.

Unna was the last. She transferred the wriggling Ginna to her grandpa’s arms and put a hand, then, each to Skald and Bror’s faces. ‘Oh, more than welcome are your faces . . . my heart . . . our hearts are bursting with the joy of your return,’ she said to them.’

Skald looked toward the door, and not seeing the face he expected to have come, too; his brow furrowed. ‘And where is Riv?’ he asked. ‘He’s not abed yet, is he? The sluggard!’ Unna’s eyes clouded at his question. And Leifr, Skald noted, looked sadly toward his mother.

‘Come,’ said Viss, once more in control of himself. He pulled out two chairs and sat down motioning for his sons to take a seat. Unna gathered up the two little ones and retreated, as did the others of the Stonecut clan. When the kitchen was quiet, and only the hiss and pop of the fire in the grate remained, Viss spoke.

‘It was like this,’ he began, his eyes fixed on the worn, familiar surface of family table, as if seeing the field of battle once more . . .

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Five years later – Skald’s workshop . . . . . SA 1702

It was the turn of the new year. News had come from a company of Dwarves passing near the edges of Lorien. Men had come to the aid of the Lindon Elves. Men in great ships from across the western sea. They had pushed Sauron south and east out of Eriador and at the Gwathlo River they had overcome his army. Sauron, it was said, had escaped and now hid himself away within the walls of Mordor.

Viss sat on a chair that Skald had brought into his workshop especially for him. A thick bear hide was thrown over it, cushioning the aging bones and joints of the elder Dwarf. Ginna, now almost five years old sat on his knee. Her dark eyes swiveled from her uncle to her Grandpa and back again as they rehashed the news that had traveled from the eastern halls.

‘He’s a bad, bad man,’ she pronounced at a lull in the conversation. ‘I hope his mountains fall on him!’

Skald looked from her to his father, his brows raised. He wanted to agree with her; the anger and the sadness that surrounded Riv’s death had barely dimmed in these intervening years. It was still a sharp pain that crept up on him at time and took his breath away at the memory of it.

Unna had come to the doorway; she had brought the mid-day meal in a covered basket for him and Viss. As he looked away from Viss toward Ginna, thinking on what to say to her, he saw Unna looking at him expectantly. And he nodded at her, a half smile acknowledging what was needed here and now. It had come easier now, these times when he was called to put aside his own feelings and consider how the oldest brother should act . . . how Riv would expect him to act. Skald wondered if there would ever come the time that he did not first reflect on what his brother would do.

I’m trying my best, Riv. I’m stepping up . . . as you asked me to . . . and as best I can.

He scooped Ginna up in his arms. ‘He is a bad man, little one. But let’s leave what happens to him in the hands of Mahal and those who can strike the blow needed to make him stop his badness.’ He tickled her a little, getting a high squeal of laughter in return. ‘Let’s think of something happier to hope for,’ he said setting her back down on the floor.

‘Well, I’m hoping Unna has made those thick ham sandwiches with smoked cheese, sliced thin. And that good mustard I saw her putting up just last week.’ Viss chuckled deep in his chest and picked up the corner of the cloth that covered the basket. He smiled, seeing just the sort of sandwich his belly was clamoring for.

Leifr, now a gangly lad of ten, glared at his sister as he entered the workshop behind his mother. ‘Well, I know what I’m hoping for!’ he said sticking his tongue out at Ginna from behind Unna’s back. ‘That you turn into a lizard and get stuck in a hole somewhere!’ Ginna had inherited her family’s love of practical joking, and though she was half the age of her brother, she was much better at thinking up pranks than he was.

Ginna hmmmmph’d at him, her eyes lighting up at the thought of getting back at him. ‘Well, I have a new wish. And one much nicer than thinking about that Sour-One.’

Unna stifled a laugh and urged her daughter to go on.

Drawing close to her mother, Ginna put her small hand on Unna’s swollen belly. ‘And I hope,’ she said loudly, looking directly at her brother. ‘I hope that I get a brand new sister. Then me and her are gonna get you good!!!!’

Leifr protested, folding his arms over his chest. He glared back at his sister. ‘That’s not fair!’ Skald put his hand on Leifr’s shoulder and bent down to whisper in his ear, bringing a grin to the boy’s face.

‘Yes, it could be a new sister,’ Unna laughed, looking at Ginna and coming to stand by her less-than-a-year’s-turning husband. She slipped her hand into Skald’s and gave it a squeeze. ‘Or it could be a little brother.’ She nodded reassuringly at Leifr. Unna smiled mischievously and put Skald's hand on her belly. ‘Or it could be both!’

Cries of ‘No fair!’ rang out at this announcement, from both Ginna and her brother.

‘Hush now! Grandpa’s got something to say!’ Viss’ voice boomed out above the sibling argument. He held up the basket and patted his own belly. ‘Grandpa is hungrier than an old cave bear!’ He put on a fierce face and swung his head back and forth much like a bear might do, his eyes flicking from Ginna to Leifr and back again. His voice rumbled from deep in his chest. ‘Now, let’s get to eating these good sandwiches . . . before I have to eat the two of you!’