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| 18. Wind-Singers Volume III.II: The Final March; In the aftermaths of The Hunt and the Artifact: Auruiron, Cellindien, and Inheroth embark with their Host toward the East. | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 6 2016, 02:01 PM (3,103 Views) | |
| Ioristion | Apr 6 2016, 02:01 PM Post #1 |
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Prologue The air was cold, and the lands were still. A pale sun rose above the clouds. A sparrow sang her morning song. The leaves had turned to fiery hues on the trees. The squirrels began burying their walnuts. The rabbits nestled in their dens. The lynxes began their usual hunt for grub. The beetles crawled slowly in the dirt. The grasshoppers ended their nightly song. The bees began their final morning rounds as the flowers ended in their season. The bears hunted for honey and berries in the Shaws. The trout basked in the waters of the Bruinen. The kingfishers chased the trout as they withstood the current. The river suddenly surged. An old man stood as if a wizened tree, clutching his staff, as the Lord of the Vale extended his hand, a Ring glistening on his finger. A charge of white, foamy horses steadily rose from the foamy surf and charged, shrouded in foam in the surging river, charging through the canyons beyond the Vale. Soon, the river stilled, the sunlight making the calming waters glisten, gleaming gallantly. The sparrow resumed her song after the Vale had been stirred to silence. Auruiron had watched it from his window, in awe of the powers he beheld. But the Lord of the Vale was ever secretive, and Wizards even more so. He did not seek to question them. For Auruiron, too, was secretive, and he knew that the Lord of the Vale must have felt suspicious at the sight of what appeared to be one hundred Elves marching down into the Vale with wounded members of their Host. He sighed with relief when no one questioned him at all about it. They had, after all, arrived at nightfall, when many in the Vale maintained their dreaming. The Vale was guarded nonetheless. "Speak to no one of this," Auruiron had urged the guards. "We, too, are entitled to our hidden quests and secret burdens." The guards seemingly agreed. Auruiron flung his cape around himself per usual. He felt calmed, a gentle healing feeling, ethereal and yet alive. He felt as if he was floating in a river. He knew his river would soon become as rattled as the Bruinen. Auruiron had enjoyed many months of resting in the refuge of the Leaves of Laurelin and in the House of Rostoriel. He had held intriguing conversations and met folk of many walks of life. He had played his harp with Macalaure and felt relieved whenever Macalaure was nigh. But the restlessness returned, the same restlessness and recklessness that had allowed him to send one hundred brave Eldar into the wilderness, and all to lose twenty of them and to learn dubious knowledge of an artifact that he ought to have probed and studied, but he never did thus, because it hardly ever did anything. The old jewel had begun to react in such strange ways, conjuring visions and dreams of the past, present, and future, far more recently. Sorrow marred his heart. For Macalaure and Auruiron had slowly become estranged again. Auruiron had exhorted him to march to the East against Guldrambor and Macalaure had been growing in his peace beneath the Golden Bough and Auruiron had, as in the pains of growth, began to realize that their destinies would diverge again. Melimwe attempted to counsel Auruiron. Auruiron would not listen. He took to spending more time with Amarthon Amarthandor, Sainion, Auravon, Ioristion, Alcano, and Yucalwe, who would often meet in hidden groves to tell old war-stories by the campfire and laugh of the few happier memories they had shared together. Fareon joined them at times. And still, Auruiron sought to sing with Macalaure, and to find some measure of peace in the realization of the fulfillment of his Affirmation. But Lerinon became increasingly aloof. He could not stare directly at Auruiron in the eyes. He ever began to avoid his own father. He might have thrown himself off the Falls of Imladris, were it not for Inheroth. Innocence had died in Lerinon's heart. He even began to scowl at his legacy. Dior should have yielded that jewel.... that Silmaril.... he and my own people might have survived...... and for his folly, they died......... and I ought not to have charged toward the Mountains so rashly in search of food...... I ought not to have challenged all the Yrch of the Mountains before their caverns..... I ought not to have lead them all to folly........ and..... and.... and...... His face was often wet with tears. He often hid himself in his cloak and rested somewhere in the wilderness of the Vale. Edited by Ioristion, Apr 26 2016, 12:30 PM.
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| Lerinon | Apr 15 2016, 02:57 PM Post #2 |
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Chapter I: A Depressed Exile There was a shift of grass as moonlight glinted on the morning dew in the waning hour before dawn. There was a rustle as a pale golden cloak drifted above the dew, sliding forward as slyly as a serpent slithers, sailing above the dampened grassy sea beneath it. The ants beneath the stalks of grass did not know what had come above them like a gigantic, pale-golden cloud that seemed to flow as fast as the horizon. They crawled into their hills and vanished beneath the soil that was the Earth. The sliding stopped. The fabric was still. The air was cold. The lands rose high. The hills sloped down. The trees stood tall. The air smelled of pine. The pine-cones fell from the dark, deep green of the eaves of the trees. The squirrels were gathering their nuts, and the sparrows were singing, and the mountain hendroval flew overhead. The waters of the Bruinen sang far below. The cool, swift wind billowed the golden folds of the figure who stood overlooking the depths of the vale. The lights of Elven homes, and of the Last Homely House, twinkled far beneath him. His arms were folded and his glistening eyes were sad and the wind was chill and rousing. Winter was nigh. It had not yet come. He thought back to the olden days. Even Thranduil's prison cell did not feel so horrid to him then. He had not yet led innocent Elves to their deaths then. He was -worthy- enough to call Inheroth his brother then. He wished he could slither back into Thranduil's cell, back into his bosom of hiding, nestled deep in the darkened shadows. There he belonged. There, not here. Not where the air was fresh and free. He did not deserve it in his heart, he could hardly breathe as he recalled their faces... glistening eyes, beating hearts full of promise, flowing hair, their magnificent armour, their aged, wise minds...... thousands of years reduced by his own folly. He had lived this way for well over a year. At times, he would enter the vale and seek refuge, or he would seek refuge beneath the Golden Bough, but it was ever there, that lingering darkness, that ghost of shadow that marred his spirit. He finally could not bear it any longer. He approached the ledge. He thought of Inheroth's smiling face, his beaming eyes, his youthful enthusiasm and passion for life and living. He slightly smiled at the thought. The ledge grew closer. He thought of his brother's stern countenance, his wisdom, his abilities for survival..... why did his brother not lead the expedition? He wondered at the thought. And the ledge grew closer. He thought of his supposed real father, of the Feanorians bursting through the gates, of their blazoned swords bleeding him out, at the end of it all, when the sacred Jewel, the Silmaril, refused to glow any longer for his family... ...and the ledge grew closer. Edited by Lerinon, Apr 15 2016, 02:57 PM.
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| Inheroth | Apr 19 2016, 08:54 PM Post #3 |
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Chapter II: The Follower From where he stood, hidden in the morning mists and the shadow of evergreen, Inheroth watched Lerinon, still and silent in his weariness. He was clad in a simple tunic and a cloak meant to shield him from the cold that he could not feel; the sudden chill that had him shuddering had little to do with the temperance of foredawn. He was afraid. It was a fear he sought to restrain often, these days, the same apprehension he felt whenever he gazed into the drawn face of his brother, once so carefree and stalwart. Of course, it was easy to remember when that had changed. In the blur of many moments, beneath the din and haze of battle, Inheroth had seen that profound change in Lerinon. There was little he could do as he watched his brother fade. Since then, he had hoped that his incessant hovering hadn't bothered Lerinon, or given his brother reason to think that his worries were borne from anything other than love. Inheroth fought another bone-deep shiver. Yes, sometimes he sought to give Lerinon space, but now he was immensely glad that he had thought to fret enough to follow Lerinon through the dark. It had not been difficult to follow Lerinon. He wore his usual shimmering cloak, easy to track even through the thickest shadows of a starless light. Inheroth maintained his distance, and nary a twig so much as snapped under his footfall. Their journey was not a long one. It ended at a precipice, one Inheroth was familiar with. The view of the Valley below on a clear evening was stunning, as the ever-present lights of Lord Elrond's Halls cut through the night like an endless array of sparkling gems and jewels. Many an Elf sought their peace upon this very cliff. No such peace was to be found in the dark outline of Lerinon. His shadow, having stopped at nearly the very edge of the rock face, began to move closer to it with a clear intention. The niggling fear that had pestered Inheroth since their return to the Golden Boughs erupted full force and sent him into a quiet panic. He rushed forward, mindful enough not to make too much noise, but with enough purpose so that Lerinon would be alerted to his presence. "Brother," he called out gently, his voice carrying only far enough so that it was for Lerinon's ears alone. "Please, wait." He rose up a hand, palm faced upward in an entreating gesture. "You must think that you are doing what is necessary. It is not." He did not wait for Lerinon to turn his way, and continued on, his voice light, betraying little of his terror. "I remember when we first made our home north of the Forest River. That was a time of many ills. Amon Lanc had fallen prey to dark sorceries we could not comprehend, and the forests that we loved were made home to terrible beasts and spiders. One could not travel far before becoming entangled in great webs. Our King issued orders that we should send out patrols, as far south as we could manage, and ease those foul populations. I was young, hopelessly naive. I volunteered for these duties. I thought...I believed I could lead them." His voice broke softly, and it took him another moment before he could continue. "My third day leading such a patrol, we were ambushed by a great colony of bats. They blinded us, dazed us. We did not notice the orcs until it was too late. First four of my sentries fell. I sounded a retreat. We fled, all of us, afraid and injured. We came across a glade, where there was a little sunlight to be spared. I gathered what was left of us. There were seven of us missing. Seven of my men, whom I never saw fall. The horror that felled me...the worst was that I did not know their fates. Had their lives been spared by their enemies, only for them to perish in anguish later? Later, when we realized that prisoners were indeed taken to the dark tower, my guilt grew to be a terrible thing. Of course," Inheroth sighed heavily, and stepped forward again. "This faded over time, after many skirmishes. I cannot say that the large amount of orc and spider later slain by my hand did anything to quell my distress. Instead it merely became a quiet thing, something that will stay with me until my final dawn. Here." He lay a gentle hand over his breast. "It is not all I am, Lerinon. Tell me...look upon my countenance and tell me that we are not the summation of our failures. Our first, peurile attempts at leadership are simply just that; the ebb and flow of battle chooses a winner, and it is no kind thing. Your grief may be strong, and it may be true, but it is not all that you are. Please." They were close now, so close that if he rushed forward, Inheroth was sure he could grab Lerinon before his brother could manage to fling himself over the precipice. He did not want it to come to that. The sun was beginning to rise. He waited, breath held, and it was utterly quiet. |
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| Lerinon | Apr 22 2016, 06:41 PM Post #4 |
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Chapter III: Fall of the Prince of the Sindar Their fea'r were ripped and torn from the sinews of their hroa'r. Their eyes had shined like diamonds, their souls had burned with inner passion, for life and for living well, in rebellion against the fading. Yet in the end they faded, their war and time-weary bodies cut down by mere wild demons in the night. And it was all my fault. He thought of the ancient, weathered, withered, weary past. He thought of that image of his father in all his glory, the Silmaril gleaming on his brow. He thought of cruel Maitimo and of... The thought stung him. The thought of Macalaure. That his father's vowed-allegiance, a friend whom Auruiron regarded as a brother, a friend that he, Lerinon, should regard as his uncle, that he, Lerinon, had dared to make peace with and to embrace him, the murderer of Lerinon's true father.... it was too much for Lerinon to bear. He wore not the royal evergreen and emerald of his true father, but the gold of his foster, the gold of the Noldor who had betrayed his kith and kin, the golden whose blessing truly lay within, deep in the sinews of its folds, in the everlasting tears of the Grace of the Vala, and not within its exterior splendour, its touch, its feel, its satisfaction... and then it seemed, to Lerinon, that the stars and the moon and the sun and the birds and the trees and the folds of his cloak, all at once, were weeping, flowing with endless tears... "No," Lerinon retorted. "All that I am was slain before me. All that I was had perished in my youth, all sunken beneath the sea. And for all that I will be........ over that alone, shall I have power!" He did not fling himself. He merely fell forward. As he slowly lost his balance, his life gleamed before his eyes, a life of tortured splendour. He closed his eyes. He tried to stumble backward. It was too late. He would face a coward's death. He would stain the Vale with Elven blood and forever harm its peace. But he felt tugging behind him. He was on his back before he knew it, gazing upward at Inheroth's terrified face. |
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| Inheroth | Apr 25 2016, 08:48 PM Post #5 |
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Chapter IV: A Rescue, and the Ensuing As he made for Lerinon and wrestled him back unto the earth, true thought escaped him, but for the singular need to hold his brother close. One word repeated itself within his mind in a strange, mantra-like litany; safe it said, in relief and desperation, safe, safe. It was a struggle to hoist Lerinon to his feet. The other Elf offered no strength of his own, his eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown. Inheroth staggered, carrying both their weight, and started down the path in an attempt to get them as far away from the precipice as he could. Their awkward shuffle raised a cloud of dust that glimmered eerily within the half-light of the pale morning sun. Little of it seemed real. He bore them both onward, the only sound the fall of their boots, the draw of their stuttering breaths. As they reached the road leading up the Last Homely House, Inheroth brought them to a stop. Their haste, the lack of grace with which they stepped, alerted a nearby sentry. The nameless Elf rushed forward, but Inheroth batted him away as he reached for them. "No," he said, "we are uninjured. There...is no need for your assistance." The Elf eyed them strangely, but allowed them to pass. Inheroth had thought it best to conceal his fear, before. Now he wrestled with his anger. He knew it was unfair to Lerinon that he grow frustrated with his brother's listlessness, his sorrow. Yet now he could not help but feel betrayed. The many months that they had spent together under the peaceful boughs of Imladris had not lessened the impact of the tragedy that inflicted Lerinon; indeed the passage of time had only served to exacerbate it. That Lerinon thought death his only balm infuriated Inheroth. The hammering of his heart grew louder within his own ears. Even as they returned to the comfort of their private bower, he was not calmed. Even so, he deposited Lerinon gently upon a cushioned bench, tightened his cloak around his shoulders in an affectionate gesture, hands trembling. "Wait here," he commanded, brushing Lerinon's cheek with the back of his fingers. "Do not move." He did not doubt that Lerinon would listen to him. He hurried forth anyhow, calling for Fareon. He told Fareon of everything that transpired in a tremulous voice, unshod tears gathering in his eyes. He wrung his hands, and nodded in a silent agreement when Fareon suggested they alert Auruiron. As his brother disappeared into their rooms, Inheroth returned to Lerinon's side. "You are safe," he whispered into his ear, embracing him. "Safe." He closed his eyes, and wondered what Auruiron would think, what he would do. It was mid-morning before anyone approached them. |
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| Ioristion | Apr 26 2016, 11:44 AM Post #6 |
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Chapter V: The Footfalls of Doom Auruiron had kept the artifact veiled from the sight of the others, save for when Ioristion probed it, in secret. There was a time that Ioristion was caught by Macalaure and others, and Ioristion had behaved much foolishly, but after a gambit with Ivordir, the artifact was hidden from the Leaves once more. The Leaves had wanted to bring it to Master Elrond. And in the later months of that year, Yucalwe journeyed across Eriador with Ivordir, Abrazan, Arhbaineth, Daerfalas, and others, and set the Gondorians back to sea, to sail back to their own country, on some secret, and yet final, quest. After Yucalwe returned, time had passed as it ever had throughout the year. They ate and drank and slept, wrote songs of triumph and of sorrow, poems to delight and soften ears, and Auruiron had spent much time with Macalaure. But the winds in the west had blown, and no voice had come upon them. And Auruiron gave Macalaure a choice: to stay beneath the Golden Bough in safety, or to wander East to whatever fate awaited them. Auruiron waited throughout the months, but the question was not recalled. And then Auruiron considered it: that he, Macalaure, might wish to face the Shadow in whatever way best suits him, and maybe, he might face the Shadow within himself, the everlasting darkness that marred his past and dogged his steps, a wanderer in exile, even among those loyal to him, singing with and against his fate. But then, Auruiron remembered. Macalaure had found forgiveness. The One had spoken through Auruiron's lips, hearkening them to new horizons. And they had resolved to face the Enemy together. But Auruiron now came to believe that his brother should face the Enemy from beneath the Golden Bough, and that, were he to march with him to the East, Macalaure would die. And so Auruiron had come to believe that the One was calling his brother to remain in the Western part of the world, to sail West, finally, once the world was safe for the second-born. But now their destinies must diverge. It was a new and terrifying revelation for Auruiron: to face near-certain death alone in the eastern wastes of Arda. Now, Auruiron would wander, and Macalaure would remain in waiting, the roles reversed. They had spoken heart to heart with each other, embraced one final time, and then Auruiron had returned to Imladris from the Refuge, his mind nearly resolved. The only question remained as to when they should depart. When Inheroth and Fareon told Auruiron of what had befallen Lerinon, he began to consider further. He came down the stairs to where Lerinon and Inheroth were sitting. He knelt at his son's side and asked, "What has befallen you?" Lerinon shook. "TELL ME!" Auruiron shouted. And Lerinon struggled to speak, "I dreamed..... that I was in a great hall...... and King Dior was there and the Sindar all worshiped him...... and soon, the Feanorians burst down the door, and the chamber was....was....stained with blood! It was bloody everywhere..... and the King, once so beautiful, was cut down, I........ and then I dreamed of our kindred, of their faces as I led them to their deaths, and ever as I gazed upon them, a dark, terrible voice chanted, 'They are dead...... and thou hast slain them... they are dead......' And the voice seemed to echo from the basement, from where....where the artifact is hidden, I......... they rise as one. The Shadow and the Eye.......... or is the Eye but a shade of the Shadow.......?" And then it occurred to Auruiron that the artifact had indeed been corrupted in some way, somehow, er Amanuiron parted from Valinor in the service of Melkor, and the veil was lifted: Amanuiron had somehow twisted this jewel in order to conjure nightmares in the sites of trauma and despair, and thus came Annatar Sauron Gorthaur and Celebrimbor before them in the Citadel of Ost-en-Edhil one year prior. And yet, through the artifact had also flowed fairer dreams, and indeed, it had made it appear, that Rostor Macil had dwelt within the West, gazing into a clear water basin with a Maia of Lorien standing at his side, piercing through the clouds along the Straight Road... but it was a fiction. Rostor had never died. It was all a lie. It made Auruiron burn inside himself. He was used to knowing things or feigning knowledge. Ever had he despised mystery. And the artifact was an enigma standing before him to torture his mind. It brought more sorrow than it brought hope. He had held it in his possession for Ages and feared to touch it. He had never touched it in the First Age, for it was forbidden, due to the near presence of Melkor in Angband. He had touched it in the Second Age, dreaming only of long-lost Macalaure son of Feanor, and this, too, had wrought sorrow within his soul. Now the Enemy had worked his fell magic yet again, even within fair Imladris, even within the land that Lord Elrond protected with his Ring. But the Ring of Waters did not protect the Eldar who had dreamed, haunted by their pasts. And the Eldar had sung in sorrow. Times of mirth and joy were held there, but so, too, was the lingering sorrow. Auruiron embraced Lerinon and Inheroth, "I believe the time has come. The longer we linger, tarrying within this Vale, the stronger the Enemy will strive against the Power that protects this Vale. Lord Elrond must have, doubtless, sensed something, and it will not be long before he has questioned us. The jewel has been seldom used, and many are the dreams of our kindred, something that I doubt Lord Elrond has managed to sense all of the time. Why, the good Master would lose his mind, were he aware of every single Elvish dream, every nightmare.... but now he will hear tidings from the birds that the peace of Imladris has been sundered, and he will demand to know the truth. He cannot know...... he will most assuredly exile us in order to maintain the peace...... Come, pack your provisions. The time has come indeed. We must depart, swiftly, before the day has passed. For our footfalls to the Last Homely House would strike as the footfalls of doom." Edited by Ioristion, May 15 2016, 10:26 PM.
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| Ioristion | Apr 26 2016, 11:48 AM Post #7 |
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Chapter VI: A Failed Proposal Throughout the year of mysterious adventures high and low, Macil remained close at hand. He even tolerated Aegnil after the long march back from Eregion. Melimwe had scolded him severely, warning him that he would lose Cellindien completely, if he so deigned to remain despising her father, who had clearly paid dearly for all crimes he had committed in his household Ages earlier. But he had not the courage to ask in favor of his true desire: to resume the betrothal that had been so harshly and severely sundered by the passing of an Age. Macil had spent many evenings in conversation with Cellindien, but Aegnil spoke little to him, mainly interested in his daughter above all things. Or so it might have seemed, to an outside observer. Father and daughter spent much time together - often in far meadows or behind closed doors. There were many things to be shared and pains to be healed. But Macil endured many sleepless nights. He was afraid to dream. He would dream of her if he dreamed, and he knew what he would dream. He would dream of her embrace, the touch of her lips, the bond between their fea'r that had once existed and that had now appeared to have died away, from a raging fire to the mere flicker of a candle, barely burning on its stem. He would also dream of the many wandering nights without her, fruitless years without sign or hope. On a fateful afternoon in late TA 3018, he sat with Cellindien and Aegnil. They gazed at him with their piercing eyes. He tried to speak but he could not. The words were on the tip of his tongue: I propose to wed you, Cellindien Finlos Findelos, last blooming flower of Gondolin in the last Age of the Eldar. And just as he began to open his mouth, Melimwe burst into the room: "Pardon my interruption. Lerinon has been spooked by nightmares and nearly threw himself from the cliffs. Auruiron commands that we prepare our belongings, pack-horses, and march the long road East at once." Macil stammered, "AGAIN! No matter...... let's get this over with. It will only dog our days till the Age had passed unless we do it now." Across from Macil, Aegnil stood quickly as Cellindien simultaneously slumped backwards, a hand over her face as she groaned. Neither knew just how nearly a resolution had been missed. For now, their brief rest was over. Ioristion, newly returned from the basement, covered the artifact in a velvet sack. Auruiron and Yucalwe had deigned that he should bare it. And, as before, on their ill-fated adventure in Eregion, they prepared themselves in a similar way. Auruiron motioned that only small groups of Elves should maneuver silently through the Vale throughout the day. And soon, they all slipped past the northern guards and made their way up the Cirith Imladris. After once final gaze upon the Last Homely House and all the lights of Imladris twinkling below, they turned away, vanishing into the shadows that opposed the sunset. They camped halfway up the pass and pitched their great tent. They were 80 Elven warriors and 24 Elven healers, many of whom were mothers and wives. The rest of the elleths had remained in Minas Noldorion. Then there were Yucalwe, Auruiron, Melimwe, Amarthandor, Sainion, Auravon, Macil, Aegnil, Cellindien, Ioristion, Fareon, Lerinon, Saelbainor, and Inheroth. They were a Company of 118 altogether. Melimwe unfolded the map and began to plot their course. Lerinon sat darkly in the corner, with Inheroth at his side. And Macil stammered within himself, It is too late now..... I cannot dare propose on such a Quest...... for worse or better....... but oh, how it burns......... oh, how it burns..... And the sun had set on November 25th of TA 3018. Edited by Ioristion, May 28 2016, 11:12 PM.
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| Ioristion | Apr 26 2016, 12:01 PM Post #8 |
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Chapter VII: Forecasting the Journey Melimwe, Auruiron, Inheroth, Cellindien, Aegnil, Yucalwe, and Saelbainor all sat in a circle in the middle of the tent. They were garbed appropriately for cold weather, and they sat on a fur-laden rug atop the uncomfortable, cold, snowy earth that dogged the Cirith Imladris. Melimwe sighed, "It will be a long way up, and worse... little I have heard accounting the other side of the Mountains, aside from your own tale, Inheroth. I can say that we will need to retrace your route as much as possible, which will mean that we shall have to pass where you had faced the goblins on the mountain-side. If we follow the High Pass, we shall have to be wary of any stone giants hiding in the heights. But I have heard from members of Gloin's delegation that the Beornings now hold the Pass and keep it safe, for a price. But we have little to barter that we cannot part with. We may be forced to avoid the Carrock completely, and to circle around Mirkwood from the north. Or, we may risk battle with the Beornings. Either course is fell and risky. And I doubt they will expect to see a Host of a hundred Elves marching through the Carrock. We might make a promise-barter: where we promise to bring back treasures from the East. But the Beornings may not take it, thinking we Elves are shrewd enough to return to the West by another way. I have heard that the Beornings do not hunt, they mainly bake and make their honey-cakes, which they are loathe to part with now, and so we cannot count on receiving any further provisions from them. We have no money. We Eldar never sought to engage in such things. We only bear bread with us on our pack-steeds, and miruvior and water in our flasks, but we did not take any wine or fancier meals, and we had little room for spare clothing. We have our steeds bearing the heavier armor and armaments, I feel sorrowful for our poor horses... but we, ourselves, must walk the entire way, and this shall double the length of our journey, if not triple it. I would prefer not to take the Fords of the Carrock by force. We need the ford to cross the Anduin with the horses, or we must dare to face our Enemy without armor, food, or water. And so I must now suppose that the northern route would not avail us, nor would any southern route, save to reach the Undeeps nigh the Wold of Rohan, a land of distrustful people. As for the Golden Wood..." "Do not seek to enter the Golden Wood," Auruiron retorted. "The Lady Galadriel dwells there. I have heard that she can prob the hearts of any who enter thither. I do not wish for her to know of Macalaure, for she despised Feanor and his line, as it was known among the Feanorians ages ago. I do not trust her." "I wonder..." Yucalwe began, "I had three comrades in that realm when I once dwelt thither. There was Limdor of the Silver Hair, Circhon of the Eagle's Wing, and Palanelon of the Stag. They were of Avarim origin, of the Silvan people. But the arrival of the Noldorin survivors from Eregion and that of the Lady and her husband had forced my swift departure from that land. I have not heard tidings of them since I met them on the shores of the Anduin nigh the Undeeps, centuries ago, before I retired to Edhellond and then to my caverns nearby. They know Cullasson and Cullastor, and they know me. Perhaps we should risk journeying south to the Golden Wood, once we cross the mountains. Limdor might lend aid to us, and he might grant us something with which to barter with the Beornings." Melimwe nodded, "But then, in that case, we will have to wait for weeks before we cross the river. And how shall we be fed and provisioned in the meantime, and what if the Beornings found us in the interim? We cannot all of us march to the Golden Wood, or the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn will most assuredly demand our audience with them. Think back, Yucalwe. Did those Elves truly remain in the Golden Wood?" Yucalwe closed his eyes, "They might have moved north, if they found the Lord and Lady's changes to that realm not to their liking. They could not journey south into Rohan to dwell, and the middle grounds between the Wood and the Realm are dogged by ages of men in conflict, particularly at Parth Celebrant. Alas, you are correct, for it is long leagues south of Carrock to the Gladden River and its Fields, and then further south to the Golden Wood. What choice might have we? What could we obtain from Imladris to barter with?" Melimwe sighed, "We have the miruvior, and that might be highly prized by Beornings, for it is a sustaining drink... and it is a priceless gift from the realm of Imladris." Auruiron sighed even deeper, "Tell the troops to preserve their mirovar flasks for barter. How did you manage obtaining that much mirovar, Melimwe?" Melimwe laughed, "I bade each soldier to request a flask, only one per day, we wrote a list and each took their turn as we lingered in the Vale this past year, while you were star-gazing and sun-bathing and frolicking beneath the Golden Bough, my Lord." "Clever as ever," Auruiron laughed. "Now, we can barter with the Beornings after all. Little to barter, bah!" "I know, I know!" Melimwe laughed, "It takes me a long time to think on my feet. I did not consider the miruvior at first, I believed it was essential to our preservation, and particularly through Mirkwood, where the waters are fell and foul to drink, causing hazes of sleep and confusion and all sorts of troubles.... we may barter it to cross the Anduin." Yucalwe sighed, "I think we should attempt both plans. I will journey south to seek further aid and provisions from my Avarim friends, who may yet join our effort, and we may re-fill our water flasks at the Anduin and ration it severely, filling large sacks with water for the steeds...." "The steeds cannot bear more than they already have!" Melimwe balked. "We would require fresh horses from the Golden Wood..." "But they seldom use horses in the Golden Wood!" Yucalwe retorted. Melimwe sighed, "There is... another way that we might attempt. Instead of taking the Forest Road, we might cross the Anduin and follow it to the north, and then cross only twenty-five leagues before reaching the Forest River, which has fresh, cleaner waters, from what our good friend Inheroth has told us, and then we can follow that...." Yucalwe laughed, "Straight into Thranduil's Realm, where Fareon and Lerinon were arrested. Shall we have a Fourth Kinslaying?" "Oh no!" Auruiron interjected. "That would prove most foul. Can we not cross the plains to Dale instead?" "And follow the river south from the Long Lake? It is a thought....but then we would lose our water-source...." Melimwe pondered. "I believe that we cannot gaze too far ahead. Let us concern ourselves with fording the Carrock first." Auruiron closed his eyes, "Agreed........" "Wait a moment," Yucalwe interjected. "We have to consider this plan more thoroughly. I sent those men south on a secret mission." "Three men and a woman," Melimwe corrected him. "And, pray tell, what is this secret mission? Why did you send them all the way south of Gondor when they could have come with us, far more safely?" Yucalwe grinned insidiously, "You babied them. You, Auruiron, and the rest of us. They were perfectly safe, including on their trial mission to Tharbad, one of the most poorly designed quests I have ever mustered. This was merely to keep them away while we battled Orcs and wargs in Eregion, and lost some of our good blood for little purpose." "We did discover the troubles concerning the artifact," Auruiron noted. "And was it worth their lives?" Yucalwe retorted. "No..... it certainly was not. Fighting an enemy force was not part of the plan." Auruiron sighed. "And furthermore," Yucalwe continued, "Those boys needed to experience the harshness of the wild, and of the world that they inhabit. I gazed into the artifact, as certain as you are of its terrible nature, and I glimpsed important truths of their future. They needed to go. Arhbaineth as well. She is stronger than you know... And besides, little of it matters now. I am certain that we will find the men waiting for us along the shores of the River Running or the Carnen or whatever you desire to call it. And we must plan to meet with them upon a similar date." "A date you do not know," Melimwe retorted. "Nor can any of us know, if, indeed, they even reach that far as you propose. Men are weaker than our race." "They are stronger than you know," Yucalwe retorted. "Far stronger. And they will resolve my business with Lord Ballithor and the Silver Swan, who betrayed us, my son and I. My son is strong..." "He is a mortal and not of your blood," Melimwe jabbed. "He is my son, and some bounds are thicker than blood," Yucalwe returned the jab. "What did you glimpse in the artifact?" Auruiron asked. Yucalwe smiled slyly, "I glimpsed that they shall have to travel far and wide, on an indirect route, through fen and forest, bog and marsh, along rivers and along streams, through great vales and vast, green plains, beneath skies blue and cloudy-white, and black with swirling smog, and they shall pass through many cities and towns of men, coming even to the Capital itself, if......." "If what?" Melimwe asked. "If........ they are not betrayed by the treachery of mortals, which the artifact did not reveal...." "Ah," Auruiron frowned, "So it is an IF! Not a certainty that we shall meet these mortals, but an IF!" "Speak not to me in such a tone, son of Alcarin. Thou hast hinged thy entire life-span on an IF!" "And it turned to MY satisfaction, son of Yuale!" "And as it has with you, so it may yet turn to mine...." Yucalwe balked. Auruiron's eyes grew wide, "I have another consideration. How many tribes are there in Rhun?" "In my nightmare, induced by the Enemy on Tolfalas and throughout my journey to Nenuial and Forochel and ultimately to the tragedy on Himring, I saw great cities... many great cities.... Umbar was vast, and the Haradrim were many.... and when I thought I spied Guldrambor in Rhun in one of my wanderings, it seemed that there were.... thousands.... no, wait, tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands...... and they held different allegiances. Many serve the Dark Lord of the Black Land, but many also serve Guldrambor in secret, and many, also, follow the ways of the two lost Istari that I have heard tale about.... I do not think the latter will be our foes. The servants of the Dark Lord will likely march to Gondor, or to Erebor, or to both. The servants of Guldrambor, however, may rest in waiting...... I think that he is waiting. He desires to see who the victor shall be: the White Tower or the Eye. If the White Tower shall prevail, then he shall make his move. If the Eye shall prevail, then he will likely flee from Rhun, for the Dark Lord may perceive him as a rival. It is a terrible trial to challenge or be challenged by the Lord of the Rings, vast in his shadow and his terror. Doubtless, we are friends with neither the servants of the Dark Lord nor of Guldrambor, and we can expect to find many foes within that land." "Here is my point," Auruiron interjected to Yucalwe, "We may -need- allies from the realm of Thranduil. I doubt that Thranduil himself would aid us........ but there may yet be friends inside those halls.......... I believe that we shall have to persuade those whom Inheroth may yet deem trustworthy. We will be forced to pass through Thranduil's realm should we follow the Forest River while finding some way to prevent the forest from deceiving us into endless wandering....... I know not what happened to your brother, Agarwaenor, Inheroth, though I suspect that he remained behind for reasons unknown to me. Forgive me, Inheroth, how foolish of me! I should have questioned him....... I know not what has become of Fahnraen, either. Well, we have set-out and we cannot return to Rivendell at this point in time, for it would be difficult to sneak-away from that realm again without being questioned." Yucalwe retorted, "So... you leave Inheroth's comrades behind, daftly, and you then expect to gain allies from within their realm?" "Do not question my judgment, Yucalwe." Auruiron was seething. Yucalwe laughed, "How the mighty have fallen. This is a cruel turn. Well, now that you have failed to take all our necessary companions into account, I suppose we can continue......We are in grave need of allies..." Saelbainor finally spoke, "I long wandered the eastern paths, as Mistaro, in search of long-lost Daeron. I failed, and in turn I sought Edhellond's Havens, where I first met you. During my wanderings, I discerned that many Elves dwell thither, hidden from mortals, in the realm of Dorwinion. Dorwinion has long been a mysterious realm. Some have believed that it, too, is inhabited by Easterlings, who ship wine in turn to Thranduil. But it would prove most unusual for such men beneath the influence of the Shadow to even consider parting with its vintage to the hands of Elves. Perhaps they are left-over from Gondor's conquest of that realm? It might prove so, but the Easterlings would have, most assuredly, destroyed them by now, hundreds of years later. Indeed, Gondorians would be the first on their list to perish, before daring to further serve the Enemy. Perhaps they are merely woodsmen? Or of the same stock as the men of Dale and Escaroth? It is possible, but unlikely, for such men are trappers who trade in furs and fish, and they are not known in Arda for their vineyards. Could they be Avari? The Nandor and Avari are not known for the cultivation of wine. Could they be Silvan and Sindarin in origin? Yes, and I have discovered that many of them are indeed settled farmers, and many of them do indeed produce wine. Elves would most willingly trade with other Elves. Thus is most likely King Thranduil's chief source of wine through trading on the River Running. I believe that we may yet seek many allies among these folk, who may yet aid us against our foe. There are also communities of Men who have gathered there since before the First Age, and I am aware that Lord Cirdan's folk once settled there as well, along the Great Journey. How do you think I survived out there, Ranyaro? Do you truly believe that I spent my entire time wandering amidst desert sands, bare, grassy steppes, and all beneath a hot sun? Not all of the time, brave Noldo... not all..." Yucalwe nodded, "So you have found them. But what, pray tell, would allow for them to aid us? And how do you know that -they- have not been deceived by this our Enemy?" Saelbainor smiled, "Because they fear all forces of the Darkness. They must have known and fled from the Enemy. Indeed, one cannot find Silvan Elves dwelling in this day on Amon Lanc, in the dark fortress of Dol Guldor. Nay, they know to flee from the Darkness. You have nothing to fear from them." "But will they aid us?" Yucalwe pressed him again. "It is hard to foresee. They know their realm and love it, and protect it with their passion. But they do not willingly venture forth against any foe, not even the Easterlings. This is why the Easterlings have marched so freely..." Saelbainor sighed. Auruiron nodded, "Is it possible that they were all destroyed by the Easterlings?" Saelbainor laughed, "The Easterlings are more likely to fear them. Their box-canyons are strong, and it is quite simple for them to rain arrows down upon any foe who would trespass, willingly or unwillingly. And paltry bands of renegade Elves on the edge of the world could hardly concern the Enemy. He has greater foes to conquer, like Gondor and Erebor, which pose a mightier threat than several hundred Elves in the wilderness raining arrows from their perches in box-canyons on unsuspecting Easterlings. He will contend with them, in the end, if all else fails. But they are naught but a gnat in his side. I doubt he is even aware of them. They are more likely an Easterling problem beneath the notice of the Black Land. Does it not appear that our foe, in particular, is beneath the Enemy's notice?" "If not beneath, then tolerated," Yucalwe nodded. "For what reasons the Dark Lord would tolerate such a being, I do not know." Saelbainor sighed, "He has many foes whom he tolerates, it would appear. His chief concerns are those of the realms of Dwarves and of Men, and then, and only then, will he contend with we Elves. Only Lothlorien and Thranduil's Halls appear to be in any particular danger, from what I have heard among Easterling whisperings when I would hide in secret nigh their encampments. The Easterlings have a peculiar culture, from what I can tell. They believe in many gods. They worship Guldrambor and the Dark Lord of the Black Land as gods. I never encountered our foe, but I heard tale of him, and I avoided the portion of the coast where he is fabled to dwell. I learned it from Easterling fishermen nigh Dorwinion, who meant me no harm. Not all of them are truly evil. In any case, many of them do worship the Enemy as a deity, and I suspect that many have worshiped Guldrambor as such as well." Yucalwe nodded, "Our foe is a master of illusion. He could claim to be Iluvatar himself if he so wished to," Yucalwe bowed. "I suspect that the Valar may be worshiped as gods among misunderstanding-men, and that the Black Foe of Angband may also be thus as well. Tell us further of these people." Saelbainor nodded, "The Easterlings that I am aware of function in tribal units, with Chiefs and so on and so forth. Of course, I am also aware that some of the Easterlings have built vast cities, farmed vast fields, and built vast armies for the Black Land. Not all of them are tent-dwellers. Many dwell in golden houses with high pillars and beneath vast domes. They prefer gold and scarlet as their token colors. Some are adherents of the Blue Istari." Yucalwe's eyes grew wide, "Gold and scarlet........ our colors...... gold and scarlet and black............... seldom silver or grey or white, as one might expect..... what can this mean......?" Saelbainor bowed, "Either that we were all deceived and manipulated by our foe this entire time, or that... some strange destiny has bound us to him. I cannot say." Auruiron stammered, "But I can say that I received my gold from the pool of the Tears of the Vala, Her sacred spring in the western part of Aman long ago. Can Yucalwe say the same?" Yucalwe laughed, "You know full well where my colors came from, son of Alcarin." "Now, now, let us not start that again!" Saelbainor exclaimed. The tent grew quiet. Outside, the moon was riding westward, and the stars were shining. Soft winds blew the flaps of the many tents that now dotted the pass. Many were the campfires. Amidst the soft dim light came the wailing sound of solemn tunes, uttered by quiet minstrels in the fading light of the flickering flames. Many in the camp were sleeping now. Auruiron looked around, "Does anyone further wish to speak, before we adjourn until the morrow?" Melimwe raised his hand, "I believe that we must travel due east along the Crags........" The quiet was silenced by the rising voices of wargs in the distance upon the winds. "Oh no!" Auruiron exclaimed. "Not again!" Melimwe stammered, "We must set a guard, a careful watch, on the eastern borders of the camp at once! We must have all our Eldar at the ready to wield their spears and swords and bows and arrows, and prepare for the fight to come. At dawn, I propose that we must make for the north, at once, and to march as far as we can before turning east, so as to avoid the wargs, who will most surely trail behind us." "Peace," Saelbainor retorted. "They will not attack. Are we so blind to the powers of Imladris, having dwelt thither for so long? I feel them still. It is faint, but present, if you seek to feel that power. It extends to this pass. I doubt the wargs will assail us so close to the realm of Lord Elrond. But, they will assail us as soon as we leave the pass, and far from this place we must be, upon the morrow. You are right. Northward we shall go." The sounds of howls grew steadily closer, but then, suddenly, they ceased. They waited many long moments. The silence was maintained. Finally, Auruiron spoke, "Does anyone else wish to speak?" Edited by Ioristion, May 1 2016, 06:53 PM.
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| Inheroth | Apr 29 2016, 03:22 PM Post #9 |
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Chapter VIII: The Once-Son of Mirkwood Inheroth climbed to his feet, standing tall amongst the ancient Eldar. He no longer felt trepidation while speaking to them, for he knew that they appreciated his candor and his truths, despite his relative youth. He nodded to Yucalwe, smiled at Auruiron, whom he would name Father, and clasped his hands. His expression became thoughtful. "I see wisdom in each plan. There are however many unknowns. I do not pretend to have much wisdom or insight into the Elves of Dorwinion, or the Easterlings that dwell near the Sea of Rhun; nor can I say how the Galadhrim would react to our presence in the Golden Wood. If we have miruvor to barter with the Beornings, and should seek to cross the Carrock..." he sighed deeply, and paused a moment, gathering his many thoughts. "King Thranduil will not welcome us warmly into his realm. But we still have allies there. My brother Agarwaenor, is a scribe of some standing. I once commanded an entire unit of Elves, and their loyalty would, I think, not have wained. Fahnraen departed for Mirkwood some months ago to reside once more with her brothers; I believe we may find allies in them. If not," Inheroth shook his head, and continued on, "My lords, there is of course, danger to this route. If his mood is foul enough, Thranduil may seek to imprison us. But he would never seek to condemn us further than that. And beside that, he may be reluctant to imprison so many of the Eldar, particularly those that come merely to pass through the land safely. As rash as he may at times be, he is also wise, and shrewd. He would know that such an action would look ill on him. Thus I urge this company to head east, and to make our initial passage through Mirkwood. Let us follow the river. Thranduil may not be our ally, but he is not an enemy! We should have faith in that." He inclined his head once, thanking them for granting him the moment to speak. Slowly he sank back down to Lerinon's side, twisting his arm into his brother's in a half embrace. Edited by Inheroth, Jun 12 2016, 06:46 PM.
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| Ioristion | Apr 29 2016, 03:36 PM Post #10 |
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Chapter IX: Blades of Blood Lerinon had sneaked into the tent whilst the others were conversing. He completed the embrace with Inheroth. He turned to the others, "Thranduil..... would seek to imprison us, and the old Feanorian fires would arise in the hearts of our kindred, the fires that slew the majestic King Dior of Doriath, whom I believe to be my true father, as my nephew crosses the nightly skies, the light of that Silmaril shining down upon our foes. But nay, no peace would come from that route, my brother. Swords will be drawn and a Fourth Kinslaying may yet ensue. Yet I can see no other option..............." That cliff-ledge is looking friendlier and ever more kindly...... how can I fight against the Sindar, the ultimate treachery, slaying those of Doriathrim origin, my kindred? Lerinon sighed, "I agree with Inheroth, although reluctantly......." Yucalwe laughed mockingly, "Oh? So you have come to believe us to be so rash, as to cause such a disaster? Our goal is to ultimately return to the West in peace, rather than to grant the Powers further cause to forever maintain our Exile! We must have overlooked something. We could follow the Forest River for a time and then journey northward, till we find the forest eaves. But this would grant another long length to our journey, and cause further mischief. And we do not know what we shall find in Mirkwood. Inheroth, you may know the ancient paths... there might be a way to avoid the eyes of Thranduil as we have avoided the eyes of Elrond.... but my wanderings did not take me into that realm, so I cannot say....." Lerinon nodded, "We could... retrace the route of our escape." Yucalwe sighed, "But the old Forest Road has no decent water-source, and it is miraculous that you all survived such a journey, strong as you are....." Lerinon smiled, "We were deeply parched and starving when we finally reached the Anduin, despite our rations from the Dalemen. We hunted elk and quail along the mountain-slopes, as we made our way up the High Pass." Melimwe smirked, "What do you suggest we do? Slay and eat cooked warg?" "No, no, of course not," Lerinon sighed. Melimwe blinked, "Our force is large..... not as large, by far a mere trifle, compared to the great armies of yore.... but it is still over one hundred mouths to feed and flasks to fill. We would render the mountain-slopes extinct if we turned to hunting. And wargs and spiders and all their fell ilk are all too foul to consume. And the Eagles... they are too great, they must never be harmed...." "Eagles...." Auruiron laughed, "What if we consulted them for aid? They could fly us across Mirkwood in a third of the days required for the journey, and why, they could fly us to the shores of Rhun itself!" Melimwe laughed, "A fanciful notion. But nay. They will not fly so far. They are not as great as Thorondor of old, their Master and Sire. They could fly a company of Dwarves from the peaks to the Carrock, as I have heard rumor from Dwarves of Lord Gloin's Company in Imladris, but they could not fly us much further than this. The Great Eagles have other business, as my prying ears have discerned of late in the Hall of Fire." Yucalwe brooded, "They have other business..... such as the Enemy in the south...... and thither are we facing naught but a trifle of a foe, in comparison to he........ the Dark Lord of the Black Land is terrible........ and though our current foe has much hounded us, in memory and in dreams.... he has not slain us. Why should we not aid in the conflict to the south?" Auruiron sighed, "It is not our fight....... for it is futile. The Enemy defeated us long ago, he shall defeat us soon again. A strike at our foe will at least be of match to us..... many may die, as grieves my heart..... but at the least, let us try to do one small good in this world, er it falls to shadow......." "Despair you so?" Lerinon interjected. Auruiron sighed even deeply, "I would not call it despair...... it is merely a trick of history..." Lerinon sighed, "What if the Powers should aid the south er all else falters?" Auruiron nodded, "This may yet be..... but the Powers forsook this world, when Numenor fell beneath the waves." The tent fell silent yet again. And the winds howled. Suddenly, Lerinon stammered: "The Powers did not forsake us." He flashed a fold of golden cloth from beneath his furs. Auruiron smiled, "This is true. And the Power aided me during my song along the Bruinen.... fulfilling the Affirmation for us all. But they will not aid us in great military might, I believe. We shall n'er see the hosts of the Vanyar and redeemed Noldor ever again. We have not seen them since the War of Wrath. I cannot foresee a victory without our long-lost kindred....." And the winds howled again. "Where are Macil and Ioristion?" Lerinon sighed. "And Fareon for that matter." Auruiron smiled, "Fareon is helping to coordinate our little camp's perimeter. I do not know where my wayward children are... I suspect they are resting." Lerinon rubbed his eyes, "They should be here." Auruiron closed his eyes, "And they are not. Perhaps you should brief them on the morrow....." He turned toward Cellindien and Aegnil. "My daughter and brother-in-law, you have remained silent. Forgive me, as I ought to have first consulted the both of you. Tell us what you are thinking regarding our plans." Edited by Ioristion, Apr 30 2016, 07:24 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 11 2016, 10:42 PM Post #11 |
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Chapter X: A Silent Night Cellindien and Aegnil shook their heads. They were clearly weary from the endless debate and conversation. Auruiron finally motioned for everyone to take their rest. They would march north on the morrow. Macil and Ioristion entered the tent and took their positions beside each other, next to Cellindien. "What kept you?" Lerinon leaned-over toward Ioristion. Ioristion shook his head, "We were inspecting the rest of the camp. We have a strong watch set in the event of some awful warg attack. The camp is secure." Auruiron sighed, "We have decided to make for Carrock and camp in the lands between it and the High Pass...... we will barter the miruvior for passage through Beorning-controlled lands. We plan on heading north and following the Forest River... or hidden paths that Inheroth might know." Lerinon nodded to Inheroth, yawning alongside him. Rostoriel and Rirossel entered the tent. Rostoriel sighed, "We have our healing provisions in order." Auruiron smiled, "Good." Rostoriel stormed past him, sitting down somberly next to her husband, Ioristion. They were all clad in rougher garb and furs for enduring the mountain chill. Their resplendent garb was all neatly packed-away in sacks they strapped to their backs. The air was silent and the wind was still. The artifact was safe within Ioristion's velvet sack, which now rested between him and Macil. They all fell asleep, and Macil began to dream. |
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| Ioristion | May 11 2016, 11:09 PM Post #12 |
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Chapter XI: Mysteries of the Artifact Howls stirred on the western sunrise. The sun rose obliquely above the clouds. The moon danced among the stars. The trees' leaves billowed in the rushing winds. The artifact touched the staff. Macil felt Macilon's cloak whip around him, binding him, as the spirit of Findekano arose before him, shrouded in light, the clouds above mounting the form of a magnanimous Eagle: "The Maia watches. The summer stag runs through winter snows. Silver blossoms into flower. The slopes turn to mud. And the stench of Yrch is on the air. Thy foe watches, on the horizon." "Why... why did you not appear earlier, in Eregion, as you are always oft to do?" "The Valar restrict my power, they hinder what I may do. Dream of Macilon. You shall not see me again until the time is struck." It had been over a year since anyone had seen the spirit of Findekano. The spirit vanished. And Macil turned, to find Macilon, his face grotesquely disfigured by flame. The disfigurements slowly faded, giving rise to the youthful face beneath them. Macil moved to embrace him, awakening from the dream. The tent was silent, and the artifact glowed palely within the velvet sack. The glow slowly faded. Darkness resumed anew. And Macil wondered at all the discordant tales, of Macilon masquerading as Rostor, of a Maia gazing over a basin in the West, of fallen kin standing at their sides, and of the conflicts between the tales. He wondered if the artifact had been toying with their minds all along, if it was truly an instrument of evil, or if its nature was plainly uncertain, with no answer in immediate sight. He wondered at its strange effects on Ioristion, who had grown possessive of it. He wondered at the spectre, Macilon, who haunted his dreams. He wondered if there was even a Maia watching them. He wondered if Findekano really spoke to him, or if he had merely dreamed of Findekano. And he pondered the prophetic words. The Eagle. The stag. The snows. The silver. The flower. The mud. The Yrch. He gathered in his thoughts that they would indeed be attacked by Yrch somewhere in some muddy place. He could not figure-out the flower. It might be springtime, but he did not know. He knew they were about to march into snows. The only silver he could think of was the color of Cellindien's long hair. He could not figure-out the stag. He knew the Eagle must be Thorondor, but he could only place him in the distant past, in legends of yore. His mind hurt from all the confusion. He wanted to sleep. He could not sleep. Sleeping would make him dream again, and make him more confused. He listened to the rhythm of Cellindien's breathing, inhaling and exhaling gently. And he fell asleep again. Edited by Ioristion, May 25 2016, 08:44 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 14 2016, 03:45 PM Post #13 |
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Chapter XII: On a Lonely Isle Macil dreamed of Macilon. "I want to go," the cloaked figure asserted. He had been slain in the prime of his youth. He had regenerated across the Ages. The wind of the azure sea billowed his cloak behind him, flashing fiery red in the fading sunset, framing his figure. His cloak was white above its lining. The Maia stood at his side, "Our Enemy has interfered." "I know," Macilon gazed at the shifting crystalline waters. "The artifact... is it for good or ill?" "I cannot say. It is forbidden." "Why did they see Rostor, thinking him dead, and not I, at first? And their fallen comrades at his side?" "The Enemy interfered. I thought you said you knew?" "I am confused." "Confusion is the art of dream-making. Visions are not conjured from the chaos. They are molded, shaped, with purpose, if they are done right. But dreams are chaotic, they come from our innermost thoughts when they are unrestrained, during our times asleep. Do you see the difference?" Macilon nodded. The gulls were singing as the wind blew and billowed across the horizon. They were standing on the balcony with the mirror, beneath the towers, white with clean-cut marble, that rose above the landscape of Tol Eressea. Beyond the towers were the golden fields of grain, golden in the sunlight, and the great, snow-capped mountains were dimly visible to the west in the mainland fog. They had wanted to go further west, but could not, exceptions aside. They were still in exile though not in exile. The Doom hung over the Pardon, ever as the Pardon rectified the Doom. Macilon had died in a burning city, in Rostor's arms, only to be born again, centuries later, in the West. But he had not died a glorious or sacrificial death. He was the antithesis of Glorfindel. Macilon sobbed and sighed. Stripped of a power that was not his own, he tried to gaze into the mirror in vain. He wanted to see the things that were. He could only see the things that are. And all of which, he could only see, if the Maia permitted him to. Tol Eressea was as much a prison as it was a paradise, a glimmering resort for the weary Eldar, who were now trapped there, unable to go West, and unable to go East, and the Numenorean visitors had long past since ceased their visitations. "Do not come," Macilon had wanted to say many times in the visions, "Do not come. Stay in the wide, free world, till it comes unto its ending." The Maia had known Macilon's thoughts, though Macilon never knew he knew, and the Maia felt some small pity for him. He wished he could take Macilon to Lorien in the West, to the gardens gale and green, the pools wide and deep, but the Vala Lord would not allow it. The Vala Lord had reminded him that he was one of the few Maiar still permitted to influence the world in small and insignificant ways. Gone were the significant days of great intervention. It would be up to the Istari, the Vala Lord had reminded him. Few enchantments remained upon the world. The Vala had permitted the Lady's Mirror to function, as well as the Seat of Seeing, and he had permitted the Palantiri to function, for good or ill, and he had permitted the arrival of visions and dreams all across the world. He had permitted Macilon to appear, but there was ever the absence of certainty. Macil could not know whether it was truly Macilon, or some fell demon, or a mere phantasm of his own mind, that spoke to him. "What of the ghost?" Macilon had wished to ask. "Spirits are not permitted to commune with the living, save they be wicked." The Maia transported Macilon into a vision of a cave in the midst of elven ruins in Eregion. Macilon saw the spirit pacing to and fro. And the Maia spoke: "He is no spirit." Macilon's eyes grew wide in shock, "Then, what is he?" "A gift to the long-forgotten. Findekano's spirit pursues the Prince of Gold. But he is no fell ghost. For he is in a perpetual state of vision." "WHAT?!" "His spirit is truly held by Mandos. Through my augmentation, he has dreamed that he has been captured by the Enemy in a mountain, and that Ioristion rescued him. Consequently, Ioristion has communed with Findekano through subtle visions that overlap with reality. Their dialogue was real. Their placement in relation to each other has been fabricated." "And for those who have seen him together...." "They share a vision. The mind is a powerful instrument." "Sounds like rubbish to me." "Why? Macil can see you by the same means. Remember, one need not be asleep, to experience a vision, no matter how subtle the vision is." "When may I see Macil again? And Findekano? May I tell them all the truth?" "No. For the authenticity is in the absence of knowing." "A paradox, if I have ever heard one. Take me to Macil, when he is awake." And the Maia nodded. The Maia's eyes were sparkling with inner light of inner beauty. He, too, was robed and cloaked in gold, for he was of the same Order as Amanuiron. The winds rushed, his golden folds flickering in the breeze. His cloak was lined with a deep, bright red, and it flapped in the fiery light of the sunset. Macilon turned, the two figures approaching each other, shining silhouettes in the fading sunlight. The Maia's golden hair flowed behind him. The Maia outstretched his right-arm, opening his fold, and Macilon dove within. Macilon's face vanished into the ruby-red folds, their cold, silky texture framing his face. He kissed it, and withdrew, now knowing that he and the Maia were in the realm of visions. He always felt that ethereal feeling whenever he was in a vision. Macilon's cloak and robes had turned into a dull silver hue, soon fading into black. He gathered his cloak about himself and closed his eyes. Edited by Ioristion, May 25 2016, 08:45 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 14 2016, 10:02 PM Post #14 |
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Chapter XIII: Comrades at Dawn It had been a long and confusing journey for all who had dreamed and gazed within the artifact. Ioristion had attempted to commune with Findekano several times throughout the past year. Findekano did not respond. It had worried Ioristion and made him wonder if he, himself, had done something atrocious with which to frighten-away the watchful spirit that had saved them all on countless occasions. "His time is past," Melimwe had reminded him repeatedly, "His time is past." Ioristion had wanted to join Macil and the others in their dismantlement of their tents, but he was still not strong enough. He had probed the artifact many times since their last adventure, his mind becoming more possessive of it, and he lost his will to do any form of practical manual labor. Amarthandor, Auravon, and Sainion all pressed forward with their work alongside Macil. Cellindien and Yucalwe had tried to teach Ioristion how to fight again, and Macil intervened, but Ioristion had much lost his prowess for fighting, preferring instead to serve as a healer, despite his disdain for the sight of blood. Auruiron's tent was large, but it was supported by few timbers. It was not a terribly tall tent. Nor was it terribly practical. It was made of ten supporting beams that were the height of tall staves. These beams were not thick and easy to carry. The tarp that would drape over the beams, tied together with slick, thin, elvish rope, would fold into a large pack that the pack-horse would carry. Gone were the days of effective war-tents for the Elves, for they were in the wild now, and had not the coordination for grunt-work done by non-fighting elven men in a standing army. Gone were the glorious by-gone days of their youth and all their tragedy. Ioristion was walking forward with Macil's battalion when he turned around to see a figure standing a top the shelf of a low-lying cliff behind them, in the northern part of the pass. The being's cloak flowed with the wind, shimmering in the sunlight. Ioristion was now used to being surrounded by well-dressed heroes, including himself. But today, the host was not well-dressed. It had girded itself, all clad in tight-fitting furs and thick leather beneath them. Their feet stepped lightly over the snow. Snow was not an issue, save in a blinding blizzard. Macil turned around as well. He was awe-struck by the sight. "No, my mind is playing tricks on me again. I saw him in Eregion. I see him now. Leave me alone, you, phantom of the past! Phantasm of my mind, of my dreams! You perished long ago. You died in my arms in the flames of Gondolin. Be gone, fell spirit, if spirit ye may be!" Macilon did not speak. He stood as a silent silhouette against the cold, biting winds. They were high in the Cirith Imladris now and nearing the first major pass between the peaks. High Pass was difficult to find in poorer weather. And they were approaching the dead of winter. Auruiron did not see the specter. He was farther ahead, conferring with Melimwe on their route. "Wargs have gone away," Melimwe yelled through the biting winds. "They must have gone into hiding, in caves or some such or other." Auruiron nodded, "It is a wonder that Lord Elrond did not stop us! I hear he is wary of having companies go forth. Some secret mission or another. I have heard rumors of it in the Hall of Fire. Oblique rumors. Lord Elrond forbids such discourse! He does not want to draw the Enemy this way, apparently!" Melimwe laughed, "Do you think of me so daft, so as to not heed -Master- Elrond's orders? I conferred with one of his higher officials, who did not impart much tidings to me, but I imparted this idea, and apparently, I received the official's good word in Master Elrond's absence!" "What did you speak?" Auruiron yelled against the winds. Melimwe smiled, "I spake that if they were so concerned about keeping a mission so secret, so as to fear the Enemy's Eye peering this way, I reminded them of the mess at the Fords I have heard tale of. The Enemy knows whose there, in Rivendell, if the Enemy has such a concern as to send all Nine Nazgul after the small party who entered the Vale. I know not why, but I know the Enemy knows, and I also know that if we draw his attention on us, he just might overlook them! He might focus on watching us instead, allowing a far smaller company to leave the Vale unnoticed!" "You are as brilliant as ever, most loyal cousin!" Auruiron shouted. "But this bodes ill for our own cause. No wonder the wargs are hungry! Many of them serve the Enemy, of this I have little doubt. I have also been warned not to trust any of the caves in these mountains, even if they appear small and dry! These mountains are filled to the brim with fell goblins again. I prefer to call them Orcs or Yrch. Regardless, they are here, watching us on the passes. My poor son was wounded, if you recall, and fortunately, it did not prove fatal to him. These goblins are not afraid to fight outside at nightfall!" Melimwe nodded grimly, "Which is why we must maintain and strengthen our watch, and avoid lighting any fires." Auruiron shouted, "Lighting fires at nightfall will make little difference, save to allow us to see fell and gleaming eyes beyond them! These Yrch can see extremely well in the darkness. They might fear light, though, and they might fear us, if they see who we are. We are not Naugrim or hapless men staggering about on the frozen road, waiting to be ambushed. We are Noldor, strong and true. I do not fear these Yrch!" "You have spent far too much time indoors!" Melimwe shouted. "Have you forgotten the Battle of the Stone in Eregion? We must fear these foes. They will not fear us merely due to our age or to our birth. They will kill or be killed!" Auruiron nodded, "And what of the Beornings who patrol these passes? Lord Gloin does not appear to have had much trouble, aside from high tolls!" Melimwe smiled, "The Beornings are our only hope for crossing these mountains alive, without being overrun. I wish a Beorning or two would appear right now. He or she might frighten wargs away in that form of a vicious bear!" Auruiron laughed, "You still believe that they are skin-changers, such oddities in our world?" Melimwe laughed even harder, "Speaking for myself, who saw the arrival of dragons in Maglor's Gap while you cowered in your tower till they advanced on it, I would believe in anything!" Edited by Ioristion, May 14 2016, 10:03 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 14 2016, 10:17 PM Post #15 |
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Chapter XIV: Ghost of a Namesake Ioristion and Macil were still gazing at the visage of Macilon, beautiful and terrible. Macilon descended the cliff and soon was standing at their sides. He reached-out, suddenly grabbing Ioristion's hand, shocking him with chills at the realization of this apparent physicality. In truth, Macilon was still in the West, and a vision was taking place, fusing with reality before their eyes. Macilon still did not speak. Ioristion managed to speak, "Tell me, Macil.... are we sharing some dream? The others still move around us. How strange this is!" Macil stammered, "Speak, already, spirit! How is it that you have come here! How is it, that you appear to be flesh and blood, before our very eyes! And why do not all the departed dead arise beside you!" Amarthandor turned. He was no one standing there but Macil and Ioristion, standing still, appearing to be in conversation with someone. "My friends! The host is moving on! Why are you standing there?!" Macil turned, "Can you not see him!" "See who?" "Macilon... my old comrade from Gondolin, long ago. He stands before me!" "Fell sorcery, I believe. These mountains scare me. Come, away from such nonsense! Are you asleep? Of course you are not! What is wrong with you!" Macil turned back to Macilon, "How is it, that he cannot see you? Reveal yourself to my comrades! They do not believe me!" Amarthandor shouted, "Ioristion! Conceal the artifact!" Ioristion laughed grimly, "Conceal? Conceal? The artifact is already concealed, are you daft, my friend, can you not see that it is hidden?" "What other explanation can there be?" Amarthandor wondered aloud. "This is some fell sorcery of the Enemy!" The last of the company began to pass them. Macil noticed that Cellindien and Aegnil also stood nearby with concerned expressions on their faces. Macil turned back toward Macilon, but Macilon was gone. Ioristion had also turned in Cellindien's direction. He turned back, became shocked again, and wondered aloud: "Where did he go?" Macil grabbed Ioristion's left hand, "We have to move forward. Enough of this madness!" They all continued forward without a word. Edited by Ioristion, May 14 2016, 10:19 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 14 2016, 10:29 PM Post #16 |
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Chapter XV: Through Northern Drifts They pressed forward through the drifts of snow, marching atop them, while the pack-horses floundered in their depths. Their march was slow, the winds were bitingly cold, and their furs did little to protect their faces. They wore their chain mail beneath their furs, of lighter weight, and bore their heavy shields on their backs. They had endured the cold before, in the Helcaraxe of old, save the younger members of their Company. The mountain seemed to rise far ahead of them like a cold and bitter stair. A pass opened, far miles to their east. They had traveled from sunrise to sunset. "We cannot go far tonight," Melimwe called for a halt. "The Wargs are either on our trail, or they may leave us alone, when they find us gone from Cirith Imladris!" Auruiron nodded, "They will likely have lost us! They have only till now, this nightfall, to now be emerging from their caves, and only the Powers can know how far they are from us!" "Still, I do not like the silence. This landscape is grim to behold, look around us, Auruiron! Snowy plains and drifts, miles in each direction. If any fell force saw our fires, they could come right for us! We do not even have a ring of stones within which to conceal ourselves!" Auruiron laughed mockingly, "Light the fires tall and high." Melimwe laughed, "With what firewood? The fuel ran out. Each member of our Company left the Vale with a log strapped to his back along with other gear. Those logs were burned in the Cirith Imladris! There will be no fires tonight. Come, the sun is setting fast. Let us camp here, set-up our tents, and come what may! We will need a strict watch tonight." They unpacked their gear and built the tents. A bright, clear moon was rising when they finished, and the stars were bright. "Elbereth appears to favor us," Melimwe remarked reverently. The plains were draped with moonlight. Black specks gathered in the distance. They appeared to crawl on all fours. Melimwe sighted them, "Oh no. This bodes far ill indeed. Let the watch be prepared for an attack from the south. We will bring soldiers in and out in shifts. As soon as they enter a half a mile's distance, let the horn-calls cry, and we will form the line." Edited by Ioristion, May 25 2016, 08:46 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 15 2016, 08:51 PM Post #17 |
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Chapter XVI: Howls in the Night The wargs had not wasted time. There was more than one pack roaming the steppes of the Hithglaer. The Beornings had protected Lord Gloin and his Dwarves as they crossed. But time had passed since then, and the Enemy had grown bolder. Yet as the black specks became closer and closer in the moonlight, and as Macil and his soldiers braced themselves for yet another bloodbath, several darker, larger shapes emerged from drifts not far from their camp. The wargs growled as they approached. The shapes roared. There was soon a sea of discordant black, wargs and bears, tearing each other to shreds. But the bears were bolder, stronger, and did not succumb easily. They were wounded, but not gravely. The entire warg-pack was soon defeated. Melimwe wanted to sigh with relief, but the bears turned in the Elves' direction. They did not approach. They watched each other suspiciously. Some Elves were relieved of their watch, while others took over. The bears appeared to collapse onto the snow, sleeping. At dawn, several folk now slept where the bears had been sleeping. They yawned and opened their eyes. Their furs were drenched with snow. They approached the Company, "We have protected you from wargs. We demand our toll." Melimwe smiled slyly, "We will pay you our toll for passage, once it is earned. We may have survived the night against those wargs, and yet again, we may not have. You have our gratitude. But this mountain-range is long. We seek passage of the Carrock." The head of the Beorning scouting party nodded, "Then you shall have passage. Yet give us something, for proof of your good word. We Beornings do not lend our trust easily, we are a distrustful lot. We need something to give you the bear minimum. Even from Elves such as yerselves." Melimwe nodded, bringing forth his flask of miruvior, "This is all we have. We have more to pay your price, but we must ration some of it, to get ourselves down this mountain. You will heal from your scratches faster, and you will have greater vitality within you." The Beorning nodded, taking the flask, and drinking some of it, "It has a fair taste. Not as fair as our honey-cakes, but fair enough. Good then. If it was a day's march north here from that vale of yers, it'll be another day's march to get through the High Pass, and down this mountain. You could've taken a faster route, that would've placed ye on the High Pass when this past night fell on ye. But I guess the wargs prevented that. How'd they trail you? Wargs don't usually travel that fast." Melimwe blinked, "No, they do not. Regardless, at least we will be off this mountain by nightfall. Will we.... be attacked by goblins?" The Beorning laughed, "Most likely, yes! They are our bane, and they hate us. But we'll chase 'em off, rest assured Master Elf. They'll make a fine run for it, but if we're off this mount by nightfall, they might only attack us in the foothills. Their Goblin-Gate comes out of the mountains there. You'll want to steer clear of that Gate. We also learned from our grandfather's run-in with a bunch of Dwarves that even the caves up on the High Pass can't be trusted. They've got hidden doors in 'em now. Come on already, Elf. We need our pay and the day is getting on." Melimwe bowed, "We will come as soon as we dismantle everything here." The Beorning started passing round the miruvior to his companions while Melimwe started barking orders at the rest of the camp. Auruiron had slept a frightful sleep. Macil had slept in between his shifts, but he had not seen Macilon that night. He dreamed instead of other things, of how it used to be, before Gondolin fell. He dreamed of that chaste kiss he had shared with Finlos, a kiss that he longed for passionately. But he shook off the old feeling when he awoke. He knew it was hopeless. And he wondered, How can it be, that she is now so close, that she is truly so far away? |
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| Ioristion | May 15 2016, 10:38 PM Post #18 |
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Chapter XVII: Across the Bruinen Sources and Through the High Pass They started on their way again. There were five Beornings, clearly of the same ilk and kin, and their eyes were piercing. Two of them were women, and they were all stocky in built and staunch in strength. They were all clad in furs and long fur cloaks, all frozen with snow. They trudged with the pack-horses. The horses had barely survived the night. The fighting made them panicky, but the Elves had calmed them. The Elves had brought the horses separately, one by one. They made their way across the frozen plains, and the sun was veiled by deep clouds, and the snow intermingled with the fog. Snow began to fall, and they made their way up a great ledge, and followed the snowy road across an old Dwarven bridge, till they reached an old Dwarven settlement's remnants at the top of the pass. They rested here, and even the Beornings agreed that survival was more important than high tolls, and so they all drank miruvior, while conversing enough to pay the bear minimum. They made their way across a long and winding, twisting road, that skirted the mountains, a deep abyss yawning to their right. Here, the stone giants played their games of old, but the giants were away, and the Beornings would not say why. They made their way past several tempting caves, and the Elves feared they saw feral eyes gazing out at them from the shadows. They stayed out of arrow-shot. They made their way down the same clefts and turns and bends that Agarwaenor, Inheroth, Fareon, and Lerinon had taken on the reverse journey toward Imladris. They made their way with little conversation, and at one point in their journey, clutching the solid cliff-walls, maneuvering through the fog, Macil thought he saw Macilon in the distance. They made their way down the mountain slopes, as the pass wound upward to its peak, and then down, down, down, to the fresh green world far below, and the light of the setting sun was not visible beyond the clouds. They reached the lower foothills of the mountains at dusk, weary from their near-constant march, and even the Beornings were still too tired to ask for tolls. They passed a grove of fir trees that had been scorched and dead for over seventy years. They had all decided to wait on paying tolls until they reached the Carrock. And the Beornings warned them again about the wargs. They had come west of the mountains, but some had remained in the east, and they also warned them of the goblins that were prone to attack at nightfall. The Beornings told Melimwe to order his Elves to chop down a tree or two after their traditional prayer to Yavanna, thanking both the Vala and the tree, and to prepare a fire. The Beornings would move farther away from the fire, and know not to approach it. They would patrol the camp and take the watch. |
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| Ioristion | May 15 2016, 11:14 PM Post #19 |
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Chapter XVIII: Moonlight on the Foothills The moon was bright again, and Auruiron dreamed an uneasy dream. He saw Cellindien, as fresh as fallen snow, weary from her travels, an arrow coursing toward her heart. He saw a figure rise, the arrow striking him clean through his chest, and then falling down before her. She wept and they kissed and he died. She began to fade before Auruiron's eyes. He heard thunder crash and saw lightning strike and heard the sounds of battle. And through the smog and smoke, he saw a figure rise, his cloak black and lined with red. Macilon turned, "I ought to be thy son, but I am not. Heed these words, oh Prince of Gold. You have seen what shall come to pass, if you do not intervene." "How!" Auruiron shouted. "How may I intervene!" The apparition vanished in the smoke and smog. Auruiron awoke to hear snarling outside his tent. He drew his sword. There was chaos afoot in the camp. Bears were charging against wargs as Elven soldiers scrambled for their weapons. Several were hurt, but not gravely, but they were hurt nonetheless. They maintained their camp until dawn on November 28th, when they began their long march out of the foothills. They were slowed-down by the wounded, who often had to lean painfully on their comrades' shoulders. They marched 25 miles and camped again, and they were attacked again by wargs and goblins, and the Beornings staved them off, but now even more of the Elves were wounded, and they marched another 25 miles on the 29th, and finally reached the Great River Anduin, glistening before their eyes. They were close to Beorning Country, and the wounded could go no further. The Carrock was tall and dimly visible, small in the distant north. The healers were hard at work, replacing the dressings on the wounded, and making them stronger, and gentler. Rostoriel and Rirossel got their hands covered in blood, and their furs were stained. They washed their hands in the river. And Melimwe confronted the leader of the Beornings yet again, and the Beorning replied, "No, do not pay the toll just yet. Reserve what you can, but your wounded need that drink, this miruvior as you call it. We Beornings may be a stingy lot, but we're an honorable lot too. We know you have other things.... objects you may not desire to part with.... that you may pay in lieu of the toll." Melimwe protested, "What sort of objects do you mean?" The Beorning laughed, "How about that jewel that Elf-wizard of yours is bearing? Or those fancy rings on yer fingers?" Melimwe was rendered speechless for one of the first times in his whole diplomatic life. The Beorning laughed even harder, "Speechless eh? Or did yer friends not tell ya! We have no interest in gold or jewels or rings. We skin-changers don't like fancy dress. Gets in the way of shape-shiftin' at nightfall. And most travelers could not afford to barter for 'em, so trade is useless to us. Our tolls are more for survival, but for things we cannot do. We can hunt, for example, but we're not meat-eaters, and that may surprise ye. We prefer the food we bake over any raw meat from the wilds. But what we could use are those furs yer all wearin'. Winter's cold and we have more folk who could use 'em. And once again, keep that drink of yers. Yer wounded need it." Melimwe nodded, "We are approaching winter, and the snows will come, it is true. Will we have to worry ourselves over it all if we get to Mirkwood?" The Beorning closed his eyes fearfully, "That forest is cursed. No, the snows won't come there, for some heat dwells beneath those eaves, emanating from that dark fortress to the south, the one they call Dol Guldor, a name that frightens our children er they sleep at nightfall. Legends speak of black riders in the night, tryin' to steal our horses. We fear that forest. We do not venture there, not anymore. The last who crossed those woods was our grandfather, Lord Beorn. But Beorn has since passed away. We haven't attempted it. We know from that Lord Gloin fellow that the Dwarves and Dale-men and Wood-Elvish folk and woodsmen are doin' well, and good for 'em! But we protect our lands. We fear a goblin attack will soon come from the mountains, or worse. You saw how hard its gettin' to keep them roads clean of Enemy filth. They spread wider than any swarm of bees, harder to squish, and oh do their knives sting.... Brave the forest if you will, Elf, but beware: the Enemy is growing ever-bolder. Why you goin' out there? Elves seldom take these roads anymore, save that bunch from the Elven King. Said he had somethin' important to report in that place called Rivendell." Melimwe smiled, "Of him, and of Rivendell, I cannot speak, but I can say this much: we want the Enemy looking at us rather than toward that Vale. We want to draw the Enemy's attention away. We have business to attend to in Dorwinion, and we aim to get there." The Beorning nodded gruffly, "Why not follow the forest eaves north or south? It's a much longer journey, but there's game to hunt and cook for you folk, and there's a far greater chance of findin' yer way, and avoidin' that dark place." Melimwe did not -blink- an eye, "We do not fear it." The Beorning sighed, "Tend to yer wounded. I might scrounge-up some provisions for ye. But you better stay here a bit, let yer wounded heal-up. You don't want wounded men marchin' through those accursed woods. The goblins and wargs won't come this far, they're not that bold yet. The last spot they attacked us at is the farthest they'll go for now. Here's what I recommend. See that Old Bridge nearby? That's the Old Ford. Cross it now to our side river, and camp in the trees beyond. We'll hold that bridge. I won't bring you near Grimbeorn's Lodge though. It's further north, parallel to the Carrock. The Carrock is 15 miles to the north. Grimbeorn's our progenitor, son of Beorn, and he won't trust ye or offer any aid to ye." Melimwe nodded grimly, "We thank you." And with that, they crossed the Old Ford and made their camp. Edited by Ioristion, May 15 2016, 11:18 PM.
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| Ioristion | May 16 2016, 12:40 PM Post #20 |
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Chapter XIX: A New Counsel Melimwe settled down in their war-tent when the Beorning entered. "So, where do ye plan to go, to get through the forest?" Melimwe sighed, "We had planned on taking the Forest River." "Too many waterfalls. One of our kin tried it once, didn't make it far. He came back faster than he left home. There's some cursed river in the forest that feds the Forest River. Its all bad for drinking. It ain't no water-source, if that's what yer thinkin'." Melimwe nodded gloomily, "Then what options have we? How can we ration water for that many leagues?" "Where do ye think yer goin'? Ye can sail to Dorwinion on clear waters. Dwarves ration water fine to make it through the forest. Water ain't yer concern. Spiders are. Poisons are. The forest's rank with 'em. Can't even trust the berries." Melimwe sighed, "Then by which way do you recommend?" "There are mountain springs along the Grey. The Anduin stretches north enough. The old Eotheod folk used to live up there, they did good in that land. And ye can pass along the northern edge of the forest, to get to Erebor. From Erebor, ye can follow the Gate-Stream down to the Long Lake, then follow the river. I'd get boats from Long Lake if I were you. From what I can see on this here map of yers, it'll be a lot of tired feet, unless ye sail. River Running is called that for a reason, I heard from travelers from Dale ages ago. It doesn't have waterfalls, save maybe one or two, and when it does, its easy enough to carry boats down a hill and set sail again. It runs, it flows, its not corrupt water either. You'll want provisions from those folk. But ye will have to trade. You won't be able to barter any furs. Try goin' to yer Elven folk for provisions, in that Elven King's land. Its yer only chance. Men won't give stuff away for free, nor will Dwarves. They want their pay far more than we Beornings do, and they call us stingy!" The Beorning laughed heartily. "Yer other route's far less nice. Long leagues, gettin' close to that dark fortress. Likely run afoul of Orcs. Then its long leagues east, for what I can tell. I never traveled in those barren lands, but I hear there's a long desert through there. Queer folk dwell out in the inland sea-lands. Fell folk. Don't trust 'em when ye get there. Ye might have better luck in Dorwinion, at least they trade with them Elven folk, from what I've heard. Might even be Elves dwellin' there. Why ye wantin' to go to such a forsaken place anyhow? Won't yer host do better to head south to 'em golden trees across 'em gladden fields, join ye forces with 'em? Fight-off that black fortress that's hurtin' our lands, drivin' travelers to stay away at home? Times grow hard, here in the vales, Master Elf." Melimwe nodded sadly, "We have not the strength of arms to take-on such a fortress. Not yet. And the Lady of the Wood will not like us. She fled from our kind of Elves long ago. She despises us. We Elves have long memories." "Aye, I hear told tale's she's a witch!" Melimwe laughed, "She is some enchantress. There was a Queen in a delving of Dwarf-like halls in the middle of a vast forest, Ages ago, far to the west, over two mountain ranges. She taught her everything she knew, and then the Lady came down to that Golden Wood that you have spoken-of. I hear she knows everything. I do not trust her." "If ye want to avoid her, what ye going to do? You'll need provisions to get up to Erebor, and we Beornings have barely enough to spare for our own folk. Grimbeorn won't allow it. Most we can do is protect ye's, for a time. If Orcs or goblins or wargs cross our borders again, my kinfolk will need the lot of us back at home." Melimwe nodded, "We shall have to send several of our own south to the Golden Wood, you are correct. But they must not stay there for long. They fear Yrch- that is, Orcs, in our tongue- as much as you do, and they are sitting right next to an old ruined Dwarf-Kingdom, Hadhodrond in our tongue. Some dark force drove the Dwarves away, and Orcs have haunted those halls ever since." The Beorning nodded gravely, "Ye. I've heard 'em tales. We used to dwell nigh those peaks long ago, when there were many more of us. Now its just we Beornings, hanging-in-there, tryin' to survive along this here river. Livin' is tiresome work for us. Ye have a good plan now. Wait here for a time, get 'em provisions, get some for us too, and we'll forgo the rest of the tolls. We'll even escort ye, just my band and me, up the Anduin, for we know it. Ye still didn't answer me question. Why ye wantin' to go all the way to that forsaken land?" "A great, dark evil dwells there, an evil that has hounded my kin from afar, such is its power! It is not so powerful as the Necromancer, but powerful still! We fear he is marshaling those Easterlings against us, and against all free lands. I do not know how he hides this from the Necromancer, but he most assuredly does." "Ah, ye speak of a he now. Go on." "He is... a phantom, a wraith, I cannot describe him....." "Some such wicked spirit, go on." "He will haunt our dreams. That jewel our Elf-wizard is carrying was augmented by this evil long ago, back when he was good, far across the western sea. He turned bad, caused a lot of trouble two mountain ranges away to the west, and now he has fled this far east. He does not drink. He does not eat. He is unnatural! He wants nothing more than to lure us out there, but we want to be done with him. If we do not, then imagine what horrors could occur, if he finally did come west, perhaps to that dark fortress to the south, and claimed it as his own!" The Beorning nodded grimly, "What ye are doin' is honorable and good. Don't let anyone tell ye otherwise. I understand now. Ye may be marchin' to yer deaths, and ye may not. Grimbeorn will never let us go. The adventurous part of me wants to go. But I don't think it would work. Grimbeorn would exile us, disown us, if we abandoned him, and ne'r returned. But if we did go...... we could consider our share of the provisions our payment for the tolls." "And who will collect the tolls in your stead?" "Why, others of us, of course! Ours is a large family. Grimbeorn had near twenty score of us, if not more, I've lost count among my people, for we've bred with the ladies of the woods-folk, and our family grows. Aww, this thought is a-growin' far more temptin'." Melimwe smiled, "Why not join us? Tell Grimbeorn that you are escorting a party of wayward travelers north, that you will get paid a good share in goods for it, and that if Orcs or goblins set upon us, it may be difficult to return, but that you will return eventually, even if it takes several months, up to a year." The Beorning nodded grimly, "I'll see. Let me try it out. I'll return in two days. I go alone." |
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12:43 AM Jul 11