RP 🎲 RP 36: Redemption

Eäritila ate for a time, recovering her strength. Then seeing Mrs Fairweather passing, she stopped her with a friendly smile and said: 'Have you seen the leader of our party, the tall elf-lord Maedhros.'

'Yes indeed, my dear I believe I saw him disappear upstairs.'

'Oh thank you!' Eäritila replied, much relieved. Then she stood up gracefully, and took the inn-keepers hands in thanks, and looking at her said: 'This is a homely place you keep here, Mrs Fairweather. And I hear you gave great help to my dear friend Nildadari. 'Tis but a small way to repay you, but perhaps I might sing a song for the company that is gathered here tonight. The elves know a few songs!' she said. 'If there be a lute or harp here, I will sing awhiles, but first I will go and seek Maedhros, for my heart tells me he needs me for some purpose.'

And so saying she passed upstairs to where Maedhros was waiting with Alfirin.

Dear Eäritila, I have been waiting for you. Alfirin needs of your healing ways. He was been following us for sometime now.
I pray that you would help him regain his strenght. His friend Emmund has been helping him, but he has not the skills necessary to heal him.

Alfirin moaned, and his mind once again raced elsewhere.

He was running. The man was there, the elf he had seen. Elves were smart! Surely he would know who it was. He followed quietly, taking to the trees like a squirrel. He lost the strange elf, but surely he would be here somewhere. He called out, and no one answered. He begged, and pleaded even, and still there was no answer. He had little strength left, and fell to the dirt path, taking in a mouthfull of dirt and dust. It was hours later he awoke, and spat dirt from his mouth. Suddenly, though, he stopped, and listened closely. There was laughing. The voice sounded oddly familiar. And there was music too! The most beautiful he had ever heard. He lay on the ground, pulling himself silently up the path. He came to the spot, the people were off to his left, down by the creek. His mind was racing, telling him to run! To run, they would kill him surely, if they knew what he had done. But curiosity drove him, and he peered over the side, down the steep decent from the road, and to the creek. There was the elf! He was sitting beside a fire. He was singing, and dressing a wound on the head of a frail looking woman. He looked, and his eyes suddenly watered. The woman was his mother, and she was beaten badly. And, on the ground beside both of them, was a bloody shovel. It all came to him, all at once, and most everything made sense. He began to cry softly, but it was lost over the voice of the elf. He lay there, halfway in the middle of the road, and slept dreamlessly the rest of the night. He awoke the next morning, and found his mother deserted and sleeping. He came to her, and held her head in his lap. She seemed so frail, so breakable. He cried at seeing her like this. That foul man, the man he had loved as father all of his life, had done this too her, and all because of him. He cried harder. Only later would he learn that his mother had lost much in that attack. It left her paralyzed, and her lungs were forever bad, for the amount of blood that had spilt into them.... his mind raced foreward. He remembered the fell winter. She was sick, as she had always been. Only now she was white, and her fingers were shaking. She held his hand in hers, and there she told him about Maglor, son of Feanor. There she told him the full truth of her sin, and there he learned just how he had been soiled before birth. And, as he cried once again, his mother died, the grip of her hand lessening until it was gone, and the bright light was extinguished from her eyes.

In later years the lord Elrond had taken him in, feeling sorry for all that had befallen him, and party for his knowledge of his parentage. He had secretly learned much, of the old world. He learned of his father, his uncles, and his grandfather. And he had felt all the dirtier for it... suddenly the dream raced even again. And he was looking into the eyes of an elf on a horse, and he knew the elf, though he knew not his purpose....

Alfirin dreamt no more.

Excellent news then Eäritila, Alfirin will be all right then. We shall wait until he is healed and you have rested, we will go to this place that you call Rivendell. I will have a reunion with Elrond. It been a long time since I last saw him. I wonder what will happen when we meet again.

Maedhros descended the stairs and the others gathered, seeing his face set with purpose. He told them to make ready, that as soon as it was light they would begin the journey to Imladris, to seek our Elrond and inform him of his quest. Grateful to have a set course of action before them, they each went to their rooms to gather together their belongings and ask Mrs. Fairweather for provisions.

As he watched them go, his heart was heavy, knowing that Elrond was not likely to receive him kindly, if at all.

Eve waited patiently while the others talked to Mrs. Fairweather about provisions. As she waited, her eyes darted to the faces of her companoins, and last they settled on her sister with much worry. She swore to herself that from then on, she would at least try to act more kindly to her sister, her kin. And with that, her heart lightened a little, and she began to prepare herself for the trip ahead.

Turig stood in the courtyard of The Dragon his cloak wrapped tightly around him. A steady drizzle had begun to fall, and a cold wind was blowing in from the east. It was always thus in the northlands, fickle weather and muddy roads. Turig almost wished himself back in the inn, sitting in the tap-room beside a roaring fire. Almost... but not quite.

The brigand had procured horses for the company, rundown nags for the most part, and one or two tired old work-horses - but they would get them to Rivendell at a pinch. Strangely, Turig was looking forward to the journey; Rivendell was a legend to him, an elvish fantasy, mentioned only in children's tales. He was beginning to feel that he had been ensnared in an old story himself - first Elf-lords, then dragons, what next...?

Herugurth came with a noticeable weight taken off of his shoulders. He preferred the wild and rugged country to the constant ill-tuned singing of these men, and the visions that too much ale brings to the weaker.

He brushed pasted Turig, brushing the outlaw aside. After a few steps, he looked back. How could one be so helpless in this rain, and yet not so in battle? Herugurth himself feared fire, knowing that though the immortal life was given to all of his kindred, yet the searing pain that fire brings would stay in his mind for the same period of time. Eating his mind, burning his ambition, his passion, his flame.

Turning around he mumbled, "My apologies...ma..Turig." Without another word, he hurried up the almost running Maedhros. A fire burned in his eyes, yet it was not something that Herugurth feared, though he was sure that the enemies Maedhros would feel the fear of looking into his eyes, knowing that their doom was running with the same speed as Maedhros, charging, ducking, swinging. What strength there was in the character of Maedhros!

Soon the company reached the barn, which seemed to have been purposely placed, to give the guest second thoughts about staying in the inn. Thinking to himself, "Well, 'tis too late now, my doom shall be great, and my reward plenty. My life shall be forfeit for Maedhros, I can feel it."

Glancing toward Maedhros, Herugurth suddenly thought about the great land of Valinor. Of the Gods watching your moves in delight, as a young child watches an ant, or a toy freshly built. He began to long for that which he had sworn was a mockery of his kind. Maturity is not a measure of age, or age a measure of maturity. It is the simple things which Herguruth now longed for, and here he was, in the middle of Middle Earth...

At last everyone had gathered together their gear and outside to be greeted by the sight of some of the scruffiest horses any of them had ever seen. Maedhros looked at Turig with scorn in his eyes but said nothing.

Caimare grinned sardonically. "I hope they didn't cost you too dear, Turig. Your compassion is evident as you appear to have rescued these...animals from certain death as meat pies for the Inn."
Turig shot him a malevolent glance. "Elven gratitude, how heart-warming." He walked over to the nearest nag and threw his pack on over it's rump. He then mounted and sat looking down on the rest of the group. "Well?"

Though these were some of saddest animals Eve had ever set eyes on, her heart went out to the creatures. Walking towards a scruffy bay, a smile was clearly evident on her face. Softly, she rubbed the face of the horse. A difference in the animal's eyes was immidiate. Nickering softly the horse leaned into her carress. "A fine steed this horse will be!" she declared. "For he is kind and sweet in mind and spirit. He is willing to please." *turns to the inn-keeper* "I thank you."

With this she sprung lightly to the horses back. As she settled into the saddle, laying her pack across the horses back, the bay's kind eyes sparkled, and his neck was arched and his head held high. Lightly patting his neck, Eve leaned foward and whispered kind, encouraging words in Elvish, and to herself she thought 'I must come up with a name for this horse. A name that will suit him well.'

'Mmph... Think I'll call this one Meat-pie.' Turig laughed as he swung himself into the saddle - a half-smile playing across his face - unusual for the surly brigand. Then turning to Eve he said: 'I have heard that the Elven-folk can work wonders with animals such as these... I daresay that by the time we reach Rivendell they will be worthy of the King of Rohan himself...'

Barahir impatiently waited for the company to start down their path. Hidden in the forest with his horse outside of Bree, he had time to let his mind wander. How his life had changed. He finally caught the outlaw who murdered his sister, only to find he pitied Turig, no, that wasn't the right word. Admired? no. Hated? no. Understood, maybe. He was now an outlaw of sorts himself; exiled from his kin because of his belief in Alfirin's innocence. The Dunedain were not perfect judges of character, but still above Turig's kind in Barahir's mind. What fit companions these High-Elves straight from the Blessed Realm have chosen! Three men, rejected by their own kindreds.

Well Maedhros, Eru must be watching over you, or you would not have made it this far. Let us hope that Elrond greets you with more warmth than can be hoped for.

Looking at Turig, Eve simply smiled. "My people have always loved animals. But I myself am drawn to the horses. After all, they have saved me many a-time while I was off on quests or wanderings or such things with their quick feet and loving hearts." Eve ran her hands through her horse's mane. 'Perhaps a good name for this kind beast would be Malanna, for it means Gold Gift, and that is what you are equal in worth to me.' As she stroked his neck, she murmured quietly to herself, "You live up to your name Malanna, though you will always be as good as your name in my heart."

Smiling kindly at her companions Eve loudly asked. "So are we ready to go? Rivendell is far, and its beem awhile since my travels have brought me to that place."

With all of the company mounted and ready to ride, they bade Mrs. Fairweather farewell and set out eastward, toward the mountain pass wherein lay Imladris the dwelling of Elrond. Maedhros brooded darkly on his coming encounter with him. It was more than likely Elrond would refuse to see him, yet he longed to speak to Elrond, to tell him of his intentions in returning Dior's sons to their kindred after so long a time.

Journey to Rivendell

As we began our journey, I had a feeling of dread. Interesting, even after all these years, I'm still haunted by the Oath. All of the Deeds that me and my brothers did, just because of the Oath, because I had a moment of weakness. I, as the leader of the House of Fëanor, after my father died, had as much to blame as my father. I shouldn't have left them burn the ships at Losgar. A great evil could have been stopped.
The perversions of my people, especially my brothers, and mine. Am I doing it all over again. This party is following me, just as I followed my father all of those years.
Now I go to face one of the victims of my actions Elrond. Even tought my brother spared the brothers life, we shouldn't have attacked their host, yet I was driven by my honor and pride. This is but the beginning, I wonder how he will feel after he sees me again after all of this time. Can I face him? And more importantly, how do I face the twins that my brothers left to die in the woods?

And Alfirin rode in the center of the company. He did not seem to move, as he sat atop the horse. He did not speak, and he made no other act to signal life, or death, for that matter. The dreams had awakened memories, and the memories had rekindled flames of wrath and clouds of sorrow. His body was still badly beaten, and many of his wounds were open, and ice was slowly forming on the exposed flesh. Suddenly he opened his eyes, unable to take the grotesque scenes that were raining on him like a hailstorm within the confines of his mind. His eyes darted around in quick reconization, and then up, to find that it was just past dusk. He made a low moan, the only sound he could bring from his bruised lungs. Barahir turned and looked at him, partly shocked and partly releived. Alfirin saw, though, that it would not be enough to make the company halt, as halt it should. He shifted his weight as best he could, and fell off of the horse to the ground. His blankets and cloaks fell beside him. He rolled, rather painfully, over, so that he had access to his one decently working arm. He began to frantically write runes into the soft dirt. They were in ancient high elvish, the first set of runes to present themselves out of Alfirin's battered mind. Barahir could not read them, but Maedhros took a look. 'Trolls ahead. Stop' The words were not poetic, or beautiful, but their meaning struck home...

Nildadari gritted her teeth as the Dunedan lay on the ground, apparently having some sort of vision. "We have no time for this!" she thought in disgust. She watched as Earitila dismounted quickly and knelt at his side. "She is far too trusting, that one. Are all Elves from the West so concilliatory?"

Maedhros straightened and told the others what Alfirin had written. The decision was made to make the trip to Imladris as fast as possible, using every bit of day-light they could and trusting to luck for the rest. Nildadari, Caimare, Herugurth and Eve had a short, spirited conversation as to the best route and who would lead them . In the end , it was decided that Caimare and Nildadari would lead and every effort was made to get Alfirin back on his horse and the party out the back gate with all speed.

Herugurth paused as he surveyed the scene of this man, forcing the company into a monotonous and wearing journey. Does one really have to have a vision constantly?

Speaking towards the remainder of the group, "Why do we need to listen to this filty man? I am tired of his constant prophecy and mysticism. We are the mightier, we determine our destiny. Not men! I do not care what he has to say, I shall go by the path which takes us most quickly to Lord Elrond."

Pausing, he let go of his grip on the man, letting the others help him into the saddle of his great horse...

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Camaire's horse sped ahead, trying to keep up with the speed of the steed of Nildadari. His head twisted constantly, seeing all of the land. "Maybe that man was not right after all."

Barahir rode up and eased in beside Alfirin. "My friend here is prone to fits that seem like madness or prophecy to some. When the fit takes him, he knows not what he does. Whether Alfirin is right or wrong cannot be known until we encounter or do not encounter trolls." Riding his horse closer to Maedhros, "I would advise you to go warily whatever path you take. If you wish, I can show you a swift road to Imladris, or a slower route more hidden from hostile eyes. Which is most needed I cannot tell." (looking back at Alfirin) "Alfirin is in need of rest and healing. Because of this I would urge you to take the shortest route, were it not for his warning."

'What is this?' Turig laughed. 'Trolls on the Great Road? It is a thing unheard of! We will be quite safe unless we leave the road and go looking for trouble. Troll country is to north, in the shelter of hills. If our company is strong, we need fear nothing...'

The Brigand cast his eyes towards the ragged grey sky. Storm clouds were gathering to the north and east, hanging with sullen menace above the Weather Hills. Turig was eager to reach Rivendell ere the weather worstened. Spurring his horse onward, he followed hard upon the trail of Camarië. 'Come on!' he yelled to those still behind. 'If we get seperated then misfortune will surely fall upon us...'