The Wight Side of the Door {July 3008} [Estel]
May 15, 2018 14:30:24 GMT -5
Post by RUIVO on May 15, 2018 14:30:24 GMT -5
“Cold as winter, bare as bones! Ring a dong dillo!
You'll find them there, Beware! Beware!
Down from Old Man Willow.
Draw them out, send them on! Into sunlight hearken!
Hollow cry be still, in hollow hill;
No longer night to darken!”
The words had been ringing as bitter, far off melody through the mind of the Lord of Imladris. Though bitter not was the voice which sung them winding over twisted river and hill country; the sound of them day by day had niggled his ears.
The voice of Iarwain Ben-adar, urging for assistance to to the west. Often had the summons come in recent years, and hearken to the call was Ruivo. Alone, he would have gone, though the Lord Elrond knew better than to let an elf of half-vision depart to a place where keen sight was needed, and so came with him; Estel. Aragorn, otherwise known, but to the elves: Estel. Young he was in years compared to the elf who had lived ages, but wise and strong, and fit to purpose and retribution given for those Numenoreans of ancient days whose filled graves had been disturbed.
The hills of Tyrn Gorthad rose before them, and they walked. Horses they had traveled upon for many miles; though the creatures would not tolerate the downs, and they had been left to the south side of the road where they had made encampment over the night. Grassy mounds rose up now before them, with crumbling stone monoliths atop. Ruivo could close his eyes and remember when fresh they were placed; when the North Kingdom prospered. When white marble towers rose upward to the sky, and he would consult with the smiths of Westernesse; who, though they were young, boasted great skill of the craft.
The realm of Cardolan had been the last of the northern strongholds; though not withstanding both the forces of Rhudar and Angmar, it too fell. Towers lay crumbled to ruins, for under the lead of wraith they had fallen; under the hand which bore a ring wrought of mithril. The ring which had first set him under the control of Sauron; the remnant of Morgoth's waste to the earth. A ring which had been crafted in Ost-in-Edhil, in its days of glory; which filled Ruivo with regret.
Er-Murazor had been his name in early days, when he had been a prince of the adan; a Lord among the Númenoreans, and upon his hand was set by Annatar the craft of Ruivo the Smith. A ring wrought of precious mithril and red ruby fitted within. Beautiful in it's own regard, and more beautiful still had it been under the teachings of Annatar; enchanted with elvish skill; as were the workings of the smiths in the days of Tirion. Proud of his work, had Ruivo been then. Proud how his hands had grown in skill of the craft; proud that his work had been chosen as a great gift to the Númenorean prince. Too content with himself in those days. Never understanding with what gain in pride came ruin.
The wasteland before him spoke of it, for Angmar had risen under the jeweled hand of the wraith of a man whom had come to be known as the first of the nine; the Witch King. Now the mounds were for death; burial grounds for the Princes and Lords of Arnor were the great barrows, while smaller mounds had been devoted to the common folk. Many were buried here by way of war; the Great Plague which had struck thereafter, decimating the inhabitants. Never again had the downs been settled for the enchantments the King of Angmar over the barrows.
The blight of Angmar he had placed upon the forlorn bodies of those deceased and buried. The forms were of the men and women of Númenor , yet the spirits were of corruption; of orcs, of tormented Avari, of evil men. Their hold still strong upon the downs and encroaching upon the Old Forest; where it was feared that forces of evil could overtake given the chance; though kept at bay now by Iarwain Ben-adar.
Ruivo felt the guilt. The iniquity of what he had been encouraged to craft. Of course, he was not the only. His ring had only been one among many; though his fate and his duty, which walked upon two feet in silver mist, had led him from the crafters guild before it's downfall. Most, if not all, of the jewelsmiths had lost their lives. Few had made retreat from Ost-in-Edhil to Imladris in the last days. Never had Ruivo learned of another standing; yet here he was; and there was the residue of Morgoth still upon land; which he had helped to strengthen unwittingly, though foolishly, more than once in his lifetime.
The indigo twilight had departed behind them; the sun now rising; beginning to burn off the mists with summer rays which beamed down. No clouds marked the blue sky beyond the downs. All was still above the earth where the grass wisped about in the summer winds; though lurking below, Ruivo knew well the sounds of clinking metal, of calling voices, and pale green light.
Tombs with doors standing in shadow, and silence, even without the chirp of crickets in this barren land. The hum of the bees and the soft twitter of bird calls in summer had been left behind some ways back; only did the grass grow here, but no living creatures stirred above the earth. Ruivo breathed deep the misting air, tasting it. Then did he search skyward for the level of the sun behind the fog, therafter casting a glance to his traveling companion as he turned his head fully to seek him.
When in the place he now called home; in Imladris, Ruivo would walk always upon the right side of others. A habit gained after long years with only one seeing eye; that he could better glance to the person beside him. Though on the field; both in times such as these and in battle Ruivo strayed to the left; his blindside guarded by whomever bore sword to his right, and he guarding in turn.
Wights scared him not, and this was no new venture for Ruivo. If he was going to come a sacrifice to them on one of these ventures, he would go out swinging to his best.
“Make haste,” he whispered in the air; the first words that had left his lips since the departure of camp. “They know we walk above.” From his belt an iron tool he pulled, for working the hinges of the door loose. He tossed it to Estel, and in his own hand he took up a saw to file at the lock. Whomever would be successful first would wrench open the door, and though the wights who dwelled in this tomb would know they were coming; they would enter without knocking.
You'll find them there, Beware! Beware!
Down from Old Man Willow.
Draw them out, send them on! Into sunlight hearken!
Hollow cry be still, in hollow hill;
No longer night to darken!”
The words had been ringing as bitter, far off melody through the mind of the Lord of Imladris. Though bitter not was the voice which sung them winding over twisted river and hill country; the sound of them day by day had niggled his ears.
The voice of Iarwain Ben-adar, urging for assistance to to the west. Often had the summons come in recent years, and hearken to the call was Ruivo. Alone, he would have gone, though the Lord Elrond knew better than to let an elf of half-vision depart to a place where keen sight was needed, and so came with him; Estel. Aragorn, otherwise known, but to the elves: Estel. Young he was in years compared to the elf who had lived ages, but wise and strong, and fit to purpose and retribution given for those Numenoreans of ancient days whose filled graves had been disturbed.
The hills of Tyrn Gorthad rose before them, and they walked. Horses they had traveled upon for many miles; though the creatures would not tolerate the downs, and they had been left to the south side of the road where they had made encampment over the night. Grassy mounds rose up now before them, with crumbling stone monoliths atop. Ruivo could close his eyes and remember when fresh they were placed; when the North Kingdom prospered. When white marble towers rose upward to the sky, and he would consult with the smiths of Westernesse; who, though they were young, boasted great skill of the craft.
The realm of Cardolan had been the last of the northern strongholds; though not withstanding both the forces of Rhudar and Angmar, it too fell. Towers lay crumbled to ruins, for under the lead of wraith they had fallen; under the hand which bore a ring wrought of mithril. The ring which had first set him under the control of Sauron; the remnant of Morgoth's waste to the earth. A ring which had been crafted in Ost-in-Edhil, in its days of glory; which filled Ruivo with regret.
Er-Murazor had been his name in early days, when he had been a prince of the adan; a Lord among the Númenoreans, and upon his hand was set by Annatar the craft of Ruivo the Smith. A ring wrought of precious mithril and red ruby fitted within. Beautiful in it's own regard, and more beautiful still had it been under the teachings of Annatar; enchanted with elvish skill; as were the workings of the smiths in the days of Tirion. Proud of his work, had Ruivo been then. Proud how his hands had grown in skill of the craft; proud that his work had been chosen as a great gift to the Númenorean prince. Too content with himself in those days. Never understanding with what gain in pride came ruin.
The wasteland before him spoke of it, for Angmar had risen under the jeweled hand of the wraith of a man whom had come to be known as the first of the nine; the Witch King. Now the mounds were for death; burial grounds for the Princes and Lords of Arnor were the great barrows, while smaller mounds had been devoted to the common folk. Many were buried here by way of war; the Great Plague which had struck thereafter, decimating the inhabitants. Never again had the downs been settled for the enchantments the King of Angmar over the barrows.
The blight of Angmar he had placed upon the forlorn bodies of those deceased and buried. The forms were of the men and women of Númenor , yet the spirits were of corruption; of orcs, of tormented Avari, of evil men. Their hold still strong upon the downs and encroaching upon the Old Forest; where it was feared that forces of evil could overtake given the chance; though kept at bay now by Iarwain Ben-adar.
Ruivo felt the guilt. The iniquity of what he had been encouraged to craft. Of course, he was not the only. His ring had only been one among many; though his fate and his duty, which walked upon two feet in silver mist, had led him from the crafters guild before it's downfall. Most, if not all, of the jewelsmiths had lost their lives. Few had made retreat from Ost-in-Edhil to Imladris in the last days. Never had Ruivo learned of another standing; yet here he was; and there was the residue of Morgoth still upon land; which he had helped to strengthen unwittingly, though foolishly, more than once in his lifetime.
The indigo twilight had departed behind them; the sun now rising; beginning to burn off the mists with summer rays which beamed down. No clouds marked the blue sky beyond the downs. All was still above the earth where the grass wisped about in the summer winds; though lurking below, Ruivo knew well the sounds of clinking metal, of calling voices, and pale green light.
Tombs with doors standing in shadow, and silence, even without the chirp of crickets in this barren land. The hum of the bees and the soft twitter of bird calls in summer had been left behind some ways back; only did the grass grow here, but no living creatures stirred above the earth. Ruivo breathed deep the misting air, tasting it. Then did he search skyward for the level of the sun behind the fog, therafter casting a glance to his traveling companion as he turned his head fully to seek him.
When in the place he now called home; in Imladris, Ruivo would walk always upon the right side of others. A habit gained after long years with only one seeing eye; that he could better glance to the person beside him. Though on the field; both in times such as these and in battle Ruivo strayed to the left; his blindside guarded by whomever bore sword to his right, and he guarding in turn.
Wights scared him not, and this was no new venture for Ruivo. If he was going to come a sacrifice to them on one of these ventures, he would go out swinging to his best.
“Make haste,” he whispered in the air; the first words that had left his lips since the departure of camp. “They know we walk above.” From his belt an iron tool he pulled, for working the hinges of the door loose. He tossed it to Estel, and in his own hand he took up a saw to file at the lock. Whomever would be successful first would wrench open the door, and though the wights who dwelled in this tomb would know they were coming; they would enter without knocking.