Searching for Menel: Region of the Stars
The mountain pass had collapsed, the white waves sweeping them all away as if the back hand of Eru. The howling wind replaced the voices of fright and worry, suffocating the life beneath the sheets of snow. They knew they were doomed long before they died, and yet none of them were ready to bid farewell to Middle-Earth by the end. Yet one of them had a curious thought before the end, even as his lungs begged for air. Typical. Buried first, dead second. He would have laughed if the snow hadn't invaded his agape mouth of terror. Still, he was somehow thankful that his hand had broken through to the surface, feeling the free air brushing against it and what he held. But eventually he died as he knew he must, and there he shall remain for all time.
Moments later, armored feet stepped over the white graveyard, and frantically drove a rusted spade into the sickening scene. Their frame was tightly wrapped in much cloth that billowed in the wind as if desperate to escape them, abandoning the person to the cold so she might claim her next victim. But death had already had its feast. Only their eyes peered through the dark veil, round and dark. A rescue attempt would have been in vein, so the figure only dug for what they needed. A circlet of brilliant gold, that happened to be already gleaming above the snowy surface in an outstretched hand. The hollow eyes spotted this, ceased frantically digging, and took the trinket, leaving the hand and its owner buried beneath the snow behind. The figure then disappeared behind the white curtains of the wind, enveloping the dead to forgotten time, with only a shovel erect from the snow for a tombstone.
Down in the wood at the food of the mountain, a camp was made by many other. The figure walked through this camp, noting the torches and firesides that many of the men rested beside. The soldiers were only building it when last they were here. The same men looked to the figure only for mere moments, their gaze more alarmed by the circlet in the persons hand. The spectacle was approaching a crimson tent, bigger than all the others, the flag of Gondor flapping violently at its pointed centre on high. The shrouded figure stopped where the material folded to form entrance, and turned to peer around the camp. The eyes of all raised back to the figure when they removed their veil, a beautiful woman of dark hair staring back to them with a face of thunder. She then slipped inside, and somehow the men at camp were as white as the snow that had buried their comrades.
A man had his back to the entrance, leaning over a table on which many maps were cast and spread. The unmistakeable silver hair ran down the half length of his back. However, the crashing of the circlet before him broke him from his task, laying a hand to stop its rounded shaking. He then eyed the woman with a great sorrow. She however, remained brave, stoic in the face of his pity.
"I told you that path was without hope. Did I not warn you?" she said in a tone that was freshly wounded.
"We heard the crash from here, it echoed all through the mountains” replied the man, his voice coated by grief.
“For many that sound was the last they heard” she spat back bitterly.
"It is our task to be rid of this cursed trinket, Beren. We swore it to our Captain" he countered.
A silence fell between them, mirroring that of those silenced by the snow. Only the cackling of the fire reminded each other of their presence, confined to their mourning. Eventually, the woman named Beren spoke in a defeated voice, slumping down into the nearby chair and rubbing her temple with two fingers, "We swore it to ourselves."
The man rounded on her slowly, leaning his rear to the table littered with maps and strategy. For the time being, such things no longer mattered; what was their important goal was now but a memory in this moment. The candles lit their grief stricken faces, but did not ignite any hope in their heavy hearts.
"First an orc ambush in the Ringo Vale. Another at the Blackroot Vale. Now we are beset by nature itself and we have not even finished burying our other dead from illness. We are losing too many men" spoke up the man, and after exchanging a brief look with Beren, he added earnestly "Good men."
Indeed they had, and irrationally, they placed all blame on the circlet. It was not spoken aloud, but the way their eyes darted to it with a sour look made the fact immediately. Failure had found them, and locked its grasp without letting go. Beren had lost so much, but she got to her feet and wormed her way into her husbands embrace, "We should leave it behind, Eldin. We are now but stragglers. Forsake our honour as hope has forsaken us."
Eldin returned the entanglement, planting his lips to her forehead. However comforting his actions may have been, his words had other plans, "Your father the Captain did place upon us this task. We turn back now, his passing at the Ringo Vale would be for naught."
She peered up at him, "And he placed the trials of leadership upon you, Eldin. You neither asked for them nor sought them out in the first place, yet that burden is now yours. Wrongly. Tydin, Nastal, Rehir, Murthen, all of our friends were up there. And more lost in the ambushes."
The next silence fell between them, until eventually Eldin shook his head. "We press on to the Bree-land in the West, under the secret shroud your father cloaked our company with. We shall return this dreadful artifact and be done with it. And then we shall marry. Your father never approved, but this task would surely win his spirits favour."
She again looked defeated, only this time a smile found her a short time later. She cupped his cheek and replied, aiming for levity, "If not, this mortal shell shall search for Menel, and convince my father among the region of the stars."
They embraced, and did not stop till the new dawn found them.
