Island of Sorrow RPG

[Child of the 7th Age]

With his ankle tightly wrapped in rags, Lindir made his way down the hill, all the while leaning heavily on Endamir's arm. Though encountering some difficulties with fallen debris and littered rocks, he had finally arrived back at the meeting point where they'd begun their search that morning. He was feeling much better than he had earlier in the day. The throbbing in his ankle was far preferable to the sense of isolation and despair that had overwhelmed him when the houseless spirit had threatened to evict his fëa.

Lindir located a stout branch that could serve as a cane and found he could hobble forward on his own as long as the ground was relatively even. The enclosure within the fortress was too littered with stones and rubble for him to go back into the ruins to hunt for Malris and Tasa, both of whom were apparently missing. Using his talents as a scout, he found a gentler path than the one they had originally taken that led towards the beach. Lindir decided to go down and secure a few items from the boat, meanwhile keeping a sharp eye open for Malris in the unlikely event that he and Tasa had ventured down to the shore.

The path was blocked in places by clumps of tall grass, but the descent was gradual, so that Lindir had no serious problems finding his way back to the ship. Arriving at the boat, he dug through his spare satchel and located a change of clothes, quickly pulling on clean breeches and a shirt. As he stopped for a moment to get a ladle of water from the barrel that stood in the middle of the deck, he realized that something on the ship was different. A few items on deck were shifted ever so slightly out of place. Hobbling as quickly as he could and navigating the ladder with some difficulty, Lindir checked the supplies and equipment first down below and then out on the main deck. Nothing seemed to be missing, but he could not shake his initial feeling that someone had come onto their ship and searched through their supplies and belongings, putting things back as closely as they could so as not to be discovered.

Lindir shook his head in frustration. He had his small hunting knife at his side, but had left his sword and bow back in the fortress, since these had only seemed like an extra burden at the time. Lindir had just decided he’d better go back to the others and get some help, when a rough voice sounded in back of him. Whirling around, he saw that four figures had encircled him dressed in rough mariner’s garb and were cutting off his means of escape.

A tough voice boomed out: “You’d best explain what you’re doing here. Elf or no, you owe us an explanation! We trawl these waters to ply our fishing trade and make sure no travelers set foot here. This isle is a killer of men. It’s been years since we’ve seen anyone on these shores. So what mischief brings you and your crew here today?”

[piosenniel]

There was no response to their calls from Malris or Tasa. And Lindir had hobbled off saying he would look for the two on the little strand where they had moored the ship. At loose ends, and oppressed by the wreck and ruin of the fortress, Endamir suggested after a short while that they all go down to the ship to await the pair’s return.

Lindir, it seemed, had found a less strenuous route back to the beach. Following along in his track, the two brothers stepped onto the sandy shore in short time and turned toward the boat. In the distance they could see the deck and upon it not one, but five figures.

Orëmir drew his sword and was about to run to Lindir’s aid when his brother stayed his hand. ‘Put up your sword. I’ve had enough of fighting.’ He called out to Lindir in a loud voice.

Lindir! Are you alright? Who’s come aboard?’

~*~

The four sailors turned their attention to the two new Elves. Their hands were near their weapons, and grim, wary looks upon their faces. In the distance, anchored off shore, were four fishing vessels, and as he spied them, Endamir smiled.

‘You’ve found us the answer then to our needs!’ he said, coming to stand near Lindir. The four fishermen relaxed their guarded stance, though their brows furrowed and they looked from one to another at the Elf’s words.

[Envinyatar]

‘You must forgive my brother’s eagerness,’ Orëmir said, coming to stand by Lindir and Endamir. ‘He’s not usually so vague. But this island, this mountain top where once stood our captain’s fortress has got us rather spooked. We’re eager to be away. And we would do so, on our little vessel here, save we have the obligation upon us to lay our comrades who fought at our side to rest. We have gathered their bones and would let the sea take them westward to their final peace.’

The fact that there were Orcish remains among those bones, he chose to pass over . . .

The sailors narrowed their eyes, and one or two nodded their heads, weighing the Elf’s words. ‘So, you’ve come to honor your dead,’ the taller of them said. His eyes glinted in a shrewd manner, calculating how they might turn this need of the Elves to their advantage. ‘Be it a ship you’re wanting?’ He looked out to where their boats were anchored. ‘Those ships be our livelihood. And as such they’ll be dear.’ There were murmurs of assent from the other sailors as they caught wind of what might turn to their profit.

As Orëmir began to bargain with the fishermen, Endamir went below to their quarters and brought up to the deck two of the small leather pouches they had brought on this journey, each filled with gold coin of various sizes.

‘Will this be enough for one of the smaller vessels?’ he asked, pouring the contents out onto the head of a nearby barrel. The men’s eyes widened and some were eager to say ‘yes’. But the tall man intervened saying, how hard it would be to let even the smallest of their ships leave their hands.

It was then that Lindir stepped forward, and unpinning the jeweled brooch from his tunic, he placed it atop the pile. The facets of the jewels caught the sun’s light and threw it out in a glimmering display. Before the tall fisherman could protest again the worth of the vessels, the owner of the smallest reached out his hands and clasped the brooch and gold in his fists.

‘She’s yours!’ he said with a grin at the glittering wealth that threatened to spill through his fingers . . .

[Child of the 7th Age]

Lindir was not unhappy to see his brooch sacrificed as part of their agreement. Crafted by the Diviner in an age long ago, the silver brooch had become a grim reminder of how the woman he had loved had been transformed by the passage of time and the bitterness of war. Handing the jewelled piece over to the sailor, the Elf had felt something akin to relief, as if he was shedding a burden of guilt and sadness that had weighed heavily on his heart for countless years. He could only hope that his sweet Elliel would find in Mandos the peace that had eluded her during her life in Middle-earth.

He now felt he had a duty to perform. Somehow it was appropriate that Elliel's brooch help secure a funeral ship that would lay to rest the bones of all those who had died in battle. Maybe that tiny goodness would ease the pain of memory that she must surely feel after arriving in the Halls of Mandos and understanding what she had become. It was not only the bones of the Elves that were in Lindir's thoughts. How many in this age still remembered that the first Orcs had once been Elves, poor creatures dragged or enticed into the fortress of Lord Melko where they had been changed beyond recognition? He remembered his close friend Valindel who, distraught over the seemingly endless wars and the death of his wife, had wandered off one night towards Angband and had never been seen again. How often he had wondered what had become of him. Perhaps he had been mercifully killed and his fëa had flown on to find peace in Mandos. But often, in hard and lonely reflection, Lindir asked himself if his friend had suffered a much worse fate, one that could not be discussed even in the company of Elves.

With a flash of insight that tore at Lindir's heart, he realized that the fate of these Orcs and that of his beloved Elliel was perhaps not so terribly different. Joined by death and a common funeral byre, perhaps they would arrive in Mandos together and spend endless years ruminating on what had gone wrong. For the remainder of the day, Lindir joined in with the others to bring the bones down from the cavern. He ignored the pain that shot up his leg and, with a grim determination that was quite different from his earlier behavior, helped to load the baskets with the remains of Elves and Orcs, sending them down to the ledge and then to the shore, where they could be taken and loaded onto the ship. As the sun dipped down into the Sea, the Elves cranked down the last basket of bones and placed it gently onto the vessel. Their work, their real purpose for coming here, at long last was complete.

[piosenniel]

. . . it came to pass that the Silmarils found their long homes: one in the airs of heaven, and one in the fires of the heart of the world, and one in the deep waters . . .


The fishermen had agreed to sail the ship well out beyond the breakers. ‘We’ll set the sails and secure the wheel. West, you say, aye?’ The tall fisherman narrowed his eyes as he looked toward the horizon. The sun was just dipping below the rim of the sea, and across the darkening waters spread a carpet of burning white fire. ‘Winds will have to take it after that,’ he went on. ‘Can’t guarantee they’ll cooperate.’ He eyed the three Elves, trying to read the thoughts behind the seas of their eyes. But their minds were hidden from him, the planes of their faces set smooth and impenetrable.

Endamir thanked them, giving into each of their hands a number of gold coins for their trouble. ‘The grace of the Valar be with you!’ he said in the old tongue as they turned toward their ships. And some paused, looking back at him, the last of the bright white light of day playing about his face. The words they did not recognize, but the force behind them caused more than a few to bow their heads to accept the blessing.

~*~

Fair and marvelous was that vessel made, and it was filled with a wavering flame, pure and bright; and Eärendil the Mariner sat at the helm, glistening with dust of elvengems, and the Silmaril was bound upon his brow. Far he journeyed in that ship, even into the starless voids; but most often was he seen at morning or at evening, glimmering in sunrise or sunset, as he came back to Valinor from voyages beyond the confines of the world . . .


They watched from the shore as the fishing vessels left their erstwhile companion to sail on her own. The sun had set, and in the moonlight and the starlight the little brown boats peeled away from the ship which bore the bones like little ducks leaving the wake of a fair swan.

The bones, the skulls were lit with a soft, glimmering light as the ship kept to its westward course. And above the far edge of the waters Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope, appeared, shining bright against the black dome of night. It seemed to draw the ship of bones toward it, a beacon of promise set against the overweening darkness.

‘Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned,’ came the soft voice of Endamir.

‘The looked for that cometh at unawares,’ took up Orëmir.

‘That longed for that cometh beyond hope!’ whispered Lindir, his eyes as bright with tears as were the others.

And then in unison and in silence their thoughts went mightily across the waters . . .

Hail Eärendil, bearer of light before the Sun and Moon! Splendour of the Children of Earth, star in the darkness, jewel in the sunset, radiant in the morning.

~*~

Still as carven stones upon the strand, the Elves stood and bent their keen gazes upon the ship until the waters fell away beneath it and it sailed beyond their knowing and their sight.

And as they turned away, climbing up the narrow slope to where the fortress stood, their thoughts returned to their other companions and their need to find them, to finish this task of last farewells they had begun.

Endamir paused as they reached the grassy sward, calling to his brother and to Lindir to look where he pointed. In the west, Gil-Estel still blazed, and the other stars seemed to have caught his light and glittered like bright diamonds, outshining the moon himself.

He smiled, and recalling the words of the old tale, he spoke it aloud.

‘Eärendil stood before the Valar,’ he said, his eyes glittering as brightly as the stars he’d pointed to. ‘Do you remember?’ Orëmir nodded, a smile playing about his face. He put his arm about his brother’s shoulders and drew him near.

‘And pardon he asked for the Noldor,’ Orëmir continued, ‘and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.’

[Firefoot]

Despite his realization that it was time to leave this place, Lómwë could still feel it drawing at him, incessantly pulling him back, as if he still had something he needed to do. He had followed Endamir, Orëmir, and Lindir for a while, but he eventually lost track of them, not by conscious decision but rather lack of attention. He still felt too lost in his own affairs to care about any of theirs – something about bones?

He had not returned to the city but had wandered around it, keeping the eastern sea on his left as he walked southward, drinking a cup of combined sorrow and comfort by seeing the drowned place where he had once lived. Soon, he began to realize just how physically tired, how very sore he was, and wished he was back at their camp with a fire and food. But rather than going there – he was unsure of how far away it was anyway – he found a nearby fallen tree and sat down heavily on that. He let his thoughts wander and tried to clear his head, becoming engrossed in the movement of the waves on the sea, in some places gently lapping the shore while crashing into it in others.

After just a few short minutes, however, he became aware of another voice, whether audible or just in his head, he could not tell. Well, look who we’ve found here… all alone, and the city no where in sight, now. Lómwë slammed what was left of his mental barriers up as hard as he could in his weakened state. He recognized them more thoroughly now – not only as the orc fëar who had attacked him the previous night outside the city, but also as the spirits of the orcs who had killed his Ellothiel. Killed Aradol. A weak flame kindled inside of him. He drew his sword. “I have already defeated you – twice now,” he growled.

Ah, so you’ve faced the past now – that is how you Elves would put it? So you remember, don’t you, how we killed her, before you got to her? The spirit’s smugness was clearly evident. But you killed us before we could have our way with their bodies, it snarled. You won’t be beating us a third time. They – Lómwë could not tell how many, or was too weary to count – flew at him, assaulting, taunting. Lómwë swung his sword at them wherever they seemed to be – not that it had any effect. Lómwë had no hope – he would have no protection against these monsters once they broke past his barriers, and that would not be hard. They would destroy his mind, perhaps his fëa as well. He had no idea what they were capable of. Slowly he began to work his way back to the camp, even as he fought them. Perhaps they would find his body.

They had many weapons, and used them well. No matter how well Lómwë thought he had come to grips with his guilty conscience and his grief, they hurled these at him, desperately trying to rip his mind to shreds. Lómwë’s attacks became feebler. Perhaps, Ellothiel, I’ll be seeing you soon… One of the monsters seemed to break through; Lómwë cried out in pain. Coming, Ellothiel. I’ll escape these demons and come to you. The battle was lost, it seemed. Lómwë had nearly given way completely; they were too strong, too determined. That portion of his mind and memory that he had kept locked up so long became his solace – at least that pain he was familiar with. Now he locked himself into it. But the battle was so close to lost, so close. He seemed to see a black tunnel stretching before him – escape. He could escape these monsters, cease fighting… they could do nothing to an empty hröa. A light seemed to shine at the end of the tunnel. There. He would find Ellothiel there – perhaps… Any second now, and he would be flying towards the light. It seemed that it was the only point of hope that he had seen in all the long years since the Dagor Bragollach. Yes, there.

But suddenly… their attack seemed to abate, as if they were slowly losing power. It seemed that they were fighting another foe, wholly separate from him. They were withdrawn from his ravaged mind, still vainly trying to unleash their attacks. But slowly, oh so slowly, they faded away. And the black tunnel, or his need of it, seemed to fade away as well, though he fought to keep it there, for if the tunnel faded, so also would that light, that hope… but oddly enough, the light did not fade. The blackness turned into something else, something brighter and more focused, but the light stayed there at the center of his vision. He tried to orient himself, finally realized that his point of light was a star – Eärendil’s star appeared in the west. He did not turn and look back again at the eastern sea, but stumbled on westward towards the star, towards his hope.

After an unknown length of time, he came upon the gate of the fortress, heard voices, and for the first time since the attack turned his focus away from the shining star. He came upon Orëmir, Endamir, and Lindir, also gazing up at the star. Orëmir was speaking: “And pardon he asked for the Noldor, and pity for their great sorrows, and mercy upon Men and Elves and succour in their need. And his prayer was granted.”

Lómwë’s eyes lifted again to the stars. And there was hope. Now, perhaps, there was hope.

[Anguirel]

And as the long toil of the day and eve finally approached its setting, the company of Elves found themselves scattered. Malris and Tasa were sunk, isolated even from each other by sharp despair, against the unyielding granite that had been the male Elf's home so long ago. The twins, and Lindir, cured of wounds to his spirit and his heart, watched the boats separating in such symbolic directions; one to the west and the Deeps, the other to the fish-markets of Forochel, harsh lands of the tough survivors, Men, wrongly called Sickly Ones! Lomwe, his own struggle with memory and guilt subsided, now joined them.

All of the six would hear the music which now called out for the third time. It passed even the defeated stupor of the two Elves in Giledhel's old bed-chamber. Hearing this song, you knew you would have heard it from across a cataract, or amidst the cacophony of the wildest storm. Yet it had no empty bombast about it; it was not a strain to inspire marching bands, nor even to tell of melancholy decline. It was like a lullaby sung by a strong, confident, and deeply loving father. Or perhaps a brother; a brother in a large family, perpetually having to look to the needs of his younger siblings.

The words, however, would seem different for the Elves grouped on the beach from how they reached Malris and Tasa. The singer and harper, wherever he was hidden, could see all, would tell all, would sing all. So it was that each of the parties heard, to some extent, of the doings of the other.

On the beach the mighty voice sang:

Oh, how much love is there in friendship?
Does friendship blaze on passion's pyre?
What can a night's quarrel pull down
Or joining hands in motion set?

A friend had I right long ago, a loyal Elf was he
He clove unto his own and to my fierce family.
From race on grass to race on sea we travelled-oh, then see!
He got a wife and lost a wife and lived apart from me.

This friend of mine had a friend too
But she e'er thought of more
Apart from him she knew not who
Could her heart move so sore.

Among ye here they both have come
They travelled to the first's lady.
But she had borne strange childer
In a heart too long left lone.

Now to the West speeds Giledhel
Though her brave lord yet lives;
He and the maid bide in my sight
Encaged unless they delve.

Thus to the four Elves. But to Malris and Tasareni, a shorter song, with longer intervals of music:

Why so forlorn on Himring's point?
The quest ye strove on is fulfilled.
The parts of witch and knight are done:
The smith can breathe again.

The door that laid ye both so low
Do not regard much longer. Nay:
Remember when this tower was yours
Malris: look to the shaft.

A choice to part full dec'rously
Or yet to overcome heart's ice
Is come: Mandos takes Giledhel
And never will take me.

Look from the window of the gard
For Earendil's Silmaril.
'Twas Maitimo first sighted it
But I who bore it no ill-will.

The same realisation would come upon all the listeners. On the previous nights, what seemed to be Maglor himself, lost heir to Himring, had sung to the isle in general; but this time, for whatever reason, he was addressing his enchantingly lovely riddles to the travellers in a startingly particular manner...

Now it was only left to decipher them...