Scene 1: A Mighty Warrior
It
is early on the afternoon of August the 5th, and the Fellowship has
awaited the coming of the Singer in what they presume is his home. While
his comrades set up camp atop the hill cairn, Rard finds himself drawn to the
arch carved into the side of the mound. As he emerges clutching a taken
possession to his breast, the voice of the Singer sounds in the surrounding
forest. Finbor and Frolin spot Rard skulking out of the hillside entrance
and rush over to confront him.
"Raridoc
Brandybuck!” Frolin growls. “You
scatter-brained, woolly-footed..." His angry voice trails off as the
Singer appears in the clearing, a tall and fearsome Elf-lord of high and
ancient bearing.
Éogar
watches the Singer’s advance and shudders at the might of his
voice. He says to Bergalad, "Come! We must join the
others. I do not know what is happening down there, but perhaps the
Singer is using magic to separate us. If he proves hostile, we must face
him as one, for clearly he is powerful." Bergalad nods silently and
follows Éogar down the hill, rushing over to stand by the side of their
friends.
The
Singer levels his icy blue stare on the companions, resting his piercing gaze
most witheringly on Rard. Finbor perceives his wrath and steps forward to
speak to him in Sindarin, introducing himself and each of his four comrades,
explaining that they are all travelers in the service of the famed lords of the
Western lands. The Singer slowly turns his fierce gaze upon Finbor and
replies in halting speech, as if employing a known tongue long
unpracticed. His Sindarin is archaic, and he speaks with a tone that
betrays a slight contempt for the words. “Long has it been since I
wandered the Western lands, and the West that was is long gone and
forgotten,” he says. “All of your petty lords and realms are
but pebbles in the river of time; these names mean nothing to me, nor do I
desire to know them.” He turns his cold gaze back upon Rard and
adds in a biting voice, “I will not abide robbers, especially those who
come from the West to disturb my exile!” The
Singer takes a few menacing steps toward the hobbit, his black-gloved hand
moving toward the hilts of his sheathed blade. “Such
creatures as this did not walk Endorë west of the Hithaiglin when
I came to this land. Thieving little Men…”
“I’m
not a Man,” Rard stammers backing up against the side of the hill,
clutching his chest tightly. “I’m a hobbit…”
Finbor
perceives the earnestness of the Singer and wheels about to stare down the
halfling. “Drop it, Rard, let go of what you are holding. Now!”
“What?
It’s a shard of the angrily we have been seeking!” the nervous
hobbit replies, playing for time. “Éogar, you said no-one had been
here in a while, so I figured why should we wait around for someone who may
never come?” The hobbit attempts to look at the Singer directly,
but is forced to look elsewhere, instead looking at his friends for
support. “It’s what we wanted. We don’t know if
we can trust him.”
"But
you know you can trust us," Finbor says in a sympathetic tone.
“Lay down what you have taken.”
Rard
swallows hard, his mind racing. “It’s better of in our hands
where we know it is safe…”
Éogar,
too, flanks Rard and confronts him, drawing himself up to his full imposing
height and glowering down at the hobbit. "A thief of a shard makes
himself no different than our enemy Baldur!" he thunders.
Éogar
and Finbor tower above Rard, the former trying to rattle the hobbit’s
nerve and the latter aiming to remind the hobbit of his better nature.
Rard blinks rapidly, eyes darting back and forth between his friends. The
hobbit thinks back to the Shire, remembering his own noble folk. He
thinks back on the tales of Legolas and the Fellowship of the Ring that his
cousin Merry told him, and in his heart he knows Legolas would not have taken
the shard from the cave. [Corruption test, +2 from Finbor and Éogar,
complete success] Rard opens up his arms at his breast and looks down at
the cold iron shard, and suddenly it does not seem as lovely or impressive as
he first thought. No, it looks like a broken shaft of dirty steel,
unlovely and pale. He holds it away from his body, his grip of the shard
loosening.
Éogar
kneels in front of the hobbit and says kindly, "We know you are no thief,
Rard. Our new friendship has proven that during our journeys."
"If
you think you need it, Master Éogar, of course you can have it,” Rard
says in a distant voice, holding the shard out to him. “But be
careful, I think it calls to you." When Éogar does not take it from
him, the hobbit shakes his head in embarrassment and drops the crystal to the
ground. He looks sheepishly at the Singer and stammers, "I don't
know what came over me… I was just peeking into your home and then
I was holding the shard."
The
Singer’s expression is unmoved, changed only enough to note that the
shard now lies on the earth. His black-gloved right hand wraps around the
hilts of his sword, and he steps closer still to the frightened halfling.
“You know not what you have done, nor what you have dared to
steal,” he hisses coldly. “I am bound by an oath that cannot
be discharged even by oceans of time, and this ‘hobbit’ creature is
tainted. Stand away from him and flee this place! Go back to the
West from whence you came, and never return to these lands.”
Éogar
quickly rises to his feet, moving to stand between the Singer and the
hobbit. The Rohirric warrior braces his shield and spear, ready to
attempt to disarm the Singer should he dare draw upon his friend.
[Initiative: Éogar = 14, the Singer = 16] In the blink of an eye the
Singer pulls his flashing Elf-blade from his scabbard, a bright and shining
long-sword rarely seen in the West since the days of Gondolin. He wields
the blade swiftly and surely, almost as an extension of his own nimble
arm. Before Éogar himself can strike, the mighty Elf-lord lashes out at
the warrior [result: 26, extraordinary success]; Éogar strains to raise his
buckler to intercept the blow, but the Singer’s stroke is too quick
[result: 20]. The flat of the blade slams into Éogar’s right hand,
forcing open his grip and knocking loose the shaft of his spear; the weapon
falls to the ground and rolls a few feet away. The Singer wheels about
and jabs at Éogar’s head with the heavy pommel at the bottom of his
sword-hilt, trying to deliver a stunning blow [result: 29, superior success];
Éogar again moves to block with his shield but cannot parry the darting pommel
that slams into his head [result: 22]. Éogar is possessed of a
warrior’s heart, though, and cannot be incapacitated so easily [Stamina
test, superior success]; he manages to keep on his feet and awake, though his
head throbs with pain and he is sure to suffer for it for the next several
minutes [-3 test penalty]. When the Singer observes that Éogar has not
been rendered unconscious by his blow, he quickly falls back a couple feet and
rests his right foot upon the disarmed spear, pinning it to the ground.
The Elf-lord holds his blade at the ready, but he does not attack again nor
does he advance any further toward Rard.
Frolin,
alarmed at the sudden physical exchange, holds up a hand peacefully.
"We did not come here as thieves!" he says to the Singer, imploring
him to stay his hand. He looks dourly at Rard and continues, "But it
seems that our young companion here could not resist the lure of the Angril.
We came to seek your counsel and discuss the shards of the black crystal."
The
Singer stares at the Dwarf in confusion for a moment, and it immediately
becomes obvious that the Elf does not understand the Westron words –
what’s more, Frolin does not know any of the Elf-tongues. Yet,
there is one word which catches the Singer’s attention: Angril.
His cold blue eyes flare widely, surprised or provoked. He holds his
ground and holds his sword gingerly, but he does not strike again.
“How is it, Naugrim, that you know of the
Angril?” the Singer asks in a cool tone, addressing Frolin with
the ancient Elvish name for his folk. Finbor quickly translates the words
for the Fellowship, sensing that the situation is most delicate and urgent.
Scene 2: The
Singer’s Tale
The
Fellowship’s introduction to the mysterious Singer takes an ominous turn
when he advances on the “tainted” Rard, telling the others to leave
the hobbit to him and to flee back to their homelands. Éogar rushes to
his little friend’s defense, blocking the Singer’s approach with
sword and shield. Though the Man of Rohan is a strong warrior, by himself
he is not the equal of the Singer, and his spear is but a slow and heavy burden
compared to the Singer’s ancient Elf-blade crafted in the Elder
Days. Disarmed and dazed, Éogar manages to stay on his feet. The
Singer looks duly impressed at the Rohirric warrior’s stamina, surprised
that a mere Man could withstand such a stunning blow and not fall
unconscious. Éogar grips the Dart of Elessar in his now-free hand,
holding it at the ready but not casting it at the powerful Elf-lord. He
says with labored breath, as much to the Singer as to his hobbit friend,
"Fear not, Rard. Your friends will not allow any harm to come to
you."
Finbor
flinches at the sight of the altercation, his hand reflexively going for his
own sword and his legs nearly carrying him to the aid of his friend; but,
Finbor holds back, controlling his anger for fear that the situation will
deteriorate beyond repair. Realizing the futility of trying to battle the
Singer, Finbor warns his friends in a tight, angry voice, “This foe is
beyond any of us.”
Rard
immediately rushes to Éogar’s side, making sure that his friend is not
seriously hurt. The hobbit swallows his embarrassment and turns an
outraged expression on the mighty Elf-lord. "Why do you beat on him
for something I did?" he protests. "I took the Angril, but we
gave it back. If you knew how powerful it was, why leave it just lying
around?" Putting his hands on his hips, he looks at his friends and
then defiantly at the Singer. "This is why we must destroy the Angril.
It can corrupt us all, and if it is re-assembled, it will destroy us
all." The Singer stares at Rard with a stony expression, unmoved and
undeterred. The hobbit cannot help but quail in his heart, for the
bearing of his Elf-lord exceeds any that he has felt before, even the sons of
Elrond and King Thranduil; indeed, the Singer’s force of presence may be
greater even than King Aragorn’s! As the others begin to speak to
the Singer, Rard whispers to Éogar, "My friend, are we sure this
is not Belemir in disguise?"
Éogar
breathes heavily, shaking off the pain of the stunning blow. He whispers
back with a slight smile, "I have learned, perhaps the hard way, to trust
Frolin and his secret knowledge. He has not indicated that he could sense
the power of Baldur, but he can sense the Singer. They must not be the
same, but that does not make him less dangerous; be wary, friend, he seems to
have a dislike toward you."
Finbor
turns his desire for physical anger into sharp words, hoping to shame this
ancient Elf. “You spoke of the petty lords and realms of the West a
moment ago,” he says. "It would be wise not to speak with such
disdain about Lord Elessar Telcontar and his queen Arwen Undómiel if one does
not know them, for both are direct descendants of a royal and noble line that
leads back to Beren Erchamion and Luthien Tinúviel, ancient heroes of the Elder
Days." The Singer listens, and for once his expression shows a
reaction. The names of Beren and Luthien have meaning for him, though it
truly would take great insight to discern the complex emotions of this
long-lived Elf-lord. Finbor continues, "As for the race of Periannath,
whom you call 'thieving little Men', small in stature they may be but great is
their renown, for it was the Hobbit Frodo of the Nine Fingers who did what
neither Man nor Elf could not do, and destroyed Sauron, the Nameless
Enemy."
The
Singer is silent for many moments, his piercing gaze moving from Rard to
Finbor. The Dúnadan seems better suited to withstand the Elf-lord’s
mighty bearing, though even his heart quickens and grows anxious under that
sea-cold glance. When the Singer finally answers, it is in a quiet, distant,
pained voice. “Elessar and Arwen must be descended from the House
of Fingolfin through the sons of Eärendil, and from Thingol’s line
through Elwing the daughter of Dior Eluchíl.” He says the
last name gingerly, as if tearing open a very old
wound. He closes his eyes for a moment and then looks back to
Finbor. “In the long ages of my wandering, I have heard of the fate
of the Men of Eärendil’s line; of their mighty kingdom on Numenor, of the
destruction of their great island, of the return of the remnant of that folk to
the shores of Endorë. As I wandered the shores singing my laments,
I witnessed the creation of their kingdoms in the West; I watched them go to
war against Sauron in a last alliance with Ereinion Fingon’s son.
But, I did not reveal myself, nor did I play any part in those events. My
time in the West is long over, and never again will I return or speak on those
days. I came to the East at the dawn of this Third Age, and the East is
now my home; here I will remain to pass away my long life until I fade from the
earth, in the design of Ilúvatar.”
Bergalad
feels in his heart the Singer’s pain, and now he fully perceives the
sorrow of the laments he heard while sailing to the Elven-shore. The
Elf-minstrel now speaks in Quenya, the eldest tongue of the Noldor.
"I apologize for my small companion's foolish action; we did not come to
steal from you. You, Singer, have guarded your charge for ages and so you
must know what effect it may have even on a well-intended heart. That
this vile remnant has not taken hold of you, even after many ages,
speaks tomes about you,” he says in a gentle tone, hoping to soothe
the wrath of the mighty Singer. “We do not come as thieves, nor do
we challenge what oaths you may have sworn in ages past. But do not make
the mistake of assuming we are ignorant of the thing that you have sworn to
guard; we may know things of the Angril that even you do not. Let
me tell you the tale of how we arrived here, the purpose of our fellowship, and
then ask your council". [Language: Quenya test, TN 10, complete
success] The Singer gazes at Bergalad and nods slowly, lowering his
flashing Elf-blade of the Elder Days.
“It
has been very long since I have heard any other voice speak that
language…” the Singer says, his temper apparently subdued.
"We
will answer your questions, but that tale will take some time in the
telling,” Frolin calls out, trusting Bergalad to render his words into
the Quenya tongue. “First, by all means take back your shard of the
Angril and return it to its proper place," the Dwarf says, backing
away from where the crystal lies on the ground, and motioning for the others to
do the same. "Then let us put aside our weapons and speak like
civilized folk," he adds, setting his axe on the ground.
The
Singer reciprocates by putting his sword of the First Age back into his
scabbard, and he then walks over to the shard; he picks up the crystal in his
black-gloved hand, visibly wincing, and he carries it back into his home carved
inside the small hill. He returns a moment later, and gestures for all of
you to sit with him upon the ground. He says, “Now we may speak,
though I reserve judgment on the little one who stole the shard of the Iron
Jewel. I am not convinced he can ever escape its darkness. Lo, you
have come into my home unbidden, and thus you remain intruders and not
guests. Speak on, and tell me your tale of how you came to know of the Angril.”
Finbor
responds in Sindarin: "We know of the Angril because it closely concerns
our quest. We seek a man named Belemir, who is gathering the shards of the
Angril with the purpose of reuniting them. It has fallen to us to prevent this
and make sure that the evil crystal can do no more harm. Our coming here was
for several reasons: first we wanted to warn you for this man, so that you can
expect his coming; second, as my Dwarven friend just said, we came for advice
about this malign crystal."
The
Singer replies, “I have seen no Man in these woods. I do not abide
the humble Men of the west coast nor the warlike Easterlings to enter the
forest deeps, and it is long since they last tried. The name of Belemir
means nothing to me, though I can discern it comes from the Sindarin tongue; he
must be a Man of the West, as you are. But, if he comes, rest assured
that I will no more allow him to steal this shard than I permitted your little
friend to do so. I know what the Angril is, and who made it; I
know what it means if it is ever forged anew. I dwelt in this land when
the Iron Jewel first came, and I was here when the Ithryn Luin came back
into the East in pursuit of it; I perceived the true nature of these Blue
Wizards. There is much that I know, and I think that you know but little
of what you seek.”
"Who
are you?” Finbor asks. “People have named you the Singer for
obvious reasons, but that is not a name for an Elf or
The
Elf-lord replies in a tone that shares his pain and sorrow held for years
uncounted, “I have no other name any more. I left my other names in
the West. I am not discourteous in my refusal: in exile I must sing my
laments for the past deeds of my House, and no longer do I deserve to be called
by any other name than the Singer.”
Frolin
indicates for Bergalad and Finbor to share with the Singer their tale: the
quest given them by King Elessar, their discovery of the threat of the Angril,
their journey to the East, and their efforts to recover the shards of the
crystal before Belemir. Rard sighs, having sat through this story many
times, and he longs to go back some repast for himself and his friends, but he
dares not sneak away from the circle for fear of provoking the wrath of the
Singer. The Elf-lord listens attentively but betrays little
reaction. He merely responds, “You have come far and endured much,
and you serve your King well, but there remains much you do not
understand. This shard of the Iron Jewel is my burden; leave me here, and
return to your homelands.”
Frolin
asks in return, "Can you sense the power of the crystal shards from a
distance? If so, you will know that several of them have recently been
taken from where they have been held for many years."
The
Singer replies, “I can sense their dark power, as can any Elf, though I
perceive their pale forgery more clearly than any other who still walks upon
this earth. Long have I known that the Iron Jewel was sundered into many
pieces by one of the Blue Wizards, and swiftly I recovered the shard which now
I guard. A second shard fell close by and was consumed by the Great
Spiders of this forest, and over the generations bred a monstrous body to house
it. Yet, I prevent the Spider-Demon from leaving the heart of the forest;
it merely holds another shard over which I stand guard. As for the other
shards, however many there are, they are lesser fragments. Alone they can
do only lesser harm.”
“But
as long as the crystal shards are around, they are a danger!” Rard protests, insisting that the Angril should be destroyed.
"Why keep it? Are there some benefits of which we
are unaware?"
“The
shards possess great power, though less than that which the Iron Jewel was made
as counterfeit to replace,” the Singer answers. “The shards
hold a small portion of the lingering power of the Black Enemy who was shut out
of Arda so long ago. When Sauron, his fell lieutenant, was active
in the world, that lingering power accrued to him. But, now that you tell
me Sauron has been dispersed once and for all, the remaining power of the Shadow
is loose again in the world. It has settled once more in its ancient
vessel, the shards of the Angril. The shards are more powerful now
than ever before: they may give the possessor great strength, endurance, and
sorcerous might.” He looks straight at Rard and adds, “I do
not keep watch over these two shards because I desire their power, but only to
ensure that they are not reunited with the others. You cannot guess the
result if that occurs. You seek to destroy the Angril, but such a
task is impossible. To do so would require gathering all the shards, and
no-one could resist the corruption of temptation…not even a
hobbit.”
The
Singer turns his gaze to each of the Fellowship in turn. He says,
“I am convinced you are all of good heart, and no longer do I fear that
the hobbit is tainted by the Angril. He held it but briefly, and
though he will never wholly escape its shadow, he is not lost to it, for he
possesses a stout heart. Now all of you may leave in peace, and return to
your homes. Tell your King, the heir of Dior and Eärendil,
that the Angril is forever sundered and shall never be
restored. I wish him and his realm well, but do not ever speak of me in
the West. Now go in peace.”
Scene 3: “Who is the Lord of
Darkness?”
The
Fellowship converses with the mysterious Singer in his forest abode, though the
lordly Elf remains cautious with the intruders from the West. When the
Singer claims that the Angril is his burden alone to bear and bids the
companions to go back to their homelands, Frolin protests. "We
cannot simply return to the West now. Even if the two shards in this
forest are safe from Belemir, with six shards he is a grave threat, a threat
that we have been tasked with combating,” the Dwarf states.
“His schemes have already caused two wars, and will undoubtedly cause
much more suffering unless he is stopped. And even without the shards,
Belemir is no ordinary man. He is cunning and well-versed in lore and in
magic. He carries an Elven Ring of Friendship from the Elder Days as well
as an enchanted Elf-staff."
The
Singer returns, “All the more reason for you to return to your
homes. You have been given a task beyond your power, and your deaths will
little serve your king. I thank you for the warning about Belemir, and if
he comes as a thief I will take his life. Far less guilty blood than his
is already upon my hands.”
Rard,
alarmed by the talk of bloodshed, looks to his friends and ponders, "Is it
possible that Belemir is gathering the shards to destroy them? I
think he wants to use them, but is it possible he just wants to rid the world
of the Angril?"
Éogar
says, "Perhaps you are right and Belemir is in fact attempting to reforge
the Angril only to destroy it. Still, if such a small piece had
sway over our incorruptible hobbit friend, then certainly a reforged crystal
could blacken even the most hardened soul. That said, the shard, while
enchanting Rard, seemed to have little effect on the rest of us. Perhaps
there is a way to save my King's friend; perhaps we must allow the crystal to
be made whole again, if only to destroy it.”
"But
we do not know the full power of the reunited crystal," Finbor
responds. The Gondorian warrior looks to the Singer and asks,
"Should the Angril be made whole again, is there a way to destroy
it for good? You were concerned about the hobbit, though he had held the
shard only a couple of minutes. The man we look for has held probably several
shards in his possession for months. Could a man fight off corruption for
so long?"
The
Singer closes his eyes for a moment, shaking his head in what seems more pity
than anything else. “You truly do not understand,” he
murmurs. “Each shard contains a severed remnant of the essence of
the Black Enemy who so long ago was shut out of the world, beyond the Gates of
Morning and the Doors of Twilight. When his lieutenant Sauron was active
in the world, the Angril but slumbered, whilst the bulk of the Shadow
was drawn to his works. Now you say that Sauron has fallen and is no
more, and thus the Angril awakens as the lingering portions of the
Shadow seek out their former vessel, for always does the Enemy seek a way to
return through the Girdle of Arda. With each passing season the shards
grow stronger with the Shadow, and their lure grows more intense.”
His gaze moves among the Fellowship as he adds, “That none of you besides
your hobbit friend have sought the shard for your own attests to the fealty or
duty that brought you on this quest; the lure of the Shadow can find no opening
in your hearts.” He looks to Rard and continues, “The lure of
the shards is not constant, for so long as the Iron Jewel is sundered the
guiding mind of the Shadow cannot long touch this world. This little
hobbit was snared by it only in passing, and only by his troublesome but honest
curiosity. Had he been drawn to the shard by greed or lust for power, I
assure you, he would not so easily cast it aside.
“Perhaps
now you perceive the graveness of the matter. The Angril cannot be
destroyed because the Power that made it is too great, and only another Power
could undo his work. If the Iron Jewel is brought together, the Shadow
will have a way to take form once more. You cannot gather the shards of
the Iron Jewel even to hazard to destroy them, for as soon as they are joined
together the Black Enemy will pierce the Girdle of Arda and return to this
world. No, the Shadow can only be kept out of Arda if the shards remain
forever scattered and lost, beyond the reach of any who might seek to restore
them. I am bound by an oath that transcends time, and my life is not
numbered by the Gift of Men so decreed by Eru; it is my task to guard these
shards until the End of Days and the final passing of the world. Leave me
to my fate, and go.”
Finbor
closes his eyes in sorrow, his mind returning to the tales he learned as a
boy. He recalls the Akallabêth, the story of Numenor the
Downfallen, and in a somber tone he recounts one of the most fateful
passages: “Sauron, held captive in Westernesse, spoke to
Ar-Pharazôn the King, ‘For Darkness alone is worshipful, and the Lord
thereof may yet make other worlds to be gifts to those that serve him, so that
the increase of their power shall find no end.’ And Ar- Pharazôn
said: ‘Who is the Lord of Darkness?’ Then behind locked doors
Sauron spoke to the King, and he lied, saying: ‘It is he whose name is
not now spoken, for the Valar have deceived you concerning him… His name
is Melkor, Lord of All, Giver of Freedom, and he shall make you stronger than
they.’ And thus did the King and his men give their hearts wholly
over to evil, to the doom of Westernesse.”
The
Singer stares long and hard at Finbor, and those who
can abide the glory of this Elf-lord perceive a measure of sympathy for the
sorrow of which Finbor speaks. “Now there is understanding,”
he says in a light tone like a passing zephyr. “Now you see the
wisdom when I tell you to leave me to my burden, and to return to your homes in
the West.”
Frolin
interjects once again with his concern about Belemir, who already possesses
many of the shards. “Even if you destroy Belemir,” Frolin
says, “what will come to pass? You will be here all alone with all
eight shards of the Angril within your grasp. Do you think you
could guard eight in the same way you have guarded two? No one should
bear such a burden for as long as you would have to bear it. Please, let
us stay here and await Belemir's coming with you. We can defeat him
together and then see about destroying the Angril."
The
Singer smiles faintly and says, “You speak to me with compassion that I
no longer deserve, Naugrim.”
Bergalad
says, "He speaks truly. If we return home now, the likely outcome
will be all shards of the Angril reunited.”
“For
three thousand years have I dwelled in this land, and for a thousand have I
watched over the Angril,” he answers. “Your coming is
but a passing moment, and my vigil will never wane. Even if seven shards
were gathered together by another, I would bear my one to a more distant and
desolate corner of the wood so that it could never be found. Were I free
to travel abroad, I myself would seek the other seven and scatter them across
the earth or throw them into the depths of the sea…” He says
this last phrase in a tight and rueful voice, as if the thought somehow pains
him. “But I cannot leave my ward. I must stay here and watch
over the shard in the hill and the shard borne by the
Spider-Demon.” He rises to his feet, gesturing for the Fellowship
to do likewise. “Your path is not mine to command,” he
says. “I advise you to return to your homelands,
and to keep secret all that you have learned in the East. Do as you will,
but you may not remain in my abode. The Elder Wood is the last remnant of
that innocent place where my kind awakened, before the troubles of the First
Age, and I protect it. Go now, and trouble me no further.”
The Elf-lord, tall and grim, turns his back upon the Fellowship and disappears
inside his home hewn into the hillside.
*
* *
The
Fellowship has spoken with the Singer for several hours, and now it is very
late on the afternoon of August the 5th. Denied boon of
hospitality, the Singer has demanded that they leave his part of the
forest. Solemnly, the Fellowship turns back and walks south into thick
woods through which they came. They walk for some distance, putting
perhaps an hour between themselves and the Singer
before stopping, as the sun slowly descends into the western sky and dusk
approaches. As they hike through the thickets and copses, they talk about
the state of their affairs. Éogar says, "You all realize that
destroying the Angril, while probably our most important quest, was not
what we sought originally. We were to find and potentially save a dear
friend of King Elessar. We have all learned the power of friendship in
our travels together, and I don't believe we can simply turn our back and allow
Belemir to die at the hands of this powerful Elf of the old ages."
The
young hobbit looks at his comrades and says in a somewhat guilty tone, "I had
forgotten that we were tasked to find the King's friend. That is to say,
we did find him, and it appears he is out to do something evil. I fully
expect that he is corrupted, just based on his actions so far. But, I
suppose there is a sliver of a chance that Belemir is acting in what he thinks
to be the best manner: attempting to gather all the shard pieces in an attempt
to destroy them, and rid the world of a greater danger than those he puts in
place by stealing the shards.”
Éogar
nods once and says, "I do not doubt that Belemir had good intentions
initially. But such is the nature of the Shadow: a slow, corrupting
evil.”
Rard
sighs and merely replies, "I hope we do not have to be the ones to kill a
friend of the King's."
"Saving
Belemir was your charge, not mine," Bergalad says plainly to his
companions. “I sensed a massing of orcs and traveled east to assess
the threat. I have stayed and joined your cause because I see the threat
this ancient evil may pose, and for no other reason. Whatever purpose
Belemir may have had when he began to seek these remnants, few could long
resist their evil lure.”
"If
you have joined our cause, then it is without condition, Elf. We will
give Belemir a chance to redeem himself if at all possible," Éogar retorts.
Frolin
shakes his head and grunts, "In a battle between Belemir and Singer, I
know which side I would take. Belemir may have once been a friend of the
King. But now he is a thief and a liar who uses dark sorcery and consorts
with goblins and trolls. Belemir is now our enemy, and he has much
to answer for."
"Do
you truly believe that dark deeds may never be atoned for? That once
greed, lust for power, or...cowardice breaks our defenses that we cannot
reclaim our honor?" Éogar exales sharply in disapproval and says no
more, unwilling to discourse any further on the matter.
The
companions walk on in silence, each contemplating in his own
thoughts what course they must take. Though they do not enjoy the
Singer’s pleasant open clearing, the Fellowship finds a small glade in
which to camp for the night; they sense from the still quiet that they remain
in the region warded by the Singer, and so do not fear the wicked spiders that
pollute the heart of the forest to the north. While camp is being set up,
Rard cooks the night’s meals. As the companions eat, Rard ponders
the Singer’s lonely existence. ”He must have done something
terrible to want to write out his House's entire history and disassociate
himself,” he muses, “or perhaps great tragedy struck and he saw no
reason to stay in the West."
[Lore:
History test, TN 20, 2 Courage spent, complete success] Finbor, who remained
silent ever since departing from the Singer’s demesne, breaks his quiet
contemplation to offer his thoughts. “What if the Singer is one of
the Noldor from the Elder Days, those High-elves who came back to Middle-earth
from the Undying Lands?” The Gondorian captain smiles softly,
thinking back to his youth. “My tutor, Lamhir, named 'the Wise' by
all in Lamedon, often told tales of the Elder Days, of the line of Kings and
how it ran from Elendil the Tall, through the Kings of Numenor to the heroes of
the Elder Days. And about the Silmarils as well, how Beren and Luthien
cut a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown, and about
the wars fought over them. The maker of the Silmarils, Fëanor, had
sworn an infamous oath, together with his sons… Wait, didn't the
Singer mention an oath as well? Could he be one of Fëanor's sons?”
[Lore:
History test, TN 15, marginal success] Bergalad thinks upon all the tales he
has learned and adds, “The sons of Fëanor were
slain in the many battles of Beleriand: all but Maedhros, the eldest, and
Maglor, who survived to seize the two remaining Silmarils. But the
purity of the blessed jewels drove them to despair, and pained them after all
the wrongs they had committed in the war of wrath to gain them.”
“What
wrongs?” Rard asks, amazed by the ancient tale.
Bergalad
answers, “The Quenta Silmarillion recounts that Fëanor and his
sons swore an oath upon Eru the One, Ilúvatar the Father of All, that the
Everlasting Nothingness should be brought upon them if they never reclaimed the
Silmarils from Morgoth or permitted any other to possess them.
When the Teleri Sea-elves refused to give their ships to the Noldor host intent
upon pursuing Morgoth and the stolen Silmarils to Middle-earth, Fëanor
and his sons committed the first Kin-slaying of Elves by other Elves and stole
the ships. The first Kin-slaying but not the last, for during the long
struggle against Morgoth the sons of Fëanor tried to assail Beren and Luthien
who had recovered a Silmaril from Morgoth’s Iron Crown, and they
assaulted Menegroth where dwelt Beren and Luthien’s son Dior,
Thingol’s heir and King of Doriath, whom they slew. When the Valar themselves
returned to Middle-earth in their War of Wrath against Morgoth and captured the
two remaining Silmarils, Maedhros and Maglor even dared to attack the
camp of the Holy Ones to steal the two jewels, so grave was the oath that bound
them.”
Finbor
nods slowly and says, “So they won their long-sought prize, but the cost
was too high. Even to hold the Silmarils burned their flesh.
Mad with despair, Maedhros cast himself and his jewel into a fiery mountain,
and so ended. Maglor, the jewel burning his right hand, hurled his far
into the deep sea, and so it was lost forever.”
“But
it is not known what became of Maglor,” Bergalad comments.
“It is said by some that he did not perish like his brother, but wandered
the shores of the West for a time, singing solemn lamentations for the great
suffering caused by the war for the Silmarils. For Maglor was
renowned as a mighty singer, greater even than the greatest of my people, the
Sindar. Yet, in time his voice was heard no more in the West, and his
fate became lost to our lore.”
“Could
the Singer be Maglor?” Finbor ponders. He sighs heavily and adds,
“If anything is certain it is that the Singer would never admit to us his
past. Verily, he is one of the most perilous and fell powers remaining in
Middle-earth, and his grief is beyond reckoning. My insight tells me that
we will sooner change the course of the Anduin than change the Singer's
course.” The captain looks to each of his comrades in the light of
the setting sun and says, “Whatever we do now, we must do on our own and
without hope of prevailing upon the Singer. Friends, where do we go from
here?”
Bergalad
restates his earlier assertion that his only purpose is to stop a grave threat
to all of Middle-earth. He says, "My council is that we prevent the
eight shards from finding their way nearer each other. We should lay in
wait near the den of the vile spider. When Baldur comes to retrieve his
prize, we confront him – and end his mischief.” Finbor looks
to the rest of his comrades, seeking their counsel, for he knows it will fall
upon him to decide and lead the Fellowship upon its next course.
Scene 4: The Missing Shard
On
the evening of August the 5th, the Fellowship camps in the quiet safety
of the wooded deeps patrolled by the Singer. Denied his hospitality to
remain in his abode, the companions have walked a couple miles back toward the
forest haven of Belegorn’s Eastern-elves, stopping at sundown to camp in
a tiny wooded glade. As they travel away from the Singer’s home,
and as Finbor and Bergalad posit that perhaps the Singer is an impossibly old
figure from the First Age, Rardiadoc admits in his heart that he misses the
Shire and its simpler problems. As the Fellowship makes camp and Rard
makes dinner, his sullen mood carries over to the flavoring; all the food seems
more bland than usual to him.
The
companions ponder their next course of action while consuming Rard’s
spiritless meal. Bergalad has offered the first proposal: to lay in wait
for Belemir at the den of the Spider-Demon, somewhere in the forest beyond the
Singer’s clearing. Anxious and despondent, Rard lets loose his
flurry of thoughts: "If the Singer is to be believed, then our best option
is to do as Bergalad suggests and to waylay Belemir before he can get his hands
on the Spider-Demon’s shard. We must keep them apart! But,
then we are faced with the question of how to pick up the shards he carries and
what to do with them. It would seem we should spread them to the ends of
the earth. So our next task would be to do that, perhaps
splitting up so as to avoid the temptation of putting them together.
Returning the shards to their previous owners seems to be impossible, in case
they are corrupted themselves." He sighs deeply at this daunting
task, turning his mind to plans for how to ambush Belemir: laying traps,
digging pits, are bombarding him with arrows from atop trees high above.
"We
will not lay a trap for him," Éogar says flatly. "If the Singer
is right and the shards cannot be destroyed, then I fear Belemir may be beyond
salvation from the Shadow, but we must offer it to him. It is the only
honorable thing to do. I would offer any of you a chance to redeem
yourself from a failure of judgment." He looks hard at Frolin and
Bergalad and adds, "Given all of our travels together, I would hope all of
you would have the honor to so do for me. We owe the friend of King
Elessar nothing less – simply a chance."
Frolin
shrugs his thick shoulders and replies, "Of course. I am not one to
favor blades over words. I fear it will do no good, but it is worth a
try."
Éogar
proposes that the Fellowship return to the Singer in hopes of further enlisting
his aid rather than seeking the Spider-Demon’s lair. "Now that
Finbor and Bergalad have a better understanding of this aged Elf, perhaps he
will be more agreeable,” he offers. “If Belemir does indeed
refuse to abandon the shards of the Angril, then we may need the
Singer’s sword and skill to defeat whatever sorcery the shards grant to
the sage."
Rard
adds helpfully, “Perhaps Finbor and Bergalad should speak with the Singer
again? That way I will not be around. He seems to my hold my brief
moment of weakness against me…” The hobbit continues in an
exasperated tone, “How was I to know he was a thousand-year-old guardian
sworn to watch over the Angril shards?!"
"I
think we are all underestimating Belemir," Frolin cautions. "We
have no idea what methods he might use to acquire the last two shards, or when
he might put his plans into action. We have only two viable
options: The first is to return to the elves and wait for some indication
of his plans. This is my counsel." He continues in a darker
tone of voice, "The other option is to go to the lair of the Spider-Demon,
but not to dig pits or wait for Belemir. No, we would go there, slay the
beast and take the shard. That would draw Belemir to us as surely as the
moth to the flame. Of course it would also likely put us at odds with the
Singer, for it is clear he considers himself the guardian of two shards and
would not allow us to take either. The sagely Dwarf concludes, "At
this point we have no choice but to return to Belegorn’s
Elf-village."
Finbor
the captain long sits in silence, contemplating what is said among his
comrades. At last he answers, “I agree Frolin. I think the
only real option we have right now is to return to the Elven-camp, at least
until the third shard has disappeared, and then pick up some more supplies and
return here. And maybe we can once more try to persuade Maglor.
After all, the Angril was only an evil imitation of a Silmaril
and not a real one.” His voice lacks his usual conviction, for the
Gondorian captain has looked for a moment into the Singer’s heart; Finbor
knows that if the Singer truly is Maglor, he was long ago complicit with his
brothers in acts of great violence and wrath, and if he perceives guarding the Angril
as his penance there is nothing beneath the Encircling Sea that will dissuade
him.
Eogar
smiles through his roughly-braided beard and says, "Then at last we are in
agreement. We will retrieve our supplies from the Elf village and return
here to face Belemir with this Singer, Maglor. I only hope that your
recalled lore can help win over this great Elf from the early
ages.” He adds in a grimmer tone, "Then we must face our
greatest challenge yet – Belemir. I, too, hold little hope that he
can part with the shards of the Angril, but perhaps we may leverage his
friendship with King Elessar. We all know what strength friendship had;
perhaps it will be enough. We will see..."
Rard,
still wary of confronting Belemir without tricks or traps of their own,
grumbles, "If we do meet him, perhaps we should bring a rope to tie him
while we explain our situation. I'm just not convinced he will want to
listen to reason.”
Finbor
smiles faintly. He says, "Our quest consisted of two parts: first,
to find and save Belemir, and second to deal with the Angril. If
we would have to kill Belemir, or let the Singer do it, it will feel as if we
have failed in our quest." Finbor gives his Rohirric comrade a long
look. “Éogar is right: we should give Belemir a second
chance. He was one of the rangers who long fought evil, if we can save
him, it will be a great victory for the West."
"It
seems there is only one logical place to meet with Belemir," Éogar says to
the others. "The Singer's Hill. The
best place to intercept Belemir will be at a shard and the Spider-Demon will
not welcome us to lay in wait for another. You must convince the Singer
to allow us to confront our lost sage with him," he says to Finbor and
Bergalad. The Elf-minstrel remains completely silent, his eyes cast
downward in contemplation, his counsel kept to himself.
Finbor
nods and replies, "The way I see it, we have but a few options for finding
Belemir. First, we could go back to Maglor the Singer, but I am not sure
if we will learn anything more there, unless we tell him what we know about
him, but I don't know what effect that will have... As for the
Spider-Demon's shard, Maglor mentioned several times that it falls under his
protection too, so we can expect him to show up as soon as we find the spider's
lair. Or more likely, he would let us deal with the spiders first and then
confront us in our weakened state. I don't feel much for setting up an ambush
near the spider's lair either: we don't know when Belemir will be there, it can
be weeks before he arrives. We don't have the provisions here to wait that
long, and then I am not even talking about the problems of camping in spider
territory for more than a few days. That leaves us with the third shard.
We know it is still out there, but we may assume that Belemir is on his way to
that shard.
"Master
Frolin, can you feel how far away the third shard is?” Finbor asks.
“Could we travel there before Belemir gets there?"
"The
remaining shard is far to the South, in the lands of the Bolcoth Easterling
chieftain Belrath. I do not think we could reach it before Belemir
does. He acquired the shard in the Brown Lands more than two weeks ago,
and has likely been travelling to Belrath's lands ever since,” he
replies. “Besides," the Dwarf adds with a smile "I for
one have spent quite enough time in the company of Easterlings. I think
we would be better off waiting for Belemir to arrive here in the wood."
Irritated,
Finbor rises and paces about, his faith betrayed by frustration and
despair. “It’s like fighting blind; the only way you can tell
where your opponent is when he hits you!” he decries. “We
don’t know where Belemir is right now, we only know about three locations
where he will appear soon. One is too far away for us to get to, and the other
two are guarded by an ancient and powerful Noldo, who feels bound by an
infamous age-old oath to protect them.”
Éogar
offers, "Perhaps we can gain the Singer’s support by letting him see
that we understand his sacrifice. If we cannot gain his aid, then we
should camp in this glen and prepare for Baldur's coming ourselves."
The helpful voice of his friend reaches Finbor’s troubled soul. The
young Gondorian ceases his pacing and nods once, regaining his composure.
He suggests that now the Fellowship must rest, for evening has come upon the
forest. Throughout the night the Fellowship keeps a nominal watch, but it
proves unnecessary, for the Singer’s ward has kept this small stretch of
the deep woods free of malevolent danger.
*
* *
As
dawn stretches her rosy fingers upon the eastern sky, Bergalad wakes up his
friends. Rard wipes the sleep from his eyes and prepares a light repast
for his friends. In less than an hour the Fellowship’s camp is
struck, and the companions are once again hiking through the dense copses of
the heart of the Great Wood. The return walk to the Elf-haven is no
harder than the journey to the Singer’s abode, and the Fellowship is
compelled at sunset to make camp some miles yet to the west of the
Eastern-elves’ hidden village. The companions rise at dawn on the 7th
of August and traverse the remaining distance, arriving in the Elf-haven around
mid-day. They find it almost completely empty. The healer women who
tended to Finbor’s wounds have departed, joining their folk in another
hidden haven elsewhere in the woods. Only a handful of servants remain to
tend to the Fellowship’s animals, and it is clear that as soon as the
Fellowship departs even these Elves will leave and the village will be wholly
abandoned. Finbor is happily reunited with Grimmód and Éogar with
Hildwyn, but Rard is most overjoyed to see faithful “Barion” the
mule. All the animals are in fine shape, rested and well-fed and
well-tended.
The
Fellowship stays in the Elf-haven while waiting for Frolin to discern the
coming of Belemir. They have their choice of huts in which to stay, since
almost all of the Elves are gone. The remaining servants, loyal to the
command of Belegorn their Speaker, stay and continue to provide the Fellowship
with food and clean water. It is a healthful and uneventful rest; Finbor’s
lingering injury continues to heal again now that he is no longer exerting
himself in the heart of the deep woods. Yet despite the comfortable rest,
the stay is quiet and tedious. Deprived of the presence of the lively
wood-folk, the village seems somber and lonely. The passing hours and
days are hardest for Rard, whose anxious fear is matched only by his Brandybuck
restlessness. “How long are we going to have to wait for
Belemir?” he whines to his comrades.
“I
do not know for certain,” Frolin replies calmly. He explains that
several weeks lapsed between Belemir’s last disappearance and the
subsequent disappearance of the next shard. Belemir vanished from
Galleth’s estate on June 26th. The shard in the Brown
Lands to the southwest across the
Each
morning Frolin rises and retreats into the woods, where he may meditate in
silence and work the magicks taught him by Dáma of Marsburg. He reaches
out with his mind to sense the presence of the Angril shards, each day
sensing the Singer’s shard, the Spider-Demon’s shard, and the shard
in Belrath’s country. Each day his companions await his return with
a mixture of hope and dread: hope for news, and dread that the time is coming
that they must face Belemir. On August the 14th, Frolin walks
back into the Elvish encampment with a pallid look
upon his face. His friends gather around him, nervous glances exchanged
between them all. “The time of reckoning is coming,” Frolin
says. “This morning I no longer sensed the shard east of the
Rard
looks up at his comrades with wide eyes. “What do we do now?”
he asks.
The
intervening days have allowed Finbor to heal more of his injuries. Dwelling in a safe Elf-haven under the care of Frolin, who is now
becoming quite specialized in tending wounds, Finbor flourishes.
[2 Stamina tests, TN 10: complete success, complete success] By the
morning of the 14th, when Frolin returns with his portentous news,
Finbor is once again rather healthy, with only a few scrapes remaining where
once he suffered mortal injuries [10 damage remaining, Healthy, -0].
Scene 5: The Coming Storm
On
the morning of August 14th, Frolin reports to his companions that
the last unknown shard of the Angril has at last vanished from the
senses of his far-ranging magic. Belemir must have acquired the fragment
from Belrath’s country and veiled it behind his shadown-magic.
"We do not need to leave the village just yet, my friends," Frolin
says, trying to comfort his worried comrades. He explains that Belemir is
at least fifty leagues away from the heart of the Great Wood wherein the shards
of the Singer and the Spider-Demon lay. It will take him some time to
locate these shards and close on them, and so the Fellowship need not depart the
Elf-haven for another seven days.
Rard
looks crestfallen, already bored with sitting around
the deserted village for so many days. “A week?” he responds
incredulously. “But what are we supposed to do till
then?” Frolin shakes his head, quieting the hobbit’s protest
with a frown.
Éogar
looks to the Dwarf and cautions, "Belemir may ride his Great Raven; he
could cover distance quickly." Frolin suggests in response that
previously Belemir has required some weeks in between acquiring missing shards
and that the distance is still great, and Éogar relents.
Rard
looks around at his serious-faced friends and hesitantly raises another
issue. “Umm, what will we say to Belemir when we find him
again?”
Éogar
states, "I do not think Belemir will listen to reason, so we must find
something else that can help him fight the corruption he has suffered from the
Angril. We have all learned how powerful friendship can be, perhaps we
can invoke his time with King Elessar...with his friend Aragorn?"
"If
we can speak with him, we need to share what the Singer told us of the Black
Enemy and the consequences of reuniting the Angril,” Frolin
answers. “If that is not enough to sway him, then he is truly lost
to darkness."
Finbor
nods once and adds in a tense voice, "He made a fool out of us once; I
will not allow him to do that twice."
Éogar
shifts his gaze to Bergalad. After a time he says to the Elf, "You
have been quiet during our wait. I trust you have been contemplating how
we are to convince the Singer to help us? You and Finbor have recalled
his history together, but I do not think simply recounting his history will be
enough to sway him. How should we convince him?"
Bergalad
thinks silently for many moments before answering. "If the Singer
is the legendary Maglor, son of Fëanor, he must
feel the Call of the Sea more keenly than even the eldest of my kin in
the West. He once consigned a great Silmaril to the watery
depths. It would do much to relieve the anguish of his deeds if he were
to confine the Angril to the same fate and rid Middle-earth of its taint
forever".
"If
that is the case,” Frolin growls skeptically, “one wonders why he
has not done so already with his shard...or why he will not do so now that
Belemir has six other shards. It could be that he is unwilling to give up
his shard. He has long possessed it, and may not be able to bear losing
it."
"No,"
Finbor replies, "if I have understood Maglor correctly, the shards have
only grown in power since the downfall of the Nameless Enemy, fifteen years
ago. As Bergalad can no doubt testify that amount of time means nothing
to an Elf, let alone a ten-thousand year old Elf.” He notes that
the Singer claims to live as an exile, desiring no contact with the world
beyond the ancient forest in which he now dwells. The Singer has not left
his wooded demesne in a thousand years, and would not do so even to destroy the
Angril. If one thing is known for certain about the Singer, he no
longer wishes to be seen or even recalled by the world beyond.
Frolin
shrugs and says, "We should warn him that Belemir has acquired his sixth
shard. I think we should also ask him to cast his shard into the
Sea. His answer will tell us much. I am not at all certain how he
will react if we confront him about his past, so we should not bring it up
except as a last resort."
Rard
shudders at the memory of his brush with the Iron Jewel and mutters, “I
think that all the shards should be thrown into the sea, every last one of
them!”
Éogar
looks at Rard thoughtfully and then turns to the rest of his comrades.
"Ideally they should be scattered,” he states. “If the
Singer wishes to guard his two as penance for his past, I am content with
that. As for the other shards, we will have to ask the Singer; assuming
we can convince him to help us."
"Even
if we can not secure his aid,” Frolin returns, “we can warn him of
Belemir's imminent arrival and then place ourselves in a position to prevent
the shards from being reunited."
Finbor
nods once, uncertain what to do with the shards to stop their
reunification. He envisions what must be done once all the shards are
gathered in one place, and contemplates how to transport and scatter
them. Rard shivers at the thought of having to touch a shard again.
He says, "I would prefer not to be entrusted with a shard of the Angril
to carry by myself…”
Éogar
interjects, "What we will do with the shards or Belemir should take second
priority right now. Our first task is to gain the Singer's help.”
Finbor nods in agreement, deciding that the Fellowship will set off for the
Singer’s glade in a week’s time with all of their
possessions. Once there, they must see what aid can be gained from the
Singer before ultimately deciding what to do about Belemir and the Iron Jewel.
*
* *
The
week passes quietly for the Fellowship in the hidden Elf-haven. Only a
few of Belegorn’s servants remain, and it is very obvious that they long
to leave this place and join their fellows elsewhere. Nonetheless, they
do not shirk their duty to their chieftain and continue to provide the guests
with sustenance. Rard, alarmed at the Fellowship’s low stock of
food, begins to squirrel away portions of the foodstuffs brought by the Elves,
thinking that they do not see him. However, Finbor points out to the
hobbit that Elves are keen of eye and mind, and surely they notice.
Instead, he openly asks the Elves for more food, indicating that they will
require it for their journey. As best he can tell, the Elves agree to
gather together what they may for the travelers. Not satisfied, Rard
undertakes to acquire more food for the company. He spends the week
hunting in the surrounding woods and fishing in the nearby streams, taking care
not to wander too far away from the safety of the haven. [Survival
(Forests) test, TN 10, +1 affinity for Sea-craft, extraordinary success]
The hobbit enjoys tremendous success, snaring a rabbit, felling a hart, and
catching numerous river-fish. He guts and cleans his quarry and then smokes
the meat over a fire, drying and preserving it for the journey. When all
is done, he believes he has accumulated a full four days travel rations for the
Fellowship.
Éogar
and Finbor spend the week tending to their horses, riding them about to exercise
the animals after so long a rest in this tranquil place. Finbor also
insists upon exchanging armors back with Éogar; Finbor spends some time feebly
working on the gaping chinks in his mail coat but to no avail, and he soon
reckons that he must wear this tattered coat or nothing at all. Though
the news is grim for Finbor’s armor, it is better for the man
himself. After another week of full rest, his lingering scratches from
the mortal wounds suffered five weeks before in the fight aboard the Easterling
barge have entirely healed, and he is now perfectly healthy [0 remaining
damage].
Frolin
spends his days practicing the Sindarin tongue so common among the Elves of
Middle-earth, having heard Finbor and Bergalad speak it so often.
"I'm tired of having you all translate for me all the time," he
grumbles by way of explanation. Smiling at the irascible Dwarf, Finbor
and Bergalad happily teach him what they can, and by the end of the week
Frolin’s command of the language is passable. The Dwarven
loremaster also spends the weeks in continued search for shards presumably
captured by Belemir, sending his mind out across the land to feel for their
pull. He hopes that as more of them are gathered together they will prove
harder for Belemir to veil, but he is disappointed not to sense any of
them. Either Belemir has veiled them behind grave sorcery, or there is
something even stranger at work. At the end of the week, though, Frolin
senses a change in the shards: the Singer is on the move, carrying his shard
deeper into the forest!
“We
must set off on the morrow,” Finbor states, hoping to reach the
Singer’s abode in case he returns. The Gondorian captain explains
that they cannot count on returning to his Elf-haven, that all their steeds and
possessions must be brought with them. It will be hard leading the mounts
through the dense forest, and slow too, but they must find a way. The
companions turn in early that night, sleeping fitfully before setting out on
what will surely prove to be a dangerous and uncertain enterprise. When
they rise at dawn on August the 21st, they find their Elvish hosts
awaiting them. They carry small bundles of Elvish
bread and picked berries, enough to sustain the companions for two full
days. When Rard packs away the food in the mule’s pack-saddle, he
gauges that there is a total of 70 man-days of rations, enough to sustain
comfortably the companions for two whole weeks – and longer, if they
stretch rations by cutting portions and going hungry at night.
Finbor
thanks the remaining Elves for their kindness over the past many days, and bids
them peace and joy. The Elves bows their heads politely, the beauty of
spirit native to all Elves manifest even in these primitive folk. The
head servant responds, “We wish you health and speed in your
travels. Now, we must depart this place to join our people in our deeper
sanctuaries.
Finbor
frowns and asks, “What is this danger?”
The
Elf answers, “Word has come to us from Belegorn our Speaker that the
spider broods have spilled out of the heart of the wood and encroached on our
land. The Speaker now leads our people in a great hunt against the
broods, and we must go to join him. We fear there is a great turmoil in
the heart of the forest, for some grave evil must drive the spiders beyond the
leaguer that has kept them at bay for so long. For many days have you
been our guests, and it would sadden us for you to be harmed after leaving our
care. We implore you not to venture north into the deep woods, where our
people fight the spiders. If you must travel through the forest, go to
the west through the forest deeps.”
The
companions thank their hosts for the news and bid them farewell; the
Eastern-elves bow once more and slip away, disappearing into the woods beyond
and are not seen again. Finbor shares a serious look with his friends,
gesturing for them to move off west into the forest. He says, “We
must hurry. The spider-horde may have left the heart of the Great Wood,
but my heart fears what could have sent them hence…”
*
* *
The
Fellowship, relying on Éogar’s unfailing sense of direction and Rard and
Bergalad’s wood-craft, retraces their path to the Singer’s glade,
traveling and foot and guiding their animals along behind them. The trip
took a full day and a half previously, and Finbor does not call for the
companions to press a harder pace than before: without other orders, the
Fellowship maintains the same steady, comfortable, slow pace as before.
The first half of the hike is no different than the first time; the woods are
rough, but the led horses negotiate the terrain with only slight difficulty and
do not slow down the company. By late afternoon the Fellowship once again
reaches the spot along the seacoast where the Singer’s mighty voice was
first heard. His abode lies two leagues to the
north, in the dense heart of the forest. The companions take a short rest
before preparing to delve into the thick woods. Suddenly, the sky above
darkens. The clouds that had heretofore these past many days been white
and peaceful now turn dark and ominous, swollen with a coming deluge.
Bergalad, whose keen eyes see farther than anyone else, looks up and scans the
heavens.
“What
do your Elvish eyes see?” Finbor asks him.
The
Grey-elf is silent for many moments, and when he speaks it is with a heavy
heart. “I see a soaring shadow, a great bird black of wing; this
rook flies among the black clouds, as if the storms brew in its wake. In
wide circles it flies, like a hawk on the wing searching for prey.”
Éogar
shoots a glance at Frolin and says, “Belemir’s raven. He has
come to seek the shards of the Singer and the Spider-Demon.”
“Quickly, into the forest!” Finbor
orders, not wanting to be seen. The company hurries into the thick
copses, struggling to guide the large war-horses between the overgrown
trees. The travelers try to follow their previous course to the
Singer’s glade but the horses have an extremely difficult time
negotiating the very rough terrain, and the company’s speed is greatly
slowed. By nightfall they have covered not even half a league,
and they are compelled to make camp most uncomfortably among the sprawling
copses and thickets. The next day the companions press on, pulling the
horses through the dense woods, often forced to go well out of their way to
lead the animals around impassable terrain.
Finally,
about mid-morning on the third day the Fellowship reaching the Singer’s
clearing, the trip requiring at least twelve grueling
additional hours than previously. The friends carefully look around the
clearing for signs of the Singer’s presence, and they call out greetings
in case he is nearby, but their calls go unanswered. Frolin shakes his
head and says, “I last sensed him far from here; he moves far more
swiftly than we do, and he moves farther away still rather than returning to
his home.”
Éogar
peers into the Singer’s cave and then says, “His abode is
abandoned, and he has taken the crystal shard with him.” Frolin
nods somberly, already knowing as much.
Finbor
closes his eyes, a slight sigh escaping his lips. He looks back to his
friends and says, “I had hoped that the Singer would return to this place
and that we might meet him again here. No-one among us can hope to
overtake this mighty Elf-lord on foot in these woods, not even our Elven-friend
Bergalad. No, the Singer is gone and nothing will bring him back to us
beyond his own volition. Whatever we will do regarding Belemir and the
Spider-Demon, we must do on our own.” He faces Frolin and asks,
“What do you sense of the Spider-Demon’s shard?”
The
Dwarf-sage answers, “It remains where it has been, in the densest heart
of the forest some miles to the north from here. The spider-broods may
have been sent forth to assault Belegorn’s folk, but it seems the
Spider-Demon itself remains in its lair.”
As
Frolin finishes his words, thunder rumbles in the dark sky above and rain
begins to fall on the forest. The skies have not cleared nor has the sun
shown itself opening since Bergalad saw the black-winged rook circling high
above. Indeed, this day seems darker than the day before, and as the
hours pass the day grows darker still…
Scene 6: Enslaved by the Darkness
The
Fellowship has returned to the Singer’s sylvan glade on the morning of
August the 23rd, only to find it completely abandoned. Their
hoped-for ally gone, the companions realize they must act decisively on their
own. "Belemir's plan is now clear," Frolin says to his
friends. "By some means he has chased the lesser spiders from their
home. This way they will not hinder him from taking the great spider's
shard, and they will occupy the Singer. We must make haste to the
spider's lair."
Finbor
immediately assents, ordering the Fellowship to leave the steeds behind in the
Singer’s glade, for they cannot be brought into the overgrown heart of
the wood without great difficulty and delay. Rard, fearful the horses may
roam off into danger, proposes tethering them, but Éogar warns him doing so
could leave them helpless should danger come. Untethered, the animals can
wander the clearing and graze on wild grasses in some degree of comfort and
safety. Finbor instructs his fellows to leave the water barrel in the
clearing and to unpack the rations from the mule’s pack, taking along three
days worth and leaving the rest behind for the foreseen journey home.
Rard at first thinks to ask one of his bigger friends to carry his rations, but
he declines when he realizes that the small extra weight will not slow him down
and that Éogar, heavily armored, is nearly at his fullest capacity without
being slowed by encumbrance. The members of the Fellowship fill up their
waterskins from the barrel, aware that potable water may be infrequently found
in this insalubrious forest.
Finbor
then leads the Fellowship forward out of the Singer’s clearing, pressing
a brisk but manageable pace approaching a constant jog. Rard whimpers
slightly at the exertion but recognizes the exigency. "I don't want
to be exhausted when we arrive, but I think it better than being late," he
says. Deferring to the superior woodcraft of Éogar, Rariadoc, and
Bergalad, Finbor brings up the company’s rear flank and follows the lead
of the guides in the van. Éogar minds the Fellowship’s direction as
they head toward the Spider-Demon’s shard sensed from afar by Frolin, while Rard helps the company negotiate the thick and
overbearing forest growth. Even at a brisk march the Fellowship barely
manages a mile and a half each hour, and the travelers can only afford to take
a few short breaks to nurse the water in their skins and devour some quick
morsels. Fearing that the Fellowship’s meager rations may not hold
out, Rard keeps an eye out for berries, nuts, and other consumables that the
forest may provide. However, the company’s pace is too swift to
permit him to forage carefully, and his cursory observation suggests that these
wooded deeps are so tainted and despoiled by the spiders that little
nourishment remains to be found. He sighs once and reluctantly focuses on
the trek ahead. All of the companions, though, keep their eyes on the
thick canopies and branches above, as all but Bergalad recall the encounter in
Mirkwood and do not relish the thought of falling into a spider ambush yet
again. As the furlongs of forest pass by, they do indeed spot a great
many thick webs hanging high above, but all of them appear to be empty.
The report appears to be true that the horde of lesser spiders has poured forth
from the heart of the wood to plague the frontiers of the Eastern-elves.
The
heart of the wood is dense and overgrown, with only periodic, small openings in
the canopy revealing glimpses of the sky above. That sky is always gray
and full of ominous clouds, alit occasionally by peels of thunderbolts.
Whenever the lightening flashes in the dark sky above, the silhouette of the
great raven is spotted against the contrast. The rook ever is circling
high above, flying in wide arcs above the forest as if searching for prey
below. Rard remembers his cousin Merry telling him a story of the
Fellowship of the Ring traveling down the Anduin, menaced by a great black
shade in the night sky overhead. Legolas, so he was told, aimed his bow
at the beast high above and managed to strike it with a feathered shaft.
The hobbit archer briefly toys with the idea of trying his skill at the giant
rook but decides that the distance is just too far even for Halgo’s stout
little bow. If only I had a Lorien bow like Legolas! he thinks to himself.
The
summer weather in the heart of the Great Wood is oppressive; the air is musty,
humid, and hot, choking the lungs of those compelled to breathe it. The
August storm raging in the sky above drops torrents of rain onto the thick
forest canopy, though little of the deluge falls to the woodland floor
below. Even when the savage rain stops, mists and vapors ooze down from
the leaves and branches above. Through it all the Fellowship trudges
onward, determined to reach the Spider-Demon’s lair before Belemir can
make off with the last shard and race off in pursuit of the Singer.
Finally, when the day is nearly two hours past
[Stamina
tests]
Bergalad
(TN 14): 10 roll + 5 = 15, complete success (Tired, -2)
Éogar
(TN 14): 10 roll + 7 = 17, complete success (Tired, -2)
Finbor
(TN 19): 7 roll + 8 = 15, failure (Weary, -4)
Frolin
(TN 14): 6 roll + 8 = 14, marginal success (Tired, -2)
Rard
(TN 14): 8 roll + 6 = 14, marginal success (Tired, -2)
This
clearing is no pleasant grove like the Singer’s home, but rather is a
fearsome and dark place, reeking of dead husks and shadowed by vast sheets of
webbing stretching throughout the branches above. Éogar carefully pushes
forward into the clearing, taking the vanguard with his spear firmly in
hand. He looks for the Spider-Demon, hoping to stab it quickly and pry
the shard from its bulbous form, but he quickly disabuses himself of the hope
that so feared a creature would be lying about so languidly. No, he
realizes, they will have to search for the beast. When he is certain the
path is safe, Éogar looks back to his friends and waves them forward, leading
them into the clearing. Cautiously, they advance out of the thick
surrounding forest and make their way through a sizable distance of downed and
decaying trees, heaps of rotting leaves and twigs, and bales of webbing all
amongst a sparse framework of twisted, old, gigantic oaks. They do not
see any brood of spiders like the monsters they faced in Mirkwood, nor do they
spy the mighty Spider-Demon itself. Has it departed its lair, too, or is
it yet lying in hiding?
A
particularly massive oak stands in the heart of the polluted glade, with huge
branches stretching up to the gray-clouded sky above. As the companions
walk into the clearing, perhaps a hundred feet ahead they spot the form of a
massive black raven, as large, as the largest of horses, perched upon the
stoutest main branch. The great bird cranes its head about, blackened
eyes probing the motion coming through the forest. The companions hold
their breaths in anxiousness, feeling that a great moment has come upon them.
Then, a powerful voice calls out to them from another branch in the mighty tree
some hundred feet away across: it is the resonant baritone of Belemir, though
now his voice is twisted and darkened, an otherworldly sound that chills the
heart to listen to it. “We have seen you coming,” Belemir
says. “Through the far-seeing eyes of Morgalad, we have
espied your advance, you who have for so many months hounded the trail of
Baldur.” The companions desperately scan the tall tree, trying to
spot Belemir through the mass of dark leaves and sprawling webs, but so much of
the tree appears to be veiled in shadows, as if they pour from the gray sky
above like black rain. The voice laughs sharply, a cold and hollow sound
so different from the man whom you met in Galleth’s villa, who was
inscrutable and distant yet not so very inhuman. He continues in his
malicious tone, “Our vessel is nearly gathered together once more, and
after time untold our coming is at hand. Before we pursue that last Power
who holds the final piece, we tarried here to receive you. When we claim
the final piece, there will be no-one pursuing us, and no-one to interfere with
our return!”
“Show
yourself, Belemir!” Finbor cries out, stepping forward to stand by Éogar
side.
The
twisted voice sneers audibly across the distance and shouts back, “An
empty name for an empty vessel. Baldur is our new vessel for a time until
we find a form that better suits our terrible majesty. Baldur is the Lord
of the Iron Jewel, whose power commands all life infused with its
essence.” Slowly, the shadows part and the figure of a man can be
seen high upon the far-off branch, a bent and gaunt form, a sickly remnant of
the lean Dúnadan whom you met previously. Belemir is even paler now, and
his tall form hunched over and twisted in guise, and even from a hundred feet
away you can see that his blue-gray eyes are dimmed by shadow. Most
fearfully, his limbs glow with a sickly blackened aura, the pale light of
the shards of the Black Crystal! Five of the shards are imbedded in his
flesh, merging with his form and shedding their unholy aura from within.
When
he speaks again, he speaks with the voice of magic intoning words of dark
sorcery. Then, the sides of the glade tremble with the movement of large,
powerful creatures, crushing the ground and rattling even the largest
trees. To the Fellowship’s left, some thirty feet ahead, a gigantic
spider emerges from its hiding place, a bulbous and bloated creature of
disgusting horror. Like Shelob described in Mister Samwise's stories!
Rard thinks. To the Fellowship’s right, opposite the Spider-Demon,
emerges a massive wolf with soot-black fur and large yellow fangs; it sniffs
the air heavily and snarls, a fearful rumble. The beast can only be the
Wolf-Devil from Belrath’s country east of the
“You
have come so far only to die,” Belemir’s malevolent voice calls
out. “You cannot flee so swiftly as our
servants can chase and devour you. Once your bodies are torn and broken,
we shall be free to claim the final piece and return to Arda.
Then, we will remake this world as we envisioned it so long ago, in the Music
of the Ainur…” Belemir’s gaunt form lifts an arm
commandingly, and the great raven lifts its wings and prepares to fly over to
him. At the same time, the Spider-Demon and Wolf-Devil lurch forward
toward the Fellowship!
Scene 7: The Last
August the 23rd in the 15th year
of the Fourth Age, an oppressively hot and grey-skied day in the blighted lands
of Rhûn. A humid wind howls and peels of thunder rumble loudly
as the Fellowship from the West, at long last, once again confronts the missing
loremaster Belemir. Yet, Belemir looks far worsened than when the
Fellowship first encountered him in Galleth’s villa two months
previously; now Belemir is gaunt and hunched, his eyes darkened by shadow, his
complexion pallid and jaundiced, and his limbs and torso polluted by the shards
of the Angril imbedded in his flesh. He speaks with a wracked
voice from a world beyond, ghastly and malevolent. Somehow his voice is
able to command the Spider-Demon and the Wolf-Devil through words of foul
sorcery; the beasts open his orders and advance menacingly upon the
companions…
Finbor,
weary from the demanding hike through the rough forest to reach this point,
looks about at his tired friends. The Gondorian captain summons up the
last ounce of his courage to resist much of his own fatigue, leaving him
winded. He calls out to his comrades, hoping his words will inspire their
hearts and refresh their limbs: "At last, my friends, the end of our quest
is here! Everything we have done so far means nothing if we don't succeed
now. Let the Elfstone prevail over the Dark Jewel.” Drawing
his sword Herubrand from its scabbard, he brandishes the blade above his head
and shouts, “For the King!" [Inspire test, TN 15, complete
success] His companions lift a cheer from their throats, harkening to his
words; blood thunders in their veins as they raise their arms in readiness to
fight the evil present in this wood, all of them now merely winded rather than
tired.
As
the great wolf and the massive spider advance on the Fellowship, Finbor orders
his band to fall back to as defensible a position as possible, against the
dense ring of trees to their rear. At the least, the beasts will not be
able to flank the Company and strike them from behind. As Finbor leads
Frolin, Rard, and Éogar back a few feet to the treeline, Bergalad holds his
ground, bow at the ready. With a flash of his hand, he draws an arrow
from his quiver at notches it in his bow, drawing upon the horrid beasts moving
closer. He says quickly to his friends, “I do not forget that I
pledged to allow this company the chance to save Belemir, if it is
possible. Hurry and speak your peace to him! I will screen your
retreat and hold these beasts at bay.”
Éogar
ceases falling back and faces Belemir from across the clearing, while Bergalad
trains his bow on the wolf and the spider in alternating turn, causing the
beasts to slow their approach only slightly. "Hear me, Belemir, for
I speak with the authority of King Elessar...your friend, Aragorn!” Éogar
shouts to Dúnadan loremaster, hoping to reach what is left of his spirit
through the maddening corruption of the Angril shards. “He
would bid you to call off these beasts of Shadow and fight the corruption that
has taken you. Will you not abandon your lust of power for the simpler
life that you once cherished as a Ranger of the North? Together
again with your friend Aragorn?" [Persuade test, untrained,
failure]
For
a brief moment at the mention of Aragorn, Belemir seems to waver slightly upon
his branch high up in the distant tree. Even from over a hundred feet
away, a strange gurgling sound can be heard in his throat. He gasps, only
briefly his voice like it was in Galleth’s villa,
“Aragorn…” But, he chokes loudly and swoons, regaining
his malignant poise a moment later. The wretched voice returns and roars
a fearsome reply: “This vessel is ours; no King of Men shall command us,
for we are the Lord of Darkness and our return to this world draws nigh!”
While
Belemir choked and wavered so briefly, the wolf and spider turned back slightly
and stalked Bergalad more obliquely, still ravenous animals with or without
sorcerous commands. As the Lord of Darkness speaks again, the terrible
majesty of his voice shaking the very forest, the beasts once more advance
directly on Bergalad, unfazed by the threat of his bow. The brave
Grey-elf lets fly a shaft over their heads, hoping to frighten them back and
buy his comrades more time, but now the animals are undeterred
whatsoever. Before he can draw his blade or escape, the wolf and the
spider leap upon him. Bergalad tries to dodge away in vain; the
Wolf-Devil lands a vicious bite on the Elf’s abdomen and then catches his
leg in its powerful maw, tripping him to the ground. As soon as Bergalad
hits the ground, the Spider-Demon leaps upon him and sinks its horrid fangs
into his neck repeatedly, pumping the Elf’s body full of venom.
“Bergalad, no!” Rard cries out in
shock and anger, tears briefly watering his face. Finbor, Éogar, and
Frolin wince at the sight of their comrade, who was never meant to know death,
laid low so suddenly by these foul beasts. Yet, through his sacrifice the
remaining companions were able to fall back to the dense treeline, where they
can engage the demon-beasts on better terms.
Éogar
braces his spear and shield for battle. He growls,
"Finish off the wolf quickly, and I will hold the spider at bay.
Be watchful of the raven and Baldur as well!"
"Fine,
then the wolf is mine!" Finbor adds in grim voice, standing at
Éogar’s right side.
Frolin
grunts and calls out to Finbor, "We Dwarves know how to fight wolves,
too! Long have the goblins of the North ridden their wargs against my
folk, and long have we defeated them!" The Dwarven-sage keeps behind
Finbor, ready to rush off to the side and take the wolf from its exposed flank
as soon as it closes with the Gondorian warrior.
*
* *
Éogar
rushes the Spider-Demon, preparing to intercept the beast as it jumps off
Bergalad’s stricken cadaver. He holds his spear at the ready, to
drive back the horrid arachnid’s bites. The wolf, meanwhile, tears
into Bergalad once more time with its sharp fangs; sated, it lifts its
malevolent eyes to stare at Finbor, the intimidating gaze of a fierce
predator. [Fear opposed test, failure] The valorous captain returns the
stare, unfrightened by the animal. Finbor lets loose a battlecry:
"Herubrand! Herubrand for Elessar!" He
rushes the wolf and unleashes a powerful blow with his sword. He
contemplates trying to hit the large animal’s head or throat, thinking
that they may be more vulnerable, but he perceives that the wolf’s thick
hide and dense bones provide too formidable a defense and instead just slams
his heavy sword into the creature’s body. The wolf attempts to leap
aside, but as the animal pounces off Bergalad’s body Herubrand’s
edge slices into its hide. [Power Attack, superior success, 4d6+4 damage]
The mighty blow cuts off fur and staggers the animal slightly, but its bulk is
great and it still looks healthy.
Rard,
standing at the far rear of the clearing, squints at the Great Raven taking to
the air and circling around above Belemir. "That creature has been a
bane to us for too long!" he hisses, wiping away the tears from his eyes
and putting Bergalad’s fate from his mind for a time. He quick-draws an arrow from his quiver, fixes it in
Halgo’s stout little bow, and takes careful aim at the raven before
letting the shaft fly. With his mighty shot, the little hobbit easily
ignores the difficulty of the distance between him and his much larger target,
though it is tricky even for him to hit a moving target in the air.
Calling on his courage, he manages to strike the raven in its flank, an
extraordinary strike that dazes the massive bird [extraordinary success, 1 courage spent]. It lets out a loud squawk and veers
up higher into the air, flying faster and trying to shelter behind the cover of
the tall tree.
Now
the Spider-Demon charges Éogar, barreling at him with its wicked fangs to
bear. Éogar intercepts the spider with his mighty spear, though the beast
is so massive that his spear seems a paltry affair, not so very long of
reach. The spider tries to dodge the Rohirric warrior’s spear but
the head slams into its hairy carapace [extraordinary success]. The beast
is so large that even Éogar’s powerful blow barely disturbs it.
Only through the beast’s dark courage is it able to complete its charge,
yet its bite is hopelessly clumsy and cannot even touch the nimble warrior.
Frolin,
meanwhile, completes his stocky jog around the right flank of the treeline and
comes up on the Wolf-Devil’s exposed left-rear flank, menacing the beast
with his stout axe.
Éogar,
standing alone a few feet to the left of Finbor, keeps the Spider-Demon at bay
with his spear, preventing the creature from drawing any closer to the vicious
Wolf-Devil. Spotting the shard of the Black Crystal buried in the
arachnid’s bulbous head over its grotesque panoply of eyes, Éogar thrusts
his spear at the black-light aura. The warrior’s aim is
extraordinary and true, and only the last of the spider’s evil courage
enables it to dodge aside and avoid the blow that might otherwise have
dislodged the Angril shard from its flesh. Éogar carefully
recovers from the blow and prepares to defend himself. The spider snaps
once at him, and Éogar fends off the fangs with a spear-parry. The spider
follows up with another clumsy bite and cannot even connect.
Rard,
quick-drawing another arrow, takes aim once again at the great raven before it
vanishes behind the tree, trying to land once last punishing hit, though now
the shot is considerably more difficult. The skillful hobbit grazes its
wing with the sharp arrow, injuring the swiftly retreating bird as it finally
disappears from sight. Rard knows he won’t be able to target the
raven again until it reappears from hiding, or until he advances across the
clearing and behind the tree in order to hunt it down. Belemir, standing
alone upon his high branch, trembles in rage, and from his lips the dark voice
of the Lord of Darkness unleashes an angry howl. [Fear test, complete
success] Rard quivers at the sound, as if the howl is a dagger aimed at his
very heart! The hobbit quakes in fear, panicked but not
driven from the field [-2 on all tests].
The
Wolf-Devil snaps at Finbor, but the warrior catches its jaws on his shield and
easily blocks the fangs. Snarling, the wolf then whips around and bites
at Frolin and just barely manages to make contact with the smaller Dwarf; and
just barely the Dwarf manages to swing the flat of his axe in the way, parrying
the wicked jaws. Finbor unleashes another powerful attack on the wolf
with his blade Herubrand, but the beast summons up its unholy courage and
dodges aside. Frolin quickly tries to follow up with a blow from his axe,
but the wolf readily dodges aside with the momentum gained from leaping back
from Finbor’s stroke.
Baldur’s
voice roars across the battlefield once again: “Fools! You will
share the fate of the Elf. There is no escaping the Lord of
Darkness…”
*
* *
Éogar
regains the initiative and raises his spear to strike the Spider-Demon,
determined either to knock out the Angril shard imbedded in its head or
to slay the beast. The bloated arachnid endeavors to dodge the mighty
blow, but Éogar lands an extraordinary hit on the top of the bulbous
head. His spear-point slices the flesh, a mere surface wound for so
massive a beast; but, the accurate blow presses into the nodule containing the
crystal shard, lancing it like a boil. The shard of the Black Crystal
pops out like a cork in a bottle, and it lands on the nearby ground, covered
with ooze and smoldering like a fiery rock falling from the sky. The
Spider-Demon hisses in irritation at the blow, but it does not lose any of its
size or prowess. Yet, a hateful shadow seems to pass away from its many
eyes, and the creature wavers in fear for the first time since it revealed
itself. The spider remains a vicious animal, though no longer insensitive
to pain and fear. Éogar wheels his spear about and lands another
extraordinary blow that the spider fails to avoid, the blade puncturing the
creature’s swollen flank; it shrieks in alarm like any wounded animal,
visibly injured.
Finbor,
meanwhile, notes Rard’s panicked reaction to the fearsome voice of Baldur
and espies that Frolin means to back away from the Wolf-Devil so that he may
bolster the shaken hobbit; the Gondorian captain holds his sword at the ready
to hammer the wolf should it interfere. Indeed, when the wolf turns about
to snap at Frolin, Finbor unleashes a flurry of blows to distract it.
With the last of its dark courage, the wolf spryly dodges Finbor’s first
stroke, and the celerity of its momentum carries its bulk aside from
Finbor’s second swashing blow. Yet, so accurate is Finbor’s
third stroke that the wolf cannot dodge the attack; it is a superior hit that
manages to cut through the beast’s thick hide and draw a spurt of blood.
Unfazed, the possessed wolf snaps at Finbor; the warrior tries to parry with
his sword and shield, but he is overextended and cannot block the snarling
jaws. The teeth drag past Finbor’s tattered mail coat and graze his
skin, a mild flesh wound [8 damage, Healthy].
However, the beast snags Finbor’s leg and, with its greater bulk and
swiftness, easily trips him to the ground. The warrior falls prone, with
the wolf towering above him.
Frolin
moves back from the Wolf-Devil, putting himself in front of the panicked Rard
and facing Belemir from across the clearing. "We do not fear the
Shadow, Baldur" he cries out scornfully. "Your voice holds no
terror for us!" With these words he invokes a spell against fear,
bolstering the heart of the frightened hobbit. His spirit roused again by
Frolin’s spell, Rard summons up his last courage to shake off the panic
set in his heart by Baldur’s voice [0 courage remaining].
No
longer panicked, Rard jogs off to the left behind the cover of trees, trying to
position himself with a clear line of sight both to Baldur far across the
clearing and to the Spider-Demon battling Éogar. He defiantly shouts out
to Belemir, hoping to reach the man through the shadow of evil possessing him,
"King Aragorn had a quest: to save the world from Sauron. Aragorn
has given us a quest now, to find you! But, he wouldn't want that if he
could see what you have become!" [Persuade test, failure] Belemir
quails once more for a brief moment, but the wretched figure quickly regains
its bearing and ignores the hobbit’s words. Rard quick-draws an
arrow and hazards a rushed shot at the Spider-Demon; the beast is so big that
Rard can hardly miss at this range, but the hasty shot mostly slides off its
hairy carapace with little damage.
Belemir
suddenly jumps down from the branch, a solid fall that would surely shake so
frail a form of any other person, but his body possessed at it is by the shards
of the Angril lands hard upon the earth without wincing from pain.
His bellowing, menacing voice cries out, “Morgalad! Come!
Morgalad!” His eyes burning with
dark shadow, he storms toward the Fellowship, striding a quarter of the
distance across the clearing, the staff of the Wood-elves in his hand.
Éogar
aims to drive off or slay the Spider-Demon now that the shard has been forced
from its horrid body. He jabs once clumsily with his spear, and the
spider easily dodges the thrust. He thrusts again, and this time the
injured spider is unable to avoid the blow: it is a meager hit for a man of
Éogar’s skill but enough to puncture the beast’s swollen body,
loosing a stream of thick blood and visibly wounding the creature.
Seeing
Finbor pulled to the ground by the Wolf-Devil, Frolin rushes back into close
combat with the beast, striking at its exposed flank. The wolf tries to
leap aside, and only by calling on the last of his courage can Frolin make the
blow connect [0 courage remaining]. His superior
stroke slashes into the wolf’s furry flank, cutting open its hide and
drawing blood. Still possessed by the shard of the Black Crystal, the
Wolf-Devil seems insensible to the danger or pain of injury. The brave
Dwarf also succeeds in drawing the beast’s attention away from the fallen
Finbor. The wolf snaps at the little Dwarf and just barely manages to
catch his side in his teeth; Frolin tries to fend off the bite with his axe,
but he is too overextended. The jagged teeth merely graze the Dwarven
loremaster, and the stout Dwarf somehow remains on his feet as the wolf pulls
away trying to trip him [4 damage, Healthy].
Belemir
continues to stride forward coming within fifteen yards of the companions
struggling with the demonic beasts. He raises his staff and begins to
chant, weaving words of dark magic. A moment later, the Spider-Demon,
freed from the hold of the shard, begins to act like the animal that it is,
however large and fierce; badly wounded by Éogar, the spider backs away and
scuttles off into the surrounding forest as fast as its many legs will carry it
– and that is quite fast.
Finbor
now rises to his feet, ready to attack the wolf now snarling at Frolin.
"Finbor, try to strike the beast's shard!" the Dwarf shouts. As
the Gondorian captain rises, the wolf turns to face him and tries to dodge the
coming blow. The wolf nimbly leaps aside from Finbor’s precise
thrust; Finbor comes around for another precise stab, and this time manages to
connect. The blow is not accurate enough to hit the place where the shard
throbs within its gullet, though; the blade cuts into its hide and draws out more
blood, but the possessed wolf pays no heed to the pain.
Rard
tries to shoot an arrow at the Spider-Demon, but the creature is already gone
by the time he levels his bow at the place where it previously stood in battle
against Éogar. Deprived of his target, and
unsure yet if he shoot dare to shoot at Belemir, he takes cover behind the
dense tree-line and aims his bow at the sky, in case the great raven should
return.
"We
must try to remove the shards from Belemir. It is the only way to save
him!" Éogar hollers to his companions as soon as the Spider-Demon scuttles
away. But before he can turn on his heels to face Belemir, the gaunt and
shadowed-eyed sage completes his incantation. The stormy skies above
swirl in a tempest, and a gust of wind rattles the rain-covered treetops.
Suddenly, a bright jolt of lightning shoots out from his staff and slams into
Éogar! The warrior’s swiftness is not enough to avoid the blast,
and the bolt jars his body in slight shock [15 damage, Dazed].
At
the same time, the wolf snaps twice at Finbor. The warrior easily knocks
back both vicious bites with his sword and shield. With the momentum
remaining to him, Finbor takes another precise thrust at the wolf’s
gullet, hoping to cut out the Black Crystal shard inside him. The wolf
fails to dodge the wicked jab, but Finbor too fails at his objective. His
sword-point merely slices deeply into the animal and inflicts another bloody wound, enough to cripple even so massive an animal were it
not possessed by the Angril.
Recovered from the blast of lightning, Éogar charges
across the clearing in hopes of taking hold of Belemir. The Rohirric
warrior rushes fifteen yards to within reach of Belemir, but the Dúnadan sage
manages to bring about his staff and drive aside Éogar’s slam.
Undeterred, Éogar grabs at Belemir again. Badly overextended, Belemir
cannot this time block Éogar’s attack with his staff. The strong
warrior grasps the wizened loremaster in his hand, hoping to pin him to the
ground with his shield…and now his spear lies upon the ground, for he was
forced to drop it to grapple with Belemir.
Frolin,
seeing the wolf fully extended in battle with Finbor, raises his axe against
the beast’s turned flank. The first blow cuts deeply through its
thick hide, cracking bone and tearing through flesh. Despite being half
split open, the animal ignores what lethal damage. Grunting hard, Frolin
lands another mighty blow and slashes through its gut, cutting the beast in
two. Even the power of the Angril shard cannot hold together the
Wolf-Devil after sustaining so many mortal injuries. The remains of the
butchered wolf fall to the earth, soaking the ground in its black blood.
The shard of the Angril, too, falls free from the animal’s gullet,
smoldering on the earth like a shaft of hot ash.
Finally,
Morgalad the black raven appears from behind the far tree, harkening to
its master’s summons. As the rook flies toward Belemir, Rard takes
careful aim and lets fly a shaft. The arrow
clips the bird’s body, inflicting another sharp wound. The raven
squawks in pain and veers away, deterred from trying to reach Belemir.
Slave though it may be to him, it clearly must not be possessed by one of the
shards of the Black Crystal.
Grabbed
by Éogar, Belemir struggles to break free. The voice of Baldur roars in
anger: “You dare to lay hands on us? You will know the wrath of the
Lord of all the Earth!” Belemir calls upon all his dark courage to
break from Éogar’s hold, but Éogar summon up his noble courage and
somehow manages to keep the possessed loremaster in his grasp [2 courage spent,
1 remaining] Baldur’s voice shrieks in rage, unable to work its
terrible magic while held by Éogar’s powerful arms. Éogar maintains
the grapple, getting an even better hold on Belemir. With his far greater
strength, Éogar twists Belemir’s weaker frame against his shield and
throws him down onto the ground. Drained of his courage and prevented
from calling upon his powerful magic, Belemir cannot break free and is slammed
hard into the earth, the wind knocked from his lungs. So powerful is
Éogar’s blow that Belemir is knocked-out as his head strikes the
ground. Belemir’s eyes, possessed with the black shadow of the Lord
of Darkness, draw closed. The shards of the Angril continue to
throb in his flesh, pulsing with a sickly pale light.
Rard
watches the fall of Baldur with great satisfaction, and he espies the great
raven flying off into the distance. With its master knocked out, the
oversized rook no longer seems compelled to obey his commands, and no longer
does the bird risk the stinging shafts of Rard’s stout little bow.
The hobbit can’t help but sigh a little as the raven flies out of sight,
likely never to be see again.
“Quickly,
we must draw out the shards of the Black Crystal!” Frolin shouts, rushing
over to Éogar and Belemir, with Finbor in close pursuit. “We cannot
guess when the power of the Angril will wake him, and what sorceries he
may unleash.” Finbor nods once, gripping his sword gingerly and
pressing the flat of the tip against each pulsing sore in which a shard of the
Black Crystal rests. It is like drawing poison from a wound, and each
crystal bursts out of his flesh with torrent of puss and bile. The
companions step away from the supine form of Belemir, badly bruised from his
stunning fall and now cut and bleeding from the ministrations necessary to
remove the shards infesting his flesh. A total of seven shards of the Angril
lay upon the ground in this clearing, each pulsing a
dim pale light and smoldering with the burning blood that had previously housed
it…
The
last battle in the war for the Angril is over. Belemir, the
long-missing loremaster who was once a loyal friend and servant to Aragorn, is
now an unconscious captive, the voice of the Lord of Darkness that spoke
through him is silent. However, the price was high. Bergalad, the
noble Grey-elf minstrel from the realm of Legolas, is dead. His friends
cannot look at his broken body without feeling a terrible remorse for the loss
of such beauty from Middle-earth. Fortunately, Frolin and Éogar and
Finbor were themselves only lightly grazed in the fight against the demonic
beasts; and the hearts of all the surviving companions have been drained of the
spirit of courage by the ordeal. Though the battle has been won, the
quest remains unsolved. Seven shards of the Angril are in the
Fellowship’s possession, and it is not yet decided what will be done with
them. Can they be safely removed from the world, or will their terrible
power be allowed to linger into another age?
Scene 8: The Final Struggle
The
23rd day of August, more than three months after setting out from
Rivendell, the Fellowship has finally achieved its stated purpose: the missing
Dúnadan loremaster Belemir has been found, though he is not as his friend
Aragorn remembered him. Belemir lies broken upon the ground, the shards
of the Angril that had possessed his body forcibly cut from his flesh,
and with them the persona of Baldur the “Lover of Power” has been
sundered from him too. The shards, too, lie on the ground throughout the
forest den, throbbing with unholy light and smoldering from the burnt blood
coating their surface. While Belemir remains in an unconscious swoon,
Frolin strips him of the enchanted relics which had permitted him, in the guise
of Baldur, to wreak havoc in this land and acquire these seven shards; the
Dwarf pulls the Elvish Ring of Friendship from his hand and lifts up the
Elf-staff gifted to Belemir by the Elf-king Thranduil. The comrades see
to Belemir’s injuries only enough to staunch the bleeding so that he may
not perish, leaving the wounds to persist in hopes
they will ensure his docility. Unconvinced, Rard fetches the rope he has
been sure the Fellowship would need and binds the sage’s hands.
Wary of the power of the man’s voice, Frolin orders Belemir gagged so
that he may not speak. The gaunt and jaundiced loremaster, when so
roused, regains consciousness only slightly, with enough strength only to
babble madly in a weak murmur as he is silenced by the gag.
Once
their foe and quarry has been disarmed, Frolin immediately turns to his friends
and addresses them in a solemn voice. "Before we do aught else, let
us first see to our fallen comrade,” he says, gesturing at
Bergalad’s broken form. Éogar, Finbor, and Rard join Frolin in
gathering up Bergalad’s body. Lacking implements to dig him any
kind of tomb, the friends can only carry Bergalad into a nearby empty
clearing. They lay him on the earth and scour the surrounding area for
rocks. Over the hours they gather enough of them to erect a heavy mound
over the Elf’s body, a simple but ancient manner of burying a fallen
comrade in the field.
The
little hobbit tries to keep a stiff upper lip, but as he gives one last look to
the destroyed visage of the noble Elf he looses a reflexive whimper, quickly wiping
away tears from his eyes. Rard has taken Bergalad’s bow, quiver,
dagger, and garments: “We should return these to his people…”
he says. Finbor stands before his friends, leading them in a moment of
silence for their slain companion. For the first time in recent days, the
dark clouds above part and let through a ray of summer sun, the beam setting
upon the Elf’s mound. Finbor opens his lips and sings forth a song
in honor of Bergalad; what his voice lacks in proficiency is made up for by the
truth and feeling of his words…
Through Rhovanion over fen and field where the long grass
grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to
me tonight?
Have you seen Bergalad the Elf by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and
blue;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the East. I saw him then no
more.
The East Wind may have heard the harp of a son of Denethor.
'O Bergalad! From the high trees westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'
From Erebor the North Wind rides,
and past the
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O sighing wind, do you bring to me
today?
Where now is Bergalad the Fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell -- so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Celduin to find
the
Ask of the East Wind news of them the East Wind sends to me!'
'O Bergalad! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs east,
But you came not with the ailing gulls from the grey sea's
mouth.'
Above the sea of green the East Wind flies, the woodlands and
the stones;
The singing of the birds it bears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the East, O mighty wind, do you bring to me
at eve?
What news of Bergalad the Bold? For he is
long away.'
'Beneath the Great Wood I heard his cry. There demon foes he
fought.
His cloven bow, his broken harp, they do the soft earth
brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his
limbs they laid to rest;
And in the West, his fathers wait in the lands,
that are blessed.'
'O Bergalad! The
To Mandos, ageless Mandos' Halls, until the
end of days.'
Their
sad task done, the companions leave behind Bergalad’s remains.
Belemir lies still and helpless not far away, and the friends watch him warily
as they discuss what must now be done.
"Belemir
must be returned to King Elessar," Éogar proclaims. "He was our
original charge, and the Healing Hands of the King and his friend may be all
that can truly cleanse him. Perhaps I am best suited for this task.
Hildwyn is swift and tireless and could carry Belemir to King Elessar faster
than any of you could."
Frolin
nods once and replies, "That may be wise. Belemir should be
separated from the shards as soon as possible. But, you needn't go
alone. Take Rard with you. Finbor and I can put the shards out to
sea and then meet up with you later."
At
first Rard hesitates, unsure if he should turn his back on the shards before
seeing through their end. He grumbles about being carried along by Éogar
merely as extra weight on Hildwyn. “I wish I had a horse!" he
exclaims. His frown is suddenly replaced by an anguished look.
"Oh no, poor Cúroch!” he gasps. “I forgot all about
him. He will be upset that his master Bergalad is dead. Cúroch was
quite the tempermental animal. I do not think he will let anyone else
ride him. Remember the first time that Bergalad put me up behind on his
back to ride behind him…" A smile flashes across Rariadoc's
face as he continues, "He seemed ready to turn and bite me, but Bergalad
mounted and said something in his ear and he calmed down. In fact, I rode
on him quite often didn't I? Bergalad was always there, but I'm sure that
he wouldn't mind if I rode him now. Perhaps I could ride him alongside
you, Éogar?”
Éogar
nods and answers, "Cúroch is a fine steed and knows you already,
Rard. He can keep you on his back and may help ease the burden on Hildwyn
should you wish to accompany me.”
"Please,
Rard, go with Éogar,” Frolin interjects. “It is too long a
journey for him to make alone if Belemir resists. You can ride Bergalad's
horse. Finbor and I can deal with the shards."
“The
shards cannot be left here,” Éogar insists. “I believe we
should leave that crystal to lie here," he says, pointing to the one he
removed from the great spider. "It is the Singer's charge; let him guard
it. The others must be scattered.”
Frolin
speaks in a level tone, "I say we cast the seven shards into the depths of
the
“We
could return one to Galleth to hold,” Éogar suggests, “for clearly
his line is devoid of greed or lust for power. They were most generous to both
us and Belemir. We could cast another into the
Frolin
disagrees: "I'd say Galleth and young Halgo are better off without the
shard. And even one shard could cause great mischief if it ever fell into
the wrong hands. But it will cause no mischief on the bottom of the
sea." His companions are not so certain that the depths of the sea
hold no beast capable of falling to the malice of the Angril, but in the
end they relent and grant that the crystal in the sea is surely less of a
threat to Middle-earth than the crystal united upon the land.
"Do
we need to return a shard to the Barbarians?” Rard wonders idly.
“I know we promised them something."
Frolin
responds sharply: "We need do no such thing, Rard. Whatever bargain
we made with the Easterlings was voided when they tried to kill all of us...and
nearly succeeded!"
Finbor
fiercely agrees with the Dwarf: "They betrayed our agreement when they
attacked us, the cursed Balchoth."
Rard
protests briefly but after a moment changes his tack. “We should
carry word to each of the towns we came through to let them know that we were
successful.”
"No,
too many know of the Angril already,” Finbor says
dismissively. “It is best to leave as silently as possible."
With
a harsh exchange of words, Rard bites his tongue. The hobbit glowers in a
fit of pique, his input brushed aside so readily by the Big People.
Finbor
ponders, “Since Maglor the Singer said that is was impossible for us to
destroy them, it is wise to scatter them as best we can. But, I do not
know how to scatter them. They should be left in a place where no living thing
can disturb it, neither may it be a place visited by Men. Perhaps we
could bury a shard with Bergalad's body, hoping that his Elven form somehow
protects this place from the malign influence."
Frolin
shakes his head firmly and responds, "I would not see his resting place
corrupted with such a foul thing. Let him sleep in peace. He earned
that much at least."
"If
my opinion matters at all, which seem not,” Rard says brusquely, “I
think Éogar is right. Scatter the shards across the world."
Seeing that the hobbit’s feelings are hurt, his friends quickly seek to
make amends. They all recall that it was hobbits who managed to destroy
the One Ring, and no-one doubts that Rard’s heart is the equal of his
brave kin. Rard gives his friends a cheery smile, mollified.
Nonetheless,
Frolin will not agree to hiding the shards anywhere on
dry land. "The will be too easily recovered," he says,
insisting that they be cast into watery depths, elsewhere if not here.
“I
think it would be best to leave one shard in the Singer's abode,” Finbor
adds warily, repeating his belief that the Singer is rightfully its
guardian. He has safely watched over one shard in his possession for a
millennium, and a second may best be guarded by him. The others do not
object in the end, and it is agreed that the other six shards will be cast into
the waters. Rard makes one last suggestion that the shards might be
destroyed or at least put beyond reach forever if they are cast into the fires
of
Before
anything else may be done, the Fellowship must return to the Singer’s
glade to retrieve their mounts and supplies. Finbor sets his teeth
firmly, intent upon bearing the cursed shards back to the clearing.
“I will not betray my king…” he states. Finbor pokes at
them with his sword, loathe to touch them but unable to effect any control over
them with his blade.
Éogar
loosens the clasp at his neck and takes off the light cape running along the
back of the Elf-garments gifted to the Fellowship in the Woodland Realm.
“Perhaps the magic of this Elvish cloth will shield
us from some of the taint of the Angril,” he says. Éogar
kneels down and wraps the cape around one of the crystal shards, lifting it up
off the ground. The shard sizzles violently for a moment and then falls
calm. A gentle breeze, cool and comforting, blows through the copse,
rustling the leaves in a delicate symphony. Éogar hears a quiet voice in
the wind, light and musical and feminine, and to him it sounds like the
Elf-maid Mithalqua: May the grace of the Valar protect you. Éogar
walks throughout the wooded den, picking up the remaining shards in the
Elf-cape. Tying up the cloth containing all the shards, he places the
bundle securely in Finbor’s pack. As Finbor steels himself for the
walk back, Éogar and Frolin together lift up Belemir, each supporting one side
of the man. Belemir swoons, only barely conscious, and he stumbles as the
Fellowship walks him to the Singer’s glade; Éogar is compelled to carry
him much of the way. Rard walks in the lead, the company trusting in his
woodcraft to guide them safely out of the heart of the woods.
Because
of the burden of Belemir, it takes the Fellowship many hours to return to the
Singer’s glade. They return at dusk, happy to find Hildwyn and
Grimmod, the faithful mule and the Elf-steed Cúroch waiting for them,
unharmed. It is apparent to all that Cúroch immediately perceives the
loss of his master, and a great despondency sets upon the animal. Rard
consoles the steed as best he can, and the animal responds only to him.
It is as if Rard represents his master’s last command, and the hobbit
does not doubt that Cúroch will honor it.
Frolin
says to the others, "We should separate now. I do not think it would
be wise to keep Belemir in the presence of the shards for one moment longer
than necessary." Though it is growing dark, his companions cannot
help but agree. The Fellowship will divide, half to bear Belemir back to
King Elessar in the West and half to dispose of the shards. Éogar and
Rard, with Belemir in their custody, will ride along the northern coast of the
Inland Sea toward the River Carnen, a day ahead of Finbor and Frolin who will
follow after them and hope even to use the campsites left behind. The
companions set about dividing up the Fellowship’s stocks to each party,
in hopes there will be enough for each to complete the assigned tasks.
Since Rard and Éogar plan to travel across the open plains of the Brown Lands,
where they hope hunting and foraging will be bountiful, only a third of the
rations is given to them; the company’s mule and the water barrel it
carries is also given them. In turn, Finbor and Frolin takes
two-thirds of the rations and the company’s waterskins. Éogar asks
to take the Elvish Ring of Friendship, which should be given to King
Elessar. Finbor readily consents, and the Elf-staff of Mirkwood is left
in Frolin’s custody.
Now
all that remains is for the companions to decide once and for all what to do
with the Angril shards. Finbor removes the bundle from his
backpack, opening the cloth and letting one shard fall out onto the ground
inside the empty hill-cave at the very place where Rard picked up the shard
some time ago. He is sure that the Singer will now be able to sense the
jewel fragment and will return to keep it under his watch and ward. He returns
to his friends, holding six remaining shards in the cloth bundle. He
intones in a determined voice, “I must bear the shards. It is my
duty to the King.”
"Finbor,"
Frolin says softly, “when Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee took the One
Ring into Mordor, they could not share the burden. There was, after all,
only the One Ring. They say Frodo never recovered from the strain of
carrying the Ring for so long. But, the Angril need not be borne
by one Man alone. Share this burden with me, my friend. I can carry
three shards. You can carry the others."
Seeing
the wisdom in the Dwarf’s words, the Gondorian captain eventually relents
and agrees to let Frolin bear three of the shards. When the Dwarf
realizes he has nothing to bear them in unless he, too, tears off a portion of
his Elvish garb, Rard kindly offers one of his
pots. He smiles and adds, “Just remember
to bring it back to me.” The Dwarf chuckles,
and he holds the pot while Finbor drops three shards inside.
Éogar,
meanwhile, lifts Belemir up onto Hildwyn, making sure the man is seated
fast. Taking compassion on the broken man, Éogar removes his gag and
gives him a deep drink of water, which the battered sage drinks eagerly.
Finbor and Frolin walk over to him and Rard to say goodbye. Éogar climbs
up onto Hildwyn, sitting behind Belemir. The knightly rider looks down at
the Gondorian captain and the Dwarven sage and asks, “What will you do
with the shards?”
Finbor
explains that he and Frolin will enter Marsburg with the shards, perhaps even
seeking the counsel of Dáma. It is his intention to acquire boxes in
which to lock-up the shards, and to charter a boat to carrying them far out
into the
Suddenly,
Belemir, who heretofore had seemed barely conscious and not cognizant of his surroundings,
lets out a loud cackle. Still in a swoon he mutters, “You cannot
keep the Lord of Darkness in a box…” Belemir’s voice is
no longer the fearsome persona of Baldur but instead the ragged and dazed
babbling of a madman. Angered, Éogar silences Belemir by again fixing the
gag in his mouth.
As
Éogar upon Hildwyn and Rard, borne gently by the somber Elf-steed Cúroch,
prepare to depart, the loyal company mule following behind them, Finbor walks
after them for a moment. He calls out to Éogar: "Farewell, my
friend! Whatever Halcred may say, it has been an honor to ride with
you." He grabs Éogar’s right hand in his own, wrist to
wrist. "We'll meet again, brother, we'll meet again."
Finbor moves to Rard next and says, "Well, Master Brandybuck, it seems
that our ways part as well. Frolin and I will have to do without your
delicious meals for a while now. Send my regards to the King, and tell him that
I will join him as soon as I can. And remember, not a word about the Elves
we've met here."
Rard
nods quickly as Cúroch pulls him away. “We will see you again soon,
after you’ve gotten rid of those cursed shards!” he cries
out. "We trust you will both be strong enough to resist them.
Good luck to you both." A few moments later their steeds have carried
them out of the Singer’s glade down toward the north coast of the
*
* *
Finbor
and Frolin set out from the Singer’s glade on the morrow of August 24th,
leaving behind one shard of the Angril. Mounted upon Grimmod, the
Dúnadan and the Dwarf ride southwest through the Great Wood, carefully weaving
through the dense growth with their sturdy horse. Periodically, they come
across signs of Éogar and Rard’s passage. As they reach the
northern shore of the
On
the 29th of August they reach the first ford across the River
Carnen. Finbor and Frolin are pleased to see that there is no sign of the
Easterling armada, and a flatboat is readily hailed to pole them across.
In the late afternoon they reach the palisade surrounding Marsburg – and
find the town closed-up tightly, as if it is expecting another Easterling
assault! Perplexed, Finbor shouts out to those atop the gate:
“Hail, Marsburg! Does your town close itself to travelers so early
in the day?”
“Hail,
Finbor of the West!” a voice shouts back. It is Harin the
Guardsman, who treated with the Fellowship when it first came to Marsburg a
month and a half ago. “Our town is open to travelers, but I fear it
must remain closed to you.”
“Why
do you lock us out, Harin?” Frolin growls loudly. “Tell Dáma
that his pupil has returned to pay his respects and seek his advice.”
“It
is not I who desires to keep you out, Master Dwarf. Were it my place to
say, I would welcome you as heroes into our town. Thanks to you, the
Easterlings have departed. Yet, Dáma knew you were coming, and indeed it
was he who convinced the Master to bar your entrance.”
Frolin
is stunned, standing there agape. Finbor blinks and few times and calls
back, “Why would Dáma speak against us?”
Harin
answers, “Dáma bade me to give you this answer when you inevitably asked
that question. He said, ‘Tell them that I felt their success the
moment they achieved it, and I sensed their return to Marsburg. Now they
bring a darkness that cannot be permitted to enter the town. It was
foolish of them even to think of carrying their burden among Men, whose native
curiosity is so readily twisted. Tell them that I wish them well on their
journey and their final purpose, but they must leave Marsburg and will be wise
to avoid the habitants of Men altogether.' So spake
he.”
Finbor
sighs deeply, having feared this could be a
danger. He calls back, “We have a long journey ahead of us, and
without assistance we could well perish.”
“I
am empowered to grant you want aid you require, within reason.”
“We
need six boxes, each large enough to encompass a man’s fist,”
Frolin shouts back. “And we need a boat that can bear us some
distance into the
“All
that can be provided to you,” Hurin answers. Many minutes later the
gate opens partly and a party of men emerges. They walk half-way toward
Finbor and Frolin, setting down a bier and then retreating hastily back inside
the wall. The friends examine the portage and find the six requested
boxes, a great quantity of dried fruits, flour, baked cakes, salt, and sugar,
and skins of fair Dorwinion wine. They also find a letter bearing the
signature and seal of the Master of the town, ordering one of the boats at the
dock to carry the letter’s bearer for a distance up to a hundred
miles. Hurin calls down one last time, “I hope that you consider
this fair gratitude for the services rendered us, friends. Fare thee
well!”
Finbor
and Frolin are disappointed to have to camp out in the open fields outside
Marsburg that night, but the night passes safely and comfortably and on the
next morning they walk to the river’s shore at the mouth of the
Sea. There they present the Master’s letter to one of the small
boats with a nominal crew, and the sailors quickly agree – apparently the
note is ready cash to them, for the town will incur the expense. Finbor
orders the boat to sail fifty miles out to sea to the southeast, and afterward
sail back to the western shore. With a stiff breeze, the little boat can
hope to accomplish the task in one full day. By mid afternoon the pilot
announces that they have traveled the requested distance and now must turn
back. Finbor and Frolin look all about them, and see nothing but open
water in every direction. They open their packs and each remove one of
the boxes. Breathing hard, reeling from the momentousness of the
occasion, the Gondorian captain and Dwarven loremaster walk toward the side of
the boat. The sailors gather around, stunned that they would be asked to
sail so far out to sea only to drop boxes in the water.
“What
is in them?” the pilot asks curiously.
“Nothing
that will be remembered any longer…” Frolin answers, staring down
at the box in his hand. He thinks upon the crystal shard inside, so cold
and hard and beautiful in its own way. So old, very
old. It is a fragment of history, one might say – history
that will be forever lost and forgotten. It is a shame that something so
ancient must be thrown away…
Finbor
says, “You have done your duty, and now we must do
ours…” The Gondorian warrior gazes at the box, almost feeling
the power contained within. The power of tremendous
strength and resilience, to ignore all injury and pain, and even to command the
clouds above. It begins to seem to him that such power could be
used to great good, in the right hands. His hands.
He could defend Lamedon from all foes foreign and domestic,
he could defend all of Gondor. All of Gondor and Arnor could be under his
protection, his guardianship, his command…
[Finbor’s
Willpower test, TN 12: 6 roll + 2 + 1 Fellowship bonus + 3 from Courage = 12,
marginal success]
[Frolin’s
Willpower test, TN 12: 8 roll + 8 + 1 Fellowship bonus + 2 special bonus = 19,
complete success]
Two
loud splashes resound as the boxes fall into the waves, swallowed deeply by the
sea. Frolin sighs in a low voice, and Finbor bows his head. They
have fulfilled a part of their task, and Finbor hazards a slight smile, coming
to feel that there is hope for success. Only four shards remain gathered
now, and all that is required to purge them from Middle-earth forever is to
carry them to the
Rising
on the morning of the 30th, they mount up and begin to ride
cross-country to the southwest. They shortly pass the town of
“Garad, my friend!” Finbor shouts
back, happy to see this brave soldier once again.
Garad
rides to within a few yards and halts. His troop of ten cavalrymen holds
behind him, silent. Garad betrays a worried expression and asks,
“When you left us, five were in your Fellowship. Now I count but
two. What is the fate of our other friends?”
“Rard
and Éogar, whom you knew as Vornmir, are both well,” Frolin
answers. “The Elf Bergalad, who joined us before we departed, was
killed. Rard and Éogar are returning to the West by another route, and it
is our good fortune to see you again. But tell me, Garad, how did you
know of our coming?”
Garad
bows his head respectfully when the death of Bergalad is mentioned, but he
smiles to learn that Éogar and Rard are alive. When querried by Frolin he
answers, “I now ride with the cavalry of Dunburg. The Master of the
town named me High Captain of Dunburg’s militia some days after the
battle against the goblins, and Galleth consented to my appointment. He
believes we are all safer if the villas and the town stand together against our
enemies. As High Captain, I sit in the Master’s council. The
other day we received a fast-riding dispatch from Marsburg. It told us
that you may pass through our land.” He then frowns slightly and
adds in a somber tone, “It also warned us that you cannot be permitted to
enter into Dunburg or to stay among any of the villas. I cannot fathom
why the Marsburg council would make such a proclamation, but the Master of
Dunburg has ordered me to honor it. I must escort you out of our land, in
safety but in isolation from all others but ourselves.”
Frolin
mutters wryly to Finbor, “Dáma is very efficient when he wishes to
be.”
Finbor
nods once and says to Garad, “Very well, it is our intention only to ride
through the countryside and then to the open plains called the Brown
Lands. It is happy fortune that we may spend the time with you, our
honored friend.” Indeed, the next two days pass pleasantly, and for
a time Finbor and Frolin almost forget about the dark burden locked away in
their packs. Garad fills them in on what has transpired since the end of
June. Master Galleth has recovered from his wounds and once again governs
the workings of his estate. Halgo has passed his test of manhood and now
helps his father as an equal partner, and it is thought that soon Galleth will
turn over all the workings of the villa to his son.
“I
must know, Garad, what became of our comrade Herubrand?” Finbor asks, his voice tight and nervous.
Garad smiles and returns, “I am happy to tell you
that he recovered after some weeks of rest, and he is now happy and healthy. Very happy,
I hope. One of the girls who tended him caught his eye, and they wed on
the first day of August. Shortly thereafter he set out with her to return
to his homeland, which I am told is far to the north. It is surely well
that he did not have to make his way home alone, and indeed he enjoyed very
pleasant company on the journey.” He chuckles in a light voice.
“I
hope to see him again and return his sword to him,” Finbor adds.
Garad
nods once and says, “If you see him again before I do, give him my
regards. But, I should think I will see him again anon. Herubrand
told us he hopes to establish trade between his homeland and the Men of
Dorwinion. It is his intention to return to our country next year, to bring
us trade-goods and to carry back our wine and fine crafts.”
“When
you see him again, tell him of our progress,” Finbor responds.
“Our task is not yet through, and some danger yet remains.”
“I
will,” Garad returns. It is a good cue for him not to press
Finbor or Frolin about their quest or what else has transpired.
On
the 1st of September, Garad bids his friends goodbye and, with his
troop in tow, turns back toward Dunburg. Frolin and Finbor continue on by
themselves, riding Grimmod across the wide plains of the Brown Lands to the
feet of the Ered Lithui, whence they turn west and make their way to the
gates of Udûn where Morannon once stood. They press on warily and keep a
wide berth from the mountains, fearful of what evil may yet linger in their
black shadows. Now they come upon one of the old Númenórean roads and
ride upon it south around the Ephel Dúath, traveling through Ithilien to
the River Anduin. The land has been well cleansed since the fall of
Sauron, blessed by the presence of Legolas’ folk, who once counted
Bergalad among their number. Once they even come across a party of
Grey-elves and call for parley, which the Elves kindly grant. Frolin
explains to them that they befriended Bergalad in another land, where they
witnessed him fall in a fight against a beast possessed by the lingering
Shadow; the Dwarven sage bids the folk to report this knowledge to Legolas and
Bergalad’s kin, and the Elves assent. They regard Finbor and Frolin
coolly, however, as if they can somehow sense the foul burden they carry.
The friends finally come to the crossings of the Anduin opposite the great
The
journey is long and grueling in the heat of late summer, covering a distance of
well over 200 leagues. Even mounted all the while atop Grimmod, they
spend more than fifteen days traveling across the land. Much more can be
said of their trek than is told here. Each day proved more trying than
the one before, although their rations and water held out thanks to the
generosity of the Men of Marsburg. With each passing day, Finbor and
Frolin found themselves more and more preoccupied with the boxes in their
packs. Every moment of rest they secretly opened their packs to count the
boxes, making sure all were still there. At night they found themselves
holding their packs close, fearful that something might sneak up in the night
and steal the boxes. More than once Finbor catches himself eyeing Frolin,
wondering if the Dwarven lust for jewels might extend to the Angril…
It
is not until
Frolin
speaks very little after leaving Ithilien, and he constantly looks like he is
lacking sleep. Indeed, the Dwarf only sleeps each night in brief fits
when fatigue finally overtakes him. Otherwise he remains awake, jealously
watching the boxes in his pack. He keeps an eye out on Finbor, too,
careful not to let the Dúnadan get too close to his backpack. Men are
too weak, Frolin thinks to himself. Isildur could not destroy the
One Ring when he had the chance, and I do not know if
Finbor will fare any better. Maybe it was a mistake to let Finbor carry
even half of the shards. Jewels are the
Finbor
and Frolin find a small inn on the docks outside Pelargir, and they rent a room
for the night. Each insists on sharing a room with the other, for neither
dares to let the other stray from his sight very long, even though in their
hearts they yet fear that the other holds designs on the four remaining
boxes. Frolin watches Finbor with concern, noting how the man is so
introspective and wary: He is losing the struggle, Frolin says to
himself, but afraid to confront Finbor lest he provoke him. I must be
prepared to act on my own, he thinks to himself, rubbing his weary
eyes. While Finbor is engaged with chartering a boat to carry them out
into the
Éogar and Rariadoc: On this 17th day of September,
Finbor and I are in Pelargir. We are safe but weary. Very weary. It is lonely indeed without you, and now I
realize the value of a friend or three in times like this. Our
journey’s end is at hand, and I hope to see both of you again soon in the
North… Frolin briefly outlines the news he learned of Galleth
and Halgo, Garad and Herubrand. When Finbor completes his transaction,
having promised the ship’s pilot that the Lord of Calembel will pay him
handsomely, he sits down opposite Frolin. The Dwarf says to him,
“Didn’t you want to leave word for Éogar in Minas Tirith? I
am writing a letter to him and Rard. Do you have any message for
them?”
“No,”
Finbor says. “Finish the letter. Our boat sails in an
hour.” Frolin scowls for a moment, hastily signing the letter with
his name, folding it closed, and sealing it with wax. He approaches the
innkeeper and asks him to have the letter borne to the Tower Guard of the White
City by the next available dispatch rider, giving him enough silver to reward
him for his trouble and to pay the messenger. An hour
later Frolin and Finbor stride onto the far dock of Pelargir, where a small
fishing boat awaits them. They leave Grimmod, their companion
through much of the vast journey throughout Middle-earth, in the inn’s
stable. The pilot and his mate welcome Finbor and Frolin aboard, and they
are most curious why a young lord of Lamedon and a Dwarf would desire to sail
out into the bay…
*
* *
September
the 29th,
For
the first many days of the journey, Belemir continued to cackle and babble
whenever Éogar took pity on him and loosened his gag. The loss of the
jewel shards injured his wits, it is clear, and cutting them from his body
badly wounded him. Éogar tended his wounds as best he could without
restoring too much of his strength, fearful that if the sage regained his wits
he might cast a spell upon them. Nonetheless, Éogar made sure he received
a fair share of water, and Rard saw to it that he ate enough to keep
alive. The distant trek was extremely grueling, especially in the heat of
the late summer, and the hardship was made all the worse by having to avoid any
settlement – there could be no good way to explain Belemir. Their
hearts, too, bore a grave burden: concern for their far-away comrades Finbor
and Frolin, literally carrying the weight of the world.
By
the time they reached the southern eaves of
“Save
your strength, Belemir,” Éogar cautioned him. “It is not our
forgiveness you must seek.”
“I
know,” Belemir sputtered, puss trickling down his lips. “But,
I will not live to see my old friend again, and that is right. I failed
him, and worse I betrayed him through my arrogance. It was my hardness of
heart and my willfulness that let the Lord of Darkness make the Angril
his vessel in Arda once more. I learned my weakness when he spoke
through me, when he became me; Baldur the artifice of my guile to achieve ends
I thought were good became Baldur the voice of the Black Enemy. How can a
man suffer that and yet live, or want to live?”
Rard,
his heart aching at the somber confession of a dying man, touched his
hand. “Frodo and Sam were friends of my cousin Merry, and Cousin
Merry told me the stories of how they suffered to carry the One Ring to
Belemir
chuckled briefly, his breath turning immediately to a racking cough, spraying
up flecks of blood. “But, they never put the Ring in their flesh;
they never become one with the Ring; they never became the voice of
Sauron,” he murmured weakly, his eyes closed. “I do not
deserve to see Aragorn my King once more, and I do not deserve his
pardon. Now I repent my harsh words to you in Galleth’s
villa. How I wish I had accepted your fellowship then! Perhaps my
path would have ended differently, but I doubt it. My will was not
wholly my own even then, and already the line between Belemir and Baldur
had become blurred. O, how my heart aches now at the end, at the loss of
fellowship that has given strength to so many, and to
my Lord Aragorn more than anyone.” His last breath flowed from his
lips, a gentle smile given form: “Though I forsook fellowship in my life,
it gives me peace to know that I do not leave this world alone and in
solitude. Tell the King… Farewell…” And so Belemir
ended. Éogar cleaned his body and carried him in his arms across the
The
lingering Elves of Rivendell guide the riders to the Last Homely House, barely
recognizing the Man and the Hobbit who left here nearly five months
before. Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond, come out to greet them,
eager to hear of their tale. And so Éogar relates to them the last days
of Belemir. The lords of Rivendell lower their head in grief, and they
pledge to let Belemir’s body rest in the woods of Rivendell, buried in
sacred earth that may grant him the purity in death he lost in life. The
High-elves take Belemir from Éogar and carry the body away, where it will be
cleaned and dressed and wrapped for interment. King Elessar is not
here, Elladan tells Éogar and Rard. Elrohir explains, In June he
departed for the Hills of Evendim, where he will dwell at the ruins of
Annúminas whilst his forces
Rard
and Éogar tremble when they realize their journey is not yet over, that many
hundreds of miles still separate them from the king. Nonetheless, they
are comforted to be in Rivendell, and the sons of Elrond take good care of
them; their animals are tended, their gear and garments are mended, and they
themselves are feasted and rested. In early October they bid farewell to
the merry folk of Elladan and Elrohir, departing Rivendell for the open road
once more. It is a safe journey now, though still far – nearly 300
miles from Rivendell west along the
The
assembly falls silent as the royal tent opens and King Elessar emerges, looking
older but healthier and rested, as if merely dwelling in the sacred site of his
ancestors has revitalized his strength and energy. As he walks to the
fore of his guard, Éogar and Rard dismount. Éogar sinks deeply to his
knees, and Rard awkwardly bows (not a custom for Shire-folk, after all!).
The king nods slowly, perceiving a great change in the man whom he sent on a
quest so many months ago. “When we tasked you to join the
Fellowship for Belemir, you were Vornmir of the Tower Guard,” the king
says in a knowing tone of voice. “Who returns to us?”
“My
Lord and King, I am your servant Éogar son of Garbald, who left Rohan as a
youth in disgrace but has reclaimed honor in your service,” Éogar
answers, head bowed low.
“Then
rise, Éogar Garbald’s son,” the king intones. “For you return to us in honor, gifted with the armor and
weapons and steed worthy of a great knight. No longer are you a
footman in our guard; take your place in my service as a Knight of Arnor.
If Rohan does not welcome you home, you are ever welcome in the
Éogar
stands up and holds out the Dart of Elessar, which he offers to the king as a
weapon fit for a royal warrior, crafted by a master Dwarf-craftsman. With
his other hand he holds out the Elvish Ring of Friendship, the relic which
Belemir had recovered before he vanished from Rivendell the previous
year. The king takes both of the tokens gratefully, observing them for a
time before handing them off to one of his retainers to store safely
away. Elessar then turns about and walks back toward his tent, gesturing
for Éogar to come with him. He pauses, looks over his shoulder, and
smiles at Rard: “Come along, too, Master Brandybuck,” he says,
“I think there is someone you need to see.”
Éogar
and Rard follow the king into his tent. There, seated at a great table
covered with maps, is Gamba Bracegirdle, the old hobbit mapmaker whom Rariadoc
traveled with when he first came to Rivendell back in May. “Why,
Rard Brandybuck, you young rascal!” the old hobbit says, chuckling.
“I never thought to see you again!”
Rard
rushes over to the old codger, hugging him tight, overjoyed to see another
hobbit after so long. “Gamba, you look well!” he says, giving
the elder halfling a tight squeeze.
“Oh,
enough, enough!” he laughs, breaking free from the embrace.
“I am well indeed, for I am in the king’s company. And
that’s as fair a lot as any hobbit could ask for.”
King
Elessar smiles and says, “Gamba is now one of my most trusted royal
mapmakers, and it is I who benefit from his fellowship.” He
gestures for Rard and Éogar to sit with him at the table. “Now,
tell me of your quest,” he says. “Tell me what became of my
friend Belemir, what you learned of the Angril of Morgoth, and what
befall Finbor Angbor’s son and Frolin of Gimli’s folk?”
Their
tale was long indeed, and parts of it sad indeed, and
the conclusion yet to be known to them, but Rard and Éogar related to the king
all that they could. Exactly what was said by them to the king is not
recalled, and doubtfully will it ever be known to the lore of
Middle-earth in this Fourth Age or any other. Throughout the autumn and
winter Éogar and Rard dwelled with the king in the Hills of
Evendim. They awaited word from Rivendell or Minas Tirith of
Finbor and Frolin, but all that they received was Frolin’s letter dated
September the 17th. It was delivered to them late in November
by messengers who carried news from Minas Tirith to Annúminas, bringing the
king word of his forces
Scene 10: Death and Redemption
The evening of September the 17th, in the 15th
year of the Fourth Age of Middle-earth. A little fishing boat
flounders in the
Finbor
stares at Frolin, the rain blasting his face, the wind rattling the tattered
mail coat upon his body. He is unmoved. Finally, Frolin breaks the
stare and calls over, “Very well, turn the boat around. Let us
do our task here.”
“What
task?” the pilot asks. “What is in those boxes?”
Finbor
turns around angrily, gazing at the pilot with a fierce scowl. The man
quails in fear, but yet his eyes do not leave the boxes. And now the mate
is staring at the boxes, too. They know, Finbor thinks to himself,
alarmed. The Black
This is madness! Frolin thinks to himself in
desperation. These shards should have been dealt with in Rhûn, just
like I said! I knew I was right. It was folly ever to listen to
Finbor or the others. They aren’t sages! Maybe Belemir was
right not to trust to anyone else. Maybe Belemir and I should have worked
together; we surely could have handled the Iron Jewel on our own. I must
get the shards away from Finbor, before it is too late. I can take them
back to shore, and return them to Rhûn…
[Finbor’s
Willpower test, TN 16: 8 roll + 2 + 1 Fellowship bonus + 3 from Courage = 14,
failure]
[Frolin’s
Willpower test, TN 16: 4 roll + 8 + 1 Fellowship bonus + 3 from Courage = 16,
marginal success]
Frolin
clears his mind, shaking his head as he drives the distracting thought
away. Rain soaks his stout body, his hair and beard. “Pilot,
turn this boat about!” he bellows. “We cannot delay,
Finbor! It was a mistake ever to carry the shards so far, and we may
have doomed ourselves. Cast your boxes into the sea, do it
now!” Frolin stumbles toward the side of the boat, lifting his arms
to throw the boxes overboard, though now they seem heavy as boulders to him.
“No…”
hisses Finbor, staring at Frolin with hate. The warrior drops the boxes
to the floor of the boat and draws Herubrand from its scabbard, advancing on
Frolin from behind. “You have no right to command me, Dwarf!
Stop where you are!”
Frolin
turns around and regards Finbor in horror; a veiled shadowy light fills the
Dúnadan’s eyes, a light filled with rage and hate. “Finbor, no…” the Dwarf growls, trying to get
away from him and throw the boxes into the sea. Finbor is
wary and quick, though, and he strikes hard at Frolin before the Dwarf can
react. The blade cuts deep into his shoulder. Thundering in
rage, Finbor hammers Frolin again with his sword, cracking several of his
ribs. The swift-striking warrior, still possessing all the skill he
developed on his quest, turns his talent on his former companion, delivering a
third and mortal stroke. Frolin collapses against the edge of the boat,
near death. The boxes hit the wooden planks and pop open; the shards of
the Angril, flashing with unholy brilliance, roll across the deck.
Finbor wheels about to seize the shards, only to spy
the pilot and the mate opening the other boxes. Forgetting
their floundering boat, they are now struggling with each other to possess both
shards. Finbor flies into a rage, leaping upon them with his sword.
He kills the mate outright, and then finds himself grappled by the pilot, who
is clawing at his face in a mad effort to seize the shards. Frolin coughs
up blood, feeling the shroud of death descending upon him as he watches Finbor
strike down the pilot. Laughing triumphantly, Finbor gathers up all four
of the remaining crystal shards.
With
his dying breath, Frolin intones a prayer in Khuzdul, the secret tongue of the
Khazâd. Summoning up what little of the subtle magic of Middle-earth
remains in his broken body, he chants the Khuzdul name of Aulë the Smith, Maker
of the Dwarves, and in turn he calls on the other Aratar, the High Ones among
the Ainur, invoking them by their secret Dwavish names. It all seems so
much gibberish to Finbor and he ignores it, but suddenly the thundering
sea-storm quells and breaks. The night sky grows calm, like the eye of a
tempest, and the boat rests smoothly in the flat water. The deck glistens
with slick red blood in the fiery starlight of Varda the Kindler. A great
tide slowly rises, building to a massive wall of water. Frolin and Finbor
stare at the mighty wave, seeing in it the visage of Ulmo the Lord of
Waters! Frolin trembles, realizing his prayer was heard, and he breathes
his last; to whence his essence goes after death, none in Middle-earth can say.
Finbor
stands rigid, paralyzed at the sight of the Vala; he knows he is the first to
see the Lord of Waters in this guise since Tuor of old. Finbor’s
heart quails, for whereas Tuor witnessed Ulmo as protector, he now perceives
Ulmo in his wrath. The Gondorian warrior immediately drops the Angril
shards and falls to his knees. Tears streaming from his eyes, he regains
his wits from the spell of the Iron Jewel and comes to grips with what he has
done. He wails, “Frolin! I have slain my true
companion. O Maglor, now I know your grief all too keenly, for I share
the blood sins of the sons of Fëanor; I have committed the crime of Túrin
Turambar, and I deserve no better than his fate.” He grasps wildly
for Herubrand, eager for the blade to drink of his life as Gurthang avenged its
victims upon the life of Túrin. It is then he realizes that the sword
fell over board during the storm whilst he rejoiced in claiming the four
shards. Herubrand has sunk deep into the
“Ulmo,
Lord of Waters, hear me!” Finbor cries out, sobbing in grief and
pain. “Save me from my weakness. Do for me what I could not
do for myself, and cast the Angril forever into the depths!”
Ulmo rises higher and higher, and then his form vanishes. Amidst the wave
appears the visage of Ossë the Stormer, servant of Ulmo who churns the sea and
oceans. In the Elder Days, Men may have loved Ossë but they never trusted
him. Now, fulfilling the edict of the Lord of Waters, the storm explodes
into full force, a torrential tempest that slams into the little boat.
The weight of the tower of water crashes down upon Finbor, who holds out his
arms wide to embrace the blow; the boat breaks apart under the crushing force,
and all the contents are cast out into the swirling waves. Down into the
cold depths are committed the remains of Finbor and Frolin, heroes of the Quest
for the Angril who possessed great will and strength, but in the end perhaps
not the strength of heart of the humble little hobbits who destroyed the One
Ring and yet lived. Ossë rages and thunders, and when he departs nothing
remains of the boat, and the four last shards of the Angril, the last
work of Morgoth the Black Enemy, are lost forever at the bottom of the sea.
And so concludes the Chronicle of The Lord of Darkness. Thank you for reading our tale. Namarie!