Vorwort
Diese Geschichte stellt Hintergrundinformationen zum Rollenspiel in Herr der Ringe Online dar.
You might believe the Bloody Wedding to be the climax of the family feud. But while it was the most known event of the dispute, it was far from the worst. The true terror only came in its wake. Neither family wanted to send their armies clashing, risking to lose a significant portion of their power. And those in power are well guarded, on either side.
My family had a solution. One that required patience, but would ultimatively pay off. Cull the heirs. And a culling it was. Only two of the children survived a series of assassinations, mostly carried out during broad daylight and at the expense of many an innocent life, aside from the children themselves. To the Rah’kal family, the children were guilty from the day they were born. And normally I might have agreed. After all, that is how we are raised. But I did not agree, for I now had children of my own. Three beautiful children, not yet fully aware of their own existence, how could they be guilty of the crimes of her mother?
After those bloody days, I could not sleep a single night. I stayed awake, guarding over my children like a Gargoyle. And in every waking minute I imagined what could happen to them. Night for night, until I could bear it no longer. I could not wait for our enemies to come seek revenge. I went to father and suggested destroying what is left of our foes, only to be struck by his hand in return. No, he wanted to wait. Wait for the chaos to take over as the heirs would have to take their rightful throne. Wait for years, perhaps a decade. I did not object.
As I sat there on my bed the following night, ever the watchful guardian, I looked out the window and thought about running away with my children. But my family’s fame and infamy would make it impossible for us to try and build a different life. If someone recognized us, we would be easy prey, both for feuding families and our own, seeking revenge for betrayal. I don’t like admitting it, but that night the sheets were soaked in my tears. And when they dried on my face, I made a difficult decision.
Only a few days later I ventured forth on a travel to secure an iron mine that our family owned. It was but a pretense. I insisted on going alone and took a route slightly different from the most direct road. It lead past a village I will not name, near which a monastery was built long ago. I stayed at an Inn, paying extra to keep the Rah’kal name off the books.
Come daylight, I ventured to the monastery built into the mountain. Heavy gates protected it, but it was not a warring clan. Peaceful, they claim to be. Yet I found to be stared at by armed bowmen as I approached these heavy gates. I asked to be let in, only to be met with the command to begone, lest they fire at me.
I could not leave. But as they took arrows out and readied their bows, I realized I could not be shot either. Then my children would be defenseless, too. So I left. I left and drank myself to the brink of death that night. That way, I could sleep at least. This time I left even before the sun rose. I reached the gates before noon and asked to be let in once more. But nobody showed up on the walls, nobody told me to begone. Instead a crushing silence forced me on my knees. These people were the only hope I had for my children to feel safe.
I could not give up. So I stayed, on my knees. I could not find the strength to stand up and leave. I told myself I would stay here until the gates opened. I stayed until the sun went down. As all hope had vanished, I dragged myself back to the village and repeated the ritual of the night before. And I also repeated my pilgrimage. That is what it felt like at this point, like a religious rite hoping for salvation from a Lordship I do not understand, the secretive men and women behind the thick walls of the monastery. I said no word, instead just kneeling down before their gate and waiting. I had underestimated the scorching sun that day, though, and had to leave early lest I could not make my way back to the inn. The fourth day was different. The gates were still closed, but this time a kalathos full of water and a bowl of fruit stood next to the gate. These offerings gave me water and nutrition, but most importantly they gave me hope. They did not want me to die, nor did they want me to leave anymore. What they wanted I did not know, but I continued to wait. Kneeling in front of their gates.
The fifth day again was different. No more gifts outside the monastery. Undeterred, I kneeled down and waited. I thought about my three children. Intrusive thoughts and visions of their death haunted me, leaving me worrying they might already be dead. I would have to go home the next day, the day after that at most, lest my family send men and word to look for me, noticing my betrayal and dooming my children. Perhaps even have them killed by my own father’s wrathful hands.
I could not leave. Even as the sun began to set and it turned too late to make the journey back to the village, I stayed. I was willing to thirst and willing to starve, if only they heard me and saved my children before my own death.
And then the gates opened. I stared into their yard, filled with simple clothed figures wearing hats with wide rims. All of them stared back at me. Slowly the mass formed a path to what I assume was the main building. Did my vision betray me? My knees were aching, my throat dry and my eyes swollen from the tears of despair. But I got up, dusted my clothes off and approached the gate, expecting it to shut as suddenly as it opened right in front of me. But it didn’t. As I walked past the figures, I felt the glare of even those behind me. Their form wordleslly led me into a dimly lit room, in which a figure sat. They donned the same clothes, the same hat and had no distinct feature to the others in any way I could see. The room was panelled in dark wood and lit by candles around the center. The smoke of incense burners wafted as the doors closed behind me, leaving the two of us alone. I could not help but fall to my knees, even before the figure said a single word.
„There is no redemption for you, Rah’kal,“ the figure spoke. I felt.. I felt all of the emotions. Gladness that I received an audience with them, anger at the judgemental and spiteful words, fear sadness that they might refuse sanctuary to my children. And with the passion ignited by those emotions I spoke, not raising my head: „It is not I for whom I seek redemption. I have waged war, I have stolen, tortured and murdered. There is no turning back from the life I was born into anymore. But my children are innocent. They were born of my womb, they carry the name of the same family. But they have not yet committed any crime, and I beg you to give them a chance to choose.“
Silence was their response. I felt a freezing cold, but it came from inside. I knew this is the moment that the life of my children would be decided, but I also knew that at this point, it was out of my control.
„A Rah’kal does not beg. You named yourself what your family does,“ they accused. Near instantly I retorted: „I do, and I kneel here before you, begging. For the life of my children I beg. For they did not deserve the cruel death that is upon them if you refuse.“ The words came flowing out of my mouth without a conscious thought. My heart was racing and my head felt as if it was about to explode.
And then, the figure nodded: „You will not see your children again.“
I could not bear it any longer. My knees felt weak, my vision became blurry and I fell to the side. Was that it? Did I fail at the most basic task bequeathed onto any mother? To protect her children from physical harm? I will not lie to you. In that moment, I gave up. I closed my eyes as the sounds around me turned into a torrent of noises, steps, voices from outside and voices inside my own head accusing me and promising me to never have a single happy moment in my life from now on.
I woke up outside the gates, laying in the sand. The sun had long disappeared behind the horizon, but my pathetic sight was illuminated by a lit brazier. In its shine I could see a dirty piece of paper, held in place by a stone. I hesitated, but eventually I reached for the stone and then the paper beneath. Pulling it close, I still could not read it. Too blurry was my own vision. Too scared was I of its content, perhaps. But then I read it, this paper, this list. A list of conditions.
I must bring the children. The children will receive new names, chosen by the figures. I must not visit or contact the children. The children will not be told about their family, including me. The paper must be burnt immediately.
Every point on the list felt like its own dagger piercing my heart. I wanted to take the stone and throw it against the gates hard enough to make the fortress fall! But instead, I followed the instruction. I watched the paper smolder and disappear in the flames of the brazier and it felt like as each letter burned away from the paper, it burnt into my head.
I reached the village come the next morning. There was no time to rest, so I immediately continued my journey to stay within a believable timeframe. I had to make up for the lost sleep over the next few days, and surprisingly I could. There was a way out for my children. A safe environment. If they are still alive. The thought kept torturing me and keeping me awake, but now on rather rare occasions.
When I reached home, I wasted no time coming up with an excuse to pass by that village again. Preparations for the journey were made and I was supposed to leave with the first sunlight, accompanied by an escort. But I left just after dusk, stowing my children like goods on a wagon. When they woke up they screamed and cried, not understanding what was happening. But I had no choice and we could not stop. The escort would catch up eventually and we must reach the monastery before that. As the night progressed, I felt like screaming and crying aswell. My hands hurt because I clenched the reins, fighting against the thought that I could keep them safe myself. But the rational thing was to give them away. The more distance to the family, the better for them. Even though it tore me to shreds inside.
Its bell rang noon as we approached the monastery. Exhausted. Hurt. And still terrified, father’s escort would appear right behind us any moment. I yelled „It is I, I am here!“ with a coarse hatchel. The gates opened, but this time the figures walked out. They surrounded the wagon and looked through the baskets. I allowed them wordlessly as the tension began to fall off. I still clenched the reins and I did not dare look behind me. I heard the children’s cries become louder, then quieter as the figures wandered back inside the monastery, some shaking their head in contempt.
The gates closed and I sat on the wagon in silence. Every second felt like an eternity of damnation. A short huff broke the tension as I nearly tore the reins apart. A tear rolle down my cheek as I sank to the side and cried uncontrollably. I could not hold it back any longer, and I would not have to. It was done. They are gone. I would never see them again. But they are safe. Safe at last.