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| 5. Wind-Singers Prologue V: The Embassy- Escape from Mirkwood; Fareon and Lerinon begin in their cell, pondering their long fate... | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jan 18 2015, 11:16 AM (605 Views) | |
| Lerinon | Mar 17 2015, 02:51 PM Post #41 |
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Rostoriel warmly smiled at Inheroth's words, "Thank you both for aiding in their return. I had gravely warned them, they did not listen; but I am glad for your sake that they did not." Lerinon long lay silently in his dreams, his mind passing through echoed halls, his lips quivering, attempting to speak. He dreamed he was in Inheroth's abode again, wrapped with him in his golden silk, resting pleasantly, kissing him on the cheek. His Gwador. Now he understood his father's feelings toward Macalaure and his loss. He slowly opened his eyes. His memories from the mountains till now were a blur. A miserable stain. He felt his cloak, and he recognized the room. Agarwaenor was staring out the window in meditation. Fareon and Rostoriel sat and spoke, with Rirossel, their sister. Rirossel had entered the room, surprised to see so many guests, and bowed in silent introduction. She was timid and shy. She had held Lerinon's pale hand and kissed it, deeply kissing it, in the hope that he would reawaken. Then she joined the others. Lerinon's eyes touched those of Inheroth, "G...Gwador.......you are wounded...." His dry lips quivered as he attempted to smile. The others in the left side of the room turned, astonishment and -joy- on their faces. Rirossel approached him. Lerinon beckoned to her. She kissed him deeply on his pale cheek. He smiled, "Thank you... my sister... do me a great favor..." She did not need to be asked. She swiftly exited the chamber, and returned not long there after, with a bottle of wine and several glasses. Rostoriel nodded and fetched more. Fareon helped Lerinon sit-up, propped on several pillows. Lerinon weakly took the glass, lifting it heavily to his lips, and Rirossel helped him lift it. He sipped the wine, the warm, velvety taste stretching down his throat in an ecstasy of pleasure, the soft taste of grapes churning into him. He felt revitalized and warm, though he still felt sick. He was dressed in a white gown beneath his warm cloak. He saw Fareon's cloak over-top of it. He turned to Fareon, "My brother.... my foolish vanity has come upon me...." Fareon warmly smiled, "No, Gwador..... you did not deserve what happened....." Lerinon frowned, speaking slowing, his lines spanning several minutes... with long pauses in between: "I did......... a feigned Prince returning to see his people......madness.........I am glad my life was spared........... All of you, .........my life is safe now.......... Please rest. ...............We should stay here for a time, ......................if my sisters will allow it. ...................We should recover our strength........................ I do not look forward to journeying across Eriador,...................... even knowing that my father's house lies at the end of that road......" Rostoriel bowed, "Stay for a month, nay, a whole year, if you wish." Fareon bowed, "A year may be too long. A month will do. Thank you for your generosity, my sisters." Rirossel sat by Lerinon's side, tenderly rubbing his right-hand. Fareon crossed the room, standing next to Agarwaenor, gently admiring the beauty of the Vale of Imladris. Edited by Lerinon, Mar 17 2015, 02:52 PM.
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| Agarwaenor | Mar 18 2015, 07:13 PM Post #42 |
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Agarwaenor
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Agarwaenor did not stir as Fareon came to his side. He contented to enjoy the vista alongside the Elf. Agarwaenor did not feel the need to fill silence with words, to dispel imagined awkwardness. For him to dwell peacefully in the company of another was a testament of his tolerance to them, and his tolerance was not easily granted. Generally, the presence of others tended to be more distraction than entertainment. People spoke at length about nothing, merely to fill the time. Agarwaenor spoke only when necessary. He quickly stole a sideways glance at the elder Elf, studying the subtle lines in his face, that spoke not of age but of concern. There was a time, a millennium ago, when the sight of Fareon's time-forged grace and ageless beauty would have brought joy to his heart. He would have seen Fareon as a paramour, a mentor, a role-model, a friend. However, his heart was not as free and open as it was. It had become a hardened lock, full of infinitesimally complex tumblers. Only rarely did they fall into place perfectly, and open. Though they did stir now, as Fareon's love for his brother was clear, and he saw his own dedication in it. Then, he spoke. "If you pursue your current path, there will be greater dangers than goblins ahead. You must be prepared," he said. "And you must allow yourself to depend on more than your brother. His injury might have been prevented had we attacked together." His words did not seem a scathing judgement, but were spoken as if they were meant to assure of his camaraderie. "My brother is an archer matched by none I have seen, and though words are my weapon, I know ways to cut down an opponent before they know I am there." |
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| Inheroth | Mar 28 2015, 09:53 PM Post #43 |
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Inheroth remained content to sit at Lerinon's side, having felt a great sense of peace at his waking. He asked Rostoriel for a glass of wine and received it with a look of open gratitude. Upon tasting it, he visibly relaxed, the aches and pains of their journey upon his limbs slacking somewhat, until he felt more comfortable within the confines of the chair. He kept his hand closed around Lerinon's, chasing its warmth with hope. With a gentle brush of his thumb he sought to reassure him, a silent gesture meant to convey that all was well; the wound upon his cheek would heal in time, indeed he could already feel the mark fading. In a few days time, it would be gone. The same could not be said for Lerinon's wounds. His gwador would need rest, and a month spent in his sister's house would be a welcomed respite. Inheroth could hardly believe their luck. He wished to thank Rostoriel and Rirossel both, but his tongue felt heavy, the words stuck in his throat. Anything he could have said would have lacked the eloquence necessary to truly display his obligation towards them, his thankfulness. Instead he mustered a bright smile, whispered a soft, "Thank you," as Rirossel took a seat opposite of him. One more sip of wine, and he leaned forward to rest his unharmed cheek on the bedrest where Lerinon lay. He could hear Agarwaenor and Fareon speaking in their usual hushed tones. He closed his eyes, and felt warm, safe, as though the golden cloak had been cast about his shoulders. Thus did he succumb to the truest rest he had felt since they departed from Mirkwood. A deep sleep overcame him, one of healing, dreamless. When he awoke, it was twilight. Lerinon was asleep still, and the healing chambers were alight with candles that gave off the faintest scent of jasmine and bergamont. Inheroth stood and walked to the windows to pull open the curtains. Rivendell was alive. He could hear the Falls of Imladris roaring with a musical cadence, see the faint light of lanterns within the mists. He had a sudden urge to explore. Returning to Lerinon's side, he pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek. "Sleep well, my brother," he whispered. He tucked the golden cloak around him carefully, drew up his own hood, and departed. Wandering so he found many beautiful sights, but he did not stop to dwell upon them until he came across the Hall of Fire. There did he find the true populace of Rivendell; Elves eating, drinking, singing merrily. At one table, a tall Elf with dark hair was regaling a small, enraptured audience with his harp, tales of magic and revelry. At another table, a group of Elves were merrily playing a game of cards. Several Men stood beside them, trading laughter and coin. Inheroth could scarce believe it. He had not seen such a mingling of peoples since he had travelled from Edhellond to Lasgalen. It delighted him, and when he found a quiet seat to settle on, he watched contentedly. He wondered if Agarwaenor or Fareon were amongst the crowd. Perhaps he would see them. He wished Lerinon was awake, if only to explain this all to him. Yet they had time. For now, he could be patient, and be glad that they dwelled now in so beautiful and protected a place, that not even the fears between the Free Peoples could touch them. The music swelled, and he felt tempted to rise, and to join the revellers in their dance. |
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| Lerinon | Apr 2 2015, 01:11 PM Post #44 |
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Fareon turned toward Agarwaenor and smiled in recognition, "Yes, we should have attacked together. The snow was the problem. Even though our feet could lightly walk atop it, there were no trees, not even deeper drifts. Normally, the enemy does not see either of us. Poor conditions...." Fareon sighed, "And terrible weather. I believe we were meant for forests, not mountain peaks. I know in my heart my brother will recover. Let me then speak of the road ahead. Most of Eriador is forest, save for long stretches between Imladris and central Eriador. The land climbs up into the High Moors and then swiftly slopes downward again to meet the Bruinen. The untended road snakes through several hills, and the shaws are mostly this. Known for trolls, so straying farther from the road is not a wise maneuver. Traveling on the road is also problematic. Traders from the High Pass route to the eastern markets may take that road, though I have only heard this from my friends. The heart of mortal contact appears to be in the more central parts of Eriador, away from the shaws. The other concern is trolls on the road, attempting to waylay travelers. There is only a narrow span between the road and the hills that might conceal us. Then one reaches wide stretches of plains, sparsely dotted with trees, and filled with ruins. It terrifies me to this day that I have lived not only the life-span of a Kingdom, but through its downfall, and its plunge into ruination by centuries of decay, without having ever seen it. My other brother did, when Arnor was at its height. And that was the War of the Last Alliance. The ruins of Arnor mark the land. Some of them are useful hiding places and camp sights. Others are treacherous. And even so, there are other ways to hide there. Hills and vales and craggy dells. Once we are past this, the land falls into a range of marshes filled with flies. The borders of the marshes stretch north, till they reach a wide and tall forest. Beyond this forest are many fields and plains, with many trees. These lands are inhabited by Men. I do not know their history. I know that they are similar to the Dale-men as far as their ways of life are concerned. They have several villages, and a town, that is their chief. An Escaroth built on land. We will want to avoid all contact with them and their farms. They do not live close to Elves as the Dale-men do. We may frighten them if we are seen. The land then enters into several spheres of variety along the Great Road. To the north of the road are many more plains and hills, with smaller forests. To the south are the ruins of Cardolan, one of Arnor's old Kingdoms, and those lands are haunted by forces of which I do not wish to speak. Beyond the downs is the Old Forest, the mysterious remnant of that first forest that covered the breadth of Arda. I know that Fangorn Forest to the south is of that same forest, and that many of our kin have spoken ill of it, and I have not spoken with the Wise. Beyond this are the lands of the little folk, the halflings, most of whom are wary of Elves and Men alike. They call us 'Big Folk.' I have heard this from more friends of mine. They dwell in well-furnished homes that they have delved beneath green fields. They are not unlike the Naugrim in this, only far smaller, more quaint, less lofty and prideful. They do not delve huge halls of stone, but dwellings akin to those of the Dale-men in furniture and make. I heard this from a Dwarf traveler in Ered Luin. I avoid all contact with most of the outside world. The journey is still not yet over. We would want to cross north of their bridge, the Shire-folk, and make our way through their larger forests, avoiding their towns. Then we cross a bog, and then through several rocky clefts and hills of white-chalk stone. Beyond these are tall hills with the last great towers of the Noldor standing at their peaks: The Towers, one of which contains the Elendil Stone. None of us are permitted to go there, save Cirdan of the Havens and others of the Wise. But we may yet climb the hills at least. Beyond these, the land stretches down into the fields and plains that give way to cliffs above the Gulf of Lhun. There, away from the cliff-edge, with a view of the Gulf in sight is where we dwell: our colony, founded at the end of the First Age, the Feanorians who neither desired to heed the call of the sea, nor desired to partake with the refugees of the Kinslayings, who remained behind in Lindon proper. There are roughly one hundred of us left. If there are others in the world, I do not know. And this one hundred includes all members of each House. And they have all assented to my father as their governor. Of him, I will not speak, until I believe the time has come. Forgive my long words," he chuckled, "I can be as long-winded as my brother. Ah, the vale..." Fareon silenced his own voice, and began to gaze alongside Agarwaenor. Lerinon slept soundly throughout the passing weeks. He faded in and out of consciousness. He did not speak as often as he used to. And at many times he hid, within the folds of his cloak. They were soft and smooth, cool and soothing, a place of refuge. Even in Imladris, he was afraid. For he had come close to death. At times, he wondered if he had heard Mandos' voice, calling him. He thought of he who might have been his father, of his moments, beneath a Kinslayer's blade. The Kinslayer's blade fused with that of the Orc who nearly killed him. Death became intertwined with death. And the memories converged with the reality, overlapping, as waves along the sea-shore, when the waves sing their song in the fading light of day. So did Lerinon repent of the Affirmation that he had taken out of love for Auruiron. He no longer wanted Maglor to return. He wanted Dior, his shining noble hair, flowing down his back, his robes of evergreen, his cloak of emerald, and his eyes that had shined as stars. He, too, was of a line of stars, Lerinon reasoned. The thought struck him: that the one who glides the stars at nightfall might be his nephew, the Mariner. Earendil in his shining glory, with the Silmaril on his brow. Sail on..... sail on......... let not hands accused touch that light! He heard his father in his head. He heard his father's words. Not literal, but as if they were his thoughts. Words concerning Maglor's beauty and majesty. Words concerning the Dawn of the Noldor. Words concerning the glory that was the past. If he could have raised his arm, he would have waved them all away, dismissing the thoughts as if soldiers to be marched unto their doom. And so his heart grew cold toward the heritage in which he was raised. But he spoke not of this. In the dim light of his thoughts, he regarded Inheroth's fair face, the fair touch of his hands, his beautiful countenance. Fareon's gentle, piercing eyes. Rirossel's warm kisses on his hand. Rostoriel's radiant smile. And even Agarwaenor's concerned, concealed countenance. And in time, he awoke to the bright light of day, the poison finally drained from his being. Rirossel approached him, her heart fluttering with joy, "My brother!" They embraced each other closely within the golden folds of his cloak, warmly and tenderly, chastely, for they were not afflicted with Maeglin's sickness. Rirossel kissed him gently on the cheek, "Do not risk departing from us again...... I......I have already lost two brothers.........." Lerinon comforted her, gently stroking her fair raven tresses, "I know........ oh my beloved sister.............. have hope." Rirossel fought back a tear from her eye, "My prince.........." Lerinon warmly smiled, "My princess...." And she helped him stand on his feet for the first time in weeks, bringing fair wine to his lips, that sailed mightily down his throat, warming him. And together, they walked outside, breathing-in the free air of the vale. His heart fluttered when he saw Inheroth standing outside on their portico. He greatly embraced his Gwador, holding him close, intertwining them together in his gold. Lerinon kissed him deeply on the cheek. Then all three of them journeyed through Imladris. They stood beneath the mighty falls of Imladris, following the fair path through the cliffs, to Imlad Gelair, and rested on a fair portico in the mountains. Lerinon gazed to the lands above, and he thought he sighted a solitary dwelling amidst several high fields. Something struck him about the place. And he thought he heard a song. They continued onward, back down, and into the Last Homely House. They sat and lounged in the Hall of Fire, hearing several old songs. And then, when the sun had passed into its evening descent, they walked along the fair and pleasant porches of the House, and then journeyed into the fair woods with pleasant trees. And then they walked north, into a forest of pine, and through narrow vales of stone, till they reached the stables. Then they passed through a forum of activity: Elves carrying crafted goods to and fro. And then they came to a fair and pleasant lake. They rested along its shores, in mirthful joy. Then they turned south and followed the Bruinen to quiet, tranquil glades. By now, the sun was setting. They stood and returned to their dwelling, entering into their chamber of living. They lounged and dined and drank fine wine. And they dwelt in the memories of their meditative walk. But then Fareon brought a table, with a map of Eriador upon its surface, tracing their intended route with a quill. He awaited Agarwaenor's view of the matter. Edited by Lerinon, Apr 2 2015, 10:03 PM.
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| Agarwaenor | Apr 6 2015, 11:51 PM Post #45 |
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Agarwaenor
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The sounds of mirth and joy broke upon deaf ears. To Agarwaenor, there was only the path ahead. He drifted past the revelry like a specter, making no sound and leaving no trace. Ever onwards, with nary a glance back. It was in the same manner that he studied the path Fareon drew before him. His pale eyes traced the route swiftly, darting over hills and valleys like the light of the rising sun, never retreating, ever scouring. His eyes were like those of a wren, each movement lightening quick, sporadic, and only ever lingering for a heartbeat. The crimson-clad Elf brought a hand to his chin, a slender finger tracing the contour of his lower lip. His brow creased ever so slightly. "As safe a route as any. We might pass unmolested for a time. But fate is not a gracious host, and trouble follows good intentions like a hound in hunt." He reclined in his chair, folding his arms in his sleeves. There was a brief flash of intrigue upon his face. "If we take this path, we will pass close to the home of a... friend, of sorts. Strange coincidence or fate, he may be of use." |
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12:43 AM Jul 11