[OOC: A text-based RP session between Ningear (N) and Gloreloth (G).]
The Isle of Balar, F.A. 540
(G)
The lonely figure drew his cloak tighter about him and gazed north, over the shores where Sirion met the sea, beyond the tossing green willows of Nan-Tathren, just beneath the ranks of menacing cloud that obscured the stars. His Elven eyes saw the dim shadows of mountains, but his memory saw further - snowy peaks encircling a green vale, in the center of which a white city gleamed in the sun.
Though he was not yet half-grown, Gloreloth looked older now. The child's soft, round face had taken on defined features, and as the cold north wind tossed his golden hair, the starlight shone, not in the young, light blue eyes that had absorbed the scenes which his mind now recalled, but in keen, dark blue eyes that already held much wisdom and memory - and great sorrow.
The Elven youth stirred at last, turning reluctantly and opening the door of what passed as a library, where many of the rescued books, scrolls, and documents of Gondolin were kept. Warm firelight met his face; the room was unoccupied, save for one figure bent over a desk - another scene of memory, but this time not mere recollection. In a deep, quiet voice, so unlike the child's excited tone, Gloreloth said:
"Hîr Ningear?"
(N)
Deep in thought, looking down at what seemed to be a list of some sort, Ningear registered the opening of the door and the quiet voice as if they came through a dense fog to his ears. From the outside it might have looked like he had not heard at all. The ever so slight frown might as well have come from something he was reading on whatever list he had spread in front of him. A pile of paper next to his left elbow, containing names and some numbers obviously continued the list the scribe was working on.
(G)
Silently, almost reverently, the young Elf approached the desk, the disbelief in his face being replaced by a bright smile. He repeated, this time more as an exclamation than a question,
"Hîr Ningear?"
(N)
"Hm? Oh! I apologise! I must have been distracted!"
Ningear blinked a few times, straightening his back even more and clearing his throat - an unusual behaviour for him, who usually appears calm and composed at all times. After a few moments another quite unusual thing in these days happens, and he answers the bright smile of the Elf before him with one of his own.
"If this is not young Gloreloth! How do you fare?"
His expression becomes more serious and somewhat distraught as he adds:
"If you are looking for a book, I might not be able to help you, but I will do my best."
(G)
"Yes, sir."
Gloreloth answered, but his smile faded as he continued:
"I am well - in body."
After a moment, he added:
"I came not to find a book, but to add one."
From beneath his cloak he took a packet, placed it on the table, and opened it to reveal a small book, bound in a simple leather cover.
(N)
Ningear looks at the young Elf before him with a sharp gaze for a moment, as if searching something in his face. Then he nods slowly and his eyes move to the list of names.
"The bodies of the Eldar heal fast" he says.
Then, no longer able to contain his curiosity, he carefully reaches for the book in front of him, as if it were a great treasure.
"You are, as always, full of surprises! There are far too few books in this library."
(G)
Gloreloth's head drops a little, his sorrowful eyes shifting from Ningear, to the book, to the floor.
"I wrote it; my mother dictated. It is a record of my father's life."
(N)
Ningear gingerly picks up the book from the desk, holding it for a moment, then caressing it's cover carefully, as if the gentle touch could somehow console the young Elf in front of him.
"You bring me a great treasure, young one."
He says sincerely, and indicates for Gloreloth to pull over a chair and sit for a moment. The chair is less elegant than the ones in Gondolin, it seems fairly recently built by someone who clearly possessed Elven skill, but maybe not the time to go into detail.
The scribe opens a drawer in his desk and pulls out a large book, then he looks around for his quill and ink.
(G)
Gloreloth draws up a chair and sits, seeming suddenly tired. As he does so, he removes a beautiful Elven sword from beneath his cloak, placing it carefully against the chair, near his hand.
(N)
Ningear opens the large book somewhere near the middle. It seems to be a record of the books kept in the library, with tiny, precise writing filling the pages. With great care the scribe begins to fill in the details of the new book entrusted to him.
"Our librarians will ensure that this book is properly taken care of."
he says as he finishes, sets aside the quill and then waits for the ink to dry. He looks up.
"How do you fare?"
he asks again, a probing look in his eyes.
(G)
The young Elf watches as Ningear writes, then catches his gaze as he looks up.
"Much has befallen since last we spoke, much ill and sorrow."
He falters, takes a breath, and continues in a low, dull voice.
"I am yet stricken with grief. Though time may assuage pain, I see no hope of true healing while this shadow holds sway over the land."
(N)
Ningear nods slowly. He looks quite tired.
"Shadow and grief" he says. "We should never have come to these lands. Everything we build here seems to fade and every attempt to preserve it seems in vain."
He looks around at the books and sighs.
"Ah forgive me, my words are filled with bitterness."
(G)
Resolve hardens in Gloreloth's eyes, and he replies with a new edge in his voice.
"Perhaps we should not have come here; perhaps we cannot defeat this shadow. But even if we fail, it is not vain to fight a devourer who would destroy all good. And in the end, there is light and beauty forever beyond his reach; in the end he will be cast down. This must be our hope."
(N)
Something like interest sparks in Ningear's eyes for a moment, then he sighs.
"My teachers used to say that even if any other hope fails we must trust in Ilúvatar: That in the end everything will lead to his design. And it seemed like it. We survived the grinding ice, our city of Gondolin flourished."
He shakes head.
"But how can we know what is his design? I am not a warrior, I came to learn all that was thought of during the shaping of this world, to preserve knowledge."
The scribe looks over at the shelves and shakes his head.
"But for what? For whom? We must fight the shadow, yes. But would we not have been safe from it in the Blessed Realm? What if we pursued it too soon?"
(G)
"We may not know his design, but we can be confident that it will come to pass. Though we seek wisdom and knowledge, it is not our part to understand all; we must hope and endure in what is right."
Gloreloth pauses, letting out a breath, before continuing in a sorrowful, but determined voice:
"We preserve knowledge, as we preserve freedom, so that future generations might have peace and inherited wisdom; but also for the sake of those who have given all, to honor them in memory."
(N)
Ningear opens his mouth as if to say something, then closes it again and brushes a piece of dust off his robe, considering his next words. During the movement of his hand a healing scar can briefly be seen in the palm of his right hand, if someone payed attention. Carefully and with some melancholy in his voice he finally says:
"We can take solace in knowing that we will be reunited with those we lost some day and this reunion will be beyond joyful. Our days of glory, our beloved city... our books, are gone forever - save in our memory."
(G)
The young Elf only nods in agreement, curiously noting the scar, but not wishing to interrupt or intrude.
(N)
After a while of silence in which the scribe seems to be lost in his thoughts, his eyes focus again on the child yet not child anymore in front of him again. Quietly and kindly he asks:
"You brought me a record of your father's life. Tell me, what were your reasons for writing it down and bringing it here?"
(G)
Gloreloth drops his gaze again, his keen blue eyes going dim.
"My father was slain in Cirith Thoronath."
(N)
A shadow of pain flickers in Ningear's eyes before he averts them. The words of the young Elf seem to linger in the air and whatever the scribe had thought of saying is lost in the sudden heaviness.
(G)
After a moment, Gloreloth slowly picks up the longsword beside him and lays it on the table gently, drawing it part-way out of the sheath so that the scribe can see the blade. The silver blade catches the firelight, looking as if it were aflame itself. The grip is wrapped with a dark-brown leather, perforated by tiny, inlaid golden leaves. The pommel is wrought like a rayed sun, and the quillins sweep slightly toward the blade, ending in small golden flowers. The young Elf's voice comes soft:
"This is my father's sword."
(N)
There is a sort of apprehension in Ningear's eyes that one might pass off as a flicker of the reflecting flames if it did not last. He does not reach for the sword like he did for the book, but his eyes trace the intricate patterns and linger on the golden flowers. He sighs ever so softly.
"The craftsmanship of the one who wrought this is only surpassed by the deeds of the one who wielded this blade." He says finally.
(G)
Gloreloth nods, his eyes absently running over the runes etched on the blade's fuller.
(N)
"Why did you bring it here?"
Ningear asks gently after a few moments.
(G)
"I always keep it with me. I have borne it since Cirith Thoronath, through more trials and sorrows."
(N)
"An heirloom like this can be an incentive that helps to keep one set on one's path. But Gloreloth, do not let it become a burden. Those who set out driven by revenge often do not come back."
(G)
The young Elf nods slowly, considering Ningear's warning, his mind recalling the stories of Feanor and his sons, and the rash quest of vengeance that led to the Exile of the Noldor, and so many evils beside.
(N)
Ningear watches the firelight dance on the golden hair for a while. He is not in a hurry.
"Find your own path, young one" he says finally, "but do not find it on your own. You have hope yet in your heart, a strong sense of purpose and the past to guide you."
He looks around.
"There are not as many books as I would hope in this room, but still quite a few. Yet if I wanted to make a salve to treat blisters only one of them would be of aid. And I would find it fastest by consulting the inventory list first - or one of the librarians or scribes."
He smiles thinly.
"One might, of course, just create one's own brew without any prior consultation. Yet I would not advise this path as it turns out to be the longest most of the time and might as well result in a failure."
(G)
Gloreloth nods again, taking in the Scribe's words. After a moment of consideration, he asks:
"Think you the world will ever find healing?"
(N)
Ningear considers the question for a while.
"This question has been asked by many scholars" he says finally. "It seemed to be easy to imagine the healing, maybe even through our own journey to Middle Earth, and to believe this shadow to be only a brief thing that could not hold, if only the Valar decided to oppose it with all their might."
He sighs quietly and rubs his temples. A log of wood bursts in the flames.
"What do you know of the concept of Arda Marred?"
he asks, ready to fall into teaching mode.
(G)
The young Elf doesn't answer, but looks thoughtful and prepared to listen.
(N)
"It was said by Lore Masters in the Blessed Realm that there is something tainted in Arda that came with the evil one and his tampering with what the Valar created. They said it will forever be there in this world and can never be unmade unless the whole world is unmade."
A shadow passes over his face for a moment.
"Many did believe this to be lies spread to keep the Elves from returning to Middle Earth, however I would say now that it has become apparent that those lies were nothing but the truth."
(G)
Gloreloth's face darkens.
"Is there then no hope?"
(N)
"What do you know of the gift of death that has been given to the second born of the children?" asks Ningear gently.
