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17. Wind-Singers Volume III.I: The Final Quest; Ivordir and Daerfalas journey into Gondor to face the Enemy and find tidings of Guldrambor
Topic Started: Apr 5 2015, 04:14 PM (4,117 Views)
Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXVII: The Dance of Terror

Amarthandor had seen what had transpired below, and taking counsel with his brothers, they lured Silevren and his acolytes into the depths of the Archives, while Haedirn led the others upstairs. Gilorn remained with Amarthandor. In the depths of the catacombs, fiery torch-light reflected on cold-steel as blades were drawn, and Lerion ran from the others, his cape pouring behind him as he ran.

Amarthandor swung at Silevren, who evaded his blade, grappling his arm beneath his cloak, as Silevren shouted, "I shalt finish thee, False King!"

Amarthandor shouted, "I am no King! I was gravely deceived......."

Their clash continued as Silevren retorted, "And so was I.......the bile was false.... thy bile......"

"I had long since rejected it......"

The thought slowly began to dawn in Silevren's mind, and vice versa.

And as Silevren's dagger pressed downward toward Amarthandor's neck, he smelt a sudden fair scent. Smelling it, he dropped his blade. Amarthandor smelt it, thanking the Powers silently to himself.

Amarthandor muttered, "We must stop this skirmish before everyone slays each other! We have reached a point of understanding......."

Silevren outstretched his hand. Amarthandor grasped his hand, gratefully, and then they ran through the shadows, as if the Argonath of the North had been shrouded in gold and began to breathe the cleaner, fresher air of sanity, as they ran together down the hall.

But it was too late. They found Gilorn standing with his sword held high, the bleeding bodies of seven Haradric crewmen swathed in blood-stained noble robes, heaped on the floor. The stench of death hung heavy in the air. Only one crewman remained standing. Amarthandor shouted, "Cease fighting! It is all a horrid failure...."

Silevren nodded, the crewman dropping his blade, as Gilorn leaned in a hot sweat, his sweat dripping down his nose and cheeks, as his sweat-drenched hands gripped his hilt as he leaned on his broad sword, anchoring it in one of the dripping, bleeding bodies.

Silevren ran, managing to end many a strangling-match with silk. No further deaths occurred that fateful day. But Angolhel revealed the names of the fallen: Saphazi, Ghason, Yutuzon, Fushi, Noshi, Zaghi, and Tuzu. Only Malagi still remained, shaking in his depths of horror and terror, as he stared at the blood-drenched corpses. By now, Haedirn and his men returned, with Ciron of the Tumladen Vale. Haedirn ordered his men to gather a small cart and buckets, and to be discreet. There was an old passageway from the Archives to the Cisterns, a passage that could be blocked by a sequence of bookshelves in order to prevent intrusions, or opened to permit escape. Haedirn had learned of the passage from Ioristor, father of Ivordir.

Angolhel stared in shock, pale with fear, at the bloody corpses, now wrapped in cloth. With Silevren's treason to the Haradrim revealed, the soldiers now regarded the corpses of the fallen, gravely, with honor. Angolhel and Alagossel spoke quietly in their native tongue, speaking funerary words, remembering each one, as their eyes were closed.

Saphazi was a master Mumak rider and bowman. He had served his tribe with dignity, courageously, as he had grown from boyhood, learning how to hunt food for his tribe. In time, Umbar conscripted the tribe to service, and he learned the ways of the sea. And Angolhel had kissed him deeply and foretold great honor.

Ghason was the tribe's chief merchant, but also a strong man in his own right. He often wrestled, and won, against other tribesmen. His intellect was vast for bartering and other tradesmen skills. His savvy had earned the tribe new tents, new ties to the jungle-tribes, and the weavers of silk from distant lands. When the tribe had found caverns in the Mountains of Shadow that were filled to the brim with jewels, where the Carnen flowed within the caves, they became fabulously rich. And Angolhel had kissed him deeply and foretold great fortune.

Yutuzon was a brave defender, a hunter-gatherer and spear-man, who protected the tribe on long night-watches against any fell beasts that would stalk their encampment. One of his sons had perished in a hunting accident, a boar that had rushed unnoticed, until it was too late. His other son had perished defending his mother from slavers, when she had passed away from the protected camp in search of water in a watering-hole a half-a-league away. Yutuzon's wife had been captured, tortured, and lead away by the slavers. By the time his fellow tribesmen caught and defeated the slavers, Yutuzon's wife had perished a terrible death. And Angolhel had kissed him deeply and foretold the return of deep love.

Fushi, Noshi, Zaghi, and Tuzu were all twins of the same father. Their father had perished with the Lord Sorcerer, Lerion's father, on a fatal charge into Ithilien. They were strong, capable, young men, who oft took pleasure in serving Lerion, aiding in his prophetic mysteriousness, his serpentine serenity, and awe and beauty. They, too, wished to avenge their father's death, in a self-destructive well-spring of ever-enduring bile of a different sort, a bile far more sinister than any of Guldrambor's devices: for this bile is emergent within the soul, an internal bile, comprised of malice and hatred, a poisonous malaise that welled-up to destroy them. And Angolhel had kissed them deeply, and foretold the rise of justice.

Now they were dead. They had comported themselves with honor, taking-on the thankless tasks of running a ship, laboring to their more recent, commonly-shared craft, amidst the glamour and beguiling glitz of their passengers. They had girded themselves, daring to enter into the White City, that shining spire of terror, the nightmare of their boyhood dreams around a desert campfire amidst the high, cold dunes as the cold, westerly wind had blown sand in their faces in the depths of night. They had braved it, knowing of the likelihood of their impending deaths. And within the Cisterns, Haedirn and his men hauled drier wood, and burned their secret pyre. But Angolhel left Alagossel in charge of the funerary rites. Lerion was missing, and they wished to find him, lest he destroy himself.

And Auravon went with her. Angolhel's eyes glistened in terror in the flickering, fiery torch-light, "Hold-onto my cloak, and do not be tricked!"

Auravon maintained Angolhel's pace as she sprinted, as Auravon held onto the cloak that billowed and flew behind her as she ran down spiral staircases in the shadows.

They reached a dead-end of blank wall between two torches. They heard a simpering, whimpering sound in the corner: a mass of dark-purple silk shivering, quivering, huddled against a bookshelf. It was the section of texts concerning the final years of Numenor.

Suddenly, the sounds ceased. The mass arose, maneuvering slowly in front of the torches, partially wondering why he had not yet been slain. Before Angolhel could speak, Lerion outspread his cloak, revealing his daggers: "I, Lerion, Lord High Sorcerer of the Shahadmaradi, the Black Serpent, shalt....!" He realized the presence of his wife as she stood before him. Auravon revealed himself. Lerion scowled. But Angolhel uplifted her silken wings in a fury, "Be silent! ...............................Amarthandor no longer deems himself a King! He has repented of his ways, as we have..............................."

The daggers dropped to the floor as the whimpering sounds began again, slowly. Auravon nodded, "She speaks the truth, my friend. Come, let us be foes no longer."

Lerion plunged into frantic, bitter weeping, as Auravon shouldered him. Waves of peace flooded Lerion's spirit, as he plunged into the epiphanic, luminous beauty of Auravon's golden silken folds, its ruby-red lining emitting one of the fairest scents that Lerion had ever smelt. Girding himself, Lerion abandoned himself completely, as Angolhel deeply embraced them both.

And Lerion gained the courage to pay tribute to the ashes of those brave men. Malagi was his apprentice. Malagi's eyes had over-wept, shriveled and frightened, but Lerion deeply embraced him, as Malagi shed -joyful- tears, for his Master remained among the living. They solemnly processed through the Archives anew, hiding their silken cloaks once more beneath their noble robes, as they resumed their ascent toward the House of Ioristor, marred with their depths of sorrow intermingling with -joy-.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXVIII: A Solemn Arrival

They had arrived on March 2nd, and it had reached mid-morning. The Company of Nobles had passed through Nan Harlond. They reached the port, and took their rest, and then they had set-out again. The White City gleamed brighter than any cloak. After hours on the southern reaches of the Pelennor, their slow-plodding caravan finally reached the City. Their goods had been inspected by guards at many turns. Amarthandor found it strange that they did not find his cloak out of the ordinary. He felt it. Something felt wrong. It did not emit the same cathartic feelings... And Mordor loomed to the distant East, tall and threatening. And a dark cloud loomed over-top of it, blocking the sun completely. Up six Levels, they climbed. It was then that Saelbainor encountered Silevren, altering their course, and dividing their Company.

And on the sixth, the half of the Company that had not ventured into the Archives managed to follow Ivordir's written instructions. The manse was tall and wide, perched in the northeastern half of the circle. They looked at Lady Melimir, who had known Ioristor well enough to entrust her son to his care.

Ioristor sat huddled in his robes, sipping his wine, as he sat nigh one of the lofty bookshelves, its many-colored bindings gleaming in the light of his taper. He reached for the sigil, but found it not. He remembered his son sadly. He heard the knocking on the main doors. He hoped it might be his son at last. "Enter!" He shouted, gasping.

Lady Melimir led her retinue, sparse as it was, and the other nobles within. Her sigh of relief was a quiet thing, and she marched proudly on towards Ioristor, pausing to sweep a bow to him, her muscles stiff with long travel. "We have met only through correspondence," she said with a smile, "though I know you well; we share the responsibilities of two sons, I think." Behind her, Raedwyn looked on with wonder; Arancir grasped his brothers' arms, staring up at the standards hanging high upon the ceilings; their party was silent, looking on, safe within the high walls of the city but for the moment.

Ioristor's eyes brightened, "It is my honor.....and pleasure... to meet you, my Lady." His eyes glistened brighter, "Our sons! What tidings have we of them? The last I had heard, they were journeying south, to you in Pelargir! And...... an entire year has passed without a word! Have they no pity.........? No, I taught them better.......something must have befallen them!"

Melimir dipped her head. "Indeed, much has happened since last word has passed between us. But perhaps, I think, I might beg of you a favor first, before we speak. Suffice it to say that Pelargir was no longer a safe place to dwell for us. These people were once my guests, and now I must ask you to make guests of them. We have travelled long roads."

"Does my Manor and house of storied lore look akin to a lodging house to you?!" He snapped. But then he laughed, "Of course you may stay."

His servants were near at hand. They began preparing and showing them to their rooms.

Gravely Melimir shook her head; she seemed weary, and mustered but the smallest of smiles in response to his jest. "I thank you, Lord Ioristor, for your kindness. I would not beseech this of you, if it were not for the fate of our sons." Gratefully she waved the others away to their rest and solitude. Raedwyn she bade stay at her side, and they lingered in Ioristor's company.

Ioristor then learned the tale in full, as much as could be recalled. His eyes were glowing, "So.... he found he who gave the Sigil...... to the man with three horses........! Our ancestor! But why do they insist on Ithilien...... some tale of....... I must ruminate on this... At least they are alive. But my heart fears for them anew.......... the Land of the Moon is no longer safe! It is hounded by the fell servants of the Tower of Sorcery............ alas for Ithilien... I have heard rumors..... the fell Haradrim cur journey through that land daily. The rangers have fought them back.... I know little more than this......"

Sitting near him, Melimir placed her folded hands in her lap. Though tired from her journey, her face shone with something like pride. "There is little more to know," she said serenely, even as Raedwyn fidgeted beside her. She looked towards her handmaiden and patted her knee reassuringly. "Do not worry. They know the danger they face, and ride towards it despite it all. You would marvel, Lord Ioristor, at how they have grown."

Ioristor smiled, "I can imagine so....... I....I....only wish......well, no matter of it now.........they are gone, beyond our sight, and we can only hope for their survival..........I think we should retire, that you may rest from the road for awhile..... we will reconvene for supper.......good morrow to you, my Lady..........."

There was a knock at the door. Amarthandor, Saelbainor, and the others entered the entry hall. They remained discreet regarding the hidden, dark, nature of their delay.

Ioristor smiled, "My servants will show you to your chambers."

And with that, Ioristor arose, bowed, made his way to his inner studies.

Melimir followed his lead, beckoning for Raedwyn to follow her.

Amarthandor beckoned to Lerion and the others as they were led to a sequence of chambers, three stair-wells beneath the main floor of the intricate manse.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 16 2015, 08:43 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXIX: Heart-Wrenching Sorrow

A fire burned in the hearth, its flames licking the ash and molten-spark-ridden embers. Lerion huddled in a corner in his cloak, his back propped-up against cushions. Angolhel was not present. Lerion wept, as if his tongue could taste ashes in the air, the scent of ashes reminding him of his servants' fate, a fate that terrified him, making him shiver in the core, deep, marrow of his being, as he rocked back and forth against the cushions.

Many more remained sorrowful. While Gilorn and Haedirn were granted rooms in the Barracks of the Sixth Level, with their men, they, too, were sorrowful.

Amarthandor felt a power reawaken within his cloak. The entire room soon huddled within the cloaks of the three brothers, resting in crimson and in gold, unified in the fabric that bound them. They closed their eyes.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXX: Dawn's Wide Rays

Lerion awoke with a profound resonance of innocence filling his soul, as golden and ruby-red folds glimmered in the rays of sunlight that flowed through the open windows. His sorrow had drifted away from him as if the waters of a gentle river. He heard Auravon's voice gently whisper in his ear, "Good morrow to you...."

Lerion gently hissed, "All feels..... different.........I should mourn for........and yet..... why do I feel....."

He felt Auravon's lips gently caress his cheek. Auravon smiled, "You have mourned....... but now is a brighter day. Honor them by your life."

The words ran over and over again through Auravon's mind, "Honor them by your life." Lerion turned to face Auravon, "Yessss.... where is Angolhel?"

"She is with the other ladies."

Lerion deeply kissed Auravon on the cheek. They embraced each other in their deep affection, the cloak binding them in ways beyond mortal comprehension. Glittering dark purple slithered within the gold.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXI: A Woman's Magic

"And then he -abandoned- me!" Glossel pouted.

"He shall return." Angolhel smiled, unveiling her hair that streamed around her shoulders and down her back to her feet as if a cloak. She had hidden it beneath and within her dress as they entered Harlond. She was wearing her dark purple cloak anew.

"How do you know?" Fingaereth wondered aloud.

"She is our greatest Sorceress, and I am her apprentice," Alagossel replied.

Glossel smirked mockingly, "And I am Queen Beruthiel."

Duvaissel rolled her eyes. She had had enough of the myth of Queen Beruthiel.

Fingaereth gazed at them all, downcast, "Sorcery is Morgul.... the black powers of the East....."

Angolhel arose, approaching her. "Not my sorcery," she whispered. "For mine is magic. Akin to the Elven magic of your tales."

Fingaereth's eyes widened, "You practice magic?"

Angolhel smiled, nodding.

"Can you teach me?"

Colhel rolled her eyes, "My sister and her fanciful notions. There is no such thing as magic."

"Heresy!" Alagossel's eyes widened.

Colhel laughed with a smug expression on her face, "Yes. Sorcery is a false lie."

"Don't listen to my sister!" Fingaereth retorted.

Angolhel laughed at all of them, "Tell me... when you hear the words "magic," or "sorcery," what do you hear?" And her voice was filled with pride in her melodramatic tones, "A clap of thunder with my hands? A stream of lightning from my finger-tips? A whirling wind, conjuring vast flames? I tell you.... do you not yet perceive my magic?"

Fingaereth shook her head.

Angolhel grinned, "Tell me what you have pictured within thy mind."

Fingaereth gazed at her in awe, "Thunder.... lightning...flames....."

"And did I not conjure them within thy mind?"

Fingaereth's eyes widened, "You did!"

Angolhel drew even closer, "Such is my magic.....and word-craft is not my only power..........but beauty......." And her arms outspread her wings of silk. Red-lining glittered and gleamed in the sunlight.

Fingaereth felt her heart pounding as she stared into those folds. Colhel abandoned her skepticism. Glossel and Rostiel and Rirossel gazed entranced. And Duvaissel bowed, knowing the roots of the behaviors and dances of the capes.

Alagossel swept beside Colhel, "Do you believe us now?"

Colhel nodded, "I believe you now........forgive me, I beg of you..........."

Alagossel smiled, "Beauty is a power that we all possess..... within or without. Do you wish to see?"

Colhel nodded. Alagossel swept her cloak around them both, and above their heads, unifying them beneath the folds. Colhel laughed and smiled.

Kneeling, Angolhel embraced Fingaereth.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 17 2015, 05:10 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXII: Sanctum of Dreams

On the floor were sequences of pillows and cushions, set by the servants for their guests' relaxation.

The ladies all prostrated themselves. Fingaereth smirked and asked permission. Angolhel smirked.

Fingaereth crawled through the multiplicity of billowing, cavernous folds, deep crimson beneath dark purple. She reached the center, where Angolhel had draped the cloak over her own head. Fingaereth stared upward at the face beneath the veil, "This is beautiful...."

Angolhel smiled, "It is my inner sanctum................"

"It is magic..........."

"Yess............for you, I have a prophecy........."

Fingaereth climbed to the height of Angolhel's face, "Yess...?" She smirked.

"Close thine eyes."

Fingaereth obeyed. She deeply felt the depths of Angolhel's warm, deep, kiss. Angolhel's voice spoke, "Receive this precious kiss... for you are precious. Save, you shall, thine beloved, from death and doom."

Fingaereth opened her eyes, "I believe you.... I can feel it......tell me...... why do our peoples hate each other so?"

"They hate because they do not understand...................the fabric that binds us all together........................."

With that, Fingaereth embraced Angolhel as closely and tightly as she could. Angolhel gently stroked Fingaereth's long hair. And Fingaereth buried her own face in the silky hair of Angolhel. Angolhel had ensured that air would flow through passages between the folds within the cloak.

The other five ladies were resting similarly within the cloaks of Alagossel and Duvaissel, peacefully within the inner sanctums of their dreams.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 18 2015, 11:56 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXIII: Drunkenness

The men were drunk. Silevren was fancying himself a king again. Amarthandor was laughing hysterically at him. Daechon and Lerion made mockery of their 'arts' as they attempted to outdo each other, swishing their cloaks around like children. Much swishing had occurred throughout their journeys, with different purposes, some of which had been sinister. It had fueled the vain majesty of the 'King of the West,' the lie that swiftly fell to the floor with the multiplicity of folds. It had guised blood-strewn murders. It had fueled the lie of sorcery. For it had ever been said that servants of the Enemy would attempt to render the fairest guise, lest they reveal their inner foulness.

But the foulness was purged, the cloaks cleansed of the horrors of their pasts, along with the spirits of these young men. It was purged by no power of their own. Yet Lerion and Angolhel and Saelbainor and others still maintained the kiss-as-religious function, misunderstanding their new-found knowledge, broaching it only from the knowledge of their pasts. And this was the origin of difference.

And now they were drunk, speaking freely about themselves, and yet, they drank it carefully, to avoid staining their folds. And varying scattered tales were heard, of Denethon and Ballithor, Malnoron, Tarlang. Ethring, the Shahadmaradi....

They did not notice Malagi, cowering silently in the corner.

Sainion was laughing, "To think I almost slew myself over such an accident! And you, Silevren, I'd fancy you an Elf-lord!"

Saelbainor giggled, shaking his head, "Oh no! No! Thou hast unleashed him!"

They quickly set-down their wine-glasses on a table in the corner. Silevren had already done the same. He had already outspread his cloak, "Behold my elven power..... my golden magic of my golden beauty......." The Twilight Brothers grasped the sides of his folds and shook them. Sainion stared into the vibrations of the fabric, mesmerized. Saelbainor turned, noticing Malagi across the room.

The folds drew closer. Sainion soon found himself in warm, soft, smooth, silky, sparkling caverns. He pressed his face into silky hair, as Silevren did the same. They were soon kissing each others' cheeks, deeply, in the midst of their drunkenness.

The entire room suddenly turned to find Saelbainor wrestling Malagi over a dagger. Lerion rushed-over, kicking the dagger away. Malagi had not yet wounded himself. He was weeping bitterly, shouting angrily against everyone for their disregard for the fact that eight of their comrades had been ruthlessly slain over a lie.

Saelbainor stood and outspread his dark cloak, lined with gold: "Stare into mine folds.......Daechon and Isenadin, attend me......."

Lerion uttered, "My apprentice.........listen to him."

Malagi nodded as he wept. He stared into the gleaming folds of fold as they flickered, as they vibrated as if thrashing waves on the shores of the sea.

Saelbainor hissed, "Behold the sun-bright Eastern lands......Behold the sun-bright desert sands.......Behold the sun-bright jewels of caves.... Behold the sun-bright golden waves......"

The burden of grief them seemed lighter, and lighter, as Malagi stared into the folds, as they seemed brighter, and brighter.....

Saelbainor approached him slowly. Malagi was completely mesmerized. He had ever been entranced before by Lerion. Yet his anger toward the Masters grew, attempting to bolster his resistance, to no avail........for Saelbainor then seemed as if he was one of the Sun-Spirits of the Desert..... coming to save him...... Malagi slowly stood.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 20 2015, 09:05 AM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXIV: Spirits of the Desert

Rirossel sat alone in a corner, seething in her wrath. Auravon had tried to comfort her, but to no avail. Treason was treason. She thought of what her lord-father would have done to such traitors. She strove to resist the Sorceresses' enchantments.

Arhbaineth slipped beside her, "Still angry?"

Rirossel did not speak.

Arhbaineth tried to move closer, but Rirossel pushed her away, "You will not bewitch me!"

Rirossel wanted to leave the room. She wanted to tell the guards, to see them all executed. Arhbaineth stood between her and the door.

The others did not notice. Angolhel and Alagossel now stood at the center of the room. Their cloaks were draping down their arms and back. They held their hands aloft in imitation of the Argonath of legend. Then, slowly, they began to dance, in a dazzling display of light and color, their cloaks billowing across the others' faces, mesmerizing them.

Angolhel chanted,

"Kapatstri was a lonely god,
He wandered on the shore,
He had wandered from lands so odd,
He played his lyre's chord.

Saphastra was a greater girl,
A goddess pure of gold,
She slithered nigh a land of pearl,
The river later told."

Their dance quickened.

Alagossel continued,

"Saphastra rose in golden skin,
Brighter than the bright sun,
Beguiling him away from sin,
Her silken web was spun.

Kapatstri rested in her cape,
Made music, from above,
And from her silks, was no escape,
They married in their love."

Their dance paused. They outspread their capes with their arms, as the others gazed, still mesmerized.

Angolhel concluded as they both shook their cloaks to mimic the winds nigh the sea,

"They wed nigh the surf of the sea,
Beneath a green arbor,
Their cloaks in winds now protect me,
Nigh ancient Umbar harbor."

Everyone applauded, save Rirossel, who took the distracted moment to charge to the door. Arhbaineth grabbed at her. The others turned in shock. Rirossel began shouting, "Treason! Treason!" Arhbaineth fought to cover her mouth. She bit at Arhbaineth's hands. Rirossel scratched and kicked. And Arhbaineth knocked her unconscious.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 21 2015, 11:58 AM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXV: Understanding

Malagi rested comfortably on the cushion in between Lerion and Saelbainor, the three wrapped together in their cloaks. Isenadin and Daechon were performing their usual display, distracting them. When their dance was over, Isenadin sat down next to Malfinseron and Auravon.

Malfinseron tried to smile, "You look worried..."

Auravon glanced at Isenadin, and then again at Malfinseron: "So do you..."

Malfinseron glared downward at Isenadin. Isenadin smirked, "I know what you are afraid of...... your wife is pretty. All the same, I do not desire her..."

Auravon muttered, "She is not an object to be desired. Nor is mine own........ she concerns me gravely."

Malfinseron nodded, "She did not take well to the new recruits, did she?"

Auravon shook his head. Malfinseron clasped his shoulder, "Do not fear...." He turned to Isenadin, "Come..... for I believe that we should learn to trust each other...."

Isenadin smiled, "I agree......."

Auravon's eyes suddenly grew wide. He felt the power slowly reveal itself within the cloak again. Malfinseron lightly touched the cloak and felt it too.

Auravon's smile grew wide, "Shall we rest together, within this.... the realm of dreams?"

Malfinseron and Isenadin both nodded reverently. They cuddled close to Auravon on either side. Beneath the folds, the cloak gleamed in fiery, beautiful tones in the sunlight. Isenadin and Malfinseron felt safe.

Suddenly, Colhel burst into the room, "Come quickly! Auravon...... Rirossel................."

The three stumbled to their feet. They did not wait for the others. They followed Colhel into the adjacent room. Arhbaineth told them what had transpired.

Before Auravon could judge, he felt the power increase within the cloak. Alagossel bade the others to carry one of the beds to the center of the room. With great exertion, they did so. Then they gently carried Rirossel and laid her on the bed.

Angolhel brushed her hand against Auravon's cloak, "I feel its magic........tell me. What are its properties, Gondorian?"

Auravon nodded, as terror gnawed at his heart, gazing down at his wife in his fear, "of dreams." He took the cloak and majestically draped it, tucking Rirossel within its folds. Angolhel and Alagossel outspread their cloaks, making their intentions clear inside their hearts. Then, they grasped the cloak.

Rirossel wandered in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. It's polished walls gleamed brightly as the sunlight flew within the tall windows. The statues of the Kings sat stoically. The Throne awaited her at the end of the Hall. She noticed Angolhel and Alagossel to its left and to its right.

Angolhel smiled, "You are hear by the grace of the Goddess. The Golden Serpent."

Alagossel nodded, "You have heard that all of Harad art fallen. The Men of Darkness. But my tribe hails from even deeper lands, brethren to thy kindred."

Angolhel continued, "The blood of Gondor flows through my veins....... and that of Harad....... what does this render me? Of the Darkness, or of the West?"

Alagossel continued, "One cannot say."

Part of Rirossel longed to run for her life. Another felt mysteriously compelled. The compulsion grew more powerful within her. To her disbelief, she found herself approaching the Throne. She closed her eyes. When she reopened them, Angolhel and Alagossel were suddenly gone. Only the Throne remained, glistening in the sunlight. Compelled, she ascended the lofty, black and white marble stairs. She found herself wearing a long white robe, and cloak of gold and silver, gleaming brightly. She grew more confident as she gazed outward across the Hall, between the Statues of the Kings.

Suddenly, she heard a hissing sound that frightened her. She gripped the arms of the Throne as hard as she could. There was no escape. She felt paralyzed. Two small golden serpents slithered from the left and from the right before her. They were cobras. The golden flaps of their heads gleamed brightly in the sunlight. To Rirossel's surprise, the hissing sound slowly began to relax her. The serpents slowly grew in size. The Citadel Gates opened, and a golden eagle soared through the Hall, landing in between the serpents. Rirossel could do naught but gaze in shock. The eagle as majestic. All three creatures felt familiar. Slowly, they began to rise. Rising, they became enveloped in light. There was a great flash. Rirossel found herself gazing at Angolhel, Auravon, and Alagossel, levitating with their arms outspread, their cloaks flowing to the floor as they glittered. They descended to the floor. Rirossel arose, abandoning the Throne. She kissed her husband. She could not cease from kissing him.

She was still kissing him when she opened her eyes. And she made peace with Arhbaineth, for both had felt the power that now slowly drifted away from the cloak.

Amarthandor later nodded when he learned what had transpired. Everyone gathered in his chamber now. And then he gave the following, startling command: "In mirth, we rest. But in three days hence, we shall retire our cloaks, leaving our silks behind. We shall train for battle, should Ivordir, our Captain, require our aid. For far too long, have the brave defenders at Osgiliath unwittingly defended our wasteful mirth. Not all was wasteful. Some touches of it all can even be called supernatural. But the time for mirth shall soon be past. The fiery skies to the East arise higher and higher over the Black Land as the days slowly drift and pass us by. We are fortunate. By rights, most of us should have been hung. Instead, we live. No one will believe us, and we shall be executed indeed, if any learned the truth. And it is a difficult truth. For the war was known by our Haradric friends all along. It is only a matter of time before the Black Land unleashes everything against us. We can only hope that Captain Ivordir shall return in time. For now, we rest. Then, we shall prepare."

All nodded in their mutual understanding.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 23 2015, 01:07 AM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXVI: A Mended Marriage

Auravon took Rirossel to a more private resting chamber. Light streamed through the stained-glass windows, lighting the room in vibrant hues of color. She sat down solemnly on the bed. Auravon stood before her.

Rirossel was still in partial shock, "That was a powerful dream......"

Auravon smiled, "I remember flying.....and then floating with my cape spread aloft....."

His golden cloak flickered iredescently in the sunlight.

Auravon wrapped his cloak around himself, so that its folds covered his nose and mouth, and the rest of his lower-face. "Will you still declare us guilty of treason?" He whispered.

Rirossel shook her head, "It depends........"

Auravon outspread his ruby-red wings, glimmering as his folds poured to the floor, as he bowed his head, "My dear, sweet beauty........."

Rirossel felt her heart throbbing, and spoke in her whispery voice, "Dance for me, my beloved love, my beauty......."

And Auravon processed and ran to and fro before her across the room, twirling and spinning, as his folds coiled and curved and slithered and slipped and flapped and flew around him in his magnificence. Rirossel was mesmerized at his iridescent display.

Then Auravon paused. Rirossel declared, "Come and hold me close......." He crawled beside her on the bed, as she willingly passed within his resplendent folds.

She smiled, "I shall be a traitor with you..... for I have deigned: my love for you is greater."

Auravon did not know how to take her reply. He only embraced her tighter. Then, they deeply kissed, before they fell asleep at mid-day.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXVII: Nature of the Cloaks

The fire flickered. The torch-light danced across the walls of the staircase that descended to further chambers of rest. Ioristor had spared no expense. He had invited many friends, often at once, from across the realm. They called it his "Little Citadel," but, in truth, many nobles had such dwellings. But the real Citadel ever made the rest pale in their feigned majesty.

The crowd dispersed to their own chambers. And Amarthandor's address and the preceding dances had all been heard and seen by many from the Vale, from Pelargir, and from the original Company that had set-forth from Dol Amroth. The Haradrim were present as well. Many likely had private misgivings and fears of treason. But they all had beheld the Dance. And the Dance was beautiful. Compelled, they retained their silence. It was ever an unending symphony of light, and song, and color, and voice. Those who were unwed were delegated to shared chambers. But the couples dispersed into chambers of their own.

Lerion bade Malagi and Isenadin, and Angolhel, to remain, as well as Malfinseron and Fingaereth.

And Lerion smiled, "I had dreamed..... of brave men falling to their deaths, and courageous women in conflict. You," he pointed to Fingaereth, "Slew me in the dream, lighting my cloak aflame."

Fingaereth stood tall and proud, "You have my word, Lord Sorcerer..... I shall not light you aflame. For I do not believe you to be treasonous.........."

Lerion outspread his refulgent ruby-red folds, bowing, "I bow to thee.... my beauty...................................and to thee, child of the Silver Fist."

"You know of me!" Malfinseron stammered.

"Saelbainor told me much of thee, Malgelir. I pray thee rest thy heart at ease.... for that name is past........ come......... come to me......................"

To Malfinseron's own surprise, he saw his own feet slowly maneuvering him closer and closer to Lerion's folds. He was soon enveloped and cloaked, resting softly and sweetly against Lerion's robes. Lerion whispered, "Now, be patient..... and observe what I shall do.......they are going to kiss, and realize their true...... relationship...... one that shall not disturb thy marriage...........................trust me................."

Malfinseron nodded as Lerion released him.

Angolhel smiled, "Come to me, Fingaereth. And you, too, Isenadin.........."

And they stood facing each other in the middle of the room. Angolhel swept her cloak down onto Fingaereth's shoulders, streaming it behind her, and Lerion did the same for Isenadin, while Malfinseron watched in shock. Their golden-brown hair streamed down both their backs and shoulders. Fingaereth looked up at Malfinseron. Malfinseron nodded.

They did not speak a word. They rushed into each others' arms and deeply kissed each other. It produced an ecstasy of a different sort. They felt a different bond. And Fingaereth felt relieved, for her bond with Malfinseron was not betrayed. When they parted, Isenadin closed his eyes, "You have already found your love....................in truth........I..............................."

Fingaereth smiled, "Yes.......... Malfinseron is my beloved...........and I would die for him, if it came to it............................if this is sorcery, then it is working.........................................." She deeply kissed Isenadin on the cheek, "I shall be your sister........................."

Malagi placed a comforting hand on Malfinseron's shoulder.

Isenadin deeply returned the gesture, "And I shall be your brother."

Malfinseron spoke, "Now this is truly magic.......... for long I feared you, Isenadin or Ninniachon or whatever name you might be.........................but I shall name you, brother, for you have refused the temptation to turn my wife unfaithful."

And Fingaereth, turning to Malfinseron, said: "No, words will not do well. Try this!" And they shared the deepest kiss they had ever shared together, beyond their wedding day.

Edited by Ivordir, May 3 2016, 07:44 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXVIII: Enclosed

Angolhel and Lerion beckoned to Isenadin, who followed their billowing train of silk down the stairs, as it flew behind them as they ran. They passed into a chamber of rest and Lerion shut the door behind them. Angolhel reached the foot of the resting place and turned around, "Isenadin...."

Isenadin shook his head, "Why are you doing this?"

"Much shall be answered......our sorcery has just begun. Come........come unto my cape!" And per usual, she outspread her cloak.

Something compelled Isenadin, drawing him forth. He was soon caressing her. Her cape enclosed around him. He could not halt himself from caressing her. Even the barriers between civilizations were gone. He longed only to live within that moment, embracing her. Lerion approached him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "Come and rest between us."

Isenadin nodded in obedience. He was wearing his black and silver robes. He prostrated himself in the center of the place of rest, with Lerion to his left, and Angolhel to his right. Isenadin had known them since he was young, in Pelargir, when they had infiltrated the city in secret, hooded and cloaked on Malnoron's vessels. They had taught Daechon and Isenadin their dances, how to master the minds of others with vainglorious displays of feigned beauty and vanity.

The Sorcerers of the Salhadmaradi had learned these secrets in the olden days, when their nomadic tribe had camped nigh the Sea of Rhun. For it was in those days, when Guldrambor wandered its shores, that their meeting was unavoidable. And Guldrambor had beguiled them with his dreams and false visions of power. Only the priestesses of the Temple opposed such arts. But one cunning Priestess taught Angolhel and Alagossel how to break-free of Guldrambor's influence, by controlling and manipulating the "arts" that he had taught them. The Dance of the Stars supplanted the Dance of Dreams.

Guldrambor's power had succeeded in beguiling Gondorian and Haradrim alike, the High Men and the Men of Darkness. But all were counted among the Second-Born. Estel remained.

And Angolhel then perceived herself as stronger than Guldrambor. His dance had begun the madness that had cost the lives of many, and the plunging of many into obscure behavior, behavior that opposed the stilted ways of courtly mannerisms and postures. No typical Gondorian would have dared such close proximity of bonds so deep in so short and abrupt a span of time. Guldrambor had woven these bonds, the bonds that slowly wore away the webs that Guldrambor had woven throughout the Ages. Hope endured despite the darkness.

Isenadin now lay between them. Angolhel and Lerion turned inward, caressing him, as they all cuddled together beneath the cloak. Isenadin gazed upward into the dark-red silk. Grabbing a fold, he pressed his face against it, attempting to breathe in his inner comfort. It was a strange feeling. Then Isenadin released the fold. Angolhel had uplifted the folds of her arm, as if forming the flaps of a tent. He buried his face in her excessive tresses. He felt her uplift his chin. He felt her warm breath, as her affectionate lips caressed his right-cheek. Angolhel whispered gently, "I have a prophecy for you......................." And she kissed him directly, in the manner of their ritual, "A beautiful Lady, shall you meet....."

Isenadin felt a soft tapping on his left-shoulder. He turned directly into Lerion's ritualistic kiss, for it was only ever ritual, and naught beyond it, and Isenadin buried his head in Lerion's excessive tresses, as Lerion proclaimed, "She is an Enemy, but you shall save her......." Lerion uplifted Isenadin's chin, kissing him on his left-cheek. Strange were the ways of the Southron, as strange as the stars rising above the pale desert sands amidst the rustling of the cold, desert winds.

Angolhel whispered, "You will save her from herself. Thy sister shalt lend thee aid."

Lerion whispered, "And thy brother with her."

Isenadin guessed at the obviousness riddle. Saelbainor's mysterious allies in the White City would merit their attention. But he believed their prophecies.

Angolhel guessed at his thoughts, "Yes........and we, too, are as brother and sister to you............."

Lerion smiled, "Do not fear, Ninniachon........................let us rest, for now.....all shall be pondered on the morrow."

And all Isenadin could utter was a quiet, half-whispered, "Yes........"

They withdrew their heads from the folds, cuddling ever closer beneath the cloaks that draped across and around them, unifying them wholly. With peaceful, gentle smiles on their faces, they fell asleep. It was still mid-afternoon. The weight of the previous weeks had finally driven them to rest.
Edited by Ivordir, Nov 29 2015, 02:14 AM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXXXIX: Angolhel's Ruse

As Angolhel had revealed to Silevren and others, far earlier on that vessel, before they had docked at Harlond, she had gathered the unrepentant of her tribe, who could neither be persuaded through charm, nor through wit, nor through dance, nor through any power that she possessed. She had worn her sparkling, silver cloak and gown, in manner of the Elves of legend she had learned-of in Pelargir. She had ordered the unrepentant Haradrim to pursue their Enemy in the wilderness.

Throughout the morning of the 2nd, while Silevren's ship had moored at Harlond far to the north, Mithon forbade the Company from pressing forward, for scouts had reported rumors that had chilled them to the bone.

The sun was veiled by clouds, dark and tall, as the Haradrim pressed forward through the wilderness, dressed in their traditional garb. Bears had attacked, but the Shahadmaradi were strong and deadly with bow and spear. As they pressed forward through fen and fern and stone and muddy dirt and overgrown brambles and branches and tree-roots, beneath the eves and canopy of the various types of trees, the sweet scent of pine filling the air, they managed to use-up all their poisoned arrows as bears and boars and birds of prey all died terrible, vicious deaths.

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"Sa godo, Sapho."

Sapho nodded, "We will kill Gondor's prime and drink of their blood. For Mordor and the Black Serpent!"

"Hush now," Sujumon commanded. "Do not let them ranger scum hear us! We are armored with naught but spears, clothed in this red garb with gold....... our tribesmen never learn. These uniforms! They give us away at once."

Barosh laughed, "We could always shed them."

Sujumon rolled his eyes, "And catch cold at night. Forget it."

Harod smirked, "We could roll in the mud."

Sujumon barked, "We are not swine!"

Sapho closed his eyes, "Our Lady Sorceress commanded......"

Sujumon smiled, "No. You right. We must keep to our purpose."

Barosh smiled, "She is beautiful......"

Sapho laughed, "No...... she is the Goddess Herself. She shines..... lighter than the Moon. Brighter than the Sun."

Sujumon stammered, "Hush! I heard something......"

Baroch gritted his teeth, "I smell it.........they are close...."

Sujumon commanded the other thirty men to double-back and around.

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All was quiet through the morning hours. Ivordir rubbed his sweaty forehead, "Where are they?"

Mithon sighed, "You need to learn patience...... the scouts have not yet returned." He kept his own worries to himself.

Ivordir sighed, nodding, and went to sit-down on the slope overlooking the White City. He hoped to see Daerfalas.

Daerfalas climbed up the slope of the hill and shaded his eyes against the sun where it shone beneath the canopy of trees. After a few minutes, he returned to Ivordir's side, and crouched next to him. "I have some concerns," he said bluntly, looking to his brother. "This is taking too long."

Ivordir did not turn, "I know........ Mithon fears that we are being circled by foes..........but the Harad Road is far to the East, it does not make sense............."

Daerfalas bowed his head and squinted his eyes. "Unless there is something he is not telling us. Why send scouts, if he does not fear we are being tracked, or might happenstance upon enemies?"

The wind blew softly and sorrowfully through the emerald trees, the sun was veiled by clouds, and the distant Pelennor was murky in the mist. Only the White City still glittered, triumphantly as if sailing in a sea of endless fog.

Ivordir turned, "I know........ it reminds me when we fended-off that wolf-pack alongside Yucalwe in the midst of those Twilight ruins. We've come a long way, brother, haven't we?"

As the moment passed between them in silence, Daerfalas sighed heavily. "We have. And after that...nothing would surprise me anymore, Captain." He smiled wistfully, and remembered his time at the side of the Elves, as though it were a dream and nothing more.

Ivordir tightly embraced Daerfalas, "Oh....brother.......know that I will protect you to the last." He deeply kissed Daerfalas on the cheek.

Laughing under the weight of Ivordir's embrace, Daerfalas returned the gesture. "And I you," he said, his tongue stumbling upon the words, voice heavy in its earnestness. He could hear the some of the Rangers moving behind them, hidden by the trees, and he cared not.

Not far from where the brothers embraced, where the Rangers had camped for the night, and few of them lingered, sat Naitheg. He glowered as he looked over the ridge towards the flat plains of Pelennor. For the most part he had been given leeway and agency, though none in the company had spoken to him directly. He was unused to following commands without question, and it prickled.

The sight of Minas Tirith did little to ease his spirits, though he took some comfort that none had directly given him trouble. A sellsword was not often treated with anything less than suspicion, yet no one outside of Ivordir's original following knew his origins. He picked up a stick and began to poke at the dirt, listless, thinking of those whom had travelled in the train of nobles. Finally he stood, tired of doing nothing. He approached Ivordir and Daerfalas, and smirked at their closeness. "What now?" he asked, leaning back against a tree and crossing his arms over his chest. "Are we to wait for ghosts forever?"

Ivordir nodded, "I've lost my authority here, Naitheg......it's up to Mithon. He and his kindred alone know these woods.....I've heard some parts are haunted by actual ghosts!" Ivordir tried to muster a laugh.

For his part, Daerfalas did not reply to Naitheg. He glared at the sellsword, and swallowed the anger he felt whenever he looked upon the man. "Mithon is delaying," he whispered to Ivordir. "His scouts should have reported back by now if there were no trouble."

Ivordir nodded, "Then let us embrace each other anew, my brother, if this embrace is to be our last." He opened his arms anew.

Daerfalas pulled him close, his hold upon Ivordir fiercely protective. "You worry me with such talk," he said, his voice taking a joking lilt; his expression remained serious. In the distance, Naitheg sneered, and stalked away to return to the camp. Lower upon the ridge, there was a gentle rustle, beyond the scope of their hearing.

Ivordir smiled, "All the same, my brother....."

Mithon suddenly appeared, "They strike now. Take cover behind the trees!"

None of the Haradrim attackers spoke. The sounds of harsh war-cries and the firing of arrows could be heard over the ridge. Several shouts were calling in the distance.

Daerfalas drew his sword, his senses sharpening with the sound of steel. At their feet fell several arrows.

Sujumon chucked his spear, nearly grazing Ivordir's exposed shoulder from behind the tree.

Ivordir turned and realized he had left his weapons in the camp. Sujumon dropped his daggers, in some ritual of honor. They were joined in hand-to-hand combat.

From the camp, Naitheg could hear the cries and shouts rising from the heavy fog. He lept to his feet, and growled to himself, "Finally." Weapon in hand, he sped into the thick of trees towards the sound of battle.

Sujumon caught Ivordir's neck, but Ivordir escaped from his hold. He found himself grasping Sujumon's neck.

And in the back of Ivordir's mind, Ballithor was gloating.

Daerfalas ran towards Ivordir's side, but was stopped by several of Sujamon's men. He fought hard, but he was one against several.

Ivordir relaxed his grip. Sujumon punched back at him. Ivordir drove Sujumon's fists to the ground with his sheer perseverence of spirit, his strength detaining Sujumon.

And Ivordir demanded, "Where is Guldrambor."

Sujumon gasped, in what little Westron he knew from Angolhel, "....Cursed........One..........Rhun............"

Ivordir nodded, "I will defeat him."

Sujumon laughed, to Ivordir's surprise, "Good! But first, you defeat me!!!!"

Sujumon had strength of his own. Ivordir punched Sujumon's laughing face hard into the soil. Ivordir raised his bloody fists. He grabbed Sujumon's dagger and jabbed at one of Daerfalas' attackers.

The man pitched forward into the dirt, and Daerfalas quickly spun and buried his sword into his chest. A blow from behind sent him scrambling. He turned, and raised his sword high as another attacker surged forward with twin daggers. He could still hear the sound of fighting in the distance, but could not see all of the Haradrim. Grimly he fought on.

Ballithor's cold-hearted voice echoed deep within Ivordir's soul, "So you have done it, after all. You are a true, real, man." Ivordir felt disgusted. Even still, with a cool feeling inside his mind, he struck regardless.

Another blow with the blunt side of a dagger sent Daerfalas reeling. He staggered back and wiped the blood from his torn lip away, and parried a blow. The attacker raised his dagger once more, this time with the point aimed towards his heart. Daerfalas froze, his sight muddled. The man fell suddenly with a shout. Behind him stood Naitheg, grinning. "Looked like you needed some help," he boasted, and Daerfalas scowled, turning to Ivordir and Sujumon.

In time, the attack had ended. All of Angolhel's Haradrim had been slain, at the deep cost of eight strong Rangers. Mithon deeply sighed, for they had been good men, from good families. They had returned to their ancestral homelands. Never would they be parted again from them.

But Ivordir sat solemnly, gazing at the blood on his hands. He did not aid in the burial of all who had perished on the hillside, Haradrim and Dunadan alike.

He shot one glance up toward Daerfalas.

Weary, Daerfalas approached Ivordir, and sat a hand upon his shoulder gently. His face was bruised, and the slope of his shoulders deep, though his eyes were bright. "You are ailing. What did you see, that disturbs you so?" he asked gently. "We have buried good men before."

Ivordir nodded, chilled to the bone, "I tortured that man......... Guldrambor is in Rhun........ he told me......... he spoke of him as a Cursed Being.......... and I beat him to death.......... I can hear Ballithor's words inside my head.............."
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXL: Through Western Emyn Arnen

Daerfalas did not respond for many moments, and his silence was grim. He frowned. "We were in the midst of battle, brother. You...are not as Ballithor suggested. Never. Do not heed his words."

Ivordir cast his head down once more, "What see you on my hands?!"

Daerfalas sighed. "I see blood, brother. The blood of the man you slew to protect this land and the Rangers who treasure it. This does not make you unjust. We may weep for our enemies, but do not be sorry that they did not succeed in their endeavors."

Ivordir glared, "The blood of the Second-Born........ children of the One............ Yucalwe warned us of this........ and now I am a Kinslayer........... just as he was...............I am unworthy of the gold upon my back," he shook as he spoke, "and gone is the softness of crimson......... the only crimson left..... is the blood upon these fingers.......

I am not sorrowful for our Enemy's failure........ I am sorrowful for what my hands did to make them fail."

"Ivordir..." Daerfalas knelt beside him, "Stop. You are no kinslayer. You are a soldier! We are at war." His expression softened. "This man that you slew...I saw you grapple with him. What changed? Why art thou so haunted?"

"It was not that I had slain him........ but the manner in which I felled him."

"I've slain many a man," Mithon frowned as he stealthily knelt beside them, "And, like my Captain, I enjoyed none of it." He placed his hand on Ivordir's shoulder. "Come, both of you. Follow me."

Daerfalas looked down to inspect Ivordir's hand, not touching. His own hands were covered in dirt and grime. His frown deepened, and he nodded at Mithon's words. He rose.

And Mithon led them through yet another copse of trees, while his surviving rangers tended to the wounded and gathered the men. They had traversed a good half a mile, when suddenly, the trees opened-up, and the Port of Harlond bustled far below. The ships had not yet returned with their daily catch, but cargo was unloaded onto the busy docks, as the river-town glistened.
Yet brighter than this, was that which towered above the docks, across the well-tilled fields and farming towns of the Pelennor.

Baralinthor had followed them, seeing them break-off from the group.

And Baralinthor thought of Thanguron.

And the White City, Minas Anor, Tower of the Sun, Minas Tirith, Tower of Guard, arose, gleaming brightly in the sunlight, glistening, purer than sunlit snow.

Mithon pointed, declaring, "As my Captain would declare: We fight for the City of the Men of Numenor, Queen of us all."

Ivordir felt that now-old instinct. He unteathered his armor, despite his bloody hands, and let his golden cloak fly freely. And he buried his hands within its folds. And when he released the folds, the blood had vanished from his hands, as he glistened with the City that towered before him, at one with its glory.

Mithon laughed, "I have seen miracles on this journey, but that one I did not expect! Come, conceal it once more, lest the harbormen think they're seeing ghosts!"

Ivordir laughed, grabbing the folds, kissing them in his gratitude, before he refolded them and re-teathered his leather armor over it. He turned to Baralinthor.

Daerfalas allowed himself a small smile, watching the proceedings and hearing Mithon's exclamation.

Baralinthor said, "I overheard everything....... listen to me, my Captain. You are -not- my lord-father. I repeat. You are not he. I have wrestled with the same fears, for ever he goaded me with those loathsome words, "To become a true, full man." Truer and fuller is the man who knows when to re-sheath his sword and return his arrows to their quiver."

And Mithon deeply smiled, nodding, for he had been thinking something along those lines. And Baralinthor thought he could feel the presence of Thanguron, watching over the fields of his birth from some distant place, beyond the Circles of the World. Thus he pictured Thanguron, smiling.

Ivordir turned and deeply embraced Daerfalas, weeping somewhere in between sorrow, shock, and mirth.

Daerfalas in turn held his captain close, and he sheathed his eyes, and let loose the long breath he had been holding.

Mithon and Baralinthor smiled. Then Mithon said, after some moments had passed between them, "Come. We must rejoin the others. We still have a long and perilous road ahead of us."

Ivordir nodded, "I learned where this dark servant of the Enemy may be dwelling, from one of our fallen foes. But we need more than the statement of one soldier."

Mithon nodded, "Agreed."

"From whence will we gather such infortmation?" Daerfalas asked.

Ivordir sighed, "Likely from more Haradrim, and we know not what we will find, when we discover the ruins of the town our mutual friend had visited in Emyn Arnen."

As Mithon and Baralinthor walked out of their line of sight, Ivordir stole the moment, deeply pressing his lips into Daerfalas' right-cheek, in an affectionate, brotherly kiss, "We survived, my brother......... we survived........."

Daerfalas smiled warmly. "We did. I take much comfort from that."

Ivordir tried to smile, "Very well. Let us go."

And with one last, comforting, triumphant glance at the White City in all its beauty and all its glory, he turned and strode away beneath the dark eves of the trees.

By the time they had reached the others, all had been packed and prepared, and it was now mid-afternoon. Mithon beckoned and the rest now followed.
They had decided to risk the old ruined road to Emyn Arnen, from an older time, when Ithilien had been civilized, a fertile Garden of Gondor.
And so they climbed-up the steep slopes, till they reached the road. Ivordir sighed with relief. He was sick to death of tangential routes through the wilderness.
The land was rich and green, and the sun finally began to peek-through the clouds that had sailed overhead Ithilien. But the skies over the Pelennor had been cloudless.
The men spoke little, for most knew the danger. They did not know how many other skirmishes with Haradrim awaited them in the wilderness.
They came upon a land of tall boulders and stones lined with slippery moss. And here, they paused for a rest, sheltered by the boulders.

Something suddenly occurred to Ivordir: Yucalwe had spoken from his memories. They had no map.

He approached Mithon warily, "Tell me....... do we have a map of what Ithilien used to be?"

Mithon laughed, "Do I look like the caretaker of the Old Archives to you?"

Ivordir chuckled, "Well..........."

Mithon smiled, "What do you think, Daerfalas?"

Daerfalas crossed his arms over his chest. "Surely you must have some idea. I'd wager you know this land and its histories like the back of your hand."

Mithon nodded, "Fortunately, a true Dunadan must study and learn the lands of his heritage intuitively. He must know every hill and dale and vale, following the course of every river and stream, and learn to know the hidden lands of every spring."

"But if you do not know the name of the town that this mysterious benefactor of yours did speak of, then finding it will prove troublesome."

Ivordir nodded sadly, "I know not the name, but I can tell you what I do know. The town once had several manors, a blending, if you will, of the countryside and the city. Osgiliath was the Capital then, and this town was visible directly to the south of it. It was raized by foes in the early-middle-ish periods of our current Age. I am not certain as to the precise year. But it had been ruined completely."

Mithon paused and nodded, and then spoke: "I know the ruins of which you speak. They are nearly faded now completely. Traces of foundation stones remain visible from the soil, barely. The name of the town is not known to me, one of the few ruins that have puzzled even my knowledge. But I know of the place, and I will take you there. But first, we must check on our garrison at Ost
Sarram, and then re-provision at Bar Hurin in the hills, before pressing further. I warn you: the Enemy holds these eastern shores. This task shall not prove easy."


Daerfalas glanced to Ivordir, nodding. "Thank you, Mithon. Seeing the ruins should prove to be interesting, despite the hard road."

Ivordir nodded, "Daerfalas.........Do you realize this? The only way to reach that part of Ithilien would involve.........."

Mithon's eyes glared, completing the sentence: ".............to traverse beneath the Walls of Mordor itself, and cross the bridge over the Imlad Morgul, lest we perish in its poisoned waters...................."

Ivordir nearly cursed under his breath, "We would provoke the Enemy. Is there some other way?"

Daerfalas cleared his throat. "I had underestimated...."

Mithon sighed, "The cliffs are far too high, for the Emyn Arnen rises before it falls to meet Osgiliath. We cannot build rafts and cross the Anduin. Nor would we receive permission to pass the Rammas Echor and raft across the river nigh Osgiliath............................................Ivordir........ look at me........."

Ivordir gazed straight into his piercing eyes.

Mithon cleared his throat, "Is this Quest of yours truly so dire, to risk such a maneuver, likely against my Captain's wishes?"

Ivordir deeply sighed, "Alas........ it is........ but perhaps it need not be against your Captain's wishes. Let us think truly on the matter. Perhaps there is a way for our formal missions to overlap."

Mithon closed his eyes, "Only my comrades at Bar Hurin would know if this would or would not truly be the case....... or at Ost Sarram."

Ivordir laughed, "Then, to go East, let us go West, and to go North, let us go South!"

Even Mithon could not help himself. He laughed more cheerfully than he had laughed in recent days.

Ivordir smiled, "Daerfalas......... could you ever believe it?!"

Daerfalas shook his head, smirking. "Alas, brother, I cannot, though I have no clever jest to proclaim my amazement." His smile widened.

After they had rested, they set out again through the brush, and began to follow the old road once more as it twisted and wound through the tree-laden hills with their sunbright leaves. The skies had cleared for now. Their legs were tired. It was nearly Midnight, if not beyond. They had marched for over fifty miles. They saw torches in the distance, to match their own. But then they heard a ranger-caterwaul from the brush. Mithon ran to find one of his companions. He spoke quickly, "Get out of sight with those torches! The Haradrim drove us away from Ost Sarram!"
They followed the ranger to a larger band, sheltered behind more ruins atop the hill.

They had pitched their tents behind the ruins on higher-ground, with sentries watching for torches in the darkness. The tall walls of the ruins shielded the flickering flames of their fires, preventing detection. They did not know if Mithon's torches had been spotted by the Haradrim or not.

Ivordir turned to Daerfalas, "Here we go again. Pitch black, torches lit, and the Haradrim are likely circling our position....... any ideas?"

"I don't know how we can defend this spot."

Mithon was busy directing rangers to positions. But Baralinthor was paying attention. He was sitting, huddled, against the ruined wall, fear welling in his eyes.

There was little hope in Daerfalas' expression. His mouth was set in a hard line. "Perhaps they did not see us." He looked over his shoulder to Baralinthor. "Peace, brother."

Baralinthor gazed up at Daerfalas, "I fear the time is come........Daerfalas, your brother is not my father. But I am my father's son.......... it is starting with me now, the harsh memories....... I must not act on them, not after all of this, not after Sainion's urging for me to reject despair, not after the dances of beauty, not after...... all we have endured............And Ivordir, who had seen the mythic north, and the Eldar of legend........ faltered.............. what will now become of me?"

And the words stung and stuck Ivordir to the core as he heard them, sorrow welling in his soul. He, too, turned toward Daerfalas.

Approaching Baralinthor with his hands held aloft, Daerfalas bade the other man to listen to his words. "Ivordir faltered, yes. We all do. No man marches through life unmarked, unscathed. Do not let this drive you to shame and despair! You are with your brothers now. We may not be of blood, but we have shed it together. We must combine our strengths, and move forward, together."

Baralinthor deeply smiled, "I thank you for your courage, Daerfalas............. I hope that we can weather the storm. I must be held to my own words. Now here I am, forced to un-sheath my sword and draw my arrows from my quiver. It is a cruel twist.........."
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXLI: The Night Attack at Ost Sarram

Ivordir smiled, "Yes, Baralinthor...... your words are true. I gravely faltered. But the words of Daerfalas are also true......."

Mithon suddenly appeared, "Quiet! Backs against the wall now! They are coming....."

They heard the sounds of arrow-fire, the twanging of bows, and hoarse shouts and battle-cries in strange tongues.

A ranger shouted, "They're coming up the hill!"

Ivordir drew his sword and steeled his nerve. Baralinthor stood at arms at his side.

It was much too dark for the eyes to be much use; instead Daerfalas strained to hear the footsteps of the Haradrim climbing up the hill, the sharp thud of their footsteps across the ground. What few torches they held were enough to give them some sense of whence they came. Daerfalas positioned himself before Ivordir and Baralinthor, his sword and shield held aloft. The Rangers had the advantage of complete darkness, and the higher ground beside. As soon as the closest Haradrim came within range, he attacked, and looked over his shoulder to Ivordir. "More come! Be ready to defend!"

Baralinthor and Ivordir charged. And Ivordir shunned Ballithor's words as they arose like mounting waves and ferocious tides that thrash violently on the shores of the sea.

The other Dunedain were at their sides. The Haradrim had lost many from arrow-fire from the higher ground. And so they fled back towards the fortifications.

Ivordir yelled, "The cowards!" and prepared to mount another charge, but Mithon held him back, "No....... they want us to chase them down there, to their fortified walls. A ruined wall is still enough to put between a man's throat and an arrow-shaft."

Ivordir noticed a gash across his wrist. And then he felt his side, feeling blood on his hands. His own blood.

Baralinthor looked at it in the torchlight. A Southron's spear had glazed him. Fortunately, the glaze was light. The wound was not deep. Slowly, the pain began to set-in.

Baralinthor heaved a deep sigh, "We cannot stay here."

Daerfalas saw Baralinthor tending to Ivordir, and felt relief. Quietly he sheathed his sword, nodding emphatically. "When they return it will be with greater numbers."

"We have no choice," Mithon sorrowfully uttered. "We must reclaim this spot, or perish in the attempt. Such are our orders."
He sighed, "I will lead the men ahead. I will leave some protectors hither at the camp."

Ivordir gasped, "That is unwise! They will double-back and burn us and the camp, and come on you from the rear!"

Mithon spoke deeply, "And who is the Commander of this Host? You or I?" He had settled the matter. Ivordir was no longer Captain of the remnants of his Company.

Baralinthor spoke tactfully, "You are. And if I may say so, Commander....... thy Host is in dire straits."

Mithon muttered something to himself, then spoke aloud: "I lead the charge regardless." And the rangers followed him into the darkness, down the darkened hill, beneath a darkened sky.

The shrill roar of half-trolls filled the night-air, and the dooming of drums, doom, doom, doom. Mithon came back alright. With several wounded men. And several men had died. And the camp had been raided. Baralinthor had slain many, and Ivordir had stabbed upward and rolled to avoid his foes' blows, despite his pain.

When a window of escape opened, Baralinthor lifted Ivordir, who by now had a bandaged side, and Ivordir leaned on his shoulder. Ivordir felt the cloak, hidden beneath his armor upon his back. Some new strength awoke in him. They retreated as fast as they could from the burning camp, till the dooming of the drums grew quieter, and quieter. They ran at a slower pace, for the sake of the wounded. They finally reached a copse of trees when they were out of ear-shot of the Enemy.

Daerfalas rushed to Ivordir's side, concern open and apparent on his face. Behind him the rest of the company stuttered to a quick stop, each man breathing hard, straining to listen for the soft thrum of their enemies' war drums. It was silent but for the rustle of the trees. Suddenly a man laughed. It was Naitheg.

"What?" the sellsword said defensively, as the others turned to look at him with open scorn. "We have survived the attack. Should we not rejoice?" He lowered his hands to his knees and sucked in a deep breath, his smile wide and wolfish, his face flushed with the excitement of battle.

Daerfalas turned to speak, but it was Gwainoth's voice that rose first, hushed and angry. "Have some respect!" the young mason whispered fiercely. "Men have died! This is not a game, nor glorious battle! The Rangers of this land are protecting their home with honor, which you know nothing of!"

Though he agreed with Gwainoth's words, Daerfalas was quick to quiet them all. "Silence," he said swiftly. "We cannot risk the Haradrim finding us." All went quiet, and he resumed his careful watch of Ivordir and Baralinthor. "Are you well, brothers?" he asked bluntly.

Ivordir still winced in his pain, but at least his side was bandaged, but his legs were sore and his arms were stiff. Baralinthor was gasping, near-out-of-breath, collapsing onto the ground alongside Ivordir at the base of a nearby tree. They re-angled themselves along the hillside. The ground was dry, the soil firm. Mithon stationed watchmen and found a spot to curl-up and fall asleep. The men were exhausted. Even the watchmen could not stay awake.

And Baralinthor tried to smile at Daerfalas, "Come, rest with us," he gasped. And from his pack, he pulled-forth the cloak.
And painfully, with all his strength, he mustered enough stoutness to billow the cloak around himself and Ivordir. The cloak of the ancient West did not suffer stain or wear and tear.
And instantaneously, they felt relief from pain.

Baralinthor's hand beckoned to Daerfalas.

Daerfalas was exhausted enough not to protest against his own comfort. He crawled forth, and joined his brothers beneath its folds. The softness enveloped him, and he felt warmth, beyond that which a regular cloth would offer.

They slept in peace for what remained of the night.

It was late in the morning when they re-awoke. When Ivordir opened his eyes, he feared the sight of Haradrim spears. But there were no Haradrim to be found. They had not been pursued. It was likely that they were tending to their own wounded. Mithon quickly aroused them all, and they took what they could carry, and bore the wounded, on a long and weary march back north in defeat. They had lost sight of what day it was, but it was late-morning on the 4th of March. They rested at several halts for the sake of the wounded. They were famished and thirsty. And they had lost their provisions.

Warily, they pressed-on, at a slow and steady pace. The air was damp and cold as their faces braved the wind and lighter rain. The formerly clean-shaved young men were growing beards, for such luxuries as shaving did not exist in the harsh, green wilderness. In time, the fortress of Bar Hurin arose before them, a beacon of hope. And it was now late-evening. The men had spoken little when they rested. And anger rose in many hearts. But the sight of shelter made hope blossom anew within their wounded, weary, worried hearts, against the tides of despair. And an hour and a half later, they were admitted at the gates, no questions asked. The wounded were brought to the healers' quarters and makeshift infirmery in the ruins, save for Ivordir, who insisted on remaining with his comrades. They were granted beds in one of the larger buildings in the middle of the hideout.
Edited by Ivordir, Dec 3 2015, 11:13 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXLII: An Iridescent, White City

Isenadin had opened his eyes in the late-evening of the 2nd of March. Ivordir and his men had not arrived yet at their first encampment in Ithilien. It was then that Lerion and Angolhel shared the fell tidings they had learned in Pelargir, before they parted with their men into South Ithilien. It was then that Isenadin learned of his father's death, and wept ever bitterly, as wrath grew hot within his soul.

It was then that Angolhel and Lerion offered to take Isenadin as their apprentice, to become a Sorcerer. And Isenadin agreed in the fervor of his wrath, in the depths of his grief. They had summoned Daechon, agreeing to teach him as well, and he and Isenadin began to hone their skills, skills that would enable them to fully dazzle and beguile the minds of all who gazed, mesmerized, at the beauty of their dance.

The others all drank wine or sought some form of distraction, or comforted and consoled each other, or made plans for the training. All of this was performed, and more besides. And Alagossel took Glossel, Colhel, Fingaereth, Duvaissel, and Rostiel beneath her wing. They would prepare a display that would betray Umbar's allies within the city. Many a dance was practiced, many a dance performed.

Down at the barracks, Gilorn drank. He drank the stoutest of ales. He was filled with grief, that he could not fight alongside his comrades in Osgiliath. Haedirn drank beside him as they reminisced on the old war days, the days when they fought the Orcs alongside the likes of Boromir and Faramir, and other famed, brave men. Palanelon drank with them, and the rest of the nobles' protectors and Vale recruits. They had been permitted in Ioristor's Manor, but they preferred the barracks.

The more noble Vale recruits, Circhon among them, planned the training and otherwise rested with Amarthandor. Circhon had admired Amarthandor since they had seen each other in the Vale.

The 3rd of March came and passed, not much had changed.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXLIII: The Wrath of Honor

"I don't trust 'em." Gilorn stammered in the depths of night at the counter in the tavern. The skepticism had finally won. He had watched in silent rage as those who were apparently guilty of the deepest heresy were suddenly forgiven, group by group, from Tumladen to Minas Tirith itself. He had done his duty, slaying wild beasts that assailed them on the road. But he got away from them as soon as he could, after they passed through the Great Gates on the first level. "I've wanted to trust 'em.... I've tried to...... it doesn't make sense at all..... what's wrong with 'em and what's wrong with me? How many lives.... have I seen slaughtered....."

He thought back to that day when the Orcs came over the ridge. He had seen them coming at the crest of the stairs, where the city grew in altitude. But it was too late. Their arrows fired before he shouted. He had to run. He heard the screaming and wailing of his men as the Orcs slowly chopped their arms, the insidious scent of death rising in the air, the old, cracked marble tiles bathed in blood, and then he heard their gnashing as he hid behind the wall. All those brave men writhing as the Orcs consumed them alive, and all because of his own moment of hesitation. Their was nothing clean or cool about it. And the Orcs stank in their pestilence, as if they were the incarnation of disease.

Gilorn ran. He fled through the ruined streets, and had to confess to his captain that the Orcs had surprised them, and that only he, Gilorn, had escaped. The rangers had followed Gilorn's directions and sneaked-up on the ramparts. The Orcs were dead in minutes, too consumed in their cannibalistic frenzy to notice or smell them. But Gilorn never forgot their eyes.... their pale, cold eyes as they fell.

He knew who the Haradrim would have aided, in terms of their allegiance. The memories haunted Gilorn as he sat and drank in the Wheel and Cask. Haedirn sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on Gilorn's shoulder, but the hand of a friend gave Gilorn little comfort.

Haedirn nodded, "It's strange to me, brother...."

Gilorn muttered in his drunken haze, "What became of our honor......." The Haradrim scum, here, in the City! Here..... among our wives and children, skulking away in some traitor-noble's house, so nigh the White Tree in all her majesty! And the screaming of the men dyin' on the front.........the harsh, cold death, the chill of the night air, the Black Breath...... closing their cold, pale eyes.............and here I'm meant to keep my mouth shut. Here I got discharged for my failure, forced to serve as some mercenary for a corrupt lord who doesn't deserve to breathe the free, clean air of Gondor! And then to walk under the command of a traitor, a young, naive traitor, who trusts Haradrim and those who had murdered tons of innocents in their sacrilege! And all for what? A bunch of shiny cloaks, some vain displays of feigned majesty.......... for love, they claim? What love...........more like lust................well I've seen many a pretty boy die. Many a pretty boy. Their bodies mangled and covered with the stench of Orcs, their pale, young faces trodden in the mud and broken on the ruined stones, and their eyes.... their cold, pale eyes.... starin' up at me, because I came too late............

And Gilorn muttered under his breath, so that only Haedirn could hear him: "I can end this..... in the name of honor...... I can end it..........I can end their vain dances and displays of glittering vanity..............I can avenge our fallen brothers........................."

And Haedirn whispered, careful as he spoke, "No, brother..........don't. They betrayed their own kin, who had sided with the Enemy. Their ways are strange to us, and ours to them. But they are no traitors, brother...........and they dance only because they feel safe............... because they long for something that we've long since lost and forgotten................................................"

Gilorn's weathered, wrinkled, strong face turned to look into Haedirn's gentle eyes, "What.........."

And Haedirn replied, "Innocence................................................"

Gilorn flourished, "Pah! There's no such thing............ none of us are innocent......................."

Haedirn smiled, "That's right............. and realizin' that makes us innocent...............................they've figured it out, why can't we?"
Edited by Ivordir, Dec 7 2015, 11:43 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXLIV: Homecoming

Gwathron smirked as Amarthandor poured the wine. They did not know where Arancir or Auravon were. Amarthandor smiled, "Can you believe how far we've come?"

Gwathron smiled, "I can believe it.......... though I'll admit, the memories have dogged my steps."

Amarthandor sighed, "I can still see their faces.... the victims of sacrifice....... they make my skin crawl." The cloak calmed him. He sighed, "Well.... my wife is apparently with Angolhel and the others............. I wonder what they're up to.........."

Gwathron sighed even more deeply, "Likely some Southron ritual........"

"It better not involve sacrifice."

"I do not think it does......... Angolhel told me about it......"

"Did she................?"

"It's a bond of sisterhood, Amarthandor.........................."

"Oh no.......... not more swirling cloaks and witchcraft...................."

"It isn't witchcraft.....................................and if it is, then you're guilty of it most of all................."

"That is true......................much of our behavior has been strange throughout these months...........................Gwathron, let's put our glasses down for a moment."

They put their glasses on the shelf, with the bottle, in a safe place.

Amarthandor continued, as he returned to the center of his chamber, "Tell me............................what do you see?" He predictably outstretched his cloak with his arms.

Gwathron's eyes glistened, "I see a Prince of Beauty............."

"I see blood, Gwathron. I see the blood of all who died within our capes..... the victims of sacrifice, slaughtered on the altar..................." Even his cloak was revolting against his words as Amarthandor felt sick to his stomach.

Gwathron was untying several knots of his silk. He let his black cloak, lined with silver, flow behind him, billowing onto the floor. He outstretched it with his arms, "And what do you see my brother?"

"I do not know................"

"I see the silver sunshine of our salvation..... the purgation of these crimes from our souls..................................your gold and red made pure............."

And Amarthandor felt himself assailed by cleansing, consoling feelings that sought to drown him, as his cloak shimmered. He saw his despair clearly in its rising shadows, rising like a Nazgul, hooded and cloaked, it's Morgul blade aiming toward him..... And Gwathron suddenly ran toward him, subduing him within the black and silver cloak, the colors of the Standard of Gondor, as he felt Gwathron's lips, and heard Gwathron's voice whisper, "Receive the Kiss of Mercy."

They would deign to drink their wine on the morrow, after sunrise. Amarthandor's heart flourished in his epiphanic triumph. And their hearts returned to the beginning. Gwathron outspread Amarthandor's golden cloak as it gleamed, pouring far behind him into Gwathron's hands, as King-like, they processed across the room. Tenderly, in a spirit of chaste brotherhood, they lay down in their place of rest, wrapped and cloaked together, as they fell asleep in each others' arms, with peaceful smiles on their faces. Amarthandor's smile was the same as when he had fallen asleep in Amanuiron's arms in Rhun, before he knew that Amanuiron was a false and wretched fell being of darkest evil. It was then he realized the truth behind all their odd behavior. For he knew that whenever they kissed each other on the lips in religious rituals or danced with their cloaks or embraced so deep, that they had crossed boundaries of space and knowing that courtly Gondorians seldom ever crossed, that the kisses were used for non-romantic reasons and that their tenderness was something commensurate with brotherhood.... with sisterhood.... with some form of spiritual unity that they could never understand....... But now he coldly knew the root of all their odd behavior, that they were most fortunate to have concealed from the rest of Gondorian society, behind their closed shutters and darkened windows, and in the safety of their deep halls............it was Guldrambor. It was ever Guldrambor, until some Higher Power intervened. Now...... those ways were being turned against him, for tenderness was never evil, in and of itself....... true love had conquered the fanatical frenzy. And bonds of truer honor and loyalty had replaced falsehood. He had done grave wrong, but he would spend his life in a state of atonement, in truer solidarity, with all whom he cared for most.

And in the spirit of truest love, he fell asleep in Gwathron's arms. And Gwathron closed his own eyes peacefully, knowing that his cousin had now, finally, truly arrived at home. Their rest was chaste in the heart of their familial tenderness.

Edited by Ivordir, Dec 7 2015, 11:44 PM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXVII: A Hidden Training

There was a knock at the door of Sainion and Arhbaineth's chamber. Circhon smiled, looking around, "Can we speak?"

They both nodded as Circhon closed the door after his entrance.

Circhon bowed, "I am gravely concerned........ many of our new companions are traitors....................."

There was a worried look in Sainion's eyes, "Yes.... alas.... there are dangers...............especially now that our Company has dispersed. I would that Ivordir were here, that I might counsel him...... for Saelbainor is clearly dangerous, despite his open attempts at reconciliation, I fear that he may be trying to deceive us...... I fear the same of this Silevren.............. and yet, when I wear my cloak, I feel no fear...... it is strange."

Circhon sighed, "That is why I have come. I told those who followed me from the Vale that I would determine whether or not Amarthandor and the others are traitors or not....... through the following means."

Sainion smiled, "You wish to wear my cloak?"

"It may solve the riddle. For the cloak has validated everything you have said concerning the Elven witchcraft........ which I no longer believe is mere myth or legend....... and I believe that it is good........despite my fear."

Arhbaineth smirked, "Then what are we waiting for?" Sainion and Arhbaineth outspread their cloak from end to end, and then gently bathed it around Circhon's youthful face, gently placing it on his gentle shoulders. Then Circhon covered his face with the cloak, his thoughts flowing through him:

The Haradrim are traitors........ human sacrifices wicked beyond words...... for it was Morgul that destroyed my homeland, Morgul that drove us away from our pine-scented forests and protected hills.... Morgul that drove away the birds and gentle beasts, rendering the wild creatures even madder...........and I did not have the courage, to follow Ivordir, my Captain, into my old homeland..... I have shamed by Lord-Father and the entire history of my House..... I applaud the few brave noble sons who followed Ivordir and the rangers............those who were fit to fight..................I was fit to fight..........and I concealed it......... for I longed to stay with Sainion and Arhbaineth..........................and now I perceive the errors of my ways............................ oh Powers of the West forgotten, I am most unworthy to touch this silk, let alone wear it around my shoulders..................tell me what I must do..................

The thought came suddenly, solemnly, shining and glittering in the marrow of his soul, They must touch the cloak so bright... dispersing shadows of the night...

Circhon's emerald silken noble cloak fell to the floor, and when he stooped to lift it, it glimmered with the same gleam as the cloak of Sainion. The spiritual power felt the same. Sainion received his cloak once more, and felt the cloak of Circhon, and deeply smiled, "It would appear that we have found our answer....."

Circhon gathered his young brethren in one of the vast, great lower halls, as they draped his now-vast cloak onto the floor, outspreading it majestically in the sunlight. And they lay their cloaks upon it. And they all seemed larger in width and size, perplexing them, and they were cloaks of many colors. And they all felt an inner, truer peace, as they restored their capes to their shoulders, robed and cloaked in beauty, and more importantly, with a wisdom that was beautiful. They no longer feared, or doubted, their new companions, unified in the epiphanic, luminous ecstasy of their shared experience. They knew the so-called "Men of Darkness" were not created and born to perish on the side of the Enemy. What once was lost, could be redeemed, and in there was the greater triumph, the truer justice, when the spirits of the slayers and the slain all unified in peace, embracing each once again, placing death and doom behind them, buried in their pasts forever, as their souls shined all the brighter, among the Stars, beyond the Circles of the World. They perceived the Higher Power and were not afraid. And they knew they didn't need a Temple. For the world, with all its rituals of life and living, was their Temple, and they would fight to the death to reclaim it from the scourge that was Sauron, Lord of the False Rings, the Defiler. And when they gazed through the windows at the Walls of Mordor, their hearts were stout and not afraid, as they dreamed of the day that Mordor might become the fairest Garden ever planted, Orodruin rendered dormant, the Sea of Nurn cleansed of bile and filth, and flowers and verdant grass rising and choking, and conquering, the ashen land of waste that stood a stain and defilement of the Temple, Arda, within that larger Temple, Ea.

And so they danced in their now-blessed cloaks, in mirth and beauty, in gratitude for their lives, and for the Earth. And then all they could do was laugh, not knowing what to say, as the Circhon they had played with as children in the stone lanes and fir woods of the Vale, now towered above them in his grace and majesty, as if the Prince of all Ithilien. And yet, despite his excessive folds and excessive gleaming, he was not excessive at heart. He loved and honored each of them. And if all their thoughts could be paraphrased, they would converge on the words: I will aid you, I will follow you, and in the wake of greatest need, I will die for you, if death shall come. This I say for you, and for all my brethren.... For now they recognized death as the Gift of Men, the deepest, purest act of love....... to risk one's life, and if need shall call it forth .......................to die to save another life. It was often un-romantic, gritty, brutal, cruel, and tragic....... but no less beautiful in its inner essence...... it's truer meaning......... and to strip it of significance, would kill it off completely............... and this was why they knew that love, must ever, conquer despair.

The soldiers of Gondor were trained to think the same, by sacred Oath. There were no cynics when the stench of Orc drew near.
Edited by Ivordir, Dec 8 2015, 12:20 AM.
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Ivordir

Chapter CCCXVIII: That Fateful Day

Gwathron awoke in the rays of the morning sunlight that streamed restfully through the nearby windows. He remembered when he had awoken on a similar morn, long ago. He knew his uncle was a stern, hardened man, and his wife subordinate, though clever, in ways of her own. But he had loved his cousins. Amarthon, Auravon, Arancir, and Gwathron oft met together in Midsummer's Eve, when their parents were away at business, allowing for their lives to grew.

But Amarthon was lazy. He ever shirked work. He never wanted to lift anything heavy, least of not which a sword. He preferred sitting around, reading. He often read older tales, when he'd hid from his parents and flee to the archives, where he was welcomed. Sages were ever looking for men to follow in their footsteps, and such men were hard to come by. The demand was mostly for laborers or soldiers. And Amarthon read the old ancient tales. He knew Silevren and the Twilight Brothers as acquaintances in Pelargir, and so it was that they found their way into the midst of the fold.

Many in Gondor, even the most learned men, were superstitious of tales of Elves or feats of ancient glory. They feared elven magic as some form of sorcery, ultimately regarded as myth from some long by-gone Age. Ioristor's House, in Minas Tirith, rose from the ashes of its decay in Osgiliath, not because the Sigil was some ancient elvish relic, but because of the determination that the Sigil gave them, that lead to Ioristor's ancestors finding new ore-lodes in the Ered Nimrais, and from how they had defeated Haradrim caravans in Harondor, taking their riches before they gave tribute to Mordor.

Malnoron wanted a House as strong and shrewd as that of Ioristor, though he never knew Ioristor, truly, for it ever about the philosophy. But his sons had no interests in combat. And since Amarthon was the first to emerge from his mother's womb, before Auravon shortly thereafter, Amarthon was the Heir of the House, and the honor and stability of the Golden Wing depended solely on him.

And Amarthon could not please his lord-father. And Amarthon was sent to the Harondor front, barely able to wield a blade or bear the mail. And Gwathron wept on the day he left, the final demise of their innocent days, when time had passed eternally, heedlessly, when the world seemed rich and green. When word returned from the front, Malnoron was distraught. He did not send Auravon to the front, for he could not risk the death of yet another Heir. And Amarthon's funeral was held. And Gwathron shed an endless stream of tears, despairing of his return.

He and Auravon had cried bitterly and drowned their tears in drink.
Edited by Ivordir, Dec 8 2015, 12:20 AM.
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